7 minute read
ACTING ACTIVIST
BY CHARLOTTE DWYER
was 5 when I believed I was indestructible; Mom and Dad were always prepared to patch me up with a Barbie Band-Aid whenever I would fall. Through my big blue eyes, they were my ultimate protectors. With them by my side, I was invincible.
Each year, I grew out of my favorite clothes and my naivety with them. I soon learned the villains of my story could easily creep up, and my Barbie Band-Aid would be unable to cover the wounds they left.
I was 12 when I became captivated by news of the Sandy Hook shooting. It was my first memory of witnessing firsthand just how evil people could be, even to those who never wronged them. I longed to help the survivors, but I was only a helpless adolescent with a limited comprehension of trauma. I was sad that people were killed while going to school. “The adults will help them,” I thought in a desperate attempt to comfort myself. To me, the adults were still the heroes. We — the youth — were the ones who needed to be saved.
I was 17 when I hid on the auditorium floor of my high school as a gunman took the lives of 17 of my peers in the building next to me. As I hopelessly tried to contact my sister, who was in the building, news of the shooting flooded my social media timelines. I felt transported into the bodies of the Sandy Hook students: alone, afraid, waiting for my parents to save me. Unlike the other times I had fallen, a kiss on the forehead and an “it’s going to be okay” could not reverse the damage.
16 | STRIKE MAGAZINE | ISSUE 07 Immediately after the tragedy, grief and anger consumed me. News broke that the adults, those hired to protect us, had failed us. The police were afraid to put themselves in the line of fire while the administration scrambled to hide the fact that they could have prevented it from happening. In an instant, my faith in those meant to shield us from danger disappeared. It was time to step up and advocate for myself. The role of “gun control activist” was not one I desired nor sought out, rather it was something that was forced upon me. News crews sat idly by the memorial in front of the school, ready to feed off of the grieving students. I let them. They devoured every word I had to say about change, gun control and the pain I felt. With my eyes still swollen from tears shed and funerals left to attend, I boarded a bus headed for the state capitol a mere seven days after the tragedy. Our school encouraged us to go out and make a “change.” CHAINS In their minds, it meant parading 100 traumatized high school students around Tallahassee to lobby for gun control and school safety because no one else would. The representatives offered minimal words
Immediately after the tragedy, grief and anger of encouragement, only making time to extend their consumed me. News broke that the adults, those usual “thoughts and prayers.” It was a useless mission, hired to protect us, had failed us. The police were afraid to put themselves in the line of fire while but one I was on board for. the administration scrambled to hide the fact that they could have prevented it from happening. In Over the next few months, my schedule was flooded an instant, my faith in those meant to shield us from danger disappeared. It was time to step up and advocate for myself. with TV interviews, rallies and town halls. I was their star survivor. I became the punching bag for people
The role of “gun control activist” was not one obsessed with preventing gun control, while those I desired nor sought out, rather, it was something that was forced upon me. News crews sat idly by the memorial in front of the school, ready to feed who held the power to change the narrative hid be hind their congressional doors. off of the grieving students. I let them. They devoured every word I had to say about change, gun control and the pain I felt. With my eyes still swollen from tears shed and At night, I would wipe away my smudged, tear-stained mascara and the confident smile I had donned for the funerals left to attend, I boarded a bus headed for day. I felt an innate responsibility to stand up and prothe state capitol a mere seven days after the tragedy. Our school encouraged us to go out and make a “change.” tect the students who would come after me; I refused to let them suffer the same fate as my school. Howev-
In their minds, it meant parading 100 trauma- er, as I dissected this mindset, I realized how wrong it tized high school students around Tallahassee to lobby for gun control and school safety because no one else would. The representatives offered was. I was being forced to combat because no one wanted to work people in power to protect minimal words of encouragement, only making us. time to extend their usual “thoughts and prayers.” It was a useless mission, but one I was on board for.
Over the next few months, my schedule was flooded with TV interviews, rallies and town halls. I was their star survivor. I became the punching bag for people obsessed with preventing gun control, while those who held the power to change the narrative hid behind their congressional doors. At night, I would wipe away my smudged, tearstained mascara and the confident smile I had donned for the day. I felt an innate responsibility to stand up and protect the students who would come after me; I refused to let them suffer the same fate as my school. However, as I dissected this mindset, I realized how wrong it was. I was being forced to combat people in power because no one wanted to work to protect us. My entire school was put on display as the children who would “save the future.” We were lined up as activists, coerced into battle with those who would never enact change. When we attempted to mourn, our principal pushed us harder. Our time to grieve had quickly wilted away, and we became a vision of strength and change for the nation. Simply because we were survivors of the worst high school shooting in American history, we had to assume the role of reformers. In my heart, I did want to be someone who could bring about a powerful change. But after laying my friends to rest and attempting to come to the reality of that day, my energy was expended. I had to relinquish myself from the frontlines. It was time for someone else to do the fighting for us; we had done enough. Although it may not have been in the instant after the shooting, or even a year after it, I knew that someday I would muster up the strength to reemerge as a voice for my 17 fallen angels. I am 20, and I have slowly entered the activism realm once again. No obligation, no responsibility, just a desire to do good in the names of those we lost. Hopefully, I can become more than a Barbie Band-Aid to my community..
CHAINS
In my heart, I did want to be someone who could bring about a powerful change. But after laying my friends to rest and attempting to come to the reality of that day, my energy was expended. I had to relinquish myself from the frontlines. It was time for someone else to do the fighting for us; we had done enough. Although it may not have been in the instant after the shooting, or even a year after it, I knew that someday I would muster up the strength to reemerge as a voice for my 17 fallen angels.
Common Ground
Breaking relational barriers in a maze of differing journeys is a journey unmapped. When exploring where our paths intersect, we strive to find Common Ground.
