Year later, lives still shattered The Parkland tragedy has been impossible for some to move on from
PARKLAND, Fla. — The name “Parkland” has become a shorthand for the tragedy that many hoped would mark the beginning of the end of school massacres.
But ask the survivors of the shooting at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in more quiet moments about the awful year since last Feb. 14 — one year ago today — and they tell you a different, more personal story. About innocence lost. Dreams undone. Grief delayed.
In a series of interviews, members of the Stoneman Douglas community — students, parents, police, teachers — reflected on the past 12 months.
They did not want to relive that day. They did not want to argue about politics. They did not want to talk about the gunman’s pending trial for capital murder.
This is what they wanted to do: mourn.
In all of the activity of the past year, the March for Our Lives rally in Washington, the tour across the country registering voters, the investigations, the hearings, finishing senior year, getting into college — some said they had not had time to take the measure of what they had lost.
Here are three of their stories, in their own words:
Anthony Borges, 16
The five bullet wounds he took as he barricaded a classroom door to protect other students have healed, remarkably. But his recovery is far from over. And the prospect of being asked to testify in court looms in the future.
“I haven’t gone back to school because I haven’t seen a change. The security failed. They need to put in metal detectors. I am being home-schooled. But I would like to go to another school someday.
People ask me what happened, what made me do what I did. I say I have always been strong.
The best moment for me Senior Tori Gonzalez, 18, wants to go abroad to get further away from the tragedy.
was when I was able to walk by myself. The doctor told me, ‘You can walk a little now, without crutches.’ So one day I was home and thought, ‘OK, I can do this.’ I stood up and started limping. I walked into a room and my grandpa and my grandma and my mom and dad were there, and they burst out crying.
I was proud of myself.
I had thought maybe I wouldn’t walk again. But I went to physical therapy every day. Now I just have to get my strength back. I can’t even lift weights yet.
My life is not normal. It will never be like before. I used to get out of school and go play soccer. All I wanted was to play soccer professionally. I played forward. Now I don’t do anything.
Today I gave a deposition in the criminal case. The defense attorneys asked me about the death penalty. I said I’m against it. I’ve always thought that, because that is a capital sin. I am not God to take someone’s life.”
Anna Crean, 16
Now a sophomore, she was inside the freshman building where the shooting took place. Her lab partner, Alyssa Alhadeff, was killed. So were two of her creativewriting classmates. During the interview, loud squawks from birds flying overhead made her jumpy.
“When I was in seventh grade, a teacher told us Parkland was a bubble. She said, ‘Someday, something bad’s going to happen here, and the bubble’s going to burst.’ I remember I kept thinking about that afterward. Like, wow, she was right. I don’t feel safe anywhere anymore.
I have PTSD. The hardest part are sudden noises. Fourth of July, I was at camp, and I wasn’t expecting fireworks to go off, but they did. I had a panic attack. In school, a few freshmen have tried to pull pranks on us. They drop textbooks and film our reactions. We have monthly code-red drills. I’ve skipped probably three of them. It’s a constant reminder, every time, of the shooting.
Me and my three best friends, we’re the only ones that understand each other.
The March for Our Lives in Washington was probably one of the coolest experiences of my life. We met Joe Biden and Nancy Pelosi. I got to make a bunch of new friends. I wish I had never had those opportunities, though.
We’re not all loud activists. A lot of us want to go back and finish our high school career the best we can. For college, I want to go to Ireland, where my parents are from, because I just don’t want to do four more years of schooling here. I really don’t like how divided this country is. In Ireland, there’s no guns.”
Tori Gonzalez, 18
She’s a senior whose boyfriend, Joaquin Oliver, was killed in the shooting, just months before his graduation. Only in December did she take what she considered the first step toward healing: planting a memorial garden at the school to commemorate the lives lost. She keeps the flowers Joaquin gave her last Valentine’s Day —his “last act of love,” she calls them— in a vase.
“After graduation, I’m taking a gap year. I need a break. I am looking to volunteer abroad. I might go to Africa — I was supposed to go with Joaquin. I just want to get out of here for a while.
His best friend took me to prom. They totally ruined it: In the middle of the party, they played a slide show of the seniors who would have been there. You could see everyone fall to the ground and cry. That kind of scarred me. At the beginning of this school year, I didn’t talk to anyone. One time, this girl was just staring at me. Nobody knows what to say. It is so uncomfortable.
I’m wearing his sweatshirt. I wear it all the time. I’m going to sound really cheesy, but from the moment we met I knew I was going to spend my life with him. He was never my boyfriend. He said, ‘I hope you know you’re not my girlfriend. You’re my soul mate.’ I know I’m just a kid and kids don’t know any better, but that was the purest form of love that there is. I’m so thankful that I had that, even if it was for such a short time.
Last year I was very sick at this time and Joaquin was like, ‘I really hope you feel better by Valentine’s Day.’ That day was the first day I went back to school. I’m really glad that I saw him that morning. That morning was probably the best day that we had together.”