I haven’t been able to talk to my kids about this. To warn them. Prepare them.
I don’t know how to appropriately address this with my 2 boys who have Asperger’s Syndrome. My older will analyze, dissect, plan, and try to figure out how to construct the mental box that this goes in. My younger who will truly panic. Who will end up thinking about this every day, worrying about when it will happen and who will probably end up talking about nothing else at school.
And Henry, who won’t and can’t understand and whose very life would depend on the teachers and associates who care for him and who would be charged with figuring out not only how to protect their disabled students, but how to convey to Henry that he has to hide and BE QUIET. For the same reason that I know we’ll never survive a zombie outbreak, his class wouldn’t survive a school shooting. Because he CAN’T be quiet. And the more you ask him, the more he’ll talk. And sing. And draw attention to the fact that people are in there. And why should paraprofessionals, who aren’t paid nearly enough for the work they DO in our special needs classrooms, also be expected to figure out how to keep a room full of autistic and otherwise disabled children hunkered down for 2 hours, keeping themselves and their charges safe.
I’ve been convincing myself that “it won’t happen here.” That our community is somehow immune to this insane, terrifying bullshit that is spreading like a horror movie virus. I know deep down that we’re not. That at any time, our bucolic town could be next. That I could be running to Henry’s school or Steven’s school or even William’s school, blind with panic, desperate to see if my kid somehow survived.
And I feel impotent. Utterly. Because I have no power. I can’t stand against the NRA and the cartoon villain politicians who, time and time and time and time and time again choose their well-lined pockets over actual lives. Who, every single fucking day, offer meaningless thoughts and prayers while cashing checks from the murder weapon makers and then turn their backs while we bury our children. I can’t fight them. My anger and rage and disbelief and terror cannot make a dent compared to soulless monsters who have chosen money over children’s lives.
I no longer give a ripe shit about your 2nd amendment rights. About what you or the NRA think you should be able to buy at your local gun show held at the same county fairgrounds where your community’s children would enjoy the fair’s carnival rides and funnel cakes if they hadn’t been slaughtered by an AR-15 bought there last year. If you, at this late date, cannot support reasonable gun restrictions, detailed background checks, and the idea that NO ONE NEEDS WEAPONS LIKE THIS, then there aren’t enough insulting, offensive swear words for me to throw at you. Yes, mental illness is part of the problem (and don’t get me started on how it then makes all the sense to cut mental health care from any GOP BILL and remove restrictions that prevent the mentally ill from buying guns), but the most mentally ill person can’t slaughter this number of people with a knife. So sit down and stop talking so the rest of us can save our children’s lives.
Because I promise this. If you don’t? We mothers are going to come for you. And there will be a RECKONING.Tweet