Last weekend I played in a basketball tournament with a bunch of dads from my church. Entering the second game off a win and a couple of 3s in the previous game, I was dismayed to find myself guarding a balding 60-something year old man who played with merciless aggression. Possessing significantly more height, weight, and (I’ll admit) skill than me, it became clear pretty quickly that I was no match for him. I was extremely frustrated that this man did not give me space to shoot and bodied me for every rebound. I felt slighted and immediately assumed him to be a toxic, overly-competitive bulldozer of a man who lived for the sole purpose of demolishing young women in church basketball tournaments. The steely competitiveness my defender exuded was not the community-building atmosphere my easy-going pastor was trying to set, as he gently played with the 12 year-olds on the other court. Even still, my opponent did not deserve the consistent fouling, unkind words muttered under my breath, or hostile glares I met him with throughout the afternoon. He especially did not deserve the evil caricature I created in my mind.
As the soreness settled into my body the next morning, so did this question: Why did I respond this way? At the first hint of embarrassment and defeat, why did I tighten my ponytail, set my teeth, and shove my way to the basket? Why were angry tears stinging the corners of my eyes when I walked off the court that afternoon?
Obviously, the problem of violence in this world is much deadlier and more complex than a fifteen minute basketball game. I have no intention of equating my Sunday afternoon with tragedy of any sort. I tell this story because I think it reveals something about the human soul that we, as westernized, logic-driven Americans, tend to forget in the day-to-day grind of life.
I believe every human being has the capacity to fear, to hate, and to perpetrate violence. I also believe every human being has the capacity to love. When talking about violence, it is important to recognize that we are not talking about “good guys and bad guys” but humanity in its beautiful and horrible aggregate. Although we don’t like to admit it, we all have the tendency to dehumanize others–whether it be the lady who cut us off in traffic or the man who nearly assassinated our former president–we think thoughts, weaponize words, and even use our bodies in ways that degrade the dignity every human being deserves. Beyond this individual capacity, systems of oppression and inequity disproportionately harm some groups more than others. We have created a world in which shame, fear, and retribution are institutionalized in policies and laws, spurring the cancerous growth of violence and threatening the way of love. And yet, there is another way forward. A million ways, if we have eyes to see them.
I recently read Shane Claiborne and Michael Martin’s book called Beating Guns: Hope for People Who Are Weary of Violence. Shane and Mike challenge us to change both the way we love and the way we make policy. They contend “we have a gun problem and a heart problem” (Claiborne and Martin, 18). Perhaps these are more intertwined than we might think. As Cornel West said, “justice is what love looks like in public.”
If you live in the United States, you are no stranger to gun violence. You don’t need me to tell you that gun violence affects both urban and rural, Democrat and Republican, male and female, young and old. You don’t need me to explain to you that gun violence disproportionately affects the poor, people of color, and religious and sexual minorities. Access to guns greatly increases rates of suicide and crime. Our policies allow people to buy too many and too powerful guns, too easily, too young, with too little training and regulation. According to a study by the CDC, in 2020 and 2021, gun violence was the leading cause of death for children aged 1-19.
American voters are more unified in our views on gun control than many think. 90% of Americans and, notably, “74% of NRA members supported universal background checks on all gun sales” (Claiborne and Martin, 78). And yet, significant policy change is obstructed by a complex web of religion, politics, marketing, and media, perpetuating the carnage.
Gun violence in America is a public health crisis. We know this. So what do we do? Where do we go from here?
I would like to suggest two practices to help us develop embodied solidarity: we need to get proximate and we need to build coalitions. In doing this, we can reimagine and transform these social and political systems forming this complex web of institutionalized violence.
PROXIMITY
“44% of Americans say they personally know someone who has been shot” (Claiborne and Martin, 162). For many of us, gun violence has impacted our lives directly.
On November 13, 2022 five students at my university were shot (three killed) on campus. Immediately, the community came together to create temporary memorials, host services, prayer nights, and mourn together in dorms, classrooms, and social spaces. This mourning was necessary and good, and I believe there was healing in it. We continue to grieve these losses.
Just two months later, in January, 2023, a man by the name of Eldridge “Skeeta” Smith was shot and killed. Smith lived just down the road from campus. He was a respected community member and advocate for gun control. He also happened to be the father of a close friend of mine. His death followed two suicides and another homicide in that neighborhood within the previous year. However, not a word of his or any of these other deaths were communicated to the university. Smith died about a mile away from where I live. And the university community never heard a word.
Proximity is not just about physical location, but also emotional awareness and solidarity. The University of Virginia was physically proximate to the death of my friend’s father, but was not available or interested in grieving and healing collectively. There is an epidemic of violence that continues to plague Charlottesville, disproportionately harming black and poor residents. UVA has a responsibility to stand in solidarity with not just those killed on our campus, but also those in the low income neighborhoods just down the road.
We need to get proximate to the struggles and pain of people in meaningful ways. Bryan Stevenson, activist and founder of the Equal Justice Initiative, said, “Proximity has taught me some basic and humbling truths, including this vital lesson: Each of us is more than the worst thing we’ve ever done.”
What if our gun policy problem is really a heart problem too? How can our legislators make good policy when they have no proximity to those most affected by violence? When we, as constituents, don’t stand in solidarity with those on the margins and hold our elected officials accountable to protecting the common good?
