↩ the History · a speech, filed

At the Sandy Hook Vigil

Barack Obama · Newtown, Connecticut · December 16, 2012
text: The American Presidency Project, UC Santa Barbara · a work of the United States government, in the public domain
colour carries the act's function; a dashed underline marks a predicted misfire; hover or focus any span for its filing

Thank you, Governor. To all the families, first-responders; to the community of Newtown, clergy, guests—Scripture tells us: "Do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal. For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands."

We gather here in memory of 20 beautiful children and 6 remarkable adults. They lost their lives in a school that could have been any school, in a quiet town full of good and decent people that could be any town in America.

Here in Newtown, I come to offer the love and prayers of a nation. I am very mindful that mere words cannot match the depths of your sorrow, nor can they heal your wounded hearts. I can only hope it helps for you to know that you're not alone in your grief; that our world too has been torn apart; that all across this land of ours, we have wept with you and we've pulled our children tight. And you must know that whatever measure of comfort we can provide, we will provide; whatever portion of sadness that we can share with you to ease this heavy load, we will gladly bear it. Newtown, you are not alone.

As these difficult days have unfolded, you've also inspired us with stories of strength and resolve and sacrifice. We know that when danger arrived in the halls of Sandy Hook Elementary, the school's staff did not flinch; they did not hesitate. Dawn Hochsprung and Mary Sherlach, Vicki Soto, Lauren Rousseau, Rachel D'Avino, and Anne Marie Murphy—they responded as we all hope we might respond in such terrifying circumstances: with courage and with love, giving their lives to protect the children in their care.

We know that there were other teachers who barricaded themselves inside classrooms and kept steady through it all and reassured their students by saying: "Wait for the good guys; they're coming." "Show me your smile."

And we know that good guys came: the first-responders who raced to the scene, helping to guide those in harm's way to safety and comfort those in need, holding at bay their own shock and their own trauma because they had a job to do and others needed them more.

And then, there were the scenes of the schoolchildren, helping one another, holding each other, dutifully following instructions in the way that young children sometimes do, one child even trying to encourage a grownup by saying: "I know karate. So it's okay. I'll lead the way out." [Laughter]

As a community, you've inspired us, Newtown. In the face of indescribable violence, in the face of unconscionable evil, you've looked out for each other, and you've cared for one another, and you've loved one another. This is how Newtown will be remembered. And with time and God's grace, that love will see you through.

But we as a nation, we are left with some hard questions. Someone once described the joy and anxiety of parenthood as the equivalent of having your heart outside of your body all the time, walking around. With their very first cry, this most precious, vital part of ourselves—our child—is suddenly exposed to the world, to possible mishap or malice. And every parent knows there is nothing we will not do to shield our children from harm. And yet we also know that with that child's very first step and each step after that, they're separating from us; that we won't—that we can't—always be there for them. They'll suffer sickness and setbacks and broken hearts and disappointments. And we learn that our most important job is to give them what they need to become self-reliant and capable and resilient, ready to face the world without fear.

And we know we can't do this by ourselves. It comes as a shock at a certain point where you realize, no matter how much you love these kids, you can't do it by yourself; that this job of keeping our children safe and teaching them well is something we can only do together, with the help of friends and neighbors, the help of a community, and the help of a nation. And in that way, we come to realize that we bear a responsibility for every child because we're counting on everybody else to help look after ours; that we're all parents; that they're all our children.

This is our first task: caring for our children. It's our first job. If we don't get that right, we don't get anything right. That's how, as a society, we will be judged.

And by that measure, can we truly say, as a nation, that we're meeting our obligations? Can we honestly say that we're doing enough to keep our children—all of them—safe from harm? Can we claim, as a nation, that we're all together there, letting them know that they are loved and teaching them to love in return? Can we say that we're truly doing enough to give all the children of this country the chance they deserve to live out their lives in happiness and with purpose?

I've been reflecting on this the last few days, and if we're honest with ourselves, the answer is no. We're not doing enough. And we will have to change.

Since I've been President, this is the fourth time we have come together to comfort a grieving community torn apart by mass shootings, the fourth time we've hugged survivors, the fourth time we've consoled the families of victims. And in between, there have been an endless series of deadly shootings across the country, almost daily reports of victims, many of them children, in small towns and big cities all across America, victims whose—much of the time, their only fault was being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We can't tolerate this anymore. These tragedies must end. And to end them, we must change. We will be told that the causes of such violence are complex, and that is true. No single law—no set of laws—can eliminate evil from the world or prevent every senseless act of violence in our society.

But that can't be an excuse for inaction. Surely, we can do better than this. If there is even one step we can take to save another child or another parent or another town from the grief that's visited Tucson and Aurora and Oak Creek and Newtown and communities from Columbine to Blacksburg before that, then surely we have an obligation to try.

In the coming weeks, I will use whatever power this office holds to engage my fellow citizens—from law enforcement to mental health professionals to parents and educators—in an effort aimed at preventing more tragedies like this. Because what choice do we have? We can't accept events like this as routine. Are we really prepared to say that we're powerless in the face of such carnage, that the politics are too hard? Are we prepared to say that such violence visited on our children year after year after year is somehow the price of our freedom?

