When The Smoke Clears
-Robb Elementary School, Uvalde, Texas 2022
There have been over 400 school shootings in the U.S. since June 2021. I am not going to get into semantics about how a school shooting is defined, or what a “school” encompasses— 400 is too fucking many. Our society not only allows this, but chooses to let it keep happening, and sadly, our current administration has zero intention of changing that.
My earliest memory connected to a school shooting is from 3rd grade, when I must have been 8 or 9 years old – just getting into trouble, being a curly-headed fuck. On one particular day, for whatever reason, I brought a pair of toy handcuffs to school. During recess, I convinced another student — we’ll call him Tom — to let me handcuff him to the playscape. I had given the key to my friend, who had assured Tom that he would be released shortly after being cuffed. (I was such a dick, bear with me.) Sure enough, the bell rang to end recess, and we did not let Tom free. (I am so, so sorry.)
We returned to class all laughing and sheepishly telling the teacher we had no idea where Tom was. Just picture a bunch of 9-year-old Jon Mulanys— that pretty much sums up my memory of it. A few minutes later, one of the school staff brought a crying Tom back to the classroom (I SUCK), sat him down at his desk, and then, in slow motion, walked over to the teacher. All the while maintaining laser eye contact with me, whispered something into her ear, and left afterward.
I shit you not, the whole room was staring at me, and I thought I was going to physically melt and seep down to the depths of hell (this was a private Catholic school). My teacher stood up, calmly walked over to the door, turned, and said, “Alex, I need to speak with you for a minute,” in a very calm, strangely warm tone she was not known for.
I cannot remember exactly how many days this was after Columbine, but it was definitely within the same week. Regardless, my teacher shut the classroom door after I stepped out, leaving just the two of us in the hallway. She leaned in close, close enough that I could see tears forming in her eyes. I had never seen a teacher so vulnerable and saddened right in front of me. That memory is seared into my mind to this very day—it hasn’t faded one bit.
Her voice breaking, she did her best to ask me, “Do you know what happened at Columbine High School?”
Every morning before the bus picked up my sister and me for school, we typically waited in the living room. My mom would always have the local news on TV--mostly weather, school closings, etc. But I do remember the helicopter footage of Columbine, the faces of people crying, and countless witnesses describing what they had seen. Everyone was trying to understand why this had happened. I didn’t yet have the ability to fully process it, but those images have stuck with me.
My teacher, still trembling, waited for my response. I tried my best, saying something along the lines of, “Some people at the school were shot at.” I still felt like my skin was melting off my body, but now I also felt awful for upsetting my teacher. She took a minute to process what I had said, then carefully walked me through not what the attackers had done, but what the parents and community were going through. Then, in the softest tone I’d ever heard from her, she asked me to imagine what Tom’s parents must have felt when they learned their son was upset because he had been handcuffed to a playscape. (I AM SUCH A DICK)
What followed was a series of phone calls between parents and teachers, plus some long discussions and grounding from Mom and Dad. Tom’s mom was surprisingly forgiving, considering the situation, and Tom ,himself, did not show the slightest hint that he hated my guts—though that would still be totally justified to this day.
Since my daughter was born, there have been over 400 Columbines – spawning unimaginable pain across this country and beyond. That sorrow multiplies when you factor in random mass shootings like the movie theater massacre in Aurora, the Pulse nightclub attack, or the Las Vegas concert tragedy. Before the birth of my kids, I always thought instantly of my 3rd grade teacher, who had to explain a mass shooting to a child while holding back her own tears. How many parents have gotten that phone call — and how many never did? How many teachers have lost students, or co-workers? I’m sure you all have your own stories and memories that drag you back to a dark place tied to these endless nightmares, and you likely feel a similar dread.
I never wanted to make a teacher feel that way again (trust me, I was still a dick for a very long time). They have to deal with enough within the confines of a school. I wish every educator could simply focus on teaching and developing their students — not scrambling to fund their school supplies or running through fucking active-shooter drills.
School shootings are no longer relayed to us by caring teachers, local news, or community leaders. Today, we scroll past them on social media feeds wedged between ads for sports betting and memes. Our information environment is so saturated with meaningless shit, that it’s almost impossible not to become desensitized in an increasingly violent world. Every once in a while, the horror breaks through-- Sandy Hook, Parkland, Uvalde– but only for a few hours before the stories are buried under polarizing takes. It’s a mental health issue. They were trans. It’s a false flag. Paid actors.
How the Internet's conspiracy theorists turned Parkland students into 'crisis actors' - NBC News
An entire media ecosystem is devoted to crafting narratives that fit its side of the aisle, while actual victims bleed out, tears are shed, and lives are left in ruin. Add to that the psychological trauma children, teachers, parents, and communities will carry for decades. The algorithms seize control – posts are liked, takes are shared, the smokescreen returns – and the world retreats to discourse about whatever Cracker Barrel did, or who got voted off Love Island. We fail the victims through inaction and distraction every fucking time.
I am not writing this to claim I have answers or solutions, or that my thoughts are unique. I could — and likely will — write about how Republican policies and the NRA feed this uniquely American crisis strictly to line their pockets. Or about how the MAHA grifters don't give a shit about the health or well-being of our children. But here, I am writing to beg you to think, remember, and act based on the feelings and realities of the victims. Our online selves are constantly dragged elsewhere, conditioned to ignore empathy. It is on us, as parents, neighbors, and citizens, to see through the smoke and make good-faith attempts to build a better world for our children.
-Edited by E. Sullivan
