Journal

On Christmas day, my brother-in-law saw the Grinch getting arrested. He lives in a city much bigger than our Whoville-sized Carbondale, and he said a crowd watched as the police handcuffed and loaded the Grinch into a patrol car.

“And you didn’t get a picture?!” I exclaimed when I heard about such holiday shenanigans. “What a great Christmas card that would make…”

Incidentally, guess how old the Grinch was when he stole Christmas? Fifty-three. Yep, I’d say fifty-three years is just about how long it takes for the sparkle of the season to start to tarnish. I’ll be fifty-three this year and I am working harder than ever to stay positive and see the good in people. I am also fighting like mad to stop my body from taking on the actual shape of the Grinch’s: spindly arms and legs with sloped shoulders and a bulging belly. Super attractive— all I need now is some Manic Panic Electric Lizard hair dye.

This year we went to dinner with friends on December 25^th and as we sat around the table with everyone answering the questions from our wee crackers— fun holiday party favors that pop when you open them to reveal a paper crown and a random question, the best present was spending time with friends, laughing out loud. When asked what we would do, if we could do anything risk free, the answers were varied and highly entertaining: rob a bank, free solo climb, go into space, mess around with Jim… the sky was the limit because dangerous consequences were not a factor— kind of like that mob at the capitol a couple of years ago.

No, we are not going to let it slide, because lack of accountability is a slippery slope, ending at the bottom of one of those Dr. Seuss-sized mountains. The Grinch may steal our presents, our ribbons and bows, even our roast beast, but there is one thing we can’t let him take— okay, two things: our joy sure, but also our rule of law. The rest of the stuff can be replaced (if it was even necessary in the first place) but without integrity, this country will not be the same. Even the Grinch can find his way back, by remembering that integrity doesn’t mean always being right, it means righting our wrongs once we realize what we’ve done.

I have this wonderful fantasy that Trump has done everything he can think of to bring the GOP to its knees; that his whole presidency was a farce, and his true intention is to bring about “Big Changes, the Best Changes.” I picture him sitting at Mar-a-Lago, wearing a Santa hat and no pants, exasperated by the responses to his attempted treason, and thinking to himself, “What will it take for these guys to cut me loose?!” Whether intentional or not, Trump has changed the Republican party irreversibly and if they don’t make a sharp turn, they will find themselves going over the edge of the snow-covered cliff.

In these first fresh days of the year, I am focused on remembering to step out of the curmudgeonly routine and daydream about trying something new. Instead of resolutions, I am looking for meaningful motivations to bring me back to my inner child; singing and dancing around Woody Creek in the 1970s (talk about growing up in Whoville.)

So far, I think I’m doing pretty well with my Life Goals List. I have already found true love, been skydiving, and swum with a penguin. I haven’t been to Antarctica or seen the Northern Lights, but just entering my fifties, it feels like I still have some time. A bucket list full of joy and adventure is the perfect way to start this January, and whether it’s jumping out of a plane or jumping out of a cake to serve someone a subpoena (I really hope this is how they’ll get him), the beauty is in the imagination. For my grand finale goal of 2023, I will find a Grinch costume that fits a 6’3” man and convince my brother-in-law to jaywalk in front of a cop— watch for the consequences on next year’s Christmas card!

This December I want to give a little appreciation for our local flare here in Carbondalay, Bonedale, C-town (just kidding, no one calls it that— yet!) As the holidays approach, it’s a good time to take stock of all that we have and look for ways to share with our neighbors. Personally, I feel extremely lucky to live here, surrounded by cowboys and artists, in a house we moved from the Ranch to the unorganized territory of Satank, and I’m grateful for my little candid opinion column in this, our own town’s weekly newspaper. So, here to the theme of The Twelve Days of Christmas, are some local spots to show a little love this holiday.

On the twelfth day of C- wait, the twelfth day? Is that as in twelve days counting down to Christmas? Or are we celebrating Christmas for twelve whole days like the pagans did… and is it backwards? Oh well, whatever. Here we go.

