Church of the Holy Gun (sponsored by the NRA)

Sitting in the Globe Theatre in London UK to see Richard III, it crossed my mind. What if we were in an American theater? Bang bang, and many of us would die. The first thing to cross my mind was to throw myself on my mid30 year old daughter. For the bench, backless seating of the theater would not offer much protection. Then I remembered with a wave of--phew. This is the UK. This is Europe. This is my version of civilization, where gun violence happens so infrequently unlike in my country of America.

In America you can bandy a gun in public like a gunslinger. In the UK you can walk through a street festival with a pint of real beer. Any day of the week, I'll take the latter over the former. Deadly perhaps, eventually. But I don't take anyone with me holding a beer.

No surprise then that I am in total agreement with the Mayor of NYC, despite Obama and Romney's blatherings about putting aside politics--now IS the time to pull politics out of the closet and into the sunshine. For politics IS policy, and the policy of America to kill its children and citizens by allowing--no, by encouraging gun ownership and use with policies that have proven deadly--is a country who is sacrificing citizens daily on the altar of the holy gun.

The Aztecs did it better. At least their pseudo wars were to feed the gods. In America we encourage people to carry--to stand their ground. That the other is a danger. Fear is what the merchants of death gun sellers traffic in. Poor Mexico, where guns are illegal, living next door to a country where guns are psychological props for those without any self-esteem or care for others.

So for those who worship at the Church of the NRA, bless thy pistol or assault rifle or IED, for thou hast been indoctrinated to thy holy writ of the NRA--thou shall not block the worship for the gun. Whether the congregant is mad as a hatter, or sane as a Dane--the gun shall be given to one and to all those among us, in ever more murderous numbers. No matter the number of dead that is wrought, more guns make us safe in our imaginary world. It is all about sales by the demons of death--the gun lobby, whether manufacturers, sellers, or the lunatics--and yes--I believe anyone who walks about packing has a screw lose, who find their grandson played with the gun and shot the kid down the block.

When your child is dead, will you see the light? How about your spouse? How about you? Will carrying help as you lay dead in a movie theater waiting to watch a film? Which of your loved ones will you sacrifice, for your gun worship?

After all, if having an assault weapon with hundreds of rounds feels good to your low self-esteem--what can a surface-to-air weapon do for the ego?

And last of all, what the hell is a child doing at a midnight movie?

 

 

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    Candace Drimmer

    I was an accidental expatriate; love and marriage led me to it. One day I was a bandy-legged kid sitting atop my dogwood tree looking out of my small backyard world in 1950s New Jersey, wanting to move somewhere--anywhere, different. Next thing I knew my father had accepted a job in Houston TX. I was ecstatic, it was a foreign land in 1961 America. After high school graduation, my parents’ gave me a matched set of fawn-colored hardsided American Tourister luggage. Taking the hint, I went to college; well four colleges in five years--it was the 60s after all. Meeting a young hirsute anti-war, soon-to-be-Peace Corps volunteer, I fell in love. After finishing up college coursework for my degree, but before I even walking a graduation stage, I grabbed the paper airline ticket my boyfriend had sent me, my brand-new passport, and was off to the airport and Lima, Peru.

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