The End of Civility?
I arrive in Houston the day after a mass shooting on the city’s outskirts. Five people killed. The gunman at large. But, of course, business carries on as usual. I don’t even find out about the shooting until my third day in town.
I feel at home in my cousin’s house. He and his partner work in the field of home design—both interior and exterior. Their very comfortable abode reflects their professional expertise. (And I love their dog, who I invite to slobber on me anytime he pleases. I miss my Tootsie.)
My first full day in Texas—a Sunday—we drive to Galveston for the day. We have a celebratory drink in the Grand Galvez. Truly a grand hotel with enormous chandeliers that match my cranberry cocktail. My hosts point out abundant architectural and decorative details. Out on the grounds, staff are preparing for what promises to be a glorious wedding. The place is fabulous.
We walk on the sandy beach, have seafood lunch on a giant pier adjacent to a cruise liner filling with passengers. It’s a perfect day to be on the seacoast. After a week away from home, I finally feel on vacation. I’m with people to whom I can say anything. I feel loved. It’s the first time I’ve spent more than ten minutes with my cousin’s partner, but the bond is strong.
The three of us rant at will about politics—dumbfounded that drag queens have become public enemies, and the AR-15 a symbol of American freedom. How the party that decries government intervention dictates what individuals can and can’t do with their own bodies—banning abortion and transgender care. How, in a democracy founded on religious freedom, the imposition of laws aligning with one religious sect is becoming commonplace. We’ve become outcasts in our states.
It’s good to get my frustrations off my chest. To be heard. Accepted. To feel absolutely comfortable in my own skin.
We also talk at length about family history. Widowed suddenly, I’ve felt adrift—floating without family who knew me before my kids came along. But here, I am connected to my past. My cousin and I knew each other as children.
Meanwhile, the manhunt for a killer continues. The suspect was reportedly firing his gun in his backyard. When neighbors requested that he stop because of the noise, he allegedly went to their door and began shooting.
I have experienced the sound of repetitive gunfire coming from my neighbors. It makes me uncomfortable. It scares my dog and my cat. And it is acres away. Undoubtedly, it’s louder—more frightening—right over the fence separating two city homes. I can’t imagine asking a gunman to tone it down.
In my cousin’s home, we didn’t talk about the mass shooting. And I am grateful. I preferred to revel in the company of my relatives. But this is what life boils down to these days: We go about our business, tuning out what has happened and what could happen. A willful disregard of the fact that there are more mass murders than days of the year.
If this is the new normal—our society quietly accepts mass murder as commonplace—civility is on its last legs. Once upon a time we could have conversations with neighbors, even if we were on opposite sides of the proverbial aisle. Now we don’t say anything political. Maybe we don’t speak at all. We save conversation for those we trust implicitly. Those we trust with our lives.
I wonder if the wedding couple at the Grand Galvez was armed.