I wonder if people in Uvalde ever understood what happened in that shooting.
I was on the phone with him and was driving like a maniac to get to the school. When the flash bangs were used, it sounded like gunfire over the phone and I almost lost it.
After my 100th or so time in that call telling him I love him, I let my son know it was okay to be afraid.
“I’m not afraid,” he replied. “I’m angry. I don’t want to die like this. Not like this.”
“You know what you have to do,” I assured him. “If he makes it into the room, hurl chairs at him and charge him. One or two of you will probably get shot, but all of you can overpower him. Get the gun and shoot him. Keep shooting him until he is dead. He is the target. Destroy the target. Remember your training from the range. You know how to handle a weapon.”
Whispering, my son conveyed the action plan to his friends and the teacher. He was the only one with range experience and knew how to handle handguns, rifles, shot guns, and an AR15.
“I’m not going down without a fight,” I heard my son whisper.
My 15 year old boy with Asbergers and NCCAH had more balls than the Chief in Uvalde.
I went over the action plan with the kids in a whisper, over and over again, giving them instructions they could latch onto and instantly recall if the SHTF. It was the only thing I could do to increase their likelihood of survival.
I should know. Over the course of my life I survived an active shooter situation, a tornado, a flash flood, life threatening injuries, being robbed at gunpoint, and an attempted sexual assault. I survived by having an action plan, keeping my wits about me, ferociously fighting when necessary, and pushing through when needed.
When we were finally reunited, I wept like a baby. I was so proud of the young man God had given me.
Those poor babies in Uvalde never had a chance.