Ronnie Garrison
Well-known member
I am reprinting this from a newsletter "The Shooting Wire" - I have permission to use articles from it. Jim Shepherd was at the NRA convention last week when this happened.
She didn't have a nametag.
I didn't even notice her until she spoke. When she did, it was in one of those quiet down-home voices I have always associated with Kentucky.
No pretension, no guile, just a quiet voice from a quiet woman working at an unremarkable job, cleaning up the messes left by others.
"They want to take our guns, don't they sir?" she said, looking me directly in the eye.
"They don't want us to have anything to protect ourselves with, do they sir?"
At first, I didn't respond.
Being a former New York City resident, I know the commuter's rule when confronted unexpectedly: Don't engage. Don't make eye contact. No response.
"Sir," she said again, "you're not going to let them do it are you?"
I could not believe what I was hearing.
Or that it was me spluttering, "what?"
"I've been watching you talking to people," she said, "you know people here and they talk to you. That probably means you may be in a position to help us."
That's when I realized she may have been doing an unremarkable job, but she was not an unremarkable person.
"If you don't do something they're going to do it," she said, "we'll all be helpless. Just like those poor people over in Australia and England and New Zealand."
"Do you know," she asked, "what that will mean?"
Unwilling to interrupt her, I just nodded an affirmation.
"We just won't be us anymore," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "we'll be something different. We won't be America- the good people that others know they can call on when something bad happens."
"Sir," she said once again, "you won't let that happen to us, will you?"
Suddenly, in the middle of a record crowd in a busy convention, something clicked.
For the first time in a long time, the whole discussion about guns and gun rights coalesced into an unvarnished truth spoken by a lady most of us would have dismissed without a second glance.
The enormity of it was nearly overwhelming It was as if someone had turned on a bright light in a pitch-black room. The accompanying rush of emotion made my spine tingle and the few hairs still on my head feel as if they at attention.
I had heard a call for help. A direct plea begging that I stop treating the Second Amendment fight like it was just another story.
Her question reminded me why I'd decided to stay with journalism when there were considerably better options available, none of which included traipsing around the world from crisis to crisis for the better part of three and a half decades.
Her words jolted me out of the press room and into the issue. Unfamiliar waters for someone who makes a living dispassionately observing life, rather than participating in it.
For the first time in too-long, I remembered why firemen rush into buildings when others rush out; why policemen answer calls in dangerous neighborhoods, and why soldiers don't take words like duty, honor, or country lightly.
They do it because they know what is really important.
"Sir," she said, "can I count on you? Promise me you'll keep them from doing that to us?"
I nodded affirmatively, but that wasn't enough for this lady cleaning up messes other people had left behind.
"Sir," she said, "tell me you won't let that happen. Please."
"No," I said with a new found conviction, "I won't, and you can't give up either."
She smiled, nodded her head, and went on to the next table. I picked up my condiments, collected my tray, and moved on looking for a seat.
We both looked the same, but I was changed by the conversation.
And she didn't even have a nametag.
--Jim Shepherd
She didn't have a nametag.
I didn't even notice her until she spoke. When she did, it was in one of those quiet down-home voices I have always associated with Kentucky.
No pretension, no guile, just a quiet voice from a quiet woman working at an unremarkable job, cleaning up the messes left by others.
"They want to take our guns, don't they sir?" she said, looking me directly in the eye.
"They don't want us to have anything to protect ourselves with, do they sir?"
At first, I didn't respond.
Being a former New York City resident, I know the commuter's rule when confronted unexpectedly: Don't engage. Don't make eye contact. No response.
"Sir," she said again, "you're not going to let them do it are you?"
I could not believe what I was hearing.
Or that it was me spluttering, "what?"
"I've been watching you talking to people," she said, "you know people here and they talk to you. That probably means you may be in a position to help us."
That's when I realized she may have been doing an unremarkable job, but she was not an unremarkable person.
"If you don't do something they're going to do it," she said, "we'll all be helpless. Just like those poor people over in Australia and England and New Zealand."
"Do you know," she asked, "what that will mean?"
Unwilling to interrupt her, I just nodded an affirmation.
"We just won't be us anymore," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "we'll be something different. We won't be America- the good people that others know they can call on when something bad happens."
"Sir," she said once again, "you won't let that happen to us, will you?"
Suddenly, in the middle of a record crowd in a busy convention, something clicked.
For the first time in a long time, the whole discussion about guns and gun rights coalesced into an unvarnished truth spoken by a lady most of us would have dismissed without a second glance.
The enormity of it was nearly overwhelming It was as if someone had turned on a bright light in a pitch-black room. The accompanying rush of emotion made my spine tingle and the few hairs still on my head feel as if they at attention.
I had heard a call for help. A direct plea begging that I stop treating the Second Amendment fight like it was just another story.
Her question reminded me why I'd decided to stay with journalism when there were considerably better options available, none of which included traipsing around the world from crisis to crisis for the better part of three and a half decades.
Her words jolted me out of the press room and into the issue. Unfamiliar waters for someone who makes a living dispassionately observing life, rather than participating in it.
For the first time in too-long, I remembered why firemen rush into buildings when others rush out; why policemen answer calls in dangerous neighborhoods, and why soldiers don't take words like duty, honor, or country lightly.
They do it because they know what is really important.
"Sir," she said, "can I count on you? Promise me you'll keep them from doing that to us?"
I nodded affirmatively, but that wasn't enough for this lady cleaning up messes other people had left behind.
"Sir," she said, "tell me you won't let that happen. Please."
"No," I said with a new found conviction, "I won't, and you can't give up either."
She smiled, nodded her head, and went on to the next table. I picked up my condiments, collected my tray, and moved on looking for a seat.
We both looked the same, but I was changed by the conversation.
And she didn't even have a nametag.
--Jim Shepherd
