Stories harness inexplicable and unlimited power to prompt change, illicit emotions or entertain another perspective.
While I have shared some July 4, 2022 parade photos and aftermath (IG - @leeleechicago), I have not widely shared my parade story. Yes, that parade on America’s birthday, one of my favorite celebrations.
But why now? I mean that was like forever ago, just move on…
Well, one thing that helped me click “publish” is that Illinois just signed an assault weapons ban into law (after going through the House and Senate). Late Tuesday upon reading the news, I felt some relief and encouragement. And made some final post edits.
And you see, I rediscovered joy in writing in my adult life. It often offers me a cathartic outlet. A creative challenge. It has also been a constant in my professional life.
However, in the days, weeks following the parade, I felt paralyzed. Confused. Stunted. The words — in writing and in speaking — did not come.
After many stops and starts - and months mixed in - here is my experience. My truth. My story.
As background, Highland Park is my hometown. An idyllic lakefront city nestled in Chicago’s North Shore about ~21 miles northwest of downtown. Home to:
The stunning Chicago Botanic Gardens
A decommissioned military base - Fort Sheridan (wildly, where my papa stayed during his WWII service decades prior)
Where “Smashing Pumpkins” frontman Billy Corgan resides and runs a charming tea shop
Once home to Michael Jordan and Scottie Pippen
Where iconic scenes from Risky Business, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Sixteen Candles and more have been filmed
I loved growing up here. It is where I learned to ride a bike, attended park district activities and summer camp, held my first jobs, where I was a HPHS Giant - involved in sports, arts and met my best friends. A nurturing and safe community.
It is where my husband and I are raising our family after Chicago city living.
It was the Monday morning of July 4th, 2022. After our kids, my son (6) and daughter (4), added a few more American flags to our front yard, we meandered to the official start of the “Kids, Bike and Pet Parade” — the same event that I attended with my family, sisters and friends decades before.
A welcome and happy experience that I was delighted to share with my children. However, my husband and I were cautiously optimistic as our pre-COVID parade attempt two years before was unsuccessful… we didn’t make it a mere block (see far right photo below).
Two years ago - July 4, 2019 (she was fine just displeased that her snack was removed for the photo opportunity).
This year, our kids led the way. My daughter was recently gifted her very first bike (with training wheels) for her birthday, was elated to show it off and demonstrate her speed skills.
My husband obliged jogging beside her while I dropped back as my son cautiously navigated dogs, bikes and strollers. (I was fine with the slower pace after recovering from a bizarre yet intense passing illness ~36 hours prior. An odd story for another day.)
9:44 a.m. - July 4, 2022
As we continued down the parade route, my husband spotted two friends and jumped out to give them and their families hugs. He had worked out with one friend mere hours prior and the other invited our family to their post-parade backyard party.
Our family of four joined back together towards the end of the route across from the local grocery store and began searching for a proper spot — I was drawn to a small and available grass patch. My husband suggested that we go and sit with those said friends back up the road.
My son immediately interjected that he did not want to move and, again, I added that the patch — and the sliver of shade next to two sweet elderly dogs — would be just fine. And that we would meet up with those friends later. All agreed.
We settled in with smiles and waves as the main parade began. We stood and saluted our armed forces, gushed at the decorated horses… minutes later, I oddly noted the Highland Park High School Giants Marching Band dispersing and running.
10:04 a.m. - July 4, 2022
There was an air of confusion ushered in and a backdrop of unease.
There were faint sounds that I could not place or digest.
Panic arose.
I looked at my husband, picked up my daughter and said “run!” and “go!”
My husband followed suit, scooping up our son, who immediately started crying.
Our bikes, bags, snacks, water bottles were left behind amidst a rushing, confused crowd.
We ran a block south away from the parade route and stopped behind a brick church, under a wide, low tree canopy behind the church sign. Band members were surrounding us, one girl hysterical.
My husband went over to her, knelt down and asked what happened, if she was ok. She vocalized “shooter” and added that her family was still “back there.” She confirmed the chaotic uncertainty.
Nothing felt real. Not in my town. Not in this area.
With limited details and information, we decided that my husband would run home a few blocks to grab our car and pick us up. He left.
