Let’s put this in perspective, now. Gun violence is a public health issue. Period. We reduced other public health threats by taking appropriate action. We can fix this one too.
From the Journal of the American Medical Association — information on how we reduced deaths from other causes and what we need to do to reduce deaths from this one:
(Mozaffarian D, Hemenway D, Ludwig DS. Curbing Gun Violence: Lessons From Public Health Successes. JAMA. 2013;():1-2. doi:10.1001/jama.2013.38.)
But of course, this shows the heart of the problem:
More guns aren’t the answer. Guns in schools and shopping malls and office buildings aren’t the answer. Fewer guns — and guns with smaller magazines that’s the ticket.
To contact your Congressional representative and Senators and ask them to help enact reasonable gun laws, follow these links:
In the spring and summer of 1986 random parts of my face started growing for no apparent reason. I would be at home, on the subway, or off working somewhere around DC.
First it was a swollen eyebrow. Then that would go away and a day or two later, my cheek would grow so that I couldn’t see well out of one eye.
Mostly it was my lips, though. They would grow, sometimes individually, sometimes together. I looked like a duck.
Did I mention I was also getting married in September? That September? And while John and I had a fairly small and simple wedding, I was unenthusiastic about going to the altar looking like a daisy. Especially this one.
Of course, John’s lips would have been normal. Mine? Not so much.
But work was so completely crazy that I ignored it. I was a lobbyist/flunky at the time, and was spending long days up on Capitol Hill working on the Tax Reform Act of 1986. (And it was the perfect assignment for me; I did my own taxes – on the U.S. Government 1040-EZ form. Tax Returns for Poor Dummies.) I was in over my head, didn’t have a clue what was going on, what was important, or which way was up. I was a wee bit stressed.
Plus that summer we decided to buy our first house just so we could send my stress level through the roof of my brand new adorable little house.
But back to my problem. My ever changing facial features.
People were looking at me strangely which I understood – I often and suddenly looked really odd. But even stranger, they stopped talking whenever I would approach. These were people I’d worked with for more than six years. Something weird was going on.
And I found out what that was early one morning as I stood talking in the front lobby to my boss, also (irritatingly) named John. He was giving me instructions on that day’s most important issues, when to pay especially close attention, when to call him immediately with an update.
At the beginning of the chat, my face was normal. But as we talked, my lips spontaneously grew larger and larger. More duck-like.
“Elyse,” my boss said, “what’s happening to your lips?”
“They’re growing. Spontaneously. I don’t know why. But you’ve seen me with a swollen face off and on for the last couple of months. Haven’t you noticed? And it keep on happening. Luckily, John has promised to marry me even if I look like Daisy Duck when I arrive at the church.”
The look of relief on his face was instantaneous – he joked with me about the fat lips, about stress, about what I might be allergic to. He’s a really nice guy, and he cared about me. But it wasn’t until much later when I realized just why he had looked so relieved.
He thought I was being abused by my husband-to-be. And he, a very powerful Washington DC lawyer, who knew/knows everybody in town, had no idea what to do. He didn’t ask me if anybody was hurting me. He didn’t threaten to report John, or try to find out discretely whether folks in John’s office thought John might be abusive. No, my boss talked to other folks who also cared about me and who also didn’t know what to do to save me from what, had it been true, would have been a huge mistake.
(In fairness, they didn’t know my John at all – it wasn’t a very social office.)
And once I made the connection, I remembered feeling similarly helpless once. I thought about a secretary named Kelly who had worked with us briefly a few years earlier. She and I had become a bit friendly, even though we worked on different floors and in totally different departments. We both loved to play softball. One day I saw Kelly with an enormous black eye.
“I was playing softball with my husband’s team,” she said, shaking her head. “I should have caught the damn ball.”
“I once caught one with my left thigh,” I responded to her, truthfully, but naively. “You could see the stitch marks on the bruise.”
The next day she was gone. Obviously to everyone else her husband had been beating her, and she got help and got away.
The image of her face has haunted me. What would I have done – would I have been able/willing to help her? Would I have ever figured out what was happening to her?
