This story was co-published with Politico Magazine.
Last July 4, my family and I went to Long Island to celebrate the
holiday with a friend and her family. After eating some barbecue, a
group of us decided to take a walk along the ocean. The mood on the
beach that day was festive. Music from a nearby party pulsed through the
haze of sizzling meat. Lovers strolled hand in hand. Giggling children
chased each other along the boardwalk.
Most of the foot traffic was heading in one direction, but then two
teenage girls came toward us, moving stiffly against the flow, both of
them looking nervously to their right. “He’s got a gun,” one of them
said in a low voice.
I turned my gaze to follow theirs, and was clasping my 4-year-old
daughter’s hand when a young man extended his arm and fired off multiple
shots along the busy street running parallel to the boardwalk.
Snatching my daughter up into my arms, I joined the throng of screaming
revelers running away from the gunfire and toward the water.
The shots stopped as quickly as they had started. The man
disappeared between some buildings. Chest heaving, hands shaking, I
tried to calm my crying daughter, while my husband, friends and I all
looked at one another in breathless disbelief. I turned to check on
Hunter, a high school intern from Oregon who was staying with my family
for a few weeks, but she was on the phone.
“Someone was just shooting on the beach,” she said, between gulps of air, to the person on the line.
Unable to imagine whom she would be calling at that moment, I asked
her, somewhat indignantly, if she couldn’t have waited until we got to
safety before calling her mom.
“No,” she said. “I am talking to the police.”
My friends and I locked eyes in stunned silence. Between the four
adults, we hold six degrees. Three of us are journalists. And not one of
us had thought to call the police. We had not even considered it.
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