An orchestra of loud firework-like sounds rang out. I could hear it from the comfort of my king-size bed. I froze in fear for a moment, knowing it wasn’t fireworks—it was gunshots again.
My heart pounded. My mind raced, wondering if any of my children in the next room had been shot this time. I rushed to each of them, room after room, only to find them safe, unbothered, committed to their normalcy.
"Did you hear the shots?" I asked.
"Yeah," they responded, never lifting their eyes from their phone screens.
Quickly, I retreated to my king-size bed and opened Facebook, scrolling to see who had died this time. Whose picture would be displayed? Which mother would weep her regrets in writing?
My heart ached to see yet another child. To realize I knew the family. To feel so helpless—trapped in my thoughts and inaction. I couldn’t say it would be okay. I couldn’t promise this would never happen again. I couldn’t say it gets better.
I shed a few tears and moved on, because I know this reality will repeat itself soon enough.
Healing is a process that begins after the trauma ends—but our communities are living in a constant state of trauma. It's in our neighborhoods. It's present and accounted for in our schools, our workplaces, our social media feeds. It's etched into our daily routines.
Whether it's Indianola or neighboring cities, we are constantly ravaged by violence—violence that indoctrinates our children to either become willing participants or to numb themselves just to cope.
Living in a constant state of trauma is the illness our community is suffering. Always waiting for the next attack.
How does the healing process begin when the trauma never ends?
How can I walk into a room and tell my children, “It’s going to be okay”?
How will our communities learn to trust again, forgive again, heal together?
I have all the questions.
Who has the answers?
