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‘How Much Blood Is Your Fun Worth?’ - The Atlantic   

I saw the gun-violence epidemic—and my relationship to it as a gun owner—as an abstraction. Then a mass shooting happened in the little city where I work.

During my first semester of teaching while in grad school, I made a habit of showing up to my classroom half an hour early. I was green as a sapling and felt wholly unqualified for the task before me, and I had the vague sense that arriving before anyone else and looking prepared was one way to earn the respect of students who were barely younger than I was. The second week of classes, coffee in hand and the day’s reading tucked under my arm, I arrived to find an undergrad crouched in front of a half-open window. He was taking a photo with his phone, and when he saw me, he jumped. My presence was unexpected.

The student, whose name I was struggling to recall, screeched the window shut and turned to face me. His cheeks were flushed red. When I asked if everything was all right, he said he was making sure the windows opened. “My mom told me to always check to make sure they work, just in case, you know …” His voice trailed off and his face turned more crimson still. I must have looked confused because he continued: “In case some gun nut with an AR-15 tries to shoot up the place. When a new semester starts, my mother makes me send her a photo of the open windows in each of my classrooms.” I tried to come up with something to say and found I could not. “She’s a little paranoid, I guess,” he offered. Then another bleary-eyed student shuffled in and the conversation ended.

Continued here








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