Brendan Quealy: What are we even doing?
Dec. 2—I remember the feeling I had walking into Frankfort High School on Feb. 14, 2018.
I was there to cover the Panthers as they took on Northwest Conference rival Buckley in a highly anticipated matchup of two of the best boys basketball teams in the area. But that's not where my mind was.
No, my mind was about 1,600 miles southeast.
Just hours earlier, 17 people were killed and 17 others were wounded at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida — another dot on an ever-growing list of school shootings in the United States. A list that grew by one Tuesday in Oxford, Michigan.
Both Frankfort and Buckley fans packed the stands that Valentine's Day night. All seemed relatively normal, but how could it be?
Increased security and police presence were noticeable. A slight unease definitely filled the air before the game, and smatterings of conversations about what happened in Florida could be heard as I stood just outside the gymnasium doors.
Whatever unease and fear I felt was shoved aside so I could do my job. I had to put that away, numb myself to it.
About a month later, I drove to Cadillac High School to watch Buckley vie for a second straight trip to the Breslin Center as the Bears went up against Mt. Pleasant Sacred Heart in a regional championship game. The place was jam-packed, and the ticket line stretched outside of the school's front doors.
Just I walked through those doors and saw the immense crowd, a horrifying thought broke through.
What if ...?
What if it happened here?
What if it happened now?
And then I could see it. My fear and worry and anxiety took over in a split second, and I couldn't stop the scenario from piercing my mind.
Gunshots echoing. People running. People screaming. People bleeding. People dying. People dead.
I had to think about what I would do in that situation, how I would react, and how I would keep myself and others safe in the terror of such a moment.
Unfortunately, that wasn't the first time — and it was far from the last time — I found myself afraid of and thinking about the worst-case "What if ...?". But every time, I push that unease and fear to the side to do my job in spite of the knowledge that it very well could happen wherever I happen to be that night.
The more I've had to shove it aside and put those thoughts away and numb myself to it, the more I've found that I've become desensitized to it. Seems only natural as a way to cope and move on, but I'm angry and frustrated as I've realized more and more that I feel less and less when these senseless and barbaric acts of violence occur.
We're approaching nine years since the lives of 20 children younger than 8 years old and six adults were snuffed out in seconds at Sandy Hook Elementary.
I was unemployed and living at home with my parents when that happened. I watched news coverage all day while mindlessly folding towels and washcloths. But when my dad walked in from work and we looked at each other, I just broke down in tears.
I couldn't bring myself to watch a single second of news coverage about the shooting at Oxford High School. Does that make me weak? Maybe. Probably. But it really just means I'm human.
I can't take the hurt anymore with the knowledge that not a damn thing will be done to prevent it from happening again. Nothing except for more security, more steel boots next to classroom doors, more active-shooter drills. More trauma.
All that is in response to "when" it happens. No real, long-lasting change to stop it from happening will be affected.
Fifteen dead at Columbine. Thirty-two dead at Virginia Tech. Five dead at Northern Illinois. Twenty-six dead at Sandy Hook. Seventeen dead at Parkland. Ten dead at Santa Fe. Four dead at Oxford.
The numbers don't matter because the lives shattered are beyond measure. The collective trauma we all endure plays on a loop.
We, as a country, have pushed it aside, numbed ourselves to it, minimized it, become desensitized to it because we know it will happen again and again and again.
That is the hard, ugly and tragic truth.
