Route 91

It has been two days since the horrific mass shooting at the Route 91 Harvest Festival, and it has been completely aggravating.

This was the first time I was old enough to fully take in what was happening, to completely feel the impact this had on my surroundings—I finally understood the unconscious priming that had been building up for years. I grew up sitting in my middle school classroom, wondering where I would hide if someone were to show up with a gun after Virginia Tech. I grew up anxious as I walked around my high school campus, worrying about the violent threats I heard about in the halls after Sandy Hook. I grew up questioning humanity and fearing for the safety of my LGBTQ+ friends after Orlando.

But each of these events had only been stepping stones to Route 91.

As the story unfolded, I received various pieces of information from different sources; but I cannot forget the moment I ran into two completely false statements right after another, not even an hour after the media began to broadcast the event.

It was sickening, I was infuriated. These accounts began throwing out false statements before the bodies even turned cold, and people were believing them.

This is where I can begin ranting about the importance of journalism, and knowing how to differentiate between real or fake sources—but I’m not because I might throw my laptop across this Starbucks.

I am 20 years old and have experienced four of the “worst” mass shootings in modern U.S. history.

I am 20 years old. For fucks sake.