Eighteen months ago, we buried my cousin — shot dead in front of his house. In the heat of my congressional campaign, time to mourn conflicted with fundraising, meet-and-greets, and securing endorsements. On the campaign trail, running on a gun safety platform, I shared stories about my experience with gun violence. The family members stolen. The victims and survivors I’ve treated as a trauma surgeon. And my work as a congressional staffer on the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act. However, one story always made listeners lean forward with rapt attention: when I described the allure of shooting an assault rifle as an 18-year-old cadet at the U.S. Air Force Academy.
In the summer of 1987, A few weeks into basic training, I lay belly flat, peering through the sight on my M-16 — the military version of the AR-15. Caressing the barrel, I focused on the target with concentric circles downrange. My trigger finger remained outstretched, so as not to shoot prematurely in my exuberance.
“Basics. Clear your safety,” shouted the weapons instructor.
Having completed our small arms training, we transitioned to the M-16, the standard-issue military assault weapon. Its civilian counterpart has been used in the deadliest mass shootings in the U.S. Sandy Hook, Aurora, Parkland, Uvalde: an AR-15-style rifle was the weapon of choice in the shootings that catapulted these places from obscurity and into the national gun debate. The AR-15 commands media attention in a way handguns, the weapon of choice in communities I serve, do not.
When I was a child, my mother forbade me from playing with toy guns. Forty years before a police officer gunned down 12-year-old Tamir Rice playing with a toy gun in a Cleveland park, my mother protected me from a deadly menace I was too young to comprehend. A southern girl raised in the Jim Crow era, she understood the dangers I faced. She knew about Black boys and guns, police and violence, racism and death — and she committed to protecting me from it all.
“Ready,” the instructor barked.
I calmed my breathing.
“Aim!”
My finger kissed the trigger.
“Fire!”
Along with two dozen shooters, I complied, and the Rocky Mountain air echoed like Fourth of July fireworks. It was my first time firing an assault weapon, and I was eager to do it again. I felt powerful. I felt important. I felt alive.
Cradling my weapon, I did not understand the racialized arc of gun history. Nor did I foresee how this history would intersect with my own path. How I would someday walk into emergency departments and operating rooms to work on bodies riddled with bullets. Squeezing the trigger, I knew only the blast of my supersonic bullet tearing through the mountain air.
As a future Air Force officer, I gave little thought to gun violence or gun policy in America. I did not grow up with firearms, did not live proximate to endemic violence, nor was prevention a major political agenda. I remained blind to the history threading from my training to the violence ravaging Black neighborhoods, and the efforts America made to keep guns away from people who looked like me.
I believed guns, beyond the military and law enforcement, were the purview of two separate worlds: hunting enthusiasts and criminals. My binary vision remained fixed for decades. The media influenced my perception. The visual entertainment often depicted Black men glorifying AK-47s and Uzis in music, movies, and rap videos. The implicit message amplified was that Black people — especially young Black men like me — were an existential threat to the American way of life. If a Black man like me could swallow that twisted narrative about gun violence, I’m sure it was a gluttonous meal upon which many Americans gorged.
Securing my weapon, I had yet to learn one of the unspoken realities of American life: who possesses the gun matters. White men with guns are considered patriots, cops are protectors, and Black men are criminals. And even though I’d wear a uniform and serve my country, in some circles I would always fit that latter description.
More than three decades later, as a trauma surgeon I’ve seen more lives shattered by gun violence than any person should have to endure in a lifetime. Yet, we still make progress. On September 26, President Joe Biden signed historic executive orders, ensuring gun violence prevention remains at the forefront of the 2024 election. It further implements provisions of the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act — addressing community violence intervention programs, trauma support for survivors, and better data collection. A promising sign validating the progress we’ve made in the last decade, but there is more work to do. Lifesaving work at the intersection of gun violence and racial justice.
My cousin’s murder remains unsolved. I know that many survivors of my patients also lack closure. I envision a future where my skills as a trauma surgeon are no longer needed to mend bullet-ridden bodies, or deliver devastating news to loved ones. This future is rooted in racial justice. Therefore, we must rebuild the systems of inequality upon a foundation of shared humanity to create a society where gun violence is a relic of the past. This is an intergenerational promise we must keep, and the time for action is now. The future of our children, our communities, and the soul of America demands it.
Brian H. Williams, MD, is a trauma surgeon in Dallas, served as a Robert Wood Johnson Health Policy Fellow at the National Academy of Medicine, and recently ran for Congress (TX-32). He serves on the MedPage Today Editorial Board. This column is an adapted excerpt from chapter four of his book, The Bodies Keep Coming: Dispatches From a Black Trauma Surgeon on Racism, Violence, and How We Heal and is reprinted with permission. Copyright © 2023 Broadleaf Books. X: @BHWilliamsMD.
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