December 13, 1972

 

December 13, 1972

It was Friday the 13^th, and it crossed my mind that I should avoid ladders, black cats, and cracks. I laughed to myself. Friday the 13^th was just another day. I was in a great mood: I was 17, soon to be 18, Christmas was coming, and I was a senior. I was privileged. Seniors got to eat in a special café section for lunch and the back seats of the bus were for us, not the underclassmen. Now I could sing out:

We are the seniors

The mighty mighty seniors

Everywhere we go

People should know

Who we are

So, we tell them

We are the seniors (repeat endlessly)

My first class of the day was Psychology. It was a subject reserved only for seniors, and I was really into it.  Because our last names were so close, I was seated next to my best friend. That morning, however, she wasn’t there. She was upstairs helping the music teacher. Class hadn’t started yet and so I opened Exodus and continued reading.

Suddenly there were loud screams. All of us went to the windows. We could see into the quad (where we were allowed to smoke or just goof off during free time) and students were pouring out of the cafeteria doors, screaming “He’s got a knife!”

We began calling out, “What happened?” and “What’s going on?” and “Who’s got a knife?”

Some of the students stumbled over to answer us.  The maintenance man suddenly pulled out a huge knife (later learned it was a machete) and began terrorizing the students. No one knew why but one guessed it was because one of the students had been calling the man names.

Our classroom was just around the corner from a long hall leading to either the cafeteria or upstairs to the music room.  We could hear more pounding feet coming from the hall and more screams. I thought of my best friend and wondered if she would be in danger.  I got up and started to go to the door, thinking I would go warn her. Fortunately for me, other classmates yelled at me and convinced me to stay where I was.

Our teacher rushed in and locked both doors. As she was doing so, I heard the vice principal’s voice over the intercom, sounding panicky. “Teachers, lock all doors! This is an emergency!” She repeated those words two or three times.

What the hell was going on? We were all buzzing and Ms. Colgan tried to calm us down. Her voice was soothing, comforting. We all took our seats.

There was another loud scream from that hallway. “No, no, let me go!”

We could hear a door slam hard. The custodian’s office was around the corner, and we shared a wall.

“Let me go, let me go!”

“Shut up, shut up or I’m going to kill you!” The man sounded like he meant it.

Shocked, I thought I never thought this would happen here.

There were acts of violence everywhere, but I always thought of my school as a safe place.

I felt the student’s terror. Now she was crying out: “Get the knife off my neck!”  I shuddered. As a child, I learned to detach from my feelings. At home, it was mostly not to feel the fear, anger and worry when my parents fought with violence.  I did it now to stay calm. Some of the students around me were crying, and I didn’t want to do that. I had to stay in control of myself.

The police and media arrived at the same time.  I remember the reporter came to our windows, wanting to talk to us.  We yelled: “Go away!” My feeling was that the reporter was a vulture, circling around a great story. Ms. Colgan went to the window and told him he could not interview us, and she had no comment to give while the hostage situation was going on.

The reporter was shooed away by a cop wearing what looked like battle gear.  He spoke to Ms. Colgan, and we could hear their conversation. He wanted us all to lie down on the floor in case there were flying bullets.

We all got down on the floor.  We were on the first floor and on a slab. It was cold that day and so was the floor. When the thought crossed my mind that I could be shot accidentally, I had to shove it back and put it in a drawer of my brain’s “Don’t Think About This” dresser. I opened my book again and continued to read. I was learning all about the Holocaust and the cruel, inhuman treatment of Jewish people. I was at the part where defiant prisoners of a ghetto in Warsaw, Poland began to fight back against Nazi’s attempts to starve and deport them to concentration camps. I rooted for those brave Jews.

Distantly, I heard Ms. Colgan comforting crying students and those who were praying. I heard her say to the class that since we could hear what was going on, the custodian would also be able to hear us. We should stay as still as possible so that we didn’t somehow make the custodian angrier.

The student cried out: “Oh God, please get this knife off my neck!”

The custodian’s answer: “There IS no God and I’m going to kill you!”

The student continued to call out to God.

I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling her terror. Then I opened my eyes and noted that my fingernails and fingers had turned blue.  The floor was so cold. I was dressed warmly but was so cold now. I began trembling as the girl continued to call to God to save her. The trembling began in my toes, moved up my calves to my thighs, to my upper body and then arms. I dropped the book because my hands were shaking. The trembling stopped for a moment and then began again.

