Are We There Yet?

How long are we going to let this go on? When Mr. Obama asked “Can we say that we’re truly doing enough to give all the children of this country the chance they deserve to live out their lives in happiness and with purpose?”... did enough people answer “no” with him?

I do everything I can to keep my children safe. We live in a very safe neighborhood. They go to excellent schools. I make sure they are supervised when they are outside. I make sure my house is safe, that they have babysitters and that our fire alarms work. I stand at the window every morning and wait until I see them physically get onto their buses. And in the past, I would have a flood of relief once they stepped onto the bus because I knew they were safe, and off of the street. That flood of relief doesn’t come anymore. Now when they step onto the bus, a new anxiety creeps into my system.

My shakiness started last year when my daughter was on a bus to school and witnessed gun shots. Apparently, there was some sort of altercation between police and drug dealers, and somebody came running out of a house shooting at police just as the bus pulled up to the stop.  Video surveillance of the bus showed the bus was also in the line of fire.

Her bus driver protected my daughter. He told her to “get down”. When I asked her if she was scared, she said “a little”. Other people were crying, but she felt safe on the bus because she said her bus driver was protecting them and they were on a bus, so how could the bullets get them?  In her seven-year-old mind, it hadn’t occurred to her that a bullet can come through the window or even through the bus. But it occurred to me. She got to eat breakfast with the school psychologist and all of her bus friends. I was pacing around my house shaking, drinking coffee and trying to make sense of the words that were spoken to me when the school called to tell me what happened. How could that happen here?

Another school year and another “high alert”. The news reports started trickling in that there were shots at Sandy Hook Elementary. Facebook feeds…tweets. I kept clicking on them, not even thinking the worst… maybe a crazy boyfriend threatening his teacher girlfriend. Then the numbers started coming. I started crying when I read “1 teacher and 1 student were killed”. I didn’t know that in less than an hour the magnitude would be far worse than my worst nightmare.

My son called from school that day. He had a terrible stomachache and needed to be picked up. He didn’t know anything about what was going on. I drove to the quiet school, crying, imagining the scene going on down the road at our neighbor’s school. A few day’s later, some of that scene would intersect with my scene, when six year old Noah Pozer’s funeral procession would pass our quiet school at dismissal.

After our school concert last night, we took our kids to Dairy Queen to celebrate. Again, we were reminded of the tragedy because there were police and fire trucks with their lights on protecting the funeral home where little James Mattioli, age 6, was being prepared for burial. His wake had just ended. My children asked if there was an accident and why all of the police were there. I said, “I don’t know”.  I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an accident. As a matter of fact, I’m certain it was on purpose. But I can’t tell them this is the world I’m handing down to them.

In all the news stories involving guns and shootings, the guns are always used to perpetuate a crime. I couldn’t think of one news story where somebody used a gun to protect his or her property or his or her life. (I would tell people who need a gun for that to get a dog).

I know all about the arguments surrounding gun control. I know about our amendment rights, though I’m sure our forefather’s did not foresee it going quite this way. I think originally it was so we could protect ourselves from the government. The same government that is supposed to be protecting us and our children to live a life of freedom, and not die a horrible death in a first grade classroom while doing our morning work.