My nine year old son was home sick on April 20th, 1999. We lived in Lakewood, Colorado. A Denver suburb adjacent to Littleton, just over nine miles from Columbine High School. Two daughters were in school that day, second grade and a preschool run by the JeffCo district.
Nick was home from school, but not too sick - in my mom opinion - to sit in the buggy at King Soopers and go grocery shopping with me. We were at the market on the corner of Wadsworth and Jewell, only eight miles from Columbine High School. The only hint of fear and abnormality was the sirens. So many sirens. First a single, signaling wail. Then another. And another. Till the cacophony of emergency was deafening, even in the confines of King Soopers. Curious? Yes. Worried? Not yet.
Nick in the wagon, we exited to that beautiful, deceiving Colorado sunshine. And then I saw all the police cars whizzing south on Wadsworth. Boulder County Sheriff. Wheat Ridge Police. Arvada. Edgewater. That's when I knew. The pit in my belly was real and the hair on my neck told me. Bad. Something very bad was happening.
I remember looking at Nick and thinking was he aware of the impending danger? Did he sense from me or the parade of cruisers that an event was underway that we would only fully come to know later in the day? What goes on in a nine year old head when the news is tragic? This was before the endless loop of social media. I found out what was *maybe* happening when I got in my minivan and tuned into KOA on the AM dial. The old school way to hear news, traffic, weather, tragedy...
I drove home in a stupor. What? The reports were muddy and cautious. I don't remember sensationalizing, but that might have happened. I was too numb to process the event that was unfolding. Parents don't send kids to school to die. In the 19 years that have passed, I realized how naïve my thinking would appear in the rear-view mirror. I put away my groceries and like hundreds, perhaps thousands of parents that day, I went and got my two other kids at school. Same school district. Less than a dozen miles away - the victims of terror just a few years past their own elementary years.
Today is 420 in Colorado. Except for the cursory mention on Colorado Public Radio to commemorate Columbine the news is overshadowed by celebration of legal marijuana. The soundbites are about the rally at the Civic Center in Downtown Denver - on the western edge of the state capital. It sickens me that people can gather and party on this day. I'm regretful our state has legalized the recreational use of marijuana. Many of the participants were young, maybe even diapered when Columbine unfolded. They might have moved to Colorado after this event and therefore have no recollection of the collective, communal grief. Smoking a joint is the only activism they know.
I went to an Al-Anon meeting this morning on Pierce St. The same street Columbine is on. A short two and half miles from the formerly bloody campus. My meeting doesn't allow for outside issues, so no mention of Columbine. No moment of silence to mark the grief. I took a few long moments to have my own reflection of time, progress or lack thereof, children, police officers, corrupt politicians, the whole damn lot that can make me skeptical. Cynical and tired.
It is said that our cells hold on to trauma. In that regard I could concoct a fantastical story of how Columbine inspired my young son to become a police officer. I could easily allow my mind to fabricate how he was deeply moved by the news, the events, his mother's profound grief. The truth is I have no idea why he chose a profession that is equally targeted with senseless gun violence. Why he would run toward whatever unseen danger the rest of us would cower from.
My son is a good man. He made it through high school unscathed. I recently held his work issued AR-15 in my hands. The gun was heavier than I anticipated. He was cleaning his weapon because he'd been at the range recertifying his credentials to carry this powerful machine. Credentials, training. Not a kid in his bedroom assembling weaponry and bombs to bring to school. A professional trained to face the un-faceable.
Nineteen years. I can't allow my mind to wander to all the other shootings that have unfolded. Against kids. Against cops. I am too sad to process any more heaviness today. I am at my desk just 10 miles from Columbine High School. A different direction than all those years ago, yet so much remains the same.
Our kids and our cops deserve better. No partying for me today. Only reflection.
Time to Write,
Jane
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