On December 14th, 2012, in a small Connecticut suburb, I sat in a firehouse and heard these words: “There are no more survivors.” The next part of this story is familiar to most people: 20 children and six educators murdered at Sandy Hook School. Our daughter, Ana Grace Márquez-Greene, among them. In many ways, on that day, I feel like I died too.
I know I am alive because the calendar reads “2023”. My breath is warm, and I can see the rise and fall of my chest. I live in a middle-class Connecticut community, commute to work, and started a walking group in my neighborhood. I complain about the cost of parking, gas, and groceries.
To an outsider, my life looks typical.
But it is not.
Ana Grace was 6 years old and her older brother, Isaiah, 8, when we moved back to the United States from Canada that summer of 2012. We were full of hopes and dreams.
Those hopes and our pursuit of those dreams disintegrated into the nightmare that is firearm injury and death — a uniquely American epidemic. And while Sandy Hook, school shootings, and other mass shootings take up a lot of media space — every day there are more than 130 gun deaths. Countless others are wounded.
With every tragedy, we become more desperate. And while desperation is a normal response, it cannot dissuade us from effective strategy, human-centered activism, or hope.
Nelba Márquez-Greene
Our collective response to all this has varied. Some moms, like me, receive the love of a nation. Other moms receive very little.
Many activist groups have risen since Newtown — and plenty existed before. Some that predated Newtown pleaded for empathy, resources, and solutions in urban communities. Their cries were largely ignored.
While we have had some success in different states, as well as with national efforts like the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act and the new Office of Gun Violence Prevention at the White House — Newtown was supposed to change everything. Parkland was supposed to change everything. Las Vegas, Orlando, Buffalo, The Tree of Life, Mother Emmanuel, Uvalde. Every new shooting rips us apart from the cognitive dissonance we must employ walking into a Walmart or attending a concert.
With every tragedy, we become more desperate. And while desperation is a normal response, it cannot dissuade us from effective strategy, human-centered activism, or hope.
What will help? After nearly a decade of working with survivors, I am convinced it begins with addressing our collective health and addressing gun violence as a public health issue. Public health gives us the tools and the means to address gun violence where it is needed most — in the communities where families are devastated, lives are broken, and loved ones are left to make sense of the unimaginable. Using the same evidence-based practices that gave us seat belts in motor vehicles, safer workplaces, improved sanitation, more accurate information on the health impact of smoking, vaccines, and the eradication of infectious diseases like polio, we can address firearm injury and gun violence by:
- Gathering data
- Defining risks and protective factors
- Figuring out programs that change those patterns
- Scaling what works
I wrote those four steps down while listening to Dr. Megan L. Ranney, MD, dean of the Yale School of Public Health, testify before Congress. In the face of what at times could be best described as egregious commentary — she calmly laid out a public health approach to gun violence to help guide us forward. An emergency physician, Dean Ranney also shared her own stories. She knows what it’s like to tell a family their loved one didn't make it because the bullet holes were irreparable. She knows what it’s like to lose a colleague to intimate partner violence. And what she didn’t say — in part to protect me — is that she knows what it’s like to work with a colleague who died on December 14th, 2012, but still sees the rise and fall of her chest in 2023.
Seeing gun violence as a public health issue allows us to conduct necessary research that will help us identify what REALLY would lead to a reduction in violence and an increase in hope for those left behind. It would allow us to focus on more effective care for survivors. New Haven deserves this. Connecticut deserves this. The nation deserves this. Having spoken to Dr. Ranney about this in great detail, and as a new member of the Yale School of Public Health community, I am in full agreement that firearm injury reduction through public health is achievable. It is actionable. And many extraordinary people here are already doing parts of this work.
Isaiah — my 8-year-old who survived the shooting — has just completed his first semester at university. When I was recently offered the position of Activist in Residence at the Yale School of Public Health, his response was: “You’re SO good at this, Mom. You’ve got that dog in you… that Yale Bulldog.” I’m proudly not the first academic in my immediate family. My husband, Jimmy, is now “Dr. Greene” and faculty at Western Connecticut State University.
My new position at Yale has not changed who I am. I am still a marriage and family therapist, although I no longer provide direct service or clinical supervision. I manage the foundation that bears our daughter’s name. I also teach people about trauma and grief. At Yale, I hope to offer a human-centered perspective on activism.
Sadly, we are exceptions to the rule. While there is a wide spectrum of outcomes for individuals and families impacted by gun violence — living with this type of trauma for the rest of your life is too much to ask and has too many consequences. The dirty truth of survivorship is there isn’t enough support for the families left behind.
My breath is still warm, and I can see it as I walk to my office this cold December. My chest rises and falls. A reality my daughter is denied. I look at the calendar and it’s 2023 and not 2012. The music from the corner Italian restaurant near my office is festive and bright.
Just a few days ago as part of the Yale School of Public Health’s new Dean’s lecture series, Dr. Katelyn Jetelina, publisher of the national Your Local Epidemiologist newsletter, said that in this era of misinformation and distrust in science, we must “refuse to let public health be invisible.” Yale is uniquely poised for this moment and this work. And I am honored to be here as part of the team to get it done. Public health can lead us out of despair, out of gridlock, and out of hopelessness. And not just for some survivors, but for all of us — a nation filled with unending grief and collective trauma due to the gun violence epidemic. As a nation, we deserve better.
Last year I wrote an article for the New York Times on how we need two teams — one for all the change that needs to happen to end gun violence and one for the care of survivors. In my role as Activist in Residence, I get to inform both.
People often ask how I have kept going. Today, my answer is inspired by my son:
“You’ve got that dog in you, Mom. That Yale bulldog.”
Keep rising, chest. Keep rising. We will not be invisible.
We will not be invisible at all.
Nelba Márquez-Greene, LMFT
Activist in Residence, Yale School of Public Health
Firearm Injury/Prevention