What I Really Want to Say About the Virginia Gun Rally

This past Monday, I was in Richmond, Virginia for the huge and controversial “Gun Rally.” (It was actually “Lobby Day,” but I won’t get into semantics.)

If you’ve been following me, you know I quit my “real” job in October to have more time for my dream job as an outdoors/firearms writer. It’s a pretty cool gig, I’m not going to lie. Low stress, high reward. Sometimes clients pay me for range time or send me cool products like high-end FFP scopes, chronographs, and cutting-edge ammunition. (Have I mentioned I love my job?)

I was planning to head to Richmond to support the rights of my family, friends, and hunting buddies in Virginia, no matter what. However, I pitched an article idea about covering the Richmond rally to one of my regular clients. They thought it was awesome, so they basically paid me to go to Richmond and write about it.

As a bonus, I got to claim travel expenses as a tax deduction. And although TAXATION IS THEFT, I might as well claim what I can and keep myself out of jail.

However, there was one small caveat to what seemed like the perfect arrangement.

“Alice, can you keep it as non-controversial as possible? We have customers that support both sides of the aisle, and we don’t want to alienate anyone. Can you make it compelling without lambasting any political party too badly? Okay. Thanks.”

Here is the article I came up with, taking major pains not to include pictures with too many Trump flags, leaving out the life-size guillotine, and sticking to non-controversial facts.

 First-Hand Account of the Virginia Second Amendment Rally

I understand that publishing a non-controversial article makes good business sense. However, sometimes it also makes for mediocre content. This article is definitely not my best work.

After submitting the article, I still felt kind of antsy and grumpy, like someone should throw me a Snickers bar from a safe distance.

I think it’s because holding back controversial viewpoints is not my forte. And while I appreciate the paycheck and the tax deduction (TAXATION IS THEFT!), there was still a story inside me, and it was fighting to get out.

So here are some of the things I really wanted to say.

First, Governor Northam sucks and so does the mainstream media. Not that most people don’t already know that, but I needed to get it off my chest.

Leading up to the event, all Northam and the media could talk about was danger and violence and racists and white nationalists.

Law-abiding gun owners, myself included,  are tired of being lumped in with these radical groups.

I’m pretty sure these guys in particular are pretty tired of the racist/white nationalist label.

I’m posting this just in case the media doesn’t. Are these the white supremacists that they were talking about? #2A #IStandWithVirginia pic.twitter.com/RDM0ZiHjkv

— Bryson Gray (@SuriusVsVodka) January 20, 2020

Lo and behold, all the predicted danger of white nationalism was a ruse. There were no swastikas, or Neo-Nazis, or skinheads despite what this guy tweeted.

all I'm saying is that if your reaction to minor gun control legislation is to cover yourself in swastikas and go fucking apeshit on Martin Luther King Day, you're probably not a good avatar for responsible gun ownership

— Jeff Tiedrich (@itsJeffTiedrich) January 20, 2020

(I also have problems with his “minor gun control legislation” comment. It is anything but minor, but that’s probably a subject for another day.)

I challenged someone spreading this rumor on Facebook to show me some proof. They couldn’t provide any.

And we all know if there had been one lonely guy with a swastika, he would have become the media’s poster child for the rally. That I haven’t seen a single swastika image out of the Richmond rally makes me pretty confident there were no swastikas there.

If there were white supremacists in Richmond, they were keeping it on the down-low, choosing not to use Lobby Day as a platform for spreading their brand of hate.

There were also no waving Confederate battle flags. This one surprised me just a little. It is the Battle Flag of Northern Virginia after all, and Richmond was the capital of the Confederacy. Sorry Alexandria Ocasio Cortez, you’ve been caught in an outright lie (or at least an extreme  exaggeration).

I did see one guy wearing a Confederate flag patch (among many others) on his jacket and one Confederate flag sticker on the stock of a rifle. I saw no one brazenly waving what many consider a “banner of hate.”

So much for Richmond turning into Charlottesville 2.0. Even though media personalities and alarmist politicians could not stop comparing the two for weeks leading up to the event.

What I did see were tons of Gadsden flags, which seems appropriate for protesting the potential loss of Constitutional rights.

There were also a ton of Virginia flags. Also highly appropriate considering the location and the seal’s declaration of “Sic Semper Tyrannis.” Thus Always to Tyrants.

And yes, there were some Betsy Ross flags (which are apparently offensive now) and Trump 2020 flags (I know. You’re triggered).  But I also saw a rainbow flag and, my personal favorite, the flag of Hong Kong.

It’s only fair. They’re carrying ours.

Despite the apparent absence of white supremacists, there were highly visible representatives from minority groups, including Democrats for Guns, the LGBTQ community, Black Guns Matter, and Hispanic gun groups. There were throngs of women open carrying, declaring they would not become victims, refusing to relinquish their right to protect themselves.

As my favorite meme of the day quips, “Worst White Supremacist Rally Ever!”

I’m still reeling from the experience. I almost backed out of my plans to attend due to the prevailing rumors of violence. But I am so glad I didn’t. It was definitely one of the best displays of freedom, friendliness, and personal responsibility I've ever seen.

However, slipping back into my normal routine on Tuesday morning was a little shocking. What I was reading from some people on the internet was not what I experienced in person.

My social media feeds were packed with posts claiming that Richmond had been “invaded by armed racists.” That the city had been “held captive by an occupying militia.” One “friend” even claimed we couldn’t call the event “peaceful” or “non-violent” because the “threat of violence was everywhere.”

Hold up! That last one may be right.

But that was kind of the point, Dear Internet “Friend.”

Yes, it was a peaceful display by normal, hard-working Americans attempting to protect their Second Amendment rights by using their First Amendment rights.

But it was also more than that.

It was also a chance to demonstrate the fact that general, law-abiding citizens control more firepower than sweet Governor “Blackface” Northam could muster, even in a state of emergency.

Before you start calling me delusional, consider these numbers.

• The Virginia National Guard has 7,500 members.
• The Richmond Police Department employs 760 police officers.
• The Virginia State Police force has approximately 2118 troopers and special agents.

Reports on rally attendance vary, but there were at least 22,000 people there. Most of them were armed. Some of them heavily.

Even on a freezing Monday morning, after some major scaremongering that kept plenty of concerned patriots away from Richmond, Northam’s forces were completely outnumbered. And that’s if every police officer and weekend warrior at his disposal showed up willing to confront their friends and neighbors. (He certainly can’t ask local sheriffs to help him out. They are largely responsible for leading Virginia's 2A Sanctuary movement, bless their freedom-loving souls).

