My Grandfather's Choice

In the early 1930’s, my grandmother was in labor, but something was wrong. A doctor came to my grandfather who was in the waiting room and asked, “Do you want to save the mother or the child?” Shocked by the question and terrified at the specter of losing his wife, my grandfather, Poppy, said, “The mother, of course!”

 

The loss of this lovingly-awaited child in the second trimester was wrenching, as are all late term losses, but how much worse would have been the death of my grandmother for Poppy and my uncle, then a toddler. 

 

My mother, the result of a later, successful pregnancy, told me this story. She would not have been here to do so had Poppy made another choice or not been given a choice. I would not be here either. Nor would my two sisters, their sons, my children, and three grandchildren. 

 

Ronna McDaniel, chair of the RNC crowed “Life wins!” at the overturn of Roe v. Wade. Another GOP leader spoke in glowing terms of family trees now free to flower with the babies that otherwise might have been lost to abortion. In my family, but for the termination of a pregnancy, the branch occupied by ten cherished people would not have sprouted. 

 

30-year-old Izabela Sajbor of Poland was excited about having a sibling for her daughter. When, at 14 weeks, the fetus was discovered to have severe abnormalities and would not likely survive, the family was heartbroken. That Izabela was made to carry it to term was torment. But at 22 weeks, she was admitted to the hospital because her water broke prematurely. She wound up developing a fever and convulsing, but due to Poland’s restrictive abortion laws, the doctors were more concerned about the continued fetal heartbeat than the woman slipping away before them. By the time the baby’s heartbeat stopped, septic shock had set in. It was too late to save Izabela.    

 

The Conservatives touting Roe’s demise as a victory for life are choosing, yet again, to ignore history and the deaths that preceded the ruling, as well as the deaths that will surely follow. Beyond criminal sentencing for those seeking abortion, the states howling “No exceptions!” are sentencing women with ectopic pregnancies and women with botched abortions to death. They are sentencing rape and incest victims to compounded trauma. Celebrants of the evisceration of women’s rights over those of a fetus are also of the party that obstructs social programs to help the vulnerable women and children unwanted pregnancies will most affect. The “victors” are all about birth, but then they wash their hands.  

 

Frantic at the removal of a fetus, but inadequately moved by the deaths of schoolchildren, these self-proclaimed pro-life advocates are the same people who turn bellicose in defending the right to own and brandish – thanks again, Supreme Court - murderous weapons. As grieving families bury their loved ones, the hypocrites turn away and vote no.  

 

“Life wins”? Not so.     

 

Lacking Conscience or Courage, What Toll?

My son, Tucker, appeared at the door of the bedroom where I’d snuggled him in for a nap but minutes before. He was three years old, and we were visiting a friend for the day. Clearly unnerved, he said, “There’s a gun in there.” 

I scooped him up and entered the room. A rifle was in the corner, leaning against the wall. How had I missed it? The gun was removed, and I lay down with my boy until he drifted off to sleep.

 

Not long before Tucker was born, one of my students died in a gun accident. He was thirteen, a bright kid, funny, kind, and promising. Having spent two years at a school for children with learning disabilities, he’d been accepted at a competitive, traditional school and was eager to commit to that challenge.  Instead, he died. While playing with a gun, a friend of his shot him by mistake.  

 

In the aftermath of that loss, I raised my children to have a gun aversion borne of my own. 

 

In 2012, twenty children and the six adults striving to save them were shot at Sandy Hook Elementary School by a troubled young man with an AR-15. Dave and I live two towns away, and sometimes it’s a struggle to ban from my mind images of the carnage faced by first responders at Sandy Hook. And now, Uvalde. It stills my soul to think of the unfathomable grief of the victims' parents and loved ones. How does one live with such pain? Joe Garcia, husband of murdered Robb Elementary School teacher Irma Garcia, could not. He died of a heart attack the day after the shooting, leaving their four children orphaned.  The ripples of tragedy fan wide, anger and sorrow sweeping parents, grandparents, siblings, teachers, friends, neighbors… and those of us, far removed, who mourn for them. What will be the toll of this recurring trauma? 

 

Mental health in America is a serious issue, but it is guns that are doing the killing. It is assault weapons that are slaughtering children, shoppers, and church-goers. Those who bellow, “You can take my gun only from my cold, dead hands” seem to think their rights, based on a willful application of an amendment written in the 18^th century for militia men and musket owners, supersede those of the swelling ranks of deceased, injured, and bereaved.

