THE THREAD | I am not appalled
Good morning,
I’ll share my personal news soon. But for this morning, I think I just need to pause once again and . . . I don’t even know and what anymore. In the face of tragedy, scrambling for words is sometimes all I’ve got. And I’ll call my representatives today. And I’ll spit on a picture of Alex Jones. And I’ll hug my kids so tightly.
Peace to you all.
I am not appalled right now. Appall implies shock. Appalling means unexpected, unprecedented, requires uncharted territories. We’ve been here before. So no, I am not appalled today. Not at all. I am a dark cloud, a pall of black smoke, a pallbearer carrying such small caskets through the halls of what I wish I never had to imagine.
Did she put her shoes on before school without being asked?
Did he hug his teacher first thing today?
Did she show her teacher how to spell P-l-e-a-s-e all on her own?
Did one of them remember to take three deep breaths instead of throwing a fit?
Did one of them relish the applause of classmates?
Did the sound of applause patter until it became the sound of gunfire in the halls?
Did one of them keep taking deep breaths in the hushed corner of the barricaded classroom?
Did she keep spelling P-l-e-a-s-e quietly to herself?
Did he hug his teacher last thing today?
Did she hold tightly to her double-knotted shoes?
What I wish I never had to imagine, what I never wish to imagine, what I imagined never bearing, what our minds should never have to bear, what a mother’s or father’s arms should never have to bear -- the weight of their own child’s casket.
But their arms bear the weight so that monsters can bear arms, so that monsters can bear arms, so that monsters can bear arms. We have been here before and we are damned to keep walking these pall-bearing halls so that monsters can bear arms.