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Guns and Va. Tech: Year later, no solutions
 | Interactive |
 | Where are Va. Tech headliners now? It was the worst peacetime mass shooting in American history — 33 dead at Virginia Tech. Many names and images became familiar on front pages, Web sites and TV channels. Find out about some of them in our special interactive. |
Grassroots moms for gun control
Lily Habtu works a pair of scissors through orange and maroon fabric, the tendons of her wrist moving under skin still scarred by a bullet from Cho's gun. Around her, a dozen mothers are hunched over plastic tables in a hot, cramped art room of an Alexandria preschool, piecing together hundreds of memorial ribbons. A wall covered in children's handprints is partly obscured by a banner advertising the group's Web site: ProtestEasyGuns.com.
This has become an unlikely headquarters for a grassroots gun control contingent, the result of an idea generated by two moms standing next to a sandbox a day after the Virginia Tech shootings.
Most of these women had never been to a demonstration or thought about gun control. Now they are loud proponents of closing the so-called gun show loophole.
Alexandria, in northern Virginia, is a wealthy and largely liberal enclave. But the members of this group fall everywhere on the political spectrum, from far left to far right. Some have never been comfortable around guns, others grew up with them. They have made thousands of ribbons in the past year, worn by protesters nationwide.
Tina Gehring made so many her hands blistered. Then she made some more.
The leader of this pack, 42-year-old Abby Spangler, a willowy cellist and mother of two, is calling out updates: They now have commitments for more than 80 "lie-ins" nationwide for April 16. At each event, 32 people, the number of people killed by Cho, will lie down for three minutes, the amount of time it took Cho to buy his guns. This group will lie down in front of the U.S. Supreme Court.
Fighting back for change
"We are FIGHTING BACK!" she shouts. The women drop their scissors and glue guns and burst into applause.
Spangler makes no apologies for her anger. "You don't kill my fellow Virginians," she says, "and not expect us to fight back for change."
Habtu graduated last year and now lives at home with her family. She suffers from post-traumatic stress, scans unfamiliar rooms for the nearest exit, worries that another mass shooting could happen at any time. Her jaw, shattered by another bullet, never healed, and she was left with the face of a stranger.
This cause has become her life. She fills her days drumming up support and organizing lie-ins. It would be naive to think that changing one law would stop school shootings, she says. But it is a start.
Or do 'Guns Save Lives'?
A few hours later and 20 miles to the west in the equally liberal city of Fairfax, Philip Van Cleave stands in front of a room of around 30 rapt listeners. On his coat is a large, orange button: "Guns Save Lives."
Van Cleave, president of the pro-gun Virginia Citizens Defense League, is delivering a lecture, "Concealed Carry — Changing the Debate," at George Mason University. In the audience are members of the College Republicans and Students for Concealed Carry.
He details the horrors of a 1991 mass shooting at a Texas restaurant where 23 were killed. Just like at Virginia Tech, he points out, none of the victims was armed. They died helpless and powerless.
There isn't time to wait for police in these situations, Van Cleave says. A gun is an equalizer, a lifesaving tool. But the other side, he says, doesn't understand that.
"Rule No. 1 for those of you that are new to this: Don't ever, ever, EVER apply logic to gun control," he says. "Gun control is about emotion."
Unsettled by displayed weapons
Later, Van Cleave and seven friends stroll into a Fuddruckers restaurant, their guns openly displayed on their hips. Most customers look up briefly, then return to their dinners.
A few members of a Pittsburgh college tennis team are eyeing Van Cleave's group. Some think the guns are funny, others are unsettled. They had no idea firearms were allowed in restaurants.
"I just don't see the need," says 19-year-old Emily Himmel.
The need is clear, says Van Cleave: You never know when your life will be on the line.
"To some degree, if somebody is nuts and they're determined to kill other human beings, there's nothing you can do to stop them," he says. "But you can at least protect yourself."
Difficult to move on
At the convenience store back in Narrows, cashier Jessica Perdue pauses while ringing up customers.
"I don't know that there is a solution," she says finally. "People are gonna be sick, they're gonna do things. It's like — I don't know."
She trails off and stares at the counter.
Across the street at the MacArthur Inn, Allen Neely nurses a soda and watches CNN. He doesn't really know how to move on from the tragedy, doesn't really know how to stop another one.
"It's gonna happen again somewhere," he says. "I just hope I'm not there."
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