A Fighting Chance

Back in Oklahoma, my brothers were getting older. Don Reed had climbed up on his workbench to change a lightbulb, and on the way down he took a bad fall. David had a cold he couldn’t shake, and John’s knees were bothering him. There was a snowstorm, then a windstorm, and later there was a hailstorm. I tried to call my brothers when I could, but I was constantly on the road, traveling around the state to meet with mayors and stop by union halls and senior citizen centers.

Was I doing the right thing? I’d wake up before the alarm went off in the morning and lie there thinking, I just want to be with family today. Then I’d get up and head out to a meeting or a breakfast or a rally. I’d talk about an America that once built the greatest middle class on earth. And I’d talk about banks that preyed on those families and a Republican leadership that thought Washington’s job was to serve the banks, not hardworking families. I talked about the huge number of Americans who were getting older and how we urgently needed to put money into medical research for Alzheimer’s and diabetes. This is the moment we should be investing in the next generation of young scientists, not cutting their funding. And as we sped along in the Blue Bomber from one stop to the next, I’d think about how this was the moment to speak out and how much I wanted to be in this fight.

Most nights I’d go home and start making phone calls while Bruce prepared for classes. Then Bruce and Otis and I would plonk down on the couch, watch a few minutes of TV, and collapse into bed. And I would often wake up in the night, straining to hear Otis’s breathing, needing to make sure he was still with us.





Mothers for Justice and Equality

By now, Roger Lau had signed on as the campaign’s political director, which meant he took me everywhere in the state—absolutely everywhere—to meet with everyone. Roger is the kind of person who always tells the truth, and people trust him. He is also the only guy I know who has tried out every hot dog stand, pizza place, 99, and McDonald’s from Pittsfield to Provincetown, and he was quick to provide a review of each one. This was critical information as we crisscrossed the state.

Roger had brought on Jess Torres to be his deputy, and on a dreary Saturday morning in March, Jess accompanied me to meet with Mothers for Justice and Equality. Jess is smart as a whip, but his real strength is that he’s fundamentally kind, and this was a morning in which everyone could use a little extra kindness. Gathering at Faith Christian Church in Dorchester, we numbered about fifty people, nearly all women, seated at round tables with about eight to ten chairs at each one. Most were mothers who had lost children to violence. Some had lost other family members, and some were friends or supporters. Also attending were a few religious leaders and community activists and an elected official or two, but this meeting belonged to the mothers.

By this point, I had gotten pretty comfortable standing in front of a crowd of people and making an energetic pitch about what we could do to create a better future for our children. But in this room, I was wholly inadequate. I didn’t have words to address a woman who had lost her child. The grief of these mothers was so overwhelming and their mission was so enormous and I had so little to offer.

Kim Odom, co-pastor of True Vine Church in Dorchester, led the group. Pastor Kim stood at her table and talked about the death of her son Stephen. She named him, and she named the moment she had lost him four years earlier. For an instant, she wasn’t with us; she was with her beloved son as he died. He had been thirteen, a good kid on his way home from a basketball game. After he was killed, she dedicated her life to preventing violence in her community.

When Pastor Kim had begun talking, I left the podium and stood with her. And when another mother rose, I moved to stand with her, and then with another mother. It was all I could do.

I knew the numbers. We lose eight children and teenagers to gun violence every day. If a mysterious virus suddenly started killing eight of our children every day, America would mobilize teams of doctors and public health officials. We would move heaven and earth until we found a way to protect our children. But not with gun violence.

The politics surrounding this issue make me want to tear my hair out. I know that Americans care fiercely about keeping our kids safe. So why do we toss common sense out the window when it comes to protecting our kids from gun violence?