My story ended well. I hadn’t had time to eat properly and subsisted pretty much on a diet of Milky Ways for two months. Woman cannot live on Milky Ways alone. Maybe ducks can. I stopped eating chocolate and looked OK at my wedding. Or at least, I didn’t look like a duck.
I don’t know how Kelly’s story ended. I never will.
* * *
Yesterday, the GOP in the U.S. House of Representatives allowed the Violence Against Women Act, which had been law since 1994, to expire. And they let it happen because it would have expanded coverage of the law to more women including immigrants and Native Americans.
Perhaps you don’t know what the Violence Against Women law does.
My bible, Wikipedia, says that it provide programs and services, including:
Community violence prevention programs
Protections for female victims who are evicted from their homes because of events related to domestic violence or stalking
Funding for female victim assistance services, like rape crisis centers and hotlines
Programs to meet the needs of immigrant women and women of different races or ethnicities
Programs and services for female victims with disabilities
Legal aid for female survivors of violence
But what it really does is help abused women. To let them know that they can get help. That they are not alone. And it can also give their families, friends and co-workers vital, life saving information about how to help. How to act. What to do besides wonder amongst everyone else but the person most impacted. Literally.
Now tell me, what’s not to like about this law? It gives vital assistance to vulnerable women – those who most need it. A place to go where they can take their kids, get help.
It gives folks who don’t know what to do or what to say a clue as to how to help women in need.
Where they don’t have to give up that last little bit of their heart.
I have stated this more often than I can stand, but the men in the GOP are not on the side of women, or on the side of men who respect women.
GET THEM OUT OF OUR LIVES
Then, Damn them to Hell where they belong
***
What you and I can do:
Contact your representatives in Congress and demand they pass the Violence Against Women Act as it stands today with expanded services: http://www.house.gov/representatives/find/
We did it! Angie of Childhood Relived and I met for lunch! It was memorable. Sadly, though, we did stay in this decade, the 2010s (which sounds really weird). We simply couldn’t work in time travel back to the 1980s. Traffic congestion, you see.
We had wonderful plans, Angie and I. Tours. Nostalgia. Archie Bunker and the Smithsonian’s American Museum that contains just the right tidbits of crap from TV Land as brilliantly suggested by Darla of She’s a Maineiac.
But there was one thing that we didn’t factor in ahead of time. Now, what do you suppose that might be.
If you’re guessing that it’s the fact that neither Angie nor I knows how to shut up, “Come On Down.” Yup, we spent a 2 hour lunch fighting for air time. I had my stories; Angie had hers. It was close, but I think Angie won. I want a re-match.
Still, we did do a tour of DC. Sort of.
First of all, none of the restaurants I’d suggested in my earlier post um, worked out. Still, the restaurant we went to is a Washington landmark: The Old Ebbitt Grill. The restaurant has been there for centuries! Famous people have eaten there – Lincoln! Grant! Wilson! FDR! Checkers! It is a piece of Washington history that is seriously cool. Except that it didn’t happen at the place where we had lunch. Yup, we had lunch at the new Old Ebbitt Grill. The OLD Old Ebbitt Grill was torn down not long after I got to DC in 1979. I’m sure there is no connection. And I did tell Angie that we were having an expensive lunch in a fraudulent facility. That’s our nation’s capital for you.
Still, we had a great lunch. Of course, neither of us would stop talking. As a result, the food wasn’t as hot as it might have been. Perhaps we should have sent it back. A good restaurant should factor conversation in.
Anyway after our long lunch, we realized that we really didn’t have time for much else, so we decided to walk around the White House and gloat about Obama’s re-election. Of course, we didn’t know that that night Barack, Michelle and the girls were going to light the White House Christmas Tree. In public. With thousands of folks in attendance. Apparently, everybody in DC, VA and MD was there. So Angie and I, still never pausing our conversation, swam upstream against thousands of folks determined to see the festivities.
Here are the pictures. Angie did her best Angie-1980s in front of some of Washington’s most impressive tourist destinations.