All the world's religions—so many of them represented here today—start with a simple question: Why are we here? What gives our life meaning? What gives our acts purpose? We know our time on this Earth is fleeting. We know that we will each have our share of pleasure and pain; that even after we chase after some earthly goal, whether it's wealth or power or fame or just simple comfort, we will in some fashion fall short of what we had hoped. We know that no matter how good our intentions, we'll all stumble sometimes, in some way. We'll make mistakes; we will experience hardships. And even when we're trying to do the right thing, we know that much of our time will be spent groping through the darkness, so often unable to discern God's heavenly plans.

There's only one thing we can be sure of, and that is the love that we have: for our children, for our families, for each other. The warmth of a small child's embrace: That is true. The memories we have of them, the joy that they bring, the wonder we see through their eyes, that fierce and boundless love we feel for them, a love that takes us out of ourselves and binds us to something larger—we know that's what matters. We know we're always doing right when we're taking care of them, when we're teaching them well, when we're showing acts of kindness. We don't go wrong when we do that.

That's what we can be sure of. And that's what you, the people of Newtown, have reminded us. That's how you've inspired us. You remind us what matters. And that's what should drive us forward in everything we do, for as long as God sees fit to keep us on this Earth.

"Let the little children come to me," Jesus said, "and do not hinder them—for to such belongs the Kingdom of Heaven."

Charlotte. Daniel. Olivia. Josephine. Ana. Dylan. Madeleine. Catherine. Chase. Jesse. James. Grace. Emilie. Jack. Noah. Caroline. Jessica. Benjamin. Avielle. Allison.

God has called them all home. For those of us who remain, let us find the strength to carry on and make our country worthy of their memory.

May God bless and keep those we've lost in His heavenly place. May He grace those we still have with His holy comfort. And may He bless and watch over this community and the United States of America.

The divergences

"In a quiet town full of good and decent people that could be any town in America" — Newtown files a consolation: nothing about this town invited what happened, and the loss falls on no one here. The country files the premise of a general problem, because if it could be any town then a remedy fitting only this one is no remedy. They part on scope. The wide reading is what the ninth paragraph collects on, and by the sixteenth the town's name has joined a list — Tucson, Aurora, Oak Creek, Columbine, Blacksburg — in which every name means the thing that happened there.

"This is how Newtown will be remembered" — the town files a Declaration from the one man with standing to make it, and the memory is fixed as care for one another in the saying. The country files an Assertion, a forecast about what a proper noun will come to mean. They part on function, and the address settles it against itself eight paragraphs later, where "Newtown" is the fourth entry in a list of massacres and the sentence that puts it there is the argument for acting.

"That we're all parents; that they're all our children" — the families in the front rows file an expression of shared grief, in which a country claims their children and mourns beside them. The country files the premise that makes the next paragraph's questions answerable: if every child is everyone's, a failure to protect one is everyone's failure. They part on target — a claim about how children are raised, or a frame under which a question of policy can be answered only in the vocabulary of parenthood. Everything the address later asks of Congress is asked in that vocabulary.

"Can we say that we're truly doing enough to give all the children of this country the chance they deserve to live out their lives in happiness and with purpose?" — the congregation files a Question, and it is open, because nobody at a vigil is obliged to answer. The legislators who would have to draft the answer file a Rhetorical question, since the answer arrives two paragraphs later from the man who asked. They part on orientation and motive at once: whether the question is keyed to a state of the world that could be checked, or to a standing nobody in earshot can decline to grant. The standard it names has never been written into a bill, which is what keeps both filings alive.

"And we will have to change" — the room files a commitment from a President who has just found against his own government. The offices that would draft the change file a prediction of necessity: "will have to" reports an obligation rather than assuming one, names no instrument, no bill and no date, and binds a "we" containing everyone listening. They part on function — commissive or assertive. The address's other future indicative, ten paragraphs earlier, promised comfort and specified the delivery: "whatever measure of comfort we can provide, we will provide." The archive's Challenger address converts presidential grief into continuation, and its promise had an instrument already funded and staffed; this one converts grief into a finding against a status quo, and the status quo is the speaker's.

"We will in some fashion fall short of what we had hoped" — a mourner files an Assertion about the human condition, offered as consolation in a paragraph about all the world's religions. A reader holding the transcript files it against the finding five paragraphs earlier, "We're not doing enough," and hears a general absolution issued to the particular failure just confessed. They part on scope: everyone's condition, or one government's record. The paragraph draws no line between them, and the address never returns to the finding.

"God has called them all home" — the congregation files an act of faith, spoken by a layman in a room seating clergy and warranted by the occasion. The record files the only account the address gives of how the children died, since the other account, "They lost their lives," has no agent either. They part on orientation: whether the sentence is keyed to the world, in which somebody acted, or to a belonging the room already holds. The vigil is what makes the second filing available; the office is what makes the first one consequential.