As someone who grew up in Southwestern Connecticut, the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School is an event burned indelibly into my mind. In my 25 years of life, there have been a number of mass shootings—including at Columbine High School when I was a baby and Virginia Tech University when I was nine—but the combination of Newtown’s proximity (20 minutes away from my hometown) and my own age at the time (14 years old) meant that the Sandy Hook massacre was the first time I fully grasped the gravity of what had occurred. As word got out that morning, kids and teachers alike relayed the latest news in hushed whispers. Paramedics from Darien, some of them kids themselves (due to Post 53, a unique paramedic service run by high-schoolers), were hastily dispatched to the scene. My mind wandered to my own brother, seven years old at the time, and, despite my best efforts, I couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if the nightmare that was presently unfolding at Sandy Hook had taken place at Tokeneke Elementary School instead. Like much of the rest of the country, a thick, black fog settled on us that morning. Halls that normally echoed with laughter were filled with a nervous silence. Even for angsty, edgy adolescents, dead children were no laughing matter, especially not when they had been killed in our own backyard.
A few weeks later, I was selected to be a part of a group of kids that would present art projects to the families of the Sandy Hook victims. The ceremony would take place at the state capitol in Hartford, and the governor was going to be present. It was a huge honor to be selected, and I didn’t take the responsibility lightly. I labored over what to present, eventually deciding to write a poem; I’ve always been much better with words than visual arts. Even as a young teenager, I felt great pressure and responsibility. After all, what can one possibly say to people who have suffered the worst horror imaginable- people who were, in all likelihood, still waiting to awake from an unspeakable nightmare? Their children, siblings, grandchildren, cousins, nieces, and nephews had been slaughtered in the classroom, a place where they were supposed to be nurtured and grow, not die a brutal, terrifying death.1 Words do not have the power to heal such deep wounds; they didn’t then, and they don’t now.
Still, I had to show up with something. I decided to write an acrostic poem, which is a poem in which the first letters of every line spell out a word or phrase. As a young kid given an impossible assignment, I looked to classic religious tropes for inspiration: the children, though “lost,” would be forever “found” in heaven; despite no longer being physically “with us”, they’d “live on in our memories” for as long as we ourselves lived. I haven’t seen that poem in many years, as it’s long been tucked away in some dusty drawer in my parents house. Still, I remember exactly what the first letters of the last 14 lines spelled out: “NEVER FORGOTTEN.” I stood up in front of the assembled families, as the governor and members of the state legislature looked on, and delivered my poem. I managed to avoid crying, willing myself to hold it together, but there was scarcely a dry eye in the crowd. I stepped down from the podium, shook some hands, hugged my parents, and watched the rest of my peers present their own pieces.
Unlike the families of the victims, I went home that day and my life went back to normal. I don’t think that any of us, however, could have imagined that, 12 years later, not a single thing would have changed. We just got older, something the victims will never have the opportunity to do. Their families never woke up from their nightmares. If anything, they got plunged deeper into misery, as conspiracy theories began to circulate that the shooting was staged and the victims were crisis actors. Politicians offered their “thoughts and prayers” and did nothing more. People pointed fingers, looking to cast blame anywhere but inwardly. The only thing we have to show for the horror and suffering is more than a decade of bickering and an ever-growing pile of bodies. I’m ashamed of myself, too; I looked into the eyes of people who’d had the light snuffed from their world, promised that I would never forget their loss, and then did so anyways. I’ve lost track of how many times since then that I’ve heard about another school shooting, read a little bit about it, and then carried on with my life as if nothing had happened. Perhaps I’d post a small note expressing some muted form of outrage on social media, but that was always more performative than anything else. More often than not, I’d just keep on scrolling. My poem, though well-intended and sincere, was little more than a series of meaningless platitudes from the school of thoughts and prayers. What I should have done at the capitol is torn into the attendant politicians, reminding them of their sacred and inescapable duty to do whatever it took to begin to rectify the tragedy that had befallen those poor families, until they dragged me, kicking and screaming, from the podium. I should’ve protested every time another parent sent their child to school, only to have them return in a body bag. But I didn’t.
