A most stunning, remarkable thing has happened. Six days — yes, just six days — after a brazen attack by a member of a hate group against two Muslim mosques, the New Zealand government, one as protective of private gun ownership rights as America's, has not only expressed unreserved sorrow and contrition for the terrible actions of a lone, hate-mongering, white-nationalist but has also proposed a ban on military-style semi-automated rifles and instituted a buyback program.
Six days.
If I were a Muslim, that would mean far more to me than all the tepid, insincere "thoughts and prayers" offered by our President and others in the pro-gun club on this side of the equator.
According to the New York Times, the NZ ban includes "all military-style semiautomatic weapons, all high-capacity ammunition magazines and all parts that allow weapons to be modified into the kinds of guns used to kill 50 people at two mosques in Christchurch last week."
The move was supported not only by NZ's in-power coalition, led by Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, a woman, but was fully supported even by NZ's largest center-right opposition party as well.
Police are in
Most interesting, the NY Times reported that NZ police are truly excited about Arden's initiative as well. Chris Cahill, the president of the Police Association, the union representing New Zealand’s police officers, praised Ms. Ardern’s plan, saying that his group had been calling for such measures for years. (Emphasis mine.) “This addresses the key concerns we have,” he said. “It’s hitting those military-style semi-automatics. It’s exactly what we wanted.”
I think if police officers in this country spoke their true thoughts, they'd say the same. But there's pressure on them, just as there is on so many, not to appear to be aligned with those who would "destroy" 2nd Amendment protections.
The contrast with what's happened in the U.S. couldn't be more vivid or more disheartening.
It boggles the mind to think that here, protecting a private citizen's right to possess 50-60 semi-automated AK-17s (the shooter's MO in the recent Las Vegas massacre) clearly outweighs protection of schoolchildren. We've witnessed the wholesale murder of children, postal employees, and hundreds of others since Columbine, and little to nothing has been done to curb peacetime, private possession of military guns that were created for the sole purpose of massive, fast infliction of injury and death to large groups of people.
MORE guns
Oh, but the gun lobby does have an answer: Hey, let's give teachers guns! That's right, let's have teachers shooting at the shooters in a school full of running kids. And then when the police arrive, they get to figure out which folks with guns are the teachers and which are the shooters. That'll work!! That's almost as good as having gun-toting moviegoers shooting at shooters in dark movie theaters. Or homeowners desperately trying to unlock their gun cabinets (because the guns are locked away, of course, to keep them out of the kids' hands) instead of simply calling 911 while the prowler is picking the lock. Or how about burying your kid because you didn't lock your gun up, so you could get the jump on the prowler. It happens regularly. (A cop across the street from us when I grew up had to live with his younger son shooting his older son in the face with a rifle dad had left out on a table. A cop. Who had trained his kids about gun safety.)
Founders forgotten
Sadly, we have forgotten entirely the actual wording of the Amendment. "The right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed." Sounds good for NRA fans so far. But let's remember the prelude to that statement: A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.
The writers of the Bill of Rights recognized, based on their own experience, that the maintenance of a militia — something that is the rough equivalent of today's National Guard units — would be important for the future of the U.S. And, indeed, we have that. The American people keep and bear arms today primarily in the National Guard. Private gun ownership, in fact, is a "grace" added to that by later court interpretations, but it was not the founder's intended purpose when they wrote the guarantee enshrined in the 2nd Amendment.
Why? Because "the People" in the Constitution, is always a group or collective term (Of the People, By the People, For the People). It was never meant to be read as a reference to individuals. The founders did not mean each person within the group gets a guarantee of a semi-automated, large-magazine rifle (let alone 50-60 of them). They would have been horrified by what's happening now.
Seeing the right rightly
The 2nd Amendment was limited, and was intended to be limited: It means the people as a group are not to be prevented by the national government from keeping and bearing arms for the purpose of maintaining local (state) militias. So the guarantee is to arm militias, not individuals. The NRA, of course, saw to it that that was broadened to include an absolute guarantee to individuals in landmark federal cases that went to the Supreme Court, which chipped away at more than a century-and-a-half of previous court rulings that supported the more conservative view I've outlined. And now we have a century of radical interpretation — not easily overcome in court — and we're stuck with the mess we have.