On a national level, private citizens own more than 400 million firearms. That’s one hundred times the amount all four branches of the United States military combined has at their disposal. I’m just pointing out that civilians have access to some pretty respectable firepower.

Yes, I know that Bubba’s AR-15 is no match for the prowess of the greatest military force in the world. But I’m going to remind you here that a bunch of guys in flip-flops and hand-me-down Russian AKs have been befuddling that same world power for decades now.

Now, to all the whiny, latte-sipping, skinny jeans-wearing scoffers that ask, “Why do they have to bring their rifles? That’s just over the top.”

Yes, Brandon. It is over the top. That’s the point.

Go ahead and make fun of that sea of Carhartt and camo that flooded the streets of Richmond on Monday. But you completely missed the message, which is a boisterous “We Will Not Comply!”

Sure the message was delivered peacefully, responsibly, and without incident. But it was also made while showcasing a tiny fraction of the hardware capacity free citizens have at their disposal.

Just enough to hopefully make Governor Northam, Virginia Democrats, and definitely whiny, latte-sipping Brandon, a little uncomfortable.

That is the whole point of the Second Amendment. It isn't about deer hunting (although venison is certainly a tasty side benefit).

If the government wants to deprive citizens of their god-given rights, the Second Amendment ensures power-hungry politicians will have to work really hard to take them. Richmond was simply a reminder. Let's call it a peaceful threat of violence, shall we.

Sometimes the threat of violence is more productive than actual violence. Let's hope that's the case this time around.

One last thought...

On Monday, I got to be part of a diverse group of polite, friendly, well-behaved individuals, all  unified by the common cause of liberty. It is an experience I will cherish

I often tell people, “I am a proud gun owner.”

The behavior of my fellow gun owners in Richmond makes me even prouder to be part of this inclusive group.

Rally participants even cleaned up after the crowd, going so far as to scrape discarded “Guns Save Lives” stickers off the Richmond pavement. Capital Square and surrounding streets were actually left cleaner than they were before the rally began. That’s something that can’t be said about some other groups that protest for the sake of protesting.

Thanks for keeping it classy, guys.

After the Richmond Rally...

After the Women's March....

I know which group I would rather be associated with.

Besides, I look better in camo than I would in one of those pink things with ears.

"But women have a right to walk down the street alone at night without being afraid."

Honey, you're absolutely right. That's why I carry a Glock.

Which also happens to be why I was in Richmond on Monday.

Why We Cling to Our Guns

I grew up in Virginia, running barefoot through salt marshes and pine straw, the Virginia dirt caked so thick on my rough heels that it surely soaked through to circulate in my blood.

Though I’ve lived in North Carolina for more than 25 years, I still consider the Old Dominion home. My mama and most of my family lives there. Generations of Joneses and Handles and Perrys have shed their blood, sweat, and tears on that soil, proud to call themselves Virginians. That kind of family history weaves its way into your DNA, becomes part of the fabric of your identity.

So, I still consider myself a proud Virginian.

I’ve watched what’s happening now, just above the North Carolina state line, with trepidation.  In the recent November election, Democrats secured a majority in the State Senate and the House of Delegates. The Governor’s Office (good old blackface Northam), Lieutenant Governor’s Office (Justin “Sexual Assault Scandal” Fairfax) and the Attorney General’s Office were already controlled by Democrats.

Democrats now think they have carte blanche to hack away at the Constitution. Since the November election, 142 bills have been set to hit the Virginia State House and Senate during the upcoming January session. Many of those bills contain some of the most restrictive gun laws to ever be bandied about in any State legislature (at least in the United States).

There are a bunch, but you should definitely check out HB 4021, HB 4006, and SB 64.

In response, average Virginia citizens are understandably outraged. The proposed laws would make tens of thousands of legal gun owners felons overnight. And when Governor Northam was recently asked about confiscating firearms from law-abiding citizens, he responded, “that’s something I’m working [on] with our secretary of public safety.”

But Virginia citizens are yelling a resounding “Hell, no!”

Currently, 39 Virginia counties, 2 independent cities, and 2 towns have adopted Second Amendment sanctuary resolutions. This means these communities will not expend resources or endanger their law enforcement officers to enforce gun control measures that violate the Second Amendment of the United States Constitution.

And if you think this is just a small flash in the pan, here is a picture from just outside one of the meetings in a small, mostly rural, Virginia county.

These people won't sit quietly by while their governor tries to confiscate weapons they've owned legally for years, some of which were passed down to them as children.

I’ve been posting information about the 2A Sanctuary resolutions on some of my social media platforms. In response, someone asked me, “Why do you people insist on clinging to your guns?”

First, by using the term “you people” I can already tell you aren’t willing to listen. That’s a form of othering. It is textbook tribalism and dehumanization. We aren’t any different from you. We pay our bills, sweep our floors, and send our kids to school.

Regardless of how similar we are, I don’t expect you to fully understand. You haven’t had the same experiences I’ve had. You didn’t grow up in the same culture. I could talk until I’m blue in the face (or my hands curl up with chronic carpal tunnel from typing) about rights and tradition, personal protection and insurance against a tyrannical government, but you aren’t going to hear me.

I can shout “Shall not be infringed!” until the proverbial cows come home, and it won’t make one bit of difference to someone like you.

But it sucks to be misunderstood, to be categorized as somehow violent because I “cling” to my guns.

Even though I do.

But I have plenty of reasons to cling.

Here is just one small story to maybe help anyone who is still listening to understand. There are many like it, but this one is mine.

My Daddy purchased a semi-automatic Remington .30-06 from J.C. Penney the same year I was born. Knowing how tough my family had it financially, this was a big purchase, and one that wasn’t taken lightly

That rifle was Daddy’s pride and joy. He carried it with him to hunt whitetails in the Virginia mountains for over 40 years, and he killed more deer with it than he could count.



He let me hold that rifle for the first time while he field dressed a big doe on Thanksgiving morning, a doe that would feed our family for most of the coming winter. I knew he was giving me a big responsibility, entrusting me with one of his most prized possessions. It felt like he had laid the whole world in my hands.

I also toted that rifle slung across my right shoulder (my own hung from the left) while he dragged that deer over rough terrain. It seemed like at least 10 miles to the gravel road where he had left the truck. It was hours after dark before we finally made it to the road, Daddy’s headlamp the only visible light other than the stars overhead.

But we came out too low, in a bottom, staring straight up at the road some 20 feet above us.

Daddy shined his light up that steep embankment, and sighed. Then he started hauling that deer behind him, sliding backwards through the dead fall leaves more than he managed to climb up.

“Alice! Hike up there and see if you can flag somebody down to help us!”

But I was only about 13, weighed all of 80 pounds soaking wet, and was weighed down by my gigantic hunting boots and two firearms that were getting heavier by the minute.

