It was my half birthday, April 20th. The day of Columbine.
The images of high school kids running in lines with their hands on their heads are forever etched into my memory. That same year, one of my classmates told me he’d written a play and that one of the characters had my name. His name was Josh and he had a crush on me that even I had noticed. He asked me to read his writing and I got one page in, realized it was a fictionalized story of a school shooting, and completely lost it. I gave him a verbal lashing for even associating my name with something so disturbing. I didn’t give him a chance to explain.
I made it out of the school system before we began desensitizing ourselves to the unfathomable fear and horror of mass shootings. I couldn’t bring myself to read one single word of the news stories on Sandy Hook. I do remember sitting in grad school and positioning myself near the second story windows. I never sat near the entrance. I never sat with my back to the door. We were vulnerable and exposed– perched in our little desks engineered to hold one sheet of paper. Untold scenarios playing through my mind rather than the nuances of business law.
And then I grew-up. I had two precious little boys. And now those little boys are in classrooms of their own. Sitting at tables designed for little hands and chairs made for little bottoms. Not for barricading doors or blocking bullets.
And one day I find myself sitting at our round kitchen table with my six-year-old. I ask him about his day and he tells me there was a bad guy at school. My chest tightens and I’m barely breathing. A pretend bad guy with a gun. He says they have to hide in the classroom while Maestra closes the blinds. I ask if he can hide in the bathroom? Is there somewhere specific where he’s supposed to go? No. Hide anywhere. No one can go in the bathroom.
He tells me he can fight the bad guys.
He doesn’t notice the instant tears in my eyes. I tell him in the most insistent, barely controlled voice that he goes into the bathroom and he locks the door and he never comes out unless his teacher says it is safe.
This entire scene is unacceptable to me. It is unacceptable that it is taking place at my kitchen table. It is unacceptable that my most sincere and trusting brown-eyed baby will never know a life without this fear. This is not a natural disaster. It’s not a fire drill or an earthquake drill. It’s manmade. And it’s not a choice between loving guns and loving our children. But it is a choice. And I don’t accept it. It is not inevitable. My sons deserve to be innocent. To feel safe at their school– their biggest concern should be whether they left their Minecraft sweatshirts on the blacktop or in the gym. And I deserve to know they are safe.
Enough is enough.