Last week, I woke up in horror, along with the rest of the America, to the news of the devastating Route 91 Harvest Festival shooting, which killed 59 and wounded more than 500.
I’m a journalist, so the first thing I did when I heard the news was start writing. As I was writing, my husband, already out of the house, texted me and asked if I knew anyone there. Hurriedly, I said no, and kept writing. About ten minutes later, I texted him back and started listing some of the people I knew there. Later that day, I read a list of all the people who were there and safe.
I knew about 20 people on the list.
All week, I kept checking in with my friends and colleagues, who go to many of the same events I do, and people kept checking in with me. Because, even though we weren’t there, we could have been. We all so easily could have been. And that was frightening to me, and sobering to all of us.
As I posted on Facebook that first day, when the news was still pouring in, those people at the festival — those I knew and those I didn’t — they’re my people. I’ve interviewed almost all of the artists who performed during the three-day event. Many of the people who I knew were people who had jobs just like I do. We music journalists have an odd occupation that requires some weird hours and surreal experiences, including having access to so many live music events, we become numb to them after a while. We forget the privilege we have of seeing artists do what they do, while we actually make a living doing it.
So when the gunman stuck his weapons out the window of his hotel room on the 32nd floor of the Mandalay Bay, and pulled the trigger over and over and over again, he was really hitting more than the hundreds that took a bullet. He was attacking each of us who write about music, love music, enjoy live music and make our living from music. He made all of us remember the countless live music events we have been to, and made us ponder how we would have reacted, and how we would have responded.
Much like a doctor or nurse feels when a gunman enters a hospital, or a teacher feels when there is a school shooting, that’s how my people, my colleagues, my friends felt — that’s how I felt — in the wake of the Vegas tragedy.
It took me a long time to articulate my feelings. I sat down to write this blog five, six, maybe seven times, but couldn’t quite put my thoughts into words. I probably still can’t. I was 1800 miles away, but it could have been here. It could have been at the festival I was just at in Florida last month. It could have been anywhere.
Last week I intentionally turned the news off. I stopped watching the morning news a few months ago, but since I knew so many people involved with the festival, I thought I should try to watch on the first day. But every time it was on, my son turned his attention to the screen, and I am just not ready to explain to a five-year-old why someone would intentionally hurt so many people. And, I refuse to focus on hate.
Amidst the sorrow, there are, of course, stories of hope. Countless people who risked their lives to help others, even strangers, get to safety. Police officers and civilians who stood in harm’s way. Sonny Melton, who took a fatal shot to save his wife. Others who carried those to safety, united only by their love of music. A firefighter, shot in the back while performing CPR on a stranger. People, some not even at the festival, who carted off the wounded to local hospitals. Those who could have escaped and instead stayed to help, putting themselves in harm’s way. Husbands shielding wives. Mothers shielding children.
We will never know Stephen Paddock’s motives. We will never fully understand why he chose to carelessly fire over and over again, and then cowardly take his life before dealing with the repercussions of his actions. We can talk about gun control — and maybe we should, if and when we can have a civilized conversation — but making weapons illegal won’t bring an end to gun violence, much like making drugs illegal didn’t bring an end to drug use, or making murder illegal didn’t make people stop killing each other.
But one thing we can do is not let hate win. One thing we can do is love each other. One thing we can do is choose love and peace. We can stop arguments about which political side is right or wrong, and start embracing the things we have in common. We can allow people to have their differences, and to disagree, without feeling the need to keep exerting our point.
We can start intentionally making friends with those who live and believe differently than us. We can stop judging and start uniting. We can stop using Facebook to share all the things we think people are doing wrong, and instead share stories of people doing things right. We can stop obsessing over the sawdust in someone else’s eye, and instead take the plank out of our own.
What Stephen Paddock wanted to do was spew hatred from the 32nd floor. But amidst the sickening tragedy, there is hope. Think about this: in the moment of chaos and fear and the literal smell of death, no one stopped to ask if they were an atheist or devout Christian, if they were gay or straight, rich or poor, young or old, a hunter or an animal rights activist, from the city or the country, a drug user or a fitness coach.
The only thing that mattered in the moment of crisis was joining forces to escape the hatred.
Love conquered hate then. Love can still conquer hate. We don’t have to wait for bullets to be whizzing past our heads for that to happen.
“Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” ~Martin Luther King, Jr.
