1. Surviving an American Mass Shooting: A Survivor's Story
Part 1: The Cliched Wayward Writer runs into the center of a mass shooting in Dallas, Texas.
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Here’s an admission:
In the Spring of 2015, I epitomized the stereotype of wayward writer, making a sadly unoriginal attempt to ignore secret pain, I hastily moved across the country - from Bucks County, PA to Dallas, Texas.
As one might imagine, being a cliche didn’t suit me quite well.
Not to mention I ran myself into the center of a mass shooting. How’s that for coping mechanisms?
As one might imagine, being a cliche didn’t suit me quite well.
Not to mention I ran myself into the center of a mass shooting. How’s that for coping mechanisms?
By July 2016, I found myself cooped up in a Downtown Dallas apartment, shared with a once-familiar friend turned stranger.
Day in and day out, I spent my days pretending to be a “normie” while silencing the roaring inner turmoil.
Craving a crumb of purpose, I sought creative outlets and new opportunities, relying on writing, my last remaining passion. The search led me to Athena1, a neighbor and recent college graduate eager to collaborate on writing projects.
Our first meeting, set on a Thursday evening at my apartment’s rooftop terrace, offered a glimmer of hope.
Arriving early, I grabbed a quaint table and basked in the warm Texas sun.
As a daydream haze began to settle, Athena’s appearance suddenly jolted me back to reality.
Floating onto the deck with the warmth of the sunbeams brightening her every step, Athena executed a flawless, breezy entrance.
Radiating grace and kindness, everything about this goddess hit like a breath of fresh air - a much-needed respite from my isolated existence.
Perhaps it was the kind of friendship my soul needed.
As our conversation meandered to brainstorming, a cacophony of voices and commotion arose from the streets below.
Peering over the building’s edge, muffled chants grew more clear as a stunning cavalcade marched down Commerce Street.
Glancing back to Athena, her sparkling demeanor dissipated in front of my eyes.
The vibrancy fading from her face to reveal an endearing vulnerability.
With her chin down and shoulders hunched, she stared at her perfectly-manicured hands folded in her lap as her almond-shaped eyes brimmed with tears.
“My mom and grandma were civil rights activists. I forgot the march was today…”
It was a Black Lives Matter march. Americans, reeling in racial disparity, heightened by black men dying at the hands of police officers, were taking to the streets in impassioned civil discourse.
The deaths of Philando Castile on July 5 followed the next day by the death of Alton Sterling had lit a fire in us all.
“Let’s go. We’ll stow our stuff in my apartment. Get up,” I encouraged, trying to strike a balance of empathy and determination.
“Really?” she blurted, understandably surprised by my enthusiasm.
Laughing with excitement, we haphazardly threw our computers in my apartment, embarking on a life-altering adventure.
Survived this far? Continue the journey in Surviving a Mass Shooting: With Hope, Injustice and Bullets for All (Part 2).
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This name has been temporarily changed (it gives me a great excuse to catch up with the legend herself and confirm permission).