How do you measure 25 years?
- Casey Gentry
- Apr 18, 2024
- 9 min read
Updated: Mar 24
If you have ever seen the Broadway play Rent, you are likely familiar with the opening number (Seasons of Love). It is hauntingly melodic, and the chorus goes like this:
525,600 minutes
525,600 moments so dear
525,600 minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife
In 525,600 minutes
How do you measure a year in the life?
For as long as I can remember, when I was a young girl, I was excited for high school. It was the 90’s and we had some of the best teen dramas in movies and tv. (I’m looking at you Dawson’s Creek and Buffy the Vampire Slayer! And who could forget Clueless? As if!) Of course, those were just fiction, but there was always something magical to me about the most formative time of your life and the undoubtedly novel experiences that go along with it.
I still look back on those years with fondness at the memories we made. From marching band freshman year to visiting Spain my junior year. Playing hooky when the Broncos won the Super Bowl (twice!) and feeling the jubilation of being named yearbook editor. There were dances and movies, parties and meetups. And all the weekend nights in between filled with teenage drama, awkwardness and sometimes, the inevitable heartbreak. But try as I might, there is one event so singed in my memory that some days it overshadows all the others: the massacre on April 20, 1999.
When people find out I was a senior that year, they want to know one of three things:
1. Were you in the school?
2. Did you know the shooters?
3. Did you know any of the victims?
The answer is Yes.
I was in the school that day. In fact, I had just settled on the couch in the publications room to eat lunch with a close friend of mine (Emily) when suddenly there was a loud noise. The sounds resembled firecrackers, each pop coming right after the last in quick succession.
“What was that?” I asked another classmate as she jumped to peak out the door window.
“I don’t know, but I’m getting out of here,” she responded with increasing agitation.
Before I could say any more, she bolted out the door. I looked at Emily with worry in my face, dropped my lunch, and took off hurriedly. I abandoned all my belongings and ran, assuming Emily was close behind me.
As we ran, there were more pops. For a brief moment, I thought they might be the manifestation of a senior prank, until I heard glass shattering from the impact of the bullets.
There were kids running everywhere, and a growing communal panic. So I ran. And I kept running. I ran towards a teacher waiving frantically at the exit doors, her distressed expression becoming more evident as I approached. By the time I reached the door she was at, I was in a full-fledged sprint…out the door, across the street, and into the adjacent park. I knew something was wrong when I ran past a girl sitting on the sidewalk, crying hysterically while nursing her leg wound. I noticed the blood on her leg and cringed. What happened to her?
I surveyed the park. There were kids everywhere, each one just as confused and upset as the next. I looked around but Emily was nowhere to be found. “Have you seen Emily?” I asked one student after another. Over and over, with growing desperation. "I thought she was behind me but now I can’t find her."
Then, from inside the school, we heard more thunderous sounds. It was like a cannonball exploding, and mass hysteria sent hundreds of students fleeing further away from the school
I flagged down a stranger driving by, pleading for his help. “I don’t know what is going on, but I need a ride? CAN YOU GIVE ME A RIDE?!” Even if he wanted to say no, I was already half-way in his car, pulling the door shut. We were close to Emily’s house, so I asked him to drive me there. I thought maybe she was already home. Lucky for me, the door was unlocked, but she was still nowhere to be found.
The events of that afternoon are blurry. As soon as I got to Emily’s house, I called my mom at work to tell her I was OK. Sometime later my dad picked me up and drove me home. I don’t remember how long I waited for him, but I know our drive was delayed because of the road closures. Amidst the constant ringing of sirens, police cars and fire trucks swarmed every corner. Helicopters swirled overhead. When I finally arrived home, our answering machine was filled with messages asking if I was safe. News of the event had already traveled beyond the walls of our city and state. I turned on the TV. And waited.
In between the phone calls I fell in and out of focus, catching glimpses of the news. I watched, horrified, as reporters tried to piece together what had happened. Family called. Friends called. Acquaintances called. Everyone wanting to know what was going on. But my answer was always the same: "I don’t know."
By late afternoon, I had talked to dozens of people, except Emily.
The afternoon turned into evening. My mom, dad and I gathered around the TV. Details were scarce, but we knew some people had died and some had suffered injury. No one knew the details or magnitude. I remember looking at my mom, tears falling down my face, and asking, “What is happening?”
She answered, hugging me close. “I don’t know, honey.” I buried my head in her shoulders, feeling helpless. As a mother with three children of my own, I now understand that she felt helpless, too.
Several hours into the evening, the phone finally rang. Emily was on the other line. Instead of following behind me, she had locked herself into another classroom and waited for SWAT to arrive at the school. While I escaped within minutes of the attack starting, she spent hours locked in a room alongside other students and faculty, with no knowledge of when or if they would be rescued. When we finally spoke, her voice was sad and broken.
“Some of us are going to meet at Dairy Queen in a little while” she whispered.
The puzzle pieces surrounding the day’s events were still scattered, but my instinct told me I needed to be with my friends. “I’ll be there” I assured her.