I tried anyway. I wedged myself behind trees where the dirt and leaves wouldn’t fall away so quickly. Then I would grab the next tree and haul myself up to that one. Daddy continued to shout at me even as he tried to haul that big doe behind him.

“Watch out for the scope, dammit!”

“Don’t beat up my gun!”

“I told you to be careful!”

After about an hour of straight uphill climbing and falling, we finally made it to the road. I sat on the deer while Daddy fetched the truck, both of us soaked head to toe in sweat despite the freezing temperature. No one ever stopped to help us.

I followed behind my Daddy, that rifle slung across his back, for more than 20 hunting seasons. He once handed it to me loaded when a bunch of strange men pulled up to our remote mountain campsite around midnight. Before he went out to see what they wanted, he said to me, “Whatever you do, don’t shoot me.”

That was the closest that rifle ever came to being an assault weapon, although it falls in that category under Governor Northam’s proposed legislation. Those men knew I had that weapon, and maybe for that reason alone, I never had to use it.

Years later, my oldest son would hike with us in the mountains, that same rifle hanging on Daddy’s shoulder.

Daddy died in 2017, the day before the last day of the hunting season. He suffered a heart attack while trying to catch some hunting dogs that were running hot on a deer trail. He died in the hospital two days later.

I had the privilege of being with him when he took his last breath. My mom and my youngest three children were there, too. But my oldest son, Daniel, didn’t make it in time. The Army dragged its feet a little too long on approving his emergency leave, and I had to break the news to him over the phone.

When the Army finally let him go, Daniel rushed through icy snow from Fort Bragg to Hampton, Virginia, so he could be with the rest of the family. After hugging each of us, he quietly went to the spare bedroom, slid the gun case out from under the bed, and put that .30-06 to his shoulder. He placed his cheek tenderly against the stock, and my tough Army soldier cried big fat tears all over that cedar-stained wood.

It was the closest he could get to hugging his grandfather good-bye.

This year, I was lucky enough to watch my younger son, Silas, shoot a buck with his grandfather’s rifle. It was an amazing 125 yard shot. Free-standing. No rest. His cheek pressed against the same cedar-stained stock my Daddy’s had rested against so many times over the years. One shot dropped that buck like a sack of potatoes. It was a thing of beauty.

If you come from a hunting family, those firearms are more than firearms. Each represents a thousand tiny memories. You're damn right we cling to our guns.

Hunting is also tradition and it’s family, and as anyone who hunts knows, it’s also spiritual. You can’t spend hours in the woods without feeling the divine. And our guns symbolize all those things and more.

I know I don’t live in Virginia.

Besides, we lost all Daddy’s guns in a tragic boating accident some time ago. I hear there’s a bunch of that going around.

But even if I did live in Virginia and that rifle was still mine…I would never in a million years hand it over to Governor Northam.

His hands aren’t fit to touch it.

And I know that the news media and politicians in Virginia claim these county meetings are nothing more than a symbolic gesture. They insist that citizens are only posturing and aren’t at all serious.

But I know better. You don’t just hand over precious family memories to the government so they can crush them down, melt them, and turn them into scrap metal.

I promise you, this is the hill “you people” are willing to die on. But as long as they have their firearms, maybe they won’t have to.

Sic semper tyrannis.

Excuse Me, Ma'am? Could You Focus on the Important Things?

We're still bragging about this...
There's no way you're going to get our kids to stop saying, "ma'am."

I live in a small, rural county in eastern North Carolina. Tarboro is the county seat, and for most folks around here, it feels like the big city. Tarboro has  a McDonald’s and a Walmart, after all. (Although the Walmart isn’t the twenty-four hour kind. That place locks up at midnight. Unlike most places that can claim, “Nothing good happens after midnight,” Tarboro is altogether different. Here we say, “NOTHING happens after midnight.” Not a gosh darn thing. We pretty much roll up the streets after 10 pm.)

Heck, the local Piggly Wiggly (that’s the local grocery for those of y’all that ain’t from around here) doesn’t even unlock its doors on Sunday until after church service. True story.

Tarboro, NC is like a scene out of Mayberry. A small town with tree-lined streets and well-kept Victorian homes, Tarboro is smack dab in the middle of Edgecombe County, surrounded by sprawling fields full of cotton and tobacco.

While North Carolina isn’t exactly the “deep” South, we are firmly tucked inside the Bible Belt. Change comes slowly here. Just like our historic houses and monuments to the “Southern Cause,” the way we talk is an artifact from the past, and it’s not just our Southern drawls.

We hold tight to manners in much the same way we clutch our pearls and handkerchiefs, thinking the rest of the world is at least a smidgen barbaric. And most people think this is charming and quaint, like front-porch sitting, knowing your neighbors, the smell of magnolias, and Sunday dinner. It reminds people of gentler days when things were simpler and time moved at a slower pace.

This place is as Southern as they come. The main industry is agriculture, and families here can trace their last names back generations. Children here are weaned on sweet tea and cut their teeth on cornbread and homemade biscuits.

Just like in other places across the country, a child’s first word is liable to be “no.” Kids are amazingly similar no matter where you’re from.

However, around here that word is also likely to be followed by the word “ma’am,” lest there be a butt whooping and hell to pay.

As you can imagine, it was quite a surprise when our little Tarboro made the national news this week for this:

Coming up at 4:30 and 6 on @ABC11_WTVD: Parents of a Tarboro 5th grader are upset after their son got in trouble for calling a teacher "ma'am" against her wishes. In response, they say the teacher made him write the word repeatedly on a sheet of paper pic.twitter.com/KJghF8rPQb

— Michael Perchick (@MichaelPerchick) August 23, 2018

Elementary school children are no match for easily offended adults who wear imagined oppression like a badge of honor.

So, yeah. Tarboro, NC, hometown of good ol’ boys, makes national news because a teacher punished a fifth grader for calling her ma’am.

She might as well have cursed the sky for being blue.

The teacher claims to have repeatedly told the child to stop referring to her as ma’am. We don’t really know why... because privacy issues and educational politics. Perhaps she was upset this kid assumed her gender. How dare a 10 year-old attempt to dictate the gender identity of his teachers?

Or perhaps it was this teacher’s attempt to rip down the patriarchy, liberating women from archaic gender roles. Maybe this teacher is on a mission to destroy rules of decorum that limit ladies to nibbling cucumber sandwiches held daintily in white-gloved hands.

God help the poor guy who tries to hold the door for this one.

Ma’am isn’t a curse word. It shouldn’t be treated like hate speech. It isn’t meant to disparage or intimidate. It isn’t an insult to women everywhere. It’s just a way to show respect to your elders. It’s a way to be polite and civil. It’s one of the few things that separate us from the beasts. (You know? Those barbarians living above the Mason Dixon?)