Perhaps this is how I’m conditioned to be. I am, after all, from the United States of America, a country blind to the suffering of our own neighbors and compatriots, a people numb to an unceasing cascade of the most abominable crimes. In living outside of the US and speaking with people from around the world, I’ve come to see how we appear on the global stage: a nation of barbarians, eager to project our power anywhere but at home, where it’s most needed. When I ask foreigners whether they plan on visiting, they often tell me, “Well, I’d like to someday, but…” and trail off, letting the elephant in the room finish the sentence for them. They want to visit, but they fear being gunned down in the street like stray dogs. And who can blame them? People view us the same way that we view active war zones. Would you take a vacation to Sudan or Syria? No? Well, there have been more than 200 mass shootings (defined as incidents in which more than four people are killed, excluding the perpetrator) so far in 2023 alone. In Serbia, two recent mass shootings sent the country into a state of grief and self-reflection; in the US, that’s just business as usual.
Is that the cost of our “freedom?” Is it a price worth paying? Little Billy from next door just got executed in his first-grade classroom, but hey, at least I can walk into Cabela’s and buy an AR-15. There’s this deeply-ingrained fear of government tyranny that prevents a subset of the population from seeing that we’re chafing under the actual tyranny of constantly living in fear. The basis of this country is supposed to be life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, yet we stand by and do nothing as person after person unleashes death, terror, and entire lifetimes of misery upon us. Perhaps it’s an issue of nomenclature. “Mass shooting” is too tame of a term for what it really represents; there’s an aspect of passivity to it, a distancing from the horrific core of what the words actually describe. Maybe we should call them “mass murders” instead; in place of “school shootings,” we can say “child massacres.” Such language demands attention. When people are being shot, it’s possible to ignore what’s going on. It’s a lot harder when you say children are being slaughtered.
At the end of the day, though, it’s a miscarriage of justice that this could even be considered a matter of semantics. Kids shouldn’t have to know the ins-and-outs of shelter-in-place drills, and parents shouldn’t have to send their children to schools with bulletproof backpacks. Frankly, this generation of politicians has failed us all. Whether it’s through neglect, or malice, or dereliction of duty, there should be no universe in which, 24 years on from the Columbine massacre, there has been no meaningful change in policy whatsoever. We’re trapped in an infernal loop of murder, “thoughts and prayers”, debate, and inaction. The failure of our politicians is a direct indictment on us, too. We, the people, must take responsibility. After all, this is a democratic country. We should be mad—no, infuriated—that our policymakers sit around bickering instead of protecting the most vulnerable members of our society. Children *not* being murdered in school is supposed to be non-negotiable. We should’ve been packing the streets en masse, making our voices heard, after every single one of these shootings.2 We should have voted these people out the first time they didn’t deliver change. Every single school shooting should have been treated like the tragedy that it is; we ought to be ashamed of ourselves for letting dead kids become statistics. There’s no such thing as overreacting to an issue this grave. There’s only reacting appropriately and not doing enough. Up to now, we’ve fallen well short of what’s required.
Inevitably, when these school shootings happen and people call for change, a chorus rises up to accuse them of “politicizing” a tragedy. But how sick, how irredeemably wretched and vile can one be? Anything that requires legislative change is inherently political, because legislation itself is a political process. You don’t need to be an expert in etymology to see why legislators are called politicians. When they accuse others of “politicizing” these shootings, what they’re really saying is, “How dare you demand that I take a moral stand? How dare you suggest that I do my job?” Fundamental change requires bold action, and our elected officials have shown that they lack the requisite conviction to make it happen. Duty necessitates risking the loss of campaign funding or drawing the ire of certain constituents. People may disagree over what the proper course of action is, but to confront evil over and over again and choose to do nothing every time is wrong. It’s understandable to be scared of government overreach—people see videos of SWAT raids gone wrong, remember the Waco Siege, and imagine what might happen if they didn’t have piles of weapons to defend themselves—but instead of militarizing the population even further, why don’t we demilitarize the police? Can we at least try something? What does it say about our society, about our entire system of government, if our biggest domestic issue is an unapproachable, unfixable political quagmire? If we’re not allowed to legislate on a federal level, at least let states and towns that want to take action do so. Times change, circumstances change, and technology changes. I’m no expert in constitutional law, but I do know that the process of addressing our foremost national flaw, one which is repeatedly exposed for all the world to see, cannot be held hostage by one line in a 250-year-old document, sacred as it may be.
