NOBODY HEARS YOU | JOCELYN LYNN SUNG

NOBODY HEARS YOU

JOCELYN LYNN SUNG

It was a cloudless spring day. The weather was finally defrosting. The bitter chill that had persisted throughout the entire winter was finally being swept away by the same gentle breeze that blew my hair into my eyes and cut my vision into narrow, uneven strips. I stood underneath the kindness of that late morning sun, tiny chunks of asphalt skittering away from my feet like a family of spooked mice as my feet kept shifting themselves underneath me.

I watched all of the different classes as they spilled out of Gallup High’s bright orange double doors in a never-ending stream of students and faculty. Some of the freshmen girls giggled as they walked in their separate cliques. The sophomores beamed at each other, waving wildly to their friends across the rough, fractured asphalt of the blacktop. A majority of the juniors—my year—were also enjoying the moment as they mingled among their different friend groups; at least that’s what most people would probably see. To me, a few of them mirrored the same look of confusion that was undoubtedly showing on my own face.

Then, there were the seniors. Like everyone else, they were ecstatic at the unexpected opportunity to be free from the rest of their second period. A few of the more outgoing ones were even giving each other piggyback rides. They sprinted past me to disappear into the massive crowd of students who were wandering around and as they sped by me their shrieks joined the sounds of doubled-over laughter and lighthearted conversations ringing through the aquamarine sky. In all honesty, it could have been a good day. It could have even been a beautiful one, but that would only be true if seventeen people weren’t dead and I never wrote that letter. A month before the unfair warmth of that late morning’s sun, Nikolas Cruz roamed through the hallways and classrooms of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. Unlike other students—who were most likely carrying gift bags of chocolate candies or stuffed animals to celebrate Valentine’s Day—he carried an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. On a day that celebrates love and commitment, Cruz opened fire into unsuspecting classrooms for six minutes and twenty seconds. He marked seventeen people for death, and in the end, those actions created a wave of fear and outrage that swept across the nation. Over two thousand miles away from Parkland, in the town of Gallup, New Mexico, that fear and outrage hit me too. I heard about Parkland a day after it happened, but to me it was just another day with another inevitable tragedy. After Columbine , school shootings happened so often in the United States that death counts became nothing more than new statistics and names were just fleeting whispers in solemn prayers and heavy hearts. Virginia Tech: 32 deaths after a student opened fire. Sandy Hook Elementary: A man murdered his mother before shooting 20 children and 6 faculty members. These types of stories became a presence. They numbed people, including myself. After hearing about the latest one, I would experience the usual initial shock and resulting heartache, but after an appallingly brief amount of time, it was almost too easy to forget about what happened. These types of atrocities, where classrooms become as unsafe as unlit city streets, became common, everyday things.

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That school week ended, and I went home. Life went on as usual. I still had to get up in the morning, blearyeyed and yawning. I still had to make sure my cat had fresh water every night as I swished Listerine around in my mouth. In the comfort of my own unknowing, things felt as normal as they could possibly be. Monday morning came just like it did before Parkland, and like a hundred times before, I walked around the rectangle of desks to sit down in my usual seat in AP Language and Composition. I twiddled my fingers and fidgeted with my belongings like I usually did as my classmates trickled into the classroom in their usual friend

groups. I just pulled out a clean piece of paper and allowed my thoughts to wander aimlessly as I silently waited for the second bell to ring. Before it did, our teacher looked up from her assortment of scattered papers and charging laptop. Not everyone was present yet, but Ms. Ruiz went on to ask us a question anyway: “Did you guys hear about Emma Gonzalez?”

I shook my head no, mirroring several of my classmates. The room was practically silent, and Ms. Ruiz’s mouth was set in a flat line, as it usually was when we didn’t participate as much or we weren’t quite meeting her expectations.

From the far corner of the room, Vanya was the first to speak. “Oh yeah,” she said, her arms folded on top of each other as she leaned forward in her seat. “I watched the

livestream on Saturday.” Samantha, one of her closest friends, was sitting beside her. She nodded in agreement. “I watched it too.” With the entire’s room attention now directed to-

ward her, Vanya hesitated a little before continuing. “Yeah, it was really sad. I couldn’t—“ At this point in the conversation, I tuned out. The initial tension had eased up a little, and I didn’t have anything to contribute to the conversation. I didn’t know who Emma Gonzalez was or what she might have done, so I allowed my thoughts to continue wandering. Everyone’s voices became indistinct background noise until the second bell rang over the intercom, and with its piercing cries, I was introduced back into reality. Ms. Ruiz was now standing at the door, and she flicked off the fluorescent lights with a quick wave of her hand. “I want to show you guys this YouTube video of Emma Gonzalez’s speech,” she said as she sauntered back to her seat. “She’s one of the survivors from the Parkland

