How will we stitch ourselves back together?
There are never enough thoughts and prayers for tragedies like these.
I was in Nashville on vacation at the time of the Covenant school shooting that took the lives of three teachers and three students. While we drove to breakfast a few miles away, a shooter entered the school with “assault-style” weapons and opened fire. This nightmare is part of a long line of preventable tragedies, where the outcome is more fallen bodies, more grief and more rending pain that shakes the nation. And yet—mass shootings like these are terrifyingly commonplace. We’re expected to move on, to go to work and live our lives, as if this shadow of violence doesn’t permeate every shaken breath we take.
The day after, as a friend and I texted about the news, she shared how hesitant she was to send her child to school that morning. I watched my own kid coloring on the hotel bed, oblivious to everything for just a few more moments, and I wrote back, “I can’t imagine.” Then I quickly amended it to, “Actually, I can. Because of Uvalde. And Sandy Hook. And Columbine.” And so many more shootings that don’t make national news. The fact that we can continue to imagine this tragedy is what fuels much of our rage and despair. But we can’t stop moving forward. We can’t—won’t—let this be the future.
I looked through some old drafts of pieces I’d written but never shared. This essay, below, was written after Uvalde last May. I was heartbroken to see that it’s still as resonant for me today, as it was nearly a year ago.
If you’re looking for tangible steps, this very thoughtful post by Cup of Jo outlines six ways to help. Take the rest you need, friends, but then, let’s get back to work.
What is it they say? We are falling apart at the seams. Through the frayed edges, the gaping holes, we see our bare, vulnerable selves; flashes of skin, uncovered and unprotected. Children cowering under desks; the gleam of violence, undaunted by innocence. Tatters left behind, like a flag on a battlefield.
In the United States, when a flag is deemed irreparable, it is retired with the dignity owed. Sometimes, burned and cleansed by fire. Sometimes, buried in the earth, where the faded colors sink to soil. We do not reuse a flag, as we do other fabrics. We bear witness to its passing.
Some things are irreparable. There’s no spell to bring back these children and teachers. (And scores more. So many more.) It’s too soon to talk of mending, even I know this. But I’m a sewist. Even as I twist helplessly in the great reckoning of our nation’s failures, I see the stitches everywhere I turn.
The Running Stitch
The most basic of all sewing stitches, this one functions as the straight stitch, carrying the needle forward. In and out. This is called the next right thing. You can see it in the face of a cashier ringing up your purchases, even as she thinks about her child settling on his mat for naptime. The teacher who wraps up twenty-seven sunglasses, with a note telling her students to Have the brightest summer ever! The mother who, as soon as her handcuffs are cast off, leaps into a building to save her children.
The Back Stitch
This one winds backward on itself, asking, How did we get here? It replays the legislation of the past few decades. It watches footage of parents crumpling in on themselves, the pretty speeches from those who will later sit on their hands, murmuring, Thoughts and prayers. This stitch is a cry in the dark, a search for reason.
The Overcast Stitch
This is a stitch that encloses a frayed edge. It’s the neighbor girls showing up at the front step, eyes downcast, with a hand-wrapped gift for kindergarten graduation. It’s an invitation inside, followed by an overflowing bowl of popcorn and a game about butterflies and timid laughter that lights like a match, then snuffs again, remembering. The overcast stitch is temporary, but it serves its purpose.
The Pad Stitch
This one secures two or more layers together and gives both a sense of stability. It’s a teacher’s aide opening her arms to me in the fog of morning. It’s a parent wiping another parent’s tears from under her dark sunglasses, chosen to disguise grief from her young children. It’s the way my husband and I hold onto our daughter at night, so fiercely she tells us to loosen up.
The Slip Stitch
This stitch finishes the hems on your garment, but invisibly, so you’ll never know it’s there. It’s the guidance counselor who stands in front of the building every day, high-fiving his students as his eyes scan the door openings. It’s the mother who slides a bulletproof shield into her child’s backpack. It’s the grandparent who lights a candle from hundreds of miles away, thinking only of children’s warm bodies, huddled safely in bed.
The Chain Stitch
This is a series of loops—a chain—that barricade against fraying. It’s a group of people gathered at a protest. It’s an influx of donations, an inundation of calls to Senators’ offices. The chain stitch is my mom friends checking in every day, their words flush with grace. Are you okay? Can you think about anything else? The answer is no on both counts. But we need the chain to hold us together anyway. If not a source of solace, these echoes can couch our reality.
And so many more ways to mend; to live. Are these stitches hope? I don’t know that I can say that yet, not as grieved as we are. But they are perhaps a way to occupy our hands. The aftermath of tragedy is not simple and it is certainly not neat. The work is endless. We do it anyway, allowing our hearts to be pricked in the process. Letting out tears that will not bring back the dead. In and out, day after day, minute after minute. If a stitch is a step, then the collection of them is a journey forward, to whatever future we can patch together for our children.