Now Oregon

I’m nearly mute. I thought we’d have crossed the line of passive acceptance a long time ago — years ago. I feel I should be furious and sad, but that feeling fades just a little bit each time. So help me, it fades a little bit.

I don’t understand the comparisons between guns and spoons, guns and cars, guns and pointed sticks. I only see guns in a class apart; as a class of lethal machines. Anything related to self-protection or deer consumption comes a vastly distant second.

Life has become the ultimate dystopian fantasy. We live in and bring children into a country where being shot as an innocent citizen is simply to be expected. Gotten accustomed to. We feel, in a sickeningly literal way, that when we don’t know anyone who was killed, we’ve dodged a bullet. Until next time.

It’s helpful, at a time like this, to articulate hope. So I’ll articulate it, but I don’t feel it. I never thought I’d get here, as an optimistic kid waiting breathlessly for the turn of the century, but I’ll say it again. I’m afraid I’m just eager to keep dodging bullets now until my natural clock runs out, thirty or forty years from now. And if I get shot to death before that time, I certainly hope it’s quick.

We’ve inherited this world as 21st Century adults. As bona fide grown-ups, never mind the 40-year-old video game players and gummy vitamin consumers, we’ve done an egregiously poor job of it. The war generation that went before would be disappointed to sobs, but they’re dead already.

I don’t feel sadness, so much as I feel shame.

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