 

They are wrong, but for now, it seems Karma alone will settle these countless scores. Life-saving laws have idled for years as Congressional Republicans, absent conscience or courage, worry more about re-election than murdered children.   

 

Since the Columbine High School shooting in 1999, 2000 Americans have been killed or wounded in mass shootings, and that does not include the thousands of individual gun deaths and suicides.  As 50 Senators block H.R. 8, the Bi-Partisan Background Checks Act of 2021, the murders continue as Americans approach outings with wariness, and parents, fearfully, send their kids to school. 

 

 

When Richard Called

Richard, a volunteer for the Biden Victory Fund, called last night.  While sipping a hot cup of tea, I was busy at the time writing letters for Vote Forward, a get-out-the-vote effort. It had been a lovely fall day, but with enough nip in the air to warrant long pants and a sweatshirt plus that cup of tea. When Richard called, it was after dusk, and I’d added a woolen shawl around my shoulders, and snuck up the heat on the thermostat.

 

Dave and I never answer the phone for telemarketers, pollsters, or “unavailable” numbers, but our Caller ID had identified Richard’s cause, and desperate as I am for a Biden win, I picked up the phone. 

 

Richard had barely launched his spiel when I interrupted. I thanked him for the work he was doing, told him of my ardent support, but added that I was comfortable with the amount I’d already donated to the campaign.  

 

To my surprise, he didn’t argue. He coughed.  A hearty, the-man-is-sick, cough. “Can you hold on a minute while I get some water?” he asked. 

 

“Of course,” I replied. 

 

When he returned and said, “I’m back,” I noticed how congested he was. 

 

“Richard, you don’t sound well.  Do you have a cold?” 

 

“Yes. I’ve had some health issues for a while.  We don’t usually make calls on Sundays, and I’d hoped to rest a bit, but so much is at stake, and the election’s close, so they added this day to the schedule. I’ll keep it light though.  Only two or three hours more.” 

 

“Maybe you should get a cup of tea,” I suggested. “I’m having lemon echinacea myself.”  

 

“Sounds like an idea,” he replied, then set about completing his mission. “We’re grateful for what you’ve already given, but just so you know, if you decide to give tonight, it will be triple-matched.”

 

Triple-matched. Hm. I repeated the line about my comfort at my previous level of giving, but as Richard coughed and sipped his water, I thought about the many sleepless nights I’ve spent staring at the ceiling while holding fervent fictional conversations with Trump supporters. 

 

Under the cloak of darkness, I have all the right words and evidence. What answer can be given to the damage and cruelty of this administration’s policies? The separation of children and nursing infants from their mothers in detention camps.  Staunch advocacy of the unborn yet tolerance of white supremacists and defense of assault weapons that have enabled mass-shootings. Alienating allies while cultivating authoritarian leaders. Public dismissal of COVID as nothing to fear even as American deaths surpass 210, 000. The dismantling of agencies, programs, and laws set up over decades to protect the planet and its creatures.

 

I thought of the new word I learned in the Boston Globe this Sunday that described to perfection the habit I picked up in January of 2017: Doomscrolling. While I’d avoided the news since my bout with cancer because I thought it was unhealthy, since Trump’s inauguration, I tap the news feed on my phone every morning, and sometimes several times a day, with the sick need to know what has he done now?  Doomscrolling sets my heart pounding and feeds my fury and incredulity with each fix, yet it’s a compulsion I can’t seem to shake. 

 

Since I was little, I’ve been a worrier. As a child, I worried about grades and getting in trouble. At work, I worried about word choice, guest lists, seating, and palm fronds. As a mom and grandmother now, I worry about my loved ones’ happiness and safety… and that’s where politics and love intersect. It is relatively new territory to add world events to my worry portfolio, but shootings, COVID, climate change, and this world of endless wars are no longer distant: they threaten my kids and their children… as they do the children of those who support Trump. Hence my disbelief when Republicans say to me, “I hate the guy, but I like what he’s doing.” I’ve heard that too many times and to me, character matters. 

