If I Don’t Make It, I Love You

ONE OF THE more interesting aspects of this project has been working with multiple perspectives from the same shooting. In his piece, Josh Stepakoff, who was only six when he was shot, recounts the external pressures survivors sometimes feel. He speaks specifically about a woman telling him that he spoke for her daughter, her daughter who was dead as a result of another school shooting. For Josh, this perceived expectation influenced his career and most of his young adult life. For Josh, his young life was unknowingly shaped by the expectations and actions of others.

Mindy Finkelstein, who was also shot at the JCC, was sixteen at the time, and she too writes about a similar incident where she was told: you speak for my daughter. To Mindy, this was a heavy responsibility, one she never forgot, and that sentiment has guided her to nonprofit work in some way.

This idea, what should we expect from survivors and what role they play in the movement to end gun violence in schools, is one that hangs over this entire project. We see it over and over again. In this chapter, however, we clearly see how heavy this responsibility can be, and how that weight can impact those left to carry it. Is it fair to expect a six-year-old boy to be the voice for anyone? Is it fair to ask that of a sixteen-year-old? These are questions we have to wrestle with as a society, and unfortunately, we don’t have the luxury of getting it wrong.

AMYE ARCHER, EDITOR
DECEMBER, 2018

No one was killed at
North Valley Jewish Community Center,
but two campers were shot and wounded:

Josh Stepakoff, 6

Mindy Finkelstein, 16

THE PATH NOT CHOSEN

By Josh Stepakoff

Josh Stepakoff was six years old when he was shot inside of his day camp at the North Valley Jewish Community Center in Granada Hills, California.

I always believed I wanted to be a psychologist. In middle school, I read Oliver Sacks and watched movies about psychological phenomena. I was fascinated by the human mind. In high school, I took AP psychology classes and as an undergrad in college, I took extra psychology classes, volunteered in psychology experiments, and learned about child psychology and development. After earning my bachelor’s in psychology, I went on to earn my master’s in clinical psychology with an emphasis in marriage and family therapy. Everything went according to plan. Then, in December 2017, I had a conversation that would cause me to question everything.

I was having breakfast with two guys whom I had just met through a mutual friend. For some reason, the topic turned to guns. We were having an open and honest conversation about this very controversial topic, when I suddenly grew very uncomfortable. I explained that as a victim of gun violence myself, I had felt a tremendous amount of pressure for the last nineteen years. I had been told for most of my life that I had something to offer other survivors of gun violence and that people could benefit from working with me. At one point, when I was sixteen, a grieving mother put her hands on my shoulders and said, “you speak for my daughter who cannot speak anymore.” My breakfast companions looked at me with a sadness. They told me how unfair it was for people to expect something from me. Somehow, them saying it aloud gave me the freedom I had been searching for.

On August 10, 1999, I was six years old and had just finished a game of capture the flag at my summer camp program at the North Valley Jewish Community Center. I was walking down the hallway when I came face-to-face with someone I thought was a construction worker. A bald, middle-aged white man who I thought was holding a drill. In reality, at his hip was semiautomatic submachine gun. Before I knew what was happening, he started shooting. I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew that I had to get out of there, so I ran. As I got outside, I was stopped by my counselor, who saw that I was bleeding. She signaled for help and I was scooped up and carried to a different building, where I laid for what seemed like hours. I clearly remember lying on the ground, covered in blankets to shield the other kids from seeing the blood. The only words I could say were “call 911” over and over again. I couldn’t say anything else. I remember the teachers, with the look of fear clearly on their faces, assuring me “we did, we did.”

After the shooting, I stayed in the hospital for a few days. I got a cast on my leg, had the bullet removed from my hip, and began my recovery. There are so many people who came together in this short period of time, people who were “just doing their jobs.” These people saved my life, and I don’t feel like I ever got to properly thank them. I don’t know all of them and I don’t know if I ever will, but what I do know is that I am forever grateful for the life that they have allowed me to live. I became fixated on these mystery workers “just doing their jobs.” I wanted to be one of them. I didn’t have the stomach to be a paramedic or a doctor, and I was still scared of law enforcement and the danger they faced daily, so the only thing left for me was to be a therapist.

