Moms Away: The new brand of gun nut

National Review, June 5, 2000

 © Andrew Stuttaford

IT'S not so much what they said (although that was bad enough), but how they said it. Several hundred thousand gun nuts were gathered on the Mall. They were hectoring, self-righteous, and, when it came to firearms, quite incapable of rational discussion. I'm referring, of course, to the "Million Moms" and their march. It was Mother's Day 2000. The Moms were in D.C. to call for "commonsense" gun control—licensing, registration, the usual thin edges of the wedge. There was opposition from the Second Amendment Sisters, but theirs was only a small rebel encampment, all baseball caps and American flags.

 © Andrew Stuttaford

This day belonged to the other side, to the pink and white T-shirts of the Million Mom March. It was a triumph for Donna Dees-Thomases, the self-styled "suburban mom" who organized the march. It had taken around nine months to set up. As Mrs. Dees-Thomases, a publicist by trade, likes to say, "women understand what you can create in nine months." The march itself (which was really more of a rally) was impressive, seemingly flush with cash (thanks for the free bottled water!), and well organized. There were tents, placards, posters, pink banners (but rarely the Stars and Stripes) fluttering in the breeze. Charlton Heston didn't show, but there were plenty of other celebrities, all under the command of a stern-faced Rosie O'Donnell. The Moms themselves were a disciplined bunch, standing for hours under a hot early-summer sun, attentive to the speeches coming from a large stage. They could also gaze at a number of giant screens dotted around the Mall that showed images of the audience, the speakers, and, from time to time, misleading statistics of the "if you have a gun in the house you are doomed" variety. This being the United States of Oprah, there were occasional moments of tears and communal hugging, but not too many. This was a disproportionately upscale group, more restrained, Katie Couric rather than Erin Brockovich.

 © Andrew Stuttaford

It was also a crowd of dupes. The Million Mom March was brilliantly manipulative agitprop, a textbook example of how the Left will find a potentially popular, modest-sounding issue and twist it in a way to help along their agenda.

Not that they will admit it. These campaigns are always portrayed as being above mere politics. Donna Dees-Thomases is at pains to stress that her cause is "bipartisan." It is, of course, unfair, very unfair, to draw any conclusions from the fact that her sister-in- law is Susan Thomases, a longtime confidante of Hillary Rodham Clinton, but if this rally was independent it was only in a very NPR sort of way. Hillary herself attended the march, and her husband videotaped a message of support. Gore 2000 stickers and signs were everywhere. I did see one placard concerning George W, but it suggested that he "wasn't fit to run a laundromat." On the podium the (so to speak) big guns were more discreet. Susan Sarandon briefly slipped the leash with a speech that seemed to be headed in the direction of five-year plans and the collectivization of agriculture, but most speakers stuck to the subject—"commonsense," limited firearms legislation. That was their single issue, they claimed, and "in November" they want it to go the Moms' too. If it is, Al Gore will be in the White House and, ultimately, the Bill of Rights will be in the outhouse.

 © Andrew Stuttaford

They may succeed. Gun control resonates with all those suburban moms who feel that firearms are, well, icky. Back in the early 1980s, their mothers or aunts or older sisters used to feel the same way about cruise missiles. Disarmament then, and now, is a perfect wedge issue that can be pitched purely at the emotional level. Speaker after speaker talked of an epidemic of gun violence. Singer Melissa Etheridge kept "hearing a lot of fear." Well, yes, Melissa. That's because of events like this march. Death, we were led to believe, stalks the suburbs and the schoolyard, and he's packing heat. In fact, over the last 20 years the murder rate's down and firearms-related accidents have fallen dramatically. All this at a time when gun ownership has greatly expanded. Even schools are safer. But you won't have heard those facts at this rally.

The Moms aren't big on facts or reasoned argument. Their spin kit ("Public Relations 101") has firm instructions for supporters wanting to publicize the march on TV or in the newspaper: "Before your interview, inform the local media contact that you will not engage in debate with others." To discussion, these mothers, like others in the "progressive" camp, prefer the coercive language of crisis (health care, global warming, you name it) to push their agenda. It's an approach that works best when it can be tied in with real tragedies. And so it was on the Mall. Homemade placards bore the pictures of murdered loved ones. Speakers included a teacher from Columbine, grieving mothers, and crippled children, a trail of tears designed to lead to only one conclusion. There was, of course, no mention of those thousands whose lives have been saved by the defensive use of guns.

