Before and after Sandy Hook: 40 years of elementary school shooting survivors
Ten years ago, on Dec. 14,
2012, a man walked into Sandy Hook Elementary and opened fire, killing 20 first-graders and six adults in what many people thought to be a singular event: a school shooting so horrific that nothing like it could ever happen again.
That massacre, of course, was not the last one at an elementary school - but it also wasn’t the first. Most Americans know what happened on that day in Newtown, Conn., and then again a decade later in Uvalde, Texas, where 19 kids and two teachers died in May. What far fewer know is that for more than 40 years, people with guns have been killing this country’s youngest children in the places they go to learn and grow.
To capture what that’s done to them in the days, years and decades afterward, The Washington Post interviewed four survivors who endured shootings before any of them reached fifth grade.
Their interviews have been edited for length, clarity and continuity.
Cam Miller Cleveland Elementary
(Now 52, Miller was 9 years old when Brenda Spencer opened fire outside his school in San Diego in 1979, killing two staff members and wounding eight children and a police officer. Spencer, who was 16 when she shot Miller in the back, remains incarcerated.)
The first time that she came up for parole [in 1993], I was a little surprised, because I didn’t understand back when she was sentenced to 25 years to life. I just thought she was going away for life.
During her trial, I remember walking in and seeing Brenda Spencer sitting there. It was very scary as a 10-year-old to see somebody that almost killed you, and who had no remorse.
She was just like a monster. She wasn’t a real person to me. She was just a demon. It was like you could see almost through her. She had this, just, blank stare.
Growing up, after the shooting, my mom would walk me around the house in the middle of the night, because I would wake up scared that [the shooter] would be in my house. And I’d have to turn on all the lights.
I never slept through the night for years.
Each time a parole hearing comes up, it does bring back a lot of memories. It triggers everything that happened. It’s like, “How could you do this? After you shot eight kids, a cop, killed two people, and you think you’re okay to get out?” You know, it builds anger.
I denied it for a long time, that I was shot. Because I had a hole in me. You know, I had a scar, and I didn’t like that my body was now scarred because of this.
When I first started going to these [hearings], I had an expectation of, “Hey, I’m gonna receive an apology today.” That never happened. I don’t understand why she doesn’t look at me. But she’s never looked at me and said, “Hey, I’m really sorry.” None of that.
When I do hear about her coming up for parole, it kind of numbs me. It’s a sleepless night before, but I’m used to it. I know that that’s normal, and it’s the way it’s gonna be.
To get ready for it, I go through my speech. It’s on the computer. I want it to be succinct, and I don’t want my meaning lost in a bunch of words.
Over time, you know, as I’ve grown up and aged, I’ve learned to pare down.
It gives a little backstory on me getting dropped off. My mom dropped me off right in the path, basically right across from [the shooter’s] house. She waited for the car to pull away. And that’s when she shot me. It went in my back and out the front, about an inch away from my heart. So it went clear through me.
The feeling when the bullet entered my body was like an electrical shock. Bad electrical shock. I never lost consciousness. I just kind of blacked out for a moment. I could see everything in black and white.
And then I move forward to, you know, basically, “You have the audacity to want to be released? You killed two people. And then you think you deserve a second chance? Why?” There is no remorse.
The principal and custodian do not have a voice any longer. That’s what really motivates me to go, because these two people that were killed, they didn’t get to see their kids graduate, marry, any of that stuff. And that’s what keeps me going. Because if that were me, and my family, I would want somebody to speak for me.
2. Shannon Hill Oakland Elementary
(Hill, 40, was in first grade in 1988 when a 19-year-old walked into her school in Greenwood, S.C., and opened fire. Two 8-yearold girls were killed, and several other children and adults were wounded. The shooter was sentenced to death.)
In 2018, a lot of churches started having activeshooter trainings. My daughter worked in a church at the time, and I didn’t want her to go through something like that alone.
I felt like I was pretty good at keeping my feelings kind of at bay. The [South Carolina Law Enforcement] agent who was doing the training apparently picked up on some stuff. After it was over, he said: “Well, I can tell this is very personal for you. You were at Oakland, weren’t you?”
