When the gunman comes for me

It’s 2016 and I could be next.  There are shootings, bomb threats, violence on every corner, human against human, man against woman against child against the world.  My job has become dangerous, going out at night could be lethal; people die at grocery stores in the morning and at bars at night.  And that’s just in Williamsburg. 

I ask myself almost daily if all this risk is worth it.  I’m not negotiating peace treaties in a war torn province or doing humane work for the United Nations.  I’m talking about our history.  It’s not even my families, like millions of other Americans, my roots in this country are barely a century old.  I’m talking about people that I have no real reason to defend, no tangible connection to.  Except that they’re human, and so am I.  They are our past, our present, and our future. 

Every time I hear of another shooting, I wonder if this is what it felt with stamp act riots rippling up and down the east coast.  If citizens lived in fear of being dragged out of their beds just for looking the wrong way, saying the wrong thing, being on the wrong side.  This is not a new struggle, the idea of “national identity” is  contrived out of nothingness.  And isn’t that the beauty of it?

So If I’m next.  If the gunman comes for me and I can’t run or hide, for the love of god don’t send prayers.  I’m not a saint.  I’m not a martyr.  I lie and I am vain and filled with human foibles.  Don’t make it a call to action; don’t put up ridiculous black and whites of my vacant smile (but in all honesty, choose a flattering photo.)  Don’t talk about my childhood dreams or how I was going to save the world.  The world cannot be saved by the countless innocent lives snuffed to soon. 

Instead, listen.  We are bothers and sisters, black and white, brown and red and every color in between.  There are so many good sane people in the world, we cannot be held hostage by the violent few.  I am living my life to the greatest purpose I can imagine.  I am trying to connect the past to the present, to learn from our wounds instead of just picking at the scab until it becomes infected.  If I’m next, I want it to count for something. 

Make me count.