As I write this, my alma mater, Florida State University, is under attack. At least one active shooter is going through campus. I hear “the Bellamy Building,” and I know it well. It’s where my graduate student office was. It was the place where I taught my classes.
Today is the 18th anniversary of the Virginia Tech massacre, where my colleague lost his son, a bright young man full of life who loved to teach. I remember zooming over to our daycare to pick up my oldest child very early that day. Last year, I said goodbye to my friend who lost his son, with his family gathered around for his final hours of life.
This fall, my son and his friends were doing their pre-run stretches after school before running through the neighborhood on their cross-country practice when we heard the gunshots ring out.
The coach and a fellow parent who is also an assistant coach evacuated the kids to the gym while I called the cops. They were quick but never found the shooter in the neighborhood. A few weeks later, it happened again, during school hours, leading to a campuswide lockdown where my wife is a teacher. Again, no shooter was found.
It wasn’t the first time my son and I had heard gunshots that wasn’t on a range.
Other Little League coaches and I worked out a plan to have a baseball practice at an abandoned school, where the field was still serviceable, the only place open during a crowded preseason. Families showed up, and it turned into a big happy family picnic at dusk, a smile on every face.
That party was shattered by the sound of automatic gunfire. I guess a local resident didn’t like
our presence and thought it was the perfect time for firearm practice nearby. Families scattered, running for the parking lot. I called the police, and they recognized the sound of the weapon and immediately dispatched a vehicle to the area. A young baseball player was missing, and I remember hunkering down, crawling across the field in the dark, calling out the boy’s name, in between bursts of gunfire. We were all relieved when it turned out his mom picked him up early and wasn’t immediately responding to calls while driving. But that memory will haunt me forever. It pops into my head during every mass shooting.
Earlier this school year, we learned of a shooting spree at Apalachee High School in East Georgia, where several of our college graduates are teachers. It was a tense time while we waited to hear who lived and who passed away. It’s something all too familiar for an increasing number of Americans, as politicians who seem to look for any excuse to justify inaction.
You may conclude that I’m anti-gun. That’s not the case. I can also tell you stories of earning the Rifle and Shotgun Merit Badge in Scouts, engaging in the “adult firearm practice” at a nearby Scout camp with other dads and moms from our troop, including a fellow professor. Remington Firearms has moved to our town, a company that will help boost the local economy.
And I don’t know the shooter or motive. But I do know that from my research that the assault weapons ban worked; letting it lapse was followed by a huge surge in these mass shootings. I know that states with red flag laws experience far fewer firearm deaths. We can have guns in this country, and be safer.
As my friend lay dying in hospice care last year, I wished I could have told him we made a difference, through his lobbying and my writing. There has been an increase in states with red flag laws. And some states here and there are trying their best to keep these guns from falling in the wrong hands. But it’s clear
we can do a lot more, so we don’t have to say “not again” again.
John A. Tures is a professor of political science at LaGrange College in LaGrange, Georgia.
His views are his own. He can be reached at jtures@lagrange.edu. His “X” account is
JohnTures2.
