Newtown: An American Tragedy

by Matthew Lysiak

  “She wanted cowgirl boots—real cowgirl boots, not ones from Target,” her mother, Krista, told the countless sets of people with misty eyes who had come to pay their respects.

  And she wanted a cowgirl hat, and it had to be black. Santa was going to bring those things next week.

  She was a great big sister. She was teaching Travis how to read . . . when her life was cut short. She was beyond excited when I had Shane in April. She begged for any chance to hold, feed, and play with her baby brother.

  Away from the glare of the national spotlight, two private services took place that day. Avielle Richman, known to her family as Avie, was a student in Victoria Soto’s class and was also remembered for her love of horses, the Harry Potter books, and the color red. The parents of Madeleine Hsu, a member of Lauren Rousseau’s class, said their slain little girl stood out for the affection she had for her two sisters, five-year-old Hannah and eight-year-old Rebecca.

  Both were laid to rest at the Lakeview Cemetery in Bridgeport.

  WEDNESDAY:

  Daniel Barden, Caroline Previdi, Charlotte Bacon, Chase Kowalski, Victoria Soto, and Dawn Hochsprung

  Six more services took place on Wednesday—four more students from Lauren Rousseau’s class: Daniel Barden, Caroline Previdi, Charlotte Bacon, and Chase Kowalski, as well as the funerals for teacher Victoria Soto and principal Dawn Hochsprung.

  Victoria Leigh Soto was laid to rest in a wooden casket covered with white flowers, and to the strains of “The Sounds of Silence” inside the Lordship Community Church in Stratford, Connecticut. Midway through the funeral, singer Paul Simon, who knew the Soto family through his sister-in-law, picked up his acoustic guitar and began to sing the twenty-seven-year-old teacher’s favorite song without introduction, as her three siblings, Jillian, Carlee, and brother Carlos, wept. When Simon finished, there was no applause, just a reverent silence.

  Mourners spoke of her bravery in trying to protect her students until her last moment of life.

  Her sister Jillian shared a letter she had recently received that provided her with comfort:

  Somebody wrote me a letter about the recent tragedy that I would like to share with you: In it, it said they had to sit down with three small children, explaining to them that monsters sadly do exist out there. But they felt relief that because of my sister, they were able to tell them that superheroes also are very real.

  Jillian looked down at her sister.

  You are my superhero.

  Back in Newtown, little Daniel Barden was given a firefighter’s farewell. Hundreds of fire officials lined the street in a silent show of support, saluting Daniel’s coffin. Bagpipers played as the funeral procession approached the St. Rose of Lima Roman Catholic Church from the town’s main intersection. Many of the smoke eaters wore green and white ribbons, the Sandy Hook Elementary School colors, in solidarity with the victims.

  Daniel Barden would never get the chance to live out his dream of being a New York City firefighter. Mourners entered the church to find framed photos of Daniel as a baby, along with his siblings, on a small wooden table near the altar. His small ivory casket had gold embellishments. A wooden crucifix had been laid on the top.

  The family had just picked out their Christmas tree one week earlier, Monsignor Robert Weiss told the massive crowd, before raising the question all of America had been asking: “How could this happen? It was just like any other day. A child goes to school and you expect them to be safe—then in a matter of moments, life changes forever.”

  The funeral of Caroline Previdi had to be delayed for a few minutes as mourners navigated the heavy traffic and crowds leaving Daniel’s funeral after it came to a conclusion. Friends and family leaving Daniel’s Mass walked past those arriving for Caroline’s, both at St. Rose of Lima. Some people stayed for both.

  Again, Monsignor Robert Weiss stood at the lectern, beginning this time by praising Caroline’s contagious affection for life. “This is probably the happiest addition to heaven in a long time,” Monsignor Weiss declared to the crowd, most of whom were dressed in pink, the little girl’s favorite color. “We have a new saint.”

  In a pew at the very front, holding it together as best they could, sat Caroline’s parents, Jeff and Sandy Previdi, and her older brother. Two full-color blowups of their daughter smiled back at them from where her casket had been placed.

