“Teachers, we are going into lockdown.”
Mrs. Chandler stopped lecturing in Spanish and began to speak in English for the first time in forty minutes, “Alright everyone, move over here, and no talking”. I glanced at my closest friend, Emily, we both smiled because we knew that this meant we got out of class for at least a little while. Those smiles didn’t last long.
Two hours past, the tension and worry in the room grew as the clock ticked on. After fifteen more minutes the announcement came on.
“Lockdown is over. There has been an incident at Sandy Hook Elementary. If we call your name please pack up your belongings and come to the lobby. ”
Everything stopped. Sandy Hook Elementary school in Newtown, Connecticut is where my sister and me spent five years. The school was a 7-minute drive from my front door. I knew teachers and kids there. What could have happened? Its Newtown, home of the Caucasian upper-middle class, nothing bad happens here. It was lunchtime and the school moved in a mass to the lunchroom. The strangest thing happened, nobody ate. Not one kid, we were all overcome by concern and worry. I spent the lunch period clinging to my friend Sarah; we had spent most of our time at Sandy Hook together. The day continued like that, none of us checked our phones because we thought it wouldn’t have been one the news. We were so wrong.
I walked into my house and the news was on, “26 dead in Sandy Hook Elementary, updates soon.”
I thought to myself, “I’m wrong. I misheard”. I took one look at my dad’s face and knew instantly it was true.
I knew of all of those children, was two doors down from one, lived across the street from another, meet most of the teachers, and had spent my early years in that school. One of the boys used to wait at the bus stop for his older brother, I saw him everyday for three years. It’s hard to imagine all of them gone, 19 months later and the wounds are still there.