I was wandering the fluorescent aisles and shiny, scuffed floors of our local drugstore looking for Father's Day cards when I turned the corner and saw the shelves piled high with Fourth of July decorations.
Star-shaped sunglasses and paper plates covered in flag designs were stacked next to red, white, and blue streamers and bandanas.
Immediately, my stomach clenched and my pulse quickened. I forced myself to take a deep breath as I rushed to another aisle. Maybe I wasn't ready to see patriotic decorations again.
I live in Highland Park, Ill. Two years ago, during our town's Fourth of July parade, a 21-year-old gunman killed seven people and injured dozens more. Hundreds ran from the gunfire, hiding in alleys and bathrooms, basements and dumpsters. We huddled in our homes while helicopters roared above and refreshed the news on our phones until the attacker was apprehended more than eight hours later.
For us, Independence Day became forever intertwined with violence and tragedy.
In the days after the shooting, a community assistance center opened at our local high school—the building's maze-like corridors, usually abandoned for summer break, filled with streams of grieving neighbors.
FBI representatives in blue windbreakers helped people still in shock fill out victim services paperwork and find items left along the parade route. Strangers hugged crying strangers, young children cuddled with therapy dogs while their worried parents spoke to mental health workers in hushed tones.
In one of the school's empty chemistry labs, a kind, soft-spoken volunteer counselor listened to me ask when I might be able to sleep and concentrate again.
"Your sense of safety has been threatened so your body is on high alert," she said. "Be patient. Healing takes time."
Two years later, I can sleep and concentrate again, but I still avert my eyes when walking past the rooftop of the local business where the gunman stood to fire dozens of rounds from a high-powered rifle.
I look for the nearest exit in public places and prefer to avoid large crowds. The hair on the back of my neck stands up when my middle-school-aged son and his group of lanky friends eat ice cream near the spot where the worst of the violence happened that day.
In a few days, Highland Park will mark the second anniversary of our shared trauma. We will hold our collective breath and search for the best way to move through this tense, difficult day. My family will try to return to some of our traditions this year and skip the ones that feel too raw, like marching through town.
Sometimes, when people find out I'm from Highland Park, they ask me how our community is doing now. In those moments, I imagine they want me to be positive, to focus on how the tragedy made us stronger, or to talk about the remarkable acts of kindness displayed by our neighbors during a time of need. We all want a tidy ending to help us find a scrap of meaning in a cruel and senseless act.
But the reality is more complicated and more difficult.
The truth is people are struggling with devastating physical injuries and mental health problems caused by the day's events. Families are still grieving the violent loss of parents, spouses, grandparents, teachers, and friends. There is a young, vibrant boy who can no longer walk because of gunshot wounds and another who will grow up without the parents who shielded him from gunfire at the parade.
Highland Park is moving forward because that's what people and communities do, but we will carry the trauma and heartbreak of the day in us for the rest of our lives.
After the shooting, our town was flooded with news crews, emergency responders, protestors, and press conferences. Like so many other communities across America, we learned those things are just the beginning. This Fourth of July, we know the true pain and loss of gun violence reaches farther, deeper, and longer than we can ever imagine.
Debra Ceffalio is a writer, teacher, and communications consultant who lives in Highland Park, Illinois with her family.
All views expressed are the author's own.
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About the writer
Debra Ceffalio is a writer, teacher, and communications consultant who lives in Highland Park, Illinois with her family.
