Written By: Jordan Gomes, 15, Connecticut
Most people get their start in activism because they believe in something strongly enough to make change. Some people are forced into it, by an event, a person, or simply being unable to remain disconnected.
Not to say I don’t believe strongly in what I fight for, because I do. I believe in it enough that I know I can make the change we need. But I would have rather not been introduced to it the way I was.
Six, soon to be seven years ago, I survived the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting on December 14th, 2012.
I was only nine, and that day marked the end of what I consider childhood. It was hard to be a kid after that, knowing that someone came into my school and shot twenty-six people, some of whom I knew. Twenty-six people were dead, and I was a child no longer.
At nine, there really wasn’t much I could do. A part of my little-kid brain understood that what happened wasn’t just scary and bad, but wrong. How could this have happened? I didn’t know. It wasn’t until years later, at around twelve or thirteen, when I began to share my story. Something about letting it out, describing what had happened to me and my town that day, was therapeutic. I had kept it inside for so long and refused to talk about it with anyone. I didn’t want to relive that day, or any of the days following, for a long time. But the more I opened up, the easier talking about it became. I felt better. The huge pit of sadness that had opened up inside me began to shrink, little by little. As it did, the empty space it left soon filled with other emotions. Anger. Determination. A deep-seated sense of injustice. People had died, but there was no change. I knew by watching the news and looking online that people wanted gun control. I wanted it too. But it didn’t happen. Why not, I wondered. Was what happened here not evidence enough? Were we, kids, truly worth less than a gun?
I began getting involved with my local gun control advocacy groups freshman year of high school and there I found what I was lacking. A true voice. People wanted to hear what I had to say, and for once I wasn’t screaming into empty space. I could say what I felt, what I believed and what I knew and people listened. It was an astonishing, amazing feeling.
Today, I continue what I started all those years ago. I travel to D.C. with friends and fellow activists to lobby for smarter gun control and more comprehensive legislation. I spoke at the National Vigil for All Victims of Gun Violence, and there I was surrounded by people just like me, and felt a kinship I couldn’t explain. I spent months leading up to a weekend in D.C. organizing the Student Gun Violence Summit, where we discussed gun violence on an intersectional, comprehensive level and ratified the Student’s Bill of Rights for Safer Communities. I’ve come a long way since my days as an angry, sorrowful nine-year-old dealing with trauma I couldn’t even begin to explain, but there’s still a lot more work that needs to be done.
I hope to someday become a member of Congress and after that, President. I have aspirations to attend American University in D.C. I want to be the kind of person young me wanted to have listen to them, and I strive to become a champion of the people, someone that little girls and boys across the country can be inspired by. These are high hopes, yes, but I have no doubt that I can make them happen. One of the more important lessons I learned in the wake of a tragedy was that I am much more powerful that I believe, and that I hold within me the power of change. I believe nine-year-old me would be proud of the person I have become, because who I am today is exactly the kind of person I wanted to be back then, right when the seeds of determination took root. I’m proud to be a part of this fight, and even prouder to know that I am exactly who I want to be.