What we need to understand is that the view I've outlined is the conservative, true-to-the-founders, constitutionally faithful view. The NRA and its backers are the radicals. They've introduced the innovative reading of the text. They've raised the specter of fear, created the straw man of the "government" out to take everyone's guns away, and this has served to make guns the center of public attention. All of which has drawn the attention of the unbalanced, irrational and angry, who see the gun as a powerful way to settle a score or make a powerful statement, or just get their fifteen minutes of fame. And we've had increasingly brutal mass shootings as a result.
Seeing issues aright
NRA fans argue, "Guns don't kill people, people do." Oh, please. The point is that people who want to kill people can kill more people with a gun than without one, stupid. And far more people and far, far more spectacularly, with a room full of semi-automated rifles with bump stocks and large magazines. No one's suggesting you give up your 9mm Glock. But you've got to admit at some point thatno private citizen needs to be able to kill 50 people in four minutes. Nobody.
God bless NZ's Ms. Ardern her efforts. Too bad she's not a native U.S. citizen. She'd get my vote in 2020. Can only hope we get a clue from these good folks 10,000 miles to the south. Would love to see us replace our embarrassingly trite "thoughts and prayers" with decisive actions. Very, very unlikely, given the extraordinary lack of leadership among conservatives who really ought to know better than to continue to back the radical NRA and its obviously failed, dangerous and, dare I say it? — anti-American firearm policies.
Thursday, March 21, 2019
Friday, March 15, 2019
A Bomb Cyclone Lesson in Human Relations
My girlfriend's neighbor, two doors to the west, put in a new triple-car-wide driveway in Spring of 2018. It's big. And I surmised that he was pretty proud of it when, one Saturday a couple of weeks after the new concrete had set, about mid-morning, I saw him power-washing the thing, inch by precious inch, until it looked as good as the day he had it put in.
I was driving by on the way to her house when I noticed him scouring the driveway surface and the gutter and street in front of his house, to boot. Man, he really likes that driveway. And it would have been a mere curiosity had it not been for the fact that there was quite bit of dirt, grass and other debris leftover from his morning of diligent yard work, which he was washing away with the powerwasher. He had been at it, apparently for a couple of hours.
The result? Well, the driveway was spotless. But the spray job had formed a mighty muddy rivulet, which was now flowing down the gutter to the east and puddling up in the poorly designed low spot in front of my girlfriend's driveway. I pulled up to her house and jumped out to see an ever-widening and deepening stream of brown, thick goo.
To make matters worse, I had in my trunk my lawnmower and other tools necessary to do the badly needed yard work on my girlfriend's place. I'd been dreaming of getting this early spring ritual accomplished this very day. High on the list of jobs set for this Saturday morning was to clean up the remains of winter ravages (sand, road salt, bits of trash, etc.) in the stretch of gutter into which
my neighbor's brown soup of grass clipping, sand, road salt and who-knows-what was growing from a pond to a lake.
I was furious. Didn't he see what was happening? Why didn't he sweep this stuff up and put it in his trash barrel like a normal human being? Thanks a lot, pal. Oh, yeah, send it all down to me. Sure, I'll take care of it for you. I've got nothing better to do, I thought. I imagined striding firmly down the street to confront him. I'd tell him what-for. Yes, I would. I rehearsed one one-sided conversation after another. I, of course, came out on top each time. But my powerwashing neighbor, I saw as reality set in, was a good bit taller than me and outweighed me by 50-60 pounds.
So what did I do? I went inside and complained to my girlfriend. Yep, whined and moaned and talked real big for a few minutes, and then remembered what I already knew: I wasn't going to go down there to my neighbor's house. I wasn't going to confront him. I was going to eat it.
Anger turned to frustration. Frustration to the most icy and unwilling resignation. And then I got out my mower and tools and grudgingly mowed my girlfriend's lawn. I shook my head at the lake, and went back to trim. Finally, the work did it's work: I felt a bit better. Decided I couldn't do anything about what, by late afternoon, was just a big mud puddle.
