American murder and the battle to keep caring

I wasn’t always this way, but I, like many Americans, have gotten very good at turning off.

Shooting in Atlanta. Off.

Shooting at a grocery store. Off.

Shooting at a school, at a movie theater, at an office, hospital, nightclub. Off. Off. Off. Off. Off.

For those of us who had once perfected the art of turning off, the start of the pandemic was a challenge. Early 2020 turned a wave of fear and pain and grief back on for me and for many. But after half a million dead in our country alone and a year of watching the horror unfold on the TV in my living room, the weight began dragging me down again, and so — off, off, off.

I have done a decent job the past few months of scrolling past upsetting headlines on the internet with glazed eyes. I have found a way to fill my life with pictures of my puppy and long walks in scenic parks in which I attempt to avoid everything that exists outside of my carefully curated bubble. Do I feel guilty about that? Yes. Has it felt necessary to continue functioning? Also yes.

Empathy is exhausting in America.

But then a group of innocent people were killed in my hometown of Acworth, Georgia.
And then a few more were murdered several miles away.
And then, about a week later, 10 people inside a grocery store in Boulder, where I used to stop after work to pick up cereal, were shot dead while running errands.
And then I heard a survivor talk about running for his life on the news.
And then I read a letter written by the son of a woman killed in Georgia.
And then, and then, and then….

I forgot how to stay turned off.

Things shake us when they hit close to home because we are naturally selfish creatures. I won’t argue against that. To be human is to be invested in your own survival. I learned that about five years ago when something happened that shook me. And those memories have been some of the hardest to keep safely buried.

On June 28, 2016, there was a shooting inside my office in Denver. It was a Tuesday. I was wearing a flowy, off-white tank top and sandals. It was sunny outside. I hadn’t done my hair that day. I’d just eaten microwavable pad thai for lunch. I was stressed over my job. I was excited to see my boyfriend and his dog that weekend.

That afternoon I was in the middle of a video meeting when two of my coworkers opened the door in a panic. There were gunshots nearby. Screams. More of both. I made the split-second decision to run from the building instead of hide and advised the two women with me to do the same. I’d read that tip in a story about mass shootings a few weeks before. I didn’t realize it would come in handy so soon.

We were on the third floor, so we sprinted toward the nearest door to the stairs — a panicked but determined 26-year-old version of me leading the way. After just a few steps, I looked down at the second-floor landing to see a pile of bullet casings at my feet. It was real. It was happening. Someone was in my office building shooting people and he had just run past this spot. Which direction, we had no idea. But it was real. Some of us in that office would be part of the next breaking news headline.

But there was only one way out of the building and that was down the stairs and out toward the front exit. In the few seconds it took for me to make it from the second-floor landing to the first-floor door leading to the lobby, a few thoughts crossed my mind. I can remember them as clearly as I remember that pile of bullet casings.

First, one part of me said calmly to another part of me:

“Ok, Nikki. This might be how you go. Today might be the day you go.”

Next, the other part of me said back to the first part of me, in defiant rage:

“BUT I WASN’T DONE YET!”

I wasn’t done. For a millisecond I thought of my family and about how much life I could have left. About all the things I could do with that life. I wasn’t done yet. It wasn’t fair. I wasn’t done.

But I was just a step or two away from the door, and my feet were carrying me toward it. I was sure of that part, but nothing else. Was the shooter still on the second floor? Had he, too, come down these stairs just seconds before? Would I find him on the other side of the door? Would my life be over moments after I twisted the handle?

I didn’t slow down. Fear is incredibly motivating. I pushed the door open. The lobby was clear. I made it outside, ran to a building one block away, and dialed 911 as I finally let my calm, clear, focus on survival dissipate. I was alive. Others were not. It ate away at me and still does to this day.

These are the thoughts I could no longer keep muted this week and last, after yet another preventable tragedy (and then another preventable tragedy) shook this country. As they announced the names and ages of each victim, I couldn’t help but think to myself…

Delaina Ashley Yaun wasn’t done yet.
Xiaojie Tan wasn’t done yet.
Daoyou Feng wasn’t done yet.
Paul Andre Michels wasn’t done yet.
Hyun Jung Grant wasn’t done yet.
Soon Chung Park wasn’t done yet.
Suncha Kim wasn’t done yet.
Yong Ae Yue wasn’t done yet.
Eric Talley wasn’t done yet.
Rikki Olds wasn’t done yet.
Kevin Mahoney wasn’t done yet.
Lynn Murray wasn’t done yet.
Denny Stong wasn’t done yet.
Teri Leiker wasn’t done yet.
Tralona Bartkowiak wasn’t done yet.
Jody Waters wasn’t done yet.
Neven Stanisic wasn’t done yet.
Suzanne Fountain wasn’t done yet.
Cara Russell — the woman killed in my office—wasn’t done yet.

I am alive today out of sheer luck. I was on the third floor. The shooter was on the second. I went to the lobby. The shooter did not. These people are dead because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time in the United States of America. You are alive today because you were not. But what happens if that changes?

I know that the seemingly endless onslaught of murder in this country feels like too much to bear. I know the situation feels hopeless and unchangeable. I know because those are the reasons I turned off in the first place.

But I am asking you to briefly unmute with me. To be a little bit selfish with me. To give a shit about your own survival, and even the survival of strangers. I am begging you to turn on long enough to let your rage and your fear and your sadness ring out for the world to hear.

Call your local congresspeople and throw a fit. Send emails. Write letters.
Vote for candidates who believe in common-sense gun control measures.
Volunteer for their campaigns.
Give to organizations fighting for change.
March peacefully down your street.
Have a heartfelt conversation with your NRA-loving uncle.
Reach out to your pro-life friend and ask for their support.
Choose dedication for what is right over hatred for those we must convince.
Stay passionate just long enough to make it count.
Stay on just long enough to make a difference.

They want us to be numb.

But WE are not done yet.