On November 13th, I found myself in a cozy independent bookstore in Northeast Philadelphia, sharing a moment with twenty to thirty dedicated volunteers from Moms Demand Action. The occasion was the discussion of my co-edited book, If I Don’t Make It, I Love You: Survivors in the Aftermath of School Shootings, which showcases the poignant narratives of 83 individuals who lived through the trauma of school shootings. Among those present was Lila Whitman, a survivor from Columbine and a passionate advocate for sensible gun legislation, who joined me in recounting the harrowing yet hopeful stories from our book. In that intimate space, the warmth of solidarity enveloped us, creating a comforting atmosphere amidst our heavy subject matter.
It’s been nearly two years since I embarked on this project, and I find solace in the company of fellow advocates as we navigate the painful realities of gun violence. While I appreciate the opportunity to change minds, I hold the stories of survivors close to my heart, feeling a deep responsibility to honor their experiences.
After sharing powerful narratives from our book, including accounts from Parkland and Sandy Hook, we mingled with the audience, signing copies and exchanging heartfelt embraces. As the crowd dwindled and the cool autumn air settled in, we promised to stay connected. Yet, beneath those promises lingered an unspoken dread that we might soon reconvene in response to yet another tragic school shooting. Little did we know that the very next day, we would be faced with that grim reality.
The following day, while visiting Benjamin Franklin’s historic site with my mother, my phone buzzed repeatedly with messages bearing the heart-wrenching phrase: another school shooting. My heart sank. How could this happen again so soon? I thought we had just made progress the previous night.
My mother and I hurried back to our hotel, where I turned on the news to learn about the Santa Clarita shooting. Images of traumatized young people flashed across the screen, and my heart ached for those affected. I thought of my twin daughters, 200 miles away in a classroom. Were they safe? I had another Moms Demand Action event to attend that evening in Haddonfield, New Jersey, leaving me no choice but to push my anxiety aside. I texted my husband, urging him to love our girls extra that night, my heart heavy for the parents of the victims.
Through the journey of writing this book since January 2018, I’ve met countless parents whose lives have been shattered by gun violence. I carry their stories with me, a constant reminder of the fragility of life. Each time I kiss my daughters goodnight, I am acutely aware of those who can no longer do the same.
As I prepared for the Haddonfield event, my thoughts turned to the families in Santa Clarita, now thrust into a devastating reality that survivors often call “the club no one wants to join.” Anger surged within me. When will this cycle of violence end? I considered canceling my appearance but remembered the commitment I made to the survivors who shared their stories with us. The show must go on.
The event was held in a large church, and I was amazed to see the seats fill quickly. Jody McQuade, a Virginia Tech survivor whose son Sean was shot but survived, joined me. I asked her if she was okay, knowing she understood the parents’ pain all too well. As I began my presentation, I struggled to focus, but the faces of the victims lit up behind me, reminding me of my mission to honor their memories.
I closed my presentation with a piece reflecting on my experiences with the Sandy Hook community, which ignited my passion for gun violence prevention. Midway through, the tears I had been holding back flowed freely. The sorrow in the room was palpable as we collectively grieved for lives forever altered by violence.
Afterward, the air shifted from grief to determination as hugs and handshakes filled the space. An elderly woman approached me, offering an embroidered handkerchief she had made for those in need. I sat next to Jody, signing books and conversing with attendees, including a group of nursing students who are on the front lines of this trauma.
At the end of my events, I always leave attendees with this message: read these stories, carry them with you, and let them fuel your fight for change. That night in Haddonfield, I witnessed a room full of people ready to shoulder that weight.
As we drove back over the Benjamin Franklin Bridge, I realized that despite the tumult of emotions, I was exactly where I needed to be that evening. Back at the hotel, I called my girls; “I love you” felt insufficient, a reminder of the distance between us. I am doing all of this for you; that distance loomed large.
Conclusion
In summary, this experience underscores the urgent need for change surrounding gun violence. It highlights the profound emotional toll on survivors and advocates alike, as we continue to fight for a world free from the fear of school shootings.
Keyphrase: gun violence prevention
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