It’s a long way to Uvalde.
But when you spend your days teaching 8 and 9-year-olds, Uvalde is just around the corner of your dreams.
Uvalde is 1,300 miles away. I know the way. It’s basically a straight shot across a country that’s lost its way. An 18-hour drive into the town I wish I’d never heard of before.
But I have heard about it. For tragic, unspeakable, unimaginable reasons. Last Friday marked one month since that horrendous event. In a dream that night, I packed a bag and got behind the wheel. “Uvalde or Bust” was written on my rear hatchback’s glass. Photos of 21 faces were taped to the two back windows.
I stopped in Indio for food and gas. Seeing the sign, an older man in a cowboy hat asked if I was really going to Uvalde. Yes, I told him. I need to be there. I want to pay my respects in person. I hope that stepping into a grieving town will bring some healing to my own broken heart. The man thanked me and said he’d be right back. He went into the truck stop and moments later returned, arms full of stuffed animals and flowers.
“For the families,” he said. He looked at the photos on the windows. He pointed to one. “For her family.”
“That’s Naveah Bravo,” I said. “Her name is ‘Heaven’ backwards. She was only 10.”
He looked upward, into the blue, cloudless California sky. “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I said, my voice quavering.
“Got any more of that window paint?” I did. “To Uvalde” he wrote on his pickup’s window. “Mind if I join you? I could use some healing too.”
We set off, back on the highway. The old man following in my rearview mirror. We stopped in Blythe, before crossing into Arizona. And it happened again. A family of three. The dad, grief-stricken, bought a mammoth stuffed Coyote. He set in his backseat, next to his daughter in a car seat. “It’s the Robb Elementary mascot,” he said.
“We’ll give it to Jose Flores’ family,” I said.
He looked at the old man in the pickup. “I think we’ll follow along, if it’s okay.”
“By all means,” I said.
Our caravan continued to grow as we crossed the desert. A plumber in Phoenix. A medical technician in Tucson. People who couldn’t make the drive added to our donations. Gifts for Xavier Lopez and Tess Mata. Flowers for the memorial for the two Eliahnas, Garcia and Torres, all 10 years old.
In Las Cruces, Victor (I finally learned the old man’s name) had to rent a trailer to contain all the gifts. Our team of travelers now numbering 50. Somehow word got out as we arrived in El Paso. We were met by camera crews and newscasters. Now we had two U-hauls filled with gifts. A sporting goods store gave a mountain of softball gear for Makenna Elrod’s teammates, in her honor. The police escorted out of town and people lined the street in each city and enclave through which we passed.
We drove all night and under biting Texas rains. By the time we reached Fort Stockton the cars were too many to count. I felt honored to lead such a determined and spontaneous procession.
Finally, we reached Uvalde. Our arrival was highly anticipated by now. We drove past the memorial in the town square, past the 21 school chairs looking out on Getty Street. Family members of all 21 victims were there to greet us. Silent hugs and rolling tears pronounced their appreciation. At Robb Elementary we laid wreaths and bouquets at the memorial site. Then we divvied up the gifts and the responsibilities of distribution. We stopped by grave sites for those already laid to rest. I went to Hillcrest Memorial Cemetery to pay my respects to fellow teacher Irma Garcia and her husband Joe. Some of us opted to attend the funeral of cousins Jayce Luevanos and Jailah Silguero at Sacred Heart Catholic Church.
Weary from the drive and emotionally exhausted from the day’s events, I couldn’t stay composed during the service. I slipped out a side door, made my way through a park. Then I climbed a dusty, rocky hill and sat under a lone tree, looking down at the church. I thought of fellow teacher Eva Mireles. I recalled her love of hiking. So, I started stacking rocks.
I made a cairn, the pile of rocks that hikers use to find their way. Then I made another, and another, and then another. Hymns drifted up from the church, fueling my construction. I placed my cairns in rows, to look like a classroom. Nineteen in all. A pair of taller cairns, in honor of Irma and Eva, stood in front, like the protective guards they tried to be.
The ground was still littered with rocks. I picked one up and threw it at a tree. Then another at a nearby boulder. I launched a rock for every tear I’ve shed since that gruesome Tuesday. I’d put all my fear, anger, and disbelief into every throw, and I kept hurling until my elbow hurt. The pain equaling the one in my heart.
I sat down, drained. I noticed Victor slowly, steadily scrambling up the hill. Below us, the church was starting to empty. He sat down beside me. “Thanks for coming,” I said. He nodded toward my classroom of cairns. “What’s this?”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I guess they’re my memorials.”
He nodded his approval. “What do we do now?”
I didn’t know if he meant he and I, or “we” as a nation, a people. The sun was beginning to set, and from our hilltop we could see much of the city. Streams of headlights lined every road heading into town. People were still arriving.
To his question, I really didn’t have any answers, though something needs to change. Down below, in the church, another funeral was about to begin. I looked at my cairns. Thinking of a country that’s lost its way.
Hoping it never happens again.
Feeling like change will only be in my dreams.
***
In Memoriam
Eva Mireles
Irma Garcia
Neveah Bravo, 10
Jose Flores, Jr. 10
Xavier Lopez, 10
Tess Mata, 10
Rojelio Torres, 10
Eliahna Garcia, 10
Eliahna Torres, 10
Annabell Rodriguez,
Jackie Cazares, 9
Uziyah Garcia
Jayce Luevanos, 10
Maite Rodriguez, 10
Jailah Silguero, 10
Amerie Garza, 10
Makenna Elrod, 10
Layla Salazar, 11
Maranda Mathis, 11
Alexandria Rubio, 10
Alithia Ramirez, 10
