While gun control is a touchy subject, it is nonetheless one worth wrestling with. In the wake of the Sandy Hook shooting there are hosts of bills concerning the regulation of firearms before state legislatures across the country. Indeed, a bipartisan bill that would require background checks to purchase a gun was before the US Senate just yesterday. It would have passed but it failed to gain a 60 vote super majority and was filibustered off the floor by Senate Republicans.
So gun control is in the news daily. I’ve been thinking about it. And I think I have a take on the issue that I can stand and that might prompt interesting conversation no matter who I’m talking to.
I want to preface this by saying that I don’t agree with the tired old line “guns don’t kill people, people kill people”. It seems obvious to me that limiting private access to assault weapons and high yield hand guns should also limit deaths from guns in the United States. I understand that there arguments that refute this, but I don’t find them convincing.
That being said, while it is the nature and purpose of a firearm to deliver a huge amount of force to an object from a distance, and this fact may make it easier to carry out violent acts upon animals and humans alike where the physical manipulation of a blade, for example, might not be so easy, a gun doesn’t have a mystical power to turn a person into a killer. So the question is, what about our society, as opposed to a country like Canada (where gun ownership is also high), leads people to carry out acts of destructive violence against other human beings? This isn’t the politically practical question, but it is the question conservatives and liberals alike should be asking themselves and discussing together.
As the beginning of an answer to my own question, I propose that violent acts like Sandy Hook, the Aurora theater shooting, and — yes — the Boston bombings, are not violent aberrations within an otherwise peaceful society. Instead, these acts of incredible violence happen against a backdrop of subtly violent interactions that make up our systems of economics, politics, foreign policy, law enforcement, public education, physical health care, mental health, entertainment, religious observance, and sports. We come ever so close to having an at least tangential discussion about these issues when we talk about mental health. However, usually we end up demonizing the mentally ill as the perpetrators of violence while ignoring their victimization at the hands of a society that has largely forgotten its human responsibility to see to their well-being (including in the piece linked above by Gabrielle Giffords) and so we redouble the violence against them through the discussion itself.
We encourage this violence and take part in it to our individual benefit and to our collective downfall. While I support gun control, and believe it not only to be constitutional in general but also specifically constitutionally mandated, it is really only so much blabbing in the face of the problems that really beset our society.
By Logan and Mark
I hesitate to call it an argument, but Mark and I had a little disagreement in public the other day. That is, I disagreed with something he posted on Facebook and instead of rolling over he spoke back like the good bearded fellow he is. It went back and forth a few times and we reached a kind of consensus about what we disagreed about and why.
Posting what follows may come across as an exercise in self-aggrandizement or navel gazing, but that isn’t how it’s intended. We agreed that it may stand as an example civil argument in public, where friendship is assumed and the intellectual foundations of the other’s argument is sound.
Okay, so that sounds a lot like self-aggrandizement, but hang with us here.
In the wake of the April 16th bombing of the Boston marathon, Mark posted:
“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’ To this day, especially in times of ‘disaster,’ I remember my mother’s words, and I am always comforted by realizing that there are still so many helpers—so many caring people in this world.” - Fred Rogers
With all the pain and horror I see on the videos coming out of Boston, I am still struck as I’m following the coverage by the people who, seconds after the first blast, rushed into the unknown, tore down the metal barricades with their own hands, and ran to help their screaming, hurt, and afraid brothers and sisters.
Mark then posted a statement by comedian Patton Oswalt:
“Boston. Fucking horrible.
I remember, when 9/11 went down, my reaction was, ‘Well, I’ve had it with humanity.’
But I was wrong. I don’t know what’s going to be revealed to be behind all of this mayhem. One human insect or a poisonous mass of broken sociopaths.
But here’s what I DO know. If it’s one person or a HUNDRED people, that number is not even a fraction of a fraction of a fraction of a percent of the population on this planet. You watch the videos of the carnage and there are people running TOWARDS the destruction to help out. (Thanks FAKE Gallery founder and owner Paul Kozlowski for pointing this out to me). This is a giant planet and we’re lucky to live on it but there are prices and penalties incurred for the daily miracle of existence. One of them is, every once in awhile, the wiring of a tiny sliver of the species gets snarled and they’re pointed towards darkness.
But the vast majority stands against that darkness and, like white blood cells attacking a virus, they dilute and weaken and eventually wash away the evil doers and, more importantly, the damage they wreak. This is beyond religion or creed or nation. We would not be here if humanity were inherently evil. We’d have eaten ourselves alive long ago.
