My good old dog is at my feet in a gray dog bed; he’s injured his back chasing a squirrel. We both forget that he’s fourteen. I give him cannabis dog treats to help the pain, and carry him down the back steps so he can go to the bathroom. Now he’s looking at me with his big, button eyes, glazed over. I barely know how to help.

My students recently did a presentation on Childish Gambino’s “This is America” this week. One of my brightest stopped, mid-sentence, looking at the still of Donald Glover holding an assault weapon.

“I’d be remiss if I didn’t also mention that we just had another mass shooting,” she said quietly. She is talking about Pittsburg, which, at the time of this class, had only happened a few days prior. We were still recovering from Kavanaugh (they’d been learning about moral reasoning, and we’d used the Supreme Court Justice position as an opportunity to explore ethics).

I opened a bright pink box of donuts. “Please eat,” I said to them, my palms open. They each took a donut gingerly, and I felt my heart riotous in my chest.

Let me backup a minute.

When I took this teaching job, I was shown a tiny black box, hidden in each classroom. “If there’s a shooter,” the Office Manager of my department said to me, somewhat cheerily, “just push this button and say ‘everything is just fine.’ That way, they don’t think you’re reporting them, and shoot you.”

I think about the fact that the dashboard of my car still shows mileage in kilometers because I don’t know how to reset it. How I threaten to throw my perfectly good printer out the window on a weekly basis because I don’t know how to unjam paper. My own inability to follow simple directions is something I’m largely OK with, except in my profession, where I’m expected to know how to fend off an armed person determined to kill me.

In a few weeks, I’m traveling to Tucson to teach a Gender Empowerment and Allyship workshop for community members, K12 educators, and parents. I’ve rightfully gotten a lot of pushback about this because even though I’m grayscale genderqueer and a femme who does trauma awareness and transcompetency in education, I’m still pretty comfortable with pronouns that define me as cis.

I get it. The pushback, I mean. And…

I believe that we’re living in a time where we’re redefining what cohesion and solidarity look like. A time when allyship and the work of allies needs to step up and utilize the privileges and resources that we have in order to center and hold up the most vulnerable and marginalized in our communities.

My own inability to follow simple directions is something I’m largely OK with, except in my profession, where I’m expected to know how to fend off an armed person determined to kill me.
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I know that we (my community, educators, activists) have had many discussions about how to center trans and genderqueer narratives without placing the burden of education on said folks, and I feel grateful that this workshop is an opportunity to begin that work. I recognize that this is an evolving process, one that must remain living and porous in order to consistently identify and meet the needs of those who have been pushed even further into the margins by the very real dangers of our political landscape.

I feel honored and excited to be invited to participate in this larger conversation and skillshare. Excited and honored to be just one small piece of this event, which is made up, aside from myself, of locals. I feel excited to be using the education and privilege that I have to help dismantle the problematic systems that keep our most vulnerable community members disempowered. Excited to see how allyship and solidarity can manifest when we have these intergenerational, interdisciplinary, inter-pedagogical conversations.

I’m having these conversations the day the news about the shooting comes through. I’m on the phone with a trans high school principal in Arizona, talking about listening to the most vulnerable members of our community, when Kavanaugh is sworn into the Supreme Court.

See? Every time we start to make a path to healing, another massive disruption happens in our country that derails us. It’s hard to know how to build houses in ceaseless earthquakes.

I like to say, and say it often, that teaching and writing and reading and staying engaged are the answer, and I believe that — I do. And yet it’s difficult to figure out what to teach, what to write, what to read, what to engage with. Sometimes, I feel like I’m merely teaching my students skills for harm reduction: how to not be manipulated by the media. How to be kind to other people. How to take no shit, but do no harm. To be thoughtful.

Then I remember bell hooks and about how syllabi and pedagogy are inherently colonialist, so I also think a good deal about how to make the classroom less of a white, feminized space. And also how to throw my body into the fire if I need to.

