It was late at night when the phone rang.
My roommate’s little sister sat next to him in Chemistry. One of her friends died.
We talked about what it feels like, to see this happen over and over and over again, to see it get closer and closer and closer.
“Why?” I asked. I didn’t need to finish the question. She knew. Everyone knows the rest of the question. No one has an answer. No one ever has an answer.
“Anger.” That was the best answer we could find. And yet, we mused, no matter how many times we have been ragingly angry, no matter how many times we have survived physical, verbal, emotional, sexual violence, we have never decided to kill people. That’s a white guy response. Overwhelmingly. Another white guy. Why?
It could have been anyone.
But that’s not true. My middle school son, a white guy with outbursts of uncontrollable anger, does not have access to guns. We work with a therapist. He’s learning to be aware of his body, of when his heart starts to pound, of when he feels anger building. We talk it out, every night. His day, his frustrations, his joys, his insecurities, his anger, his laughter. I curl up in bed with him at night, a full body hug, as he cries, apologizing for the plate he broke in anger. He does not have access to guns.
It’s not anyone. It never is. It’s a specific person at a specific moment in time. Usually a white guy. The signs were there. They always are.
And yet it happens again.
Today, at school, the kids are quiet. Their eyes are serious and sad. The room is silent. Occasionally a student looks up. Makes eye contact. Looks down.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
My friends there, they were in the group chat as it was going down. It just kept blowing up all day. All night. Helpless. Scared.
Yeah, I’m fine. Just tired. Just sad.
I’m fine.
I know.
I know.
I check the news again, looking for answers. Make it make sense.
My students check their feed. They text their mom. They make eye contact. They put their phone down.
“It’s okay,” I say. “I get it. You can text your mom.”
I scroll my feed, looking for answers.
I want to hug them all, each and every one of them, an awkward, uncomfortable hug from a middle-aged not-huggy lady, because I want to tell them that I am here. That they will be okay. That they are safe. I want to give them assurances that I don’t believe.
“I’m so glad you’re here,” I tell them.
The bell rings.
