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I was 8 years old on April 20, 1999, when 12 children and one teacher were killed by two gunmen at Columbine High school in Littleton, Colo. I don’t have specific memories of the day, because in my kid brain Colorado was so far away from Minnesota, and death was something I only was just beginning to understand. And yet it’s one of my earliest memories because I could feel the fear and sadness of the adults around me.
Next week I turn 35. And on Aug. 27, two children were killed and 18 people were injured by a shooter in south Minneapolis, less than three miles from my home. I saw the ambulances speeding up and down Lyndale Avenue S. It was in my city. And I’m no longer a kid. I am the adult. And while I am fearful and sad, I’m mostly really, really angry.
Angry because I spent my grade-school years learning active-shooter drills and plotting out what I’d do “if the worst happened,” while certain politicians shook hands with and took checks from leaders of the NRA.
Angry because the kids today are still plotting their way to safety.
Angry because my friends and family who are teachers stress over how to keep their students safe, while I worry about their safety.
As a country, we have had decades to figure out how to solve this problem of gun violence against us and our children. But somehow, every time a shooting happens, our leaders just offer “thoughts and prayers” and say, “People are sick, what can we possibly do to stop this?”