I had hand-drawn cards from my kids, a bottle of wine and roses from my husband, but I felt I couldn’t fully appreciate them. Mother’s Day just wasn’t about me. There was an emptiness that could only be explained by the hole that was left by my mother.
Because, no matter how smart, strategic, or passionate you may be, you have been sent out as sheep among wolves.
I stole his gun. I hid it, unloaded and wrapped in a towel, in a box of chintzy craft supplies, knitting, and fashion accessories I’d accrued as a teenager. It was the last place he’d look. I left the ammo in his dresser drawer. It was my way of mocking him, as if to say, “I’ve taken your power, but left the bullets so you can play marbles with them.”
In a dramatic piece published by The New Yorker, author Rebecca Mead refers to, The Passion of Emma González, comparing the plucky teen girl to Joan of Arc, and by implication, Jesus Christ. While the writer no doubt intends the saintly veneration of González, she is contributing to the psychological crucifixion of these children.
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