HOPE
in a
land with more guns than people.
Sunday,
February 25, I woke up in the dark and turned on 880 AM, the all-news station I
listen to only in the morning and only for about a minute in order to get the
time and weather. Amazingly, during that one minute, I heard that survivors of
the Marjory Stoneman Douglass High School shooting would be speaking at the
Temple B'nai Abraham in Livingston, NJ.
I
shot out of bed and googled this temple. I wanted to phone immediately but
waited till nine.
A
lovely woman named Linda answered the phone.
It's
hard to describe vestibular disorders, because they are invisible and
relatively rare. If you saw me walking alone, in a straight line, you'd never
think I have any mobility issues. In a crowd, though, and with no straight
lines like fences or walls or sidewalks edges to visually orient myself, I am
less stable.
I
tried to explain to Linda why I was a bit worried about showing up in a big
crowd. I phoned to ask her if the temple had a side entrance I could use so
that I wouldn't fall over and turn into a warm-blooded speedbump.
I
explained that I am a teacher and a long-time supporter of gun control and a
comprehensive approach to school shootings. I don't attend violent movies, for
example. And I try, as I am able, to talk about ethics with my students, while
respecting their diverse spiritual traditions.
Linda
said, "I'm going to send a driver for you."
Whoa!
This just took my breath away. I tried to explain that that wasn't necessary,
but Linda was so beautifully gracious I said yes.
Charly
was born in Newark, of Sicilian parents. He can speak Italian, but, "They
talk so fast!" He talked like a New Jersey chauffeur in a movie might
talk. Salt of the earth. I was amazed by his car. No key! It started just by
pressing a button, and he opened the door because he had something called a
"fob" in his pocket.
I
asked to sit up front. He moved his stuff from the front seat and pushed the
seat back to accommodate me.
We
talked.
At
first Charly was very circumspect. He's a professional chauffeur. Jersey people
are very direct, but a chauffeur must not reveal his opinions too rapidly. I
let him know that he could speak his mind with me, and he did.
Charly
was FURIOUS. He even let fly a few obscenities. His grandchildren attend school
in Florida. In his very distinct Newark accent, he raged against the NRA idiocy
that allows non-military to purchase and stockpile military weapons, weapons
one would never use for hunting or self-protection, but only to massacre human
beings – like his grandchildren.
It
was Charly's daughter's birthday. There was a party at the house. His wife, who
is a good cook, had made lasagna.
"I'm
so sorry to take you from your daughter's birthday party," I said.
"No!
I'd rather be doing this! I'd like to attend this event with you! I am so
angry! This is all so stupid and it has got to stop!"
The
temple was surrounded by press. Everyone was there. Radio stations, TV
stations. There were kids with signs: "Guns don't die. Children do."
There was a man giving out the Constitution. I took one. There was *a lot* of
security. How sick are gun nuts? This sick: they are sending death threats to
the MSD shooting survivors. There were different uniforms: local police, state
police, private security.
I was
stopped and told I could not bring in my backpack, a small one containing only
a clipboard so I could take notes, and a camera. I wish I had been more
feminine and brought a purse that could have stored the same items. I took the
items out of the backpack, carried them in my hands, and folded the backpack
flat.
The
Temple was very spartan in design. No stained class. A couple of
difficult-to-interpret wooden and metal sculptures on the "altar"
(right word?)
The
young man sitting next to me identified himself as a former employee of Senator
Robert Menendez, who has been much in the news for alleged corruption. I asked
about this. He said, "I'm aware of the accusations, but I have to say, he
was an ideal boss not just to me but to us all, and his positions on policy
matters were exactly what I agreed with."
We
talked more. This young man, a local, was very smart, but he had some PC ideas
that I found intellectually vapid. For example, he said, "The French
tortured the world trying to impose Christianity on everyone." I look at
him as if he were crazy. "I lived in a former French colony in Africa and
what you just said is completely inaccurate." He rolled his eyes as if I
were a benighted savage.
But
we kept talking to pass the time. We were there for an hour before the
presentation began.
Finally,
a bit after five, the presentation began. David Hogg spoke first. He was
immediate and unpolished.
What
struck me most about him and the several other MSD high school students who
spoke is this.
They
are so average.
These
are not the most handsome or beautiful high school students.
These
are not the most profound or innovative high school students.
Not
the star athletes. Not the glam bad boys and girls.
These
are average kids. Stick skinny, probably just went through a growth spurt and
not yet filled out, funny hair, pale, sometimes losing their train of thought
and bursting into a giggle.
They
reminded me of Jesus' apostles. Jesus didn't conduct an extensive candidate
search and scan resumes. He chose average guys.
Like
the apostles, the MSD kids have been touched by an exceptional experience, and
they are *doing something about it.*
Hogg
thanked the conspiracy theorists who are insisting that the shooting never
happened, that he is a "crisis actor," that he is a thirty-year-old
man who has had plastic surgery to make him look like a teen. Hogg said that
these head-cases have helped to get word out about their work.
I've
attended many meetings like this, including Solidarity meetings in Poland
during the break-up of communism. I have *never* been at a meeting like this
where *every* presentation was *superb.* Each speaker was as good as the last.
Each speaker said something you wouldn't want to miss.
The
temple was standing room only. News cameras lined the back wall. Press reports
2,000 attendees, who came at a moment's notice, with minimal publicity.
We
were on our feet, standing ovations, from the first presentation to the last. I
was trying so hard to take notes, but I couldn't. Had to jump up, every few
minutes, to applaud.
I
kept trying to subdue "Yeah!" and "Shame!" and other such
comments. Finally, toward the end, I let 'er rip. I got some stares but I was
tired of holding back.
Senator
Robert Menendez delivered a terrific, spot-on speech. He said exactly what
needs to be done.
A
Rabbi whose name I could not jot down (because I had to jump up to join
standing ovations so many times) gave a sermon that wowed me. It was very
short, compact, and super. He harkened to this temple's previous rabbi, who had
been a colleague of Martin Luther King, and had spoken before the "I have
a dream" speech. Our speaker wove all these references together with the
Bible and the Talmud to make a Jewish case for gun control. He made me cry.
We
were in that room for about three hours. There was no rustling, no impatience.
Everyone there was fired up, rising to standing o's from the fist speaker to
the last.
I
kept hearing, in my ear, Sam Cooke.
There
have been times that I thought I couldn't last for long
But
now I think I'm able to carry on
It's
been a long, a long time coming
But I
know a change is gonna come, oh yes it will
Charly,
as promised was outside waiting for me. He wanted to know everything. He really
let himself go. He was so enraged by the crazy gun policies in this country. He
wants change, for his children and grandchildren.
I
promised him that that temple had been jam packed with people who will work for
change.
As we
drove under the exit sign to Paterson, the glowing, granite-and-sandstone
Lambert Tower on Garret Mountain looming up on our left, we both fell silent
for a moment. During the ride to Livingston, a moment of silence felt tense.
Two strangers in a car. Now, the silence under the stars pulsed and warmed. We
were sharing a dream of a better tomorrow, for our students, and our
grandchildren.
