Rage and Guns
Today’s tragic school shooting in Connecticut reminds me of a time I wished I had a gun.
When I was around 14 or 15, I stood by and watched a bully coldcock my younger brother in a random act of violence. I stood frozen about thirty yards away amongst some friends. The terrorist stood over my brother while I silently prayed, “Leave, leave, just leave.” He did.
My mom arrived moments later to pick us up to find my brother nursing his head. I spilled the story with a rage I have rarely felt in my life. My sensible mother suggested we try to find the car of the culprit and report the license plate number to the police. As we searched, my rage grew and grew--undoubtedly fueled by the guilt of my cowardice moments earlier. At that moment, I wished I had a gun.
Not long after the incident, I was glad I didn’t have a gun. My guilt persisted, but the rage subsided.
When I was around 14 or 15, I stood by and watched a bully coldcock my younger brother in a random act of violence. I stood frozen about thirty yards away amongst some friends. The terrorist stood over my brother while I silently prayed, “Leave, leave, just leave.” He did.
My mom arrived moments later to pick us up to find my brother nursing his head. I spilled the story with a rage I have rarely felt in my life. My sensible mother suggested we try to find the car of the culprit and report the license plate number to the police. As we searched, my rage grew and grew--undoubtedly fueled by the guilt of my cowardice moments earlier. At that moment, I wished I had a gun.
Not long after the incident, I was glad I didn’t have a gun. My guilt persisted, but the rage subsided.