Even if you think the term is incredibly outdated, you can’t easily unravel years of home-training.

Sorry, Lady (term loosely applied). You’ll have to try harder if you plan to make these kids woke. We resist change here like we resist Texas-style barbecue (is it really even barbecue?), unsweet tea (Or as we call it: nasty brown water), and low-carb diets (Bring on the biscuits and mashed taters!) And I promise that resistance isn’t all bad. It’s one of those things that makes this place homey and friendly and charming.

Sweetheart, if you’re going to make it in this town, you’re going to need to pick your battles. I promise this one isn’t worth it.

You’re a teacher, although arguably a pretty crappy one. I mean, you picked writing as a PUNISHMENT. There’s nothing like a teacher planting the notion in a young, fertile mind that writing is torture, a chore so tedious as to be reserved for mean-spirited discipline. Of course, this is punishment for only the most serious offenses...like when you do what your parents tell you rather than what your teacher demands.

Bravo! Way to squash the next generation of Faulkners, Twains, and Dickinsons. (Those are famous American writers for those of you who may have received an Edgecombe County education.)

Why don’t you focus on basic literacy and math skills. I mean that’s your job. You weren’t hired to teach social justice, feminism, or progressive thought, no matter how noble those causes may be.

Edgecombe County has an abysmal graduation rate of 79 percent. Only 25 percent of the county’s students are proficient in reading. Only 27 percent are proficient in math. Why are you wasting your time trying to dismantle a student’s family values? (Here is a link for these stats. Just in case you want to tell me how awesome the schools are here.)

Honey, there are bigger catfish to fry (and serve up with a heapin’ side of collard greens and some fried okra.) Let’s start with the basics.

Anyone else suddenly hungry?

Is it just me?

I’m not saying you don’t have your work cut out for you. Educating kids is a tough, tough job.  Darlin’, there’s a heck of a lot of work to do. It’s time to roll up your sleeves and get to it… Ma’am.

Silent Sam and the Things That Never Change

Friday, we dropped my oldest daughter off at UNC Chapel Hill for her first year of college. I had put off thinking about it all summer, stuffing down emotions, procrastinating in my usual way, promising to deal with it later.

That morning we packed the family car with everything she would need - at least a dozen pairs of shoes, a case of ramen, over-priced text books, strings of Christmas lights. There was only a small space left for her. She had to carry her potted cactus plants on her lap for the entire two-hour drive.

The weather was sunny. The temperature well into the mid-90s. It was hot work toting box after box up several flights of stairs to a tiny, drab dorm room where she will spend the next months. We lofted her bed, assembled a brand new futon, hung pictures.

It didn't take long for us all to get sweaty. It felt like labor. It made me remember another kind of labor, 36 hours of contractions to birth her.

Letting go of a child is hard work.

In my normal procrastinating way, I put off good-bye as long as possible, making her bed, unpacking her clothes. I actually unfolded, then carefully and deliberately refolded each piece before tucking it inside the dresser drawer. We bought sushi on Franklin Street, eating slowly, savoring each individual bite, dragging out dinner much longer than was necessary.

But you can't procrastinate forever, in spite of your best efforts. Good-bye was inevitable and the emotions came gurgling up from the place I had been stuffing them all summer long.

"I'm going to wait to have my emotional breakdown until I'm in the car," I told her.

"Me, too," she said throwing her arms around me as the tears started flowing. Hers first, then mine. Just like the day she was born.

And suddenly, in that moment, she wasn't the stunning and confident young woman I had lived with all summer. In her place was a toddler, the one who had held my neck with a death grip, clinging to me like a cuttlefish. She had super human strength, like her arms were made of suction cups, impossible to pry open.

I could have held her forever, but that isn't how things work.

The walk back to the car without her felt all wrong. In my heart, it still felt like I was walking away from that small, helpless toddler. How was I supposed to protect her from so far away?

My mothering instincts hadn't caught up to the fact that saber tooth tigers weren't lurking around every corner waiting to rip my baby to shreds. Although college might hold some danger, my rational brain knows she can handle it. She is a confident, mature, responsible young lady.

Children grow much faster than mothers are able to let go.

Monday night, she sent a message to the family chat. (Yes, we have an active family chat. I like to think that makes us the cool family.)

"Silent Sam is down! Protesters toppled the statue."

Silent Sam was an iconic Confederate monument on UNC's campus. The statue, an image of a Confederate soldier, had stirred up a lot of controversy in last year's Southern hysteria surrounding historic monuments.

We had passed him on our way to get sushi.

"I'm surprised nobody has torn him down yet," my daughter had commented.

All of us had known it was only a matter of time.

My husband quickly pulled up internet video footage of the mob shouting and kicking at the fallen statue.

Panic.

"Where are you?" My thumbs could barely type the message.

In that brief terror-filled moment before she answered, I thought my child might be in danger. In that instant, it didn't matter the reason behind the mob's actions. It didn't matter if they were right or wrong. It didn't matter whether I agreed with their reasoning or their morality. It didn't matter if I understood their motivations or if their ideologies conformed with mine.

The only thing that mattered, the ONLY THING...

Was whether my child was safe.

"I'm in my room. It’s a bit scary, being this close to that. I’ve never been this close to this stuff before."

She grew up in a small, quiet, Southern town. The rowdiest people get is right before the threat of snow flurries, as everyone rushes the local Piggly Wiggly for bread and milk.

"Stay in your room," I typed back, thumbs still trembling.

Mothers spend 18 years in vain attempts to keep their children safe, only to send them out into the thick of things where they are anything but.

And she is in the thick of things. In the thick of thinking and social change and questioning everything. And for her it is exciting.

Silent Sam was not a real person, but a representation, a symbol of the more than one thousand UNC students who fought on both sides of the War Between the States.

I can't help but empathize with Silent Sam's mother, symbolic just like her son.

Each of those mothers, on both sides of the conflict, spent 18 years keeping their children safe only to send them out into the thick of things, where they were anything but.

I suppose everyone knew it was only a matter of time. Only a matter of time before things had to come crashing down.

They were mothers from small towns like mine, where people don't get particularly rowdy. Those mothers must have felt the strong arms of their children as they said good-bye. Those sweet mothers must have thought of the toddler grip those arms once held on their skirts, their hands, their heart. They remembered the feel of chubby arms wrapped around them.

Did those mothers wish they could hold that child just a little longer?

The reasons behind The War must not have mattered so much.  It couldn't have mattered whether it was right or wrong, whether she agreed with it or not. It must not have mattered whether she understood the motivations or if her ideologies conformed with what others considered "right."