It’s hard to know how to build houses in ceaseless earthquakes.
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Is that allyship? Is that taking autonomy? Am I in the right to do this? Knowing about being or not being in the “right” requires understanding one’s own position, which means understanding one’s self. Which, for me, as a person with CPTSD and chronic pain and a smorgasboard of intersecting marginalized identities, means carving time out for therapies.

Is allyship privileged?

“Yes and no” is the answer and has been the answer to all of life’s most complicated questions. Every day I teach my students that many truths can exist alongside one another, that there isn’t really a “right” answer to anything—only an evolving attempt at an answer. Allyship itself, as a concept, isn’t privileged; allyship comes from a place of deep love, compassion, and empathy, which are all traits even people being actively attacked can feel and foster.

But the way self care, as an industry, has been created as a “mindfulness culture” (inside capitalism, inside the United States, specifically)—that is particularly privileged. To have access to therapy, to the education necessary to not only be hired to stand in front of rooms of people for pay, but to also even know that allyship is urgently necessary. After all, it’s a term we use largely in circles that are, if not entirely academic, often radical, activist, or informed by collective consciousness—and in order to have access to that information, that terminology, you still need to have certain resources.

Is allyship privileged? ‘Yes and no’ is the answer and has been the answer to all of life’s most complicated questions.
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This has been my year of teaching out of a suitcase. Of traveling across the country and showing up in classrooms and bookstores and living rooms, poetry centers and bars and cafeterias. Of re-thinking the framework of how education *really* works, and where it gets to live. Of putting down the pedagogical framework for de-constructing the very slight differences between “novice” and “expert”.

Not only because of what is happening in the world, the political landscape. But because it’s become alarmingly clear that our institutions—which produce the results they are intended to—are failing the majority of our most vulnerable friends and community members. They’re failing us, too.

Keep evolving your attempt at an answer.

I didn’t have a name for all the feelings that resided in me when I thought of Janeera.

What I did know was that I refused to go to the Texan famous Whataburger restaurant because the part of me that was Californian was loyal to In-N-Out. Eventually I relented and said my first time would be with her.

What I did know is that we took goofy videos of us on the bridge behind our community college that she posted on an obscure photo sharing app.

What I did know was that we kept postponing our hiking — we called it exploring — plans beyond the bridge, because we just knew we would be tired and aching and would complain about it for the rest of the week.

What I did know was that if I went to school the day she was murdered, she would have walked me to my class’s building on the opposite side of the school.

And she would still be alive.

Friendship opportunities during community college were scarce. Sure, I was lonely, but was it really worth making friends in this new state when I could possible move again when I transferred to university? I figured I could probably last one more semester.

After the first week of spring semester, I entered my Spanish class about 2 minutes earlier than usual and noticed a small girl sitting in the seat next to mine. I sat down, settled my things, and asked her how she had fared through the homework.

We consistently became the only people that showed up to the class that early. I told her that I came early because if I even came in a minute late, everyone’s heads would swivel in my direction. And even if only for a second, their attention would be solely on me, and the idea of that made me want to vomit. I sucked in a deep breath of air after the fat text bubble I had just blurted out. She agreed with me.

And from then on, an unexpected friendship bloomed.

Janeera and I would hang out at the bridge behind the school. She called the bridge a secret; she said that nobody ever hangs around this far behind campus. So we claimed the “secret” bridge as our own and went there almost every day.

On the school’s side of the bridge was a garden — it was green with mold and just the right amount of neglect that made it feel a little sad. It had tall trees with leaves covering the sky and the occasional duck that had strayed from the small stream under the bridge. It was always cold there, but she never wore jackets––she said she didn’t feel so cold. The other side of the bridge was what we called the forest. A forest was too big of a word for what it really was; a cluster of trees with a few trails here and there to make it walkable.

One cloudy day we stood on the bridge and looked over to see the muddy waters below us slowly undulate away. She told me about how she identified with her Hispanic culture and how the political climate made her upset — not angry, she reiterated. Just sad.

