As I sit in my kitchen, surrounded by my four children, I feel a moment of relief as my eldest three return from school. But that sense of calm is shattered when I hear about a shooting at a center for individuals with developmental disabilities in San Bernardino. My youngest happily chews on a Little People Nativity Set, blissfully unaware of the horrors unfolding outside.
While I try to maintain a cheerful demeanor, distributing after-school snacks, a troubling thought creeps in: Will my children reach adulthood? Will I witness their milestones? Perhaps I can keep them safe until they head off to college, only to have their lives cut short by another troubled individual intent on inflicting harm. I’ve lived a fulfilling life, and I understand that children can cope with the loss of a parent—I experienced it myself. If tragedy struck me in a public space, like a mall or a concert, they would eventually be alright, I convince myself. This grim realization is what drives me to face the world outside my home each day.
My childhood was vastly different. I rode in the front seat of my uncle’s car, carefree, while he navigated the road after a few drinks. I skated without a helmet and inhaled secondhand smoke without a second thought. I roamed the neighborhood for hours without a way to communicate with my parents.
In contrast, my children are strapped into car seats designed to withstand extreme impacts. They’ve likely never encountered a cigarette and are heavily padded when they ride their bicycles. I stand by their side, closely supervising them, and I’ve only recently allowed my oldest to wander out of my sight for brief moments.
Yet, all this precaution feels futile in a world where gunfire is a daily occurrence. No amount of security measures, from checkpoints to surveillance cameras, can change the reality that armed individuals can still strike. They breach defenses, and the threat remains.
I don’t have the solutions. Politicians on my screen continuously assert that guns aren’t the issue, but they fail to articulate what is if it’s not firearms. Some blame religion, others point to drugs, and some suggest fearing the government. But my concern lies squarely with the weapons themselves. I fear the individuals wielding guns, explosives, and aircraft. The notion that we need more guns for safety is baffling to me. Can someone clarify this?
Meanwhile, my baby is now attempting to hand me an angel figurine from her Nativity set, crawling with joy and innocence. I smile back, envious of her carefree existence, unaware of the dangers surrounding us. My greatest wish is to shield her from the harsh realities of a world filled with guns and violence.
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In summary, as a parent, the fear of gun violence overshadows the joy of raising children. Despite the protective measures we take, the reality of living in a society plagued by firearms leaves us all questioning our safety and the future of our children.