Over the next several days we learned what unfolded:
Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, two seniors at Columbine, had murdered 12 students and one teacher before taking their own lives.
Their shooting spree commenced after a failed bombing, leaving more than 20 students and teachers with life-altering injuries.
Lauren Townsend, and fellow senior and Dave Sanders, a teacher and my softball coach, were among the deceased.
In the weeks following the tragedy there were numerous memorial services, rallies and funerals. We were out of school for two weeks before returning to a neighboring high school to finish out the year. Our school was a crime scene. All of it. Weeks passed before we could get back in to retrieve our belongings from that day. When we finally did return to class, not much work was completed. Seniors had two weeks of school left before graduation. Most of us were in a daze, wanting to savor our last few weeks together, but also struggling to make sense of what happened and what would come next.
When people suffer sudden, unexpected trauma, they often speak of what can best be described as an out of body experience. The moment doesn’t feel real, or it feels like a bad dream. For me, that’s a pretty accurate description. Every time I would fall asleep, I expected to wake up from the nightmare I was living. I was going through the motions, but it felt unreal. The experience wasn’t momentary – those feelings lasted for weeks and months, even following me to college in the fall. And it felt especially unique, because we had suffered tragedy on a national stage and were processing our grief while the country watched.
One month after the shootings, I graduated along with over 400 fellow classmates. We celebrated the best we could, knowing that our first major milestone in life was shrouded in sadness. I felt grief for those we lost, and grief for those who survived. We were amateurs, the first of many young people in this country who would suffer mass trauma in the age of 24 hours news cycles. There were no support groups to tell us what to expect, or what our lives would look like. There was no one on the sidelines assuring us that we would be OK because they had been through it before.
And we all did the best we could, unaware that grief comes in waves and often when you least expect it. We all took different paths, shouldering our trauma, sadness, and healing along the way. My path led me to college out of state, where I found myself in a new place, with curious people. These strangers were truly sincere in wanting to know my story, but I knew they couldn't relate, so it was difficult to open up. Even though I was surrounded by people, I often felt alone.
Saturday, April 20, 2024, marked the 25th anniversary of the shootings. I started this piece by referencing the Seasons of Love song from Rent. It poses one very simple question: How do you measure a year of life?
As I approach this milestone anniversary, I find myself positing: How do you measure twenty five years of life?
Since that day in 1999, I’ve done all the major things. I went to college (1999), met my future husband (1999), met my first real boyfriend (2001), broke up with my first real boyfriend (2003), graduated with my Bachelors (2003), started graduate school (2003), started dating my future husband (2004), finished graduate school (2005), bought my first house (2005), married my husband (2006), started my first job (2006), lost my grandfather (2010), gave birth to our first son (2010), switched jobs (2012), gave birth to our second son (2013), moved to our forever home (2014), gave birth to our daughter (2015), switched jobs again (2016), lost my grandmother (2018), switched jobs again (2021) and again (2022) and again (2023).
What defines the past 25 years of my life? Is it the accumulation of all those big events? Or is the small moments in between? The ones that may seem insignificant at the time but leave an imprint, only to be thought of fondly later on.
In high school, I thought I would eventually be a writer. I love the way the written word captures moments and tells stories. Perhaps that is why I was drawn to Yearbook. I wanted to create something permanent out of something transient. One of my biggest contributions to our yearbook team my senior year was our theme: ‘It’s about’. The inspiration came during a creative exercise when I had an internal revelation: We were spending all of this time trying to document the major moments of high school, but it was about so much more than that. It was about the small ones too.
It is ironic in the most beautiful way that 25 years later I’m thinking on how I would measure a quarter century of life. Yes, it is about the big events – the graduations, weddings, births and deaths. But it’s also about all the small moments in between.
It’s about early morning coffee with friends that nurtures the soul. It’s about middle of the night newborn feedings that foster an unbreakable bond. It’s about the repetitive dinner preparations that ultimately lead to family discourse and bonding. It’s about homework help, even if your son has surpassed your math prowess. It’s about soccer carpool, where you get 1-1 time with your almost teenager who would usually prefer video games over conversation but occasionally opens up during the drive. It’s about discussing all things Taylor Swift with your 8-year-old daughter, because that’s what she loves, and you love her.
It's about leaving the wrong job because you found the right one, even if it is scary and intimidating. It's about prioritizing time with your spouse because he was your best friend before the kids came along, and he will be there when they are out of the house. It's about praying as a family every night, even when you're exhausted, because there is no shortcut to parenting. It’s about fighting, and then making up. It’s about heartbreak and loss, but also healing and anticipation.
Together, all of these things – the big ones and the small ones – compose my life canvas, symbiotically shaping my life and story. Because I am more than what happened that day, even if I have carried with me all this time.
I spent this milestone anniversary unimpressively, painting in the morning and attending soccer in the afternoon. I often thought about those who missed out on the last 25 years and wondered what their story would have been. And for those like me who survived, well, I hope they took a moment to reflect on their story and when the time is right, will consider sharing it with others.
Comments