Thursday, December 20, 2012

Firing Range of Emotions on Gun Violence

Since the Sandy Hook shootings, I’ve heard and read a firing range of emotions and opinions: Who’s at fault, what’s at stake, and what as a nation we need to do to prevent this horrific event from recurring. There’s an angry divide between those who want gun regulations and those who see it as their Second Amendment right to own any gun they choose. There’s angst over whether having more concealed weapon holders would have spared the children. And there’s frustration over how this country treats its mentally ill. Finally, there are the fringe members of fundamentalist churches who decry that those kids died because the government has taken prayer out of schools—or because I’m a lesbian.
And, per my style, there I am—in the middle, trying to weigh both sides (except for the religion angle). Sadly, I can relate on a small level to just about everything that’s happened in the past week, and I’m trying to decide the best thing to do with all these feelings.
What’s the next right thing?
Gun Violence
In the summer of 2003, I got a call in the middle of the night from my boss. As a copy editor for a strategic global intelligence firm, I sent out the 7 a.m. report to clients, and was always the first one in the office. She told me in a shaken voice to not worry about coming in early or doing the morning report.
Odd.
I immediately thought I was being fired.
“Is everything all right?” I asked. She paused, then said, “No, and I have to go.”
After a few more hours of fitful rest, I finally went to work. The moment I walked through the office doors, my co-worker, Peter, met me and led me into the break room.
I’m definitely being fired, I thought.
“I have some bad news. Matt was shot last night by his neighbor. He’s dead.”
I lost my breath. Shocked. Then tears began to flow.
Matt was co-founder of the company—a very smart guy who loved refurbishing old cars, celebrating the Christmas holidays, and debating foreign affairs. I liked him a lot, and I was devastated.
The night before, Matt had been arguing with his neighbor across a wooden fence. The neighbor wanted Matt to quiet his barking dogs. After a while, the neighbor went into his house, retrieved a gun, and fired shots through the fence, striking Matt. He died at his backdoor, trying to crawl inside to call for help.
I’ve been thinking a lot about Matt today. The Sandy Hook shootings remind me of how angry and powerless I felt at the time of his death—of how senseless it all seemed. I don’t know if Matt owned a gun, but his neighbor legally owned several. And afterward, when the neighbor was released from county jail to await trial, his family reassured Matt’s brother (who was now tasked with staging the house to sell) that the neighbor was no longer a threat—that all firearms had been confiscated. But the neighbor still managed to get his hands on a gun; he used it to kill himself.
Gun Ownership
The following may shock some who’ve known me for years: I used to carry a gun. In my purse. Without a permit. Had no idea whether it was hot or not. Didn’t care. I was a scared college freshman—way before I had any martial arts training—and there had been a series of rapes on campus. So my brother-in-law (who made his own bullets) gave me a pretty, shiny silver 9mm handgun.
“Here, Catrina. If anyone messes with you, blow them to smithereens,” he said.
He took me out to the farm and showed me how to load it and shoot it, and I must admit, I loved target practice. Oh, the power of a gun. I had a naturally good aim.
“Hate to be a burglar in your house,” my brother-in-law said afterward.
For years, I carried that gun in my purse. Thought nothing of it. I live in Texas, where not too many years ago it was common to see hunting rifles racked against the windows of pick-up truck cabs. I have family and friends who are responsible deer, quail, and dove hunters. Hunting is a way of life where I live. However, one day in algebra, a classmate accidentally kicked my purse, which I’d placed on the floor next to my desk. I was terrified, even though I always had the safety on, that the gun would accidentally fire. So I put the pistol in the glove compartment of my Ford Fairlane, and that’s where it stayed until one night when I got stopped by a policeman for swerving to avoid a median that wasn’t there. I was drunk (that’s a whole other story), and somehow I managed to lie my way out of that traffic stop; the police officer never suspected I was packing. The thought of a felony conviction and prison time scared me so much that I put the gun in the bottom drawer of my dresser, and that’s where it stayed. Yet it worried me more nights than I care to remember, thinking about an intruder and wondering whether I’d be able to pull the trigger—and then of the intruder wrestling away the gun and using it on me. After years of soul searching, I finally accepted an important truth about myself:
I’m not meant to be a gun owner. I finally sold it at a local gun shop.