I don’t know how long it went on. I was having trouble controlling my thoughts now. What would happen to the girl? Would the custodian really kill her? Where was my best friend? Was she safe?

It was quiet now. We could hear the girl and custodian speaking but couldn’t make out the words.

And then there were noises from the office. Some of us sat up and looked out our back door. We saw paramedics rush by with a stretcher. We couldn’t see who was on it, but I thought: thank God, it’s the student and she’s safe! Other classmates came to the same conclusion, and we got up. It was over.

I could feel pent up energy draining away. Some of my classmates began to laugh in relief.

Then there was a loud gunshot and we all dived for the floor again.  I only heard that one blast but learned later that there were eleven. I thought he’s dead. We stayed on that floor for a long time while the SWAT team finished doing whatever they had to do.

Finally, the vice principal came on the PA again, announcing the crisis was over and we could continue with our schedule. Anyone who wanted to leave early and go home would be excused.

I was confused, wondering what period we were in now. The bells had been silenced during the crisis. Should I stay, or should I go home? Could I continue to pretend everything was fine? Or should I go so that I could cry in my bedroom?

Ms. Colgan was speaking now, and her words registered. Take the weekend to try and relax. Talk about what happened with your family. Write it down. We’ll talk about this again on Monday. 

Students were filling the hallway. My classmates filed out. I got my stuff and went out the back door, unsure what to do.

My best friend appeared, and we were overjoyed to see each other. I asked about her experience.

She’d been assisting the music teacher when they heard the commotion in the cafeteria right below them. When the screaming and running began, the music teacher and my best friend took refuge in her little office. She locked the door. Moments later, they heard the doorknob being rattled and heavy breathing. And then whoever was at the door left. They stayed in the office until the vice principal announced we could move on or go home.

She asked if I was OK. I lied. I told her I was fine and gave a short version of my experience. Then we parted as she was unaffected and was on her way to the next class.

I was not okay. The full measure of what happened hit me hard. I decided to go home. My Psychology classmates all decided to go home too.

So many feelings were swirling around me, yet I still felt very numb. I almost felt like I was watching myself go through the motions of catching the #10 bus, which took me to downtown Baltimore. I transferred to the #8 bus which would bring me to my neighborhood. I had a short walk to get home.

As I was nearing my house, I saw my brother coming toward me from the other side of the street. He saw me and began running toward me. He went to a different high school and was in the cafeteria having lunch. A friend of his was playing a transistor radio and the program was interrupted to break the news about my school. He got up and walked out of his school. His plan was to see if I was safe at home and, if not, he was going to take buses to my school.

The dam broke and I burst into tears. I told him everything.

The story was covered on the news that night. That’s when I learned how many bullets had been fired. The reporter explained how the girl, a 15-year-old sophomore, had gotten free. The custodian began saying that he was sick, and she offered to go with him to the emergency room. He was surprised and asked if she meant it. She answered yes, and he let her go.  Once the girl was whisked away, the SWAT team told the custodian to put the machete down and come out. But the custodian rushed them, raising the machete. So, they shot and killed him.

Over dinner, I told my parents what had happened. It was slow going because we still relied on lipreading and some fingerspelling.  Friday was their bowling night in a Deaf league. I wanted them to stay home because I felt scared. They showed some sympathy for the story but their attitude about staying home was that I was being silly. I was safe at home and there was no reason to be scared. My dad advised me to just forget about it.

After they left, my brother asked me if I wanted him to stay home. I knew Fridays were party nights for his gang and appreciated the sacrifice he wanted to make, but I said no, I’d be fine. He looked relieved and I understood why.  I knew he loved me, but we’d grown apart as we went through the teenage years. He was going with a gang now, smoking, drinking and who knows what else. He didn’t know how to respond to my upset.

After my brother went out to join his friends, I went to my room and cuddled with my panther cat, Pepper. I got out my journal and filled pages, pouring out what happened and the feelings that had hit me after the crisis was over.

The following Monday, Ms. Colgan asked us to take the time to write down everything we remembered. Once again, I opened up and poured out my feelings about what had happened. After we were all done, Ms. Colgan said the best thing we could do to get through the experience was to talk about it to people who would listen and to keep writing about it. She explained reactions that later would be called Post Traumatic Syndrome.

I was diagnosed with PTSD when I was in my 50s, a reaction not only to what happened that day but also because of growing up with domestic violence.

This happened 50 years ago. Each December 13, the memories return. I will write about what happened that day. Then I check to see if my fingernails are blue because I feel cold.