Yes, thousands, probably far more. But as Mrs. Dees-Thomases understands, what politician is brave enough to raise that point with a teacher from Columbine? Just in case someone does dare, the Moms' leader bas another arrow in her quiver. She bas labeled her march a campaign for "safe kids." As she knows, Americans seem to accept any number of restrictions on their freedom so long as they are allegedly for the benefit of "the children," the Trojan Ponies of our liberty. To this end, the Moms' keynote deceptive statistic (every campaign should have one) is that twelve "kids" are killed every day by gunfire (to reach that number, you have to include tots of 19). At the rally itself, the imagery was child-centered. There was a stroller march down the Mall and a sing-along with Raffi. Up on the stage, it was W. C. Fields's hell; kids making speeches, kids singing songs, and even kids lining up to ring a sort of reverse Liberty Bell (it was made from melted-down guns). For those who had not already had enough of little children, the viewing screens would occasionally show footage of yet more.

The only people able to speak for all these youngsters, it was argued, are mothers. They have to be the right sort of mothers, of course. Pistol-packing mamas need not apply. Dads, of course, didn't rate a mention.

For the Moms, this is seductive stuff. It tells them that they are a uniquely moral force, that they are important, custodians of the future or something like that. No wonder they are lapping it up. The implications for the rest of us are not so great. The underlying message of the march was that society has to be run, first and foremost, in the interests of its children as determined by (approved) moms. And whatever else that means, it means more gun control. To those who ask why, writer Anna Quindlen had one. revealing answer: "because I said so." The crowd went wild—laughing, cheering, and repeating the phrase. They forgot one thing. The American people are not all children.

Or are they?

Andy, Get Your Gun

National Review, February 21, 2000

I DIDN'T want to be Bernie Goetz. I just wanted a handgun. Legally. Something to keep at home. A move within Manhattan had taken me away from the comforts of doorman security (you know how it is). A little extra protection seemed prudent, 911 calls can take a while to answer, and Rudy isn't going to be mayor forever. Should be pretty straightforward, I thought. In my native Britain it would be impossible. But this is the United States, home of the Second Amendment, land of liberty. Government knows its place. They do things differently in America. But then there's New York City, a place where the old constitutional certainties have been replaced by the rules of the NYPD, License Division. If you believe that this is a local problem, a Big Apple nightmare that could never apply to you, think again, A dozen states already insist on handgun permits. Citing as always "the children," it is clear that Candidates Gore and Bradley want to expand on this at the federal level. The Brady Act was not enough. There's earnest talk of licensing, registration, additional checks to which, allegedly, only the unreasonable could object.

But the unreasonable have a point. New York City's licensing system has turned a right into a privilege. Like all privileges, it's enjoyed only by the few. There may be more than 7 million people in the five boroughs, but only 40,000 have valid handgun permits. Licensing isn't the thin end. It is the wedge. If you want to find out what that modest-sounding licensing requirement can mean in the hands of a bureaucracy that doesn't want you to have a handgun, come here, to the City.

It starts with a form, of course—PD 643-041 (Rev. 1-94) h1. Some of the questions are obvious (arrest record and, excitingly, "aliases"). Others are odd ("Have you ever been denied appointment in a civil service system?") or, seemingly, aimed at members of the Clinton administration (list any incidents of "Temporary Loss of Memory"). Watch out for question 19: "Have you ever had or applied for any type of license or permit issued to you by any City, State or Federal agency?" You haven't? Well, if you are a driver you have. Forget to mention your driver's license and you will be rejected and have to start all over again.

Next, submit the form. This, naturally, can be done only in one place, and in person: Room 110 at Police Headquarters, Manhattan. Nowhere else will do—not Room 109, and certainly not Room 111 Anywhere in Brooklyn, Queens, Staten Island, or the Bronx is out of the question (although Queens—and nowhere else— is where you must go for your rifle or shotgun permit). The form needs supporting documentation: yes, including that driver's license. It is not enough, however, merely to present your driver's license. A notarized statement certifying that you did indeed apply for that driver's license is also essential. The fact that your photograph and signature are on the license is irrelevant. No notary, and it's no go.

