A bright yellow smile filled my screen—the one I had leaned on for years to lift my spirits. Blissfully naive, the radiant grin that SpongeBob brought me was enough to help me get through class.
That joy was shattered when the usual buzzing and chatter of the classroom was silenced by the severity of her voice. A chill ran down my spine as the word “shooting” escaped her lips. My heart sank further when I heard the principal’s callous response to the matter.
“If some kids die, then it was their time to go.”
Now, fear follows me to school. The thought of what could happen—not just in my classes but to me—makes setting foot outside my house terrifying. Questions that no child should ever have to consider raced through my mind.
“What if this is the last time I see my family?” or “What should I do if anything were to happen?”
This is a mentality no child should carry, yet it has taken root in the minds of students everywhere.
We’ve been taught how to follow lockdown procedures—how to hide, where to run, what to do. We’ve been trained to save our lives in a place most call their second home. Fear has been instilled in us at a young age—a fear that no one, especially children, should bear.
I’ve seen how that fear changes people. I’ve lived through it myself.
Five years have passed since that day, and now I’m in college. Recently, my girlfriend showed me a CBS News report—a heartbreaking look at the realities of school shootings. Created by CBS reporter Steve Hartman and photographer Lou Bopp, the piece explores the bedrooms of some of the victims, capturing a glimpse of their lives before they were taken too soon.
One photo stopped me in my tracks: Dominic Blackwell, a victim of the 2019 Saugus High School shooting.
His room was filled with joy, with memories, with life. And on his face in every picture was the same bright, beaming smile I had come to associate with SpongeBob.
I looked around my own room, filled with SpongeBob merchandise. That smile that once brought me comfort now felt hollow, stripped of its warmth. It was no longer a symbol of joy but a reminder of what Dominic’s smile once represented—a life cut tragically short.
He was only 14. Not much older than I was at the time. My heart goes out to Dominic, his family, and all the victims and their loved ones.
Some might say I have no reason to be afraid anymore. I’m an adult. I’ve left high school behind. I no longer have to run drills or practice lockdowns.
But the fear remains.
It consumes me as I walk from the fieldhouse, past the Bronc Trail, toward the library. It whispers that my life could be taken unexpectedly. It reminds me that I may not get the chance to make amends, to say goodbye to the people I love.
I’m left asking the same question over and over.
“When will this fear end?”
