Shots Fired

Choosing a school for my eldest, Joanna, was challenging given her nature as a follower who thrives in more intimate settings. In Omaha the options seemed endless—from large public schools with sprawling campuses to prestigious private institutions boasting impressive accolades. However, we quickly realized that Joanna's personality and unique needs would flourish in a smaller, private school environment where personal attention and a close-knit community were prioritized. The intimate class sizes promised not only individualized attention from teachers but also fostered strong friendships among peers, allowing Joanna to feel more secure and confident. After visiting several schools, we discovered having two mothers was a barrier to admission in many of the religious schools while financial limitations meant prominent private schools were beyond our budget. Eventually, we settled on St. Paul Lutheran school in North Omaha; its nurturing atmosphere and acceptance of our nontraditional family resonated deeply with what we envisioned for Joanna’s growth. Ultimately, the decision was not just about academics; it was about finding a place where she could blossom socially and emotionally, a sanctuary of learning that would shape her into a confident and curious individual.

Our daily drive through North Omaha to reach St. Paul's was an experience that starkly illustrated the contrasts within Omaha. Once we left the safety of our Benson home and turned onto Ames Avenue, the route was lined with remnants of a once-thriving community, showcasing a tapestry of resilience amidst socio-economic challenges. As I navigated the streets, it was impossible to ignore the dilapidated buildings and vacant lots, signs of a neighborhood grappling with its profound struggles. Yet, within this tough exterior lay St. Paul’s small, welcoming environment. At this time, the school served as a beacon of light for children from across Omaha, offering not just education but also a nurturing community where young minds were encouraged to dream beyond their circumstances. The sense of camaraderie and strength among the staff and families was palpable, as they worked together to foster a supportive atmosphere despite the surrounding adversity. As I dropped Joanna off each morning and picked her up each evening, I marveled at the large green campus one block North of crowded, run-down buildings and empty lots.

Eventually, Josephine began attending St. Paul's preschool while Joanna entered third grade. After four years of my drive to and from the school, I found myself slipping into a state of complacency regarding the surrounding neighborhood, which initially felt fraught with risks. At first, I was acutely aware of the tumultuous streets just outside the school gates, characterized by the occasional graffiti-tagged walls and rumors of drug deals in dimly lit alleys. However, as time wore on and the daily routine became more familiar, I began to unconsciously lower my guard. The once alarming sounds of sirens or the sight of worn-out buildings faded into the background, overshadowed by the vibrant bustle of drop-offs, pick-ups, and community events. Conversations filled with laughter and the warmth of familiar faces at school events softened my perception of danger, blurring the lines between caution and comfort. I immersed myself deeper into the St. Paul community, crafting friendships with parents, teachers, and neighbors, and quickly came to view the locale through a rose-tinted lens. It wasn't until an incident reminded me of the delicate balance between vigilance and trust that I realized how easily one can become desensitized to their surroundings.

One day as I sat waiting in the car, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow over the school parking lot, I found myself immersed in a strange blend of anticipation and restlessness, my eyes darting to the clock with every passing minute. Suddenly, the loud pop pop pop of what I thought were firecrackers ignited a spark of curiosity within me. Intrigued, I stepped out of the car, feeling the cool breeze brush against my skin as I scanned the surroundings, straining to identify the source of the noise. I walked toward the edge of the schoolyard, where the familiar shadows of playground equipment loomed, but no answer became apparent. Annoyed at whoever shot off firecrackers in March, I returned to the car. Soon, I heard the end-of-the day bell, but no children exited the building. I glanced around at other parents waiting in their cars, but no one seemed to know why our kids were delayed.

Following an unsettling ten-minute wait, the silence that enveloped the students and teachers as they exited the school building was striking, a dramatic departure from the usual lively chatter and laughter. The atmosphere was thick with tension, almost tangible. Teachers, typically the embodiment of composed leadership, hurriedly guided students towards their parents, their faces revealing a sense of urgency that did not escape my notice. As I stood nervously next to my car, I finally spotted Joanna and Josephine walking toward me. I looked around at the other parents, observing the same level of anxiety reflected in their expressions. This unnatural quiet was disconcerting, suggesting a narrative that was yet to be revealed, igniting a collective sense of worry and uncertainty among all the parents. Everyone felt trapped in this unexpected moment of anticipation, bound together by our shared concern.

The following day, I found out that teachers later discovered a series of bullet holes on the school’s exterior. They contacted 911, and law enforcement promptly arrived to investigate what they assumed was an unrelated drive-by shooting. In the days after the event, police maintained a heightened presence around the school. The stark bullet holes, contrasting sharply with the brick, served not only as a reminder of the violent occurrence but also as a stimulus for change. The deteriorating community around St. Paul could no longer be overlooked, prompting me to persuade Ericka that we needed to relocate our children to a school in a safer part of Omaha.

Departing from St. Paul turned out to be challenging, yet relocating our children to Western Hills, a public institution nestled among lovely family residences, was undoubtedly the right decision. As we began to establish a fresh routine at Western Hills, a bittersweet sensation crept into my heart. The cheerful and vibrant hallways, along with the neatly kept lawns, fostered an atmosphere that felt safe and welcoming, but every corner served as a reminder of the friendly connections we enjoyed at St. Paul, where the parents and teachers had each become a vital part of our family’s journey. Joanna and Josephine adapted swiftly to their new environment, their laughter resonating as they formed new friendships. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but feel as though a part of us was still linked to those we had left behind at St. Paul.