My husband is as a-political as they come, and he
pays little attention to the national news. He has an after-work ritual of
getting into his American-made pick-up truck and turning on the sports news
radio station, enabling him to endure the daily traffic from his job in El
Segundo to our home in Eagle Rock, which as all Angelinos know, is not for
sissies. On Monday, April 15, 2013, he was in his truck and ready to get caught
up on all the straight skinny concerning the tight squeeze in the middle of the
NBA Western Conference, as well as holler at the broadcasters for never giving
his beloved Clippers enough credit for anything.
But on this day, his trip home would be filled with
news and comments about the bombing at the Boston Marathon. When he got home,
he was visibly shaken. My husband is a very large man who works supervising men
and machines, loves basketball and karate, in which he is a black belt, and is
a real man’s man. He is not easily shaken, or emotionally moved, as he was that
day. His first words as he walked in the door were, “Ain’t that some s#!t?”!!
Usually when he comes home, he changes his clothes,
sits in his big chair with the LA Times Sports page, and goes into his
post-labor NBA man-cave for a while. But instead of a nearly obsessive interest
in NBA basketball, he needed to talk, to debrief with me over the day’s
tragedy. These are the days I feel so
lucky to be married to him. I realized in that moment, as we were sitting in
our living room sharing our sense of shock and disbelief, that the only place I
really feel safe is inside this man’s heart, as well as the hearts of everyone
that I love: my son, my grandson, family and friends. The people we have to
talk to when things like this happen.
I try not to use profanity in my writing, especially
not in the title. It suggests to me an inability to find a better word. However,
those words from my closest friend and partner just stopped me cold. The
emotion and urgency in his voice was such a departure from his usual bold
countenance. I was reminded of all those other American traumas; too many of
them, and more frequently it seems lately.
I still remember the unbelievable shock and horror
of all the violence of the 1960s, with the Civil Rights and anti-war
demonstrations, and especially all of the assassinations: Malcolm X and Medgar
Evers, followed by President Kennedy; and then the sense of being unable to
escape this violence after witnessing the murders of Martin Luther King and Robert
Kennedy. I remember waking up to my mother sobbing into a bath towel upon
hearing the news of Bobby Kennedy’s shooting. I remember being glued to the TV
after the assassinations, after Oklahoma City and 9/11, just as I am today,
hungry for news from Boston.
I grew up with a sense that these incidents, while
shocking and evil, were rare. But now, the rarity of these events is a distant
memory, as we seem to be going through these national traumas nearly every
month. Some of them, like Oklahoma City, 9/11, Newtown and Boston, blow a giant
hole through our collective American heart. Others garner fewer national
headlines, and/or for shorter periods of time than either of those above, but
are no less heartbreaking for the community and families of those killed or
injured in places like Aurora, Colorado and Oak Creek, Wisconsin.
And it takes its toll on all of us, each time our
world stops, in order to process the latest horror being played out on our
television sets. Not only does the present moment call for a collective,
exhausting grief, it also awakens our memories of national traumas past, as
well as making us feel a little less safe as we go about our daily routines. It
used be easier to feel safe in this world, especially if you were just working
day by day, minding your own business, like most of us do. But now, whether in
venues of worship, entertainment, politics, or even shopping, there is no
assumption that nothing crazy will happen to us. When did going grocery
shopping, or to church, turn into a high-risk activity?
And now, I have to wonder when, and where, it will
happen again. Because it will happen again. We all know that it will. Another
day will come when we have to stop and look and grieve. Another day will come
when our attention is diverted from something we were looking forward to, because
it’s been pre-empted by something we could never imagine. It will come again
because we have done nothing to prevent it from coming again. We are stuck in a
cycle of violence that we think will go away, but it won’t. The cycle not only
keeps on going, but speeds up with every complete revolution, in this seemingly
endless American trauma ritual.
What’s the answer? I’m sure that I don’t know.
Because if we can’t even get our congress to enact legislation that the vast
majority of our citizens desire – and not just on guns – then how are we to
move forward? If every time something happens, we try to find a way to blame it
on “the other side,” how can we have an intelligent, informed and compassionate
discussion in which we describe and listen to one another in an attempt to
understand and compromise in order to problem-solve? Is trying to convince and
convert everybody over to our side more important than actually creating
lasting solutions, in which everybody gives up something and gains something in
return? This action and inaction will do nothing to arrest, or even slow, this
truly vicious cycle of killing and ruining lives.
No one lives forever, and I’m glad that I have
learned that we are all eternal in the hearts we touch; but while I’m here I’d
like to feel a little safer at the grocery store, as well as at Dodger Stadium.
It’s up to us, America! What’s it gonna be? More of
the same? Or something new and different in which we learn to honor all
Americans, even those with whom we disagree? Which one makes you feel safer?
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