Trophies.
My son brought this home from kindergarten yesterday.
“I said I love you Mommy and Daddy they said back I love you too.”
“Kissing sound.”
“Kissing sound.”
Why am I being asked to shoulder additional risks of losing this? Why must my child be traumatized every few months by the simulations? Why are the many stewards of our public spaces being charged with training themselves to win a firefight? Why do a fringe fraction of Americans refuse to give up their personal access to the deadliest of the ordnance, or suffer the inconveniences of waiting periods, registries, trigger locks, and rigorous training, and why do we grant them power they neither deserve nor earn to shape our physical and emotional well-being?
This piece of paper hanging on my refrigerator is more meaningful than any proudly perforated range target, more impressive than any beast hunted down, killed, and mounted on a wall to make oneself feel important. Every such piece of paper is worth more than every dollar of the blood money being spent to keep us frightened.
Our children are more important than your capacity to kill. And history will remember you for the barbarians you were.
Creative Control 