Today's Jumah Sermon: The Right to Bare Arms

The following poem came some weeks ago, in far different form, from a former jewelry industry co-worker who remains a friend. His name is George Willoughby (an agreed-upon nom de plume) and I used to argue pacificsm, non-violence and arms-control with him. He tried as hard to understand a life without guns as I tried to understand a life with them. Sick and tired of give and take where there was no giving or taking, I asked him to write a poem, short story or essay that would explain his world view and the semi-sacred necessity to bear arms. A long, meandering combination of all three called "A Sniper's Journal" came via email with a request for me to edit it. I put it into narrative-poem form, sent it back, and he edited my edit--deleting sections, lines, words, adding others, and leaving parts alone. As a journalist, I am used to putting words I think were meant in people's mouths. So even if the poem isn't entirely or exactly his, the life is. And in this case, its the life of someone profoundly patriotic--with a saving sense of the dangers from this allegiance.


A SNIPER'S JOURNAL

1
The title is meant only to grab attention.
In all other circumstances,
attention is the last or least thing I want
since at such times I would want your life.
The devil may require a handshake
but my hand would be otherwise occupied
with the trigger of the rifle
now leaning against the wall
while I tell you some things about myself.

2
Sniper is code-name for diligence.
I don't see any mirror of myself
in either a Palestinian or an Israeli
or an Iraqi or an American
on a rooftop in some occupied city
where everyone has been taken hostage
by the unfleeable fact of war.
Here in America the captives wear sunglasses
and try to convey a saunter of indifference.
The guys I'm looking for are far beyond
the clutches of contempt.
Futility would be putting on airs.
No, the guys I'm looking for
are--retrospectively speaking--dead
before they are born.

3
I don't see myself as soldier, sheriff or constable.
I'm a maintenance worker stationed mostly
in the urban order of things. So far,
and far is four years, I've never had
to take my gun off safety
except in target practice
where, I'm proud to say,
there's no longer any itch for fire.

4
The president will be here today
to shake hands with donors
and speed by protestors.
"Is it election season already?"
my dad, a sheriff, would ask
strapping on his holster
as his days became littered
with special events.
"Got to protect the bastards
from the rest of us
with every good reason to shoot them."

5
Look, I could have been one of those guys
I'm supposed to beat to the draw.
You have no idea what it's like
growing up the oldest child of a Mormon cop.
Man, I'm ashamed of the things I did
to make him think his own flesh and blood
could go over to the dark side.
Finally, he arrested me. You heard right.
Put hand cuffs on me, shoved me
in the back seat of his cruiser
and locked me up for a night
in an abandoned jail house.
I felt like Job with only the companionship
of desolation plus the bonus tribulations
of rats and spiders. You'd be surprised
how quickly your jailer becomes Jesus
on a night like that when his keys to your cell
the next morning shine the first light you've seen in hours.
I heard the merciful clanks and squeals of doors
and, just to show him I had no hard feelings, asked,
"Did you bring me anything, daddy?"
"I brought you your freedom," he said
just before we lunged, crying, into each other's arms.

6
I grew up in Utah. Most people think
I'm asking for pity when I say that.
But I have never thought it a strike against me.
It's just a fact, a frame of reference.
It's what I thought when you asked me
what it's like to grow up with guns
and see them as an indispensable measure of freedom.
I brought a rifle to school with me
every day from first through sixth grade
and I never turned into a Colombine shooter.
Every boy I knew did the same
and no one ever went postal
on family, friends, strangers or himself.
We'd just hand our guns to the teacher
and she'd put them in the cloak room.
My dad would always tell gun-control types,
"The first word out of my son's mouth was safety lock."

7
I'm saying all this because it's someone like me
you want on this roof scanning the streets
of today's parade or ceremony or drive-by from the airport.
I see you the way you want to be seen,
beehive citizens not dupes of the devil.
They're people out there armed with scripture
who see you as mercenaries in an army of spenders
combatants in a war to the death or your credit limits
whichever comes last in your miserable soulless life.
Hell, anyone of you could be my younger brother or sister.
You have every right to finish your Starbuck's coffee
to look good in that tank top from the Gap now 50% off.
Someone's got a problem with our dress or moral code
me and dad can handle it. It's strictly family.

8
When my dad retired last year
they gave him a watch made of solid Klondike gold.
"Hey, where's the inscription," my father asked
when the mayor presented it to him.
"Shit, Dan, you'll never get half the money for it
that you'll get if there's no name
or trace of ownership on the case."

9
You know the days I hate most:
the ones when this is a job
like clerking or doing something so mechanical
the employee's manual advises you
to leave your mind at home or on hold.
You know the days I love most:
the ones when this duty serves a purpose
so big and bulging that all of life's a blank check."

10
I used to work at the Pentagon.
Man, the place looks like an industrial park for war.
"Think of it as noble tedium," my dad wrote
when I complained of being bored.

11
I couldn't stop the Pentagon from becoming a job
where I played war games with myself
for something to do. I was amazed
at how much danger I could pose
just by thinking like a man
who has waited ten years
to turn himself inside out
and finally become his lethal secret self.

12
I wrote my dad when I decided to ask for a transfer,
"To stay here, I'd need advanced persona training."
"What do you mean?" he asked over the phone.
"When the people at the water cooler no longer
have any way of appearing like mom or dad, sis or bro,
you're no longer doing anyone any good."

13
I dreamed Bob Dylan-style the water cooler
was empty except for a Statue of Liberty
and that everyone in the office was applying for citizenship.
Our Lady of Liberty beckoned me with her torch.
"No. Can't. Duty," I said. She blew on her torch
and it erupted like the smoke stack of a steel mill
belching flame and cinder and smoke.
She was frowning, starting a tough-love countdown
to some utter loss of patience.
I let the crowd jostle me in her direction.
She started to smile. I started running toward her.
Suddenly I heard a loud intercom voice:
"Call on Line Three for George Willoughby.
It's your sister and she says it's important."

--George Willoughby, 7/7/06