OK, I can’t be that mean. Here she is — and really, she doesn’t often let her mouth hang open like that. It was done only by request.
And here is the picture she took of me!
But the single best moment was when I drove Angie in my car out of a Washington, DC parking lot where we had left my car for 3 hours.
“Twenty Dollars?” she said. “It cost $20 to park for three hours!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Angie, you’re not in Kansas any more. Or one of those other fly-over states, either. Whichever one you come from.
My bloggin’ buddy Angie of Childhood Relived is coming to DC next month, and we are going to get together for lunch! I’m so excited – she will be the first blogging buddy I’ll get to meet. The thing is, though, that I just can’t decide where to take her for our rendezvous.
Angie, as you may know, writes extensively about her childhood in the 1980s. She remembers everything that happened during that decade. Angie has a photographic memory for every single TV show and every bit of food she consumed during that decade. It’s awesome. Or terrifying. Or both. And while I was not a child in the 1980s, her posts always make me nostalgic for that time in my life. Back when I was young, single, sick and poor. Ah yes, the 1980s.
I am pretty sure that Angie is (1) Superhuman; (2) will remember each and every detail about the restaurant I choose; and (3) remember every single fact I tell her about Washington, DC, whether it is in fact, fact or not. I can’t believe I even agreed to meet her. Can’t I be out of town that day?
Oh, yeah. I will be out of town that day. Out of my town. You see, I hardly ever go into DC any more. I work across the river in Virginia; I live in the Virginia sticks with the deer. In fact, I do everything south of our nation’s Capitol, you know, where the Rebs lived (and seceded). (We will not comment on how a nice Connecticut Yankee like me ended up here. Please. It’s painful.)
The tour I can handle. Buildings are buildings and Angie won’t know if I’m right or wrong when I tell her which is which. The hard part is deciding where to have lunch. It used to be that this wouldn’t have been a problem. Yup, I used to really know the city. I lived in DC; I worked downtown. I hung out on Capitol Hill. In fact, I used to work really close to the hotel where Angie is staying. But my familiarity with DC restaurants is current only up to 1989, when I moved away.
So rather than sweating it, I decided to give Angie a 1980s tour of Washington! That’s the Washington I know. Knew. Whatever. Wouldn’t that be appropriate? I’ll start with a 1980s restaurant! I figured I’d see which of my favorite restaurants of the 1980s were still open and take her to one of them. Brilliant, right? Because after all, a trip to our nation’s capital requires a bit of history. For US history, well, Angie’s on her own. I’m going to give her some of my history. Yes Angie, I am going to treat you to a dose of “This is Your Life,” DC Restaurant version.
Of course, there aren’t too many of my favorites left. In fact, there are only three. Which do you think she’d like best?
Health Hazard of Hunan:This restaurant is where I learned to eat interesting spicy foods. I went there all the time. Whenever we worked late at the office our clients would buy us wonderful Chinese food from Hunan. Better still, one night I organized an incredibly fun birthday dinner there for a friend. A total of about 20 of us had a wonderful meal, where the staff gave us tastes of everything on the menu. Exotic, delicious Chinese delicacies. The next day the restaurant was closed for health violations. Don’t worry though, Angie. It’s back in business.
Rumors: Rumors was a meat-market when I was still single, a place to go to pick up men/women for one night stands. That’s not why I went, actually, because I never was that kind of girl. Besides, at the time I was attached. But it had great food and a different ambiance at lunch time. It’s not at all far from where Angie and I are meeting.
The last time I went to Rumors was at nighttime, though, when the meat-market was in full swing. At the time I was dating Erik, who at the time (1980), I fully expected to marry, and he and I were there with some friends. That night began the process that led me to a much better mate. That’s because Erik excused himself to go to the restroom and came back quite quickly looking rather confused. He couldn’t figure out which bathroom to use. “Ummm, Elyse?” he asked quietly. “Am I a ‘tweeter’ or a ‘woofer’?” I decided that perhaps I wanted more of a woofer in my life.