Of course, it’s going to require more than gun control to remedy what ails this country. We need to have an honest national discussion about what makes so many people, especially young people, feel alienated and disaffected enough to choose to commit such heinous acts of terror. After all, no hopeful person would do such a thing. Only someone who felt trapped, with no foreseeable way out, could go so far; such action has to be a last resort. I struggle to comprehend how anyone could have so much hatred for humanity, but this has become an undeniable pattern. Something is making people feel this way. We need a top-down examination of the circumstances that enable such hopelessness to arise. What affect does social media have on the developing brain? How do we make struggling people feel heard? After all, what are these mass shootings but final, desperate cries to be seen by a society that, up to that point, had made the perpetrator feel invisible? Ultimately, no one thing causes an issue like this. It’s more than likely a combination of the preponderance and accessibility of deadly weapons, a breakdown of community and family structures, the lack of open and honest discussion about mental health, and a culture that villainizes and dehumanizes the adversarial “other.” We need to address all of those issues, and many others, before we can begin to make progress.
At the end of the day, we all share some responsibility. I certainly haven’t done enough. In two weeks, I’ll be returning home to a country that continues to choose apathy in the face of incredible violence; I should come back screaming like a banshee at everyone who will listen, demanding that we take action. It seems obvious to me that a classroom should be a safe space. But then again, maybe it’s just like everywhere else in America: movie theaters, concerts, night clubs, malls, parking lots, restaurants, parades, church, or your neighbor’s yard. Perhaps we should content ourselves with chopping down forests to make little caskets. After all, that’s just another day in the Land of Murdered Children.
I don’t mean to neglect the suffering of the adults who were murdered, as well as their families. Their loss deserves equal acknowledgement.
I understand that some people did, in fact, do just this, and continue to; I aspire to reach that same level of conviction.
Goosebumps, Andrew! Well done (as always)! Your heartfelt portrayal of the Sandy Hook tragedy struck a chord within me. The depth of emotion and personal connection you conveyed is truly moving, as I said before: Goosebumps while reading. It is devastating to contemplate the impact this horrific event had on our hometown and the lasting memories it left behind, even today. The acrostic poem, "NEVER FORGOTTEN," beautifully encapsulates the collective grief and the urgent need for meaningful change. The words written in your piece serve as a powerful reminder of the importance of honoring the lives lost and taking decisive action to prevent similar (but anticipated) tragedies here in the U.S. Bravo, Andrew. Bravo.
I can appreciate how your proximity to Sandy Hook made that tragedy more real for you. It wasn’t just a story on the news, happening far away. You saw the impact on the faces of the people that you met. And whether you personally participated in extracurricular activities (sports or otherwise) with someone from the Newtown community, no doubt you knew someone who knew someone who was directly impacted.
My niece is graduating from Newtown High School this Spring. She was in the same grade as the kids at Sandy Hook, but went to a different elementary school. But she played rec soccer with some of the children whose lives were ended that day. And attended church with many of the families. It is an experience she will carry with her for the rest of her life.
While I don’t disagree with you that we need to address gun accessibility - in particular with respect to AR-15 type weapons which have only one purpose - I think the second to last paragraph in your piece is the most important and poignant one. There is a mental health crisis in this country and a breakdown in the societal fabric that once bound us together. We need to take a very hard and honest look at the root causes of that and start figuring out how to address it. Because while it may be slightly harder to kill if access to weapons of war are sufficiently restricted, those troubled people that resort to these senseless acts of violence will find other means to carry out their final middle finger gesture to the world. If we don’t address those root causes, then eventually we’ll just be arguing about what else we need to restrict access to in order to stop the most recent, never to be forgotten, tragedy that evokes thoughts and prayers from all the usual suspects. Before they go back to living their happy, unaffected lives.