November 15, 2011
Eight hundred other middle schoolers and I were corralled into the overly air-conditioned auditorium, filling the space with gossip, the stench of adolescents who have yet to discover deodorant, and the commands of teachers attempting to control us. I planted myself next to my friend Iris on a freezing metal fold-up chair, bouncing my legs with post-lunchtime energy.
Mr. Raimo, our principal, cleared his throat into the microphone. “Hello Eisenhower Middle School…” he began. I already knew what would happen: the PTA had probably some speaker to tell us “don’t do drugs!” or some kind of “funny” inspirational speaker. My attention focused on the stage again after some routine applause, concluding his introduction.
A middle-aged ordinary looking man—presumably our speaker—walked up on the stage. A banner hanging behind him had Rachel’s Challenge printed on it, the “g” in the shape of a chain link. He began his talk, spending most of his time introducing us to his daughter: Rachel. He showed us pictures of a pretty teenage girl with brown hair, only about four or five years older than I was. He then told us she was dead.
Rachel had been shot and killed in the Columbine shooting in 1999, less than a year before I had been born. I had heard the name Columbine before but had never known what exactly it was. I then learned that two armed students had come to their school the morning of April 20th, 1999, and opened fire on their peers and teachers.
Rachel’s Challenge, a non-profit organization that Rachel’s family had started, was based on her “Code of Ethics,” which she had written weeks before her death. As her father continued explaining the organization, I had trouble focusing on the message they were trying to send. My eleven-year-old mind couldn’t even fathom such a tragedy; it seemed like something out of a movie. 13 dead. I looked around the room, the previously restless bodies of my peers now still.
April 2, 2012
Oikos University, Oakland, California. 7 people killed, 3 others seriously injured.
December 14, 2012
My family and I sat on our worn brown couch, a fire burning underneath the mounted TV. We were watching the Nightly News on NBC, our usual routine after eating dinner. The broadcast began, immediately beginning with an alert of a special coverage regarding Sandy Hook Elementary.
“John, pause it. The boys shouldn’t watch this,” my mom commanded my dad. My little brothers, ten and eight years old at the time, exited the living room after my mom shot them a look.
The coverage continued. All too soon, it began to feel fake. 28 dead in Newtown, Connecticut at Sandy Hook Elementary. 20 kindergarten students. 6 teachers. Shooter and his mother both dead.
I remembered what I’d heard of Columbine and Virginia Tech. This had happened before, but kindergarteners? My body felt empty. I had to look away when they showed the shooter’s face. I looked over at my mom who had her hand over her mouth and silent tears streaming down her cheeks.
October 24, 2014
Marysville Pilchuck High School, Marysville, Washington. 5 killed and 1 other seriously injured.
October 1, 2015
Umpqua Community College, Roseburg, Oregon. 10 people killed and 9 other seriously injured.
December 2, 2015
Inland Regional Center, San Bernardino, California. 14 people killed and 22 others seriously injured.
June 12, 2016
Pulse Nightclub, Orlando, Florida. 49 people killed and 58 others seriously injured.
October 2, 2017
I woke up, rolled over, then instinctually checked my phone, my eyes barely adjusted to the light. The screen revealed to me that it was 6:57 a.m., I had four unopened messages in the group chat, three snapchats, and one CNN notification. Before instantly swiping to open the texts from my friends, I glanced at the message from CNN.
“At least 58 people were killed and more than 500 were hurt Sunday night when a gunman rained gunfire on concert goers at the Route 91 Harvest music festival on the Las Vegas Strip in Nevada, the deadliest mass shooting in modern US history. Name of the gunman has not yet been disclosed.”
I continued reading the article, scrolling through horrific detail after horrific detail. Taking a deep breath in, I turned off my phone and began getting ready for school.
November 5, 2017
First Baptist Church in Sutherland Springs, Texas. 26 people killed and 20 others seriously injured.
February 15, 2018
My friend Allie lay next to me in the large hotel bed. We both scrolled through our iPhones, the blue light illuminating our cheeks and noses.
“You know a lot of my friends knew some of the people who died. My old school was really close to Parkland,” said Allie. I, too, was looking through posts about the recent shooting at Stoneman Douglas High School. The death toll was now 17.
“Jesus, that’s crazy. How’d they know them?” I asked.
“One of them was a swimmer…look, this is him.” We both looked at the image of a smiling blond boy. “Wait…oh my god. I know this kid...Oh my god.” His name was Nicholas Dworet, seventeen years old—the same age as me. He had just committed to Indianapolis University for swimming, and on an Instagram post from a few days before, he said that he “couldn’t wait to continue his journey there for the next four years!”
We sat in silence. I felt nauseous. In that moment, I finally realized it could have been us. I saw myself in him, I too a blonde swimmer, getting ready to go to college. It could just as easily have been me in that school, or my brother, or Allie, or anyone else I knew. Allie started quietly weeping, and I hugged her, not knowing what else to do.
“I didn’t really know him, I shouldn’t be this sad, I don’t know why I am,” she whispered, her eyes red with salty tears.
“It’s fine to be sad, this is horrific. It’s just so unfair,” I replied, looking up at the ceiling.
A few minutes passed and we turned out the light. The bed softly shook with Allie’s sobs that she attempted to hide in her pillow.
March 7, 2018
Huffman High School, Birmingham, Alabama. 1 person killed, 2 others seriously injured.
March 20, 2018
Great Mills High School, Great Mills, Maryland. 2 people killed, 1 other seriously injured.