I no longer have the means to defend myself against a mass shooter with a pistol of my own. I hate it, but it was the right thing—for me.
Mental Illness
I’ve taught a handful of students whom I’ve suspected suffered some kind of mental illness. I tried to do my best as a compassionate Taekwondo teacher, emphasizing that martial arts teaches us to take care of ourselves mentally, physically, and spiritually. I always gently and strategically suggested that those students talk to professionals and take all medication as directed.
One former student lives a life in and out of jail. He does fine when he takes his medicine. When he doesn’t, his mind makes up stories. One time I picked up his brother, Niles, for lunch, and in the course of an hour, the brother’s mom called asking if Niles was O.K. “Mick said you were taking him to the emergency room.”
“Everything’s O.K.,” I told her. “We’re eating Mexican food.”
You can know people for years and not realize they have mental issues. One martial arts colleague held down two jobs and got to second degree black belt in Taekwondo before I realized she had serious delusions. One day she complained about the lack of space in her apartment, and I thought it odd since the summer before she had bought a house.
“Why are you in an apartment?” I asked.
“I couldn’t get those men to leave,” she said.
“Men?”
“Yeah. They kept breaking into my house. They’d hide and watch me. I’d spend all night trying to find them. I couldn’t get any sleep.”
The men did not exist. She called police officers so many times about the imaginary intruders that they threatened to commit her.
This woman also admitted one day that she talks to God. If she’d have told me that first, being a spiritual person, I might not have thought much about it. But given the men in her new apartment, I became alarmed. I wondered what to do. But she suddenly stopped training and her phone number was disconnected. I have no idea what's happened to her. I’m hoping that she got the medical help she obviously needed.
But Now What?
Given my history (knowing a victim of gun violence, being a gun owner, knowing people with mental illness), what do I do? And as a Taekwondo instructor, what do I say to my young students? I know they’ll ask.
Guys, I’m not sure I’m the person to go to for answers regarding this, because I have no good answers on how to defend against someone who’s bound and determined to shoot people. There’s no reasoning with them.  If you happen to be in such a situation, though, don’t try to be a superhero. Don’t even try to be a regular hero. The best you can do is to adhere to what I’ve always taught you when you feel your life is in danger: RUN, yell, lie your pants off, fight, escape by any means possible.
I’m a simple Taekwondo teacher who believes that the best self-defense techniques are the ones that eliminate the need for an offense. The best strategy to defend against a shooter tomorrow is to disarm the person behind that gun today. How I choose to deal with events like this is to be more proactive in prevention. To see people. To try to see those who are troubled coming. To treat people well. To be kind. To practice compassion and patience in tandem with honing awareness and intuition skills.
See that kid in the hallway? That no one talks to? Go talk to him. Hear a classmate making strange comments and threatening remarks to get attention? Tell someone: a teacher, your parents, the janitor. That kid may be bluffing, but you just don’t know. You could save a life by speaking up. Be as alert as a Transportation Security Administration (TSA) agent. They don’t take threats lightly. If you joke about blowing up a plane, they take you seriously. So take your classmates seriously. You’re not a tattler if you tell a school official that someone is acting bizarre and making wild threats. You’re practicing good self-defense.
Today, as I wear my elf hat in the office and think of Matt, how much he loved Christmas, and how sad I still feel about his death and the deaths of all those children and teachers in Connecticut, I resolve to be nicer than I’ve ever been. To bring my dogs in when they bark late at night in order to keep a good relationship with my neighbor. To try to see the troubled ones before me and DO MORE THAN JUST AVOID THEM.
Today, I’ll remember the old saying: “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Will this guarantee that I’ll not be a victim of a mass shooting? That none of my students will be victims? No. But it’s the best plan I’ve got today.