The only thing that mattered was the safety of her child.

Panic.

"Where are you?" she must have prayed each night.

Only some of those mothers never heard from their children again.

It is in a mother's nature to wish a safe and peaceful life for her children.

It is in a child's nature to make a difference, to change the world, to be right in the thick of things.

Time marches on.

Things change.

Some things never will.

Fear Makes Us Do Irrational Things

Fear sometimes makes us do irrational things.

Fear isn't all bad, of course. When our human brains are functioning properly, fear is a natural instinct that helps keep us safe in dangerous situations. It prepares our bodies to physically respond for fight or flight action. A healthy amount of fear is...well, it's healthy.

However, sometimes our highly-evolved hominid nervous systems malfunction and cause irrational fear responses, blowing perceived dangers completely out of proportion.

Like when we run screaming from a room because we saw a tiny spider.

Or when we gather in droves to put an end to mass shootings in public schools.

On Saturday, people took to the streets in Washington DC (and 800 other cities) to demand stricter gun control laws in the United States.

The "March for Our Lives" was organized in response to the February 14th shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida. That tragic event, where 17 people lost their lives to an armed psychopath, sparked heated debate about the safety of our schools and guns in our culture. Students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas H.S., along with some major media support and the organizational skills of the Women's March, have inspired a movement.

I am impressed with how effective the voices of these young students have shaken so many voters out of complacency. Although I'm always concerned by mass marches. They tend to represent a sort of group think that probably frightens me because I've read too much dystopian teen fiction.

But they've sparked conversation. The subject of both school safety and gun violence has been the subject of social media banter, public forum discussions, and media coverage for weeks now. Voters from all over the political spectrum are expressing views and looking for solutions to the rapidly expanding epidemic of public school shootings.

From the March for Our Lives website:

...We cannot allow one more family to wait for a call or text that never comes. Our schools are unsafe. Our children and teachers are dying. We must make it our top priority to save these lives... 

...Every kid in this country now goes to school wondering if this day might be their last. We live in fear. 

Photo Credit: Mathias Wasik

How can we strap on our kids' backpacks, kiss them good-bye, and send them off to school when the threat of them being gunned down by a madman is so high?

Boarding the school bus has apparently become the equivalent of playing a dangerous game of Russian Roulette.

From the messages on the signs to the mission statement on the March's website, you can tell these kids are convinced that once they enter their schools, they are entering a war zone. With bullets flying left and right, how can we expect these kids to learn?

On their path to gun control, these kids (and the adults who are using them for political purposes) have inadvertently triggered societal panic. I have a friend whose 8 year-old son is afraid to go to school because he "might get shot." 

While it is stupid to wallow in comfortable complacency thinking, "That could never happen here," and every child lost to gun violence is a cataclysmic loss to society, the risk of experiencing a mass shooting in a local public school is a statistical anomaly.

It may be hard to believe over all of the shouting, demanding, and marching, but children do not actually "risk their lives" every day when they climb aboard those yellow school buses. They are actually at a greater risk of dying from falling down (1 in 122) or being hit by a car (1 in 611) on their way to school. They are actually three times more likely to die from choking on those disgusting school lunches (1 in 3,461) than they are of being gunned down in their classrooms (1 in 11,125).

Yet here we are...

This is what mass hysteria looks like. It's like the villagers going after the monster, only they've traded their torches and pitchforks for pithy signs with rhyming chants... and the monster, while unarguably terrifying, isn't exactly running amok.

Perhaps we are so angry and afraid because the media has been feeding the panic, stoking and fanning the flames with inappropriate enthusiasm. For them, tragedy means big ratings, especially when children are involved. The 24-hour coverage that mass shootings provoke usually leaves us glued to our screens for hours on end in a vain attempt to make sense of the horror.

The media is also guilty of feeding us inflated statistics to push an agenda and reinforce a paradigm. In the aftermath of the Parkland shooting, progressive activists and media outlets repeatedly reported there had been 18 school shootings since the beginning of the year.

Horrible, right?

Except it isn't true. When we think of school shootings we think of Columbine. We think of heavily armed, masked lunatics spraying bullets as they go, gunning down innocent, unprotected children by the dozens.

The thought that this had actually happened 18 times in just under two months is enough to strike terror in any parent, teacher, student, or basic and decent human being. 

But this figure is a gross exaggeration. In an attempt to push their anti-gun agenda, Everytown for Gun Safety  inflated its numbers by including every single incident of gunfire, even if it was only in the vicinity of a school.

For example, included in the 18-shooting figure was the very first incident of the year. On January 3, a 31-year-old man parked outside a Michigan elementary school and placed a phone call to police saying he was armed and suicidal. Several hours later, he shot himself. While his suicide is indeed tragic, this hardly counts as a "school shooting"...especially considering the school had been closed for seven months.

It was shuttered and inactive. There were no teachers or students present. Not one single innocent life was at risk.

In reality, there have only been eight mass shootings in American schools...

...since 1996. 

Go ahead and read that again.

Time magazine reports that a total of 6 adults and 35 children have been killed in school shootings since 2013. That is 41 people who tragically lost their lives.

However, there are, on average, 51 annual deaths due to lightening strikes. Since most of you probably attended questionably effective public schools, I'll do the math for you.

You are more likely to be killed in a thunderstorm than a school shooting. While the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School was definitely heartbreaking, it is not part of an epidemic and it is downright deceitful to call it such.

Our nation's schools do not resemble war zones. They are, in fact, incredibly safe considering their soft target "gun-free" status. According to new research from Northeastern University, "schools are safer than they were in the 90s, and school shootings are not more common than they used to be."

Here is a little visual perspective for you:

The truth is, there is no “school safety” crisis in this country. We have a gun violence problem that consists primarily of suicides, accidents, and single-victim homicides, most of which are committed with handguns, not the dreaded AR-15.

But it must be true. It must be true because large numbers of people are shaking their fists on national television. It must be true because there is so much media coverage, and general yelling, and so many small children afraid to go to school.

Fear, even when it isn't based in reality, is a powerful motivator. In this case, fear fueled by the media and organizations with an agenda, mobilized masses to demand tighter regulations on weapons they don't even understand.




So, like...yeah...let's all get together, and like...demand that the government ban something we like can't even define.

Shaping public policy with emotion rather than common sense,  no matter how strong the emotions, is just plain juvenile (So, I guess the teenagers doing the angry demanding are acting age-appropriately). But common sense isn't as marketable as passionate, sanctimonious teenagers shouting profanity and raising their fists. Common sense rarely inspires marches.

