As five of my friends and I stood in the middle of the Daley Center in Chicago, two were eating, two were talking, and I was on the tips of my toes trying to take an Instagram story while my other friend was asking to leave because she was cold.
As I stood with five of my friends in the middle of the Daley Center in Chicago, two of us were eating, two of us were talking, and I was on the tips of my toes trying to take a photo for an Instagram story while another friend was asking to leave because she was cold.
The second that I pressed post on the Instagram story, three gunshots fired. My friends looked at each other, and everyone started to run — the sound of gunfire still echoing.
Fight or flight is the appropriate response in situations like this; nobody was going to go fight a gunman, so everyone fled. People yelled to get down and quickly directed us to the spots designated as “safe.” But, what is safe when there are indiscriminate gunshots being fired? What I assume was everyone’s reaction to the first time experiencing this fear was an apparent reflex — they all knew what to do.
It didn’t click with me what had occurred until I was on the ground beside people screaming and my friend next to me praying. I checked to make sure that I still had my keys and my phone and that they had not fallen out of my pockets while running to my safety zone. In my head, I went over the fastest route to get to my car — half a mile away. I would take a left turn out of the market, then another left, then another right, and one more left before going straight until I got to parking zone 517 501. As someone who needs a plan and does not stray from it, sitting on the ground in front of a sign for “Christmas Nutcrackers” while one of the stand workers covered us was not a part of my mental script for the day. I looked around at who surrounded me: a worker and four out of five of my friends. Noticing my friend was missing prompted me to start yelling to find her. Nobody’s response prompted me to yell louder.
The scariest part is not knowing where the shots were coming from, or when they would stop. I didn’t know if the supposed shooter was there in the crowd of people I was huddled with, or if they were even nearby. I didn’t know if the next shot would hit me, my friends, or if it would just stop. As scary as the happening shots were, the unexpected shots were terrifying.
While sitting there, huddled in a group, there were five sounds. There was silence; there were people sobbing; there was my fake reassurance of “it’s gonna be okay, don’t cry” that I kept repeating to my friends; there was everyone else’s screams to stay down, and for a second there were shots, until it was replaced with sirens.
At some point they told us to move behind the nutcracker building. In the inevitable event that the shooter was to shoot again, there was no chance of that building protecting us. One of my friends called our missing friend, which reminded me that I have my phone and that my parents were in Michigan. Scanning through my recent calls, I knew if neither of my parents answered, I could call my brother. If he didn’t answer, I could call my Godfather. After that, I didn’t know who I’d call. I also didn’t know what calling someone would do. As much as I would love for someone to come in a magic bubble and scoop us up, my friends’ tears on my coat was a reminder that that’s not reality. The best I could do was sit still. My mom picked up after two rings.
Although the shots stopped, I couldn’t move. What once were temporary paper buildings, briefly felt like a stone fortress where nothing could hurt me. Before hiding behind them, they were something I looked at with admiration, with their decorations and beautiful cohesion with the rest of the market. Now, I wished they were more sturdy.
My feet remained glued to that ground, and although fifteen minutes ago I was constantly complaining of my skirt riding up, I no longer cared. My mom remained on the phone as people around me cried. We continuously tried to reach our missing friend–a bad cellular signal blocked our efforts. After she picked up the phone whilst sobbing, it dawned on me that I was stone sober. No emotion.
I’m a person who cries about everything. Poor test grades, bad practices, sad songs; I cry. But, sitting there, I couldn’t. I could just think. My mind racing with the chaos surrounding me, my brain didn’t have time to do anything else. In addition, the only words I could form were “It’s ok, don’t cry” and “Where are you?”
Eventually, they told us to leave. As everyone filed out of our huddle, strangers hugging and everyone asking each other if they were okay, they directed us to an exit deemed safe. In a state of shock and speechlessness, I couldn’t comprehend what just happened. After just seeing my friend standing, shaking while yelling at her to get down, the last thing I wanted to do was move to a new location.
Over the speakers, it was announced, “The Christkindlmarket is now closed.”
I posted that Instagram story at 8:57pm. The market closes at 9pm. What felt like forever was three minutes. Three minutes was forever.
Locating my missing friend was hard. With the inability to form words, we were speechless and in shock. Six teenage girls frantically trying to reach each other was nearing impossible. Even after finding her, there was no sense of relief; just “now what.”
As we walked back to my car, there were people taking pictures in front of the newsrooms, bike rides going past us, and others enjoying themselves in restaurants. At some point, one of those bike rides with red and green blinking lights drove past with a woman filming the Daley Center while the speaker blasted, “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” In the market, there was a stand for Christmas snow globes with Chicago’s famous landmarks in them. I was in a snowglobe: standing frozen while a flurry of unknowing bystanders fluttered around me.
As I drove back, details that came out, such as “unknown male” or “machine gun” echoed through my car; the only thing I could think about was how this was my doing. Engulfed with guilt of dragging my friends there, their traumatized faces and quiet tears seemed like a direct result of my push for “Christmas spirit.”
I silently dropped my friends off at their dorms, silently drove to my friend’s house, and then, silently, cried.
I think of the people in schools or enclosed areas where there is an active shooter. The people that have to hide behind overturned tables or in locked rooms. The parents who don’t get direct calls from their children because they’re too young and, instead, get calls from the police. There will be another shooting today. There will be another shooting tomorrow. There will be another shooting after that.
If I think too hard, flashes of my friend closing her eyes and praying, my screaming for my missing friend, and my other friend shaking and crying while begging to go home, are at the forefront. Last year, I wrote an article about the normalization of gun violence, proclaiming that it’s “not an if, but a when.” That was my “when” and, frankly, I’m waiting for my “next”.