It’s been 42 years since my friend was shot
The long road to recovery after losing a friend to gun violence
It’s been 42 years since that gray and windy April day when I learned grief and fear. April 7, 1982. I was 13 and filled with teen angst: my looks weren’t right, my dark brown hair was lank and gross, and I was on my third set of braces. I wore thick glasses. I hated myself, preferring to live in my head.
42 years ago, I stood outside my junior high, waiting for my mom to pick me up for an orthodontist appointment when I saw lights and heard sirens. Then the thwack thwack thwack of the orange Flight for Life helicopter flew directly over my head. As I brushed my hair out of my face, I saw it land just south of the school. It was a sight I’ve never forgotten, and to this day, my stomach clenches a little when an orange Flight for Life helicopter flies over me.
1982 was a time of innocence for me, at least, and my schoolmates. We still had recess, passed notes, and rode the bright yellow school bus. Each morning most of us walked to a bus stop, where we’d congregate, pushing and shoving, or flirting and being silly until the bus driver deigned to pick us up. Sometimes we’d wait 15 or 20 minutes past our pick up time while the bus sat a couple blocks away. I’m sure the driver was doing something more important, like a crossword puzzle, or drinking coffee, or taking a smoke break.
Walking to the bus stop was how I met Scott. He was shorter than me, and bullet shaped. He wore his sandy hair long with bangs. His face and arms were covered in freckles. Our subdivision was built with u-shaped streets, or streets that curved; few streets were completely straight. I lived in a u-shaped section, and Scott lived near me; I’d pass his house when I walked to the bus stop. When Scott rode the bus with us, he and I would walk together. He was sweet. We became friends the way 13 year olds in 1982 became friends: we were nice to each other during our 10 minute walk to and from the bus stop and nodding buddies when we passed one another in the school halls.
That April day had been an ordinary day: classes, lunch, and my typing class. I was excited to leave early for an appointment, and my mind was on important things, like Jeff, the handsome football players in my typing class with his brown curly hair, his polo shirt and Polo cologne, and his tight button-fly 501s. Or whatever argument my friend group and I were having. I was wondering what mood my mom would be in when she picked me up. And, naturally, I was watching the clock to make sure I left on time. My mom hated it when I dawdled.
It’s funny, now, as I think back to that day. I’ve lived for 42 years since that fateful day, experiencing sorrow, struggle, and loss as well as joy, peace, and good fortune. I’ve lived. I graduated from high school, college, and graduate school. I’ve had a career, marriage, and a family. I’ve traveled some. There’s much I don’t remember over the past 42 years, a lifetime really, but that day is still clear in my mind.
I left typing class and walked downstairs to check out through the office, but when I entered, I saw two boys I knew, John and Marshall, sitting with a circle of secretaries around them. John was gut-sobbing. John was generally a calm guy who would eventually turn to drugs and alcohol to assuage his memories. The secretaries told me to get out, but I was that rule-following kid, and I knew I had to sign out. I was assured I wouldn’t get in trouble for simply leaving, which I did.
I stood at the stop sign, as far away from the building as possible, waiting for my mom. Something terrible had happened, I knew, and I’d heard rumors that someone had been shot. When I saw John, especially, I just knew it had been Scott. John and Scott were inseparable; and John was in the office without Scott.
A ninth grader named Jason and one of his friends came to campus after shooting prairie dogs in the open fields surrounding Deer Creek. Jason pointed his loaded gun at John and said, “Freeze.” John told him the gun was loaded, and Jason turned to Scott and the gun discharged (https://law.justia.com/cases/colorado/supreme-court/1986/84sc100-0.html). The bullet missed Scott’s heart by inches, but he died within 20 minutes.
That day, I learned new lessons about fear, anger, and grief. I was deathly afraid to go to school, but it was 1982, and I did what I was told. Went to school. Went to my classes, hung out with my friends. We whispered about Scott and Jason, the boy who shot him, but we didn’t cry. And no teachers or administrators, or counselors spoke to us about what happened. I was angry about my friend’s death, but I didn’t know why. No one spoke to us about the stages of grief. Or how to handle grief. Instead, I shoved it down deep inside of me. I was depressed as well, but depression in our house was a weakness, so I buried myself in my books or phone calls with my friends. I wrote, but I didn’t really know how to express myself.
Because we had year-round schools, one quarter faded into another with no one talking about Scott’s shooting. I spent my vacation time obsessively combing the newspaper and the TV news for information about the shooting, but after Jason was sentenced to 12 years for his crime, everything faded away. Life resumed for us all.
When I was in college, Jason was released from prison, not serving his full sentence, and he also faded away. I was angry then, a ridiculous yet powerful anger that vibrated off of me and ended with me throwing things, cussing a lot, and generally being a bitch toward anyone near me. I didn’t understand my emotions or responses, I just knew a deep and ferocious anger toward the world. It’s ironic how not dealing with emotions in the moment causes hurtful, harmful emotions in the most random of circumstances. Overreacting to being told “no” by someone, I’d throw whatever was near me. Physically fighting with my brother over the smallest of grievances. Retreating to my room, my books, and my journals to marinate in my feelings.
It wasn’t until 1995, when one of my student’s died in a tragic car accident and I couldn’t stop crying that I sought help. I could barely afford the $10 fee I was charged per visit, but a high school counselor insisted I seek help. My reactions were beyond what is considered “normal” for grieving the loss of a young life, especially one who isn’t a family member. Ironically, as the therapist and I met, I learned I wasn’t just grieving my student’s loss, I was grieving for Scott. I couldn’t stop crying because I’d pushed those emotions as far down as I could, or so I thought.
The most difficult part of these past 42 years is knowing Scott didn’t have a chance to live, truly live. His death affected more than his family, although they eventually sold their house and disappeared. It took awhile for me to reconcile my anger and sadness over his death, and I’ve even found forgiveness for Jason. I don’t know what happened to Jason, either, but I wonder sometimes. Has he found peace within himself? As for John, I snooped a bit on Facebook and found someone who could possibly be him, but I don’t know for sure. I know he struggled throughout high school with drugs and alcohol, but I hope he’s found a better path for himself. As for me, I’ve learned to seek help when I’m struggling emotionally and mentally, especially because school shootings still happen. I graduated from Columbine High School, and although I thought I handled the shooting well, a year later I sought therapy for my emotions. And there was a second shooting at my old junior high, Deer Creek, and I needed to talk that out with someone. Therapy has helped me tremendously.
My clearest memory of Scott was several months before he died; the golden sunshine lit the field behind my house, turning it golden as well. Suddenly, as I looked on the field, I saw a small figure, head down, marching through the tall, dry grasses. I watched this figure until he got closer, and when he looked up, I saw it was Scott. He raised his right hand and waved at me, and then continued walking through the field and out of my sight, disappearing into the shadows.
