Mr. President, 9 years ago this morning, I was in Bridgeport, CT. I had just done an event with the city of Bridgeport, and I was meeting my wife and, at the time, my two very young children, ages 4 and 1, in 2012 at the Bridgeport train…
Mr. President, 9 years ago this morning, I was in Bridgeport, CT. I had just done an event with the city of Bridgeport, and I was meeting my wife and, at the time, my two very young children, ages 4 and 1, in 2012 at the Bridgeport train station. We were going to take the train down to New York City, and Cathy and I were going to show our two kids the splendor of New York City. We were going to go see the Christmas tree. We were going to go to the ice rink.
And as we were waiting for the train to arrive, I got news that there had been a shooting at a school in Newtown, CT. Newtown is a beautiful community, a quintessential small town, close-knit. The Labor Day parade every year attracts every civic and community group to it, the pride of the community.
And I wondered whether I could still continue on to this family trip or whether I needed to wait to find out more. I figured it was a disgruntled employee. A few moments passed as I waited for the train, and the news began to come in that this was much more grim, that there were children shot, perhaps many.
And I decided that I should get in a car and head to Sandy Hook. There are a lot of days when I wish I didn't see the things that I saw or hear the things that I heard in Newtown that day.
Senator Blumenthal, who is on the floor with me right now, he and I were there, and we were just witnesses. We were just interlopers. Neither of us lost a loved one that day, but it is a day that I will never, ever forget, etched into my brain.
And we come here likely every December 14 to memorialize another year having passed since Sandy Hook. And, of course, at some point, you come to a loss for words. You can't figure out what new to say to your colleagues to try to explain what has happened to these families, to this community, why there is such an aching for action, a disbelief that this country refuses to stand up and do something about the safety of our kids--because, well, Newtown caught the Nation's attention for good reason, twenty 6 and 7-year-olds vanishing from the Earth in an instant. Every single day, there are mothers and fathers who are losing children to gun violence--gun violence that is completely preventable.
A few weeks after Newtown, I was in a community center in the north end of Hartford with parents who were furious that the country was just waking up to this epidemic of gun violence after White children were shot in Newtown because it had been happening to their Black children for decades.
And so, today, I want to do something very simple for my colleagues and for the country, I want to just explain to you what the grief of these families feels like, what it looks like when you lose a child, whether that child is 6 or 7 or 16 or 17. When you outlive your child, when your child doesn't even make it to adulthood, there is an all- consuming grief that is inescapable.
One of the emotions that is connected to this grief that I have learned about is the tendency to deny the reality that has become your surrounding.
That is logical, to momentarily, either purposely or subconsciously, try to figure out a way out of this world that you are living in without your child or without your son or daughter whom you had planned to spend the rest of your life with.
And so I want to talk a little bit about that emotion today. I live now in the South End of Hartford. I live just two blocks from the intersection of South Prospect and Shelby Street. I think I live there intentionally, because I know this story so well, and when my family and I were looking for a house in Hartford and there was one available just two blocks from this intersection, I think there was probably something intentional about the choice we made.
On and at that intersection, just two months before the Sandy Hook shooting, Shane Oliver, a young African American, 20 years old, was meeting a couple of acquaintances. He was transferring a car that he had fixed up to this other group of individuals whom he knew in passing.
He was there with his girlfriend, and during the exchange of this vehicle, an argument broke out. It started because of something untoward that his sellers said about his girlfriend. It was essentially an argument over a girl that turned into a fistfight that then prompted Luis Rodriguez to go back to his car. Inside that car was an illegal gun. He walked out of the car with a gun. Shane Oliver tried to run, and he was shot in the back. He died that night at a Hartford hospital.
His mother, for a good deal afterward, would wake up in the middle of the night, awaken from a deep sleep, put her clothes on, get into her car, and start driving. She would do this night after night.
She would drive from her home to the corner of South Prospect and Shelby Street, where her son died. And when she got there, she would shift her transmission into park and she would turn on the high beams and just wait for hours--the car in park, the high beams on-- ostensibly, waiting for her son to come back. It is impossible. Shane Oliver had died months ago. He wasn't coming back. But his mother, consumed by this grief, consumed by this need to deny what had happened, sat there in her car.
Around the same time, one parent whom both Dick and I have gotten to know very well in Sandy Hook came up with her own trick. She would pretend that her son who had died that day at Sandy Hook wasn't dead. In fact, he was just visiting a friend for the afternoon.
She was trying to figure out ways to just get some housework done, to just tidy up the place, to make some phone calls that she needed to in order to get her family's business done, and the only way that she could do that was to imagine that her son was at a play date and that he would be coming home soon. And, of course, that dream would vanish, and she would once again come to grips with the reality that her son was never, ever coming home. But that need to deny that reality, even for a few hours, was what was necessary for her in order to get through the day.
I just tell those two stories because I want people to understand how desperate your life becomes when you lose a child. We lost 26 individuals--20 kids and 6 educators--9 years ago today in Sandy Hook, and the families of all 26 of these individuals--the parents, the brothers, the sisters, the children--their lives will never, ever be the same. Newtown will never, ever be the same. Many of these kids lived within a block or two of each other. Everyone in Newtown knew one of these families, two of these families. Half of these kids all went to the same church. The funerals that we went to over and over again were at the same place, with the same priest presiding over funeral after funeral, wake after wake.
And so sometimes those of us who work in and around this issue of gun violence get angry at our colleagues, because how can you listen to these stories of grief--and they happen in every State--and choose not to act?