  An overflow crowd of seventy people waited outside the church, listening on hastily added speakers. “She will intercede for us; turn to her,” Weiss told them all. “We have an angel.”

  Less than two miles away, Charlotte Bacon was being remembered at Christ the King Lutheran Church for her love of all animals and the color pink. Buttons with an image of the radiant child in full smile were distributed to the mourners. An angel superimposed over the name “Charlotte” was featured on the cover of the funeral program.

  Charlotte’s aunt Georgie delivered the eulogy, asking that everyone gathered remember the vibrant little girl for the way she lived her life, and not for the tragedy of her death.

  My wish today, is that when you think of Charlotte, or when we speak of her, that we remember a sweet, bright little girl who loved animals, the color pink, and dresses—not how she was killed.

  A statement released to the press by the family described the heartbreak:

  Charlotte Helen Bacon is the beloved daughter of Joel and JoAnne Bacon, and the sister of Guy Bacon. Charlotte was an extraordinarily gifted six-year-old who filled her family each day with joy and love. The family will forever remember her beautiful smile, her energy for life, and the unique way she expressed her individuality, usually with the color pink. Charlotte never met an animal she didn’t love, and since the age of two wanted to be a veterinarian. She also enjoyed practicing tae kwon do weekly with her dad and brother where she relished kicking and throwing punches!

  Charlotte has left a place in her entire extended family’s hearts that will never be replaced. The family is profoundly grateful for the thoughts and prayers of the many friends around the world who expressed their sympathies. They trust in the depths of God’s grace, and with confidence, know that Charlotte rests in God’s arms.

  As little Charlotte Bacon’s casket was taken to be buried, fourteen miles away at the Spadaccino and Leo P. Gallagher & Son Community Funeral Home in Monroe, Connecticut, seven-year-old Chase Kowalski was being remembered as a “funny little guy” whose smile would “light up the room.” Standing over her son’s casket, Chase’s grieving mother, Becky Kowalski, welcomed visitors with a smile. She still felt numb over a vision of her son she believed she had seen three days earlier.

  The grieving mother believed her son had appeared to her to provide strength and comfort in moving forward with advocacy and charitable work. “He came to tell me to explain to my husband that the scope of this event was so large and that there were so many people around the country and the world we were touching,” she told New York Daily News columnist Denis Hamill. “I felt that my son was here in this vision to tell me that the not-for-profit scholarship organization that we are starting in Chase’s honor will save lives, change building codes, demand gun and ammunition control, and that in Chase’s name I would like to bring God back to America.”

  Later that evening in Woodbury, Connecticut, a large American flag hung near the doorway of the Munson-Lovetere Funeral Home and small lights spelling out the word “hope” were set up on the lawn out front as mourners, including U.S. Education Secretary Arne Duncan, hailed Sandy Hook principal Dawn Hochsprung as a hero. Hundreds of people waited outside in the frigid night to pay their respects during calling hours for the beloved forty-seven-year-old.

  While they waited in the long line to get inside the funeral home, friends, teachers, and former students shared their favorite “Principal Dawn” stories, many about the crazy outfits she wore on theme days or her familiar sayings, none remembered more so than her mantra, “Be kind. It’s really all that matters.”

  THURSDAY:
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  Lauren Rousseau, Catherine Hubbard, Benjamin Wheeler, Anne Marie Murphy, Jesse Lewis, and Allison Wyatt

  On Thursday the seemingly never-ending march of broken hearts stretched into a grueling fourth day when the community laid to rest six more victims, teacher Lauren Gabrielle Rousseau and two of her students, Catherine Violet Hubbard and Benjamin Andrew Wheeler. Memorial services were also held for teacher’s aide Anne Marie Murphy and two more students, Jesse Lewis and Allison Wyatt, both from Victoria Soto’s class.

