I’m running out of words

Contributed by Trey Blakely, history major

 

I’m running out of words.

No, I suppose that isn’t true. Maybe it’s running out of patience? But I guess that isn’t true either. Patience has nothing to do with this really. Am I out of shock? Have my batteries gone dead against my tongue?

I’m sitting in the cafe at my school while the news runs a loop on the shooting in San Bernardino. The SUV, the victims, the cops, looping and looping.

I’m sitting in the cafe, but I’m not the only one here. But all anyone can do is blink it away, sigh with disappointment. What else can you do at a time like this? Start a hashtag? Post about it somewhere? Stop a cop while they’re walking and ask, “Are we going to be ok?”

I actually did the last one recently. I asked a police officer if everything was going to be ok. They looked at me as an officer of the law and said, “Yes,” but then they looked at me as a human being and said, “I don’t know anymore.”

The camera is zooming in on that SUV again. Sitting in the middle of a neighborhood street, surrounded by officers. Of course, someone has to stand up and say something next. “Why isn’t anyone saying anything? What are the facts of the situation?”

Now it’s a side-by-side. SUV and Speech. Speech and SUV. It’s like watching President Bush be told there’s been a terror attack on the World Trade Center while he’s sitting in a classroom. My god, some of those kids must’ve smoked their first cigarettes by now. I wonder how many have already started drinking.

I can only imagine what it must be like to be among those on the ground, at this moment, staring down fear and adrenaline. Maybe that’s all I can really do, imagine. Nothing else seems to do much.

It’s just the SUV now. All the windows are shot out, but no one is getting close. The camera is panning to officers, guns pointed at a quiet, shot-out SUV. A veritable army of terrified men and women, in the middle of a suburban neighborhood, waiting for the absolute worst to happen. If this were 2002, it could have been an al-Qaeda dirty bomb. If this were 1962, it could have been communists. Hell, maybe it is communists. Maybe it’s every enemy we’ve ever had in that SUV, like a clown car of patriotic nightmares.

I can see officers swarming a house like ants on a breadcrumb, crawling over and around it. The camera following them like a magnifying glass, a curious seven-year old desperate to understand why they’re milling about like that.

They’re a swarm of birds now, flowing in formation, door to door, looking for…

There are over forty people in this room with me. I think one of them just saw the tv. We’re watching it together, fifty feet apart.

They stopped watching.

Can you imagine watching a National Geographic special filmed live? I can. I’m watching one. I know who the predator is supposed to be, but if I think about it too hard I don’t think I really know any more.

I think they’re about to drop Seal Team Six into suburbia. I don’t know how many more armed and armored men and women they can fit between these houses, tucked behind bushes.

Did they reach the SUV yet?

What was inside?

What Pandora’s Box are we looking at now?

What are we missing elsewhere while we watch this?

How many television cameras does it take to be socially aware?

Ah. A commercial break. One too many cameras rolling.

Back to coverage. Is that a tank in the street? What do they imagine they’ll be rolling up on? Maybe it is a dirty bomb.

No kidding. They just rolled past a white picket fence. Phenomenal.

Cut to map of the area. Reporter on the ground now. The sun has sunk low enough to provide healthy ambient light without needing the extra background lights set up. Back to the street again.

Had to move closer to the tv. “14 dead,” it tells me. The police are searching house to house now. They’re missing a suspect, and suspect he’s in the neighborhood.

The camera zooms out, fully, as if to let me know, let us know, just how damn voyeuristic this all is. And the camera has a point. This is damn voyeuristic. Now I’m beginning to wonder if I should be ashamed of myself for watching so closely. Thanks, news.

Commercial break. Recap. I’m back to being the only one watching. This is surely a sign. I still have patience. I can’t hear the audio, but I can hear the words being said:

“Our thoughts and prayers go out to….”

“Tragedy at this hour…”

“Unspeakable…”

Superheroes have catchphrases.

Politicians and newscasters have catchphrases too.

The last two are mostly situational. This is one of those situations; although, I’d love to see a journalist, just once, break and ask, “What the @$&% is happening here? How have we become so accustomed to this that there’s a damned script for these scenarios?”

Or maybe just, “What the @$&%?” It’s fairly succinct.

There’s been a homicide in my city as well this evening. Now people are watching. Discussing copy-cats. Open-carry laws. Gun rights. Safety. Personal safety. The children.

“You can’t live in fear.”

I’m pretty sure we already are.

Live coverage has ended. I’m sure they’ll pop it back up as soon as something happens. I’m sure they’re still live inside all the houses in that neighborhood. Maybe their suspect is watching.

We’re out of shock and remorse, but we’re not yet out of blood or anger. I am, however, out of time. Classes to attend, things to write.

 

Sources: Live coverage provided by ABC 13 and FOX 26 Houston stations.