I try to be honest when I write. This essay is filled with honesty and is pretty blunt when it comes to descriptions. Please read the essay very carefully. I don't want anyone to get the wrong impressions. Feel free to comment as always. 
School Shootings : Communication Needed
Written by TM
If thoughts could kill, four years ago a south-central Minnesota town could have been grieving the loss of students, teachers, and parents. Four years ago a trail of blood from bullet and stab wounds to the face and abdomen could have been splattered all over the halls of a school. Four years ago I could have been dead. More important, however, would be the souls and hearts of the people I might have taken with me to the grave. It could have been everyone’s favorite teacher, the cute girl who put on too much makeup, or the school jock. It could have been one of your friends, your classmates, or it could have been you. I had the means, I had the purpose, and I had the hatred. It would have been easy.
There are no locked doors, security guards, cameras, metal detectors, or any other worthwhile security measures at my former high school. One could walk right in the front door of the school with a gun in hand and start shooting. I’m sure the police would show up eventually, but how many would die in the interim? My plan that I thought about carrying out a few years ago was disturbingly simple. Before and after school, and during lunch hour is when the most people were congregated in a small amount of space. During these times the halls crawled with students, and the cafeteria was packed. I figured hiding a knife or small gun under my jacket when I went to school would be easy. It wouldn’t have been the first time a weapon entered the school unnoticed. With the weapon in hand, all that would have been left for me to do would have been to slash or shoot, and hear the screams.
I planned to end my escapade with a bullet to the brain or a knife to the heart. I’m writing this because none of those events transpired. I never brought a weapon to school, and I never have harmed another person or myself. My thoughts didn’t become my actions. Why did I not act on my thoughts like some other high school students have in the past decade? Communication is why. Communication, one of the simplest yet most complex of human endeavors, is why the world has never heard my name. It comes so natural for some that they pass it on as unimportant. It comes so difficult and rarely for others, however, that it becomes a lifeline. It becomes part of their emotional make-up and guides their roller coaster life. For myself, it became the difference between life and death. The same classmates and teachers that I had thought about killing are the same people that saved their life, and mine.
Looking back I can see from a third-person perspective some terrible moments. I can see myself in a corner in a hallway surround by classmates who are elbowing me in the gut and chest. I can see myself sitting out on the playground taking a verbal beating from kids that had no idea of the impact of their words. I can see myself by my locker prior to the beginning of class trying to wipe away the tears in my eyes before anyone noticed. In a clearer first person image, however, I can see people standing up and apologizing for what they had done in the past. I can see people showing that they care for me, and I can see teachers who took a vested interest in what I had to say. Everything started to change when my classmates and teachers started recognizing me for other reasons than the fact that I was the kid with no ears and a crooked jaw.
We often shove people away when we’re in pain. Yet the times I most wanted to be alone were the times I most needed a friend. That friend or companion wasn’t there every moment I felt depressed or pissed off at the world, and it wasn’t always a particular person. The comfort and happiness often came from just simple words from a classmate or friend that showed they cared. Communication and interaction with other people helped me realize that I wasn’t all that different, but more importantly it helped me understand them better. I never liked the fact that I was teased, but understanding why leads to some acceptance and some feelings of forgiveness. Once you get to know someone, understand, and like them, the harder it is to put a bullet hole in their head. It’s hard to care about someone you don’t know. It’s almost impossible to care about someone you don’t know who is also taking the time to harass and ruin your life.
No amount of security would have stopped the student in northern Minnesota last week before it was already too late. A few words, shows of affection, and a few friends, however, are a different story. Every class as that stereotypical student, the one that sits in the back of class, seems strange, and wears dark clothing. He or she is probably anti-social and doesn’t talk to anyone. That is the type of student we all believe to be the one most likely to participate in a school shooting. Yet what do we do about it? We talk about increasing security. That helps. We talk about taking away violent video games and changing society in general. That’s over-kill. I have an idea. Teachers, students, and citizens, instead of thinking of complex ways to solve these shootings, why not try the simplest of all. Talk to that person. Show them you care. It takes only a minute and could change that someone’s life. If you think it’s pointless, tell that to my fellow classmates who were as good as dead four years ago.