“What’s your opinion on guns?” I asked. “I hate them. I would feel safer with more gun control.”

“I also believe in gun control,” she replied. “But I like the concept of gun ownership. What about you?”

“I am scared to death of guns,” I told her.

I didn’t go to school the day she died. There was no reason for my absence — I was lazy and the spring semester was winding down as summer approached. My phone started to light up around 10 a.m. — someone in my history class group chat asked if anyone else had heard the noises that sounded like shots. They all replied no. I told them I skipped classes that day. A few moments later, someone else in the group chat said that yes, the noises were real gun shots, and that they were following intruder protocols right that moment.

I scoured local new sites, incredulous that a shooting would happen in the small suburb of nowhere Irving, Texas. I pulled down the touchscreen on my phone, morbidly curious for the next update. Every refreshing of the page followed was followed by a dark curiosity accompanied with a pit of dread. Thank god I wasn’t at school, I thought.

I didn’t even text Janeera to see if she was fine.

The evening the shooting happened, I went to Panera Bread with a family friend. I had macaroni and cheese and an M&M cookie. My history class group chat lit up again with the latest update on the incident: that there was a reported one fatality.

“Thank God,” one of them texted. I clicked on the link and the first image on my phone screen was Janeera’s face with a flower crown Snapchat filter on her head. I excused myself and shuffled my way through the restaurant until I stood still in a bathroom stall. The idea that my only friend, a quickly close friend was dead — no, murdered — was unbelievably impossible for me to grasp. I didn’t know how shock felt, but I was sure it felt like it did then.

The feelings that flowed through me were foreign. How was I supposed to untangle my emotions if I had no idea how to handle them?

How was I supposed to untangle my emotions if I had no idea how to handle them?
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I told my mother about Janeera. She didn’t understand that I wanted to lay my head on her lap and cry. I told a friend about Janeera. She didn’t take me seriously. I suppose it has to do with the façade that I wear that everyone sees: I’m funny, I make jokes, I’m never serious, and I definitely do not have friends that are victims of gun violence. She just looked at me and asked if I was joking. Why would I be joking? I answered back.

One hot day, I walked across the bridge to the forest for the first time ever. I followed the path between the trees and not a single tear formed in my eyes. Which was strange for who I was, I normally cried at the simplest of things.

When Janeera’s brother messaged me on Twitter with information about her wake and funeral, I cried.

When my history group didn’t believe that I was Janeera’s friend and I basically had to prove to them that I actually was Janeera’s friend, I cried.

When I listened to “Blue Jeans” by Lana Del Rey — a song we used to listen to — I cried.

Why Are We Used To Violence But Caught Off Guard By Hurt?

So yes, it was quite strange that after all the talk we had about our potential exploration, I didn’t cry when I went into the woodsy area without her.

I walked for about two hours. My headscarf burned an embarrassing tan line around my face and my Converse high-tops were definitely not the right shoes for the activity.

When I went to Whataburger for the first time with a few coworkers, I remembered my promise to Janeera that my first time trying the traditional Texas staple would be with her. I didn’t cry then, too. I felt melancholy; a longing for a friend who understood me in a way that I thought rare for someone as complicated as myself.

The police say that this man was stalking her after she had turned him down multiple times. If that story was correct, I knew nothing about it. She never told me about a guy persistently asking her out on dates, or that he was following her. I wondered why. Every time I walked outside and saw a man holding an object, or walking a little too fast, or with his hands in his pockets, panic began to brew in my chest. Theoretically, I knew that every man wasn’t a potential school shooter, but there was a small part of my mind that totally believed that every man was.

I was lying down on my bed and scrolling through my phone. School had been canceled and professors sent out emails addressing Janeera’s death. Teachers were giving out accommodations on finals due to the tragedy. My Spanish teacher called me personally after she sent out a class email. I picked up the incoming call and when the professor told me who it was, tears slipped out of my eyes as I remembered the way our friendship had begun.

