In the discussions that have followed the Newtown tragedy, I thought myself ready for just how much abstraction and distraction would be offered so that we might avoid focusing on the actual metallic instruments that fire actual projectiles that end actual lives. I’d heard it all before, and I assumed I’d hear it all again. But no, I just encountered this essay, authored by Charlotte Allen.
Are the seeming adults who claim to be in command the National Review so committed to the ideological that they are ready and willing to twist childhood, or the culture and purpose of a classroom, or even the benign and essential role of the grade-school teacher, into something altogether hideous?
Read the Review and weep for our pathetic, feminized educator class, devoid of any shred of warrior ethos. Oh, those ineffectual teachers, thinking they were there to teach young children, when so much more was clearly called for. They went like Jews to the ovens — unready, underarmed, and outmanned, falling all over themselves to be victims when they should have just pulled their own semiautos from desk drawers and dropped the bastard. And let’s not forget those indulged, naive schoolboys who in a hardier culture might have banded together and rushed the gunman. What are these weak-sister parents teaching their progeny, when clearly our brave new world demands manly survival skills before middle school? And what in hell are the colleges and universities conveying to our primary educators about the art and craft of teaching that it doesn’t include marksmanship and small-unit platoon tactics?
I read the essay twice, trying to convince myself that it was parody, that it was some unpolished overreach into tasteless satire. But no, this is in earnest. I link to it here to remind everyone that any serious discussion about gun violence must inevitably navigate into the white, molten core of pure, moronic venality. That someone could be found to pen such an essay is remarkable enough. Ten thousand chimpanzees banging at ten thousand laptops could not produce something so soulless, so utterly debased. But that the editors of any serious publication could then be induced to offer it on their pages without stomach-turning shame is simply epic.
It’s not enough for some to sacrifice twenty school children to our great god of the gun. No, there are actually Americans prepared to throw childhood itself — and those in our society who commit their lives in service of that childhood — on the pyre.
God help us all.