Everyone says that there are those days that you can remember from start to finish, ones where you remember exactly what you were doing, where you were and who you were with. That is how I feel about Dec. 14, 2012. I was in the fifth grade. The day started out normal: we went to school that morning, hugged our parents goodbye and quickly met up with our friends like it was any other day. It was recess when I noticed that something was wrong. A group of teachers were assigned to watch us during recess, and I noticed that they were all clustered together, whispering. It was when we went back to class that I knew. I remember my teacher was quiet. I remember how she would check her computer and then look back at us, saying nothing. I remember how sad all of the adults around me looked. I still didn’t know why. My Dad picked me up. He didn’t have the radio on. He always had the radio on. It wasn’t until the next morning that I finally learned what had happened. That morning, a man had brought a gun into Sandy Hook Elementary School and killed 27 people, mainly students between the ages of 6 and 8-years-old. How do you explain that to a child? Imagine telling a child that the place where they have always felt safe isn’t. I was terrified of something that happened on the other side of the country. At that moment, I couldn’t comprehend that this would happen again and again.
Sandy Hook. North Park. Parkland. Santa Fe. Uvalde. Michigan State.
The pain that 10-year-old me felt would become cemented into my generation.
Since my first day of kindergarten, there have been 368 school shootings in the United States. Of those shootings, 381 students have been killed. 381 students who were supposed to have lives, careers, get married and have children of their own. I had this weird feeling when I graduated high school that I had survived. My fellow seniors and I had made it. The recent tragedy this past week in Michigan proved me wrong. I am still not safe. In every classroom I sit in, I know the nearest exit. I have spent entire classes zoning out, planning out what I would do if someone had a gun. I know exactly who my last text would go to. While I was in high school, we had to lock down due to police activity across the street. None of us knew that was the case and so I sat in a bathroom stall crying, texting my little sister in the building over. I told her that I loved her. I told her to run if she got the chance and that I would find her later. We were completely safe and yet the thought that crossed my friends and I’s minds was that someone had a gun. While I was studying abroad this last semester, we were walking through the streets of Madrid when a firework went off. Every American that I was with froze; none of the Europeans even flinched. This is a uniquely American problem.
My entire family works in schools. I still have two little sisters in high school. Every time news of another school shooting breaks, I stop breathing for a second. I turn into a maniac searching the news for “where.” What if it’s my family this time? One time I thought a friend of mine said the name of the school my dad teaches at and there were tears in my eyes before she finished her sentence. This is not normal. I should not be afraid, and yet I am completely justified in my fear.
I don’t know what it’s going to take. I don’t know how many more children are going to have to die for us as a country to value lives over guns. Every time this happens, people are outraged for what? A week? Students like me don’t have the privilege of indifference. These are our lives. Messages flood in with thoughts and prayers. We don’t want your thoughts and prayers, we want your action.