I kind of teared up a little bit. And he said: “I just want to let you know that you’re normal, and everything that you are feeling is normal. And everything that you have felt is normal.” And I just let it all out right there and cried.
I had never been told that before. I cannot describe the feeling you get whenever somebody tells you that, when you think you’re the only person who suffers from something.
I knew I wanted everybody else at Oakland to have that feeling.
I looked on social media to try and find my first-grade teacher. Once I reached out to her, there was another classmate that I was friends with. She was glad I reached out to her. I asked them what they thought about starting a support group on social media, and they thought it was a great idea.
I used my yearbook to go through each person and look them up on Facebook.
I just wondered: Did it upset other people as much as it upset me? Did other people think about it like I thought about it?
I had never processed it as a kid, and I needed to.
I was in the cafeteria. We had just sat down to have lunch. A man came into the door that was closest to our table. We’d only been in school for like six weeks, but it wasn’t uncommon for them to have people come in. We had an open-door policy.
So he holds up a gun. And at first, I thought it was a water gun. That’s what a lot of kids have said they thought, that it was just a toy. He started shooting.
It wasn’t until my teacher stood up that I realized that something was wrong. I was sitting right by her. She was shot the first time, and when she turned, he shot her again. Then there were three classmates that were shot. I didn’t know that at the time. But I knew that my teacher had been shot. I went under the table and hid. There was an adult who pulled me out. I don’t know who it was.
This happened on a Monday. We were back at school on Thursday. That’s crazy to even think about right now.
The day that we returned, the teachers talked to students. I remember sitting on the floor in a circle. We talked about our feelings. No one really remembers them bringing in counselors.
They put tennis balls on the chairs so that whenever you slid the chairs, they didn’t make loud noise. There were holes in the wall, where he had shot. They had someone come in and paint a mural. It said “Oakland.” It was really big bubble letters.
They created a memorial garden at the school. They had a couple of plaques that were donated and a little statue with the girls’ names on it.
Apparently — and I think this is still common now — there was a thought that if you can just move past traumatic events that happen, then it isn’t an issue for you anymore.
I thought about it, not like obsessively thought about it, but it was there. And whenever there was a shooting, I would be extremely upset.
I knew that other people didn’t talk about it either. People are thinking the same stuff that I am. People are struggling with it.
Jordan Gomes,
Sandy Hook Elementary
(Gomes, 19, was in fourth grade when 20 first-graders and six adults were gunned down in the worst elementary school shooting in U.S. history. The shooter killed himself.)
The first time that I was actually exposed to people just asking about it, just because, was probably college.
My freshman year [at Fordham University] we had a floor meeting the first night that everybody had moved in, where our RAs called us into the lounge area and were like, “Okay, everybody go around in a circle and introduce themselves.” And it got to me, and I was like, “I’m Jordan. I’m probably going to do poli sci. And I’m from Newtown.” And somebody piped up across the room and was like, “Newtown - like Sandy Hook?” And I was like, “Yeah, I’m from Sandy Hook.” And then the room kind of got quiet and somebody went, “Damn.” And we all just kind of awkward-laughed and moved on.
I had, I think, a fear of people thinking that I was trying to get attention by saying where I was from. I didn’t want them to think I was looking for attention or pity or anything like that.
I remember having a very long and drawn-out conversation with my friends in our social lounge super late at night, because one of them had kind of just out of the blue asked me, “You’re from Sandy Hook, right?”
You know, these people are my friends. I trust them as much as I can trust people that I’ve spent two or three months around, pretty much 24/7.
It doesn’t feel like a burden so much as it feels like something that I know I’ll always, always have to talk about. There’s no way I can get around it. There’s no way I can avoid talking about my entire childhood that was lived in this one place, and an event that shaped my entire childhood. And it really just comes down to me knowing that their reaction to it will determine my relationship with them. In the age of such extreme polarization, not just when it comes to politics in general, but particularly with gun violence, there needs to be a degree of tact in the sense that this person is opening themselves up to you, regardless of what side you’re on, and telling you about something in their life that greatly impacted them.
The biggest thing, I think, is realizing that these are people’s lives, and not just evidence for your political debate. They’re not fodder for your ideology, on either side.