At The Level Of A Gun

I recently stated that the true enemy of hatred is public discourse. I stand by that, but when civility takes a back seat to impassioned attacks on others, the forum of discussion becomes a breeding ground for contempt and violence. Well intentioned debate walks a fine line between productive compromise and useless mudslinging, and if we ignore the former and cross over to the latter the problems we set out to solve only intensify.

It is at this point that I am obligated to address the recent tragedy in Tuscon. While I do not believe that the incendiary rhetoric of Sarah Palin or Sharon Angle inspired the murder of six people and attempted assassination of Representative Giffords, calling for "second amendment solutions" to problems in government certainly does not carry the connotation of peaceful cooperation and bipartisan compromise. There have been an overwhelming number of pieces in the media recently calling for an end to hostile speech in politics and on the home front, but they all simply repeat each other. Each one ends with the prediction that such politesse is only temporary, and sooner or later we will revert to the old tone of hostility.

I'm not advocating changing the tone of the debate. As much as I oppose hate speech on principle, it's important that it plays a role in society precisely so we can understand how futile it is to employ it. While a well penned essay can certainly sway opinions and inspire acts of both good and violence, the place where we must truly focus our energy is in cutting off the resources that enable people to carry out such acts of carnage. There is absolutely no credible reason to own an assault rifle in the United States, except perhaps for investment purposes. The threat of an oppressive government in the United States requiring deposition by armed insurrection is not only remote, but were such an instance to occur the fact that people believe they could go toe to toe with the world's only military super power armed with an assault rifle and high capacity magazines is laughable.

Even those who advocate that gun ownership is effective for personal and home defense are woefully mistaken. More people are killed or injured by their own gowns than are those against whom they would intend to use them. In fact, gun violence in the 20th century claimed more lives than World Wars I, II, the Korean War, The Vietnam War and the Gulf War combined. Yet for some inexplicable reason the NRA and Congress seem to have it in their heads (or rather their pockets) that more people owning lethal weapons makes the country a safer place. I have absolutely no idea how this is logical. I have never heard of an instance in my lifetime where a deranged gunman was stopped from committing murder by an armed civilian. Had I heard such a story, my immediate reaction would have been relief that such a person was stopped quickly followed by terror that there seems to be a large number of people with concealed weapons walking the streets. Even a man located near the scene of Representative Giffords' assassination carrying a concealed weapon admitted to having almost shot an innocent bystander after he tackled the alleged shooter to the ground, mistaking him for the perpetrator rather than the victim.

If we want to make this country a safer place, the answer is not to tone down the volume. Nobody every won a battle by sitting quietly. An argument certainly, but silence in the heat of conflict is tantamount to acceptance of defeat. Disabling the systems that enable true terror is the only foolproof way to ensure that we can resume the work of dismantling hatred and bigotry without the looming threat of violent solutions formed at the level of a gun.

I am a horrendously indecisive person. You might not think so by the way I write, but that's only because writing is the alternate universe in which I am a confident, witty, commanding person (actually, I'm fairly witty in the real world too, but here my humor is honed and edited to my exacting standards. Speaking is so unpolished; everything you say is a first draft). Every time I go shopping, whether it be for clothes, groceries or home appliances, I am entrenched in a constant battle with myself as to whether or not a) I genuinely need to purchase this item b) this item is too expensive or c) there is a cheaper alternative of comparable quality. I can spend hours browsing a minimal selection of socks, forcibly differentiating between the subtleties of midnight blue with cream toes and black with white accents (for the record, the latter option is preferable).

Perhaps the most challenging thing on which I must render a decision is the title of my entries. Too often I find the titles that drift to the forefront of my cerebral cortex are insanely hokey and have the ring of teen lit mediocrity. "Wisdom in Sandwiches" still haunts me to this day, and it's precisely that kind of Ibsen quality sludge that causes me to so frequently abstain from naming my publications. However there is one title with which I'm still wrestling, and it happens to be the title of this blog.

When I broke the promise to myself that I would never start blogging, I had to prove that I was the exception. I wouldn't try to pretend I was unique, I wouldn't profess to have unimaginable terrors in my life that my parents couldn't possibly understand, and above all I would never make arrogant claims to omniscience. A personal mantra that all young people should take to heart is one of my favorite quotes from Irish playwright Oscar Wilde, who penned, "I am not young enough to know everything". I must remain steadfast in the knowledge that the world has not yet sufficiently kicked my ass enough times for me to claim credibility.

