As I sit in my kitchen, surrounded by my four children, I’m filled with relief as I see my older ones return from school. Yet, my heart sinks when I hear about a shooting at a facility for individuals with disabilities in San Bernardino. Meanwhile, my youngest is on the floor, happily playing with her toy Nativity set, blissfully unaware of the chaos that surrounds us.
I keep a cheerful demeanor as I hand out snacks, but deep down, I can’t shake the anxiety: Will my children reach adulthood? Will I witness their growth? Perhaps they’ll make it to college, only to find themselves in the crosshairs of another troubled individual who seeks to bring others down with them. I know children can cope with the loss of a parent; after all, I survived the passing of my own mother. If something were to happen to me in a public place, they would eventually heal. That knowledge is what helps me step outside the safety of my home each day.
I grew up in a different era. I rode in the front seat of cars, perched on the armrest while my uncle, who had possibly enjoyed one too many drinks, navigated the roads. I skated without a helmet and inhaled clouds of secondhand smoke. I wandered outside for hours, without a way to contact my parents if anything went wrong.
In stark contrast, my children are strapped into car seats that could withstand a nuclear blast. They’ve never been exposed to cigarette smoke and look like the Goodyear blimp when they bike around the block, with me hovering nearby. I’ve just begun allowing my oldest to be out of my sight for brief moments.
But none of that matters when I live in a world where gunfire is a daily reality. Security measures like checkpoints and surveillance cameras can only do so much; the truth is that those wielding guns are still getting through. Those with bombs are still detonating them. And there are still individuals who hijack planes for destruction.
I don’t have clear answers. The voices on my screen, often older men, insist guns aren’t the problem, but they fail to identify what is. Some blame religion; others point fingers at drugs or the government. Yet, I don’t fear the government. I fear the guns, the individuals behind them, and the notion that the solution is to arm more people instead of reducing access to firearms. Someone needs to clarify this for me.
My little one is now crawling towards me, eager to share a toy from her Nativity set. She beams at me, radiating joy and innocence, and I can’t help but envy her ignorance of the dangers that lurk outside. My mind races with thoughts on how to protect her from ever knowing about gun violence or terror.
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In summary, we live in a world where the presence of guns overshadows the safety of our children. As parents, we grapple with the fear for our children’s future, while society debates the causes of violence. All we want is to protect our little ones from the harsh realities of life, and it’s vital to have discussions about how we can create a safer environment for them.
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