Armed Supremacy, How it Fuels Gun Violence
Tackling gun violence means tackling all the ways guns are used to hurt and used to threaten, and we commit to tackling armed supremacy.
In this series, we’re naming and exploring the societal forces that give rise to gun violence through the experiences of young people. We believe that if we can make an impact in these key areas, we can save lives and get closer to a world where gun violence is obsolete. This essay explores armed supremacy — the use of guns and threat of gun violence to reinforce power structures, hierarchies and status. Armed supremacy might include examples like policing, which uses gun violence and the threat of gun violence to wield power and cause harm. It might also include white nationalist groups and others that use firearms to reinforce their worth or value relative to others. Tackling gun violence means tackling all the ways guns are used to hurt and used to threaten, and we commit to tackling armed supremacy.
Last summer when I was in Milwaukee, a few young people and I organized a 65 Mile march to our state’s capital, Madison, to deliver a set of demands to address the epidemic of racism to our Governor. I always felt the weight of armed supremacy but could never identify it clearly, or understand how it funnels into the systems we know as ‘normal.’ That summer, I felt the full weight of its power.
Armed supremacy, which we at March define as the use of guns and the threat of gun violence to reinforce power and status, weighs heavily in America. Before the march I noticed that masses of people in my community were arming up as if they were preparing themselves for something. It felt like the unspoken rules said kill or be killed, the ethics of humanizing each other cast aside by the presence of violence. I followed these unspoken rules, keeping my eyes low as I passed folks down the street and to the store. I didn’t speak much when I saw glock nines stuffed carelessly in jeans, and didn’t bat an eye when I heard gunshots pop outside my window. What was the point? Those with guns in my neighborhood were the supreme, protecting themselves from the violence of state sanctioned racism; whether it was physical or mental. Armed supremacy was the air we breathed; so regular that it was barely noticeable.
Last summer, there were only about twelve of us, wearing colorful tutus and large smiles, screaming, “Black Lives Matter,” “F*ck 12,” “Special session now!” into the rural Wisconsin air. We had probably only advanced about a mile before the Waukesha Police Department were hot on our asses, trailing behind us like a marching band parade of cop cars. The tension heated up with the blazing Wisconsin weather, and more and more of us became worried as the day went on that a confrontation would happen. An officer confronted us, pleading with us to stop marching, and called for more and more back up as we ignored her and kept marching towards Madison. Everytime we advanced, the Waukesha Police found a new way to get in our way — cutting off our drivers, blocking the route we had mapped out weeks prior, or harassing marchers.
Later in the day, a young person tapped me on the shoulder. “I think I did something wrong,” he said. “These men were asking me questions about where we were going but I don’t know who they are. I told them where we were going.” I followed him in a daze, afraid of what he meant. And then I saw them , two white men wearing tinted blue racer glasses and neon bright shirts. It was my first introduction to an infamous white supremacist group in Wisconsin. “Who are you guys?!” I almost yelled. As organizers, we knew each of our marchers well, having planned with them for weeks. These men were clearly not with us. “What, we can’t march?” They teased. “We want to see where you guys are going. why can’t we March too?” When they were finally turned away, they walked back towards the police line and leaned into the window of the Sheriff’s car.
Even as dozens of cop cars trailed us, and as they continued to harass us and try to infiltrate our group, we kept on. I kept thinking about the split picture. Why can white kids from suburbs march without an overwhelming police presence? Why do they see us as such a threat? I’m wearing a fucking tutu! We were blocked. Accessing the small town roads, which were a safer route for us as marchers, were completely blocked off by sheriff cars. The sheriff was trying to route us onto the highway, a dangerous place for a group of kids on foot. He told us he didn’t want us to disturb the communities on the small road. Unspoken was the fact that if we were led to the highway, he would have grounds to arrest us. It was a trap. Our group whipped our phones out to record our altercation; we saw right through his badge and the gun in his holster. His power was false, backed by the power of a gun. Ours was real power, backed by our community.
“Fine,” He said, finally, motioning for his officers to clear our path. Our path was cleared, and it felt like we had won a victory. Hiding behind their badges, backed by the power of their guns and underpinned by our fear that we never knew if they would use them against us, the police held all the power. But for a moment we overcame it, and it seemed we had emerged victorious.
Then, a car sped into our direction, parking in the middle of the street, and two medics with our march came to us with terrible news: “The Proud Boys are coming,” they screeched. “We heard it just now on the police scanner.” I almost wanted to laugh. What had seemed like a victory was increasingly looking like the end of our march. *Who they are* How did the Bad Boys know so quickly? Why were the police ok dispersing for them? It was clear, though, the interconnections of white supremacy there. Armed to the teeth, they colluded to intimidate us and to try to scare us into backing down. It wasn’t safe. On day one of five, it seemed we might be foiled. But when we broke the news to the small group of us young people, they all said they didn’t want to go home. Seeing their resilience, knowing how important the march was to all of us, recharged me.
That moment helped clarify for me the power of armed supremacy, and it’s intimate connection to gun violence. The terror I feel from police officers, that so many others feel, flows from the barrel of a gun — just like white supremacist terror flows from the barrels of their AR-15s. Even if they don’t use them, they threaten to take our lives in the blink of an eye.
When we sheltered the first evening of the march, armed community members invited by one of our allies confronted us. They were supposedly there to protect us from armed white supremacists who had threatened us, and they arrived carrying weapons and dressed in black militant gear. They argued with us and disagreed with us, and tried to get us to agree to what they thought was the best path forward. It was an odd division. We were all fighting for the same mission, but they were armed, and we weren’t. They were mirroring the tools of oppression to dismantle it, and that wasn’t the same intention we had. The arguing was loud, and chaotic. My head spun. Finally, they left.
It’s important to remember, too, that while white nationalists of all stripes rely on armed supremacy, they don’t have a monopoly. I noticed during the march how similarly the armed protestors there to protect us moved so similarly to other armed supremacists, with their quickness to assert power and intimidate with guns. Their comfort with a “shoot first, ask later” attitude. It frightened me, though I understood it. A key reason that people rely on armed supremacy is a fear of losing power, along with poverty, inequities in communities, capitalism, the whole lot of it. Even I struggled with the desire to go out and get a gun myself, protecting myself at all costs in the face of all this violence.
We survived the five days of the march, mostly without guns. I dug my head deeper into abolition thought. That is, the fight to dismantle all systems that were build on anti-Blackness, anti-poor, anti-gay systems and rebuilding a society built on peace and community healing. It became clearer to me that all people deserve peace and liberty, and deserve the resources needed to achieve it. Abolition will be hard, but it’s clear that it’s worth it. After seeing how closely bound white supremacists are with the police, seeing how armed supremacy even bleeds into the worldview of people fighting for change, it was obvious how tied armed supremacy is in our country’s culture. But we have to fight to change and shift this culture, and redefine what safety and protection looks like. We have to reimagine a world that takes care of us, and puts us first, not cold weaponry or paper money. It’s possible.
Bria Smith is a 20 year old rising Junior at Emerson college, studying film & journalism. She sits as a youth board member of March For Our Lives, and dedicates her advocacy to abolition thought theory and queer liberation.
