Stuy Says Enough!
By Caroline Magoc
I'm standing a corner of my seventh grade history classroom, my back leaning against the old wooden closets, engraved with names of old students. Some of them watched the towers fall, I think. Others hid in these cruddy closets during lockdowns.
I'm bored with this. I’m looking down at my feet, rubbing my eyes when I see her.
She's strong-willed. Her eyes are knives.
I can hardly keep mine open as I swipe through countless articles on my phone. If there’s any shred of humanity left, I want to find it.
She runs on hatred, on the idea that others just don't get it. She asserts what she believes via MAGA caps and mounting piles of evidence. I wouldn't call it fake news, per se. It's just a different piece of evidence than what you're used to. Damned statistics. They so rarely give you a clear answer, so you're stuck reading in between the lines. You end up grasping for only the conclusions you desire, so rarely what's beyond that.
I read the news, but I don't know what to believe anymore.
She does. But she speaks on account of people she has never met, about guns she's never seen.
She didn't hide with her group of friends, cowering in fear, as rumors of a truck driver, gun in each hand, swirled around her school.
She didn't sit cross-legged, eyes glued to the TV screen, through shooting after shooting, listening to the same narrative on repeat, like a broken record which tells you the same thing over and over again without giving you the chance to process it, to see a grey area. All the news denies the grey-- it is all black and white, red and blue, us and them.
She didn't want to speak up for change. She just wanted to be the loudest voice. She hated being clueless so much she drew her own connections and called them fact.
She had experienced nothing, but knew everything. Today, I increasingly feel like I've experienced too much and still know nothing.