Gun Death Paralysis: "Mommy, How Did They Know To Do The Practice? Has This Happened Before?"
Season 5, Episode 528, Apr 20, 2023, 09:04 AM
Sarah Neumann, News Channel 5 Nashville:
https://www.newschannel5.com/news/they-saw-the-bodies-covenant-school-mom-describes-how-the-shooting-affected-families
Transcription:
I’m not here because I want to be here. I hate public speaking. But Covenant School is my community, my son’s school. It’s filled with staff who’ve become friends and whom we love dearly. When I first met Katherine Koonce our beloved head of school three years ago she told me Covenant was intentional to make sure every child was loved and known and prepared, and those weren’t empty words. In our nearly three years there I have witnessed every staff member call my son by name; they know his interests his strengths his struggles. They know our whole family.
On March 27th at 10:38 am, I was at Green Hills about a mile from the school when a friend reached out, to ask where my 5 year-old son Noah was. She heard on social media that there was an active shooter; tweet from the Nashville Fire Department that they were responding to an active aggressor.
I said no, it’s a drill; it has to be a drill. I called my dear friend who’s the librarian. She answered with terror in her voice that I don’t have words to describe, screaming and crying. She managed to get out the words that she and her son were okay—her son was home sick—and that it wasn’t a drill.
My own son Noah was okay; he was getting a haircut with his dad, but the rest of our community was inside that building: my friends; our children; so many people we love in that building, our safe space.
My 2 year-old and I parked; we ran down as fast as we could to the school. The roads were blocked off; there were cops everywhere. We hadn’t even received word from the school yet. I texted our pre-school moms thread: Active shooter at Covenant. I could barely type the words. My body was shaking. At that moment that innocent moms’ text thread was forever changed, from a place where we shared pictures and reminders about dress-up days, to now coping through trauma and things parents should never have to discuss.
I frantically called friends, promising to try to find their babies. We got word quick from the school confirming the nightmare. The shooter was down, and a reunification site was in place. I got there as fast as I could, and my husband and Noah joined.
I will never be able to describe what it was like, sitting in that church. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body. Holding our friends, praying, waiting to hear if their kids were alive, piecing together things people saw and heard. All we knew was 7 people were dead. Texted friends, teachers, begging “please text us the word ‘safe’.” We got confirmation that our son’s teachers were okay, and started hearing back from others. His art teacher he adores; his PE teacher he loves because he’ll make mischief with him, and our dear pastor.
The first mom was told her kid was gone. The screams and sorrowing wails. I’ve worked in pediatric oncology for 13 years. I’ve held kids in my arms as they’ve died, way too many times. Nothing compares to the scream of that mom.
We kept learning about more staff members, but no one saw or heard about Katherine. We all knew. We knew there was nowhere else she would be other than in that church with us and with the students. My best friend kept asking if anyone had seen her dear friend. No one had. She knew, too. She knew what it meant, if she wasn't in that reunification room by that time.
The last 3 weeks have been deeply painful. Our days are spent hearing children as young as 3 years old describe in horrific detail what they saw and heard. Third graders saw the dead bodies of their friends, not just coffins. Their classmates. They sat in those rooms, shielded by their teachers, with bullets flying over them. We walked to school the other day and saw the bullet holes; we saw where those bodies lay. We went through classrooms that looked like they were frozen in time, with “March 27” still written on the boards.
The trauma’s not going to dissipate, it’s not going to leave us or our children. It’ll just find a home within us and we’ll learn to live with it.
The most painful question I’ve had to answer from my 5 year-old, who keeps proudly telling me how brave his teachers were, and how they knew exactly how to keep them safe from the bad guy: he asked, “Mommy, how did they know to do the practice? Has this happened before?” And I said, “Yes.”
He said, “A lot, Mommy?”
I said, “Yes.”
We had everything. We had the security. We had locked doors. We had intense active shooter training. The teachers hear AR-15s shot, and the school had to practice locking down for that. They had everything. Our cops are heroes, they didn’t hesitate a second.
It’s not enough.
[William Barber: The one thing you didn’t have, was banned assault weapons]
We don’t have banned assault weapons. Sure, we’re going to add the bullet-proof glass, but what about when they’re on the playground; what about when they’re playing soccer?
[William Barber: I want y’all to say to her, “You won’t bear this grief alone.”]
