MARCH FOR THEIR LIVES

My friends wanted us to organize and participate in the upcoming March for Our Lives demonstration. Still, I didn't want to do it. As the Democratic Party County Chair, I had to facilitate the convention on the same day. It would be my first convention to lead, and I had no idea what to expect from the participants. On the other hand, my genuine fear was that in the deep red town of Llano, we would be targets for some Bubba wanting to take shots at us from his pickup truck. The gun rack proudly hanging on his rear window would be empty because the shotgun was pointed at us! I don't have an issue with dying, but I'd like to live another day or two to enjoy my two grandbabies.

Once I realized that everyone in my circle of activist friends wanted to participate, I decided that I needed to not only organize the county convention but that it would be wise to also host the March for Our Lives event.

I located the March for Our Lives website. I registered the small town of Llano as one of over 800 cities in the country that was holding a demonstration for gun reform. I contacted the city and the police department to ensure a permit wasn't required. The woman answering the phone at the police department stated that we could hold our event at the town square. When I expressed some apprehension considering that Llano was the hunting capital of the world and many of the residents treasured their arsenal of guns, she assured me that we would be safe. "However," she added, "If something happens, be sure to call us, and we'll be there quickly." Uh, I wasn't too comforted by her reassurance that we would be safe, but okay, here we go.

The March for Our Lives movement is well funded, evidenced by their numerous emails offering our march $5000. I initially ignored them, but when they persisted, I told them that we were just a little bitty Texas town out in the middle of nowhere and would be lucky if a handful of people participated in the march. I suggested they use that money to charter a bus to take students to DC to meet with their representatives on gun reform. After all, this is a youth movement, and we're just old people supporting them. Heaven knows we've been speaking out for years about the need for gun reform, knowing that the NRA has bought and paid for our Congress. It's easy to ignore people like me, but not easy to overlook millions of young people protesting. It's reminiscent of the outcry against the Vietnam War. We might be old now, but we were proven right then, and we'll be proven right now.

I wrote a press release about the convention and the march for all the local newspapers. Information about the upcoming events was posted on our Facebook page several times. Our website had information about it and announcements made at a large gathering of Democratic women a few days before the events. I was now "all in," although reluctantly.

A photographer from one of the newspapers arrived at our convention before it started but could only stay for a short time, as he had to cover a local weightlifting contest. Since it was early, there were few people present. I asked if he would make it look like there were more people. He responded, "Oh, yeah. I can work magic with my camera." Hopefully, his "magic" made all 10-15 early arrivals look like Trump's imagined inauguration day crowd. The Republicans were meeting at another location at the same time. I'm willing to bet that the newspaper sent a photographer to their convention for the entire time. Sigh.

I had fretted and worried about the convention and the march for many days before that fateful Saturday. My mouth was full of stress-induced fever blisters, and I was bone-tired. I kept telling myself that this would be over soon and that I needed to chill. After only a few incidents of expected misbehavior by one of the attendees, I adjourned the convention.

Before the march, I asked a good friend who is also one of the state party leaders to be my partner in holding a giant banner with the phrase "March for Our Lives" as we led the crowd from the library around the town square, and by our Congressman's office.

I was shocked when I stepped out on the library steps and saw a crowd of 50 gathered with their posters and ready to march. As I returned from my car with the giant banner to begin the march, I encountered five young women walking to the library with their signs. It was a thrill to meet them, as I didn't expect any youth from our area. Most parents probably had at least one truck hanging on a gun rack in the back window with the dreadful shotgun. Some of the town's residents have Confederate flags waving on their front lawns, and the giant flagpole with the American flag on the town square proudly displays a Confederate flag. If you dare suggest it doesn't belong on the same pole as the American flag, you will be ostracized, tar and feathered, and run out of town.

They gladly agreed when I asked teenage girls to carry the banner and lead the march. It was a beautiful sight, with the youth in front leading a group of older folks as we marched down the streets of Llano. Not one person driving by yelled at us. Numerous people were honking and giving us a thumbs-up! I had goosebumps on a humid 90-degree day.

As we rounded the corner heading to the Congressman's office, I noticed a boy around eight years old on his bicycle waiting for us to walk by. I remember his intense interest in what we were doing. The look of innocence on his face is what really caught my eye. It was at that moment it hit me in full force. We were taking a stand for him and millions like him. We were speaking out and marching for our children, our grandchildren, our fellow citizens, and all those to come after us. We shouldn't have to live in fear that some mentally deranged or sociopathic killer will enter schools, places of worship, movie theaters, nightclubs, or seminars and murder large numbers of people. More people have been killed by guns since 1968 than in all the wars combined. 26,000 children have been killed by guns since 1999! My heart weeps at the sheer madness of it all. The mere thought of my grandchildren having drills in their school for readiness if and when someone with an assault rifle starts plowing them down horrifies me. Yet, many think the answer is more guns––they want teachers armed and churches with sheriff deputies standing out front, ready to shoot. How is that even the slightest bit logical? It's madness.

The eight-year-old boy seen earlier suddenly appeared at the Congressman's office a few minutes later after he had raced home and made a poster about gun reform. He shyly asked us if he could join us. Our arms couldn't have opened wider for the boy with the words "ENOUGH!" printed on a piece of cardboard and taped to his bike's basket.

"In the eyes of a child, you will see the world as it should be." (Unknown)