In order to show that I was no ordinary blogger, I fashioned a name for my page that I was sure was neither cliche nor predictable (pretentious is another matter). I would not be "Just Another Nobody", or "Confessions of a 19 Year Old Kid". Such titles are for adolescents who count themselves alone in the number of people who believe them to be crafty and prodigiously skilled writers. In fact, those of you who read my first introductory post (which I have since deleted as I realized in retrospect that it wasn't worthy of publication in USA Today, let alone on my blog) know that the origins of "Tortured Letters From A Sidewalk Cafe" is neither depressing nor an attempt at invoking emotional depth. I actually chose it from a line in a David Sedaris novel, a comedic piece whose imagery struck me as both intriguing and darkly whimsical.

However, as my indecisiveness rears its ugly head, I'm forced to acknowledge that out of context, the name of this blog looks like the title of a poem from a misguided yet average youth whose parents have recently gone through a routine albeit slightly complicated divorce. If I ever post a poem on this blog, do not read any further. Ever since the death of T.S Eliot, poetry is a sure indicator that a human being is in decline. Take heart and know that no matter how much the contents of my works may stand at odds with the title of the electronic anthology that binds them together, I will never torture you with a letter from a sidewalk cafe.    

I Judge (and so do you!)

For some inexplicable reason, theme parks seem to be haven for the poorly dressed. No, I take that back; if they were havens the poorly dressed people who frequent them would stay there, giving my eyes a much needed respite. Such was the visual torture to which I was subjected on my recent vacation to The Wizarding World of Harry Potter. Long seen by my sister and I as a sacred pilgrimage, my Hajj for Harry was punctuated all too frequently by visions of a barrage of bros, plaid shorts fused disgustingly with striped shirts to form an ensemble so heinous I can hardly recount it here without forcibly suppressing my gag reflex.

This must be some twisted joke, I told myself as I strolled along the faux cobbled streets of not Hogsmeade. Maybe they used up all their good clothes for holiday parties and haven't had time to wash them. Maybe it's a consort of students from the local school for the blind. Perhaps they're foreign guests unfamiliar with our customs. Sadly only the latter part of my self delusional musing turned out to be true. It's remarkable, but the last place one would expect to find a global cultural exchange seems to be its ironic epicenter. Every few steps I caught snatches of a different language, French, Spanish, Chinese and something that sounded disturbingly like a gargling Italian opera singer.

But this can't be; I thought indignantly. How could these Europeans be so hideously dressed? I had seen first hand back at school that everyone but me owns a Burberry scarf, and as Montreal is one of North America's more European cities, with a large number of McGill students hailing  from the continent, I was wrought with confusion at seeing these unfortunately clad tourists.

On the bright side, I told myself, at least I'm a shoo in for best dressed. My new found stylistic superiority did wonders to improve my mood, and I fell back on my favorite pastime, judging people. Now before you close your browser window, let me explain my abrasive frankness when it comes to critiquing. Everyone, without exception, makes judgments. Hundreds of judgments on a daily, perhaps hourly basis. You may not be conscious of it, but each time you make a choice, you are judging that the choice you make is the superior option to the alternative. When you think to yourself, my goodness he/she is gorgeous! You are judging a person's appearance, albeit in a positive manner. So I ask those of you who take issue with my criticisms, what harm is there in acknowledging a universal human characteristic?

"Well, my mother told me if you don't have anything nice to say don't say it at all!" you reply in a breathy, confrontational tone. Your mother is a kindhearted fool. Undoubtedly she means well and is a sweet lady (as most mothers are), but she fails to grasp the long term harm that is inflicted by withholding judgment. When emotions and thoughts are stored away, forcibly detained by our oral musculature and good manners, they fester. Like an anaerobic bacterium, these thoughts multiply and infect your psyche, breeding contempt and distorting your original discomfort into genuine hatred. The best way to avoid this is to vent your frustrations as soon as possible and in a constructive way. "But Daniel!" you triumphantly exclaim, "Your harsh critiques are anything but constructive. Look at your degrading syntax!" Au contraire confused reader. What my syntax lacks in politesse it makes up for in originality. Constructive criticism does not, by definition, have to be kind, and by my count venting one's feelings through creative writing is an activity in the construction of detailed observation. By starting a conservation or expressing your opinions to what I certainly hope in my case is an attentive audience, one removes the veil that shields hatred from it's true arena of defeat, public discourse.

In fact, now that I think about it, a theme park is the perfect vehicle for public discourse. It's a veritable display of dysfunctional families, overwhelming joy, crushing defeat and vomiting. What's more universal than that? Perhaps we could resolve controversial issues with greater ease if we were to turn what is now a circus of catcalling and hyper-partisanship into a thrilling thematic venue of the human character. After all, who wants an exit wound from bitter infighting when you can exit through the gift shop?