So when you spot violence, or bigotry, or intolerance or fear or just garden-variety misogyny, hatred or ignorance, just look it in the eye and think, ‘The good outnumber you, and we always will.’”
This is where our exchange began. It is posted below in its entirety.
Logan: Oswalt argues that “we” are innocent and only the people twisted toward darkness are guilty — that is until the innocent “wash away” the “evil doers” at some ideal time in the future and we all live in peace. That’s nice, but it isn’t true. He’s a lot more like his enemy George W. Bush than he’d like to admit, I think. Exact same worldview. Two sides of the same coin.
Mark: I don’t think he’s saying that at all, really. And if you think that, we’re reading his quote in very different ways. I’m not saying that he isn’t more ideological than he might want to admit, but then again I don’t think he’s naive enough to argue what you’re attributing him. I think what he’s saying here acknowledges that there will always be those who wish to hurt and hate, but he’s choosing to believe that those instincts/choices won’t be able to undermine the good humanity can do.
If you asked Patton, “will we all one day live in peace, will the good conquer the bad forever,” I highly doubt he’d say yes. Rather, since he and I and you can look to analogies like comics, I think he would tell you to look at Batman. The good will keep on doing the work of the good, but the work is never done. This is an idea you can’t attribute to Bush, who I believe did think in terms of black and white, and that with enough force one would be gone. And frankly, I think bringing the politics that Patton puts out there is a a bit of a non sequitur; when I read his words here on hope and the idea that humanity can be more, and is more, then you might as well take issue with Tolkien and Christ who don’t always do a perfect job of dealing with the gray of life.
I’m not saying that Oswalt isn’t at times, even often, guilty of some of the same political fallacies as those he rails against. But I appreciate his words here, I think they communicate a truth, and it seems a bit dismissive to take him to task without considering their full merit.
Logan: Mr. Rodgers reaction to what we’re talking about here is far worthier of praise than Oswalt’s, which is why I initially reacted against Oswalt’s, because of their juxtaposition in your post. Rodgers leaves out the so-called two sides of good and evil entirely, focusing on those who bear up under suffering. In remaining silent on the issue of those who perpetrate the kinds of action perpetrated in Boston, he dismisses a world in which some of us are good and some of us are “evil doers,” (a word Oswalt actually uses — evil doers).
I may have projected the notion that Oswalt sees an ideal time in the future, but he clearly does see an ideal and places blame upon bad guys for our failure to reach it. It isn’t surprising that he does so. It is a worldview endemic to the culture in which we live. But I think you are projecting your own nuanced view of the world into Oswalt’s words.
He claims the majority stands against “darkness.” That majority is cast as an army of “white” blood cells on the attack, ready to destroy the darkness of the evil doers and put the world right, utterly wiping out any pain that might have been caused (I mean, he seriously uses the words evil doers. It’s impossible not to hear Will Ferrell’s W. Bush when I read that word). My reaction to Oswalt is less a critique of his personal view than a reaction to the worn out structure available to us in our culture in reacting to these kinds of events. I too hope that most of humanity would not bomb people peacefully watching a sporting event. I’m willing to admit that’s probably the case, though every one of us is susceptible to that option. I hope that of Americans in general too, but take a quick look at @dronestream and you’ll quickly be disabused of that notion.
The thing I take issue with most of all is the idea that one individual or a few may be named in this crime and that then the innocence of the rest of us will be established. The people who run toward tragedy are to be praised. However, the idea that the rest of “us,” some abstract majority, might also be essentially good doesn’t help me sleep at night.
Mark: I think you’re missing the forest for the trees, Logan.
What was this quote about, or the post it was attached to? Both speak to the idea that we are tempted to see the terrible this world has to offer and be fearful of it, even to the point where we reject humanity as a whole. This isn’t about getting the proper systematic worldview laid out in a few paragraphs. This is about saying, “I could, in these times, focus on all the bad humanity can bring. But rather, (and this is where I feel you ought to give the Oswalt quote more grace) I can say I’m wrong to see that alone. I should think of those who want it to be different.”
Are people perfect? Never. Do we all exist in a gray area, moving between the potential for goodness and hatred a hundred times an hour? Of course we do, because we’re human. But that doesn’t stop us from wanting better. What’s wrong with an ideal? What’s wrong with hope? The hope here is, the good in people will outweigh the bad. Also, this isn’t about having more praise for the way one person sees the struggle than another.
