Today, dear friends, is not a day to be funny. It's a day to ask questions. And to be honest, I feel a bit pretentious by even attempting to address this issue with my own feeble and meandering thoughts. But I can't seem to do anything else. So bear with me.
Why is it more shocking to us that 20 children should be dead than one person should be dead because of senseless violence? I am guilty of this response myself. First thing this morning, I thought maybe a few people had been shot, I shook my head, took a few moments to reflect and pray, then moved on. As though just two or three people having their lives bloodily ripped from them is a small issue -- but 20 or 30 is something that causes me to stop in my tracks.
Desensitization, I think is the word. We are unwitting victims of this phenomenon -- I'm not sure that there's even anything we can do about it.
For example, in Memphis this morning, a young female police officer was gunned down in pursuit of her supposedly "routine" duties (there are no routine law enforcement duties, by the way). She will never go home to her family again, but the nation doesn't reel in shock over that; most people will never even hear about it -- maybe it's because we expect to hear this sort of thing about people who choose to put their lives on the line. Maybe it's because of her job, her age, her location ... who knows.
I'm sure that it is normal for a gut-wrenching visceral reaction to result when you hear about the death of innocent children, but why did I cry when I heard this, but not when a few days ago several people died in a mall in Oregon, in exactly the same way? Was it because there were only a few, or because they were adults and should have been able to defend themselves in some way? Maybe it's our primal instinct to protect those who are too small and weak to protect themselves kicking in.
I don't really know what I'm trying to say. Except that while I join in with the whole nation in feeling physically sick over this crisis, I wonder ... where is the line drawn at which everyone hears, everyone reacts? Is it a body count? Why is it that we don't all cry with the loved ones of every person whose light is extinguished prematurely? Ostensibly, it's because we don't know. But I don't think it's even that. The response of the nation had one teacher or other adult been shot at a school this morning would have been minimal in comparison to what we're seeing unfold right now.
And who's to blame? The perpetrator, obviously ... but beyond that, who? The government, the shooter's parents, the person who sold him his guns, society at large? Like I've said before when discussing tragic death, I'm not entirely sure that being able to pin down details is terribly helpful. If your child is never coming home from school, or your police officer spouse never coming home from work again, does it help you to know that it was one specific person or group's fault?
That's why I am already cringing at the thought of the endless debate and unavoidable political folderol that will come in this tragedy's wake. Not that I despise the good intentions of those who will respond. But there's nothing any single person on this planet can say to those grieving people that will make them feel better this Christmas. And I just think we should acknowledge that. Allow them the dignity of a pain that cannot be explained away, or fixed by reactionary speeches and legislation.
I don't know. This is the kind of day in which I am more firmly convinced than ever that I only really know a very few things.
I know that I have 3-year-old twin nephews who light up my world every time I see them, whom I would lay down my life for in a heartbeat. And that what I feel for them is nowhere close to what I may someday feel for my own children.
I know that I wouldn't be at all sure how to deal with the concept of a world in which they didn't exist anymore. In which I couldn't trade childish jokes with them, swing them around, buy them stupid little toys, and kiss their sticky little faces.
I know that my police officer husband means more to me than the air I'm breathing right now, and that I probably wouldn't be able to breathe any more if I got the call that the Memphis officer's family got.
I know that every single parent in the world right now, today, deserves an apology.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry that you have to wake up tomorrow in a world that has freshly reminded you that the last time you saw your child could possibly be the last. Because we all think that, even if we don't say it or affirm it.
And to the parents all over the world who have been living that reality from the moment your children first drew breath, because your country is torn by war or oppression, or famine or disease ... from the rest of us who have been living here in paradise, and complaining about it? From those of us who get to see our families again tonight when we go home? Who find it necessary to gripe about the little things that annoy us about the ones we love? Who are infinitely foolish in our oblivion, blind in our assurance that we are above such tragedy?
Maybe today we can identify with you a little better.
We can identify better with all of you, those whose lives have been touched by unspeakable violence.
I guess what I'm trying to say is, let us mourn as a nation, let us shake our heads in disbelief and cry and offer support and prayers, and hug our loved ones a little tighter. Let us seek answers and be reminded that every moment is a gift not to be wasted.
But also, let's not forget that this sort of thing really and truly happens to one of our brothers or sisters in this life ... every single day.
And that they are all loved the same.
sharris@blythevillecourier.com