A piece of guilt in hope for better.
February 14, 2020
Every day that I walk the halls, I’m ashamed to say fear hits me. It strikes me right across my face so much so that when I think of this fear, tears well up in my eyes and I don’t want to think anymore.
At school, we all see the same smiling faces of teachers and students alike. We hear laughs, stories of happiness, and the babble of midday conversations.
My fear isn’t over the next math test or what so-and-so thinks of me. I am afraid of being alive at school. I feel guilty to be alive at school.
Two years ago today at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, seventeen were killed. The shooter held a semi-automatic AR-15 rifle. Students and teachers hid for their own life just like they did at Columbine, Sandy, Santa Fe.
School used to be my happy place. It might sound so ridiculous, but I love to learn and as a child, school gave me the chance to take in so much knowledge. Now, I just feel so empty and hurt.
At school, I see the signs branded with bright red letters of “EXIT”. I hear the fire alarm pulled from an intruder.
I don’t write this to make a statement, a plea, or to be political. I write of my pain and fear in a place where I used to feel so safe and so comfortable.
I write for Alyssa, Scott, Martin, Nicholas, Aaron, Jaime, Chris, Luke, Cara, Gina, Joaquin, Alaina, Alex, Meadow, Helena, Alex, Carmen, and Peter and for all of the lives that they gracefully touched.
I write for the peers who walked beside them. For the students who were so lucky to have them as a teacher.
I write not only in remembrance but in hope that someday no one has to feel this kind of fear I feel. So someday everyone can feel the joy and safety I used to feel at school.