Through the years, when I shared my story, people told me how much their friend or loved one would benefit from hearing it. How my story could help others. The weight of this felt unbearable at times. I felt like the only thing I had to offer to society was the one part of my life I had no control over. Still, those moments led me to the path of being a therapist. It made sense to me. I am calm, quiet, level-headed, and a great listener. I have the temperament to be a therapist.

So, I got my degrees and became a therapist, just as I had planned. I worked with clients who were in the midst of arguably the most tragic times in their lives, but I did not get any of the fulfillment that I had expected. I was finally doing the work I had dreamed of, beginning the career seventeen years in the making, and I was miserable. I realize now, that in some way, I was still allowing the man who shot me to dictate my life. I realized that every decision I had made up until that point, including my career path, had been a result of that one moment, that one bullet, that one shooter.

In the end, maybe those two strangers at breakfast on that December morning were right. Maybe it was unfair of people to expect me to speak for those who’ve suffered from gun violence. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t have something to say. If you learn one thing from me, learn that your life belongs to you and no one else. I spent almost two decades chasing a dream that I thought I would love, and it only took a few moments for me to see I was wrong. But that’s okay! I am happier than I have ever been knowing that there are endless possibilities out there. So if you only do one thing today, make an effort try something new, if you don’t like it move on, and if you love it, explore more. But, no matter what you do, do it for you.

DOING NOTHING WAS NOT AN OPTION

By Loren Lieb

Loren Lieb was forty-three years old when her six-year-old son, Josh, was shot while attending his Jewish Community Center during summer day camp. Loren’s older son, Seth, then eight, was also attending day camp there. Seth was unharmed.

I left for work early that morning while everyone else was still in bed. I slipped out quietly so I wouldn’t disturb them. My husband, Alan, would take the boys, Seth (eight) and Josh (six), to summer camp day camp at the local Jewish community center (JCC) on his way to work. I would pick them up in the afternoon on my way home. That’s how it was supposed to go. That was our routine.

Later that morning, Alan called me at work. When I picked up the phone, he said, “I got a call from your mom. There’s someone at the JCC with a gun.” I couldn’t process the words. They made no sense to me. Why was someone at the JCC with a gun?

A colleague drove me the forty minutes from downtown Los Angeles to the JCC in Granada Hills. We didn’t have a cell phone, so we relied on the car radio for information. I tried to maintain my composure, which became nearly impossible after hearing a report that six- and eight-year-old boys had been shot—the ages of my sons. I now feared that my sons, who were asleep when I left that morning and whom I had not kissed or told that I loved them, might, in fact, be dead.

As we neared the JCC, streets were cordoned off for blocks, and we had to park a distance away. As I made my way through the crowd of frantic parents, a stranger told me one of the kids might be named Josh. I started to cry. The next person I saw was my mom, who had been evacuated from the church next door where she was attending a literary group meeting. She maintained her composure, but the expression on her face told a different story. My two boys were her only grandchildren.

The next thing I heard was an announcement from a bullhorn calling for the parents of Josh Stepakoff—my six-year-old son. Ducking under the yellow caution tape, I approached a police officer. He placed his hands firmly on my shoulders, looked me straight in the eyes, and repeatedly said, “He’s going to be okay.” My mom and I were bustled into an ambulance to be taken to the hospital to which Josh had been airlifted. I begged them to tell me where Seth was, but they didn’t know.

At the hospital, we were brought to the emergency room. Alan was already there, having been contacted by the police. Josh was on an examination table, draped in sheets, with IVs and tubes connected. There were X-rays on viewers. Josh was calm, sedated, perhaps. I was catatonic. I don’t remember rushing to his side, hugging him, or kissing him. I stood back, terrified to approach. There was a flood of information. He had been shot. Vital organs spared. Leg broken. Growth plate not injured. Would not walk with a limp. Children repress what they can’t process. Don’t probe. Let him lead the conversation. My head was spinning, and where was Seth?

Hours later, we learned that Seth had been evacuated from the JCC with the other children. They were at a local park under police guard waiting for reunification with their families. Friends had taken Seth home with them. Did he know what happened to his brother? Did he wonder why we didn’t come for him? Was he afraid? When we were finally reunited, he wanted to know the details. He wanted to drive by the JCC. He wanted to drive by the hotel where the shooter hid for a few hours. He wanted to see where the same shooter had murdered a postal worker. We didn’t know how to respond. We declined his requests.