I didn’t understand the pull that made her use a tragedy for comedic purposes.
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A girl I knew recorded a few “story time” videos about the shooting and posted them on Snapchat. Her videos were of her laughing and making inappropriate jokes about the gun and the man. I tapped on the screen to skip to other clips of her talking. She continued to laugh and joke.

“And as soon I heard those gunshots, I got up and sprinted! I didn’t wait for any professor or anything!” She laughed hysterically. “At least only one girl got shot — she should have run like I did!” More laughter.

I didn’t understand the pull that made her use a tragedy for comedic purposes. And honestly, as stories go, it wasn’t even the slightest bit funny. A few days later, she approached me at school. She offered her condolences and wrapped her arm around me in a halfhearted hug. I wondered if people talked to me to become closer to tragedy. I accepted her words but eventually walked away. All I could hear were her videos and how she trivialized Janeera’s death.

Spring semester was my last time physically at school until I eventually transferred to Seattle University, the following year.

Something about the school felt out of place, like it had shifted in its fixed position in time and space. Someone had been shot dead at our school.

Janeera used to sit at this particular couch that was to the side of the college’s common room. We would meet there and sit for an hour or so before heading to our Spanish class. I don’t know exactly where she died, but a morbid piece of my mind imagines she was shot on that couch.

Something about the school felt out of place, like it had shifted in its fixed position in time and space.
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I imagine her face in shock as she realizes that she is about to die, I imagine the bullets hitting her as she bleeds through her clothes, staining the carpeted floor and couch. I know that following that trail of thought will not get me anywhere productive, but I can’t help but follow it anyway. The idea of walking into school and passing the common room everyday sickened me.

When brainstorming this piece, I sat and talked to a close friend. She has a degree in sociology, and is the perfect person to turn to when you need help with big pictures in social settings. “Why do you think that some school shootings get more attention than others?” I asked. “What happened that made us numb to these deaths?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

Later that day, the news broke on the Parkland school shooting on Valentine’s Day 2018. The thoughts that ran through my head when I heard of the tragedy— I knew they were not logical.

Every rational part of me knew that these thoughts were unreasonable, but the combination sadness and guilt overrode the logic. I thought: “I spoke the shooting into existence when I speculated aloud earlier. And it’s my fault.” For the rest of the day as I refreshed the news on my phone, I berated myself for causing the tragedy: If only I had chosen a different topic to write on, if only I had kept my mouth shut and not asked stupid questions, 17 kids would still be alive and I would be spared from having to revisit the death of my friend as if it was the first day.

The vigor that I see in the Stoneman Douglas high school students inspires me. They say every movement starts with one moment. And I think that we are in a moment right now — the high school students that are demanding for their safety is a moment. The national and international support, and the momentum they have is a moment. Their ability to organize events, marches, and movements in less than one month is a moment.

I can only hope that I can tap into my strength and contribute my voice to a cause that is deeply personal to me.

It took me six months to tell my therapist about Janeera. During the session I used nearly half of her tissues. She called it a “multiple Kleenex day.” After the session, she gave me a hug. She had never hugged me before.

Dr. Novinsky told me that I didn’t know for sure that if I was at school that day Janeera wouldn’t have died. In fact, she told me that if this man was stalking her, he would have known that she would be with me and I would be dead, too.

And I wonder if death would have been more peaceful than the seemingly perpetual sadness that followed me long after Janeera’s death.

By Kali Holloway

Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov, the inventor of the AK-47 assault rifle, died in 2013 at the age of 94. Though he often shrugged off criticisms that he’d given the world a tool that has helped murder millions (he once compared himself to a “woman who bears children,” declaring himself “always proud” of his creation), months before his death, he revealed intense remorse. In an April 2013 letter to Russia’s Orthodox church, Kalashnikov said a profound sadness had dogged him in the final years of his life. “My spiritual pain is unbearable,” the gun inventor wrote. “I keep asking the same insoluble question. If my rifle deprived people of life then can it be that I…a Christian and an orthodox believer, was to blame for their deaths?”