On the twelfth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building. We are lucky to have the Habitat for Humanity ReStore chock full of billionaires’ hand-me-downs, and while Pitkin County landfill will be full in a few years, we can still focus our talents on reducing, reusing, and recycling our building materials.

On the eleventh day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters potting (okay, throwing, actually.) The Carbondale Clay Center celebrates twenty-five years of clay this year.

On the tenth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking at the Legion. You guessed it, I’m one of those hundredaires who shows up regularly once Shake-A-Day climbs above four digit$.

On the ninth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing. Let’s hear it for the Sopris Sun’s success with informing, inspiring, and building (up!) this community.

On the eighth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating. Carbondale Arts supports a full spectrum of artists who color in our beautiful valley.

On the seventh day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing at Spring Gulch. We have world-class bluebird-sky cross-country skiing right in our backyard, thanks to the Mount Sopris Nordic Council.

On the sixth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying— what’s better than fresh eggs from happy dames? Shop at Mana.

On the fifth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: Five grass-fed burgers. One of the best things about this town is that wherever you order it, chances are you are eating delicious locally raised beef.

On the fourth day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs; KDNK plays all my favorite country punk songs.

On the third day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods for Lift-Up. “When we have more than we need, we build a longer table.” – Jesus.

On the second day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods, two feature films. Crystal theatre gift cards make the best stocking stuffers!

On the first day of Carbondale, my true love gave to me: twelve builders building, eleven potters throwing, ten drinkers day-drinking, nine writers writing, eight artists creating, seven skiers skiing, six geese a-laying, five grass-fed burgers. Four spinning DJs, three canned goods, two feature films, and a happy, healthy 2023.

This November, as I cast my ballot, I can’t help but think of the women who came before me and how hard they fought to be regarded as equal: equal in the eyes of men, equal under the law, an equal part of society… While progress has been made, women still sit shotgun in a lot of ways. We are not promoted or paid equally in most fields, and we all face harassment at some point in our lives. Why? Because of a little thing (not so little) called the clit. Yep, I said it. Born with a clit, in today’s world, makes you a second-class citizen from the start.

Did you know they still don’t really study the clitoris in medical school?

“Even in fields like urology, where male sexual pleasure and orgasm are considered integral, women’s sexual health “is seen as hysteria, Pandora’s box, all psychosocial, not real medicine,” Dr. Rachel Rubin.*

Pardon my French, but how do we have the cojones to claim we are a civilized, developed culture when we don’t even understand the sexual anatomy of half our population? What a ridiculous lack of professionalism.

Which reminds me, I’m actually kind of thankful for the Trump Years. Looking back on our history, I think we will see him as the ultimate mess that warranted such a deep-cleaning shop vac for the carpet of our country. He brought a lot of filth and negativity to the surface, forcing us to face our bias blind spots, and when he goes to white-collar prison, he will be setting the crucial example that no one is above the law. (Trump may want back in the white house, but the only place he’s going is the big house.)

This November is a great time to start cleaning our House. We can scrub the old stains with Woolite all day long and we still won’t have the pristine past we like to tell ourselves, but we can change the way we do things now, so eventually we will live a cleaner, clearer future. And while we’re at it, we can start educating urologists about the other half of us.

“Still, it will take more than passionate “penis doctors,” Rubin said, to give the vulva its due; there must be a concerted movement, one that transcends medicine’s traditionally siloed specialties, to understand and map this anatomy. And for that to happen, other fields need to recognize female sexual pleasure as essential and worth preserving.

“I truly believe we are just several decades behind on the female side,” Rubin said. “But we have to do the work. And we have to have people interested in doing the work.”

Luckily, we are a capitalistic culture, and the one thing that transcends our misogyny is our longing for a magic pill. All we need to do is convince the pharmaceutical companies that there is an untapped market for female orgasm, and they shouldn’t be so scared of the research. Women may be mysterious, but c’mon guys— it’s not rocket surgery. Just undiscovered anatomy. It really does make me wonder, after all these years of medical advancement, why was the clit ignored? Fear of Virginia Woolf? A climactic oversight? Or was it simply because the boys don’t have one.

