A Shooting and a Sound
On Saturday shots were fired at the White House Correspondents dinner. Secret Service agents and police rushed to evacuate the president and other members of the cabinet. Guests hid under their tables as officers shouted instructions. Reporters offered commentary in real time. I watched stunned and, honestly, in disbelief. This is where we are as a country. Violence simmers underneath the political discord waiting to erupt.
Of course, Trump took full advantage of the moment. “When you’re impactful, they go after you. When you’re not impactful, they leave you alone,” he boasted. In a Truth Social post, Trump also argued for the need for a White House ballroom. The shooting “would never have happened with the Militarily Top Secret Ballroom.” It felt like a coordinated campaign as MAGA accounts on social media echoed the sentiment.
Over the next few days, we will be inundated with commentary about the shooting and the alleged shooter, Cole Tomas Allen. Conspiracy theories will circulate on social media. Some will decry the violence. Others will suggest that the shooting was a false flag. Conservatives will use this as evidence of the violence of the radical left (no matter what the evidence suggests). Liberals will call for gun control.
Standard political theater in these troubling times.
All the while, Americans still face the implications of the Iran war at the pump and in grocery stores. Trump continues to plummet in the polls, and we have no idea what he is capable of doing because of it. Politicians play their games. And the country barrels into whatever chaos awaits around the corner.
It is enough to drive us all mad. Breaking news swirling around our heads. I imagine eyes darting back and forth. People and algorithms demanding our attention. Something sour sits at the back of the throat and in the pit of our stomachs. You want to scream, “STOP!” and turn your face away from it all. You pine for some sense of normalcy and calm.
Before I heard the news of the shooting on Saturday, I smiled to myself as I recalled a conversation with my son earlier that day. There was something in his tone that reminded me of his face when he was toddler, of the sound of his giggles, the joy in his unstable run with his arms stretched out behind his back, as I chased after him. His chicklets, as the dentist used to describe his little teeth, exposed for all to see.
He was excited about his new job as an associate attorney with the Alameda Public Defender service. He talked about what he hoped to do as a public defender, his anticipation of having his own caseload, of doing some good in a system where good is often under assault.
I heard all the words, beamed with pride that he has finally landed, but my ears focused on the sound – his tone – not the words. This was my baby.
Time is ruthless in its indifference. We cling to what we have and what we remember. And as we age our grip tightens, because even though you are slowing down, life moves at an unsettling pace. Your parents, if you are blessed to still have them around, once indefatigable are now fragile and vulnerable. Your children grow up and start their own lives. Photos languish in drawers. Some memories fade. Regrets linger.
But there are moments that trigger memories that are etched in your DNA. Sounds that remind you of the beauty and innocence of your baby. I can hear when he’s sad or worried. I know the sound when he is teasing me. I recognize the slump in the shoulders or the distant eyes when he is doubting himself.
But that sound of joy, my God, takes me back to when he was a little baby in his bouncy chair. I would pull him close to my face and make some silly sounds, and he would laugh a full belly laugh. A bit of heaven. That’s what I heard and felt when he expressed his excitement about the new job.
And then the nastiness of the world intruded.
I know we will be swamped with the news about the shooting, about Trump, about the damn chaos that overruns everything. But I am going to hold tight to the reminder: to the joy in my baby’s voice amid the cacophony of these maddening days.
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Thank you for sharing your very personal experience and it does indeed bring love and light to those who read it.
Well, I don't necessarily disagree... but the concept of time is so different to me. I don't know why people make Time the villian. I see time as a witness - not a judge. As a companion - not a countdown. Time is not a threat. Being able to reflect back and see all that you have done.... and yes your children, grown-grown. Beautifully and brilliant. I think it's TIME that makes this all bearable. My hope is that the future is better, brighter and we get out of this moment. I look forward to time passing already. I want us out of this moment and onto the next -- yeah, I see Time as a friend. I really do.