Sadness

With violence in Colorado once again on the front pages of the nation, I found myself remembering Columbine.

We lived in Denver when the Columbine shooting occurred. Our kids did not attend Columbine High School, but their junior high fed into it, and so they knew many of the students. One of the shooters' older brothers went to our daughter’s junior high, at least for one year.

I worked just down the street from the school, and we wondered about the amount of sirens we heard, and the length of time they persisted. My office mate said, “Wow, that must be some car accident!” Then our receptionist got a call from her daughter, a Columbine sophomore. She was okay. Dave Sanders, the teacher who was later killed, had pushed her out of a lunchroom window. What? A shooting at a school? Why? Who? Someone turned on a radio and put it over the intercom. And our vigil began.

My husband Ron was a volunteer Reserve Sheriff for Jefferson County during those years, and he was called out to help form a barrier around the school while law enforcement officers cleared the hallways of backpacks, books, and other castoff debris, left there in the wake of panicked evacuation.

Much was learned from Columbine, and so if it has any silver lining, it is that. Very few students had cell phones then, and frantic parents – which were all parents – gathered around, angry in their angst, lashing out at anyone they could because they desperately needed to know if their child was okay. The unknowns formed a mountain so high no one could see over it. How many gunmen were there? Are they hiding inside still? Every backpack was a potential booby trap. Every locker was carefully searched. How many victims? How many are wounded? Are there any bombs in the building?

As Ron kept watch that first terrible 24 hours, Dave Sanders’ daughter came and stood with him. In 1999 there was not the instant communication we’ve come to rely on; so, no one knew if those who had not been heard from were dead or alive. She waited there, patient but knowing that as the minutes ticked by the chances the news would be good ebbed. As Ron prowled his section, she was a lone sentinel, waiting for the news that came in the early morning hours: her dad was dead. "I knew it." she said, and quietly trailed away.

Sadly, there have been many incidents since then. With every one, I remember my grandmother’s words, spoken in 1963 after President Kennedy was assassinated.

“Laws are for those who want to obey them. It’s very hard to stop those who don’t. Until afterwards.”