The following Monday, one week after the shooting, the boys returned to day camp at the JCC, and enrollment was higher than the week before. We wanted the kids to be with their friends. We wanted to resume our normal routines, but, of course, normal was different now.

Josh was on crutches with a full leg cast. He didn’t want to be seen in public because well-intentioned strangers would ask him how he broke his leg. Without emotion, he would simply reply, “I got shot.” Putting the pieces together, the questioner’s face would fall. The JCC shooting, just a few months after Columbine, had received intensive media coverage. Everyone knew about it. We stopped going out.

Loud noises, sirens, and helicopters were triggers for Josh. We chose television shows carefully. The house and windows had to be securely locked. His bedroom light on all night. We never talked about “the thing that happened.” It was the elephant in the room. It was probably hard for Seth, too, but I don’t know for certain because we never talked about it. All we knew was that his eight-year-old self was envious of gifts Josh received from well-wishers around the world, and that he wanted to ride in a helicopter.

Many years later, I realized that I knew very little about how the shooting had impacted Seth. I felt guilty for not talking with him about it. He had concerns about personal safety and for a time expressed interest in becoming a police officer. On a few occasions, he accompanied Josh to therapy appointments but I never asked him about his feelings. When I finally did, he agreed to talk, but never made the time or he didn’t have much to say. I don’t know if it was because his feelings had faded with time, or because he needed time to think about it, or he didn’t want to think about it.

Although I had relatives in law enforcement and another who was a competitive shooter, guns were not part of my world. My sister and I grew up in a comfortable suburb of Los Angeles. Our parents were city dwellers from New York. After their deaths, I found records of their early donations to Handgun Control, Inc. Growing up, after our house was robbed a second time, my parents responded by getting a large dog, not a gun.

In the weeks after the shooting at the JCC, I learned a protest was being planned in Washington, D.C., to demand changes to our nation’s gun laws. I immediately got involved. It was cathartic for me to feel like I was drawing attention to a problem I hadn’t even known existed until my child was shot. But once I knew, doing nothing was not an option. I made phone calls, attended meetings, raised money, talked to hundreds of people, gave media interviews, and helped to form the San Fernando Valley Chapter of the Brady Campaign to Prevent Gun Violence. The culmination of the efforts was the Million Mom March, which occurred just nine months after the shooting and was the brainchild of New Jersey mom Donna Dees Thomases. My family attended the March in D.C., and we have continued to participate in protests, marches, and vigils.

Being a gun violence prevention activist has become a way of life, even though it was difficult to be a working mom with two children spending much of my free time working on gun violence prevention. After the shooting, Alan and I were keenly aware that we could no longer assure our children that we would keep them safe. It was a painful acknowledgment. Surely, parents across the country continued to make this solemn promise to their frightened children, but for us, the promise now would be hollow. I hoped that seeing me work so hard to for gun violence prevention would help my kids, and show them that it’s important to fight for what you believe in.

Over the years, friends reached out when there was a mass shooting—wondering if I was okay, fearing that the news would “bring me back” to the JCC shooting. What they didn’t realize was that, as a gun violence prevention activist, gun violence was always on my mind. What changed, however, was my reaction. Intense grief and disbelief are now accompanied by overwhelming anger with the gun lobby, do-nothing politicians, and Americans who wring their hands, offer a prayer, and do nothing more. Since Josh was shot, almost 2.5 million Americans have been injured or killed by guns. The ripples and collateral damage reach many, many millions more. Can any one of us truly say that we haven’t been impacted by gun violence? I don’t think so.

THE CONUNDRUM OF SURVIVORSHIP

By Seth Stepakoff

Seth Stepakoff was eight years old when his younger brother, Josh, was shot and injured at their local JCC day camp. Seth was not injured in the shooting.

As we move through our lives, series of events, and interactions shape who we become. Most people can look to singular events throughout their life that had a significant impact. For me, it was the day my brother was shot by a cowardly Neo-Nazi. A man with such disdain for human life, that which differs from his own, thought best to attack a group of children.