The letter was made public in 2014, after being published in the Russian newspaper Izvestia and later picked up by Western outlets. The missive offers an unvarnished look at a man who, taking stock of his life, came to regret what he once considered his greatest achievement and contribution. “The longer I live,” Kalashnikov continued, “the more this question drills itself into my brain and the more I wonder why the Lord allowed man the devilish desires of envy, greed and aggression.”

The Russian church — like its American Christian counterpart and religious entities since the beginning of time — reassured Kalashnikov that it was totally okay with murder as long as the act was committed in the name of the state. (“If the weapon is used to defend the Motherland, the Church supports both its creators and the servicemen using it,” a spokesperson noted.) This is not surprising, unfortunately; religion is gonna be religion. What’s more interesting is Kalashnikov’s lamentation about his part in making a killing machine, a sadness that seems to have gradually overtaken him across the years. While the letter contained Kalashnikov’s most intense expression of remorse, it was not his first sign of regret. A decade earlier, Kalashnikov admitted in an interview that he “would prefer to have invented a machine that people could use and that would help farmers with their work — for example, a lawnmower.”

5 Places Hypocritical Republicans Ban Guns For Their Own Personal Safety
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As Rebecca J. Rosen noted in the Atlantic, “that’s the thing about building weapons-grade technologies: You can’t control their use.” Einstein regretted signing a letter to President Roosevelt warning of Germany’s potential to produce atomic weapons — a letter that ultimately led to the creation of the Manhattan Project and the development of the atomic bomb. Einstein, a pacifist, never worked directly on the effort, but regretted even tangential involvement in the project. “Had I known that the Germans would not succeed in producing an atomic bomb,” he later said, “I would have done nothing.”

Similarly, Alfred Nobel is said to have willed his fortune to establish the Nobel Prizes, particularly the peace prize, as a sort of penance for creating the deadly explosive dynamite. Arthur Galston, whose research led to the development of Agent Orange, “was deeply troubled by the part his work played in extending war into environmental destruction, spoke often about his sense of guilt and responsibility, and became an extraordinarily articulate antiwar activist who made many trips to Vietnam and China, focusing always on the dangers of Agent Orange.” Weapons-grade pepper spray inventor Kamran Loghman appeared on Democracy Now! to discuss aggressive and abusive police use of his invention on peaceful protesters around the country during the time of Occupy Wall Street. “I saw it, and the first thing that came to my mind wasn’t police or students, was my own children sitting down, having an opinion, and their being shot and forced by chemical agents,” Loghman said. “The use was just absolutely out of ordinary, and it was not in accordance with any training or policy of any department that I know of…I feel it’s my civic duty to explain to the public that this is not what pepper spray was developed for.”

‘The longer I live, the more…I wonder why the Lord allowed man the devilish desires of envy, greed and aggression.’
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Eugene Stoner didn’t live to see the weapon he invented, the AR-15, used in any mass shootings. But his family maintains that he would have been revolted to learn that the rifle is now used by civilians in any capacity, and heartbroken to see it employed in civilian mass killings in America. In 2016, Stoner’s adult children and grandchildren told NBC News that the late Marine was an “avid sportsman, hunter and skeet shooter.” But they insist he had “never used his invention for sport. He also never kept it around the house for personal defense. In fact, he never even owned one.”

“He died long before any mass shootings occurred. But, we do think he would have been horrified and sickened as anyone, if not more by these events,” Stoner’s family told the outlet, days after the Pulse nightclub massacre, where the killer used an AR-15 to kill 49 people. “After many conversations with him, we feel his intent was that he designed it as a military rifle.”

“What has happened, good or bad, since his patents have expired is a result of our free-market system,” Stoner’s family said. “Currently, a more interesting question is, ‘Who now is benefiting from the manufacturing and sales of AR-15s, and for what uses?’”

This story first appeared at AlterNet, and is republished here with permission.

Do as they say, not as they do.