When I was a kid on the ranch, (In our family ‘the ranch’ was always my grandparents’ place, just south of Carbondale. Even though everyone else also lived on a ranch, whenever we referred to ‘the ranch’ it meant Bob and Ditty’s cattle ranch.) supper meant beef, potatoes, and the girl cousins were expected to serve/clear the table, while our boy cousins just sat there. This not only felt seriously unfair, but it did not teach us that men were smarter, or better, or more entitled to have someone wait on them. If anything, it backfired, and my female cousins are some of the strongest and least subservient people I know.

Which is why we will not be voting (against our own betterment) in support of an old, tired patriarchy that does not value its constituents equally. This November we will cast a vote for the world we want to live in. A vote for the clits.

*https://www.yahoo.com/news/half-world-clitoris-why-dont-182449061.html

I told my sister that NASA was planning to fire a missile at an asteroid coming close to Earth— not because there was any danger of the asteroid hitting Earth, just to test our math (and I suspect, to appease a bit of the Bruce Willisness in all Americans.) I worried that my upcoming trip to Ireland would coincide with the end of the world, or at least a self-inflicted tsunami, but my sister set me straight.

“What are you talking about?! Ireland is exactly the place you want to be for the end of days. They’ll know how to do it right!” Good point, I thought.

First, I went to visit cousins in London. While I freely admit I don’t really understand the relationship between the royal family and their subjects, I have a lot of time for historical sightseeing, the perfect humidity for my complexion, and gin + tonics in a can. And even as an outsider, I realize we are witnessing the end of the ultimate fairy tale. As shocking as Bruce Willis selling his digital twin rights, many traditions are now simply the old way of doing things (the younger generation calls antiques ‘brown furniture’) and I wonder if King Charles (yawn) will keep our attention for as long as it takes to switch out the paper money. His face makes me sleepy, and I think he could be the end of imperialism, colonialism, quite a few isms actually, which is a very good thing for very many people who do not live in an insulated bubble of privilege and wealth. Besides, it’s time to give the diamonds back to India…

Speaking of privilege, tooling around London in a double decker bus with a can of gin + tonic is a great way to kill an afternoon. I met another tourist from Quebec, and as we climbed the stairs to take our seats in the open air, she explained that the tour varied depending on the tour company, as some recordings went into greater detail than others. When we discovered a real live tour guide with a microphone at the top, we exchanged grins.

“Game changer.” She said in Frenglish.

Our tour guide had a very dry sense of humor and now and then he would recite Churchill or break into song with his deep baritone. It was a highly entertaining bus ride around an incredibly rich city, and while I could appreciate the unqualified resilience of Londoners, I still couldn’t wrap my head around the disparity between them and their king. When will the royal family hock one of their crowns to build food banks? Or sell some real estate to erect homes for the homeless? From my perspective, all they do is ride through town in old black cars to attend fancy events or play polo and walk through the countryside with their dogs… nice work if you can get it! Strangely the people of England seem to regard them with reverence, not resentment, and the longer they reigned, the more they are revered. Similar, I suppose, to the way our elected officials don’t have term limits, so they stay and stay, well beyond their productive years, meandering through the hallways lost in daydreams of the past… I gave up and went to Ireland: the land of a hundred thousand welcomes.

Ireland gained its independence 100 years ago, and when I asked the taxi driver why they weren’t celebrating in the streets, he said, “we celebrate every day. Eventually, the bills need to get paid…” These seem like words to live by. Ireland is the ultimate working-class fairy tale: lush green forests, vast green fields, and fun folklore to fool the green Americans. Their front doors are painted different colors in defiance of Royal decree and there is a lighthearted, meet-each-day-as-it-comes feeling (though that could be due to the steady stream of Guinness in every pub.) The only castle we saw was a hotel full of Australians, Canadians, and Americans kicking back in the Irish countryside (Kinnitty Castle outside Tullamore. Ask for the Geraldine suite if you want the haunted room!)

