My Quest to End the Horror of Gun Violence in the US | Lucy McBath | TED

In the blink of an eye, life can change forever. One single moment can redefine everything that we know and believe. In 2012, I would face the most devastating moments of my life when my son, Jordan, was shot and killed in a hate-driven shooting. My story, Jordan’s story, had began as one of loss. But I refused to let it in there. A life of loss, a story of loss, became one of transformation, of finding my voice and turning my pain into purpose. My story would become my most important tool in fighting this nation's gun laws. Our personal stories have such power to be able to bridge the deepest divisions and to inspire change and to bring people together. After losing my son, I left my 30-year career at Delta Airlines, and I began a new career as an activist fighting to change our nation's gun laws. And that trajectory led me to winning a seat in Congress, which was once held by Newt Gingrich. I just have to say, though, that everything that I have done, there was nothing more important to me than being a mother. It all began with me just wanting to simply be a mother. As a flight attendant, I had the ability to be able to manipulate my schedule in such a way that I could be home for my son every single night. And I have to be honest that dealing with all those drunk passengers on the aircraft prepared me far better for a career in Congress than it ever should have. But during the Great Recession, you know, Jordan and I had to find fun activities that we could do that would not break my budget. So we spent a lot of time in our local skating rink where you could get pizza for a dollar a slice. And as Jordan got older and he began to recognize girls, he would say, "Mama, go over there and skate with the adults. You go skate with them, and let me skate by myself.” So off he would go, trying to be so cool and so suave, and I would run up to him and I'm like, "Oh, Jordan, my baby, I love you, oh, my baby!" And he would do everything that he could to get away from his crazy mama. You know, Jordan and I had just such a special bond, and it would be these intimate moments of our former life that would fuel my new journey to Congress. A decade ago. Jordan was with his father in Jacksonville, Florida, for Thanksgiving. And it was Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, and Jordan was so excited because he was going to go shopping with his boys. He was going to go shopping at the mall, and they were going to buy clothes and pick up girls and just do all the things that these teenagers would do when they're finding their newfound independence. They stopped at a convenience store gas station just to get some chewing gum. And Jordan was in the back seat of the car, and a man pulls up next to them on the passenger side. He starts complaining about their loud music. And he starts a verbal altercation with them, claiming that he couldn't hear himself thinking. They needed to turn down their “thug” music. He called them “gang bangers and thugs.” And in those three and a half minutes that man pulled a gun out of his glove box and he shot ten rounds into that car. Three of those rounds hitting and killing my only son. And that's when I got the phone call. The phone call that is the worst nightmare of every parent. And I remember Jordan's father telling me that Jordan had been shot

and my whole world went black. I had... defined my whole life as being Jordan’s mom. And in that single moment, being Jordan’s mom would take on entirely new meaning for me. Grief, it traps you in the prison of your own despair. And if we let grief take control, we risk losing not only our present but our future as well. If I had succumbed to that loss, I would be enduring not only one tragedy, but two. So I made a decision. I made the decision that Jordan's legacy would not be one of loss, but one of hope. I chose to channel my pain into purpose. So I began my second career as an activist for Moms Demand Action, for Gun Sense in America and Everytown for Gun Safety. While learning the unmistakable truth that every single one of us is at risk to falling victim to gun violence. We all remember. Just a little over five months ago. A woman was killed and four others were injured, just visiting the doctor's office, only about three and a half blocks from here in midtown Atlanta. And a year ago, two were killed and three were injured just down the street. Statistically, today, 120 Americans will be shot and killed and 200 more will be wounded. Per capita, the United States has more gun violence than any other developed nation in the world. And polling shows it. Over 80 percent of Americans agree that there needs to be some kind of common-sense gun safety legislation, like universal background checks for all gun sales. But why didn't I know about any of this before losing my son? Why was this country not screaming at the top of its lungs for gun safety legislation? So I traveled this country advocating for common sense laws, such as “red flag” laws that enable law enforcement, along with our loved ones, to be able to take the guns out of hands of people that are posing a risk to themselves or to others. I've advocated for universal background checks to keep firearms out of the hands of convicted abusers. But by telling my story, I’ve been able to do something that so many people talk about but they’re never able to achieve in our politics: bridge the political divide. I'll never forget meeting a man by the name of Reverend Rob Schenck. As an evangelical minister, he was the most prolific and leading voice in the fight against abortion rights through the 1990s. And as we begin building our friendship, I spoke with him at length about my need to save as many people's lives as possible. We began to challenge one another, and slowly but surely, at great risk, personally and professionally. he began to stand up. He began to stand up as an activist for gun safety and, as importantly, also speaking out on pro choice policy. Our stories are bigger than our politics. And then in 2018, we all watched the horror at a Parkland, Florida high school. And I heard all of our elected officials talk about, "Oh, we need to make sure that we change our dangerous gun laws. We need to make sure that we prevent these mass shootings." But they did absolutely nothing. And so I made the decision that if Congress was not willing to change our gun laws, I was going to work to change Congress.

So I ran for a seat that nobody thought I was going to win. One of the incumbents in that seat voted against the Voting Rights Act. I ran for a seat that was once held by Newt Gingrich, and I heard all the reasons why I could never win. I heard all the reasons, such as, "Oh, it was too political," and that I would never win because it was unprecedented. And I even heard that I couldn't win because I was a Black woman. So I took my story directly to the voters, and I told my story at their doorsteps, I told my story at their mailboxes, and I told my story by their telephones, and I won that election by one percent of the vote. And in Congress I've heard all the stories of why we can't address gun safety. They're pretty much the same reasons why people told me I would never win my election. But I did what I've done time and time again since I lost my son. I told my story. But in Congress, I told my story to my colleagues on both sides of the aisle. To date, I have passed legislation such as “red flag” laws. I've supported legislation such as background checks for all gun sales. And yes, I even had a hand in helping to encourage this administration to create an Office of Gun Violence Prevention. Telling my story has helped me find meaning in my life again after losing my son Jordan. It's helped me find a way to Congress and to pass meaningful gun safety legislation. The power of our stories is universal. And it lies within each and every one of us. Never ever be afraid to tell yours.