 

Shields and Brooks, the PBS Friday night commentators, observe that most people are tired of chaos and are looking for “safe hands.” Safe hands. Oh, how that spoke to me of refuge and peace. Unlike Trump who focuses on his needs and the present, Biden’s plans embrace all Americans, as well as future generations whose well-being depends on our actions now.  Biden is not perfect, but he’s honorable, and has given his life to public service. Trump has missed that piece of the job description entirely.  In the search for safe hands, the choice is clear.

 

“Richard, you salesman you,” I said. “It’s hard to pass on that triple match. You can count me in.”

    

That is who we are, isn't it?

“So, you were on the stage when the shooting started? Can you describe for us what happened?” 

As he listened to the news anchor’s question, the young man’s gaze was averted.   He was seeing something else, something off-camera, something that left him pale and haunted.  In his blue flannel shirt and jeans, this kid had just spent the evening at a country western festival… and been sprayed with gunshots from a window on the 32^nd floor of the Mandalay Hotel.  The silence seemed long… painful… between the anchor’s question and the boy’s ability to find his voice.  He glanced into the camera and quickly away.

“I was with my sister,” he began, and immediately, I worried about his sister. “We heard this popping noise.  Pop, pop, pop.  At first we thought it was, like, firecrackers or something, you know? But then, this guy next to us was shot…” The boy angled his head and placed a finger where his neck met his jaw, “here.  In the head.”

He went on, his voice flat, his gaze still fixed elsewhere, back in time.  “The shooting stopped, then started again.  There were three volleys.  Each time, my sister threw her body over mine and told me she loved me.”

With tears running down my face, I imagined being there.  Out on a glorious night, enjoying the music and festivity, and then, the fatal shift wrought by that popping sound. Those desperately whispered, possibly last, loving words as Dave leapt to cover me, or as I leapt to protect my children. The futility of flesh as a shield when hatred has access to an automatic weapon. 

Who would continue to allow that access after the deaths of 20 first graders and six of their teachers in Sandy Hook?  Who would allow that after the deaths of theater-goers watching a movie in Aurora?  Who would allow that after the deaths of young people dancing at a club in Orlando?  Who would continue to do nothing as guns in the hands of the mentally ill or hate-consumed continue to kill Americans gathered peacefully together?

Statistics vary depending on the source and definition of a mass shooting. Gun Violence Archive counts 1500 mass shootings since Sandy Hook.  These include incidents where four or more people were shot, not necessarily killed, and not including the shooter.  So if three people were shot and killed, they’d not be counted in that statistic.  In terms of individual gun deaths, the average is 12,000 homicides a year.  If suicide by gun is included, the number skyrockets, as if 12,000 weren’t skyrocket enough.        

So, how is Congress responding to these tragedies? What steps are they taking to keep guns out of the wrong hands?  Oh, wait.  No. Their response, no doubt prodded by the NRA and gun manufacturers, is to pursue ways to make it easier.  In Connecticut, we are blessed by Senators Murphy and Blumenthal, and Representative Jim Himes who are seeking to close loopholes in existing legislation. But a few months ago, enough members of Congress voted “aye” to pass a law that allows those with mental illness easier access to guns.  Not only that, there are bills currently under consideration to legalize silencers and give concealed-carry permits validity even in states that don’t allow them.

WHAT? Why is the agony and outrage most Americans feel not reflected in the votes and actions of Congress?

“The second amendment demands we protect gun ownership!” might be the response.  But it’s lunacy or willful ignorance to think the founding fathers envisioned automatic weapons, or would wish to protect the right to spray death on innocent citizens with a weapon designed to kill many in a short time.

Over the past year, my husband and I saw Zac Brown in concert at Citifield and James Taylor and Bonnie Raitt at Fenway Park.  The stands were packed to capacity at both venues, with roughly 35,000 eager fans in attendance at each.  Despite the happy crowds and great vibe, it crossed my mind, just a quiet flitter, that a shooter with an automatic weapon could do a lot of damage if that were the goal.

Instead, people danced, just as the concert-goers in Las Vegas did.  Everyone smiled, and some linked arms, as 35,000 people sang along with James Taylor to “You’ve got a Friend.”

That is who we are, isn’t it?

In the names of those dead by gun violence, and to prevent adding the names of our loved ones to that list, I pray that Congress, those entrusted with the well-being of the nation and its people, will be moved by these deaths to enact common sense gun control and start, at the very least, with re-instating the ban on semi-automatic weapons.