Not My Shooter; Not My Gun
I wrote this poem in late 2018 after the Tree of Life Synagogue shooting. I read it out loud at Temple Beth El in Patchogue, NY where I prayed every Saturday morning, the same as the victims. In Buffalo’s supermarket shooting last week, or the weekly massacre in an elementary school — this week in Uvalde, my outrage hasn’t lessened. I believe in the American ideal, in the arc of justice, in humanity, and in our ability to do better.
I won’t say it’s the guns, it’s the shooters
I won’t say it’s the haters, but it is the fear
I can’t say it’s the not knowing, but it is the not looking.
I want to say we can fix it, but I can’t if you claim there is no problem.
It is not the device, but it is the content.
It is not my child, but why not?
It is not my church, but it will be.
It is not my classroom, but that it is only a matter of time.
Every human child is my child.
It is not all black, but it is no longer lily white.
Funny how you tell me to get over it.
Interesting the way you foment at my outrage.
Why is everyone so damned enraged?
Do you hate me because I____________________________?
Well, I don’t give a shit.
We are dogs at the end of a leash. All of us so busy pulling back, we are rendered immobile.
Each shooting, each outrage, each tweet slap in the face.
We are laser tuned to our own tribe’s dog whistle, so busy listening for the first toot, that we are missing the whole goddamned symphony.
Wars do not only end when the aggressor decides. Someone has to surrender or nothing is left. Is your goal for me to hear your personal screaming until I drown in sympathy? Keep it up. It’s working.
You can stop listening for the noise. It will be there when you want to return.
Enhance the focus. Look above the chaos.
Despots, like bullets, come and go; lifetimes pass between tragedies.
A full composition contains many parts. Put down the guns; enjoy the movement.