Turns out my sister was right, and whether it’s the end of a monarchy or the A.I. Bruce Willis launching into orbit, Ireland is a welcome place to be.

Do you ever think life is like a treasure hunt? Kind of like a cosmic bingo game and as we gain experiences, the squares on our board fill up until we yell, “Bingo!” For instance, in my life I have sung karaoke a handful of times— not well mind you, but every time I belted out Don’t Stop Believing by Journey, I checked off another square on the experience game board of life. Singing along to the 80s, wading through the weeds to catch a whiff of rose, rescuing bugs from an empty existence in the barren wasteland of the bathtub, these are the things that count, day after day.

“Any idiot can face a crisis. It’s the day-to-day living that wears you out.” -Anton Chekhov

It feels like humans are always facing a crisis. Every generation lives through plague or famine or war, and yet we’re never able to change the plot. Sure, we like to think we’re making progress, that life will be easier for the next generation because of our daily struggle, but then something— or someone— comes along to launch a grenade, hoard grain or gold, infect the planet, and we’re right back in triage.

The next major catastrophe will probably involve water, or rather lack thereof. I used to think that only the very rich would eat cheeseburgers in the future because beef production is an expensive process that requires hard work, great parcels of open land, and fresh water. I imagined the rest of us eating crickets for protein as the price of hamburger climbed to unattainable rates, but now I think the real delicacy will be salad. The majority of water in the Colorado River is used for farm and field, and as water levels plunge, we’ll see the price of lettuce soar, not to mention real suckers like cucumber and avocado…

Opposite the cliché of the fat king sitting on his throne eating a huge drumstick, surrounded by cakes and sweetbreads, today’s uber wealthy seem to be satiated by medium-rare portobello on a bed of arugula and seltzer water flavored with natural essence of citrus. And here in Carbondale, if we continue to build unaffordable housing and restaurant/retail space at our current pace, we will certainly lose the folks who ranch, cook, and serve our cheeseburgers, as they’ll leave town to seek their fortune elsewhere. When I was young there was one fancy restaurant in Carbondale, the Ship of Fools. Back then, eating out meant a celebration of some kind, a birthday or an anniversary. Granted, that was a long time ago, “back when the road was dirt.” -JH

Sometimes I feel like Earth is just a galactic ship of fools hurtling through space, every captain of industry more concerned with the amount of booty he has accumulated than the journey’s path or the condition of the crew. Instead of looking for ways to improve the ship, or fostering kindness and acceptance, we are pitted against each other through greed and envy as we row for forty hours a week just to keep the whole thing afloat.

Honestly, I wonder if the best thing for our planet right now wouldn’t be a massive solar flare; kind of a world-wide ctrl+alt+delete. Sure, it would mean utter chaos at first, but then oh, so quiet. As people relearn how to catch a fish or grow a potato, the planet would thrive without all the machines that we created to make our lives easier. Not to mention all the plastic and artificial spray we buy in an effort to bring the essence of the outdoors into our living room (instead of just going outside.)

Basically, we all want the same things out of life: a sense of accomplishment, health and happiness for ourselves, our friends, our family, and a little reward, e.g., a cheeseburger at the end of the day. While drastic, a solar flare would wipe out power plants, bitcoin banks, and suburban irrigation, allowing the planet’s water to flow freely, and eliminating the monetization of this essential fluid. Then the emperors of the world would have to put down their new suits and join the rest of us in our treasure hunt for life’s necessities.

Picture this: Cookie Monster sitting on a park bench looking out at the horizon and the thought bubble over his head reads, “Without my cookies, I’m just a monster.”

That meme is exactly how I would describe politicians like Lauren Boebert; politicians who want to take away certain inalienable rights from their own constituents. I call them RAWR: Republicans Against Women’s Rights. And I have a word of caution for these ‘pro-lifers’ who are packing in public: tread carefully when it comes to government interference in the rights of the individual. The other end of the spectrum is just as terrifying as women bleeding to death while trying to abort with a coat hanger— it is dystopian to the nth degree. Imagine if the government, in an effort to solve our biggest issue (overpopulation for those of you playing along at home), decided to mandate abortion after one child per family.