The Sex Change: Actually, the restaurant is called “The Exchange” – but our name was much more fun. I worked in an office upstairs from the Sex Change. We actually had a convenient back door into the place that we used when we were supposed to be working. My friends and I spent many, many lunch times, work afternoons and evenings there. The Sex Change is possibly the first place where I was ever publicly drunk, although I don’t really remember.
The Sex Change was actually the site of my first foray into public storytelling. Yes, it was at the Sex Change one winter night, where I stood on a table in the most crowded part of the bar, my third or fourth or fifth beer of the evening in hand. I told the world of my most shameful, completely embarrassing, life changing childhood trauma. I stood on a table and told how I ruined my life in 2nd Grade by wetting my pants during Show & Tell, one week after moving to a new town. It was the story I had never admitted had happened. Not to anyone. It was the story I feared would one day come out when someone from my past appeared unexpectedly and let it slip. And the bar patrons loved it, and me for telling it. They were there with me, in 2nd Grade. Of course, they were drunk too.
In fact, it was this story that brought Angie and I together, because it was the heart of the comment I left Angie about a year ago when she wrote this post about embarrassing childhood birthday parties. The full story, including my revenge on the kid who bullied me in grammar school, is here. Because there is a god.
So as you can see, it’s a tough choice. Food poisoning, sexual confusion, or humiliation. I think that sums up my life pretty nicely. Which would you choose?
And after lunch, I’ll take her on a driving tour. I’ll drive her past the White House and we will wave (or gesture in an altogether different manner) to Ron and Nancy. We’ll drive up to Capitol Hill walk right in to her Congressman and Senators’ offices. We’ll climb to the top of the Washington Monument, get into the museums without waiting through endless security lines.
Yup, a 1980s tour of Washington sounds like just the ticket. But maybe we should just grab a hot dog.
You might have noticed, but I’ve been a bit, ummmm, opinionated lately. OK, so I’m always opinionated, but lately I’ve been opinionated about politics and I pretty much stopped writing about anything else. My bad.
In case you didn’t notice, I have reason to celebrate. So do you. Here in the US we re-elected President Obama and Vice President Biden. We elected intelligent folks to the US Senate over the “Rape Rappers.” Women had great success except for the one who made money off of scantily clad women rolling around in mud while wrestling in an undoubtedly dignified manner. Three of the stupidest Congressmen were defeated (Alan West, Todd Akin and Joe Walsh). And we still get to laugh at Michelle Bachmann.
My blog has reason to celebrate, too. Every Republican I made fun of, with the exception of my BFF Michelle, lost. Damn I’m good.
But I’m going to do you, and especially my international readers, a favor. I’m going to shut up about politics for a while.
Well, at least I will after I tell you that Senate Minority Leader, Mitch McConnell has already let President Obama and the new Senate know that he won’t cooperate.
Portrait of an ASS
Now remember, Mitch is the guy who stated in 2008 that the Republican’s primary job was to make sure that President Obama was a one-term president.
How’d that work for you, Mitch?
But did Mitch learn his lesson? Nope. Here’s what he said today:
The American people did two things: they gave President Obama a second chance to fix the problems that even he admits he failed to solve during his first four years in office, and they preserved Republican control of the House of Representatives. The voters have not endorsed the failures or excesses of the President’s first term, they have simply given him more time to finish the job they asked him to do together with a Congress that restored balance to Washington after two years of one-party control. Now it’s time for the President to propose solutions that actually have a chance of passing the Republican-controlled House of Representatives and a closely-divided Senate, step up to the plate on the challenges of the moment, and deliver in a way that he did not in his first four years in office. To the extent he wants to move to the political center, which is where the work gets done in a divided government, we’ll be there to meet him half way.
Ummm, excuse me Senator McConnell? You lost your chance of gaining control of the U.S. Senate in an election year when there were tons of vulnerable Democratic seats. You blew it. So shut up and learn how to get along. Stop stamping your feet. Cooperate. That’s what’s in the best interest of our country.
FiftyFourandAHalf 