Fight Like a Mother Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Foreword by Julianne Moore

  Introduction

  1: Use MOMentum

  2: Build the Plane as You Fly It

  3: Channel Your Inner Badass

  4: Losing Forward

  5: Use Your Bullhorn

  6: Tap into the Priceless Power of Volunteers

  7: Be Seen

  8: Know Your Numbers

  9: Build a Big Tent

  10: Let This Mother Run This Mother

  11: Keep Going

  Acknowledgments

  Appendix: Talking to Kids About Guns

  Notes

  About the Author

  Advance Praise for Fight Like a Mother

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Foreword

  I wonder how many memories start with a date. Certainly for me, the days my children were born, the day I was married, my birthday, my siblings’ birthdays, my parents’, the day my mother died—these dates are indelible.

  But the ordinary days become indelible only in retrospect, in the recalling of the events of the day over and over, in the retelling of the story of what you felt and of how that day changed you.

  On December 14, 2012, I was working in New York City. My job is erratic and takes me many places, and the effort it has taken to combine my family life with my working life (as it is for most parents) has been enormous. So that day in 2012, I was luxuriating in the privilege of a set job in Queens. I had reasonable hours, great pay, and a very short commute from my home in Manhattan. I was home for dinner every night. It was a dream job.

  My kids were in the same school, but in different divisions—my fifteen-year-old son was in the upper school, and my ten-year-old daughter was in middle school. Their vacations were slightly different, so my daughter, Liv, had just started her holiday break, while my son, Cal, was still in class. My husband, Bart, was working that day as well. I had a light day on the set and wasn’t scheduled to work until the afternoon, so I thought I would bring Liv to work with me and she could watch the few scenes I was shooting and then we would return home together. Once again, I thought how lucky I was that I had a job flexible and generous enough to allow me to bring my child to work.

  Early that day, the news broke about the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting. I felt shock, and disbelief, and horror. How could this happen? How could tiny children be shot in the safety of their own school? What could be done for those families, how will they go on? And then—how will I explain this to my own children?

  Liv was going to be with me all day, and so I felt I could control the narrative and decided we would discuss this as a family, when we were all together at the end of the day. Her father and I could tell our children about the tragedy, and assure them that they were safe. But until then, I would keep the news away from her.

  When the van came to get us for work, I whispered to the driver to please keep the radio off. In hair and makeup, I asked them to please turn off the TV, and I asked the other actors and crew members to please not mention anything in front of my daughter. Everyone was very shaken up by the news, and we all had difficulty concentrating that day, but everyone wanted to protect the little girl who happened to be visiting our set.

  We returned home in the early evening and had time before dinner, so I put on holiday music, opened the dusty boxes of Christmas ornaments, and began decorating the tree. Liv helped for a little while but then became distracted by her newly acquired smartphone, which, I am loathe to admit, we had just given her. At that moment, she looked up from her very carefully monitored phone, with its selected numbers of grandparents, mom, dad, brother, and friends, and said, “Mommy, did a bunch of little kids get shot today?”

  I was so ashamed. That was the moment I realized that I had failed as a mother. I wasn’t keeping her safe. Attempting to shield a child from terrible news does nothing to prevent them, or any other child in the United States, from experiencing gun violence. Only by DOING something about gun violence was I going to be the responsible parent and citizen I wanted to be.

  So I began speaking out. Traditionally, actors have been reluctant to talk about guns, because of the relationship in our culture between guns and entertainment. But one of the things that I learned was that the entire world consumes the exact same video games and movies, and we are the only developed country in the world that has this level of gun violence. I noticed that Michael Bloomberg had started an organization called Mayors Against Illegal Guns, and I sent money to it. I began speaking out in interviews. I read as much as I could about gun violence, and I started following people on Twitter who were speaking out about this epidemic. One of them was a woman named Shannon Watts.

  Shannon Watts had a similar experience to mine on the day of the Sandy Hook shooting. Her sense of outrage led her to start a Facebook page initially titled One Million Moms for Gun Control. Within moments of her creation, incensed moms across the country joined her, and Shannon understood that she had tapped into a “tsunami of rage” among American moms. Just like that, Shannon Watts became a mother of the movement.

  I didn’t get to meet Shannon for another two years. By then, I had tired of the blowback I received when speaking out against gun violence and realized I needed to do more than send money and tweet. I had been avidly following Shannon and realized that her organization, now titled Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America, had partnered with Mike Bloomberg’s group, now called Everytown for Gun Safety. Inspired by what they had done, I went to them and offered to create a nonpartisan council of people from my community (known for their very big mouths) who were willing to lend their loud voices to the gun safety movement. And so I founded the Creative Council at Everytown—our initial group consisted of everybody on my contact list who would answer my email. I was modeling my behavior on Shannon, who by this point had become my own personal hero.

