In this op-ed, former Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School student, Delaney Tarr reflects on the Kansas City shooting that happened on the anniversary of the one she survived in Parkland, Florida.
There is something hauntingly American about a mass shooting at a Super Bowl celebration parade on Valentine’s Day – especially when it’s the six-year anniversary of another mass shooting.
My shooting in Parkland, Florida at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School on Feb 14, 2018 wasn’t even the first to happen on Valentine’s Day. In 2008 a gunman opened fire into a crowd at Northern Illinois University killing five people and injuring 17 more. During my senior year of high school in Parkland, a gunman killed 17 people and injured 17 more.
Six years later, two men allegedly pull out guns and start firing during an argument at the Kansas City Chiefs Bowl parade. 22 people were injured and one was killed, Lisa Lopez-Galvan.
A premeditated act of mass murder and an argument-turned-gunfight are different, obviously. But the reality of the basics are the same: People fire lethal weapons into crowds of people. A new group is traumatized. A family’s life is ripped apart. A new anniversary is born.
In an instant, the victims of the Super Bowl parade shooting are in the “club.” That’s what we call it when somebody experiences gun violence firsthand. The world’s worst club. It is often the place I return to when I want to be understood.
I miss my morbid club more and more every year. Six years after the shooting, I have moved out of my home state. I keep in touch with a few people from Parkland and March for Our Lives but most of my loved ones today have no experience with gun violence. They extend grace and kindness, but Valentine’s Day is just another day for them. Their world does not stop.
When you experience gun violence the world stops. There becomes a distinct before and after, marked by a fateful day. But as I get further from that day, I know the world didn’t stop with me. The cultural attention span is far too short for anything besides a landmark: first anniversary, tenth anniversary, the big ones.
People are kind but patience stretches thin. This year, my mother asked if I was “doing a Galentine’s thing.” She didn’t mean much by it, but I wonder if everyone is waiting for me to succumb to celebration. Other survivors have healed enough to participate in Valentine’s Day for their partners and friends and future children. It’s beautiful. But is there a timeline for how long I can mourn? For how long this can be only a dark day?
I say this with the luxury of remembrance. The Parkland shooting is infamous enough that I avoid saying the name in most conversations until February rolls around. It gets me sympathy and a little bit of grace as I wallow through malaise.
Most shootings are forgotten. There are simply too many to count. In 2024 alone, the Gun Violence Archive reports over 2,300 gun deaths so far – that doesn’t include suicides. It is a painful truth that only the most sensational massacres can pass the invisible threshold: How many people shot? How tragic was the circumstance? Who were the victims? The perpetrator?
Once the details are decided, so are the attitudes. Will this shooting break from the pack and make headlines for more than a day or two? I wonder if the bar has been raised. Even the Super Bowl shooting seemed to be a blip on many people’s radar.
But the parade shooting wasn’t even the only shooting that day. In Atlanta, the city I live in, four high school students were shot when someone opened fire from a vehicle into the parking lot. Atlanta Public Schools said all four were taken to the hospital with non-life threatening injuries.
I learned about the shootings at the same time. After working for a few hours, one of my loved ones took me out for a walk on Atlanta’s BeltLine. The sunshine on my face and fresh air was healing. I felt okay, happy even.
We got cocktails at a nearby bar and sat down to people watch when I pulled out my phone to see reports of gunfire. The information was sparse, but there were at least two separate shootings. One nearby.
Quietly, part of me thought: Now it’s another anniversary. I recognized somewhere, dimly, that I felt like screaming. Part of me felt a little vindicated – at least now I have a reason to feel so bad. I kicked myself for being so selfish. I pushed the feelings down because the world did not stop and everybody else was having a holiday.
We continued on our day, stopping at the grocery store before heading home to meet up with more loved ones. At one point we lapse into silence and they ask: Why today?
But it’s not just today. The two of us paid attention today, and so did a few news outlets. Half of that is because it’s the anniversary of another shooting. I see several mentions of Parkland in articles about both incidents. Realistically, there are hundreds of shootings each year. In 2024 the Gun Violence Archive reported 56 mass shootings so far.
We just don’t pay attention. It would be impossible to carry the weight of everyday gun violence on our backs. I selfishly try to block it out so I can keep going.
I had to keep going after the anniversary-turned-fresh-tragedy. The next day, I met my mentor’s friends on the way to a work event. My mentor had me explain my past, which she considers impressive.
After I gave the spiel one of the near-strangers looked at me with kindness and a little bit of pity.
“Are you hopeful, given everything?” she asked.
I let out a sharp laugh. I want to say no. I feel deeply, cynically, that the answer is no. But that is the pain speaking and the fresh wound ripped open from seeing people run in fear. After I posted about the shootings several people told me the violence was “inevitable.”
But the violence is not inevitable. There are people working against gun violence, who have been working a lot longer than I. When I left March for Our Lives to pursue my career I watched it bloom and transform into something better, standing alongside so many other groups doing the work. It would be an injustice for me to rest in despair when their hope, love and effort is so triumphant. Those activists and organizations fight despite the pain and ever-moving world. Because they know the truth: a world without gun violence is possible. And they’re willing to work for it.
So I am hopeful, given everything. I am hopeful.
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