Though it was conceived in response to a tragedy, the rally in front of the West Chester, PA, the courthouse had an outspoken, defiant edge to it. It almost felt like a pep rally, of a piece with the surge of women running for elected office and the string of victories Democrats have notched up in close elections this past year.
But it's not. It's not.
To the speaker after speaker who urged regime change for NRA-funded or supine politicians, the crowd (estimates ranged as high as 2,000 attendees) would respond loudly: "vote!" or "vote them out"!
"I would die to protect my students but I shouldn't have to" read one sign. Another held up by a marcher near her was even more chilling: "I should be writing my college essay, not my will."
Politely but firmly, the students who spoke rejected the notion, proposed by some adults, that showering kindness on alienated students might stop the next shooting.
After reading the list of names of those who had died at Parkland, one local student said: never again. Enough is enough."
"We're done feeling like targets in shooting gallery," said one West Chester area 17-year-old forcefully.
It feels good to finally stand up to a bully: and that's what the gun lobby has evolved into over the years. The NRA is a dark, dystopian, never-ending source of fear, demanding that we all live in a world in which we can only engage strangers (and sometimes friends) at the point of a gun.
It feels good to tell the marionettes in the Republican ranks and some Democrats, that they need to be responsible to the vast majority of Americans who want reasonable limits on firearms or get the heck out of Washington.
But the huge event in D.C. reminded those of us who have suffered the loss of a close friend or a family member through violence an inescapable poignancy - and a deeper, darker reality.
I have been to these marches before. Decades ago, I lost my brother to a much more common form of gun violence: suicide.
Mercifully, I don't remember as much as I did about that terrible time. I recall snippets: the hours we waited in our Brooklyn brownstone for his arrival.
The decorations on the magnificent tree in the piano room, taken down, never to be put up again in that house.
My father's wracking sobs, late one night awakening me when he learned that the gun my brother had purchased to end his life had then been banned in California, where he had been living).
We admire the sheer bravery of these young students, their audacity, their determination. We cheer them on.
Here is what the young women and men of Parkland don't yet know.
The hours in which you revisit the scene of violent death in your mind, over and over again, whether you have seen it personally or not, wondering about those last minutes.
The brokeness of the days and hours ahead.
The loss of the feeling so many of us take for granted - that the world is benevolent place.
Your old self - that person died in a hail of bullets.
Like somebody who has lost a limb in an accident, you must learn, moment by moment to navigate your days until these losses don't define you.
This process of healing and evaluation takes years - in fact, it never really ends. Inevitably, you find what solace you can with others who have had a similar experience.
Look around you, and you will see a gun-culture society in which resignation has usurped hope, carelessness makes tragedy more likely, and there are no real adults in the room.
I am awed by the young men and women of Parkland, and the other victims of gun violence who have shown extraordinary bravery. Let them lead us for a while. It's not like we have done a great job of battling the kingdoms and principalities of this world.
But the price they are paying, already terrible, is, or ought to be, a reproach to those of us who accepted the status quo.
When they needed us, we were nowhere to be found. When they cried out, we made excuses. When they were in danger, we ducked.
What does that say about us?
Politely but firmly, the students who spoke rejected the notion, proposed by some adults, that showering kindness on alienated students might stop the next shooting.
After reading the list of names of those who had died at Parkland, one local student said: never again. Enough is enough."
"We're done feeling like targets in shooting gallery," said one West Chester area 17-year-old forcefully.
It feels good to finally stand up to a bully: and that's what the gun lobby has evolved into over the years. The NRA is a dark, dystopian, never-ending source of fear, demanding that we all live in a world in which we can only engage strangers (and sometimes friends) at the point of a gun.
It feels good to tell the marionettes in the Republican ranks and some Democrats, that they need to be responsible to the vast majority of Americans who want reasonable limits on firearms or get the heck out of Washington.
But the huge event in D.C. reminded those of us who have suffered the loss of a close friend or a family member through violence an inescapable poignancy - and a deeper, darker reality.
I have been to these marches before. Decades ago, I lost my brother to a much more common form of gun violence: suicide.
Mercifully, I don't remember as much as I did about that terrible time. I recall snippets: the hours we waited in our Brooklyn brownstone for his arrival.
The decorations on the magnificent tree in the piano room, taken down, never to be put up again in that house.
My father's wracking sobs, late one night awakening me when he learned that the gun my brother had purchased to end his life had then been banned in California, where he had been living).
We admire the sheer bravery of these young students, their audacity, their determination. We cheer them on.
Here is what the young women and men of Parkland don't yet know.
The hours in which you revisit the scene of violent death in your mind, over and over again, whether you have seen it personally or not, wondering about those last minutes.
The brokeness of the days and hours ahead.
The loss of the feeling so many of us take for granted - that the world is benevolent place.
Your old self - that person died in a hail of bullets.
Like somebody who has lost a limb in an accident, you must learn, moment by moment to navigate your days until these losses don't define you.
This process of healing and evaluation takes years - in fact, it never really ends. Inevitably, you find what solace you can with others who have had a similar experience.
Look around you, and you will see a gun-culture society in which resignation has usurped hope, carelessness makes tragedy more likely, and there are no real adults in the room.
I am awed by the young men and women of Parkland, and the other victims of gun violence who have shown extraordinary bravery. Let them lead us for a while. It's not like we have done a great job of battling the kingdoms and principalities of this world.
But the price they are paying, already terrible, is, or ought to be, a reproach to those of us who accepted the status quo.
When they needed us, we were nowhere to be found. When they cried out, we made excuses. When they were in danger, we ducked.
What does that say about us?
