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To The Guy Waving His Gun During Our Dinner

To the 70-something guy in our local pizza place tonight, loudly bragging about the gun you had on you:

We could hear you.

I could.
My wife could.
My children could.

We could all hear you from two tables over, boasting about the all the guns you have at home, joking about “the bulge” your gun made beneath your clothes, and suggesting to the women at your table that they “could even get pink ones” and wear them in their bras.
We could hear you gleefully spouting new stories of the “good people” with guns shooting down bad guys.
We could hear your booming rants about why you think my children’s teachers should be armed. 

You were either so lacking in self-awareness that you couldn’t tell that we could hear you—or you were so puffed up with arrogance that you didn’t care.

Either way, it’s disconcerting.

I imagine you’d consider yourself a “responsible gun owner.”
I bet you believe you’re one of the good guys.
I’m not convinced of either of those things.

When you giddily took the gun out and placed it on the table while showing off “how safe” it was—you looked more like a third grader at Show and Tell trying to impress the other kids in the class, than an adult who gave much of a damn about safety.

And I really need you to know something about our meal tonight: my family and I felt far less safe with you there.

You were far more of a threat to us than any imaginary bad guy or statistically nonexistent boogeyman you dream of protecting us from.
You were there flashing a weapon and cackling like some painfully insecure old man, enjoying the attention of his intoxicated table mates.
You were our cause for alarm.
You were the one making us feel uneasy.
You were the close violence we were exposed to tonight.

I was going to say something to you tonight as we were leaving.

I was going to remind you of the exponentially higher incidents of violence caused by guns than prevented by them.

I was going to respectfully give you a hundred reasons why your behavior tonight was reckless and stupid and dangerous.

I was going to tell you that you made my family uneasy, and that you should do some soul-searching on waving a gun near children eating dinner with their parents.

But based on the 30-minute soliloquy you treated us to over dinner, punctuated by boastful references to the President, I decided it was safer not to say anything.

That may have been smart, but it was a mistake.

I should have said something to you—because you’re the gun problem we have in America.

You’re the problem I have with guns.

You’re the problem many of us have with guns.

You’re exactly the kind of person we who oppose guns worry about: cavalier would-be heroes; full of bravado, and seemingly oblivious to the responsibility of having a weapon.

Not terrorists or gangs or masked assailants or faceless bad guys hiding in shadows—but brazen, careless, jittery white grandfathers who feel the need to bring out weapons in a neighborhood pizza place; men who use guns to mask their insecurities and to inflate their self-esteem and to imagine themselves brave.

I didn’t speak tonight, but I will soon.

In November, I and millions of us will speak about people like you; men and women who worship their guns, who make the rest of us feel less safe, who make our country more violent.

Until then, I think I’ll order my pizza to go.

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