A couple of days later, it dried up, and I cleaned it up. I'd like to say I had a good attitude. But I didn't. But I finally decided I should let it go. And eventually, I did.
Fast forward to Winter 2019. The "Bomb Cyclone" wind/snowstorm has hit, and I'm facing the prospect of shoveling snow from my girlfriend's one-car-wide driveway and the walk from the front door to the street and the walk along the front of the house. Problem? Well, I've got this sore foot. And, hate to admit it — I'm old. Shoveling snow used to be fun. Emphasis on the "used to be." Further, it's rained for a full day, and the rain beneath the thick blanket of heavy, wet snow has resulted in a six- or seven-inch thick, slush-foundation snow pack that has you dog tired after ten minutes.
My first trip out, I wisely start by clearing the driveway when it's covered with only two inches of snow. I'm figuring to handle this in several stages. But I poop out before I can get to the walks. Oh, well ... need to rest. I'll try again later. I promise. But, I oversleep. I get distracted (Sound familiar!)
I finally get back to it, don the winter gear again and grab my shovel. I have missed my chance to do a second layer. Lazy. Yeah, I know. And so here it is: All seven inches. Heavy, wet, and hard, hard, hard to move. I start on the driveway again, wondering how in the world I'm going to get past it to the walkways.
Guess what happens? I get down the driveway about halfway and—the front walk is clean as it can be. In fact, the front walkway on my whole side of the street is clean, even on the houses that show no other shoveling. I take a look around and, sure enough, the same is true on the other side of the street. And is that my irritating driveway power-washing neighbor quietly putting away that snazzy, new-looking snowblower into his garage, two doors to the west?
The memory of that Fall day comes back. The anger. The frustration. I feel foolish. But more than that, I feel immensely grateful. First, for the fact that I did not stride down to his house that sunny afternoon in Fall 2018 and take him to task for spoiling my Saturday yard maintenance plans. Second, for saving my back and, third, for restoring my faith in human nature. The guy did every one of his neighbors' front walks. And, yeah, he might have been kinda proud of his new snowblower, but so what? He used that snowblower he was proud of to help his neighbors. Nobody asked him to. Nobody expected it. He just stepped up and did it. Including angry, frustrated, bad-attitude me.
What occurred to me last was most important. I wondered if he'd have cleaned my walkway if I'd have confronted him that day in Spring 2018? If I'd have given full vent to my frustration?
It occurred to me that it's possible, despite his apparent insensitivity that day (just one day out of many) that, on most other days, he's a kind, thoughtful individual. A man devoted to family, friends and considerate of strangers. That most days he's a guy who would go out of his way for a neighbor. That my first and only previous experience of him was an aberration, an anomaly. That I had unfairly characterized a man's whole life on the basis of one unfortunate experience. That it's possible, in fact, that he's a better man than I am. That he would, indeed, have cleaned my walk, even if I had confronted him.
And it occurred to me that I needed to stride on down to his house and thank him for plowing the snow off my girlfriend's front walk.
I was driving by on the way to her house when I noticed him scouring the driveway surface and the gutter and street in front of his house, to boot. Man, he really likes that driveway. And it would have been a mere curiosity had it not been for the fact that there was quite bit of dirt, grass and other debris leftover from his morning of diligent yard work, which he was washing away with the powerwasher. He had been at it, apparently for a couple of hours.
The result? Well, the driveway was spotless. But the spray job had formed a mighty muddy rivulet, which was now flowing down the gutter to the east and puddling up in the poorly designed low spot in front of my girlfriend's driveway. I pulled up to her house and jumped out to see an ever-widening and deepening stream of brown, thick goo.
To make matters worse, I had in my trunk my lawnmower and other tools necessary to do the badly needed yard work on my girlfriend's place. I'd been dreaming of getting this early spring ritual accomplished this very day. High on the list of jobs set for this Saturday morning was to clean up the remains of winter ravages (sand, road salt, bits of trash, etc.) in the stretch of gutter into which
my neighbor's brown soup of grass clipping, sand, road salt and who-knows-what was growing from a pond to a lake.
