I was in my classroom when the call came.
The school was brand new, a vast industrial, accidentally brutalist building, with long, silent corridors, poorly lit because bulbs were forever burning out. Video monitors in every hallway streamed endless loops of Channel 1 News, but except at passing time, the halls were empty. No one monitored the comings and goings at the multiple entrances and exits, and no stood watch to ask if a newcomer belonged there.
The day of our incident, just before the holiday, I remember many of my own students being absent. The four or five present members of my drama class and I were watching a film, whiling away the countdown to early dismissal. And then my phone rang.
“This is Principal M____.” My usually friendly boss spoke from what sounded like a great distance, in a manner that was forced, cold. She was actually talking to every classroom at once, trying to be quiet so that she stirred no reprisal, caused no reactions. “You are to lock your door from the inside, sit with your students on the floor, and stay put until further notice.” She paused. “There is a gunman in the building. No shots have been fired, but we are working to apprehend him without incident.”
As is my wont in crises, I did not feel any specific emotion right away. I made light of the situation, sat with my kids playing a game. I was distracted by the niggling, infuriating awareness of the myriad inconveniences this could portend. My children required transportation to and from their destinations, my husband’s dinner needed preparing, and I had no way to let anyone know what was going on. All the mundane chores of the day loomed ahead, and I chafed at being delayed while I fretted that the kids might hear reports of the disturbance and worry for my safety. Only then did I even begin to think about the gunman roaming the halls.
A shot rang out. Well, we assumed it was a shot fired. Through the institutional walls, the sound could have come just as well from outside and been a car backfiring, but we knew it was a gun. The kids huddled close to one another and trembled. Some of the girls were sobbing. The two boys in the class were tapping their feet, drumming, flicking lighters imbedded in their pockets. I was impatient, thinking about catching up with my life.
The end result was an anticlimax. Altogether, we heard three shots fired, none aimed at human beings, and then no sounds at all. After a couple hours, the person was apprehended, and we were released. Physically released anyway.
Columbine had happened only a few months before, and as the realities sank in, the images of that day began to play over and over in every level of my consciousness. By the time I got home, I found myself shaking. I was furious, disempowered, terrified. That night brought the first of many nightmare-disrupted sleeps, my dreams perverted by the many possible consequences my waking brain refused to acknowledge.
I left teaching soon thereafter, and I am sure that the afternoon of the gun propelled my premature exit from the profession; I couldn’t continue to face the terrible vulnerability that visited me in those horrific nightmares. My then husband scoffed at my dread, reminded me endlessly that nothing had happened. And that was how I knew I couldn’t live with him anymore.
My memory of that trauma haunts me still, and I am willing to bet that it haunts every person who was there that day. Looking into the eye of violence is unforgettably agonizing.
I cannot imagine what it feels like to have survived in Newtown today. I would be willing to bet that there is no one in that town or its environs who will go about his/her life unscathed. The events in that elementary school, where a troubled young man killed the hopes and dreams of twenty-nine families in less than ten minutes are senseless, infuriating, immobilizing. No words adequately describe any of it, though newspeople, texters, im-ers, FB subscribers, bloggers will keep trying to find some. Because to capture this giant poison and get it into a verbal jar helps us sort through, seek the peace we will probably never find.
The knee-jerk reaction of the liberals among us was to scream for gun control, to decry the hold the NRA has on the nation. I’m one of those hippies who wouldn’t give my children toy guns; no one is more anti-gun than I am. But the sad truth is that gun control would not have prevented Newtown. The guns were duly registered in the name of the gunman’s mother, who was legally entitled to own the gun that killed her.
The second reaction among us was to blame the health care system. A friend of mine, who is a health care professional with a family history of mental illness, sobbed, “The system puts these kids out of treatment, out of physicians’ watchful eyes as soon as they are 18, turning them into health care orphans.” She is right. Our health care system is terrible, but, again, in this case, the shooter was not without support and care.
The problem is deeply ensconced somewhere in our American psyche, perhaps in the cowboy/mafia/noir fetishes we have nurtured in ourselves, perhaps in our collective isolation from the civilizations across the waters. I don’t know where it is or what causes it, but I do know that in other countries where citizens own guns, crimes like Newtown, like the Oregon mall, like Aurora are far less frequent, and the threat of violence is far less omnipresent. I spent a month in Thailand, and at no time when I was walking did anyone point his car at me and threaten to kill me as a man did here in New York the other day. There is an anger, a seething ire that bubbles forth in unthinkable ways. And it explodes, kills our children and grandparents and uncles and friends not only with guns but with vehicles driven drunkenly, with fists wielded in stadium fights, with cruel words that drive the fragile to suicide.
What can we do to stop the violence when we hardly understand it and have no remedies at hand?
For one thing, we can admit that we are all in this struggle together and cling to one another in more loving, positive ways. What happened in Newtown was not perpetrated by an “other” out there threatening us; the devastation was wrought from within our own ranks, and we need to look within ourselves for ways to create a more loving environment with less alienation. I realize I sound like a character in Volunteers, and I should be singing “We shall overcome,” but shouldn’t we at least begin here?
Then, too, we can reach out to the people of Newtown and let them know that we acknowledge that every one among them is a victim. Every one of them has been traumatized and forced to carry a burden no one deserves. Every man, woman and child in that community has been scarred for life. Because there is no way to quantify grief, it is not for any of us who were spared to judge whose grief is heavier. The people whose families are in tact tonight can be in as much pain as those who must bury theirs. Acknowledging all the sufferers, validating the throbbing ache each will endure from now on must contribute to their healing. Everyone touched by today’s horror needs to be heard, needs to be comforted, needs to be reassured that they will face no malice, no recrimination for having lived.
Of course, we must begin to seek ways to heal the ills that afflict the misguided, violently solipsistic people who solve their malaise by pointing guns. If they are ill, their illnesses need to be recognized and dealt with before they explode; if they are simply grotesquely entitled, they need to be educated in how to become citizens.
Further, it is vital that we point our attention to a system that gives money and time to gun lobbyists but takes money and time away from education. Many an alienated soul has been saved by an arts education program, has discovered therein a way to express the need to murder and create without bloodshed.
This is not going away. The people of Newtown, the people of Connecticut, the people of the East Coast and by tomorrow, the people of the entire country will live in the shadow of this day forever.
Question is, how can we protect the other Newtowns to come? It’s already too late to begin, but better late than never. . . .