Gun Violence: Through the Eyes of A “Child”
Valentine’s Day of 2018 was supposed to be like any other Valentine’s Day. Couples hand in hand, kids giving each other love notes, confessing to your crush. These things were all on my mind that faithful day during my freshman year I was attending a High School in Miami, Florida and I was just starting to feel safe and assimilated at my new school. Later that afternoon when watching the news at home I learned of what happened at Parkland. Nickolas Cruz disguised himself as a student and was granted entry into his former school, Marjory Stoneman Douglas, where he proceeded to shoot several people with an AR-15 he purchased himself. 17 lives were lost that day. Teachers were killed. Students were killed. Several freshman students were killed. At that time I was barely 15 and I had never been more scared in my life to go to school the next day. I cried in my mother’s arm begging her not to leave me there.
After the shooting Florida schools began issuing IDs, all kids had to wear so no one would be able to sneak into a school as Cruz did. My school hired a personal police officer to stand guard outside 24/7 after we’d gotten a couple of threats over the phone. Although I wasn’t there that day and my fears and trauma could never amount to whatever the victims of this shooting felt, an impact was still everywhere. Something horrible happened on our turf and it just felt way too close to home. Students all over Florida began protesting. We had moments of silence, walkouts, signs made. We did everything we could to make our voices feel heard. Sadly, We realized no matter how many people lost their lives, no matter how many tears were shed, nobody was ever going to listen to a “little kid”.
I was made to write an essay about how stricter gun laws were necessary. Our language arts teacher asked us to include statistics and valid information to support the gun laws we mentioned. As I sat thinking about what I could write, I realized there was no need for statistics. The valid information was that people were dying. Mothers, fathers, children, were being shot dead. A 19-year-old with a history of mental disorders was able to buy a military-grade weapon but in this country, he couldn’t even purchase a beer. I stood in front of my class and read out my paper with statistics and all.
I desperately wanted to see some change. I wanted to be one of the voices who brought about the change for those who couldn’t speak up. I wanted to stomp up the steps of the white house and scream at the top of my lungs for gun reform. But who would have ever listened to a little girl who never touched a gun in her life? Those adults who clutch their precious assault rifles and automatic weapons and chalk up their use to safety and protection would never listen. Those adults in the White House who stay afloat through NRA funding would never ever listen. Those adults who say we kids don’t know anything about politics would never listen. We are just children in their eyes.
But I knew who listened. Alyssa, Scott, Martin, Aaron, Nicholas, Jamie, Chris, Luke, Cara, Gina, Joaquin, Alaina, Meadow, Helena, Alex, Carmen, and Peter all listened. They listened to gunshots flying through the air and into their bodies. All their classmates and co-workers listened. They listened to Nickolas stalk through the hallways and gun down their loved ones. Their parents listened. They listened to news reports confirm the death of their kids. All of them had to listen to something that could have easily been avoided.
I realized in order to bring real change, I had to make those adults listen to me. For the 17 who lost their lives. For the 17 families who lost a son or a daughter. For the numerous gun violence victims around the country. For a better tomorrow.