Paul Ryan (Credit: Gage Skidmore)

By Kali Holloway

After every mass shooting, a portion of this country insists the real problem is that there aren’t enough guns. The group that pushes this absurd lie includes Republican politicians, many of whom fear that admitting otherwise would drive away NRA donor funds. There’s been a lot of recent discussion about how GOP legislators do nothing in response to gun massacres, but a 2016 Harvard Business School study proves that’s not quite true. In states with overwhelmingly Republican legislative bodies, after mass shootings, “the number of laws passed to loosen gun restrictions [increases] by 75 percent.” Despite being counterintuitive and demonstrably dangerous, more firepower is the GOP’s go-to solution because “something something don’t tread on me.”

It’s a bad-faith proposition. A party that truly believes guns are the way out of this thing, and that an even more heavily armed populace will ensure American safety, would make different personal choices. In fact, we can gauge GOP disingenuousness on the gun issue just by noting all the places Republican politicians frequent where weapons are banned. Pointing out their hypocrisy has never helped to shame the GOP into decency, but it’s worth a review nonetheless.

Here are five places hypocritical Republicans ban guns in order to ensure their own personal safety.

1. The White House

Along with making Mexico pay billions for a wall it opposed and never taking a golfing vacation, Trump promised on the campaign trail to legislate a future in which guns could legally be brought into every kindergarten classroom and nursery. “My first day, it gets signed, okay? My first day,” Trump told supporters in Vermont in 2016. “There’s no more gun-free zones.”

While it’s true no president could unilaterally scrap federal law, it’s also true that Trump’s complicit Republican Congress would probably greenlight any pro-gun horrorshow he could dream up. Yet, in the year since he took office, Trump has not spoken out once — even via his digital bullhorn at Twitter — against the anti-freedom gun ban at the White House. What better way for this president to signify his wholehearted support for gun-based lifestyles than by letting White House visitors from around the world — especially those who live under the tyranny of gun control abroad — bring all the guns they want into the People’s House?

Mad Lib For An Ineffectual GOP Response To The Latest Mass Shooting

Or maybe Trump hasn’t brought up the matter because he doesn’t actually want strangers bringing guns into the White House, seeing as they can and do kill people at the squeeze of a trigger.

2. The Republican National Convention

The quadrennial gathering of this country’s most dedicated Republicans should be a place where GOPers can briefly escape oppressive gun-free “safe spaces” and live on their own gun-riddled terms. Attendees should be permitted — nay, required — to come armed to the teeth. Downtime convention activities should be strictly gun-focused. (Think ball pits, only filled with guns. Cocktail hours, only the drinks are all guns.) At the very end, instead of confetti, the audience should be showered in loose ammo.

But instead of a three-day orgy of gun lust and ammosexuality, the Republican National Convention is a gun-free zone. Guns were banned at the RNC in 2008, 2012 and 2016, and that’s not for lack of trying by those who bothered to petition for bringing guns to the party. For some strange reason, the RNC keeps choosing venues that explicitly ban guns, almost as if it was looking for a convenient excuse. The Secret Service keeps banning guns from the events, almost as if it knows the whole “good guy with a gun” claim is a just a myth. And not a single Republican politician has raised their voice to demand guns be allowed on the convention floor, almost like they’re tacitly admitting to being iffy on the whole “responsible gun owners” thing.

3. Mar-a-Lago

A staffer told ABC News back in 2016 that guns were banned from Trump’s Palm Beach golf property, where the president spends so much time it’s hard to know when he’s doing the actual job of presidenting. That policy appears to still be in place, according to a Politico report from late last year. “Pocket knives, laser pointers, pepper spray, and any other items deemed to be a safety hazard are not permitted on property,” a letter the club sent to members cautioned. “Any items surrendered will not be returned.”

4. The U.S. Capitol Building

Surely, a Congress that has steadfastly refused to pass gun legislation is cool with guns in the Capitol building, if only to make a patriotic point. Why not let the Senate and House galleries double as shooting galleries, since guns are such a national point of pride? When are the gun-loving legislators of Congress, who believe that murdered 6-year-olds are just the price of freedom, going to change the rules so the U.S. Capitol building can become the guntopia it’s meant to be?

