If I Don’t Make It, I Love You

WE BEGAN COLLECTING narratives and reaching out to survivors in early February 2018. We were already working on this project when we received news of the shooting at Santa Fe. It was quickly reported that there were ten dead and another dozen injured, all at the hands of a seventeen-year-old student. I remember the texts back and forth between Loren and myself, more victims, more trauma, more hurt, more loss, more anger. The weight of this project already felt so heavy, how could we as a nation possibly carry any more heft?

We were careful with the Santa Fe community. At first, we debated on even including the chapter. They need time to grieve, to mourn, to be alone, we thought. Then, I noticed a mother being very vocal on Twitter about the shooting and the death of her fourteen-year-old daughter, Kimberly. I followed Rhonda Hart and watched as she mourned her daughter Kim. After a few months, I reached out to Rhonda, and while she was hesitant to write for us, she did agree to let me build a visual story through her Twitter feed.

I spent two solid weeks in October reading five months of tweets. Rhonda had tweeted at least two or three times a day, leaving me with hundreds of options for a story. I knew I had to start with Rhonda’s very first tweet posted only two days after the shooting. It read: Kimberly was murdered on Friday at school. This IS her mother. I thought about my own twin daughters, twelve years old now, only two years younger than Kimberly. In so many ways, my own story began when I became their mother. And I will never not be their mother. It seemed fitting to start Rhonda’s story with her reassertion of motherhood. She still IS Kimberly’s mother. She will always be.

I learned so much about Kimberly from her mother’s Twitter feed. She was an avid Harry Potter fan, even attending a Harry Potter summer camp. She was a proud Girl Scout, and loved her little brother. In every way, she was my daughter, your daughter, our daughter. I knew once I found the beginning that I would have to find the end, and I went about it reluctantly. I didn’t want Kimberly’s story to end, in any way. But when I found the end, I knew it. In her tweet dated August 16th, three months after the death of her daughter, Rhonda tweeted a picture of a memorial cross with Kimberly’s name on it. The makeshift crosses had been decorated to honor the victims; there were ten of them. Under the cross, Rhonda wrote:

REMEMBER THIS WHEN YOU VOTE.

AMYE ARCHER, EDITOR
NOVEMBER 2018

The following students and staff were shot and killed at
Santa Fe High School:

Jared Conard Black, 17, student

Shana Fisher, 16, student

Christian Riley Garcia, 15, student

Aaron Kyle McLeod, 15, student

Glenda Anne Perkins, 64, teacher

Angelique Ramirez, 15, student

Sabika Sheikh, 17, exchange student from Pakistan

Christopher Stone, 17, student

Cynthia Tisdale, 63, teacher

Kimberly Vaughan, 14, student

ALWAYS CHOOSE LOVE:
A MOTHER’S HEARTBREAK IN TWEETS

by Rhonda Hart and Amye Archer, Editor

Rhonda Hart’s fourteen-year-old daughter, Kimberly, was murdered in her art class at Santa Fe High School. The following story was curated from Rhonda’s Twitter feed by Amye Archer, editor.

JOURNAL IN THREE PARTS

By Bree Butler

Bree Butler was a senior at the time of the Santa Fe shooting.

I hated living in a small town. Never having anything to do on the weekends, the closed-minded and small pool of people to choose friends from once aggravated me. I constantly made fun of the culture and the locals, trashing it and expressing my discontent every chance I got. On May 18, 2018 that changed. I don’t feel this way anymore. I want home to remain.

I would do anything to get the days back: the cheerleaders line dancing to Copperhead Road before the Friday night football game; the dress up days, making myself look like a fool just for the sake of approval of my Student Council teacher. I would do anything to get back knowing everyone’s face as I passed them by in the hallway. I don’t get that anymore. Don’t see those familiar faces. I may have spent my whole life disliking Santa Fe, Texas, but that’s all changed. This tragedy made me appreciate the everyday Santa Fe I never did.

Today these thoughts again. I never thought I’d miss this little town, yet here I am, six months later and six hours away in a small car. I’m reminiscing on the small things I never appreciated before. I think about the line dancing again. I think about the faces in the hallway again. I want to go back to my school before the shooting. I want to relive those days somehow.

I wish I could stand beneath the glorious Friday-night lights. But it’s all different there. I understand that. I wish I could appreciate the good times before they were taken without any warning.