Here's the deal. Grief and anger are all understandable in the face of what happened in Parkland. These children have a right to mourn. They have a right to be angry. Anger is actually a healthy part of the grieving process.

However, surviving a tragic event doesn't magically make you a leader. It doesn't suddenly bestow magic policy-making talents. PTSD does not automatically instill wisdom or grant miraculous oracle-like understanding. You don't get special powers, although the media is likely to make you an instant celebrity (at least if your politics agree with their agenda. Don't believe they pick and choose their victims of tragedy? Have a conversation with Parkland survivor Kyle Kashuv. I wonder why he didn't make the cover of Time?)

Ask any parent of a teenager and they will tell you that teenagers have a limited ability to make rational decisions. Teenage brains have not fully developed. A study conducted by the McLean Hospital Brain Imaging Center in Boston, Massachusetts suggests that while adults can use rational decision making processes when facing emotional decisions, adolescent brains are simply not yet equipped to think them through.

There is a reason that adults get to do things like take out mortgages and vote and influence public policy. It's because we are less likely to be ruled by our emotions. We have fully developed frontal lobes and can usually approach decision-making from a place of rational thought rather than heated passion.

I understand the desire to DO SOMETHING. But it's important to approach major decisions, ones that could have long-lasting and wide-reaching effects, with caution and a level head, something these new celebrity children and their devotees seem to be lacking.

"Ban the guns" sounds like a great way to end gun violence, especially since it makes a catchy chant for D.C. marches. But like filing your income taxes, as well as most things in the adult world, it's actually much more complicated than that.

Most of the policy ideas that the students from Marjory Stoneman Douglas H.S. and their fan club have proposed are vague. Most would be ineffective, and in some cases, they would be downright harmful. I guess we shouldn't be surprised, though. Public schools are too busy prepping kids for standardized tests to actually teach them critical thinking skills.

For example, raising the firearm purchase age to 21 sounds like a great idea on the surface. This would keep guns out of the hands of the irrational teenagers that are currently demanding they are rational enough to influence public policy. (oh, the irony!) But maybe...just maybe...it would have kept a gun out of the hands of the Parkland shooter, who was only 19.

But let's take a quick look at some facts and statistics.

Of the 64 mass public shootings that have occurred in the United States since 1998 (not all were in public schools), ten were committed by people under age 21. Five of those shooters were already too young to legally purchase a firearm. That means only five of those 64 gunman would have been affected by raising the purchase age.

Maybe. 

Maybe they would have been affected. It is quite likely the shooters would have obtained weapons illegally, since they weren't deterred by those pesky murder laws in the first place.

But do you know who a raised purchase age would affect? The 20 year-old frightened woman being stalked by a potential rapist . The young college student dealing with an obsessed and violent ex-boyfriend. Sorry, ladies. You're too young to defend yourselves. Better luck next year. If you're still around, that is.

Disarming law-abiding citizens, leaving them with no way to protect themselves, has life-threatening consequences.

People will still die. They just might not be the same people.

I understand the need to protect our children. They are our greatest gift, our nation's most precious asset. But radically changing the founding principles of the United States over a minimal risk is drastic, and won't keep guns out of the hands of criminals and deranged psychopaths anyway.

Before we start disarming the populace, maybe we should look at other ways to keep our children safe. Maybe improve security measures at our local schools. Invest in school-based mental health services. Let's consider placing more armed law enforcement officers and security guards on campuses. Perhaps we should try enforcing the gun-control laws already in place before we pass more.

Too much is at stake to make trendy political decisions fueled by the emotions of loud-voiced teenagers. We all want to save lives, but being well-meaning isn’t enough. Plenty of mistakes are made by well-meaning individuals who rush to act without considering all of the nuanced consequences.

This subject needs careful consideration of the long-term repercussions to both the individual and society. It should be approached with caution, examination of facts, and thoughtful deliberation.

Let's not make rash decisions just because we are afraid, or else there might be bigger things to fear.

Thinkers, Doers, and Free Speech - A Response to Gregory Salcido's Anti-Military Rant

California teacher and Pico-Rivera councilman, Gregory Salcido has made the news for an anti-military tirade he recently made in a public school classroom. After publicly humiliating a high school student for wearing a Marine Corps sweatshirt, Mr. Salcido went on a major rant that insulted everyone from active military members to Blue Star families to your stupid Uncle Louie.

If you haven't heard the audio recording from Mr. Salcido's classroom, it is definitely worth the listen, if for no other reason than to witness a major waste of time in an average American classroom. I won't go so far as to claim that every school teacher uses classroom time to push personal philosophies, but it is probably far more common than we want to believe.

Bullying students, insulting their families, and issuing ultimatums ("Don’t you ever freakin' bring the military into this freakin' classroom.") is not the way to make a classroom environment conducive to learning.

Plus, I'm pretty sure the military will have to come up in conversation...considering it is a HISTORY class. Call me crazy.

I will warn you that Mr. Salcido's diatribe is full of expletives and gross racial stereotyping (“We couldn’t beat the Vietnamese — they’re a bunch of people this freaking big throwing rice at us.”).

You should watch it anyway.

Help me make this go viral. My friends son was sporting his marine sweater while this liberal douche teacher rants about the military. The school is called El rancho high school in the city of pico rivera california. The teacher's name is MR. Salcido. pic.twitter.com/HMSmfSLDpK

— kimberlie (@kimberlieflauto) January 27, 2018

Since the teacher's hate-filled speech hit the internet, and the proverbial poo hit the proverbial fan, Mr Salcido has disappeared. He is understandably worried about his own safety since he literally ticked off every member of the world's finest fighting force as well as most of the American population. He poked his head up briefly to make a brief comment on social media claiming support of Free Speech.

"I want my friends, family, and students to know we are fine and we respect the rights of free expression for all individuals."

And while I agree that Mr. Salcido has a right to free speech, I'm not sure that right completely extends to what he can lawfully say in a public school classroom. And it certainly doesn't protect him from any public backlash.

But I also might add, that Mr. Salcido violated the student's free speech rights. As a teacher in the classroom, Salcido speaks on behalf of the local school district. He told the student not to wear any clothing supporting the U.S. military. That command could be interpreted as a violation of the student's First Amendment rights.

"Don’t you ever freakin' bring the military into this freakin' classroom."

That doesn't sound particularly respectful.

Personally, I think the student has a better claim to First Amendment protection than Mr. Salcido, but I am admittedly NOT an expert in the law, so take my opinion with the grain of salt it deserves.

However, there is at least one area in which I can claim expert status.

I am a Blue Star mother.

My son is a U.S. Army soldier. He is one of the dumbshits Mr. Salcido spoke about in his filthy rant.