I agree that Rogers gets more to the point more eloquently. But that doesn’t mean that others, like Oswalt or those who find value in his quote, aren’t striving to understand their world in terms of goodness. And it’s a choice we make to do that. None of this was to say that we can permanently place ourselves on one side of a moral line. We’ll obviously all find ourselves moving back and forth across lines we even set for ourselves in our own moral code. But still, when we see that which is hate and hurt, we can say “no.” We can reject that. We might just as easily find ourselves betraying our own sense of right and goodness one day, but if that’s the case, I hope (for me at least) that someone would look me in the eye and say “no,” that someone would name my failings and give me pause. That’s learning, and that’s part of the journey of building a moral sense. In terms of the church, it’s exactly what UM doctrine lays out. We’re always moving towards a goal of perfection. And lastly, it isn’t about helping you sleep at night. It’s about clinging to the kernel of hope that, in the midst of the terrible and the hateful this world can offer, things can be made right if people will name and work for love. We can’t sleep comfortably because things will be magically OK if enough “bad guys” are caught (that’s not how the world works and you’re right to name that), and words like this aren’t meant to make you rest easy. They’re words of action, words to remind us to seek out what’s good in people, and words to (hopefully) give people courage to reject those behaviors that can’t reside with love.
The best storytellers don’t give us the “happily ever after,” but they do give us characters who do their best to seek out what is right and stand with those who speak truth. I don’t really want to argue with you, because I think we’re seeing certain words in fundamentally different lights here. But I do firmly believe that, while moral certainty and the possible elimination of one moral side that could come with that doesn’t exist, we can name love and goodness and set our eyes to its fulfillment to the best of our abilities. And really, that’s what the initial quotations and my reasons for sharing them were all about.
Logan: I don’t disagree with anything you say, Mark. But it matters how we say these things, and so I still find myself in disagreement with Oswalt. It is his last two paragraphs that color the rest. Step back from the events of yesterday for a moment and read his words. He encourages us to feel okay about violence, bigotry, intolerance, fear, misogyny, hatred, and ignorance because the majority outnumber the minority. That must feel great for the people who can do it. But it is an empty product of of our self-obsessed culture that values heroism over love. Our culture values these kinds of responses in the face of something else — whether it is an amorphous “evil,” or in service to an ill defined ideal.
The problem with the ideal is that it is set up specifically to be unreachable. If we were to reach it, meaning — which depends upon the present deficiency from the ideal — would crumble. I reject meaning and embrace faithful love in the face of suffering. It is amazing, inspiring, and praiseworthy that people run toward exploding bombs to help their fellows. Yes. It is absolutely praiseworthy and hope-inducing. Oswalt is right about that. But he is wrong about the forces of evil-doers and good-guys, largely because he worships our culture’s gods in comics and movies instead of taking them as pulp fiction. He is also wrong about the way we should feel in the face of the death-dealing perpetrated by individuals, and misses entirely the way actions like the Boston bombings and Sandy Hook are connected to the cultural production of evil in which we are all complicit. Maybe arguing with you, my friend, is the way I’m dealing with the events of yesterday. But the forest be dammed. I think the trees matter very much.
Mark: I also agree that how we say things matters. It matters more than most things, given that language is how we do most of what we do when it comes to community. And the way I’m dealing with the events of yesterday is finding language that rejects the worst in favor of the best. I’m not saying Oswalt nails it theologically or socially, but the heart is there and it’s what resonating with my own ache as I watched the video loops, refreshing ledes, and reports of casualties come in. And maybe for him, seeking to understand how humanity can make choices for a better shared life can best be explained by the very human archetypes that comics today deal in. I can’t speak for him, but that’s the emotion I read.
You and I agree on the problematic nature of hero-worshiping and the ease with which one could separate out “good people” from “evil people.” It isn’t easy. But in the first few minutes after that explosion, it was clear, if only for a short time before it became muddy and gray again. We as a culture will surely have to do some reflection, as we should be doing every time a public act of violence hits our screens. It’s not okay to separate yourself from the hatred, violence, and intolerance of the world because you think it doesn’t apply to you as one of the “good folk.” You’re right about that. But in the moments of pain, all that some of us can do is watch a forest fire blaze in its ferocity from a distance before we step in later to examine the ash, the play of cause and effect, the individual smoldering trees. I think we’re just processing differently, and I’m fine with that. So yeah, the trees matter. Especially when they’re words, because words matter more than lots of things. But so do the initial emotions that lead one to say “yes” to our hopes and “no” to our fears.
