On a frigid night in February 1983, my life took a drastic turn. While I was engrossed in an episode of a popular television drama, a knock at the door shattered the moment. We weren’t expecting visitors, so an unsettling fear crept in as I peered through the glass to see my father’s face, cloaked in the darkness of the night.
At the time, my parents were entrenched in a bitter divorce, and my father, struggling with mental illness, was filled with anger and despair. I had felt a sense of relief when he moved out, bringing with him the gun issued to him by the New York City Police Department—a presence that had long loomed over me like a dark cloud. That night, however, I was painfully aware of the potential consequences of his return.
Despite my instincts screaming to stay away, I opened the door out of a misguided sense of obligation. In an instant, he pressed the cold metal of his gun against my temple, bypassing any semblance of affection. “Do you want to die first?” he asked, a chilling question that has echoed in my mind for decades.
Overwhelmed with panic, I fled the room, desperate to escape the chaos and my father’s drunken rants directed at my family. At just 13 years old, I felt utterly powerless. In my haste, I ran barefoot through the snow to a neighbor’s home, my feet stinging against the cold ground. “Do you want any socks?” they asked, noticing my bare, wet feet. I managed to explain, “My dad’s there. He has his gun.”
My neighbor, a police officer, approached our house with his firearm drawn while his wife contacted the authorities—the real protectors. I couldn’t help but wonder why my father didn’t belong among those good guys. Though I never heard any gunshots that night, I remained frozen in uncertainty, grappling with guilt for abandoning my family.
Fortunately, we survived that harrowing night, but the specter of gun violence lingers. The trauma of being a survivor leaves an indelible mark, manifesting as fear, anxiety, and lingering post-traumatic stress. Counseling and time may offer some relief, but the shadows of gun violence continue to loom over my life.
We are all too familiar with the grim reality of gun violence in America. Whether you are a child from Sandy Hook, a moviegoer in Aurora, or a participant at a holiday gathering in San Bernardino, you share a common thread. Gun violence is not an isolated issue; it is a societal crisis that affects us all.
A gun is not synonymous with love or safety. Rather, it steals lives and inflicts pain. It is a weapon of destruction that must be regulated to protect humanity. It does not breathe, it does not care—it is my adversary. My father used to refer to me as his “foe” in jest, but in that moment, faced with his question, I simply wanted to live.
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Summary
The haunting impact of gun violence shapes the lives of survivors, leaving lasting scars that can never fully heal. This article recounts a personal experience with gun violence, emphasizing the urgency of addressing this pervasive issue in America. It highlights the need for regulation and awareness to protect our communities.