Our heads have been swimming with emotions today as we wait anxiously for news developments, regarding today’s shooting at The American Civic Association building in Binghamton, to trickle out of New York.
Personally, I’m collecting all of the details, trying to process them methodically. But my mind inevitably strays from the facts of today’s tragedy–wandering off to think obliquely about the people I don’t really know anything about: the yet-to-be-identified victims and hostages. I picture small, simple rooms filled with immigrants–like my parents and grandparents were three decades ago– so committed to making their family’s lives better and doing so by the book, the old-fashioned way. I think about how they couldn’t possibly have known what was going to happen to them today and how they absolutely didn’t deserve it. How they probably didn’t understand what was happening, except that they were probably going to be killed.
What are their parents thinking? What are their children feeling?
I wonder what it felt like for the survivors, in the hours they spent thinking that they were probably going to die in America without being an American.
Mostly, I feel confused. And deeply sad. In a way that I can’t really articulate, I just feel sorry that this is what happens sometimes in this country.
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