My brother was only six when he was shot, and I was eight. We were at our summer day camp at the local Jewish Community Center. I did not see nor hear it happen, as I was in another portion of the facility. But, I remember the day as vividly as yesterday. Immediately after the incident, those who were not injured were taken to the city house above the Northridge Park by the police station. There were lots of detectives walking around with guns and legal pads asking what we saw or heard. My friends’ mother picked me up from camp and I remember my brother not being with us. I remember getting the call from my parents. They called from the hospital. My mom first, barely able to speak, told me that Josh fell and hurt his knee. I knew something wasn’t right. Dad was next, I don’t remember how he said it, but in no uncertain terms, he told me my brother had been shot.

In the days that followed, I spent time with Josh in the hospital and made great friends with the staff. We had a whole other room just for the gifts my brother received. Josh had a full leg cast from his foot to his pelvis. In the back where the exit wound occurred, there was a little door in the cast—a cutout used to access the layers of bandage underneath. Every day, if not multiple times per day, that bandage had to be changed. As the wound healed it, healed around pieces of bandage which meant that every time was an excruciating experience requiring the help of the whole family. Mom and Dad changed the bandage while I kept Josh busy, usually with a walkie-talkie.

While I remember the little things, what has stuck with me through the years is the shocking disregard for human life. In a world of freedom from oppression, there are those that are oppressed by their own ideologies and dogmas. Dogmas that drive them to kill for pleasure. Of all things that I carry with me to this day this undoubtedly shapes me the most. This idea that anyone at any time can suffer at the hands of another person because of hatred. I’m tremendously proud of my brother for his resilience, fortitude, and continuous drive. Yet, I’ve had to watch him and the rest of my family live with the aftereffects of the shooting for two decades. Living with PTSD is an unfortunate state, a complete hijacking of the brain. It’s hard to process the idea that people aren’t just out to kill—they’re out to kill you.

As the sibling of someone who was shot, you’re left with the conundrum of survivorship. There’s one part of me that’s tremendously grateful that I won the location lottery. That I was in the right place at the right time. I will never have to experience the physical pain, and more so the enduring psychological pain. The other part of me wishes It would have been me. Then, quite honestly, I wish it were no one. I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone. But the truth is, it can happen to any one of us at any time. We were the perfect family until someone with a gun changed everything.

A CONVERSATION WITH
DONNA FINKLESTEIN

Mindy Finkelstein was a sixteen-year-old camp counselor at the Jewish Community Center (JCC) in Granada Hills, California, on August 10, 1999. Her mother, Donna, was forty-seven years old at the time. The following is a conversation between Mindy, Donna, and Amye Archer, editor.

AMYE: Let’s start after the shooting. After Mindy was treated for her injuries and released, what were those first few days and weeks like?

DONNA: In the beginning, it was all about getting well and dealing with the wounds as a mother. Even though Mindy was hospitalized, she was sent home and I was supposed to clean her bullet wounds. That was another part of this. It was beyond awful. I was very busy taking care of the medical aspect of it.

MINDY: It was hectic and it was much more about the physical recovery versus dealing with what happened on an emotional level. Also, this is nineteen years ago, so Columbine had happened, but it wasn’t as prevalent an issue as it is today. I think parents now dealing with kids have a very different conversation with their teenagers about shootings than we had at the time.

AMYE: What role has PTSD played in the aftermath of your shooting and in your recovery?

MINDY: One of the biggest issues I face is since I was shot when I was sixteen, my brain and my subconscious kind of set in at that specific time in my life where my safety net was my parents and my safety net was my house. So when I’m taken away from that or I feel like I’m being taken away from that, my brain reacts very similarly to when I got shot.

I’ve had two big breakdowns from PTSD in my life. One was when I went away to college or tried to go away to college, and I ended up having a breakdown and was hospitalized and then had to take a year off of school. Then most recently, almost three years ago, I was getting married and the summer before my wedding had a massive breakdown. My now-husband and I were considering postponing our wedding or not getting married because I was so sick. I was having really severe panic attacks and was in therapy and on medication.

DONNA: I went up there [where Mindy was living] for a week and I was going to hospitalize her.

MINDY: I got through that time. We got married and we’re happy and we have a baby now. But I’m in treatment and I do see a therapist and I’m on medication. I’m very self-aware. My husband is now, too, and my parents are, about when situations arise that could potentially set off my PTSD. In fact, having a baby was, everybody was a little concerned that perhaps I would have something similar because it’s a big life change. That usually is what does it for me. But I got through pregnancy and having a baby with no issues, so it was great.

