I have a weird little quirk. Whenever I take a personality test, I always end up rather evenly matched between multiple categories. Years ago, I read The Color Code and did the test. I came out almost exactly even on red, white, and yellow, with blue just a few points behind. Love Languages? I’m all of them. Which Hogwarts house? Any but Slytherin. While we were on our little vacation I read a book to see if I were an extrovert or an introvert (stop laughing). The quiz had twenty questions. If you answered more true than false you were an extrovert. I answered ten of each.
I tend to live in the middle, among the shades of gray.
It has always been easy for me to see another’s perspective, to empathize, and even when I don’t agree, to see points of validity in their arguments. Sometimes this trait makes it difficult for me to make up my own mind about things. Sometimes everything seems reasonable.
Friday evening, Walt and I were driving together, on our way to run an errand. We talked about the horrible, terrible tragedy of the day and what could be done. We talked about guns.
I grew up in a home with guns. I have no problem with responsible gun ownership. I think families that are a part of a hunting culture can impart many good lessons to their children, like gratitude for the food that they eat and the literal sacrifice necessary for it to arrive on their plates. These lessons cannot be purchased shrink-wrapped from the store.
On the other hand, even in my own childhood home of responsible gun ownership, I have felt the fear of being threatened and harassed with a loaded weapon by someone who was not in his right mind. That kind of fear leaves a mark.
In my home now, we own guns. I have an uneasy relationship with this fact. They are unloaded, trigger-locked, and locked in a box. They feel dangerous even so, as they should. As they are.
Walt is a reserve police officer. When he volunteers his time and works his assigned shifts, he is the same as a full-time officer. Same badge. Same gun. And for me, the same worry, mixed with pride, as the full-time officers’ spouses.
He could be hurt. He could stop someone from hurting.
These thoughts were on my mind Friday evening as we discussed Violence and Guns and What Should Be Done. Walt laid out a very rational argument for fewer restrictions–citing countries, with less violence than America, that have looser gun laws. I listened, and thought about all the mothers that would not be tucking their babies in that night. And then I cited countries, with less violence than America, that have much more restrictive gun laws. And I cried.
I honestly don’t know what the right answer is, but I know what the wrong one is. Doing nothing is the wrong answer. Forgetting, becoming complacent, reducing this terrible act of violence to an internet meme, or using it as an excuse to be hateful to people who think differently than you, those are the wrong answers.
I have written to my senators telling them that I am in favor of stricter gun laws. If you have a position, even if it is different than mine, I urge you to do the same. Don’t just talk about What Should Be Done. Do something.
I hope we can find a solution. I pray for us all.
Note: I am aware that the issue of violence in this country is much bigger than gun control. There are so many contributing factors. This is just a small piece of it, but it is a piece that I feel I can wrap my head around. It is a place to start.
