We were talking last night at a dinner party about the US gun culture and people recounted their experiences. The man who signed up for a new bank account and was given a choice of an arsenal of guns as a reward. The percentages of people who own guns, the guns given away as rewards or prizes and the sheer normality of this experience. In the UK we are shocked by this culture and always surprised when we guns with our police anywhere but at airports. Great to see other people wanting to change the gun culture.
“You look like you’re saving the world. Are you saving the world?”
I looked up from my notebook into the face of a tipsy, friendly woman, glammed up for her night out. We were in the narrow aisle of our local pizza joint. She’d shared a quick snack with her friend, and my sandwich and soda were half-finished. Writing here has become a Friday night tradition: When I wrap up my shift at the bookstore, I head here to eat, read and sketch out last-minute ideas for my reading lists.
If she knew what I was reading, she wouldn’t ask me that. “No!” I laughed. “I wish.”
“Well, good luck with it, whatever you’re doing,” she said. I thanked her. She left with her friend.
I was reading—am reading—about guns. About their magnetism, their effect, their handlers. About the people caught in the literal crossfire, the innocent and the marginalized.
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