Great Idea: Let's Arm Schools

After the shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary, one of the solutions many gun advocates offered to solve the problem of mass killings was to post armed security guards at schools.  In the wake of the most recent shooting in our nation's capitol, it's clear that this is far from a reasonable solution to the problem. 

Facts regarding the tragedy continue to emerge, but two widely reported pieces of information should be noted: 

• At least one of the twelve who died was an armed security officer
• The gunman apparently used two firearms that he took from his victims to continue the rampage

Ignoring the cost of the solution, which would be problematic given already stretched budgets, do we make our public places safer by putting them under the protection of armed security?  I doubt it.  The Navy Yard was apparently heavily armed and guns were in the possession of people whom I imagine were well trained.  Yet, some of the weapons appear to have become tools used to murder more innocent victims.  I shudder at the thought of the accidents and deadly crossfire that will occur if schools are similarly armed. 

For information about the most recent shooting, go to this link. 

Our Civil Rights

Here’s a great idea.  Let’s agree that only people who’ve actually read the Constitution be allowed to use the phrase, “my Constitutional rights.”  And while we’re at it, let’s subject the expression “the intent of the founding fathers,” to the same restriction.  The Constitution is, in fact, a lot like the Bible—treasured and often referenced, but universally misunderstood and almost never read.  (Both Bachmann and Boehner have quoted from the Declaration of Independence saying it came from the Constitution).  It’s also similar to the Bible in that many people believe it’s an inspired document that God had a role in developing.  That’s fine, but what distresses me is that nearly everyone thinks the Constitution’s intent is clear, when in fact, just like the Bible, it’s subject to a range of interpretations. 

For example, the 2nd Amendment to the Constitution—part of what we refer to as the Bill of Rights—reads as follows:

A well regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the People to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed.

Short isn’t it?  That’s the whole enchilada and it’s not particularly well written, either.  In combination, these 27 words are often referred to as the right to bear arms, but it’s, at once, both more and less than that.  As is evident from the text, it’s meant to allow local agencies to hire and maintain police forces.  In this way, the amendment was instituted to allow groups of people to use weapons to protect themselves against enemies.  What enemies?  Recall that the founding fathers had just experienced a revolution and were as concerned with the tyranny of a federal government gone astray than with the acts of common criminals and thugs.  And they wanted citizens to have a way to counteract all possible dangers.

That’s a notion that the NRA and fringe survivalists remind us of continually, however, one aspect of the gun rights conversation that never gets mentioned is the question of what constitutes a protective counterbalance to a tyrannical regime?  In a world where the federal government controls an arsenal of nuclear arms, is it constitutional to allow a state—Texas, for example—to develop a hydrogen bomb to counter an effort to prevent it from seceding?  (Now, that’s something for Rick Perry to ponder).

On the other hand, since the Amendment has been defined as a right of individuals—and not just local governments—to bear arms, we don’t have to be talking about the right of a state.  Can a group of polygamists, therefore, buy a black market A-bomb in order to protect its way of life?  I’m sure very few of us would agree to either of these scenarios, however, they both could be seen as consistent with the handful of words that make up the amendment.

It sounds awfully patriotic to talk of God-given rights under the Constitution, but any single definition of what the Constitution means is open to debate.   In the end, an interpretation that might protect one group of people could be devastating to another. 

The Great Debate

Let’s tone down the hyperbole. It just isn’t helpful. People on the pro-choice side of the debate are no more murderers than pro-lifers are Nazis trying to take away civil rights. Folks on both sides of the question are trying to do what they believe is proper—they simply have differing points of view. If we put aside the rhetoric, perhaps we can come to some common understanding.

To me, the issue reduces to this: When does human life begin?

One of the most interesting questions I heard during my years in school was: How do we define life? It’s not as easy to answer as one might assume. Is digestion or respiration life's defining component? If so, some chemical processes mimic the functions and would demand inclusion. Is sentience the requirement? That would exclude a whole host of what we consider life, including the beautiful oak tree I’m looking at beyond my back deck. Is the ability to propagate the standard by which we measure life? Here again, some inorganic processes involving protein strings might classify by such a definition. Life, therefore, is a lot like pornography: You might know it by looking at it, but defining it is a different matter.

But that’s exactly what we must do if we’re going to get anywhere in our often rancorous discussion about abortion. Between conception and birth, if there is a point beyond which life can be reasoned to begin, a woman should have a choice about her body prior to reaching it. On the other hand, once that point has been crossed, it becomes our Rubicon.

