Sandy Hook Elementary, Newtown, Connecticut
I remember seeing the twenty 2inX2in pictures of children’s faces on the cover of People magazine at the Kroger checkout. My mom brought the magazine to our small church gathering. I was forbidden to look at that magazine because my mom was worried about how the news of a horrific crime would impact a nine-year-old's brain. She sheltered her children from the scandals of celebrity romance and current news about the recession. However, one day, it was too cold to play outside because it was the middle of December. I took a peek when I was sitting on our red La-Z-Boy chair. I opened the magazine to a random page and saw the teacher with the kindest smile and the prettiest straight brown hair. She was wearing a brown and white summer outfit. I didn’t realize that all those faces in the pictures were dead, no longer existing, no longer impacting the world.
Columbine High School, Littleton, Colorado
School shootings have had an impact on me before I was born. I was born in Denver, Colorado.
On April 14th, 1999, the Columbine school shooting occurred. A few days before, my mother and sister watched a one-act school performance in the cafeteria of the high school. My mother’s shadow still lingered in the cafeteria where bombs were supposed to explode, the second stop of the tirade of the killers, now idolized by others for their ruthless acts.
Littleton, Colorado, is a small town where everyone who went to the same church congregation knew everyone else's business. Together, they laughed and celebrated, cried and grieved. In the small church congregation— in the small town— my God-fearing mother was a small group leader to many who were in the library and the cafeteria. Many lost loved ones. She prayed.
What Christians were supposed to be doing, the only thing Christians were doing.
Stoneman Douglas High School, Parkland, Florida
I didn’t pay attention to school shootings until the March for Our Lives, a nationwide protest calling for stricter gun control. The day before, my mother told me about a walk-out that would occur the next day and that I “could participate if you pleased.” I knew the bare minimum of what happened at Parkland as an eighth grader; I didn’t watch the news, and, to my pleasure, I did not have social media. I decided I was going to take action and participate in the peaceful protest. Maybe because the protest was during my torturous math class taught by a slightly creepy teacher, or because a seed was being planted inside me for my passion for gun regulation.
The next day in my first-period math class, a few boys and I exited the side doors of the school, talking and giggling, not acknowledging the weight of the situation. My choir teacher saw us and asked us questions. Such as “What is the meaning of the seventeen minutes?” I knew the answers to all her questions. For example, the seventeen minutes represented the seventeen lives lost from the AR-15 that the ruthless murderer used.
Then, a large population of the school joined us on the field. The air was moist with Washington clouds rolling over our heads. We weren’t allowed to chant, but my friend and I did and were nicely told by a teacher to shut up.
Oxford High School, Oxford Township, Michigan
In Michigan, where I grew up, my family and I were a part of a small church congregation. All the children were close; we went to each other's birthday parties, had meals and playdates together, and were all homeschooled. We grew up, then grew apart when I moved away.
Right after a holiday celebration with family and before Christmas, Ethan Crumbley attacked students at Oxford High School. A lot of my friends attended this school, but they graduated before this tragedy. One of my friend’s girlfriends was still attending Oxford High School. His mother is a family and marriage therapist who was seeing her early afternoon clients. He ran in, bursting through the closed door, to tell his mother what was happening while FaceTiming his girlfriend, who was locked in a cupboard in a classroom. The shooter would try and enter this room. I remember wondering how this could happen in the town that I grew up in and affect people that I knew and cared deeply about.
I remember praying, what a good Christian should be doing, all a Christian could be doing.
Centennial High School, Franklin, Tennessee
That same year, I was threatened by the same type of violence. I went to a public high school because I moved the summer between my junior and senior years. In November, I heard rumors in my first-period art class that someone had made threats against the school and was “going to shoot up the school.” I didn’t listen to these rumors because teens will be teens and spread false information.
During fourth period, there was a hold in place, meaning that we could not leave the classroom. It was close to lunchtime, so we were all nervous and hungry, which was not a good mix. It felt like an anxious beast was clawing and gouging out all of our stomachs. We got to go to lunch finally, but were still in a hold to place. There were still rumors going around school via social media, and no one knew what was true or false. It was pure chaos, and a lot of overlapping conversations. Our sixth-period teacher tried to keep us busy, but was failing. One of the rumors was that a gun was found in a tuba case in the band room. Another was that the student was still in school, while the gun was also in school.
Around the time we were supposed to leave school for the day, the hold in place was lifted. I walked to the library for my 8th-period theatre class. One of my classmates— who was a senior and also my next-door neighbor— looked at me and shouted, “Welcome to Centennial!” the name of my high school. I remember this lightened the mood greatly.
After we found out that it was an outside, fake threat, and no harm was going to come to us directly. I remember being frightened that something was going to happen to me after that day. I remember the thought that one bullet could kill me, the thought that I was not invincible.
Covenant Elementary School, Nashville, Tennessee
While in my “Story of Jesus” class mid-march, freshman year of college, my phone started going off. Bzz Bzz Bzz could be heard while it was face down on the table. I saw that one of my best friends texted me asking if I was okay. He also called me three times. I then noticed that I was getting texts from other out-of-state friends. So I walked out of class to call my friend and see if everything was okay. Before I could get “Hello” out, my friend stated, almost shouting, “So you’re okay!” I answered that I was and that I was in class. He said, “Okay, go to class, but call me after.” I affirmed I would. When I called him back, he told me there was a shooting at a private, Christian school in Nashville. And that he was scared that it was at my school because the news reports did not give the name of the school. I did my own research and saw that it was ten minutes away from campus. This frightened me, and I thought about it all day. I felt stuck, and like my activism for gun control would never be heard by the masses. I was extremely anxious and had to take a break from the constant flow of media through TikTok. I also got that same feeling that one bullet could kill me, the feeling of not being invincible.
We prayed the night that the shooting occurred, we prayed, what good Christians were supposed to do, the only thing good Christians could do.
