Emma Thornton

Contributing Writer

The following is a reflection piece by Emma Thornton, a freshman Exercise Science major at ESU.

I am currently a 19-year-old freshman at ESU. Yet, I once thought my life would not extend beyond sixteen years old. The threat of gun violence has affected me personally, and is still at the forefront of issues within our country as it has been for a multitude of years.

My sophomore year of high school, I didn’t have many hard classes. I was enrolled in geometry, which was the only homework I ever really had. My friends and I liked to go to Applebee’s on Friday nights after football games. I played basketball for the school team and I wore a sequined emerald dress to my homecoming in the fall that year.

On a Thursday in September, I was sitting in Spanish class taking a test. My classroom overlooked the courtyard where students ate lunch. The sound of their chatter and the chaos of passing student’s footsteps collided with the silence of our room.

These noises were soon replaced by the wailing of a police car siren outside. But it surely wasn’t for us. There was most likely a minor car crash or something out on the main road near our school.

Within the minute, the loudspeaker rang and it was announced that we were going into lockdown. I was almost glad. We run drills all the time, and I knew that this would interrupt our test. With no urgency, my classmates and I got up from our desks and huddled together in the corner as practiced. The lights of the classroom were turned off and the door was locked. We sat silently scrolling on our phones.

The courtyard below grew silent, and I thought to myself, “Why would they run a lockdown drill when they know students are in a lunch period with nowhere to go?” I started scanning the classroom, thinking of possible escapes. There were none.

We were upstairs and there were no windows that led to the outside of the school. Even though it was just a routine drill, my mind began to race with anxieties about different outcomes. What if there was a gunman? Or someone with some other kind of weapon? Was it a peer or an adult? Were they trying to target someone specifically? Was I going to die? Thoughts no high schooler should ever have to consider.

Some of my friends in different classrooms started texting me, suggesting that this was real. There was an eerie absence of movement in the hallway outside; students were all sheltering in their respective classrooms. A video soon came through of S.W.A.T officers in the chemistry lab with large guns, surveying the room as students sat on the floor.

I felt my temperature get hot and my face lose color. This was my worst fear manifesting into reality. As an American child enrolled in the school system, being a victim in a school shooting has naturally crossed my mind. I felt sick and hot with unease. There was nowhere for me to go, god forbid the gunman enter my classroom.

People around me still were not taking the situation seriously. There were whispers of when we would be able to go to lunch or finish our test. None which would have mattered if we were dead.

Not even my teacher seemed to know exactly what was unfolding. Yet between the sirens and the officers I had already decided there was most likely someone inside of our school. I paid close attention to noises outside our door, trying to tell if the perpetrator was on our floor. I sat in anticipation of hearing gunshots ring out.

Time had passed and the bell rang out hauntingly in the quiet to signal the end of the period. Nobody in our classroom moved, yet we heard commotion in the hallway. My hands were shaking as loud footsteps approached nearby. Nobody uttered a sound.

A knock came on our door and I froze. My peers and I made eye contact in the terror of not knowing what to do. Some of us wanted to get up, and maybe grab something in defense, but were hesitant. Others remained like statues.

“Police, open up,” a man’s voice shouted. My teacher approached the door in hesitant relief and opened it.

We were quickly rushed out of the door with our hands up, in a single file line. The same scene I had witnessed numerous times on the news after these types of events. Officers were stationed along our pathway, carefully shadowing our movements with guns. The echoes of student’s feet making contact with the floor were the only things audible.

I will never forget the feeling of walking down the staircase that I used everyday for class with my hands in the air, my stare met with the barrel of a gun.

We were directed to the football field where we waited for transport to our elementary school. I don’t remember much after I arrived there except the sea of parents trying to pick up their children. By this time, information had verified that there was never actually an armed person inside of the school. Someone had called our high school along with others in our area to report a false gunman to the police.

The confirmation allowed people around me to calm down, but I couldn’t help but reflect. It felt real to me; it has been real for so many others. Had this happened many years in advance, or in another country, maybe my fear about the situation would have been dramatic and unjustified. But then again, I am a student in America.

That burden causes me to be overly alert in public. It causes me to always assume the worst. To be suspicious of loud sounds such as doors slamming. And to always listen for possible footsteps approaching.