This is America.

Land of the free. Home of the brave.

We eat burgers. We drink Bud Light.

We love Starbucks. And football. And ourselves.

This is America.

We’re outraged about dentists who hunt lions in Africa.

Gorillas shot to save small children.

And whatever Donald Trump has to say on Twitter.

This is America.

When we heard a gunman opened fire in a crowded movie theater, we gasped in disbelief.

When we saw babies slaughtered within the walls of their own elementary school, we wept in unison.

When we bore witness to a boy turn a bible study into a bloodbath, we lowered our heads in  uncomfortable shame.

Because this is America.

This is where we arm the destroyed, the desolate, the disturbed. The weak. The weary. The warlords. The misinformed. The tragically misled.

This is where—in the wake of violence and death—we scream “RIGHT TO BEAR ARMS” loud enough to drown out the wailing of the mourners, the agony of tortured survivors, the living witnesses to hate incarnate.

This is still America.

When we woke up on Sunday morning to the news of 50 more beautiful humans taken from our homeland, we fell silent. We went numb.

This is America. And what else is there to say?

Arm all the bartenders. And the teachers. And the preachers. Give bombs to the babies. Give glocks to the gays.

We shout, “DO NOT TAKE AWAY OUR FREEDOM!”

But overlook the 49 in Orlando. The 9 in Charleston. The 26 in Newtown. The 12 in Aurora.

Were they not free?

Were they not taken?

This is America.

We hold vigils. We pause with grace and dignity for moments of silence. We create supportive profile pictures on Facebook. Maybe we even write this blog post.

But the truth remains that this is America. So really, we do nothing.

The bullets buzz by our ears, and we pretend that we’re defending amendments. The blood soaks into our shoes, and we make believe that we’re fighting in the footsteps of our founding fathers.

We are too scared to be smart. Too scared to change. Too scared to be the home of the brave.

So we’ll settle simply for land of the free.

Unless, of course, we’re already dead.