Citizen Writers Fighting Censorship by Helping Americans Understand Issues Affecting the Republic.
I sort of raised myself. My dad died when I was a kid. He died by suicide, shortly after he’d been released from county lockup on bail. His death was dramatic. It made the papers. On his final night, he almost took my mother to the grave with him.
Forget iPads, TikTok, and whatever overpriced “educational STEM toy” parents are guilt-tripped into buying today. For three generations of American kids, nothing screamed freedom, danger, and backyard glory like the Daisy Red Ryder BB gun.
My mother always told me to smile. Especially when I didn’t want to. She often told me to smile when I was sad, when trying on school clothes, or whenever I was forced to eat beef liver at gunpoint.
“Dear Sean, your column yesterday about embracing my inner child and childhood was inaccurate. I’m 67 with more life experience than you… And my childhood wasn’t idyllic like yours obviously was…
Dive deep into your brain and locate your mental elementary-school yearbook. Flip through the pages. Find that cute black-and-white photo of yourself with that gap-toothed smile and enormous ears.
Friends of the family say the boys couldn’t sit still without vibrating. They were always getting into something. To call them “bad” kids would be unfair. They weren’t bad. Not at all. They were simply professional hellraisers.
Things in America have changed since I was a boy. We were feral children during Christmas breaks. We were dangerous. We lived without helmets. We had BB guns. We ate saturated fat. And we were never, ever inside.