Tonight I was chatting with my son. His name is Emmett. He’s 11 and my little sidekick. We talk about school and sports and music and basketball and math problems and science and dogs. We go to Angels games together. He still lets me tuck him in every night.
So we were chatting and chatting and chatting, when two thoughts entered my mind:
• 1. I’m sad school starts Tuesday
• 2. I hope no one shoots a bunch of people in his school this year.
He kept talking, and I kept thinking. About his safety, and how I haven’t taken it for granted in years. About the inevitability of school violence in 2018-19. About how kids will die and adults will do absolutely nothing about it. Then about how much kids will die and adults will do absolutely nothing about it. I thought about how we have taken to demonizing immigrants as thugs and murderers and criminals, but we never make an effort—even a slight effort—to curtail gun violence.
I want my son to be safe and grow to be a happy, healthy adult.
I no longer presume that to be inevitable.