Meanwhile, my oldest daughter, a senior in high school and top of her class, is contemplating a career in the U.S. Navy.

Not only are they two of the smartest people I know, but they are also the bravest, strongest, and most driven people I know.

Salcido told that classroom of high school students:

"If you join the military, it’s because you have no other options because you didn’t take care of business academically, because your parents didn’t love you enough to push you and you didn’t love yourself enough to push yourself…So now you’re thinking what do I do now…and your parents even encourage [joining the military] sometimes because they want to get you off of their ass.
" Why would anyone ever sign up for that… Think about the people we have over there. Your stupid uncle Louie or whatever, they’re dumb shits. They’re not like high-level thinkers. They’re not academic people. They’re not intellectual people. They’re the freaking lowest of our low."

I call bullshit, Mr. Salcido. You don't know Jack. Perhaps you need to come have a conversation with my two oldest children. You should probably also ask them if their parents love them or pushed them. You now? Just for shits and giggles.

First let me throw a few stats at you, Mr. Salcido, just to prove you're an idiot. And I'll even post it in graphic form so even a dumbass like you can understand it.

Sources: 

US Department of Defense: “Demographics 2010: Profile of the Military Community”

US Department of Defense, Office of the Secretary of Defense: “Report of the Eleventh Quadrennial Review of Military Compensation”

That's right. The United States military is actually more educated than the population it serves. And since Gregory Salcido only has a Bachelor's degree from Whittier College, I'm not sure where he gets off ranting about the lack of academics and intellectuals in the military. 

Perhaps a rant about the lack of academics and intellectuals in education would be more apropos. 

Listen up, Mr. Salcido. Here's the thing. There are a lot of "thinkers" and "academics" in the world and they sit around doing a lot of thinking without actually "doing" anything. They sit behind desks and think big thoughts. They teach classrooms full of captive students. But unless thoughts are put into action, they are worthless. 

Thinking and doing are two very different things. Our military does more than think. When the rubber meets the road and action is required, they do not hesitate to act. And that action is what has protected your right to stand up in front of a class of high school students and spew misinformation and outright lies.

My oldest son announced that he was joining the military at Thanksgiving dinner two years ago. 

It was a goal he had for years, and in the months leading up to his enlistment, he was up at dawn, hitting the gym or the track to increase his pull-up reps or decrease his run times. At night he cracked books, studying for the ASVAB (Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery) with intensity and focus. I watched that young man push himself harder, both physically and intellectually, than anyone I've ever seen stretch for a goal. 

So, Mr Salcido, you don't understand what it is to love yourself or push beyond your comfort zone toward a goal. There are just some goals you don't understand.

After my son announced his intentions to the family, one person casually asked him what he had scored on the ASVAB. When Daniel told him, this person attempted to one-up him by reporting a significantly higher personal score.

But you know what. It didn't matter. That "higher-level" thinker with the impressive ASVAB score wasn't doing anything with it. For various reasons, that person never joined the military. 

My son took a huge step and vowed to support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic. He took action.

Whose score mattered more?

What does it matter how well you score on a test if you never do anything with the knowledge or ability the test measures?

There are valuable characteristics that have nothing to do with intellect or education level or test scores. Action, hard-work, ambition, loyalty, integrity, perseverance, initiative, communication, and confidence just to name a few. 

These are all qualities that are valued by members of our U.S. military. And these characteristics often have far more to do with success than education level. Although, our military isn't exactly lacking in that area either (see previous graphic).

So you might want to think again when you claim our military is comprised of the "lowest of the low."  Because you're quite wrong. 

About 75% of America's 17-24 year-olds are ineligible for military service due to lack of education, obesity, and other physical problems, or criminal history. Of those eligible, only a fraction actually have the drive or the desire to serve.

Nearly one in four students fail the military entrance exam. That suggests that maybe teachers like Mr. Salcido should shut up with the personal diatribes and do what they were hired to do. Teach our kids.

The United States military is actually comprised of this country's "best and brightest." 

And just because I can't let this comment go:

“It’s a lie that our military is freakin’ bitchin’.” 

In response?

This....

Why We Hunt

Photo credit: Adventures Plus Outfitters

Just before Christmas, hunter Michael Taylor shot and killed a massive black bear here in Edgecombe County, North Carolina. At 640 pounds, this black bear weighed 150 pounds more than the average black bear. It yielded over 300 pounds of processed meat.

A kill like this is big news in a small rural county like ours. We see black bears from time to time, sometimes crossing the highway, or out in a farmer's field, or sometimes casually strolling down some small town main street. News of this monstrous black bear traveled and was even picked up by a big news outlet from Raleigh.

As pictures of the hunter and his kill plastered local papers and social media outlets, the self-righteous came out in droves to criticize this hunter (and hunters in general) and to whine and cry about how black bear lives matter. #blackbearlivesmatter #BBLM

Photo credit: Eva Shockey

It isn't unusual for hunters to receive this type of backlash. In 2014, professional hunter Eva Shockey killed another North Carolina black bear. This one was a measly 510 pounds but apparently still warranted massive repercussions, including some 5,000 death threats.

According to much of the loud and ranting public, the lives of human hunters are worth far less than the animals they harvest and eat.

I can't help but wonder how many of the individuals slinging death threats at the likes of Eva Shockey and Michael Taylor have recently enjoyed a chicken sandwich or picked up a package of hamburger from their grocer's cooler. Because if you think attacking hunters for harvesting big, cuddly, unpredictably dangerous bears is okay, while exploiting acceptable "meat" animals, often raised in inhumane and dirty conditions, is perfectly acceptable...well, there is a deeper moral issue here than I thought.

I understand that the general public doesn't understand hunting. We are so far removed from our food sources that most people have never looked their dinner in the eye (unless you've picked a crustacean out of the tank at Red Lobster). We tend to think of meat as something that comes sealed in neat little plastic and Styrofoam packages. It is easy to forget that the meat between our hamburger buns was once an actual living, breathing animal.

The thing is, if you aren't a hunter, it is difficult to explain why we hunt, and it goes far beyond meat. Words fail to describe why we get up before the crack of dawn to sit for long hours in often uncomfortable conditions to harvest game, when we could just roll on down to the local Food Lion and pick up a pack of steaks. We wouldn't even have to wear sensible shoes.

I am a hunter.

In fact, the day this bear was killed, I was hunting in another part of Edgecombe County.

I won't apologize. I won't act ashamed because you think I should. And I will proudly take pictures of the game I've been lucky enough to tag.

I hunt because I love hunting.

Not because I love killing, although that is definitely a part of hunting.

