It had been a long winter. Finally it had thawed out well enough for the spring sports to take place out of doors for once. It's late March, early April. Just a few months from the tragedy in Parkland. Tennis players and track runners take to the courts and to the turf with that renewed sense of purpose that comes when it's warm enough to ditch your parka, but in no sense warm enough to wear what you've got on. It's still basically winter, but you'd sooner be damned than admit it. You've earned this springtime, and there's no way in hell you're wearing a coat. As the pleasantly frigid doubles pairs ready toss their ball up for a practice serve and the lightly chilled track runners fasten their laces, there's a shot. 

And then for a split second the same series of thoughts runs through everyone's minds. Gun? Where? Here? How? It wasn't a gun. It was an old Toyota. Someone hit their clutch wrong. The serves are reset, the laces are re-tied, and everyone forgets anything happened. But not entirely. They forget the moment, the exact circumstances. But they remember the fear. They remember that split second when they thought that they would be the cause of another Snapchat vigil. 

There are jokes all over the school now. Someone gets a bad grade? "Well, guess I'll shoot up the school." Don't like that guy? Just whisper, "You're first." Everyone laughs. But not because gun violence is funny, but because it isn't. People often forget, but a large part of comedy is its use as a defense mechanism. There's nothing funny about telling your friends you have an AR-15 in your locker, but you'll say it anyway. Just to say something. Because the only thing worse than making light of tragedy is being silent about it. 
Every week the "National Conversation" is sparked. With the amount of sparks its taking to light, it's beginning to seem like the Conversation wood is wet. All across America students walked out in honor of their fellow students, heartlessly taken in the prime of life. Our school had one, your school probably had one. And while we were out there, taking seventeen minutes of silence around the flagpole, we felt like we were making a difference. Unlike the more bombastic protest parade a week or so before, this demonstration was calm, solemn, aware of the reason for its conception. We knew why we were there. But as soon as we came in, it was like nothing had ever happened. No matter how many schools shut down, loose their students to the elements, or suffer tragedies, nobody more important than our superintendent takes notice. 
It's almost as if no matter how much we yell up to the White House, how loud we scream at Congress, no one listens. The NRA took a couple of hits. It's still standing strong. Gun control is as much of a fantasy as it's ever been. We can't make progress because the feet of our nation are kept firmly in place by an increasingly stubborn head. Activists, young and old, left and right are doing everything they can to make their voices heard by our leaders. But they're as deaf to our cries of desperation as they are to the gunshots in our hallways.