AMYE: How do you feel about the new generation of school shooting survivors, namely the Parkland community, speaking out about this issue?

MINDY: I worry. I was the same age as them when I was shot, and I was thrust into this survivor role and victim role at the time. I was not prepared for it at all. We didn’t have much experience with school shootings.

They’ve grown up with school shootings, so they were fully aware of how they felt about what was taking place. I think the Parkland kids have this maturity level to them that I did not have at that age. And not to say I wasn’t mature, but they have a very different perspective on what took place at their school. So that’s part of it.

I do think they are so well-spoken that they are a media’s dream. You have these kids that were trained in debate class, who were trained by their teachers in the most incredible way, and it’s doing a really incredible service to those of us who have been in the fight for so long.

However, what they don’t realize and something I didn’t realize is once the media goes away and once people stop talking to you about it, you crash. So I’m nervous for them because they haven’t had time to grieve. They haven’t had time to be outside of the limelight.

DONNA: A school shooting has to cause trauma, because it’s not a natural experience. Being in a shooting is not a natural experience. So even for me personally, whenever there’s a loud noise or a boom or something or wherever I go, I’m frightened. It’s always on my mind and it will be for them, too. But I think it’s inevitable they’ll suffer from PTSD, but what I think and what I see is empowerment and it gives some meaning and purpose.

AMYE: What would you say to, unfortunately, the growing population of shooting survivors like yourself? What do you think is one or two of the most important things they can do to make sure that they’re taking care of themselves after these kind of events?

DONNA: How I took care of myself was by becoming an activist and knowing that the work specific to what I do in all of these years may have prevented other potential loss of life due to gun violence. I have some issues from all of this. I didn’t go into therapy. But I feel that by talking about it and getting the word out about voting and doing all of the things that we can to prevent future gun violence is taking care of myself. Does that make sense?

MINDY: I think for parents of survivors it makes really a lot of sense to be as involved as possible. I think for people that were wounded, I think that it’s really an incredible opportunity to be able to speak for those who can’t speak for themselves. I always tell the story of how the father of Mary Reed who was killed at Virginia Tech told me I represent his daughter because she can’t speak for herself. I always remember that and feel that every time I speak and do some form of activism for gun violence prevention.

However, I really want to stress that I think it’s one of the best things that you can do is to acknowledge what happened to you and not put it behind you as though it didn’t really happen, and reach out and talk to other survivors because one of the things that I find the most helpful and feel the most relief is actually being in a room with other survivors of mass shootings because we’ve gone through such a bizarre but similar experience. It’s one of the few times that I feel a sense of relief from it is being open and honest in those conversations versus just talking to others.

AMYE: Mindy, since you just had a baby girl, I have to ask. Do you feel hopeful?

MINDY: I think I have to. If I didn’t feel hopeful, why would I have a kid?

DONNA: Hopeful that we’re going to end gun violence?

AMYE: Hopeful that my . . . I want to change the culture of this country so that my kids, not only will survive high school, but won’t have to parent in fear for their own children. So I guess my question is will it be better for them?

DONNA: I just continue to do the work I do. What I do is I talk to parents and students about safe gun storage in the home. That’s my focus and that’s where I feel I can make change. There will be more school shootings. There will be. I don’t feel hopeful that that’s going to change.

I’m hopeful that this generation, the Parkland kids, gets more young people out to vote and more engaged and informed about voting and what all of this means going on around them. Whether it’s going to curtail gun violence? No, I don’t think so. And the other issue we’re focusing on now is teen suicides. What’s changing is it’s getting people to recognize the importance of a gun in the home and being a responsible gun owner because that’s the big push now.

MINDY: I think it depends on what you’re hopeful for. I hope that my daughter will go to a school that doesn’t experience gun violence. I hope that she doesn’t have to go through the same thing I did and that laws will be changed in order to make them less often than they are. But, like my mom said, I don’t think they’re going away. I think I’m realistic to know that they’re here and they’re here to stay. But I am hopeful that people don’t have to go through what we went through, and I’m very hopeful that my family doesn’t have to go through it again.