April 20th.

Today is April 21st. Yesterday was the ten year anniversary of Columbine. I don’t say “the tragedy at Columbine”, I don’t say “the massacre at Columbine”, I don’t say “the incident at Columbine”. I don’t like any of those words. So I just say “Columbine” because everyone knows what I mean without the use of such emotional descriptives.

I didn’t attend Columbine. I didn’t know any of the kids who were involved or even any kids who attended Columbine. That being said, I don’t think that this means that I didn’t experience Columbine. I think we all did, to some extent or another. Maybe we experienced it because we lived in the community. Maybe we experienced it because those kids were our neighbors and our friends. Maybe we experienced it because we shopped at the same grocery store that they did. Maybe we experienced it because we were living the mirror image of their lives, only just on the other side of Santa Fe Boulevard. That isn’t to say that my experience was anything close to what it was like for the kids who attended Columbine High School that day. To say such a thing would diminish the horror that they experienced. But I can say that today, ten years later, I find my life changed for having lived through that awful day.

My parents were out of the country, but not without a lot of trepidation over whether or not they could leave us alone for a week while they traveled so far away. They had never left us alone for more than a weekend, and certainly not to travel outside of the country. I happened to be home from school that afternoon. I don’t recall, but I probably was supposed to be in class and took advantage of the freedom. I would happily delete the voicemail message that the automated attendance line would inevitably leave on our answering machine that night…”Your student has missed one or more classes today, Tuesday, April 20. Please contact us at your earliest convenience.” As I flipped on the television, I knew something was wrong. None of the regular programming was on. Every channel carried flustered news anchored, trying to report scattered headlines as we watched students and teachers hanging from the windows of the high school. A few minutes melted into an hour, completely unnoticed as I watched the drama unfold. I remember feeling the need to be near people, needing not to be alone. I tried to go back to school, but we were in lockdown, no one was allowed in or out of the building. My sister was in there, separated from me. My little brother was locked down in his own school, unable to get to us, either. That was probably one of the hardest parts of that long and terrible afternoon. I needed to be with them, to have them right next to me and to know that they were there.

By later in the afternoon, officials confirmed that the standoff was over. Finally, the schools were allowed to adjourn and we all gathered back at home. We watched silently as we waited for the television to offer updates and report back on the grim news. Our answering machine was full that afternoon, though the attendance line never did get around to reporting that I had missed class that day. It was full of messages from family and friends, frantic to know that we were okay, that we didn’t attend Columbine. Most of the national news sources were simply reporting “a high school in Littleton, Colorado…”

I remember feeling a strong need to be with our friends, our neighbors, our community. In many ways, we felt very helpless and very alone, even though the three of us were together again. An impromptu gathering came together at a local Catholic church. It was a strange gathering. No one really had much to say, it was just a very shocked and silent group of people who came together because it seemed like the only way to get through this thing.

Late that night, our parents were finally able to get through on the phone lines to return our frantic and repeated messages at the hotel. They hadn’t heard the news yet. Odd that after all the events of that day, it is that conversation that I get emotional thinking about. I remember breaking down at that point, needing them there with us. They got on a plane the next morning and came home to us, slowly absorbing the shock and the horror of what had happened, right in our back yard. All three of us picked them up from the airport, still reticent to leave each others’ side.

For some reason, it always surprises me that April the 20th dawns with a lot of sadness and pain. Even ten years later, it’s a hard day. I find myself reliving and replaying each moment, the feelings still as bright and vivid as they were on that day and the days to follow. It’s a little bit shocking to realize how an event like that, even when experienced as an observer, can profoundly change your life.