shooting.” We were learning how to write rhetorical analysis essays, so as she plugged her laptop into the projector, she instructed us to pay specific attention to the literary devices used in the speech. For the first minute or so, with my mechanical pencil balanced between my fingers as graphite hovered over my paper, I was prepared to write down anything that I noticed. I quickly scribbled down Gonzalez’s use of the victims’ names, especially noting her use of pathos in her descriptions and details. It was the only thing I wrote on that paper. For six minutes and twenty seconds, as Emma Gonzalez stood on that stage with a stone-hard, determined expression, I squirmed in my seat. I felt my stomach twisting as lone tears slipped past her red, swollen eyes and down her cheeks. I felt my heart thumping inside of my chest, as if it was beating its tiny fists against my ribcage in an attempt to escape. I played with the sleeves of my sweater, fraying the fabric even though threads were already unraveling. I fidgeted in my seat even more as people in the background of the video kept whooping and hollering in an attempt to cheer Gonzalez on. Like me, they probably thought she had just lost her confidence and was undergoing a severe case of stage fright. An iPhone alarm shattered the silence, and after turning it off, Emma Gonzalez finally spoke. “Since the time that I came out here, it has been six minutes and twenty seconds. The shooter has ceased shooting and will soon abandon his rifle, blend in with the students as they escape, and walk free for an hour before arrest.

job.” “Fight for your lives before it’s someone else’s

The words hit me in a way that words hadn’t ever before. As Ms. Ruiz disconnected her laptop and began our discussion, I was so taken aback that all I could do was listen to everyone else speak. I sat there, warmth spreading across my face, and as my twitching hands went still for the very first time in a long time, I knew what I wanted to do. March 14 at 10:00 am: exactly one month after the Parkland shooting, students and schools from all over the United States were encouraged to participate in a walk-out protest against gun violence. It was called March for Our Lives, and it was intended to be seventeen minutes long, with each minute being dedicated to one of Parkland’s seventeen victims.

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For what could very well be the first time in my life, as someone who was taught to always equate silence with good and almost started bawling every single time I got into trouble at school, I decided that it was time for me to step over the carefully-drawn line that others had made for me. It was time for me to step outside of my comfort zone to take action. I was a sixteen-year-old girl who couldn’t even bring herself to say no to the most unreasonable demands, but I still wanted to do something. I wanted to do some sort of part in creating a safer nation, even it was by doing something as small as involving my own school, Gallup High, in the upcoming walk-out. I decided to put my writing skills to the test. During my lunch period at school, I went to the library, sat down in front of a computer, opened a brand-new Google Doc, and began writing a letter to Principal Badillo. “The reason for this letter is to ask for your permission for the students and faculty of Gallup High to participate if they wish to. This is my personal reason why: “I live in a society where school shootings have seemingly become the norm. I go to school to receive an education, but instead, I [now] find myself constantly watching others… I shouldn’t be viewing my peers in such a negative and distrusting manner, yet I can’t help it. “We are not simply high school students as of now; we are young adults, respectfully asking to do our part in making a difference in this nation. Please, assist us.” After proofreading my letter a few times, I printed it out and delivered it to the office. For an entire month

afterwards, I didn’t hear a single reply. I tried catching him in the hallways during my passing periods, but I never saw him. I eventually asked him about it during an unrelated meeting, and he told me that he was working on it. I continued to patiently wait, and as I did, I worked with some of my AP Language and Composition classmates and a few others to organize. March 14th came. I sat in my second period, legs bouncing underneath my desk as I repeatedly glanced toward the clock. I finally gave into my nervousness, and even though it was still a few minutes before ten, I started packing up my belongings. Just as I was slipping my notebook back into my book bag, a piercing, headache-inducing ringing started blaring in my ears. My classmates immediately stood up and slung their backpacks over their shoulders, and even though the fire alarm’s lights flashed at them from the top of the far wall, they were laughing as they poured out of the classroom and joined the rush of students flooding toward the exits.

them. Too bewildered to do anything else, I followed

I hoped that it was a fluke. I crossed my fingers, and I hoped that Gallup High and McKinley County hadn’t taken such an underhanded route , but the longer that I stood under the bright blue sky of that cloudless spring day, as I ignored the sounds of laughter and the tears burning at the back of my throat, I knew it wasn’t a fluke. Later on, after everyone had been instructed to go to their third period, Ms. Ruiz confirmed that I was right: every single school under McKinley County’s jurisdiction had been evacuated exactly five minutes before 10:00 am. As I stood there, with the warmth of the sun that so many others would never feel again, it was hard to breathe. Anger and a strong feeling of being wrong swirled around me like clashing waves, but deep down, there was a more unpleasant emotion lurking underneath the surface: guilt. I felt like I had failed not only those seventeen people who died at Parkland, but like I also failed all of those other school shooting victims who came before them. I felt like I failed myself. I kept telling myself that I could have done so much more, that maybe if I had been a little more involved, I could have done better. I could have. I should have. I would

have. Those words plagued me for the rest of the year, until time finally began to heal those feelings and wounds. The truth is so much more complicated. I was a sixteen-year old-girl. I had never actively participated in my community, much less actually spoken up for myself. I lived in a volatile home that was poisoned with narcissism and hostility. I live in a world where one person’s feelings and emotions are too small to change a school, let alone a nation. Even now, I know these things and I know that it still took a lot of courage to finally step outside of my comfort zone, but I still wince when I think of that day. I kick myself when I think about how I failed the voices of the dead who

could no longer speak when I still could.