It's at this point that capitalism comes to the rescue. Even in New York. There is no need to struggle through this process alone. A small industry of license consultants has sprung up. Some, doubtless, add little value, but the repeated official warnings against them are very reminiscent of something chat might have come from a pre-Miranda cop explaining that, no, no, you really don't need that fancy lawyer. I opted for the pistol-consultant equivalent ($395 all-in) of a fancy lawyer, Larry Goodson of License Services, "Specialists in Firearms Licensing, Training, Selection and Safety," an outfit in Queens. We never met. Like Charlie in Charlie's Angels, he was a mysterious voice over the phone. I imagined him as one of those drill sergeants in an old war movie, dispensing the gruff advice that would see his rookies through their grueling ordeal. Much of which, we know, would consist of waiting for that encounter with destiny.

Which can take a while. There aren't many gun-license applications each year (between one and two thousand), but when it comes to processing them, the city that never sleeps, dozes off. The applicant just has to wait, hoping that his home can be a castle even without a cannon. And if the Grandson of Sam came crashing through the door? Well, a friend of mine recently managed to frighten away an intruder from his apartment, but he had a loud voice, a sand wedge, and, crucially, a cowardly burglar. Would I be so lucky? A lifetime of avoiding hand-to-hand combat would mean that any brawl would be likely to turn out badly. The only weapons in my place were kitchen utensils, a Swiss Army knife, and, perhaps, a very heavy book.

The weeks passed, safely, but without any word from Police Headquarters. Finally, after five months, a letter arrived. I had to contact the License Division within "five days of receipt" to fix up an interview in, you guessed it. Room 110. "Failure to respond and/or comply with this notice will result in disapproval of your application." Away on vacation? That, probably, would be too bad. Do not pass Go, do not collect handgun.

The interview is to be taken seriously. This is not just a quick check for drool on the chin or blood on the hands. The police want to be sure that the would-be gun owner knows the law, and they might, warned pistol consultant Larry, try to trip me up. Try they did. The interviewing officer was courteous, friendly even, but it didn't stop him from asking whether I would be taking my gun to the target range every weekend once I received my premises residence license (with target endorsement). It was a trick. As, fortunately, I remembered, holders of such permits can take their guns to the range only twice a month (unloaded, in a locked box). At the end of the interview, there is little clue as to how you have done ("That's to avoid incidents," explained Larry). Next, two more officers have to review the case.

Which they did for another three months. Then, finally, the great day arrived, if not the permit. I had been approved, but the permit has to be picked up in person at Police Headquarters in, for variety, Room 152. Neglect to claim the permit within 30 days and it will he canceled, and the applicant is back to square one, Room 110. With the permit comes a handgun-purchase authorization. This entitles the holder to purchase a gun from another licensee, a licensed dealer, a policeman, or, so long as the deceased held a valid license, a corpse. Fail to buy a gun within 30 days, and the authorization is canceled, along with the pistol license that it took eight months to obtain.

Finding somewhere to buy a gun legally in Manhattan is not much less challenging than looking for a liquor store in Saudi Arabia. Early negotiations with a fellow called "Chop" in a Midtown outlet didn't work out, but a trip to New York Ironworks hit, so to speak, the target. It's a store where the NYPD crowd goes to buy weapons, extra equipment, and fashion essentials such as "Frisk 'Em" gloves. It is also just around the comer from Police Headquarters, which matters, because that is where, for the fourth time in this process, the new gun owner has to return. Within 72 hours and packing heat (so long as the heat is unloaded and in a locked box). It's a quick pass through the metal detectors (yes, they do work) and then back to Room 152 (so long as it's Monday to Friday, between the hours of noon and 2 P.M.). The pistol will be poked and prodded, and the bill of sale perused. Survive this and the process is complete. The gun can be kept at home. So there it sits, gripped by its newly mandatory trigger lock, a last line of defense.

For the time being anyway. The pistol license, of course, is issued subject to certain conditions. And the first of these, listed right at the top of the Police Department's little handbook for licensees? The license "is revocable at any time."