“Six minutes and about 20 seconds,” she said as she began to speak in a clear, powerful voice that belied her years. She continued: “In a little over 6 minutes, 17 of our friends were taken from us 15 were injured, and everyone, absolutely everyone, in the Douglas community was forever altered.”
She continued: “Everyone who was there understands. Everyone has been touched by the cold grip of gun violence understands. No one could believe that there were bodies in that building waiting to be ID’d for over a day. No one knew that the people who were missing had stopped breathing long before any of us had even known that a code red had been called.” She talked about the shooting’s “devastating aftermath.”
Many people use logical arguments and statistics to support or oppose gun control. That has made no difference, has it? González instead looked at the human side: “For those who still can’t comprehend because they refuse to, I’ll tell you where it went.” Crying, struggling to breathe, she listed her friends and classmates and their favorite activities that they would never again be able to do. The human side is what gun rights advocates never want to talk about. She forced the issue.
She then stopped talking for a few minutes. She used silence to fill the gap until 6 minutes and 20 seconds had passed. Such a short time. Silence is uncomfortable, is it not? The crowd listened quietly for a while, and then chanted “never again” while they waited for her to continue. Resuming, a bit more quietly, González noted that the shooter shot for only a short time. Her speech, carefully coordinated with the actual time that the shooter used, illustrated exactly how short a time it was.
Communication professor Robert L. Scott introduced the idea of the “Rhetoric of Silence.” If there is a time for speech, he explained, there is also a time for silence. We often offer the deceased a moment of silence as a tribute, recognizing that they will never speak again. We might offer silence to show non-violence. We offer silence to show that we are voiceless. Chapter 7 of my book, From the Front Porch to the Front Page: McKinley and Bryan in the 1896 Presidential Campaign, points out how it means something when we fail to talk about something that cannot be ignored.
Instead of using silence in those ways, González used silence as a marker. She and her beeping cell phone were timekeepers. She showed how short the shooting was. She showed how uncomfortable its brevity was. She didn’t just say that the time was short; she exemplified it.
Let’s return to something that González said at the outset: “No one knew that the people who were missing had stopped breathing long before any of us had even known that a code red had been called.” The NRA famously says that gun control is no answer, that the only answer is a “good guy with a gun.” But the shooting was so short that, even if the school’s resource officer and other law enforcement personnel had done their jobs, the shooter would have had plenty of time to kill and maim plenty of students before they got to him. Her period of silence showed, to some extent, the uselessness of gun advocates’ strategy.
González’ earlier outspoken comments had previously led Maine politician Leslie Gibson, a Republican, to call her a “skinhead lesbian.” He soon withdrew his candidacy. He later apologized. Too late, unless he uses the opportunity to reform his life. The Stoneman Douglas protestors are, contrary to every principle of modern-day politics, avoiding the smear tactics that have wrecked American political discourse. And smears don't work against people who are obviously, undeniably sincere.
Earlier school shootings met with outrage and calls for change. They have gone nowhere. Will this time be different? The Marjory Stoneman Douglas students don’t seem eager to go away.
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