A Gun Control Bedtime Story

I must have been about fifteen years old.  I cannot pinpoint my exact age; although I know I was old enough that I was no longer sharing a room with my older brother.  My baby brother was out of his crib and sleeping in a bed in the small room at the top of the stairs that separated my room from my parents’.

It was deep in the night—late enough that the noise of passing cars had subsided, leaving as the only audible sounds the crickets and the gentle sway of the palm trees in the occasional tropical breeze.  Normally, I slept through the night without interruption.  On this night, however, I was awakened by an unexpected sound.  I only caught the essence of the sound on the edge of my consciousness, not enough to identify its source.  Suddenly awake, I was frozen with terror, unable to move as my heart beat hard against the inner wall of my chest.  Breathing as silently as possible, I took deep breaths to try to calm my nerves, slowing my heart by sheer will.

There it was again.  The sound cut through the night, more clearly this time but still unrecognizable.  I tried to let the sound echo in my brain, hoping it would link magically with something in my memory banks, giving it a clear, and hopefully benign, identification.  It was coming from outside my room and down the hall, perhaps by the small flight of split-level steps or even the front door.  At last my mind gave it a visual cue, interpreting the sound to be that of ripping or cutting through screening, such as the type on the screen door that enclosed our heavy wooden front door.  Who would be doing such a thing in the middle of the night?  Were we in the process of being burglarized?

Suddenly I was no longer paralyzed.  I jumped to my feet, figuring that I could tiptoe down the steps and doublecheck that the many bolts and safety locks were engaged.  If I did this before the intruder made his way through the screen to the wooden door, I would save my family.  I had a special way of walking lightly on my feet, stealthily avoiding any creaks upon the hardwood floors.  Silently I turned the handle on my bedroom door and opened it without a sound.  I was halfway down the hallway toward the steps when my father suddenly emerged from my parents’ bedroom armed with a small revolver.  The sight of my figure in the dark hall surprised him and he jumped back.  He took a breath, then tucked his arm and gun behind his back, probably hoping that I had not seen it.  “Go back to bed,” he blurted out tersely.

At that very moment, the suspicious sound rang out again.  This time, however, it revealed itself more clearly to both of us as we stood in the hallway.  My tiny brother, asleep in his bed, had sneezed.

I crept back into my bedroom and packed myself tightly with the covers and blankets, needing the comfort against the chills that traveled down my spine.  In the morning, no one spoke of the incident. Not then, and not since.

Gun control is not about curtailing freedom.  It is about protecting people’s welfare against unlawful, excessive and inappropriate use.  I highly recommend David Hemenway’s book, Private Guns Public Health, (http://www.press.umich.edu/script/press/17530) which takes a public health approach to gun control.  David was my economics professor in graduate school.  His books are very insightful and highly readable.