I've been telling myself that I shouldn't write about Newtown. That it's not my story, not—kina hora—my tragedy. In the days after it happened, I even admonished myself for tearing up when the massacre was mentioned on the radio. It felt right that I was angry about our country's ridiculously slack gun laws, and horrified that anyone—no matter how ill and vicious—would choose a classroom of first graders as his target. But my hot tears, my swallowed sobs seemed self-indulgent and misplaced to me, as though I was taking something away from the parents of Adam Lanza's young victims, elbowing my way through the crowd to stand with them in the front line.[Read more...]