In the wake of yet another school shooting—one that may be just another number to you by now—I found myself engulfed in a surge of emotions I had never experienced before. It was a potent blend of disgust, fear, helplessness, and pure rage.
Determined to transform my anger into action, I reached out to my community, urging friends and peers to engage in discussions about the gun control versus mental health debate. Unfortunately, my efforts largely fell on deaf ears, intensifying my frustration. I began to shift my anger away from lawmakers and directed it towards an indifferent populace. “Why does no one care enough to act?!” I would exclaim, grappling with disbelief.
It baffled me how others continued their daily routines as if they were unaffected by the ongoing violence, as if they believed it wouldn’t happen again. Suddenly, the issue became deeply personal. Each time I encountered someone defending gun rights or dismissing the conversation, I felt as though they were devaluing the safety of my children.
I took a critical look at the people around me, particularly my friends of color, and questioned why many of them didn’t seem as outwardly enraged as I was. After all, statistics show that Black children are ten times more likely to fall victim to gun violence than their white counterparts. The answer came quickly, and I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me; my Black friends have long been angry about gun violence—they’ve been living with this reality far longer than I have.
Until now, their cries for help didn’t resonate with me on a personal level, as they didn’t touch on the safety of my own children. As much as I hate to admit it, when I hear about young Black lives lost to gun violence, I have often relegated it to a “sad, but…” category in my mind: “Sad, but I lack all the details to form a well-informed opinion.” “Sad, but there were circumstances involved.” “Sad, but my kids are thankfully not part of that demographic.”
Coming to terms with this realization is painful, and I share it because I believe it adds a valuable perspective to the ongoing discussion about gun violence in America. I’m ashamed to recognize that I’ve been unknowingly turning a blind eye to the gun violence affecting other groups of children aside from my own. My newfound outrage is filtered through lenses of privilege; I’ve never had to fear for my children’s safety based solely on their skin color. It’s only when guns infiltrated schools like the ones my children attend that I felt compelled to speak out.
I don’t claim to have all the solutions to the complex issue of gun violence. With each proposed remedy, new questions and challenges arise. This message isn’t an attempt to persuade anyone or to advocate for any specific change. It’s not about martyrdom or guilt. Rather, I felt an urgent need to acknowledge my own privilege in relation to gun violence, especially given my vocal stance on the tragic epidemic of firearm-related deaths in our country. This is a heartfelt apology to my peers of color, who have long been begging for relief from gun violence while I remained silent.
I sincerely regret that it took me this long to feel this angry.
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Summary
This article reflects on the author’s awakening to the urgency of gun violence, especially as it affects marginalized communities. The author expresses regret for not recognizing the issue earlier and acknowledges their privilege while calling for greater awareness and action.