There are two Parklands. There is the cardboard cutout of the classic suburban dream. There is the latest installment in America’s long-running series of school shootings. There is that familiar, mind-numbing boredom. There is that wild, vicious intensity. There is the Parkland where I spent my childhood — and there is the Parkland where I lost it.
I assumed that the shooting destroyed the Parkland from before, swallowed it whole. I threw myself into college before it could swallow me too. But of course, the pandemic forced me to return. I cannot escape the gravitational pull of the past. As expected, my Parkland, the wasn’t-that-where-that-shooting- happened Parkland, was waiting for me. We walk circles together around my neighborhood, only to see the Parkland that I used to know, preschoolers and their parents playing games. That Parkland is yours now, and all I can do is wave politely as I pass by.
I imagine you sizing me up, guessing my age, what school I went to. Wondering. I know your questions before you ask them. Every survivor does. That “were you there?” hangs in the air between us. That “did you know anyone?” haunts our awkward back-and-forth. We students, we were all so watched. That ever-present elephant in the room has trampled over every interaction between Douglas students and Parkland residents for the past two and a half years. I grew so used to it, I didn’t realize how quickly people began to forget.
I never thought I would miss the days where well-meaning
— but ultimately condescending — adults would look at me whenever there was a loud sound, waiting for me to break down. But on this year’s Fourth of July, I wish Parklanders had maintained that hyper-awareness.
PTSD doesn’t just affect us when it’s convenient for you. It affects us when we hear fireworks sounding like gunshots. The #MSDstrong stickers seem more like mockery when paired with the distinctive stink of gunpowder. This year’s nearly nonstop display of fireworks demonstrates that Parkland has forgotten the victims it vowed to remember.
I ran outside on the Fourth of July, enraged at my neighbors, spitting out every curse I could. I yelled at the top of my lungs, yelled as though I was dying. You’d think I’d gone insane. I think I did. All I know is, this town is eating me alive, and I must scream. When I told off my neighbors for lighting fireworks, they said, “I didn’t know.” Part of me wants to scoff at this excuse. How dare you not know! But thank God you don’t. The other part of me remembers that I used to be like you.
The Me from Before reminds me that I love fireworks. Not loved, love, present- tense. I miss them even now. I used to beg my parents to take us to the beach to watch them. The big boom reverberating in my throat, the bright colors lighting up the smoke of their predecessors, the collective oohs and ahhs, filled me with such awe. I am both starving and nauseous. I long for that which makes me sick.
To my surprise, my neighbors sent me a card and flowers the next day, apologizing. They meant no harm. I still don’t know how to feel about it. Yay, they care! Of course, they couldn’t know how the saccharine sympathy we received after the shooting only intensifies survivors’ guilt. Again, they mean no harm, and yet, harm is caused. To be honest, I don’t know that there is a right way to handle this. How can you do right in a situation so fundamentally wrong? I wrote them a letter in response, saying this:
“We need to cultivate conscious empathy. If you live in Parkland (or Coral Springs), you live in the aftermath of a school shooting, even if you personally did not go through it. Over 3,000 students were there. We live among you, and you live among us. No one gets the luxury of opting out of our past. It wasn’t just the 17 deaths the day of the shooting. Two survivors died by suicide after that. It is our responsibility to educate ourselves on how to support each other, or at least how not to cause harm. The stakes are higher than you can imagine.”
I can’t return to Your Parkland. Slowly, the victims and their families are moving away, and new families take their place. Like a hurricane, old branches fly off. New growth takes over. If you look close enough, you might notice a slight gap where a tree crushed the branches, but this is Parkland. Soon enough, landscapers will shave down the irregularities and plant something suitable to keep the real estate values high.
So what can we do to bridge this aching gap between us? Octavia Butler once said there was no single answer to the difficult questions she raises in her writing. “Instead,” she said, “there are thousands of answers — at least. You can be one of them if you choose to be.”
By LMF
Publisher’s Note: Celebrate as one.
July 4th is a celebration, and fireworks have always been a major part of it. As a community, we can find possible solutions for residents with PTSD, so they too can celebrate our nation’s birthday without stress. Send in your ideas to publisher@theparklander.com, so we can make 7/4/2021 a better experience for those of us still healing.