14 February 2024
People who said I had no right to a voice, gave me my voice.
On Valentines Day I finished my umteenth novel, The Gulf & the Gift. It was Gulf 6, or my sixth Gulf novel. I felt very good, as I always feel once a novel is finished.
It became apparent as soon as I began patting myself on the back, I strained my shoulder, which isn't all that remarkable, but as I listened to my morning dose of Stefanie Miller, progressive talk host, while rubbing my shoulder, she got my attention with her memory.
"It's the sixth anniversary of the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School."
Ouch!
I was writing Gulf 3 at the time. I dedicated Gulf 3 and the Gulf Series to the kids at that high school. The Gulf Series is all about the Gulf of Mexico. I fell in love with Florida, and the Gulf the year I turned twelve and began spending the summer with my grandparents in Fort Walton Beach, Florida.
The day of the shooting I needed to speak. All I had to say is, I dedicate this novel and the Gulf series to the kids at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. On the 6th anniversary, I needed to speak again. I wanted to recognize those kids and that event.
A Civil Discord was born. I began writing, until a little after noon.
It was the sixth anniversary and I just finished Gulf 6, a series dedicated to the kids I wanted to speak to.
It was all more than some coincidental happenstance. It was more than just one of those things.
I stopped writing when a bulletin came on the radio.
"Shots have been fired at the end of the parade route marking the Kansas City Chief's super bowl win. Police are responding."
I didn't write for most of the afternoon.
"Police report one dead and a number of other people have been wounded at the end of the parade route in Kansas City. One reporter says that several children have been shot."
This is impossible. It was the sixth anniversary of the Parkland shooting, and there is another shooting.
In the middle of writing this tribute concerning one shooting, and there's yet another shooting? I write fiction. I couldn't write that.
"Police say there are twenty-two wounded, one dead, and 11 shooting victims are children."
I'm sorry, but tell me again why we tolerate this?
How can parents live with the knowledge, when they send their kid off to school in the morning, he might come home in a coffin?
The problem is guns. We need to disarm these crazy people who think they need to carry around a weapon of mass destruction. No one needs a flame thrower, grenade, or guns in a civilized country. I don't care what anyone wrote down on paper two hundred and fifty years ago. Two hundred years ago you could fire three shots in a minute if you were really good. I don't need to shoot at anyone ever.
Who can possibly live with this hanging over their family? You don't even need to go outside to be shot. People are being shot in their houses. This isn't normal. It isn't civilized.
If all this isn't enough to get someone's attention, it was later on Valentines Day that I was hit like a brick with one more blow to what started as a delightful day in my life.
The voice was that of a young man. I heard him speaking of a shooting. It turned out he was shot six years before at Marjory Stoneman Douglas. He was shot and he died six years ago. It was the voice of a boy six years dead.
I was dumbstruck. I couldn't hold back my tears for what might have been the boy speaking about his own death.
His parents, using recordings of his voice, used artificial intelligence to have their son comment on his own death.
How much courage does that take?
How much courage would it take to end this madness?
How many lives are prematurely lost because some mental deficient need to be packing when they leave the house?
I started a note to mark the finish of my latest novel. I feel like I've been rode hard and put away wet. I would like to do something, say something, to make a difference, but today, I'm not sure anything I do matters.
Nothing will ever impact me more than hearing the voice of that dead young man.
When is someone going to stop the madness?
Rick Beck