Sounds barbaric?! Well, that is how the RAWR sound to me when they try to relate bible verses with real life healthcare issues— not to mention, an issue that is none of their business; the autonomy to decide what is best for our individual bodies. We won’t let emergency room doctors take organs out of a dead body in order to save a life (without consent), but now the Supreme Court will force a woman to risk her own life for an unknown outcome. It is hypocritical, to say the least, and not pro-life so much as anti-liberty.

Why should a group of elderly misogynists (some of whom can’t even get pregnant) be deciding our future? They are no longer in their prime and obviously out of touch with the needs of our country. I would like to live in a society that values and trusts its individuals. A society that doesn’t thwart our own self-care. A society that walks the talk and protects everyone’s freedom. So, I have a plan to get these old guys to retire. I think the secret service should fake Joe Biden’s death. Whether of covid, or a rock-star-style plane crash, or choking on a cookie, it doesn’t matter, if they think Joe has gone to Valhalla, maybe they will take stock of their own lives and go sit on the porch to reminisce with a cold glass of lemonade.

I don’t mean to blame all the Baby Boomers for the state of our lives (our planet) right now, but if the implant fits… Joe is our fifth Boomer president and I, for one, would like to see someone under 70 apply for the job. I can’t remember another era where the spotlight followed one generation throughout their entire lives. It seems like the baton was usually passed on by now, but at this rate it looks like we’ll go right from Boomers to Millennials. Which is fine, because as I’ve said before, GenXers are okay with not being in the limelight. We’re used to being ignored, sometimes even preferring the privacy it affords.

And trust me, it won’t be hard to coerce GenXers into retirement. First of all, we will each have our own wing in the assisted living center because of the rate at which we are now building them for the Boomers. Plus, by then the Millennials will have dialed in virtual reality headsets enough to keep a GenXer entertained for days on end. All they will need to do, in order for us to wholeheartedly embrace the artificial intelligence staff, is to make them look like muppets. Which reminds me of my original point; live and let live and try not to be a monster. As a society, we all make concessions to coexist in peace. For example, I agree not to take LSD and follow Lauren Boebert around with a cowbell, ringing it loudly every time she opens her mouth, and in return, I expect her to actually read the constitution before proselytizing her fanatical fantasies about church and state. Because if we are going to be a country based on personal liberty and freedom, then we can’t cede control of our own selves to a bunch of old women-haters who will not protect our sovereignty.

#AbortTheCourt

I recently went down to the big city of Denver, and WOW! I felt like Country Mouse showing up at the door of an old family friend in my worn-out coat and hat, carrying an old square suitcase. Such a busy, bustling place, yet everyone just goes about their own mouse business. Standing on the sidewalk near my old stomping grounds, I could still feel Denver in the summer some forty years ago…

In the summer between sixth and seventh grade, my best friend and I roamed the city on our bikes and the bus, from Cherry Creek to Cranmer Park to Elitch Gardens— when it was way out on 38^th Street. Now Elitch’s is located right downtown, and the Light Rail connects the city like never before. Although, riding the train gave me an eerie, disconnected feeling as we sped along through the burgeoning metropolis with no human conductor on board.

Nowadays my phone knows Denver better than I do. Sometimes in the Roaring Fork valley, we lose reception— not to mention just plain losing our phone somewhere on the trail… But in Denver there was no lapse in connection for me or the sentient being that is my Samsung Galaxy A42 5G, or as I like to call it, Arnie. Arnie is a nice, non-threatening, gender-ambivalent name for the device that literally holds all the pertinent information of my life, don’t ya think?

As a GenXer, I realize how useful and important Arnie can be, but in times of crisis I would not hesitate to leave it behind because I know that I can survive in the natural world all by myself. I do wonder if the schedule for updating our phones aligns with the planet in any way. Like, are updates planned around the new moon or some other planetary pattern? Or are they completely random— and is there even such a thing as completely random when we’re talking about A.I.?

