I was very wrong.
Like every other normal day my dad drove my sister and I to school. She was dropped off first at Westside Middle School, and I was last, only right up the hill, at Westside Elementary school. The schools were within walking distance from one another-connected by a side walk. I was in 4th grade that year, and anticipating the new 5th grade wing being built down the hill at the middle school. My class would be the first fifth graders down there, and we would be joining the 6th and 7th grades.
The day started like any other, but when lunch time came around-everything changed. I remember after lunch being outside for recess, hearing the bell ring, and coming inside. My classroom was the only 4th grade room on a different hall than the other 4th grade classes. We were on a hall with some elective rooms and special education, and after our recess was over the special education got the playground all to themselves.
While sitting in class, getting ready for our next lesson, our office secretary-Mrs. Bren-came over the intercom, screaming for teacher's to send their earthquake kits down to the office. "ABSOLUTELY NO CHILDREN ALLOWED IN HALLWAYS. LOCK EVERY STUDENT IN THE CLASSROOM!" Our teacher immediately disappeared with the kit. There was such terror in Mrs. Bren's voice and white panic on the face of my teacher, Mrs. Lee, when she returned that I knew something bad was happening. However, there was little time for conversation, for the special education kiddos were still outside playing. As fast as humanly possible every available teacher ran to the playground and got them inside to their classroom.
Once inside, we were all begging Mrs. Lee to let us know what was going on. I later found out that some of the teachers in the other classrooms were not telling their students what was going on, and in one case I know, telling them there had been a robbery in town and this was just a precaution. But Mrs. Lee told us the truth.
"There has been a shooting at the middle school."
I fell to my knees, the air in my lungs quickly escaping. I don't remember crying. But I remember walking to my desk, getting out a piece of paper, and drawing. Why I did this I will never know. But what I drew was my sister, and a gunman pointing a gun at her. And as I X'ed through the gunman I prayed and prayed and prayed and prayed-"Please not Brittany, Please not Brittany!"
I was in a grade where it seems like half of us were younger siblings of the class of 2003 (7th graders at the time of the shooting). So I was not the only one, I am certain, praying for the safety of my sibling.
It seemed like we were locked in that room forever. The Bono mayor was the father of my teacher and was sending her updates as often as he could about the deceased, the injured, and any other information he could. She was then, relaying the information back to us. She was on the lookout for many students of course, one being my sister Brittany. I remember these sad, empty eyes looking back at me and shaking her head when questioned if my sister was on the list. Later would I found out 2 Brittany's were shot. One critically injured. One, killed.
Finally our parents were making their way to us. As best as I could remember the parents reported to the office, the office called our classrooms, and then we were allowed to leave. I remember seeing kid after kid in my class get picked up. And worrying myself sick that something had happened to my sister, and that's why nobody had come to pick me up yet. But finally, my name was called. The halls were eerie and so still, yet filled with so much sorrow you could hardly breathe. I walked all the way to the office, ready to see a familiar loving face but dreading the news that might come with it.
The office was a madhouse of parents looking for their kids. And in the midst of the crowd, I saw my hero. My dad. He scooped me up in his arms and hugged me so tight. With no words we started walking down to the middle school, on that same old familiar sidewalk we had traveled so many times before. Finally, half way down the hill I asked him, "is Britt-o ok?"
He said, "She is FINE."
I let loose the emotion that had been building up inside of me all day. I was overcome with joy that when I got down to the hill I bypassed the bloody battlefield that lie ahead of me and started hugging everyone I could find. Before I ever got to my sister I ran into several of her friends and was so relieved they were ok. Later I found out that several were injured but in that moment, seeing these kids alive-kids who had been over to my house a million times for slumber parties, and birthday parties, and ballgames-I couldn't have been happier.
Finally I saw my sister. I don't remember her being particularly overcome with joy seeing me, but I remember thinking....this will forever change her life. So I didn't do the annoying little sister thing. I didn't bombard her with questions, I didn't bug her with information, I just held her hand and let her be. My dad hugged us both and said, "come on, let's go home."
We were the 3 Musketeers, my dad, sister and myself. And we knew that now that we were together, things would be ok if we could just make it home. Leaving the middle school we walked up the hill on the opposite side leaving out of the way to the high school campus. There were cars as far as the eye could see. Westside campus is set back in a lot of land. There is no 4 lane or more highway leading to it. There are 3 roads in, and the same 3 roads out. Needless to say it was a decent trek to my father's car parked miles and miles up the road. But I didn't care. I had everyone in the world that I cared about right there, holding my hand, safe and sound, and headed home.
I don't remember much once we got home. I remember when my dad found out Mrs. Shannon Wright had died, a family friend of his for a long time. He went into his room so we wouldn't see him sobbing. I had never seen my dad cry before that day. My sister says that family and friends all came by to see us, to hold us themselves and know that we were ok. I have no memory of any of it. I do remember sleeping in the living room floor that night as a family, and waking up to the nightmares of gunshots or my sister screaming.
Life has forever changed for many people, since the morning of March 24th 1998. There are so many perspectives too that we might never be able to ever hear everyone's stories about it. I know a teacher who was a hero and not only barely dodged bullets herself but pushed kids to safety and then saved the life of a student who had been shot. I know kids who were shot, or kids who were running to the gym for safety dodging bullets and watching their friends fall dead to the ground right beside them. I know 911 dispatchers who received the onslaught of calls begging for someone to come rescue us. But for those who have since left this world, my dad, our dear friend Nikki, and so many others, I will never know what that day was like for them. But I am certain, they are with our sweet friends in Heaven right now, looking down on us all today and smiling. Maybe even saying, "thank you for remembering me."
Cherish your time with your loved ones. Because you never know when tomorrow will change your life forever.
In Him,
Meg
