A Year Ago Today
Some thoughts on Uvalde penned last spring
I stand in my chilly kitchen on a Wednesday morning, pouring organic half-and-half into my Ethiopian coffee in my favorite yellow mug that reminds me of lemon drops and sunshine and May daffodils popping through the snow.
“She was only ten and loved to dance. She was Grandpa’s sidekick. She always brushed her teeth without asking, loved sports and dogs, and was on the honor roll.”
Through the radio playing Wyoming Public Radio across the prairie, a father wonders out loud why his seven-year-old deserved this fate. Columbine, Sandyhook, Uvalde, Nashville. My hands grasp the counter, my shoulders wrack, and my eyes sting as they fill. I take a deep breath and exhale into cupped hands, which cradle my face as I rest my elbows on the cold counter to weep.
Downstairs, I hear shouting heads spewing hate and fear from a giant flat-screened TV that fills my father’s dying days … “It’s all the Democrat's fault for open borders …” I want to shut all the news off, but for the families whose children were massacred the least I can do is share some of their agonies and salt my yellow mug.
A meme pops up in a text, showing a scene with an abortion clinic that requires a 48-hour wait surrounded by “Christians” begging a woman not to terminate. Next to the clinic is a gun shop where an 18-year-old boy can buy a gun but not a beer.
I grab my cold coffee, wondering where our priorities lie, overcome with grief that we have lost our way. I spend the next two hours filling out financial aid forms so my daughter can continue to attend the most expensive university in the USA, all while wondering whether my son should even go to school in a state that prioritizes guns over learning or relationships or really, anything.
They are right, you know. The “right,” the squawking heads on TV.
Guns aren’t the problem. It’s the people. It’s us.
It’s the ongoing debate over who is right
about all the wrong things.
It’s our loneliness where only
a bottle,
an iPhone,
a video game,
an orgasm,
and, of course,
our friends fear and hate,
numb us from the pain and drudgery of
taking responsibility for realizing our dignity.