  That morning Jesse Lewis’s heroic actions, imploring his classmates to “run,” were rewarded with a commander-in-chief’s funeral outside the Honan Funeral Home in Newtown, an honor usually reserved for heads of state and soldiers who have fallen in the act of valor. The fleet of twenty police cars with their sirens on escorted Jesse’s parents, Neil Heslin and Scarlett Lewis, as they followed the hearse on their way to the service with two motorcycles on each side.

  Upon entering the service mourners were greeted with a collage of photos; one was of baby Jesse smiling in a bubble bath, another showed him frozen in midtoddle in a pumpkin patch. A handwritten note, placed beside the casket, brought many to tears:

  “Thank you, Jesse, for blessing us with your presence if only for a short while,” it read in bold black letters. “I look forward to seeing you again.” It was signed, “With love, Your Mamma.”

  Jesse’s open casket was lined with GI Joe action figures and at his feet lay a plush white teddy bear wearing a blue T-shirt with the number one on it. In a room off to the side, Jesse’s older brother, sporting a navy blue suit, reached his arms up to comfort his mother as she wept.

  A mile away a bell tolled at the St. Rose of Lima Roman Catholic Church to commemorate the life of Catherine Violet Hubbard. Several hundred people filed into the church pews; some began sobbing uncontrollably as her grieving mother, Jenny, with her husband, Matt, standing by her side, delivered a heart-wrenching eulogy, remembering their bubbly redheaded daughter as a precocious child who loved animals and her older brother, Freddy.

  . . . Catherine loved her brother. He was her Freddy. And whatever he could do, she would surely follow. They always protected each other. When Catherine started Sandy Hook school, she cried. I found out later that Fred was walking her to her classroom, every day, just to make sure that she was okay. He did this after she convinced him that he had to walk her on the first day. She took care of him, too. No matter when he called her, or if she was in the midst of something else, she would put down her crayon, and give us a look, or a sigh, and then she would do it. I don’t think that she knew every day her being on the bus assured Freddy that he was on the right one. Freddy asked us the other day: How will I know I’m on my bus if Catherine isn’t on it?

  Fred. . . . you will always have your little redhead to protect you.

  A brief moment of relative lightness came as Monsignor Weiss spoke from the pulpit directly to her older brother, Freddy. “You said ‘I lost my best friend. I lost my best buddy.’ That is a big brother. And you know what? Maybe you won’t see her, but she’s there. You just have to look up, and you’ll see her. She’s going to give you a wink.”

  “She already did,” the proud big brother replied without hesitation, as he held up a coin that President Obama had given him during his visit earlier in the week.

  In the neighboring town of Danbury, teacher Lauren Rousseau, who perished while trying to shepherd Catherine and her other young students away from the danger, was being remembered for her passion and the childlike innocence she brought to her job that made her such a great educator. Dozens of mourners had to be turned away by fire marshals from the First Congregational Church on Deer Hill Avenue, which had quickly filled to capacity. Inside, friends and family shed tears as they remembered the spirited, good-natured thirty-year-old with the joyous heart.

  The service began with the song “Jesus Loves the Little Children” before a family friend read aloud several Scriptures. Many recalled her lifelong desire to be a teacher, and the fulfillment she felt in finding her “life partner” Tony Lusardi III. “I called her ‘busy bee’ and she called me ‘worker bee,’ ” he recalled in an emotional eulogy.

  Others remembered the angel smiley-face icon she used when sending instant messages or her infectious laugh that “rose all the way up from her toes.” But above all, it was her inner child that stoked the passion she had for her students. According to her father, Gilles Rousseau, “She was like a kid in many ways. That’s why she liked working with kids so much.”

  At the same time in Katonah, New York, another educator was being praised. Anna Marie Murphy, whose body was found draped over little Dylan Hockley in an apparent effort to protect and comfort her pupil during his final moments, was remembered for a full life as a mother of four, and for the selfless final act that had inspired so many.

  Cardinal Timothy Dolan, the archbishop of New York, presided over the service at St. Mary of the Assumption Church, and likened the bravery of the fifty-two-year-old mother of four to that of Jesus at her funeral Mass. “I never had the honor of meeting Annie, so I’m at a disadvantage,” Cardinal Dolan told mourners.