If we focus on the issue, rather than call each other names, we might find our way out of what seems an inextricable impasse. For a nice treatment of the subject, take a look at the following:

http://moreunsolicitedthoughts.blogspot.com/2009/02/right-to-life-argument-critque-follow.html

The author, Joe Huster, is an academic and lawyer, who makes a carefully reasoned appeal for understanding.

A Friend's Lesson Regarding the Source of Freedom

I used to think freedom came from the Department of Motor Vehicles, a miraculous source of privilege we called a drivers license. It wasn’t until after I received mine that Dad explained the rules for using the 1967 Dodge Dart parked in our driveway. When he said I’d have to contribute to the car’s upkeep, I realized that a license hadn’t made me free at all. Freedom, I decided that day, was something else entirely: It was a full tank of gas! In this way my definition of freedom has adapted to new experiences and the accompanying lessons they've taught me.

Growing up in South Central Alaska, I had an Aleut friend named Robert Ivanoff. He had coarse black hair that fell across his laughing eyes and earth-colored face. Regardless of the weather he always wore the same clothes – faded blue jeans, tennis shoes, a tee-shirt with some innocuous (occasionally obscene) message and a cotton warm-up jacket. Once while hunting ptarmigan after an early morning snow I asked him if he was cold and he said with a mischievous grin, “You gotta be tough to live this far north.”

I never doubted Robert’s toughness. I figured it was bred into him. His ancestors chose to live in an unforgiving land governed by an inhospitable climate and he’d inherited their hardy genes. Because of his native status, he could hunt wild game with few limits or seasonal restrictions, which meant he often came to school late, looking as if he'd slept in the woods all night. Sometimes Robert didn't show up at all. To my mind he lived a Peter Pan existence in a Neverland full of adventure and I envied him.

However, in our junior year of high school Robert taught me a surprising lesson about freedom. The setting was health class where our teacher, Mr. Tinney, had asked us to present oral reports on alcohol. When it was Robert’s turn, he stood before the class like a battle-fatigued animal surrounded by wolves. Fidgeting, he began to speak.

“My Dad,” Robert said, “he drinks. Sometimes he drinks too much. He goes to a bar. He promises–only one drink, but he forgets. He doesn't stop. He acts like a crazy man and people laugh. Soon his money is gone. Then he and mom fight. They fight all the time. No good comes from drinking.”

Robert continued to stand there for what seemed like a millennium. His eyes moved cautiously from classmate to floor to teacher to floor again. His mouth twitched silently. I think he wanted to say more. He seemed desperate to say something, if only to add fluff to substance. Instead, he shrugged and walked slowly back to his seat.

There were none of the smart-aleck comments that usually followed presentations, only sidewise glances and questioning looks. Mr. Tinney could muster neither critique nor question. I suppose we all began to see Robert differently then.

In a moment the bell rang and we all left through the hushed voices and frozen space towards the door. In a way, I felt as though Robert had violated something sacrosanct. Speaking of such private family matters seemed a little like hanging dirty underwear up for flag day. Despite the embarrassment, something good came out of the experience. I understood more clearly the sorrow drinking caused. To me no amount of Sunday preaching could have illustrated the dangers of alcohol as effectively.

Later a thought exploded into my mind. Robert had made one notion clear: alcohol can enslave. But I wondered if he was trying to express the idea’s logical corollary. He might have said when we are untrue to any of our commitments–when we walk the path of least resistance, take rather than earn, avoid rather than contend–we become subject to a kind of bondage those acts create. Worse, we expose others (most often those dearest to us) to the side effects of our bondage. Caught up in the inertia of seeking easy ways out of life’s entanglements, we cheat ourselves out of lessons we could otherwise learn.

Robert could come and go with impunity, but that didn’t erase the parental discord in his family, the insinuating glances and the indigence in his life. Freedom, I’ve come to decide, isn’t a lifestyle devoid of complications. Neither is it living without restrictions. Governments can no more insure our freedom than guarantee we won’t be haunted by nightmares. Choosing not to drink is the only way to guarantee liberation from alcohol’s influence. Electing not to steal weans us from dependence. Ironically, it’s only through personal restraint based upon moral and ethical standards that we can truly be free.

Three decades have passed since I last talked to Robert, but I think of him often. I wonder where he is and what he’s doing. Being thousands of miles away, I do the only thing I can for him: I hope he’s happy. Then I offer up silent thanks for the remarkable lesson he taught me.