I was furious. Didn't he see what was happening? Why didn't he sweep this stuff up and put it in his trash barrel like a normal human being? Thanks a lot, pal. Oh, yeah, send it all down to me. Sure, I'll take care of it for you. I've got nothing better to do, I thought. I imagined striding firmly down the street to confront him. I'd tell him what-for. Yes, I would. I rehearsed one one-sided conversation after another. I, of course, came out on top each time. But my powerwashing neighbor, I saw as reality set in, was a good bit taller than me and outweighed me by 50-60 pounds.
So what did I do? I went inside and complained to my girlfriend. Yep, whined and moaned and talked real big for a few minutes, and then remembered what I already knew: I wasn't going to go down there to my neighbor's house. I wasn't going to confront him. I was going to eat it.
Anger turned to frustration. Frustration to the most icy and unwilling resignation. And then I got out my mower and tools and grudgingly mowed my girlfriend's lawn. I shook my head at the lake, and went back to trim. Finally, the work did it's work: I felt a bit better. Decided I couldn't do anything about what, by late afternoon, was just a big mud puddle.
A couple of days later, it dried up, and I cleaned it up. I'd like to say I had a good attitude. But I didn't. But I finally decided I should let it go. And eventually, I did.
Fast forward to Winter 2019. The "Bomb Cyclone" wind/snowstorm has hit, and I'm facing the prospect of shoveling snow from my girlfriend's one-car-wide driveway and the walk from the front door to the street and the walk along the front of the house. Problem? Well, I've got this sore foot. And, hate to admit it — I'm old. Shoveling snow used to be fun. Emphasis on the "used to be." Further, it's rained for a full day, and the rain beneath the thick blanket of heavy, wet snow has resulted in a six- or seven-inch thick, slush-foundation snow pack that has you dog tired after ten minutes.
My first trip out, I wisely start by clearing the driveway when it's covered with only two inches of snow. I'm figuring to handle this in several stages. But I poop out before I can get to the walks. Oh, well ... need to rest. I'll try again later. I promise. But, I oversleep. I get distracted (Sound familiar!)
I finally get back to it, don the winter gear again and grab my shovel. I have missed my chance to do a second layer. Lazy. Yeah, I know. And so here it is: All seven inches. Heavy, wet, and hard, hard, hard to move. I start on the driveway again, wondering how in the world I'm going to get past it to the walkways.
Guess what happens? I get down the driveway about halfway and—the front walk is clean as it can be. In fact, the front walkway on my whole side of the street is clean, even on the houses that show no other shoveling. I take a look around and, sure enough, the same is true on the other side of the street. And is that my irritating driveway power-washing neighbor quietly putting away that snazzy, new-looking snowblower into his garage, two doors to the west?
The memory of that Fall day comes back. The anger. The frustration. I feel foolish. But more than that, I feel immensely grateful. First, for the fact that I did not stride down to his house that sunny afternoon in Fall 2018 and take him to task for spoiling my Saturday yard maintenance plans. Second, for saving my back and, third, for restoring my faith in human nature. The guy did every one of his neighbors' front walks. And, yeah, he might have been kinda proud of his new snowblower, but so what? He used that snowblower he was proud of to help his neighbors. Nobody asked him to. Nobody expected it. He just stepped up and did it. Including angry, frustrated, bad-attitude me.
What occurred to me last was most important. I wondered if he'd have cleaned my walkway if I'd have confronted him that day in Spring 2018? If I'd have given full vent to my frustration?
It occurred to me that it's possible, despite his apparent insensitivity that day (just one day out of many) that, on most other days, he's a kind, thoughtful individual. A man devoted to family, friends and considerate of strangers. That most days he's a guy who would go out of his way for a neighbor. That my first and only previous experience of him was an aberration, an anomaly. That I had unfairly characterized a man's whole life on the basis of one unfortunate experience. That it's possible, in fact, that he's a better man than I am. That he would, indeed, have cleaned my walk, even if I had confronted him.
And it occurred to me that I needed to stride on down to his house and thank him for plowing the snow off my girlfriend's front walk.
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