Twenty years ago, a narcissist with an AK-47 murdered seven employees at Edgewater Corporation in Massachusetts. They were mothers, fathers, husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, friends. One was my sister.
Like a spoiled child, he had a tantrum with loaded guns. He was arrogant with a grandiose sense of entitlement, and his guns made him feel important. His game was to show everyone just how important he was.
My sister was my best friend. She was funny and loved playing practical jokes. She cherished animals, my children, and her little car that she drove way too fast. She worked her way through night school and worked her way up to vice president. She couldn’t resist jelly donuts or fried clams. She spent hours in my garden, reading. She was kind, accomplished, appreciative and well-liked – traits her killer could only envy.
I mention her killer only because he epitomizes our country’s worst illness – a belief that violence solves all and that infamy, no matter how ill-obtained, marks our lives. To the weak-minded, guns mean power. Their faces on the news? Notoriety.
Mass murders have increased exponentially, but we, the majority, will end this epidemic.
Sensible gun laws matter.