My dad was a cop, killed on the job. You can look it up: 12/12/69. I was 11.
And so, whenever I hear of gun violence, I have a personal connection. A little history, as you might say. Given the number of times guns are used in this country to kill, you might guess that this happens a lot.
As I told a friend (who is a professor on a college campus not unlike Virginia Tech) this morning:
Horrid, isn’t it? Having experienced gun violence in my own family, this sort of thing raises ghosts and pre-occupies me entirely too much when it happens. And gives me a hard & cynical eye when examining the facile solutions suggested by both the gun nuts and the gun-control nuts. I’m sick of hearing on the one hand how easy it would be for someone to stop such a horror just by having their own gun – and equally sick of being told that anyone who does indeed own guns is obviously some kind of mental case who doesn’t really understand the dangers involved.
I have opinions about this. Strong opinions.
But for now, I just grieve. Again.
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