Anyway, we both enjoyed the exchange around what is a fraught subject. I, Logan, feel a bit embarrassed for engaging the way I did originally. However, largely because of Mark’s graceful response, the thread turned into a conversation worth having. This is largely because of the mutual respect Mark and I have for each other. It is a respect that should be extended to anyone with which one finds oneself in disagreement, especially in public, and especially around subjects that implicitly carry an emotional load.
We hope you enjoyed reading our dialogue.
I started writing this story a couple of years ago on a day much like the one on which we meet Warren. It was cold and drizzling, and I found myself staring out the window thinking of a boy who couldn’t enjoy the day either. What he would experience in a situation like that, and how his mind would interpret it, came out of thoughts we should all have about what it means to teach something to children, what it means to tell to them when we should be asking instead, and what it means if someone does a poor enough job of the whole thing that the child ends up having to relearn truths in the hardest ways.
Warren was five, and people hated him for that. Not because the age of five is something that most people choose to actively hate, but more so because adults who met Warren felt he should know better. Better, but not more. He was an intelligent boy and it seemed, to him at least, that he was constantly being punished for knowing how to make adults feel small for their useless attempts to correct his bad behavior. Time-outs and threats of phone calls home meant nothing, and he acted as such when placed on the edge of the playground, sitting quietly on the scuffed plastic siding which held back the sea of fresh red mulch begging to be leapt upon and hurled at other children. Adults were always getting angry with him, so being punished actually made the day seem normal, even complete. Outdoor time-outs like this one were the most common; authoritarian glares were punctuated with verbal commands to ‘put the dirt down’ or to ‘look sorry’ while his five minutes ticked off some proverbial clock kept in some adult mind – he knew they would most likely forget anyway, until he asked ten or fifteen minutes later how much longer he should expect to wait.
Wednesdays were the worst. Warren’s father was supposed to pick him up for supervised visits on Wednesday afternoons, though it so rarely happened that Warren’s mother treated it as a scheduled appointment to drone on about being responsible, being accountable, being a good man. She usually took a few extra moments after making the last point to stare deep into his eyes, as if her desire to rid him of the blond, tousled hair and slightly upturned nose he shared with his father could actually make it so. Warren was her daily reminder of how things don’t work out, and when he walked all over her flaccid attempts to correct his problematic behavior, she took it without resistance, save for the small sigh that escaped before uttering his name.
When he had walked in to class this Wednesday morning, he had immediately pushed another child into the cubbies by the door, watching her arms let loose their contents like a rain cloud, supplies scattering like fat droplets. “Miss Kenneth!” the little girl wailed, while the skin on her knees began to color strawberry red with rug burn. Warren shrugged and walked to his seat in the corner, carefully putting away his pencil box and homework folder into the dark mouth of the desk. He figured he had enough time to hang his bag on his chair before the teacher could reach him, most likely to yank his arm, place her face next to his, and dole appropriate kindergarten justice while her eyes betrayed the ache to spank him and be done with it. He was mostly right, and the backpack hung askew with one shoulder strap bearing the weight.
That episode had forfeited his recess time and resulted in his current exile. He didn’t mind, though. Watching his classmates allowed his mind to wander and forget the inevitable talk his mother would give as they sat on the porch steps waiting for a faded Nissan Pathfinder to lurch into the driveway. Thinking of that moment, he decided he didn’t intend to leave right when his mother showed up at three o’clock. She always parked in the lot facing the school’s back play set, and he could easily break free from her hand and play for a while until she gave up negotiating for his cooperation. It would be better to play then anyway, he figured, with no other children to clog the slides or poles. So he sat, imagining the slight give of the steps leading up the mountain of smooth metal bars, twisting and tunneling every which way until spitting him out onto a hard plastic something bound for the ground below.
There had been scattered showers the night before, so the ground was moist and the air was chilled. Novembers in Tennessee were like that. Warren doubled his body over, remaining seated as instructed while pressing his torso down towards the wet dirt where his finger was currently making unflattering drawings of Miss Kenneth.
“Mean ol’ bitch,” he muttered.
He left the picture incomplete and began studying the specks of soil that had become lodged in the whorls of his fingertips. He rubbed his dirty thumb into the palm of his hand, and noticed the way the smudges he left made unintentional pictures, like puffy white clouds did in the sky on summer days. From somewhere behind him, he heard his teacher shouting at him to sit up straight and quit playing cause he’s in time-out now don’t he remember?
“Stupid mean ol’ bitch.”
