Bullets & Backpacks

Anything but normal

I’m horrified.

I continue to be horrified.

I refuse to resign myself to the idea that this is our new normal, so I read the victim lists. I read their bios that sum up a decade or several (or sometimes not even that long) of life in 1–2 paragraphs. I look into the memory of their eyes captured and shared with the public and let myself feel pain over the loss of someone I didn’t know anything about until they were taken suddenly and violently. I cry. Good God, I’ve cried.

Worshipers in church. Clubbers. Concert goers. Teachers. First responders. Good samaritans. Shoppers. Children.

Children.

And we respond. Schools and counties practice drills to “prepare” our children for an attack.

Huddle. Divide. Cover the windows. Hide.

If you’re out in the hallway you may not be let into a classroom. We’ll be able to save more kids that way.

Normal.

The day after Sandy Hook, I took my kids to their school before-care program. I was having a rough morning with my youngest….some days it was a miracle to even get her out the door TO school, so getting her in the door and dropping her off without much incident was a win for me. I walked back to my car, drove away and promptly burst into tears realizing that in the frustration of the morning I hadn’t told her that I loved her.

I turned around and drove back to the school to look into her eyes. Her alive eyes, and tell her that I loved her.

Because I’m scared.

Statistically, my kids are likely going to be just fine. As are yours. There are a lot of schools in this nation. A lot of kids. Next time it probably won’t be your kids that die.

Normal.

But the parents whose children won’t be coming home were dealing with the same statistics. That’s what makes it scary. The possibility.

What is also scary is that, instead of exploring what makes these unnecessary deaths possible in an open discussion that can include all of the factors-gun accessibility, mental health, toxic masculinity, domestic violence, narcissism, apathy, how we’re raising our children, etc., we stay divided. We are not as concerned with keeping our children safe from gunfire in the classroom as we are with being right. We don’t want what we’ve decided is our normal to be threatened.

Don’t take our guns. Don’t question my capability because I’m battling mental illness. Don’t question my manliness. Don’t question how I raise my kids. Stay out of my home. My marriage. My business. Don’t tell me I should worry about others-I’ve got me and mine.

I hurt. I cry. This is what we’re leaving our kids with.

All of the things that make us uncomfortable need to be addressed because that’s how change is made. Change is rarely easy. Good change is rarely quick. Change requires compromise. Change requires looking within. Change can hurt. Change can heal.

I have amazing hope and faith in this generation. This generation that my children are part of. They’re going to take long strides to making this better. They’re going to do that because it’s happening to them. They will be the change.

And something needs to change.

I’ve had this image in my head for days. I thought of it, and then I burst into tears. I debated on making it, but ultimately decided I needed to do it because the continued idea that this life is our new normal is not ok.

This is NOT normal.