When Tragedy Strikes, Our “Shoot From The Hip” Strategy is a Bloody Massacre
So much blood…
Stephen Paddock, a sixty-four-year-old White dude who liked to gamble and lived close enough to the areas of interest — opened fire from his hotel window in Las Vegas and basically gave concert goers a bitter version of the American Dream.
It was a bloody massacre — and a lot of it was caught on film. I felt guilty watching the bodies drop because it was early morning and I was in bed. But even more daunting is the realization of another national tragedy that won’t be handled with dignity and grace by the buffoonery of the presidency.
Trump delivered a half-assed speech that sounded familiar, but much more worrisome under the tongue of a celebrated bully who enjoys the attention more than the actual work involved in his office.
Paddock’s shell-shocked brother held court hours after the deaths and basically expressed disbelief at the utter treachery of someone that he thought he knew, but grossly miscalculated.
Unlucky for us, America never makes mistakes in the realm of detailing how to turn our most deplorable activities into money-making ventures.
Social media seemed like a nifty idea — until teens started eradicating themselves in response to ugly comments. That’s when it became clear that “going viral” was a trap that none of us will ever escape.
Gun violence is not an issue — it’s a lifestyle.
We lobby for the right to kill whenever we feel like it and we appallingly ask for moments of silence as God circles around the site — waiting for action. The seat of power has tentacles beyond what can be rectified. The cities of death can be dated back when ships carrying breathing cargo — turned yards of land into goldmines.
The massacre of entire villages have birthed the discomfort of existing in a realm that is split in halves that don’t fit together — no matter how many times we bang on the pearly gates. Nobody will let us in when the music stops and the crowds are shocked into action by the vomit of bullets that aren’t picky.
America shoots from the hip instead of admitting the truth with the glory of red, white, and blue as the magnet for unyielding power. You can’t force the culture to turn against the norm without a raging revolt that takes centuries to implement.
We will die by the hands of those who won’t give up the status that took way too long to furnish — at the behest of tormented souls that were too Black to ask for the privilege of a legacy. And even after the masters mercilessly abandoned those in chains — the damage of ruined identities overtook the hope for reconciliation.
When there’s so much blood — we panic because of the vividness of oxygen in liquid form — pouring down the steps of institutions with pillars that want to protect us — but have to bear witness to the suited army of leaders who need to save the outer layer of embarrassment from further punishment.
When tragedy strikes we gang up on the evil doers and begin to dissect how White men politely kill versus the brutish nature of criminals that aren’t white. We examine the backgrounds and aways distinguish the unlikeliness of White violence against the backdrop of civilization. Yet, my Nigerian ancestors were targeted by the lure of imperialism against their wishes — with the British invasion. And in America — Black people had to hold their pee long enough to find the stall of their shade.
They also died by the bullets of guns that will continue to supply the soundtrack of our lives in ways that soapy dramas can’t address unless the characters are American.
The White House needs time to assess the bulletin that contains the identification of a White male who “was a high-stakes gambler and kept to himself.” He didn’t mean to be the modernized cowboy with the disadvantage of fading privilege, but the population that wants to Make America Great Again — has claimed him.
Blubbering lines for the cameras of opinion and curiosity isn’t the strategy for solving a problem that never existed. The mere fact that a classic game of “Cowboys and Indians” has been described as “19th-century conflicts in America between American pioneers and American Indians” is enough to illustrate why thug living is here to stay.
The blood will never be bright or young enough to give the guilty incentive for a slight release. In the meantime — domestic terrorism will continue to be a Muslim trend. White men who slice elderly Black men on a whim will continue to enjoy the benefits of mental instability. And the media will never end the cowardice of being complicit in a market that requires scathing reviews for the sake of all that should be humane.
Gun violence isn’t a habit that needs to be broken because the system will die without major bloodshed. The land of your birth and impossible beauty has been warring against its own for survival. It’s a lucrative trade with components that are stationed to euthanize eulogies.
The NRA has the stamp of our signatures as proof of life.
And when the anthem starts to play — how far from the field should we stray to avoid the roll call of citizenship?