Listen

CW: gun violence (not graphic)

Wake up, Mr. Woodridge. Open your eyes. Come on, open them up. 

I see you’re confused and—now, there’s no need to be rude. The chains are there for a reason. Please don’t struggle, you’ll only hurt yourself. Listen, and I’ll explain.

Feel free to take a drink of water. There’s a bottle to your left. 

There was no need to do that. You will be thirsty later. 

Sit still, please, stop shouting. You can’t get out and I really don’t want to hurt you. 

I don’t mean for this to be frightening, but I needed you to listen. You are a very important man, Mr. Woodridge, and I understand that there are things you need to attend to. Listen, and I’ll let you go.

Three years ago, you ran for mayor. I remember your campaign slogan: “Listen to the people, be the people.” You spoke so eloquently, so forcefully and passionately about helping those who could not help themselves.

I thought that you were that one of a kind politician, the kind that speaks truthfully and intends on following through. 

But all those speeches didn’t mean anything to you, did it? 

I have resorted to this ugly measure because you have proven that you will not listen unless forced to. 

You will listen now and listen well. 

Do you have any children, Mr. Woodridge? Two? What are their names? 

John and Halle, a brother and sister. Did they like music? 

Ah. Athletes. Athleticism is a gift, I’m sure you’re proud of them. 

Well, my children had music. 

When my children were very young, I went to Goodwill and bought some classical CD’s and a Baby Einstein one too. I think it’s generally thought that music makes children “smarter,” but I thought of it more as enrichment, a positive addition that may or may not have a positive effect.  

I played it for the first time right after I came home. My children didn’t seem to like or dislike it, they simply listened for a bit then continued on with what they were doing. My little boy, my son (he was, maybe, eight months at the time), liked to chew on things. I remember constantly taking spoons, books, bowls, everything out of his mouth. Binkies only seemed to annoy him and I found them on the floor in every room. 

Did your son do that? How about your daughter? I bet she was a handful, my girl was.  

My daughter was less destructive, but much more loud. She loved to bang things together and she’d laugh and laugh. She used to curl her toes and only stick out the big toe. So cute. She was vocal too, always babbling and gurgling and making noises to make sure I knew she was there. She was just beginning to speak, saying “Mama” and “Dada.” 

I’m getting off track. 

Anyways, I gave up on the CD’s after a week or so. And then a few weeks later, I put on the radio while I was doing the dishes. They were on the floor, in a little pen with their toys and blankets.

You know the song “I’ll Come Running Back to You?” It’s quite old, maybe a 20’s or 30’s song. Sam Cooke sings it. 

It’s okay if you don’t know it. The first part goes like this:

Folks said that you found someone new

To do the things I used to do for you

Just call my name, I'm not ashamed

I'll come running back to you

Good, right? It’s sad and happy and all those deep emotions that you feel rather than understand. 

That song was playing and I turned around and saw my children sitting up as straight as their pudgy bodies could, listening to the song. It was almost scary, they were so quiet and so attentive. 

That song, “I’ll Come Running Back to You,” became our song. My husband burned the song onto a CD. Even as babies, they would cry until we played it, so we kept it on a loop, playing it over and over again. My husband and I learned it and sang them to sleep.  

You would think that we would get sick of it, but we never did. 

Oh, you’re shaking. I know it’s cold down here, but it’s a good thing. The cold will keep you awake. 

I still can’t take the chains off, please don’t ask again. 

Brothers and sisters have a reputation for being distant with each other. Are your children like that? They bicker a lot, don't they?

My children were the exception. They loved each other. My daughter was a sister and a second mother to my son. She’d put band-aids on his little ouchies and sing our song to him when she was a bit older. That song, as much as me and my husband loved it, became a song of worship to them. They sang it together as they played, playing with the rhythm and beat until the song became their own. They sang in high-pitched voices like chipmunks or went low to mimic a growly old man. 

My daughter went to elementary school, and my son joined her the following year. I think they enjoyed school. They had the typical petty squabbles with classmates and scraped knees and managed to trudge through their homework each night. My son found friends with similar interests in animation and video games, and my daughter joined the orchestra to learn how to play the song they loved so much. She played the violin. I took them to birthday parties with too-sweet cake and cheap party hats and celebrated their own birthdays with equal excess.

They were happy, regular children with good people around them and a good life ahead of them. 

I can see it on your face. You know why you’re here. So, let me continue before our time is up. 

That teenager broke past the security guard. He made his way from one building to the next without anybody stopping him. Now, that part is not your fault. He made his way into a classroom, gun in hand, and shot his first victims. The police were called, students and teachers with phones in neighboring classrooms locked their doors and called 911 over and over again. 

Shots were fired again 15 minutes after the first. The police arrived and nothing happened. They were still calling 911 inside. Finally, one SWAT team was deployed to enter the building. They cleared out one classroom, came out, and didn’t go back in. 

The shooter fired on another classroom before killing himself. That’s when the police decided that maybe, just maybe, they should enter the building and rescue everyone inside. 

16 people were killed that day. Four teachers, 12 students. 

This is where you come in. I didn’t know it then, but you ordered the SWAT team inside with some very specific instructions: save your children first. 

You didn’t tell them to get as many people outside as possible, or even start at the classrooms nearest to the exit. You prioritized the lives of your children over the lives of others who were equally vulnerable and equally loved.

The news had a field day with you, didn’t they? Although, I feel that you’re mourning your lost reelection campaign rather than the consequences of your actions. 

I’m glad that your children are alive, I truly am. But I am angry. 

You had the gall to give a speech even after the news came out. Your children, John and Halle, were up there with you and your wife. You spoke about loss, about the tragedy in our community. You spoke about how lucky you were that your children were still here. You spoke as if you didn’t play a part in the tragedy and then you had the audacity to offer condolences to the parents who lost their children.

I’m one of those parents. I watched your speech, listened. You put your hands on your children’s shoulders and knew that their hearts beat and their bodies thrummed with life. And I thought, I will never touch my children like that again. I will never hold their hands and feel them squeeze back, never hug them and feel their sticky cheeks pressed against mine. 

They are cold now. Dead. 

Don’t say you’re sorry. Nobody means it when they say it. “Sorry” is simply our sole and inadequate phrase for mourning.  

The surviving teacher in my son’s classroom told me that my son and daughter died together. My daughter heard the first shots and ran to her brother. And then the teacher told me this: 

My daughter sang. She sang to her brother, singing the last verse over and over again. 

I try to forget, had no regrets

This love of us could always start anew

Just call my name, wooh, I know I'm not ashamed

I'll come running back to you

It was her favorite part, the ending of the song. 

Ironic, right, that she was singing it when her life ended? 

I don’t have much else to say to you. I don’t have the energy to be angry with you anymore. I’ve said what I wanted. Honestly, the world would benefit from your death. I want to kill you. 

But I won’t. 

This gun is not for you. 

I will call the police, they will come get you. 

When they arrive, tell them that the key to the cuffs is in my pocket and that there is a letter in there as well. 

Give it to my husband and tell him that I love him. And that I’m sorry.