  When I did meet Shannon in person, she did not disappoint. She was exactly as she had been described to me—a mom of five, modest, a full-time volunteer who worked around the clock to change culture and legislation. She is an empath, an introvert, a quiet warrior, and a leader whose mission statement never fails to both make me cry and galvanize my activism—“If we have lost our children, we have nothing left to lose.” In this wonderful book, Shannon explains what it is to be an activist and how all of us have the ability and the bandwidth to do more than we think is possible. She explains that moms have a unique toolkit of assets, and the very skill sets we use to manage our family lives are the ones that make us uniquely powerful activists.

  Moms Demand Action has grown from a Facebook page to our nation’s “first and largest grassroots counterweight to the gun lobby.” I am proud to be among the now thousands of volunteers, along with my now teenage daughter, working to change the culture of gun violence in the United States. And I am very proud to know Shannon Watts.

  —Julianne Moore

  Introduction

  On the morning of December 14, 2012, I was home alone—just me, the morning news, and a few baskets of laundry that needed folding. With my husband in meetings and my five kids in school—my son in middle school and the four girls in high school or college—I was looking forward to a little quiet time. I’d just dumped another pile of clothes onto the bed for folding when the news broke of a shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut.

  I stood transfixed by the live footage of children being marched out of their school into the woods for safety. Walking in a single-file line with their hands on one another’s shoulders, they looked so small, and so scared. As a mother, I wanted to fly through the TV screen to put my arms around them and protect them. It w
as a moment of instant heartbreak, made worse when I imagined what the parents of those children must be feeling as they raced to the school, not knowing whether their child was dead or alive—or worse, discovering that their child had been murdered in the sanctity of their elementary school.

  I thought of my own kids. How, on their first days of kindergarten, they’d seemed entirely too young, too small, and too vulnerable to go out into the world on their own. Even now, as teens and young adults, they still seemed like babies to me.

  “Please, God, don’t let this be as bad as it seems,” I found myself saying out loud. Although I was raised Catholic, I hadn’t prayed in years. Yet here I was, asking for a miracle to minimize the horror I was witnessing.

  Devastatingly, what had happened inside the school was far worse than anyone could have imagined. That morning, a twenty-year-old man had used a semiautomatic rifle and two semiautomatic pistols to shoot his way through the locked doors of a small-town elementary school—an iconic representation of the innocence of childhood—and murder six educators and twenty first-graders as they hid in bathrooms and closets.

  I pushed the pile of laundry aside and sat down on the bed, dumbstruck. As I covered my face with my hands, I thought of the long list of mass shootings that had happened in recent years. Columbine High School in Colorado. Red Lake High School in Minnesota. Virginia Tech. Fort Hood in Texas. A movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. A Safeway in Tucson, Arizona. An immigrant center in Binghamton, New York. A mall in Omaha, Nebraska. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a map of the United States with dots appearing in the location of each shooting. The image turned my stomach.

  I felt overwhelming sadness looking at the faces of the families on my TV. My heart ached for the mothers who were receiving the unthinkable news that their children weren’t coming home. But at the same time, I was enraged at the terrible injustice victimizing these children—how the systems and laws that were supposed to protect them had so clearly failed. If our children weren’t safe in their schools, they weren’t safe anywhere.

  I actually said out loud, “Why does this keep happening?” In that moment, I was disgusted by my own inaction—the complacent way I’d assumed that someone else would do something. After all, I’d seen this play out before—I’d watched the media coverage after every mass shooting. I’d shed tears for the people whose lives were taken by an angry man—later I’d learn that it was nearly always a man—with a gun. I’d gotten angry and thought, “Someone should do something!” And then I’d gone back to my normal life, to my job when I was still working, or to my family responsibilities now as a stay-at-home mom.

  In my head, I heard only one word in response to my question, and that word was Enough. Enough waiting for legislators to pass better gun laws. Enough hoping that things would somehow get better. Enough swallowing my frustration when politicians offered their thoughts and prayers but no action. Enough listening to the talking heads on the news channels calling for more guns and fewer laws. Enough complacency. Enough standing on the sidelines.

  I knew I had two choices: move my family of seven to another country with less gun violence, or stay and fight to make this country that I and my family love safer for all of us. I had no idea what that fight would look like, much less how to participate in it. I just knew I had to do something.

  And while I’d never been directly affected by gun violence, two incidences in particular had made a big impression on me.

  The first mass shooting I remember was in 1991 in Killeen, Texas. I was a twenty-year-old college student, living with my parents about two hundred miles away in Plano, Texas. I was home alone on that day, too, watching the news coverage after a man had driven his pickup truck through the window of a Luby’s cafeteria and emptied half a dozen high-capacity clips into the crowd of more than one hundred diners. He killed twenty-three people that day and injured twenty-seven others. I tore myself away from the television to answer the phone. When I heard my dad’s voice, I burst into tears.

  Another mass shooting had recently hit closer to home. In 2012, a shooter dressed in tactical gear set off tear gas grenades inside a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, during a midnight premiere of The Dark Knight Rises. As moviegoers scrambled to get out of the theater, the shooter used a semiautomatic rifle to kill twelve of them and wound fifty-eight others.

