Darby Bricker (HPHS Class of 2015)

 My Town. 

 

            I’ve grown up in Mass Shooting America. We practiced active shooter drills at 5 years old because Columbine taught us our schools are not safe. I sat by my locker in high school when the news rolled in about Sandy Hook; I went to 5th period right after. I rolled over in my college dorm bunk to read a notification that said 50 were killed in Las Vegas. For each additional tragedy, a new location was added to the list of Something Will Change This Time. Pulse Night Club, the Batman premiere, Virginia Tech, Tree of Life Synagogue, Parkland. Just a few weeks ago, Uvalde and Buffalo. Yesterday, my town became the most recent Everytown to join the list: Highland Park. My town is not my town anymore, my town is an event.

 

            They make jokes of suburban white America hearing loud bangs, which are obviously fireworks, and opining that they must be gunshots. So, when my parents called me on the morning of 4th of July to tell me to Google “Highland Park parade shooting,” I told them that it is the firework holiday of the year, and everyone was overreacting. They described the pops, my dad heard only one and my mom heard five, and the way everyone ran. As the community dispersed, they left behind lawn chairs, water bottles, strollers, phones, and for some, loved ones. 

 

            For the next 90 minutes I reloaded any mention of it online. No news source was willing to refer to the incident as anything but loud bangs. Until every news station had something to say. Twenty-five rounds, hostage situation, 4th of July massacre, another mass shooting. I spent the remainder of the day glued to my television screen or scrubbing my apartment. Someone I love spent the day crying. My best friend from high school was unable to get out of bed. We were all grieving. 

 

            Certain things have always been universal in my town. The rocket ship park, the map in Port Clinton square, the pancakes at Walker Brothers. The ABC Countdown in elementary school, field day, Bar and Bat Mitzvah season in middle school, snowball. Eating Dairy Queen on a hot summer night on the circular benches on Central Avenue. The Michael’s Dance. Spending summers at camp or as a counselor. Football games at Wolter’s Field. The Deerfield vs. Highland Park hockey game right before Thanksgiving. Singing the HPHS fight song as you rounded the bend back to school after an away game. Being able to park in the senior lot and having your locker in senior hall. Wearing your college gear from the second you committed to the second you drove off for move in. Coming home for the holidays and having a mini reunion at Teddy O’s. Now, we have a new universal experience. 

 

Today, I went back to my town. Central Avenue is frozen in time. All of the bodies are gone but all evidence of the parade remained. Most chilling of all was the news tents. Taking photos of me while I attempted to have a silent moment with my town. Fixing their hair so they could report on my town. Laughing and fist bumping once they recorded a good sound bite about the tragedy in my town. Our vice president walking through the crime scene for a photo op in my town. 

 

            My town will never be the same. Tomorrow another town will never be the same. They drove in to watch us grieve until a new tragedy calls them away and they can visit the latest ground zero of grief. All that changes is the town, the pain is becoming commonplace. Today it is my town, I hope tomorrow it is not yours. 

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