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Five years old. My first code red drill. An intercom voice thundered. My kindergarten teacher paused our read-aloud, guiding us toward the classroom’s single-stall bathroom. Silencing our whispers, Mr. Matt explained that code reds occurred during emergencies — such as when zoo animals ran loose within the school. You see, when lions and tigers roam hallways, we must remain silent because nobody wants to get noticed by a predator ready to kill. With lips sealed, we nodded in unison. This made perfect sense.
Eight years old. Rather than rushing home to indulge in Valentine’s Day treats, I learned what code reds truly are. With glossy eyes, Mommy depicted what had occurred in Parkland: How there was a boy, a very angry boy, who went into a school to hurt people. Months later, Mommy — herself a teacher — left home carrying cardboard signs that read “Never Again.” I begged her not to leave. I did not want a code red to happen to her too. This made far less sense than lions and tigers in hallways.
Ten years old. Knees pulled to chest atop my parents’ duvet, I was informed that my friend, his mother, and his brother were victims of gun violence. The world drained of color as my tears soaked the bedspread. Hours later, I watched cross-legged as the children I had grown up with recognized their friend, William, was now a memory. Their sobs rang in my ears as it hit them that William would never again walk through that door. A week later, I sat in a house of worship wearing a dress the shade of orange William adored, surrounded by children’s wails from those who did not yet understand. I wished I didn’t either.
Twelve years old. My pant leg buzzed in class as news that 21 people were murdered in their place of learning consumed the internet. On the ride home, I read name after name to my mother as their small faces surfaced online. That night, my brain stayed busy, mapping escape routes in case my school was next. The following morning I wept, thinking of all of the kids awakening to the loss of friends they would never again giggle with. I cried for them, I cried for me, I cried for every child unfortunate enough to understand.
Thirteen years old. I listen as our president declares mass shootings to be, “not a gun problem.” I wonder to myself whose problem it must be. The same man claims “nothing happened” during his four years in office. The tears shed were nothing. The 14,500 children lost during his term were nothing. My friends’ lives were nothing. I understand.
Sixteen years old. Two miles away, an active shooter. Dozens of rounds fired as children worshiped in pews. I read as statements unfold; as politicians urge for prayer toward the victims. Prayer for the 10-year-olds met with bullets as they prayed. I think how easy it must be to pray when your students are not the ones facing gunfire amid their morning Mass. How simple it must be to tweet “join me for praying!” as you watch from afar while second-graders lose their lives to preventable evil. I think how one who possesses such immense power could post condolences while revoking the very laws that could have saved them.