I’m ready for robots. As cold and impersonal as they are, they are reassuring in their reliability. And they are sure-as-shit preferable to some of the nutters we have in government these days. I think A.I. is the perfect candidate to introduce a refresher course on the constitution for these guys. America is not a Christian country; it is a country where you are free to be a Christian— or any other religion you choose. And that is the key to this country’s prosperity, free choice. We’re like a toddler, give us a choice or prepare for the meltdown.

I enjoyed my time spent in the shiny big city, and they sure do have some fun toys, but I’m always appreciative to get back to our dusty little mountain town. As fast as things are changing in Carbondale, it is still a friendly place to live and let live, and thank goddess for the spotty cell service mid-valley that religiously drops calls, allowing me and Arnie time to ignore all the stuff in our calendar that we haven’t done today, and might just put off tomorrow…

The urgency we feel right now to protect our nation from a major backslide is real, but as long as we all respect each other’s choices, there is hope— despite the poetry of the Democrats.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Do something— for the love of god, Democrats,

We already voted for you. -Samantha Bee

Well, except for the increasing number of us who felt it necessary to vote Republican for the first time in a long time, in an attempt to head off those in the grand ole party who seem hell-bent on leading us, like a pack of gun-toting lemmings, right off the cliff. We may never be able to get the bath water hot enough again, but at least we are exercising our right to choose. We have not given up and we will not go back. We will stay calm and carry on as though it’s still illegal to hang the Vice President on the steps of the Capitol, as though women are an equal base in our society, as though the power of the people outweighs that of a few obsolete patriarchal zealots.

I don’t have the words for what just happened in Texas; what is happening in this country. Over 300 school shootings in the last 24 years and we do nothing but scream and cry and pray. What kind of society doesn’t protect its own children? And should that kind of society continue to exist? Are we, as Americans, impotent to create the change we want to see…? It seems I have only questions.

America is the land of the outlaw and has been ever since white people showed up. The first recorded school shooting was in 1764. Of course, back then every kid carried a gun in case they saw dinner on their way home from school— but it was a you-only-get-one-shot-at-it situation, not like today’s semi-automatic weapons, which require neither the skill, nor the solidity.

I know we idolize the lone gunman with his face in the shadows, but that gunslinger is literally killing our kids. And now we are becoming desensitized to the murder of children. So, I guess my main question is, do we need guns to protect us from tyranny? Or has the arms industry become the tyrant, using our own weapons against us.

