I’m not watching the coverage of the massacre at Sante Fe High School because it’s the blueprint we’re used to internalizing whenever tragedy hits — and young White men with murderous motives are involved.
My mother returns from her substitute teaching gig and sees me sitting on the sofa with my ears plugged into Beats 1. The TV screen plays in the background as my father’s expressionless face watches the all-too familiar chaos being translated by the impeccably dressed staples of CNN.
My mother has the “what now!” vibe and I can feel her words breathing around me — as I pretend to be totally immersed in the marathon of hits from artists who are too young to comprehend what’s like to exist without the breaking news of gun violence — incessantly violating our right to live.
When I can’t escape any longer — I take out one of the buds and catch her mid-sentence — inquiring about the details of the shooting — which includes the time of day it transpired.
I politely assure my mother about my commitment to place my interests elsewhere since I’m not in a position to alter the landscape of reporting — with the investigative skills needed to evoke the spirit of progressiveness — that would exact pressure on those who are enjoying an unfairly easy ride.
The temperature of the media has been monopolized by Donald Trump’s bullish disposition — and we’re witnessing how all the moving parts in his toxic administration has given journalists the freedom to pursue their obsession — to the point of madness.
When the Parkland shooting occurred on Valentine’s Day of this year — there was a ceremonious recognition of how this tragedy was the deal breaker in the realm of gun violence — and how the ones who suffer the most — happen to be the tragically vulnerable — who are helplessly regulated to the consequences of greedy — rich fucks — who would rather extend the lifespan of their assets — at the expense of endangered babies.
Sandy Hook didn’t do it. Imagine that. A young White male with a troubled past and access to assault rifles — stormed a classroom and blew away children as well as the teachers that used their bodies as human shields.
The Parkland thing was a vomit-inducing event to say the least.
Notable outlets used their platforms to abuse poor teenagers by forcing them to continuously relieve the worst day of their lives for the benefit of a mixed crowd — that consists of the empathetically powerless and the callously-shallow heathens who manipulate their motives into invitations for discussions — that won’t proceed any further.
There’s so much to be concerned with all at once.
We have to march for the right to reject the status quo that determines how worthless our lives are if we happen to inhabit a space that gunmen have marked for detonation. We have to march for permission to exist with dignity and pride as our bigoted president works overtime to finalize plans for deportation. We have to march in an effort to validate those who care about the truth behind how and why Black Lives Matter — since the systemic violence against us still persists with furious consistency.
We can examine the roster of reasons why America can’t ever claim to be Great and imagine the daily headlines that are deposited as proof of how much is at stake — if we continue to avoid the ticking bomb in the background.
After Parkland — the plan was that the conversation would never die down — once the town halls — and White House photo ops cease.
But — unfortunately with Trump at the helm of the media’s brain center — all we’ve been able to amass are the never-ending appearances of the rotating cast of characters — that form this administration’s supporters and attackers. And as a result — the other issues that are just as important end up hanging in the balance — gathering dust — waiting for the bloody opportunity to be re-activated.
We have now arrived at that moment when Donald Trump’s sexual partners and over-exposed detractors have to take a long-overdue break as we return to the task of body counts — and the tearful pleas from students who just want to wake up from this new and familiar nightmare.
I refuse to watch newscasters professionally deliver the details about the shooter — and his victims and I certainly won’t stomach another unappetizing platter of video footage — complimented with the breakdowns from over-paid experts — anchored by eyesores — known as anchors.
It’s the reaction that matches the scene in A Clockwork Orange — when our mind-fucked fellow develops a revolting reaction to the symphony he once used to immensely enjoy.
I just know that if I were honored with the task of using my presence to shift the dialog towards a more rewarding outcome — I would do exactly that.
I would challenge the controls of the cycle that spins us around at a speed that pauses right at the spot where the bullish boar with yellow hair gets to repeat our torture.
We need to hit reset.
If only I could storm a newsroom and reclaim the rules of engagement by exposing how our fuck fest with the devil is claiming more lives than we can afford. I would create the environment that would bring law makers to their knees with the relentless alarm bells that won’t stop ringing until the religion of guns takes its final bow.
Imagine how much further we would be if the energy expended over Stormy Daniels and her mad men — drastically experienced a re-routing in the direction that is populated with relentless workers — creating the road blocks for traitors who wish death upon us.
If major networks aren’t interested in fighting for the solution to an emergency that has essentially become a national crisis of epic proportions — then why bother spending countless hours — helping them secure ratings gold?
If I had to report another school shooting — I would opt not to report it.
We need humans not reporters and that means placing your heart above the responsibility of remaining poised as you utter the inconceivable monologue with eyes that never move.
It’s time for the soldiers of life to take over the mic. Stat.