Firearms & Flu

My 10-year-old is home sick from school. He has the flu, and strep. Apparently he’s an over achiever. So here we sit, at home on comfy couches, him wrapped in a blanket, me unshowered in a Christmas sweatshirt. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. My sweatshirt is cozy. I’m exhausted, and we’re not going anywhere, so give me some slack.

As I sit here, worried about my son and the current hype about the flu, and the work that I’m supposed to be doing from home (which we all know is virtually impossible to accomplish when home with a sick kid, but we try anyway), as I sit here, I’m completely terrified and horribly confused. We are in the midst of a vengeful flu season, with almost constant reminders about the sneaky virus taking out countless humans for days on end, and reports of several deaths. Deaths. It’s awful. And every few years it happens, it’s simply the nature of disease. We get sick. We get better. And next year we start sneezing again. Yet we worry, because we should. We go to the doctor. We ask questions. We stock up on Gatorade and chicken noodle soup. And we pray our bodies, and our children’s bodies, are strong enough to handle it all.

But the flu isn’t why I’m scared. I’m scared because once again, in this beautiful country I call home, children were murdered at their school. Their. School. On Valentine’s Day. Children were murdered in their school. AGAIN. When will this madness end?

What confuses me most—even more than why some flu seasons are worse, or the elusive search for work life balance, or the need for self driving cars, or our fascination with celebrity fitness routines—is how we ended up in a world where we see almost constant coverage on terrorists, flu outbreaks, and political tweets, but somehow keep forgetting to get outraged by school shootings. It’s about time we center our focus on gun violence, and the all too common massacres in our own backyards.

My son is home with the flu, safe and hydrated on the couch. My other son is at school, in his kindergarten class. He is there with 20 other precious kids, to learn a little, play a lot, and giggle at fart jokes and silly behavior. Count the other classrooms and there are hundreds of children, all there to learn. But for an alarming number of lunatics, they are sitting ducks. Nothing more than empty bottles to be shot off fences out in the county. Targets. Our children have become targets. I shouldn’t have to worry about my 6-year-old. He’s at school. He’s away from his sick brother, in a classroom which should be a safe place. I should be worried about my son with the flu, not my kindergartener whose Valentine Box was just yesterday filled to the brim with love notes and possibility. But no, we have officially reached the place where we need to worry about kids ... in school. Not because of bullies, or bad lunches, but because of assault rifles and angry bastards out to make a statement. It’s absurd. And I’m fucking mad. Really fucking mad.

Schools should be a safe haven for all our children. Malls and movie theaters should be a safe place to go for entertainment. And nightclubs should be a safe place to hang with friends. And churches, oh my, they shoot people in churches, too. It’s as if a criminal underworld hosts weekly meetings in dingy smoke filled basements, fanning their fingers together and chuckling as they propose new places to hit, to get that extra wow factor from their carnage. But even they must be shocked, for nothing actually shocks or moves us anymore, especially when it comes to this particular form of evil. Nope, we have basically told our lawmakers it’s OK to take blood money from the NRA, and to continue to let the madness unfurl. Because. Guns.

The world gets messy when normal places become hunting grounds. And when schools—SCHOOLS— became the new go to for mass shootings, well that was the time to get outraged. But we collectively missed the first invitation to get mad. And sadly have been given multiple invites to get pissed. Are you angry yet?

Kids deserve to be safe. Period. I can already hear the naysayers. I hear you. I know you can die in a car accident, from the flu, a house fire or a cancer hidden deep within your bones. But here’s the deal—cars are regulated, and rarely used as weapons. We need licenses to drive them, and by law need to insure our vehicles. The flu is monitored, treated and sometimes medicated. People are told what to do if they get a fever, and hospitals are prepared for patient care. Houses burn down, sometimes because of wiring, sometimes negligence, and sometimes even arson. We are told from a young age to stop drop and roll, we keep toasters unplugged, check smoke alarms yearly, and think of escape routes when we put our children to bed. And cancer, well, cancer sucks—but we diagnose it. We talk about it, and we work aggressively to find cures and treatments.

But guns, somehow we are too afraid to talk about guns. Truth be told, I’m not afraid of your gun. I’m afraid of all guns. Just like I’m afraid of stray dogs. If you have your dog on a leash, I feel a little better being near you. But when I see a dog, even a cute fluffy one, running aimlessly—I start to wince. I grab my kids, cross the street, look for shelter. Because they can bite. It’s a true fact, dogs can bite. And even ones on a leash.

And guns, they kill.

Oddly enough, you are supposed to register a dog, and even have to fill out paperwork to adopt one. We teach dogs to poop outside, and sign them up for obedience classes. Why so much fear about asking for safe gun laws? Common sense gun laws? Demanding transparency and making a few rules and regulations should be a basic part of smart gun ownership. The longer it takes to get to the bottom of this, the closer we get to actually taking your guns. Which is not the plan. I don’t want your gun. I want his gun. And his. And his ...

Listen to the mothers. Listen to the victims. Listen to the families. Just listen.

Because I think we can all agree that the only thing teenagers should worry about on Valentine’s Day, is not getting a Valentine. Not getting shot at school, or being murdered by a madman. For 17 people in Florida there will be no more candy hearts, flowers, or fancy dinners. Because they died on Valentine’s Day—at the hands of a monster too cowardly to take his own life, but emboldened by a really big gun, and national complacency.

And we were too busy eating chocolate and debating the efficacy of the flu vaccine to notice. I’m not sure there is enough Gatorade or chicken noodle soup to make this gun disease go away, but we owe it to our children, and ourselves, to try.