[William Barber: I want the nation to hear what you said. You know the people who say, “The real problem is mental illness.” They are right. It is mental illness, when you can hear this kind of pain, and still be more interested in guns.]
https://www.newschannel5.com/news/they-saw-the-bodies-covenant-school-mom-describes-how-the-shooting-affected-families
Transcription:
I’m not here because I want to be here. I hate public speaking. But Covenant School is my community, my son’s school. It’s filled with staff who’ve become friends and whom we love dearly. When I first met Katherine Koonce our beloved head of school three years ago she told me Covenant was intentional to make sure every child was loved and known and prepared, and those weren’t empty words. In our nearly three years there I have witnessed every staff member call my son by name; they know his interests his strengths his struggles. They know our whole family.
On March 27th at 10:38 am, I was at Green Hills about a mile from the school when a friend reached out, to ask where my 5 year-old son Noah was. She heard on social media that there was an active shooter; tweet from the Nashville Fire Department that they were responding to an active aggressor.
I said no, it’s a drill; it has to be a drill. I called my dear friend who’s the librarian. She answered with terror in her voice that I don’t have words to describe, screaming and crying. She managed to get out the words that she and her son were okay—her son was home sick—and that it wasn’t a drill.
My own son Noah was okay; he was getting a haircut with his dad, but the rest of our community was inside that building: my friends; our children; so many people we love in that building, our safe space.
My 2 year-old and I parked; we ran down as fast as we could to the school. The roads were blocked off; there were cops everywhere. We hadn’t even received word from the school yet. I texted our pre-school moms thread: Active shooter at Covenant. I could barely type the words. My body was shaking. At that moment that innocent moms’ text thread was forever changed, from a place where we shared pictures and reminders about dress-up days, to now coping through trauma and things parents should never have to discuss.
I frantically called friends, promising to try to find their babies. We got word quick from the school confirming the nightmare. The shooter was down, and a reunification site was in place. I got there as fast as I could, and my husband and Noah joined.
I will never be able to describe what it was like, sitting in that church. I didn’t feel like I was in my own body. Holding our friends, praying, waiting to hear if their kids were alive, piecing together things people saw and heard. All we knew was 7 people were dead. Texted friends, teachers, begging “please text us the word ‘safe’.” We got confirmation that our son’s teachers were okay, and started hearing back from others. His art teacher he adores; his PE teacher he loves because he’ll make mischief with him, and our dear pastor.
The first mom was told her kid was gone. The screams and sorrowing wails. I’ve worked in pediatric oncology for 13 years. I’ve held kids in my arms as they’ve died, way too many times. Nothing compares to the scream of that mom.
We kept learning about more staff members, but no one saw or heard about Katherine. We all knew. We knew there was nowhere else she would be other than in that church with us and with the students. My best friend kept asking if anyone had seen her dear friend. No one had. She knew, too. She knew what it meant, if she wasn't in that reunification room by that time.
The last 3 weeks have been deeply painful. Our days are spent hearing children as young as 3 years old describe in horrific detail what they saw and heard. Third graders saw the dead bodies of their friends, not just coffins. Their classmates. They sat in those rooms, shielded by their teachers, with bullets flying over them. We walked to school the other day and saw the bullet holes; we saw where those bodies lay. We went through classrooms that looked like they were frozen in time, with “March 27” still written on the boards.
The trauma’s not going to dissipate, it’s not going to leave us or our children. It’ll just find a home within us and we’ll learn to live with it.
The most painful question I’ve had to answer from my 5 year-old, who keeps proudly telling me how brave his teachers were, and how they knew exactly how to keep them safe from the bad guy: he asked, “Mommy, how did they know to do the practice? Has this happened before?” And I said, “Yes.”
He said, “A lot, Mommy?”
I said, “Yes.”
We had everything. We had the security. We had locked doors. We had intense active shooter training. The teachers hear AR-15s shot, and the school had to practice locking down for that. They had everything. Our cops are heroes, they didn’t hesitate a second.
It’s not enough.
[William Barber: The one thing you didn’t have, was banned assault weapons]
We don’t have banned assault weapons. Sure, we’re going to add the bullet-proof glass, but what about when they’re on the playground; what about when they’re playing soccer?
[William Barber: I want y’all to say to her, “You won’t bear this grief alone.”]
[William Barber: I want the nation to hear what you said. You know the people who say, “The real problem is mental illness.” They are right. It is mental illness, when you can hear this kind of pain, and still be more interested in guns.]