Noah Kim ’25
As I entered the house after football practice, I found my parents sitting in front of the television, their faces pale and solemn. Then I saw the breaking news. My thoughts went immediately to Taylor. I pulled up “Tay Tay” from my contacts and pressed call. The phone rang once with no response. As it rang again, I began to shake, and my throat became dry as six years of memories bolted through my mind. On the third ring, I heard a faint “What’s up?” Hearing his familiar voice brought a sense of relief like no other. It is a voice I have known since sixth grade. Yet this time hearing his voice meant he was safe.
It was a dreary September afternoon. This dull vibe was not a product of the weather but rather a result of the haunting deadline that had been looming over my head for months. November first had consumed my mind every waking moment. You would think since this singular date had caused me so much distress I would be prepared, but I was the furthest thing from it. As I opened my laptop to begin my common app personal statement just a week before the deadline, I did not know what to think.
I learned from Taylor that a 17-year-old student at Garfield High School named Amarr Murphy-Paine was shot and killed trying to break up a fight during lunch. My biggest dilemma at lunch is whether I have time to get seconds before the bell rings. How can three 17-year-olds experience life so differently within a few miles of one another? Why do I pull up each morning into a nurturing and safe oasis while Taylor enters a proverbial war zone and Amarr becomes a casualty? As I grappled with these questions, it dawned on me that my life of relative privilege has insulated me from the realities that Taylor and the other students at Garfield High School encounter daily. People say there are some things you can’t unsee. I can no longer unsee Amarr and the tragedy of his death.
How could I convey who I am through a measly 650-word essay? I envisioned the admissions officer skimming through my work and getting a completely wrong idea of me as a person. I clearly remember sitting at my desk cursing the college application process. It does not make sense to me how a singular person can alter your future by assessing you through a jumble of meaningless numbers and confined essays. I knew the school you go to does not define you, but I was so caught up in getting a letter of acceptance that my judgment was clouded. Taking the plethora of emotions that I had built up, I attempted to channel this energy into executing the topic of my essay flawlessly.
Living in the greater Seattle area, I was not ignorant of the many problems plaguing our city, like gun violence. However, I live in a bubble cushioned by private education, loving parents, and a community full of supportive teachers and coaches. Although Garfield High School is a mere seven minutes from my house, it seemed alien to me. Busy with school, sports, and friends, the issues confronting Garfield never penetrated my consciousness. This incident burst the bubble. Would it have been easier to continue with the comfort of my privileged life? Perhaps, but I see it as a watershed moment.
Slowly drafting and sculpting the piece of writing that I thought would define me brought immense pressure. Often, I could not even focus on the substance of my words as thoughts of getting rejected from every college raced through my mind. I was so consumed by my negative thoughts that I completely disregarded the importance of my topic. Blinded by the stress about my future, I was deliberately sabotaging my ability to illustrate an important issue by prioritizing my own selfish intentions. I scrutinized every character on my Google doc, trying to imagine how the admissions officer reading it would react. Not once did the real reason I was writing about this topic cross my mind.
Seeing the days pass on and the deadline getting closer and closer, I threw away the passion I had towards creating change and instead substituted a rushed, closed mindset for it. After countless hours of work and miniscule hours of sleep, I finished. But something was off.
A cocoon of safety has shielded me from the dangers of the outside world at large but also those close to home. My peers at Garfield have no choice but to return to the very building where Amarr was gunned down. How can they focus on academics when their sense of safety has been shattered? This immense disparity not only confuses but angers me. Safety in school should not be a privilege but a given, whether the institution is public or private.
Following the shooting, I have a newfound desire to challenge the status quo. The only thing a student should worry about when in a learning environment is expressing their intellectual ability without fear of violence and even death. I realize now that safety must seem a privilege to students at Garfield. This is unacceptable.
As an eighteen-year-old looking at the complexities of this issue, I do not presume to have the answers, but I also can no longer say I am not aware. Amarr’s death has enlightened me to the frightening truths facing Taylor and others at Garfield. As I enter college and leave behind the insular world of Seattle Prep, I am ever firmer in my belief that safety in school must be a right, not a privilege. Amarr should have had the opportunity to write a college essay like I do now, anticipating stepping into adulthood.
It is too late for Amarr, but his death’s tragedy must matter. It would be hubris for me to put forth solutions. That said, I wish to be part of the solution so that schools can once again be where the future is open and available to each student.
Following the messy process of writing my personal statement, I was honestly not satisfied. This lack of satisfaction was not due to the quality of my work, but rather the feeling that I frantically wrote a story about the tragedy of a boy I never knew. As I was relieved of the pressure of my deadlines, my consciousness returned, and I had a lot of self-reflection on the true importance of my topic.
I thought about the edits that I made to the essay, such as getting rid of context and trying to be as concise as possible. These may seem like perfectly normal things to do when editing a piece of writing, but these changes brought me immense guilt. Why must Amarr’s story be concise? I felt as if using the pain that Amarr and his loved ones experienced for my college applications was selfish. Despite my story being completely true I felt as if I was undermining his story by morphing it into a reason why someone should let me into college. I saw the essay as a way of adding on to the privilege that I was trying to move away from. What gives me the right to talk about an issue that I will never truly experience?
While I repetitively thought about Amarr, Taylor, and the students at Garfield, I finally came to peace with the fact that I was not a bad person for using their stories. I concluded that I would not be jeopardizing the experiences of Garfield students if I simply gave all my effort into making others aware through my writing. My original purpose for choosing this topic was because I wanted to see development in school safety and spread awareness for kids like Amarr. Mass acts of violence within schools are often displayed on news sources across the country, but what about smaller, more local cases like Amarr’s? Using the blessed opportunities I have like going to college, I can help spread these stories and turn them into something positive. My guilt is only justified if I do not act with what I have learned through my experiences and strive to create change like I said I would. If I do not back up my statements with action, then I am truly ignoring the deaths of Amarr and every other victim of violence within education.