<p>Thank you gordon your witness is very helpful and wise and thought provoking thank you mary laura</p>
<div class="gmail_quote">On Dec 18, 2012 3:52 AM, "Gordon Harper" <<a href="mailto:gharper1@mindspring.com">gharper1@mindspring.com</a>> wrote:<br type="attribution"><blockquote class="gmail_quote" style="margin:0 0 0 .8ex;border-left:1px #ccc solid;padding-left:1ex">
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<div><big><big>Since I'm part of this
problem and hopelessly complicit in sustaining it, I'll start
with a little confession. Like many of us, I grew up in a gun
culture, in my case as a Wisconsin farm boy. I loved the
various rifles and handguns I accumulated over those early
years, and I continued to sharpen my target shooting through
college and graduate school and even as a young professor
(never really had the heart for hunting). I was (full
disclosure) a member of the NRA starting in high school, so
that I could get my cases of 22 ammo for a pittance. (I
dropped my membership while in college, when the organization
started to morph into the right wing entity that we see
today.) <br>
<br>
When our family joined the symbolic order and moved to the
West Side, I got rid of everything except for a special
treasure, my Ruger Single Six (replica Colt six-gun) with its
beautiful rosewood grips and fancy Mexican fast draw holster.
Lane Erskine and I used to enjoy sharing our fascination with
our handguns' workmanship. Unlike Lane, who was given to
packing heat as he moved about in 5th City, I kept mine
unloaded and in a locked case in our room. <br>
<br>
After a few months, however, I became concerned that even with
those safeguards, in our community, with the kids having easy
access to everyone's rooms, it was too much of a risk. With
great sadness, I took my beloved revolver and holster to a gun
shop in Wisconsin and sold them, thus ending my gun ownership
phase. When it came time, a few years later, to decide which
of my siblings would inherit our father's firearms, I chose
not to participate in the distribution.<br>
<br>
I start with this to make the point that what we're dealing
with in this gun culture lies very deep in many of us. I've
had--and still have--a love affair with the classic American
Western film. This is a tradition that exalts the single
shootist, who is able to do good and make things right for
others precisely because he has at least one sidearm and when
necessary uses it well. <br>
<br>
I see myself mirrored in the fascination of young people today
for all the first person shooter games, battlefield adventures
and standing one's ground against those hordes of attacking
vampires. It's a manifestation of our special culture as
Americans, with our frontier tradition and mythology. Which
in turn is an aspect of what we sometimes refer to as the
concept of American exceptionalism. <br>
<br>
To deal seriously with gun violence, it seems to me, is to
take on the challenge of shifting these profoundly rooted
national and personal images and stories of who we are. They
are so much a part of us that we hardly ever feel the need to
talk about them--they're simply assumed, taken for granted as
part of the common ground we share as Americans. <br>
<br>
We all grieve when events like those of this past week occur,
and we feel personal shock and pain when one of them hits
close to home. At the same time, at some deep level we also
find our way to accepting these occurrences as the tragic but
necessary side effects of our special nature as a frontier
people and the unique role of our nation in the world. <br>
<br>
It's like the collateral war damage to innocent people that
we've accustomed ourselves to living with. We lament it, and
we truly want to keep it to the bare minimum, but we also feel
that our historical role requires our paying this cost (a bit
of White Man's Burden, <i>redivivus</i>). Theologically,
there's a strong connection here with the myth of redemptive
violence, which provides a religious rationale for many among
us to accept the way things are and for at least part of the
deep resistance we encounter to changing the gun laws. <br>
<br>
I suspect that we will now begin to see some modest changes in
access to semi-automatic weapons, some improvements in
preventing, spotting and caring for mental illness, maybe even
more support for our educational systems. </big></big><big><big>I'm
hoping it's also a point in time where we will see, in various
formats and venues, the start of the conversation about our
national identity and values that we very much need to have.
<br>
<br>
</big></big><big><big>What I find myself looking for are ways to
engage our neighbors and ourselves in surfacing and exploring
together these largely unquestioned images and stories that so
powerfully shape our behavior. What is really special or
exceptional about America--the good, the bad and the
ugly--relative to what is special and exceptional about any
other nation and people? How are we to understand that
exceptionalism, and what do we do with it in today's world?<br>
<br>
Some of us might like to get rid of the whole idea of
exceptionalism, but I think in this country, it's there, and
we have to engage it. Doing so, it seems to me, is key to
that long range and indirect strategy we've been talking about
in this conversation. It's essential if we're to have a real
shot at </big></big><big><big>changing the images from which
we continue to act and from which we and others continue to
suffer. <br>
<br>
Engaging these conversations, I'm afraid, means welcoming and
</big></big><big><big>listening deeply to those with whom we
strongly disagree--sharing and discussing together what we
think the times call us to preserve in our heritage, what to
leave behind and what to recreate.</big></big><big><big> If
it's to work, it will have to be uncomfortably inclusive, in a
big tent, as the Occupy folk like to say. <br>
<br>
We could begin to start such conversations in our workplaces,
our churches, our book groups, our community meetings, at the
pub or coffee shop, over dinner with friends, on line, using
all these wonderful social media tools. It's something each
of us could tackle, if we chose to, without much of an
organizational structure. Maybe down the road at some point,
. . . .<br>
<br>
Is this a tactic--and a conversation--we want to be part of?<br>
<br>
Gordon</big></big><br>
<br>
<br>
On 12/17/2012 1:45 PM, <a href="mailto:jlepps@pc.jaring.my" target="_blank">jlepps@pc.jaring.my</a> wrote:<br>
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<blockquote type="cite">Colleagues
<br>
<br>
I'd like to add one more note to this lively dialogue (which I
hope continues, and perhaps even begins to focus).
<br>
<br>
It's obviously the case that a change of heart is required in this
situation. The question becomes how to make that happen, and I'm
reminded of Martin Luther Kings's response to us WASPS who were
opposing desegregation because "we need to have hearts change to
support integration." To paraphrase him, "Laws can't make you love
me, but they may prevent you from killing me." Strict gun control
may be that kind of law. And, IMHO, whatever will prevent this
sort of mass murder is worth doing. Also I've noticed that hearts
are remarkably adaptable to their external situation.
<br>
<br>
In terms of luring the tiger, the question now that she's out of
her lair (sorry Cynthia), what do we do: well perhaps something
initial like forbidding the sale of assault weapons and mass
magazines. That might be able to get some support from tigers.
After all, we endure considerable inconvenience to insure safety
on airplanes,, so perhaps the inconvenience of forbidding access
to these instruments of mass destruction might be a possible first
step.
<br>
<br>
I don't believe we'll be able to change tigers into lambs, but
maybe we can help de-fang them!
<br>
<br>
John
<br>
<br>
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