I remember my first reaction to a mass killing. It was the summer of 1984.
I was a young man in my twenties, sitting in my La-Z-Boy reading the Miami Herald. This was before mass shootings were frequent occurrences, so I was not yet desensitized.
A gunman strolled into a McDonald’s in San Ysidro, California and opened fire, killing twenty-one people. Half of the casualties were under 21 years old. Five were under 12. The youngest was eight months old. It was the deadliest mass shooting in modern U.S. history at the time.
The newspaper published a photo of a kid’s bike leaning against the wall surrounded by yellow tape in front of the restaurant. I imagined a pre-teen riding to McDonalds for a Big Mac and fries who would not return home. I began to sob.
In February, a breaking news alert about a shooting in Kansas City during a Super Bowl parade flashed across my phone. Yawn.
I didn’t even bother to click the link. That is how callous my heart has become.
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