Speaking your truth is the most powerful tool you have.
The man who gives you a back rub without your permission. The guy who stands a little too close to you on the bus, so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath. The boys who joked and the men who joked and so many jokes but you were never laughing. The jokes you didn't understand because you were too young to understand. The gut punch when you were old enough to finally get what they meant.
My heart breaks at the news out of Las Vegas. I am sharing the post I wrote about the aftermath of Orlando and a shooting at a dance club in my home of Fort Myers. The words I wrote then remain true today: I refuse to remain silent. I refuse to stay numb. And I am tired of this madness.
This morning I found myself standing in a strip mall less than a mile away from where I used to live, a dozen roses in my hand and more than two dozen reporters in my face.
I was standing on the site of the latest mass shooting in America.
A reporter asked me was why I was there.
I’d thought about this as I purchased a bouquet of small yellow roses at my local Winn-Dixie this morning. (What types of flowers are suitable to leave at memorials for mass shootings? I wondered. This is now a question we have to ask ourselves in America.)
I thought about gun violence as I made the twenty-three minute drive north from my home, driving past my church that only five short weeks ago hosted a vigil for the Orlando mass shooting victims. I thought about it as I exited the…
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I understand that part of this anger is about my own deep wounds. My own story of harm by a mad man--and the perceived betrayal of the otherwise sane people who knew better than to believe a madman and ultimately align with a mad man. This is also what I know about being wounded: there is no greater pain that not being seen. We don't expect a mad man to see or understand our pain. He's not capable of it. But the ones who we know are capable of empathy and love? We except better.
I am sitting here in my favorite oversized sweater that smells a little bit like beagles, but maybe that makes me love it more. I wore this sweater while studying for exams in law school. I wore this sweater in the drafty farm house in Iowa as my belly grew larger and larger when pregnant… Continue reading Stitching it back together with love
I showed up because even though I know that gun violence is not solved with vigils and flowers, it just might begin with open, broken hearts that refuse to accept violence as ordinary reality in America