I'm lucky to have spent large portions of my life in the woods. My father started toting me along on his hunting trips as soon as I was old enough to sit on a five-gallon bucket, pink-sneakered feet swinging inches above the ground. Yearly the woods call me back. Stepping into the forest on opening day feels like coming home.

Sitting on a deer stand, I thrill at every new morning, watching the darkness turn murky gray. Hearing the first songbird chirp out a song so strong it starts up a whole chorus. There is overwhelming satisfaction in knowing that the majority of the world is missing it, tucked tight in their comfortable beds in their climate-controlled buildings waiting for the shock of the alarm clock.

Sitting alone in a tree stand, you become part of the landscape as the creatures around you either forget you are there or accept you as one of their own. And you know that everything is good. There is no wasted time in the woods, whether you release on arrow, squeeze the trigger, or go home with nothing more than the experience.

I've heard people wonder why hunters can't just take pictures. Couldn't we enjoy nature and the experience of being outdoors without harming any wildlife?

Pictures are nice, but taking pictures isn't hunting.

As a photographer, you are an observer of nature. As a hunter you are a participant. Hunters are part of the drama and the dance that is life in the wild.

We are predators, but the humane sort. Nothing dies easily in the circle of life. Don't let The Lion King fool you. It's not some sunshiny musical in the wild. Animals die every minute, with or without the help of a hunter. Most lives end in violence. Whether by the jaws of a coyote, the talons of a great horned owl, the claws of a cougar, or by merciless disease and starvation. All life comes to an end. Often death caused by a human hunter is the most humane. I choose to make my kills quick and clean, something Mother Nature isn't particularly good at.

While it is true that hunting is an essential part of wildlife management, that hunters are the largest source of funding for wildlife agencies and conservation efforts, I won't use these reasons to justify why I hunt. These are just side benefits, the reasons that sound good enough to justify hunting to the uninitiated.

I hunt because I love it.

Plain and simple.

With every fiber of my being.

And I know that these are just a smattering of words that you will read on a computer screen, and they are unlikely to change one single mind. Because mere words can never explain the magic or the drive or the feeling of being alive that accompanies the hunt.

If you are a hunter, you already know. We are kindred spirits, you and I, a misunderstood minority that will continue to be spat on, hated, and threatened. The masses will try to humiliate and threaten us. They will try to outlaw the sport that we love most.

But to be honest, I feel sorry for those people. Because they have no idea of the common yet breathtaking beauty that is alive in the woods. They have no idea what it feels like to have every nerve in your body thrumming like a live wire as you line up your sights on an animal you've been waiting for your whole life.

I hunt because I am.

I am proud to be a hunter, and I'm not going to apologize for it.

What Do You See When You Look at a Confederate Monument?

The Durham monument before it was vandalized.

I was in Rochester, NY enjoying mild temperatures and low humidity when "protesters" clashed in Charlottesville, VA last weekend. On Monday, when Durham, NC vandals tore down a Confederate "monument", I was driving through picturesque Valley Forge, PA. I don't often head "up North" unless it is to visit family, mostly due to a serious lack of sweet tea.

In spite of enjoying weather that made me question my decision to live in the sweltering South, I was in a hurry to get home.

I am a Southerner through and through. I say "y'all" and "yonder" and often drop the "g" on the end of words like "huntin'" and "fishin'." Southern pride is a very real thing, even though it's hard for those of you without several generations of Southern DNA coursing through your veins to really understand. And surprisingly enough, it has nothing to do with white supremacy or racism, in spite of what the media might have you believe.

Over the past several days, we've witnessed a frenzied hysteria surrounding our Confederate symbols. Large "news" conglomerates like The New York Times have claimed that "Confederate monuments have always been symbols of white supremacy."

I understand some of the arguments for removing some of these symbols of the Confederacy. I can see the point often made about monuments to war criminals and conquered governments. Perhaps it is true that war monuments to Confederate generals are inappropriate additions to government spaces. Even if you attempt to rationalize the War Between the States being motivated by state's rights, it is hard to deny that the subject of slavery is intricately woven into the fabric of Southern motives for secession.

But these monuments and memorials that dot our Southern towns and cities aren't seen as symbols of hate by everyone. They haven't always or only been symbols of white supremacy. That is oversimplifying a complex issue.

Although the saying has been grossly overused, sometimes those symbols actually represent "heritage, not hate."

Stay with me. Hold your hate mail until the end.

Heritage, by definition, is the full range of our inherited traditions, monuments, objects, and culture. Southern heritage and culture is a rich tapestry of values and morals and way of life. It is far more than Confederate monuments, reenactments, and rebel flags. It is also courage, work ethic, family values, loyalty, and knowing your neighbor. It is honesty, front porch sitting, pecan pie, and sweet tea. And yes... it is Civil War battlegrounds and small town Confederate monuments. It is respect for our Confederate dead.

It is part of our Southern identity, and it is so entwined with the smell of jasmine and magnolias that you just can't pull one thread without the average Southerner being afraid the whole sweater will unravel.

And maybe the whole sweater will unravel. After the incident in Durham, the city of Baltimore removed their confederate statues under cover of darkness. And just this morning, we learned that a statue of Robert E. Lee was defaced in Duke University's beautiful chapel. Plus we are seeing petitions circulating all over social media feeds calling for the removal of memorials to fallen Confederate soldiers. There are threats that they will be removed by force if necessary.

In the small North Carolina town that I call home, we have our own Confederate memorial. It is a fountain that sits prominently on our lush green Town Common. The fountain is a symbol of Tarboro itself, and has adorned postcards, brochures, and magazines.

It was placed by the Daughters of the Confederacy in 1910 in memory of Henry Lawson Wyatt, the first Confederate soldier killed in the War Between the States. He once called Tarboro home, too. I wonder if he looked over his shoulder at Tarboro when he marched off to war. Did he have any inkling that he would never see it again? Did his mother?

The Durham monument that was toppled on Monday wasn't dedicated to Southern glory or military prowess or even secessionist ideals. The inscription on the front read "In Memory of the Boys Who Wore the Gray."

Boys who mostly never owned slaves. Boys who left home and never came back. Boys who suffered unspeakable hardships on the field of war and faced horrific deaths. Boys who believed they were honorably defending their homes and families.

So if all you can see when you look at a Confederate monument is hate, racism, and oppression, maybe you aren't looking hard enough. Some of us see death and senseless loss of life. We see husbands, sons, and brothers who died senselessly and horrifically. We want to remember them. It is the main reason we hold to our Southern Pride.

Because those young boys, the 620,000 of them who senselessly lost their lives on both sides, were really just pawns in a war for political power. And not one of them deserved the fate they received.

Here is what a lot of us see in those memorials and monuments that are being vandalized, kicked, and toppled amid screams of racism and hate...