March for Our Lives
Yesterday my daughter and I went to March for Our Lives against gun violence. Watching my 18 year old daughter from my middle aged perch was at times interesting. We were surrounded by a collective surge of teen rage, a righteous enthusiasm for change. Recently I heard the mother of a murdered Sandy Hook student talk of meeting the Parkland Florida teen activists. She spoke about her efforts with other Sandy Hook parents to create basic policy change and gun reform—and largely failing. She spoke of feeling protective of the Parkland teens with her knowledge of what they were up against. She felt baffled about how to support them.
I totally understand this delicate balance between hope and experience—and the need to cling to possibility. My husband and I love ‘speaking truth to power’ stories. One of our favorites’ is of Daniel Ellsberg leaking The Pentagon Papers that revealed the President knew the Vietnam war was un-winnable—and yet continued to callously sacrifice lives to keep up appearances. When Ellsberg’s attorneys were picking jurors for the trial, a psychiatrist advised them, “You don’t want on this jury men of middle age, because these are people who in the course of their lives, might possibly have sacrificed principle… and they will have a lot of disdain even contempt for two men who (didn’t sacrifice their principles).”
I hear grumblings around me at times. Middle aged smugness that perhaps we will never have a reasonable gun policy in the US. During this past year with Trump in office, at moments I’ve felt a fossilized cynicism start to set in. My heart has been broken hearing the travesties of my country embracing hate and corruption. There are mornings we’ve woken up, upon hearing of the latest affront, my husband asked quietly, “How are you doing?” and I’d reply, “I wouldn’t make the Ellsberg jury today. I’ve got no fight, no hope.”
It is so easy to become bitter. The smartest historians I know are cynics. Hope seems equal to naivete. There are days I want to check out early afternoon, have a double bourbon with one of the Ellsberg jury rejects and snort with derision as I ease into a dark cave of depression and complacency.
But yesterday, as we marched, I dared to hope. Later that night we watched clips from the Washington DC March for Our Lives, Emma Gonzalez’s profound composure as she stood silent for four uncomfortable minutes, Edna Chavez, 18, speaking of her slain brother in South Los Angeles, Naomi Wadler, 11, reminding us of the overlooked gun violence victims, people of color who don’t make front page news.
People say that these kids don’t know what they’re up against. That may be true. But a person can’t know when the tipping point will happen. If we stop believing it can happen—we are done. As Margaret Mead said, “Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world; indeed, it’s the only thing that ever has.” Fighting injustice can be grueling. Change can take way too long to happen. Gun policy reform did not happen on my watch. But I am backing up all the Parkland teenagers and bringing my experience and hope to the fight. I am daring to believe now is the time.