The short answer is never. Guns are banned on the Capitol grounds and inside the building itself, which includes the House and Senate galleries. Visitors are also warned against bringing “black jacks, slingshots, sand clubs, sandbags, knuckles, electric stun guns, knives (longer than 3”), martial arts weapons or devices…razors, box cutters, knives, knitting needles, letter openers…mace and pepper spray.”

Why not let the Senate and House galleries double as shooting galleries?

Which all raises the question: what kind of heartless, cruel and immoral people consistently vote against gun control for most Americans’ work lives, but cynically keep guns far away from their own place of business?

5. Republican Town Halls

In early 2017, when Republican legislators realized that angry crowds were showing up in town halls to speak against repeals of the Affordable Care Act, they found two ways to avoid those meetings. The first was to label their own constituents “paid protesters.” The second was to demonize civically engaged voters as violent mobs. It was all for show, of course. In fact, as Talking Points Memo notes, “guns are frequently prohibited at GOP congressional town hall meetings, especially after the shooting of former Rep. Gabrielle Giffords in 2011. Even stalwart conservatives like Rep. Paul Ryan and former Rep. Allen West opted to ban firearms at their town halls.”

Texas Republican Louie Gohmert even went so far as to invoke Giffords as a political prop to get out of being berated by the people he supposedly serves.

“At this time there are groups from the more violent strains of the leftist ideology, some even being paid, who are preying on public town halls to wreak havoc and threaten public safety,” Gohmert claimed in a statement. “The House Sergeant at Arms advised us after former Congresswoman Gabby Giffords was shot at a public appearance, that civilian attendees at Congressional public events stand the most chance of being harmed or killed — just as happened there.”

Giffords, incredibly, had to release a statement encouraging Republicans to do their damn jobs.

“To the politicians who have abandoned their civic obligations, I say this: Have some courage,” Giffords’ message said. “Many of the members of Congress who are refusing to hold town halls and listen to their constituents’ concerns are the very same politicians that have opposed common-sense gun violence prevention policies and have allowed the Washington gun lobby to threaten the safety of law enforcement and everyday citizens in our schools, businesses, places of worship, airports, and movie theaters.”

In an interview later, Giffords stated, “If you don’t have the guts to face your constituents, then you shouldn’t be in the United States Congress.”

And maybe, if you don’t have the guts to deal with the laws you force the rest of us to live under, you for sure shouldn’t be involved in making them.

This story first appeared at AlterNet, and is republished here with permission.

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There’s a lot to do in a day, and there are a lot of mass shootings. This handy guide will make preparing your statement a snap!

My heart is _________ (NEGATIVE ADJECTIVE) over news that ________________ (# OF VICTIMS) Americans have been tragically killed by
a _______________ (POSITIVE ADJECTIVE) mentally disturbed family man who deserves our compassion.*

At times like these, we must commit to not _______________ (NEGATIVE ADVERB) politicizing a _______________ (NEGATIVE ADJECTIVE) tragedy.**

I will be praying extra hard in the coming days, to ensure our ____________ (POSITIVE ADJECTIVE) God prevents another mass shooting from happening in the most heavily armed __________ (PATRIOTIC ADJECTIVE) country in the world because truly, that is all any of us can do.

America remains a resilient ______________ (HYPERBOLICALLY POSITIVE ADJECTIVE) nation in the face of ________________ (BOMBASTICALLY NEGATIVE ADJECTIVE) adversity.

I am, again, so very _____________ (NEGATIVE ADJECTIVE).

With condolences,

___________________________
(GOP CONGRESSMAN NAME)

*Unless perpetrator is Muslim/brown/black, in which case please write “vicious terrorist thug.”

**Unless perpetrator is Muslim/brown, in which case please write “allowing dangerous Islamic terrorism to destroy America.”

***This Mad Lib may be used after every mass shooting in perpetuity forever.

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