Lastly, I want to do something that I have done several times on the floor, because I am running out of ways to express what happened in Sandy Hook and why our inaction is inexcusable. I am running out of turns of phrase to do it myself. So maybe the words of a parent will help you understand why we need to act. So I am going to read a few excerpts from testimony that our friend Neil Heslin gave before the U.S. Senate just 2 months after Sandy Hook occurred.
Neil is a complicated guy, a good friend who had hard times in his life. But his best friend was his son Jesse Lewis. And I will end by reading what he wrote to the U.S. Senate 9 years ago.
On December 14, Jesse got up and got ready for school. He
was always excited to go to school. I remember on that day we
stopped at Misty Vale Deli. It's funny the things you
remember. I remember Jesse got the sausage, egg and cheese he
always gets, with hot chocolate. And I remember the hug he
gave me when I dropped him off. He just held me, and he
rubbed my back. I can still feel that hug.
And Jesse said ``It's going to be alright.''
I mentioned that his father Neil had a rough life. He had a hard time, like a lot of folks.
And Jesse said ``It's going to be alright. Everything's
going to be okay, Dad.'' Looking back it makes me wonder.
What did he know? Did he have some idea about what was about
to happen? But at the time I didn't think much of it. I just
thought he was being sweet.
He was always being sweet like that. He was the kind of kid
who used to leave me voice messages where he'd sing me happy
birthday even when it wasn't my birthday. I'd ask him about
it, and he'd say ``I just wanted to make you feel happy.''
He had so much wisdom. He would know things, and I would
have no idea how he knew. But whatever he said, it was always
right. He would remember things we'd done and places we'd
been that I had completely forgotten about. I used to think
of him as a tiny adult.
Other people felt it, too. Teachers would tell me about his
laugh, how he made things at school more fun just by being
there.
Jesse had this idea that you never leave people hurt. If
you can help somebody, you do it.
That's what Jesse thought. If you can make somebody feel better, you do it.
They tell me that's how he died. I guess we still don't
know exactly what happened at that school. Maybe we'll never
know. But what people tell me is Jesse did something
different. When he heard the shooting, he didn't run and
hide. He started yelling. People disagree [about what he
said]. . . . [But] ten kids from my son's class made it to
safety. I hope to God something Jesse did [that day] helped
them survive. . . .
What I know is that Jesse wasn't shot in the back. He took
two bullets. The first one grazed the side of his head, but
that [probably] didn't stop him yelling. The other hit him in
the forehead. Both bullets were fired from the front. That
means the last thing my son did was look Adam Lanza straight
in the face. . . .
Jesse grew up with guns, just like I did. I started shooting . . . when I was eight years old. My dad was a vice president for years at a local gun club. He started taking me shooting when I was eight. . . . He taught me to respect guns, just like I taught Jesse.
Jesse . . . had an interest in guns. He had a bb gun. I
watched over him like a hawk with that. I taught him gun
safety. He knew it. He could recite it to you.
Some guns just don't have any place in the hands of
civilians. The assault weapons we're talking about today,
their sole purpose is to put a lot of lead out in a
battlefield quickly. That's what they do. That's what they
did at Sandy Hook Elementary.
I wish I wasn't here with you today.
Neil writes:
The best day of my life was the day my son was born. The
worst day was the day he died. I don't want to relive that
day by talking to you here about it. It would be easier for
me just to stay home.
But I know that's not what Jesse would do. Jesse died
screaming at a man with a gun. He died yelling at the top of
his lungs so maybe some of his classmates could get to
safety.
I'm not real political. Half the time I think it doesn't
matter which group of you guys runs things out here, no
offense. I've always thought it wasn't a real good idea for
people to be walking around the streets with military
weapons, but I probably wouldn't have said anything about it.
So the reason I say this isn't about politics is because
what I felt on that day, and what I've felt since, doesn't
have anything to do with politics. In politics, people like
to debate and say if we banned the weapon that Adam Lanza
used would he just find something else. Let me tell you, when
you're sitting at a firehouse and it is one in the morning
and you are hoping against hope that your son is still hiding
somewhere in that school, you want any change that makes it
one bit more likely you'll see your boy again.
Before he died, Jesse and I used to talk about maybe coming
to Washington someday. He wanted to go up the Washington
monument. When we talked about it last year Jesse asked if we
could come and meet the President.
I said earlier that I can be a little cynical about
politicians. But Jesse believed in you. He learned about you
in school and he believed in you. I want to believe in you,
too. I know you can't give me Jesse back. Believe me, if I
thought you could I'd be asking you for that. But I want to
believe that you will think about what I told you [here]
today. I want to believe that you'll think about it and then
you'll do something about it, whatever you can do to make
sure that no other father has to see what I've seen.
Dick and I were at that firehouse all day and all night, and I will never, ever forget that when all the parents had gone home, having told what happened, the first responders had almost all left. Sitting in the middle of the firehouse all by himself was this one man. And it was Neil Heslin. I left that firehouse--I can't remember--at 10 o'clock or 11 o'clock at night. And Neal was the last person I talked to. And, as he tells you in his testimony, he didn't leave until 1:30. If there was any chance that Jesse was coming back, that he was running around in the woods, he was going to be sitting there at the firehouse.
It gets harder every year, and I have no personal stake in this. I went home that night to both of my kids, who were sleeping safely in their beds.
What the hell is going on in this country that we sit here and memorialize year after year since those 20 kids died and we don't do anything meaningful about it?
Next December will be 10 years, and I am just going to tell you how hard it will be for so many of these families to live through a 10-year mark of Sandy Hook with no action from this body.
We have a year to get our act together here to make sure that in some small way we can honor these children with action.
I yield the floor.