Mikael Nickolauson, 17

Ben Walker, 16

Cassie Bernall, 17

Steven Curnow, 14

Corey DePooter, 17

Kelly Fleming, 16

Matthew Kechter, 16

Daniel Mauser, 15

Daniel Rohrbough, 15

William Dave Sanders, 47

Rachel Scott, 17

Isaiah Shoels, 18

John Tomlin, 16

Lauren Townsend, 18

Kyle Velasquez, 16

Derrick Brun, 28

Dewayne Lewis, 15

Daryl Lussier, 58

Chase Lussier, 15

Neva Rogers, 62

Chanelle Rosebear, 15

Michelle Sigana, 32

Thurlene Stillday, 15

Alicia White, 15

Naomi Rose Ebersol, 7

Marian Stoltzfus Fisher, 13

Lena Zook Miller, 7

Mary Liz Miller, 8

Anna Mae Stoltzfus, 12

Ross Alameddine, 20

Jamie Bishop, 35

Brian Bluhm, 25

Ryan Clark, 22

Austin Cloyd, 18

Jocelyne Couture-Nowak, 49

Daniel Perez Cuevas, 21

Kevin Granata, 45

Matthew Gwaltney, 24

Caitlin Hammaren, 19

Jeremy Herbstritt, 27

Rachael Hill, 18

Emily Hilscher, 19

Matthew La Porte, 20

Jarrett Lane, 22

Henry Lee, 20

Liviu Librescu, 76

Partahi Lombantoruan, 34

Lauren McCain, 20

Daniel O’Neil, 22

Juan Ramon Ortiz, 26

G.V. Palanivel, 51

Minal Panchal, 26

Erin Peterson, 18

Michael Pohle, 23

Julia Pryde, 23

Mary Read, 19

Reema Samaha, 18

Waleed Mohamed Shaalan, 32

Leslie Sherman, 20

Maxine Turner, 22

Nicole White, 20

Gayle Dubowski, 20

Catalina Garcia, 20

Julianna Gehant, 32

Ryanne Mace, 19

Daniel Parmenter, 20

Tshering Bhutia, 38

Doris Chibuko, 40

Sonam Choedon, 33

Grace Kim, 23

Katleen Ping, 24

Judith Seymour, 53

Lydia Sim, 21

Charlotte Helen Bacon, 6

Daniel Barden, 7

Rachel D’Avino, 29

Olivia Rose Engel, 6

Josephine Gay, 7

Dawn Hochsprung, 47

Dylan Hockley, 6

Madeleine F. Hsu, 6

Catherine V. Hubbard, 6

Chase Kowalski, 7

Nancy Lanza, 52

Jesse Lewis, 6

Ana Grace Marquez-Greene, 6

James Mattioli, 6

Grace McDonnell, 7

Anne Marie Murphy, 52

Emilie Parker, 6

Jack Pinto, 6

Noah Pozner, 6

Caroline Previdi, 6

Jessica Rekos, 6

Avielle Richman, 6

Lauren Rousseau, 30

Mary Sherlach, 56

Victoria Soto, 27

Benjamin Wheeler, 6

Allison Wyatt, 6

George Chen, 19

Katherine Cooper, 22

Cheng Yuan Hong, 20

Christopher Ross Michaels-Martinez, 20

Weihan Wang, 20

Veronika Weiss, 19

Shaylee Chuckulnaskit, 14

Andrew Fryberg, 15

Zoe Galasso, 14

Gia Soriano, 14

Lucero Alcaraz, 19

Treven Taylor Anspach, 20

Rebecka Ann Carnes, 18

Quinn Glen Cooper, 18

Kim Saltmarsh Dietz, 59

Lucas Eibel, 18

Jason Dale Johnson, 33

Lawrence Levine, 67

Sarena Dawn Moore, 44

Alyssa Alhadeff, 14

Martin Duque Anguiano, 14

Scott Beigel, 35

Nicholas Dworet, 17

Aaron Feis, 37

Jaime Guttenberg, 14

Christopher Hixon, 49

Luke Hoyer, 15

Cara Loughran, 14

Gina Montalto, 14

Joaquin Oliver, 17

Alaina Petty, 14

Meadow Pollack, 18

Helena Ramsay, 17

Alex Schachter, 14

Carmen Schentrup, 16

Peter Wang, 15

Jared Black, 17

Shana Fisher, 16

Christian Riley Garcia, 15

Kyle McLeod, 15

Ann Perkins, 64

Angelique Ramirez, 15

Sabika Sheikh, 18

Chris Stone, 17

Cynthia Tisdale, 63

Kimberly Vaughan, 14

Madisyn Baldwin, 17

Tate Myre, 16

Justin Shilling, 17

Hana St. Juliana, 14

Nevaeh Bravo, 10

Jacklyn Cazares, 9

Makenna Lee Elrod, 10

Jose Flores Jr., 10

Irma Garcia, 48

Uziyah Garcia, 8

Eliana “Ellie” Garcia, 9

Amerie Jo Garza, 10

Xavier Lopez, 10

Jayce Carmelo Luevanos, 10

Tess Marie Mata, 10

Miranda Mathis, 11

Eva Mireles, 44

Alithia Ramirez, 10

Annabelle Guadalupe Rodriguez, 10

Maite Yuleana Rodríguez, 10

Alexandria “Lexi” Aniyah Rubio, 10

Layla Salazar, 11

Jailah Nicole Silguero, 10

Eliahana Cruz Torres, 10

Rojelio Torres, 10