  Then again, I never had the honor of physically meeting Jesus, yet my union with him is the most important thing in my life. And because I know Jesus, I feel as if I know Anne Marie McGowan Murphy quite well.

  Like Jesus, Annie was an excellent teacher. Like him, she had a favored place in her big, tender heart for children, especially those with struggles. Like Jesus, Annie laid down her life for her friends. Like Him, she had brought together a community, a nation, a world, now awed by her own life and death.

  Back in Newtown, Benjamin Andrew Wheeler was being remembered by friends, family, and dozens of his fellow Scouts from Tiger Scout Den 6 who lined the pathway to Trinity Episcopal Church. Inside the church, on each side of the altar stood illuminated five-foot-tall lighthouses, which were one of the six-year-old’s many passions.

  Before her sermon, Reverend Kathleen E. Adams-Shepherd had invited all the children present in the church to come sit at the altar with her for a moment where she spoke to them about Ben’s love of lighthouses and what it means to discover light in darkness. “When something happens to someone or someone dies, that light does not go out. It doesn’t. It shines forever and ever and ever,” she told the children as she handed them each wooden ornaments of lighthouses with Ben’s name on them before sending them back to their seats.

  At the start of the service, his parents, David and Francine, who were performers in New York City before moving to Newtown, played a recording of Francine singing a lullaby they called “Stars in the Sky.” A rendition of “Here Comes the Sun” was also played in memory of Benjamin, who was a budding Beatles fan.

  In her sermon that followed, Reverend Adams-Shepherd told her parishioners that it was not God’s plan to take the children and that Adam should never have had access to the weapons.

  This awful, horrible, unfathomable act of violence was not the will of God. Horribly awful actions taken by a young, troubled, afflicted man did this. We need to do something and make sure people like him get the support they need. And I am certain that God weeps, that God wept and weeps with us now. It was not a lack of faith or love, it was not God snatching him from you, taking those innocent, beautiful children and those wonderfully brave adults. It was an enraged and sick young man with access to weapons that should never, ever be in a home.

  The congregation erupted in applause.

  Nearby, in Southbury, Allison “Allie” Wyatt was being remembered as a funny, vibrant, six-year-old who would share her beloved Goldfish crackers with strangers and cover her family’s home with her artistic and optimistic visions of life. A soloist sang “Hallelujah” as two Connecticut state troopers led the devastated family into the Sacred Heart Church, while pallbearers slowly carried the small white casket to the front.

  Reverend Walter Pitman led the service, telling parishioners that Allison should
be remembered for the undeniable joy within her soul and as a teacher to her sister, Lauren, who she taught how to ride the school bus. “You are a very fortunate group,” he told the audience. “At some point over the past six years, Allie Wyatt got in your way and you are better for it.”

  FRIDAY:

  Rachel D’Avino, Mary Sherlach, Grace McDonnell, Olivia Engel, and Dylan Hockley

  On Friday morning the nation paused as the tolling of church bells reverberated throughout Newtown, commemorating one week since the mass shooting at Sandy Hook Elementary School. At 9:30 A.M. bell towers across Connecticut chimed twenty-six times to honor each of the victims. Friday was also another day of funerals. Laid to rest were educator Rachel D’Avino; school psychologist Mary Sherlach; and three students: Grace McDonnell, who was in Lauren Rousseau’s class, and two students from Victoria Soto’s class, Olivia Engel and Dylan Hockley.

  Shortly after the bells tolled, hundreds squeezed into the pews at St. Rose of Lima Roman Catholic Church to say their final goodbyes to little Grace McDonnell. Her heartbroken mother stood in front of the packed pews and shared her treasured memories of her slain daughter, confiding that she had a secret bedtime ritual with her precious “fashionista,” featuring a several-minute-long handshake and ending with them both saying the words “hot fire.”

  “You made me fearless,” said Lynn McDonnell. “We were best friends, soul mates, and ‘sister girls,’ ” she said, placing her daughter’s favorite stuffed animal on the lectern.