Peace, Not Partisanship
Valentine’s Day. The holiday conjures many images: boxes of heart-shaped chocolates being gifted to loving partners, giant teddy bears being gifted to friends, and roses in every boyfriend’s hand.
Yet, for the students of Parkland — and now America — drastically different memories arise: those of fear, panic, and despair. For me, the day marks the anniversary of one of the deadliest mass shootings in the country, which also happened to be in my backyard.
It was February 14, 2018, and I was having a great day. My first year of middle school was going smoothly, and I loved my classes and friends. It was Valentine’s Day, so obviously, roses were found scattered on the floors, teddy bears floated throughout the halls, and hearts filled every room.
It was my second to last period, and I sat with my friends on a picnic bench as we worked on a project and talked about how ridiculous all of the corny gifts were.
As we selected the perfect song for our presentation, a stream of blaring ambulances and honking fire trucks whizzed past our school. They kept coming for what seemed like hours. I got skeptical, and wondered if someone was injured by a brush fire in the Everglades.
I texted my mom, curious if she heard anything on the local news. She immediately responded saying nothing had happened and redirected my attention. Behind the screen, however, she was nervous as well.
A minute passed, and a pop rang through the air. My friends paused, and continued with the project. I, however, felt a sense of fear petrify my body. It was if I knew that something was wrong.
That pop forever changed my life.
Imagine one of those children’s toys that snap when they hit the ground, except one thousand times worse, or a lone firework ringing in your ears. That pop planted a worm that would crawl into my brain, planting the seed of PTSD and keeping me from activities ranging from enjoying firework shows to action movies.
Seconds after the pop rang out I nervously stuttered: “Was that a gun?” I had used BB guns before, and although I had little experience with firearms, my gut instincts alerted me to the sound. My friends laughed at the absurd comment.
How could there be a gunshot in Parkland, one of the safest towns in America? It was probably the boys filming their movie behind us in the grassy area in front of our class. Not even 30 seconds passed until a wave of bullets popped, instilling panic in all of us. It was as if a barrage of firecrackers flew into the air.
The situation only became reality when we heard a scream. It was the scream of an innocent child, running for their life. It was the scream of all of those at Douglas who sat as a gunman walked the halls. It was the scream of America as her people had to stare into the barrel of a rifle. Little did any of us know that at this point, 2:31 pm, the shooter had fled 4 minutes ago and 17 innocent children and educators were already murdered.
When we were able to process what was happening, we turned to ask the boys behind us if they had heard the sound, only to find them gone and the school eerily empty. The silence and serenity was a stark contrast to the horror and tragedy that ensued next door. The rest of that hour consists of fuzzy memories.
I can remember the pounding of my heart and my feet as we dashed to our class, only to find the window covered in black paper, the telltale sign of a lockdown.
I can remember the bone-chilling scream that escaped my mouth as the panic set in.
I can remember the firm push of the school resource officer as he ushered us into an office.
I can remember asking my brave and confident guidance counselor if we were safe, only to be told to text my mom “I love you”, unsure if we would make it out alive.
I can remember huddling with my friends at a table, repeating: “I am gonna die, I am gonna die.”
We were finally pushed into a small, cubicle-like room. Confused and petrified, I eventually texted my mom “I’m safe I’m with the guidance counselor we are on lockdown mama this is my worst nightmare.”
Unbeknownst to me, she broke into tears as she attempted to calm me down via my phone. As my town morphed from a safe haven to a shooting range, my mom was impatiently waiting on the phone with my middle school. After several responses directing her to a voicemail, my mom became concerned. Although she felt like she was over-reacting, she dialed the non-emergency police number. The response she got was chilling.
A young woman answered the phone, her voice chillingly calm, unusually relaxed. As if she was merely chatting about the weather, the police officer — who was most definitely in shock — informed my mother to turn on the news. She didn’t have time to explain, as there was a shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School.
My mom ran to the TV and fumbled with the remote until CNN popped onto the screen. On the TV, she could see a young boy with bleeding bullet wounds sitting on the corner of the street, being tended to by paramedics.
My mom trembled as she texted the 11 words that would wreck my life: “There was a shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas. It’s on CNN.” I was speechless. This was something you would see in a tabloid, not in person. Yet, me and hundreds of students in Parkland had just witnessed an act of hatred and horror. Hours past, and we were finally taken off lockdown. Everyone in the room rejoiced.
It was a horrible tragedy, but barely anyone was hurt, we thought. The teachers in the office took us into a common area, where we breathed sighs of relief as the worst four hours of our lives had drawn to an end. Then we opened Snapchat. A video of a child huddled under a desk was playing on our phones. In the background, a girl was bleeding out. And from the door came what sounded like fireworks blasting into the room.
The next video showed a girl waiting for SWAT officers to escort her class off of campus. Cries could be heard throughout the halls as innocent kids now turned into traumatized survivors. I shut the phone off, and we stared at each other. This was no small incident; this was a mass shooting.
The news articles began to roll out. At first they reported that one person had died and one person was injured. We were heartbroken, but thankful no one else was hurt. Then the fatalities started to increase. It was 2. Then 7. Then, we stumbled across an article from USA Today titled: “17 dead in Florida high school shooting; former student in custody”.
My stomach sank. How could 17 innocent lives be taken from a tragedy that was so easy to avoid? Why do we have to go to school and fear being shot? Why does America have to suffer with endless violence? Why won’t it stop?
In the weeks following the shooting, questions filled my brain. I was perplexed about how society gave their condolences and moved on. How could we do nothing after children died in what they used to consider a safe space?
How did our school systems start as a hub of education and development and end up as a hunting ground? Why do children sit in class staring at the door, fearing that they will be struck with a bullet any minute?
It is time that we take an aggressive approach to gun violence. It’s not only kids like me who have to suffer, it’s children who can’t walk home from school, and teenagers who use gunshots as an alarm.
In order to protect the next generation, which is already traumatized from monthly lockdowns and the looming threat of gun violence, we must take action.
And rather than firmly supporting a political party, lawmakers must work together — across party aisles — to pass life-saving, common sense gun violence prevention policies.
This is the only way to ensure that other children won’t have to suffer as I and many others have.