  The night after that shooting, my daughter and stepdaughter had plans to take my son, Sam, to see the same movie in our hometown of Zionsville, Indiana. Even though Sam wasn’t yet thirteen at the time and the movie was rated PG-13, I agreed—he had always loved all things Batman. Just before they left, more news about the shooting came on the TV in our kitchen. I hurried over to the remote to turn it off, but it was too late. Sam had heard the details and was visibly shaken.

  My youngest had always been an anxious kid. He never wanted to stay home alone. He often slept on the floor of our bedroom because of bad dreams. He generally ended up in the nurse’s office with a stomachache the day of a big test. He had even developed anxiety attacks, which a therapist was helping him with. Things had just started getting a little better when the Aurora shooting happened.

  That night in the kitchen, I put my hands on his shoulders, looked him in the eyes, and told him, “It’s okay. You’re safe. It won’t happen here.” Sam looked dubious, but he and his sisters were already on the way out the door, and he really did want to see the new Batman movie. So they went.

  I didn’t think about it again until they all came home, a lot earlier than expected. The girls told me how as soon as they sat down, Sam had gotten upset, saying he was afraid a man with a gun was going to burst in at any moment. When he started crying, they took him into the lobby to try to soothe him, but ultimately they decided to leave.

  In the months that followed, Sam had nightmares and anxiety attacks and slept on my bedroom floor most nights.

  Now, only months later, I dreaded having to tell Sam about Sandy Hook, particularly because it had happened in a school just like the one he attended. We could avoid movie theaters, but there was no getting around going to school. I spent most of the rest of that Friday thinking primarily about how I would break the news to Sam. Too upset myself to be a steadying force for him, I decided to put off telling him a little longer.

  On Saturday morning I tried to balance myself by going to yoga. I didn’t want to go. I’m not really the yoga type—my mind is always going, and I’m the first to admit that I can be controlling and tense. On a good day, I dreaded going to class a bit; on this day, the thought of it made me sweat. But I went anyway. Still shattered by the thought of the grief-stricken parents in Connecticut who’d lost their babies in such a brutal, horrifying way, I willed myself into the car to attend class.

  Once at class, I waited for a sense of serenity to settle in. I sat in hero pose. I listened to my classmates’ whispery ujjayi breaths. But despite my best efforts, I did not feel calm. All I could think of were the pundits I’d seen that morning offering condolences without calling for any changes. To be honest, all I felt was pissed off.

  I thought of my prayer the day before, and I knew that my prayer had to involve more than just thoughts. It needed to include action. I had to do something, and that something wasn’t yoga. So I jumped up, rolled up my mat, and bolted out the door.

  Once home, I didn’t even take my coat off. I grabbed my laptop and opened it on the kitchen counter while my husband John and the kids milled around, finishing breakfast and piling plates in the sink. I went online to search for support. I thought there had to be some kind of organization already in existence—like a Mothers Against Drunk Driving for gun violence prevention. But all I found were small state organizations working on local gun violence issues—which had made important strides but didn’t add up to the nationwide grassroots army I was envisioning—and a handful of think tanks in Washington, DC, most of which were run and staffed by men.

  I knew I wanted to be in the company of other women who were connected to the
heart of the issue—the fact that more guns and fewer gun laws meant less safe kids. I could sense that moms were the moral and emotional counterbalance to the gun lobby’s bluster and posturing. While it was true that the National Rifle Association was incredibly powerful and had covered a lot of ground by making gun extremists afraid their guns would be taken away from them, American mothers—especially now, in the wake of Sandy Hook—were afraid their children would be taken away from them. If that wasn’t the type of threat that would spark a mama bear mentality, I didn’t know what would.

  Women are superheroes every day in their families and communities. I wanted to bring that mentality to this fight.

  After looking online for almost an hour, I decided to make my own Facebook page called One Million Moms for Gun Control (we would later change our name to Moms Demand Action for Gun Sense in America) in an attempt to start an online conversation with other moms who were feeling the same way I was.

  At that time, I had seventy-five Facebook friends and an inactive Twitter handle. I was not a social media phenom.

  “You sure you want to do that?” John asked.

  “It’s just a Facebook page,” I said. “Not a big deal.”

  Then I typed the words that would change my life—and create the nation’s first and largest grassroots counterweight to the gun lobby (words that I hope will continue to impact the story of America’s gun violence crisis):

  This site is dedicated to action on gun control—not just dialogue about anti-gun violence. Change will require action by angry Americans outside of Washington, DC. We need to organize a Million Mom March in 2013. Join us—we will need strength in numbers against a resourceful, powerful, and intransigent gun lobby.

  I started this page because, as a mom, I can no longer sit on the sidelines. I am too sad and too angry. Don’t let anyone tell you we can’t talk about this tragedy now—they said the same after Virginia Tech, Gabby Giffords, and Aurora. The time is now.