While he was gone, it felt like an eternity. An abundance of ambulances, fire engines and police with blaring lights and jarring sounds zoomed by.
I had an inexplicable, perhaps twisted sensation that me and my babies were “physically safe” being near the church, under the tree canopy amidst the evil that had ensued.
I was in a cloud. Bewildered. Mind racing. Texting my husband, friends, neighbors, searching Twitter, desperate to find informing pieces to the confusing puzzle.
My son and I watched wide-eyed as parents and children fled. We watched a father load his disabled son into their vehicle (I will never forget that image). My daughter was scuttling around the tree, asking why the parade stopped.
My children knew something was not right.
I later learned that in my husband’s retrieval excursion, he caught himself and stopped running… as perhaps a 6’3 well-built, military-type-looking man should not be running amidst chaos, sirens, confusion. On his way home, he saw two elders who were bloodied, making the morning more real for him.
He picked us up after creative routes (the police had diverted him) and we quickly poured into our house. Given our proximity, a “shelter-in-place” was the mandate. The suspect was still at large. A twisted and unsettling feeling in your own home.
But we were physically safe.
We directed the kids to the basement as my husband and I absorbed updates, turned on the TV upstairs — national headlines sweeping all stations of our town; “Mass Shooting at Highland Park, Illinois 4th of July Parade.”
We attempted to gently engage with my son but he vehemently did not want to acknowledge or allow us to talk about “it.” We accepted that and would try and revisit. On the third attempt later in the afternoon, he allowed us to proceed… we explained: “the bad man wanted to hurt people and he hurt some people, but the police will catch him and he will be locked away so he can never hurt anyone again.”
Helicopters whizzed above, echoes of sirens and group/neighbor/friend text messages kept buzzing with atypical tracking updates such as “XX family home and safe.”
We would not be attending our friend’s backyard gathering but he and his family was safe.
We did not hear from our other friend. My husband made many attempts. My heart sank. He kept trying to track him down.
We received an update: he had been shot in the chest. He was rushed to Evanston hospital. He was stable. His wife and four kids were back together and were "ok.”
Unimaginable that this could happen to a friend, to anyone… at an American celebration.
There are hundreds, perhaps thousands of these stories. None are less painful. Stories of an eight-year-old-baseball-loving-boy whose spine was severed and will never walk again. A two-year-old orphan who attended his first parade and lost both of his parents. Stories of helpers.
We are lucky. I have played the events over and over, all of our choices.
There are inexplicable and often endless waves of guilt that I have identified…
Guilt that we did not need to shield my children from an assault weapon (as others did)
Guilt that my children did not see blood (as others did)
Guilt that we did not have to shelter as a family in an unfamiliar store, basement for hours during a terrifying time (as others did)
Guilt that we did not get shot or injured yet survived (as others did)
Guilt and unease that we had connected recalling seeing the shooter multiple times in the preceding weeks (one riding his scooter on our street and at a local event).
Guilt that I did not do enough in the aftermath… (I supported some March Fourth publicity - a movement quickly born in the parade aftermath)
The list goes on.
I have learned this: trauma cannot be compared. Trauma is all processed differently.
And this trauma will forever be engrained in our community, with our neighbors but it is such that connects us — and the stories will connect us for decades.
NOTE: Given the topic, I feel compelled to share that I do support the Second Amendment and responsible gun ownership.
HOWEVER, I cannot understand why assault weapons of war intended for multiple impact of life primarily for military and police (AND marketed/positioned as such, M&P® = Military & Police) are AN ABSOLUTE NECESSITY for non-military, common civilians. I am not certain that our founding fathers had foresight of advanced military-grade weapon civilian accessibility when they described “right to bear arms” (not to mentions the destruction in schools, grocery stores, places of worship, etc).
If we cannot TRY to seek ways to improve the lives for the sake of our CHILDREN or make accommodations in an effort to BETTER their future (firearms are now the leading cause of death in children), then what are we doing?
I pray that Sandy Hook, Uvalde, Highland Park never happens in another backyard.
“There can be no keener revelation of a society's soul than the way in which it treats its children.” -Nelson Mandela
If you have gotten this far, THANK YOU for reading. Here’s to hoping and supporting a federal assault weapon ban in 2023. #hpstrong
9:49am - wrapping up the ‘kiddie parade’