By now his face was hovering just an inch above the ground, his father’s nose growing cold and damp as the ground itself. He breathed deep the rich, wet smell of the earth. It smelled like the old house. Warren’s dad smoked a pipe, and he remembered how he used to watch the pipe being packed and lit, the smooth, silky smoke billowing over the brim and from his father’s lips simultaneously all while the flame was sucked down into the bowl, and the beautiful, bittersweet acidic aroma that filled the room as the little fire drove itself deeper and deeper down through the pitch black tobacco. But that was a long time ago, when his dad still lived with him and his mother. Now that he thought about it, the dirt in front of him, so close his eyes were crossed, looked just like that tobacco.
It was enough to snap him from his daze. He sat up quickly and let his eyes fall to the road directly in front of him, wrapping around the front of the school building before intersecting with the main stretch leading towards the highway. There wasn’t much to see, until a small mangy dog wandered out from the bushes lining the pavement. Warren had wanted a puppy for his birthday, but both of his parents were opposed to pets, so he’d made do with some toys and clothes instead. He watched the animal carefully as it wandered from one spot on the ground to another, sniffing and nibbling at things Warren couldn’t see. The dog’s ruffled coat was matte black, with some grey spots on its face and legs. Its belly was dappled with muddy brown patches, though Warren could tell these were likely spots of dirty white fur. He looked at his hands for a moment before shifting his eyes upward again towards the stray.
It had continued wandering towards the main intersection, still moving left to right, following smells more than anything. Occasionally, it would perk up its head and lift one ragged ear towards some phantom sound in the distance. Warren wondered why its tail curled up towards its body the way it did, and if it took a special effort to keep it in place that way. The dog was now to the left of the dashed lines, having crossed the streets diagonally. Warren saw the truck come around the bend from the highway’s direction, glossy gray with a grill made up of a million tiny boxes. Its headlights were on; his mother left them running, too, no matter how bright or dark it was outside. There was only a moment after the truck appeared and before it struck the dog. A small noise escaped Warren’s throat, but his eyes stayed on the still form lying partially in the gravel to the side of road. He watched for a long time, thinking that he was able to see the rise and fall of its chest, but part of him knew that couldn’t be right.
He suddenly thought of a time when Grandmama, his father’s mother, had taken him to church with her one Wednesday night. It had been right after the supervised visits started, and his father couldn’t think of anything else to do that night but go over to his mother’s house. She had been on her way out of the door when they pulled into the gravel drive; there were a few hushed words between her and his father, and then it was settled. She bent down and spit-shined his cheeks with authority before ushering them into her monstrous red Oldsmobile. That night, he’d heard the balding preacher talk about how loving Jesus in your heart was the way to live forever. They had all said prayers together when the man finished yelling, praying in Jesus’ name over and over.
Warren did that now. He prayed that the dog would get up, because maybe it had loved Jesus in its heart, couldn’t nobody say for sure, and why shouldn’t it get to live forever cause why love Jesus if he ain’t gonna be fair? He prayed the thoughts that were intentional and the ones that weren’t, mumbling and keeping his gaze towards the tree line. He noticed children running past him, racing to get into a line outside the cafeteria doors. His teacher and two others were herding children back towards the building. Nobody else had seen. He knew the ringing bell meant something, but he couldn’t seem to recall what that was. Slowly, he stood up and wiped his hands on his jeans in one fluid motion, leaving two dark streaks on the faded denim. The bell was ringing, and it was time to go inside.
I suppose it’s obvious from the Authors page, but the Disembodied Beard is welcoming a new writer to the site: Mark. He is a person.
Mark wrote We Laugh Because We Could Not Laugh, which appeared on the DB in February and which also contains one of my all time favorite lines in anything, ever. I quoted one of Mark’s papers in my MDiv capstone project at Vanderbilt. I caught a little flack for that, but what the hell, why wouldn’t I quote a smart guy who I like?
Anyway, I think highly of him and I’m excited to work along with him. Maybe we’ll even publish stuff with a byline that contains both of our names now and then. Look for a new post by Mark tomorrow.
He, too, has a beard.
Twitter bought Posterous, the previous host of the site, and then shut ‘er down. So I’ve moved over to Tumblr. Please don’t shut down Tumblr, huge companies. The good news is that the move gave me an opportunity to roll up this clever new design with a real live disembodied beard at the top of the page.
I also have some plans for DB to, hopefully, push out posts more consistently. There’s a little preview of this announcement on the Authors page.
Anyway, hope you like the changes.
Also, expect stickers soon! If you get some stickers, you can participate in public
defacement of property art, just like Banksy, all the while supporting the DB. Keep yer eye out.