GUNS AND POSES

I wasn't planning to address Dick's misfire, expecting instead to point you to the excellent treatment of the topic here and here. But, after engaging my conservative colleagues on a private editorial advisory board blog for a local newspaper, I have to address a couple of things.

Even though there are some interesting issues surrounding the hunting of quail raised in captivity, drinking and shooting, and the lack of firearm safety, to me the bigger story is the way the issue was handled and what it reveals about the Vice President's view of us and democracy.

Cheney's supporters that I have talked to suggest that all of this is a non-issue that is being unfairly inflated by the liberal media. Perhaps. Certainly is possible. They go on to say that Cheney is not a weak-willed politician who is poll-driven in his decision making. He is a man of principle who plows ahead regardless of the popularity of his moves. Maybe. Or, maybe he is driven by the perception that he and his cadre of fellows have received a divine millenial calling to release the world from certain brands of tyranny, and no one will be allowed to stop them, or even question their goals or methods. When you adopt a position like that, it is not a big step to believe that none of your actions should be scrutinized by the public.

Cheney's reaction to this situation has betrayed an arrogance and an insensitivity to the will of the people that is disturbing. At first he indicated that it wasn't anyone's business, then he agreed to an interview by a shadow of a journalist (Fox's Brit Hume) that served notice to all the "liberal media" that he was not interested in offering his story as news.

The whole thing just reveals the ongoing trend in this administration: Decide on your version of the truth; make sure the public is always afraid; accept no criticism; engage in no meaningful dialogue with your detractors. I've already talked about Bush's disdain for opposition. This is just another example.

Please spare me the purely partisan defenses of the guy. I am not making these remarks because he is a Republican. For instance, I found Clinton's "depends on what the meaning of 'is' is" rhetoric to be shameful and devastating blow to the notion of accuracy, truth, and integrity in public life.

So anyway, that's not what I really came here to tell you. The Dickshot incident reminded me of a story.

I was 13 and a brand new hunter. Back in those days, people didn't take hunter safety or gun certification courses. Your course was getting up in the middle of the night, donning too-big tin cloth pants and coats with game bag pockets, drinking coffee for the first time (black, no cream or sugar), and learning how to act like a man. No goofing around. No petting the dog like she's a pet. It's working time.

I rode quietly on the bench seat of the pickup with stool-softening anticipation and fear roiling around in my pre-pubescent gut. I kept thinking about the Savage 20-gauge riding in back. I had shot it a few times to get used to the recoil. I knew there was something in that gun that was far more powerful than me, and I was not sure I was strong enough to conquer it.

[Okay, I'll shorten the story since I hadn't planned on the big Dick prologue.]

We met up with our hunting companion and got on our way. After a few hours we had nearly given up. All of a sudden the dog went on point. We kicked up a covey and I shot. I caught one on the wing and it went down. My first bird. We found it a few yards away, flopping around in an injured state. We circled around it to contain it. Apparently the expectation was that the dog would go in and finish it off. Not good enough for me. I was intoxicated by the juice of the hunt. The rush of bloodlust overcame me and I fired. The blast shredded the wounded bird into a bloody smear of pins and feathers. I knew immediately that I had done wrong. If I hadn't felt it in my conscience, the look of horror on all faces would have been my clue. Even the dog stopped and glanced at me, then looked around the circle, as though to say, "Where the hell did you get this kid?"

In my childish mind what I came away with was the glee that "I got a bird." Later, it began to dawn on me that I could have killed someone.

I hunted a few times after that, but eventually lost the appetite for it. Literally. I never really liked the meat I killed, so I guess it was all a little empty as an exercise.

When I heard about Cheney's incident I felt a certain empathy at first. I know the sense of shame, the fear of what could have happened. It has troubled me for years that I didn't grasp the full gravity of what I had done. Besides completely obliterating the bird, I had seriously imperiled everyone around me. My ignorance and lust almost cost a life. To those men and that dog I say I am sorry.

I guess this is what bothers me so about the VP. He came very close to killing someone because of his negligence. I don't think any fair-minded person is going to continue to blame him for that misjudgment if he quickly owns up to it and subjects himself to public scrutiny. By finessing the situation and showing disregard for inquiry, however, is to suggest that you aren't really sorry.

Shame costs something. When you are afraid to endure it, you aren't really sorry.

CONFIRMATION

So. You turned 13.

I was in the process of writing an essay about my first hunting experience that happened when I turned 13. I thought it was timely, what with the Vice President shooting a guy like I almost did in 1977. But that's a story for another day.

I was thinking about turning 13 and the whole notion of coming of age, and I couldn't get my mind off of you. Before my very eyes you have become a young woman. When I see you, when I think about you, it shatters me. You devastate me with your beauty and paralyze me with fear. You are a mystery that is daily unfolding, then refolding, then surprising me with a whole new angle. Pubescent origami.

I remember that as a baby, and then as a toddler, you were bald. People thought you were a boy, even when you were festooned with pink frilly things. You were hard to figure out even then.

As soon as you could speak and hold on to an opinion, you expressed your disappointment that you had not been born black.

I remember the moment the U.S. women's soccer team won the 1999 World Cup. Brandi Chastain ripped off her jersey as a group of us erupted in cheers. You retreated to the corner with your arms crossed and a sour expression on your face.

"What's wrong, honey?" I asked.

You turned your defiant little six-year-old face toward me and said, "I'm mad. I wanted China to win."

I told that story to my university hosts in China a few years later. They are probably still talking about you.

"You come back next year and bring Daughter Number Two with you!" declared Mr. Mu triumphantly.

Your kindergarten teacher said that if she were planning a party she would most definitely invite you.

I remember the times you join me for a walk around the neighborhood, and you can't stop talking. Then, sometimes you join me for a walk or a ride in the car and we can be together for long periods of time with comfortable silence resting between us.

I love watching you grow from a baby to the person dozens of adults turn to first to care for their babies. Little kids look at you like you're Willy Wonka and they just found the golden ticket.

I love your strong will. It often manifests itself in protests against the daily required piano practicing, but all I can really hear is the way you make me feel when you lose yourself in music.

I love how you love innocence. Children and old people. Anyone who might be considered vulnerable. You have always favored the underdog, the least of these. You despise injustice like a Hebrew prophet.

I love that you love the presence of your friends, but how you can be absolutely content in solitude.

I love how adults who know you get a certain glimmer in their eyes when they talk about you. You seem to bring out the mischievous impulse in everyone. They know you are an outlaw...in the best kind of way. You evoke a yearning in them. They sense that you will have the courage to say and do things they would never dream of. That's the part that scares me. It fills me with pride and frightens me at the same time. That's what I love about you.

If we were Jewish, you would have a bat-mitzvah (Actually, I think bar-mitzvahs are at 13 and bat-mitzvahs are actually at 12.). Instead, the only tangible sign of your age is a confirmation class at church, where you are learning from a fantastic woman pastor how to come at God from an uncommon perspective.

You are confirming who you are in the world and what you believe. At this moment and in this space I also confirm something: I cannot imagine my life without you.

I know there are times you would rather not have me around. You're 13. I get that. But I remember what you used to say to me when you were three or four: "Go away in the house." You didn't want me in your face, but you needed me nearby.

Well, dear, I will try to give you the space to become a woman. May you grow into everything God has dreamed for you. May you learn to love foolishly and fight recklessly. May all that passion and ferocity and mischief in you ignite holy fires. May there always be evidence that you were in the area.

Okay. I'm going to go away now and leave you alone.

But I will always be right here.