School Shootings : Communication Needed
Written by TM
If thoughts could kill, four years ago a south-central Minnesota town could have been grieving the loss of students, teachers, and parents. Four years ago a trail of blood from bullet and stab wounds to the face and abdomen could have been splattered all over the halls of a school. Four years ago I could have been dead. More important, however, would be the souls and hearts of the people I might have taken with me to the grave. It could have been everyone’s favorite teacher, the cute girl who put on too much makeup, or the school jock. It could have been one of your friends, your classmates, or it could have been you. I had the means, I had the purpose, and I had the hatred. It would have been easy.
There are no locked doors, security guards, cameras, metal detectors, or any other worthwhile security measures at my former high school. One could walk right in the front door of the school with a gun in hand and start shooting. I’m sure the police would show up eventually, but how many would die in the interim? My plan that I thought about carrying out a few years ago was disturbingly simple. Before and after school, and during lunch hour is when the most people were congregated in a small amount of space. During these times the halls crawled with students, and the cafeteria was packed. I figured hiding a knife or small gun under my jacket when I went to school would be easy. It wouldn’t have been the first time a weapon entered the school unnoticed. With the weapon in hand, all that would have been left for me to do would have been to slash or shoot, and hear the screams.
I planned to end my escapade with a bullet to the brain or a knife to the heart. I’m writing this because none of those events transpired. I never brought a weapon to school, and I never have harmed another person or myself. My thoughts didn’t become my actions. Why did I not act on my thoughts like some other high school students have in the past decade? Communication is why. Communication, one of the simplest yet most complex of human endeavors, is why the world has never heard my name. It comes so natural for some that they pass it on as unimportant. It comes so difficult and rarely for others, however, that it becomes a lifeline. It becomes part of their emotional make-up and guides their roller coaster life. For myself, it became the difference between life and death. The same classmates and teachers that I had thought about killing are the same people that saved their life, and mine.
Looking back I can see from a third-person perspective some terrible moments. I can see myself in a corner in a hallway surround by classmates who are elbowing me in the gut and chest. I can see myself sitting out on the playground taking a verbal beating from kids that had no idea of the impact of their words. I can see myself by my locker prior to the beginning of class trying to wipe away the tears in my eyes before anyone noticed. In a clearer first person image, however, I can see people standing up and apologizing for what they had done in the past. I can see people showing that they care for me, and I can see teachers who took a vested interest in what I had to say. Everything started to change when my classmates and teachers started recognizing me for other reasons than the fact that I was the kid with no ears and a crooked jaw.
We often shove people away when we’re in pain. Yet the times I most wanted to be alone were the times I most needed a friend. That friend or companion wasn’t there every moment I felt depressed or pissed off at the world, and it wasn’t always a particular person. The comfort and happiness often came from just simple words from a classmate or friend that showed they cared. Communication and interaction with other people helped me realize that I wasn’t all that different, but more importantly it helped me understand them better. I never liked the fact that I was teased, but understanding why leads to some acceptance and some feelings of forgiveness. Once you get to know someone, understand, and like them, the harder it is to put a bullet hole in their head. It’s hard to care about someone you don’t know. It’s almost impossible to care about someone you don’t know who is also taking the time to harass and ruin your life.
No amount of security would have stopped the student in northern Minnesota last week before it was already too late. A few words, shows of affection, and a few friends, however, are a different story. Every class as that stereotypical student, the one that sits in the back of class, seems strange, and wears dark clothing. He or she is probably anti-social and doesn’t talk to anyone. That is the type of student we all believe to be the one most likely to participate in a school shooting. Yet what do we do about it? We talk about increasing security. That helps. We talk about taking away violent video games and changing society in general. That’s over-kill. I have an idea. Teachers, students, and citizens, instead of thinking of complex ways to solve these shootings, why not try the simplest of all. Talk to that person. Show them you care. It takes only a minute and could change that someone’s life. If you think it’s pointless, tell that to my fellow classmates who were as good as dead four years ago.
Yes, some solutions don't involve politics or laws, and they do work.
That was only one post. 