Oftentimes, the problem isn’t that we aren’t loving our neighbors–it’s that we don’t even know who our neighbors are in the first place. When we never venture beyond our gated communities or white picket fences, we are allowing ourselves and our children to ignore inequity. When we won’t make eye contact with the homeless people on our streets, we are denying someone’s humanity. Inequity and violence aren’t just social- political- anthropological phenomena to be studied, but the embodied struggle of brothers and sisters with names and faces. To see them and live alongside them is to both extend and receive love. Too often we avert our eyes from the violence around us, in our local communities and globally. Even the nonchalance with which we drive past roadkill each day desensitizes our souls to violence.
eyes averted
hamstrings and stomachs strewn.
blood and bones obliterated.
veins burst and brains violenced.
muscles smeared across the ground.
passing chins angle upward and eyes
follow suit. jaws slow as conversation
hesitates, but continues. we must
continue. cannot acknowledge the carnage.
thousands of pounds of machinery round
the bend. rushing past what the road killed. bound
for corporations producing guns and butter,
ecological and bodily degradation. deliberately.
without liberty to inhabit, ingest, inhale,
fellow creatures are forbidden to flourish,
left famished as flamboyant faces flash by.
fast food strewn alongside the fractured femurs.
as the squirrels and skunks are silenced,
the very stones cry out with pain. even the
tar-suffocated pavement screams, sliced
gravel harmonizing with squashed groundhog
i wonder where our voices are? have we lost
them, with bodies gluttoned on butter and
demolished by guns each day? i must ask:
If that rib belonged to a human child, would our response be any louder?
COALITION BUILDING
In a recent Telos podcast about gun violence, Ainka Jackson said: “if you have proximity, you have responsibility.” Unlike the proximity to the poor that Bryan Stevenson speaks of, Ainka is referring to a hypothetical family member who holds offensive or racist views. She challenged white listeners in particular to persist with grace and courage: “Don’t put your comfort over my safety.” Whatever our social identity, we have a responsibility to stay in relationship with people across ideological differences. All of us, including ourselves, have the capacity to transform.
One of the most challenging aspects of Beating Guns is the radically hospitable tone the authors strike. Shane and Mike wrote the book for an audience of gun owners and progressive activists alike, calling readers to come together across lines of difference. They gently and practically call in people like me (people who get angry and self-righteous), saying: “Rather than demonizing gun owners, perhaps we should focus on cutting funds from the gun profiteers” (Claiborne and Martin, 164).
Just a couple of weeks ago, former President Trump was nearly assassinated. I was horrified to see social media posts expressing disappointment that the shooter missed. I was even more revolted to know that a similar thought crossed my own mind. I cannot simultaneously desire the death of an elected official and claim to follow a God who healed the severed ear of a man unjustly arresting him (Luke 22:49-51). Although I can so easily dehumanize political leaders or athletic opponents, I strive to walk in another way: the way of peace.
Bodies and souls. Words and deeds.
Two men raise their hand to their right ear.
Simultaneously duck and gasp
in shock. Two men look down on bloody fingers
and in an instant decide to retaliate
with ferocity. Two men raise their fists above their heads,
one with a sword and the other with words
of hate. One man represents the violent grasp
of empire. The architecture of pain spewed
across the Near East. One man is the lips
that pillage the pillars of democracy. Both men swear
to exact a fear-filled revenge. Another Man touches their ears,
“No more of this!” he cries, and with a holy breath,
creates a new way. This Man reaches with his hand
and heals. Invites the men to a new life and language.
A language that doesn’t just speak, but wages peace.
We cannot expect to repair or prevent violence if we are constantly forming factions and building walls. When we find ourselves in diverse spaces, we don’t talk about the underlying tensions of inequity or the beauty of our differences. Instead, we try to dim anything that is not the norm and pretend we don’t see difference. We are so afraid of being politically incorrect that we don’t allow ourselves to build solidarity with those who hold different pain than us.
We must build diverse coalitions which are radical enough to hold differences in privilege and pain. Interning at Telos this summer has exposed me to the power of coalition building, from the depths of the US South to the heart of Israel/Palestine. I am so grateful for the stories I have heard and the extraordinary people I have met who are fighting for a more just and whole world. The Parents Circle is a beautiful example of how to hold one another in solidarity across not only the divide of conflict, but also an oppressive apartheid system. Hearing stories like the unthinkable friendship between Rami Elhanan and Bassam Aramin can open our hearts and minds to envision new possibilities.
Angela Davis, a prison-industrial complex abolitionist, challenges us to imagine “a million alternatives.” We must not overlook the power of community, art, music, food, poetry, hospitality, friendship, and simple kindness when we consider how to creatively resist violence and oppression.
When I angrily walked off the basketball court last week, my 13 year-old friend asked me how the game went with a bright smile. Sometimes the gentle kindness of a kid is the only invitation we need to re-ground ourselves in the way of peace.
We cannot limit ourselves to political actions as we build a safer world. Journalists, janitors, doctors, waiters, lawyers, businesspeople, artists, athletes, mothers, fathers, children, and, yes, politicians too: we need you. We need everyone with their unique skill sets and voices to create “a million alternatives” to violence. Who knows? Maybe more than a few will work.
