UVALDE, Texas — As funerals begin for the dead school children and their teachers, the living are seething over the massacre.
It’s like a tinder box, striking strong emotions around tough questions about why law enforcement took 78 minutes to kill the man who murdered 21 of their beloved. Many in this tight-knit community of nearly 16,000 knew at least one of the law enforcement officers. And they knew the victims or their families.
Martin Villanueva, 36, said the police failed Uvalde, a city now coping with the aftermath of the worst school shooting in the U.S. in a decade. The Uvalde Consolidated Independent School District has its own police chief and officers.
“You can’t understand why the police took so long and why they didn’t take the risk of entering the school no matter what was going to happen to them,” he said. “They swore they were going to protect the people. They even say so on their patrol cars, and the truth is that they failed us in Uvalde. We don’t want that kind of police here.”
Dora Mendoza lost her granddaughter, Amerie Jo Garza, who dreamed of being an art teacher.
“I want answers,” she said. “I want to know why they did not enter. I want to know why the police did not enter, and if there was a (school honors) ceremony before, why they did not have security. We were there for 45 minutes and some parents wanted to go in but they didn’t let them and they wanted to risk their lives to get their children out but they didn’t let them.”
Tuesday, the first funeral was held for Amerie, who was 10 years old, like so many of the other students killed. Her favorite color was violet. She was one of the students who called 911.
But some turned their frustration toward the media, saying they divided the city. Others defended the police.
“It’s the cops’ fault, it’s not the cops fault,” said Roy Gutierrez, 30, as he waited Sunday for President Joe Biden to arrive.
“You know, nobody has let us really heal together before they started pointing fingers,” he said. “That’s the thing that’s sad, because for us having to go through this, we should be able to come together. And instead, the media just divided this place up… So now you got people looking at other people, you got death threats to the police officers.”
Others said they lost faith in the police. “We are furious,” said Lori Contreras, an Uvalde resident. “I don’t know who we are more angry at: the shooter or the police. The only thing we can turn to is our faith and hope we can forgive.”
Jose Rolando, 36, said he’s lost faith in police, too. He’s even worried about his city’s future because families and their children are at the center of life here.
“When you’re scared for your life, you call the police,” said Rolando, squinting in the harsh sun. “What do you do when you feel like there’s no one to call? You shoot before you can be shot.”
He is afraid for the future of Uvalde now their faith in law enforcement has faltered. Down the street from the welcome sign to Robb Elementary School, one of many places where townspeople gather to mourn and place bouquets, Rolando winced. Then, he pointed to a tent with a poster that read: “If you want to talk, I’m here.”
Rolando said he appreciates any help from the state in providing mental health services. But he isn’t sure how they’ll get through to “people not interested in talking.”
“We’re done talking, that’s the problem,” he said. “We want to get to work. We want to see actions and change. Because the only way we see us living through this, is if something better is coming.”
Rise up
Guillermina Cruz stood near the memorial at the brick school house in a neighborhood of modest houses, neat gardens, and few fences. Her hand was on her heart as she stared at the flowers. A black rosary dangled from her damp neck in the noon heat.
Even though she is 73 years ago, she said regular people like her must take action. “The people need to rise up with their voices,” said Cruz, who traveled from San Antonio to pay her respects to the children. “This is too much.”
Uvalde sits about an hour west of San Antonio and about an hour from the Rio Grande. It’s known for stately oak trees and the many turquoise rivers that run through the county, which is also called Uvalde. It sits at the edge of Texas’ Hill Country and is surrounded by ranches and farm land.
The bucolic region is also known for its civil rights history, for a Mexican-American population that stood up against unfair treatment in its schools back in 1970. Mexican-Americans launched school walkouts that were among the longest civil rights protests in the state of Texas. Students were then segregated into white, Latino and black schools, according to the Voces Oral History Project at University of Texas at Austin. Today, 8 of 10 people in Uvalde are Latino.
“The Uvalde we knew? It doesn’t exist anymore,” Rolando said, shaking his head slowly. “I am hoping one day the anger won’t be so hot, but I don’t know. I just don’t know.”
Rolando worries, however, that too many people may leave the city — to escape the horrid memories. Rolando said through the “heart and the passion” of the people of Uvalde, he firmly believes that is possible to overcome the massacre, but only if someone can bring the town back together.
Catholic Archbishop Gustavo Garcia-Siller has worked nonstop in Uvalde, part of the sprawling archdiocese of San Antonio which spreads over nearly 28,000 square miles and includes border communities.
“I believe that we’re going to see more anger,” Garcia-Siller said Tuesday. “We need to be ready, not ready because it is hard to be ready for those things, but to be attentive.”
Anger will be directed at God, but also at the police “for sure,” the prelate feared. And once the funerals begin and finish, it’s a concern that he and all counselors should be aware of as they sit with shattered people, he said.
This week there will be nearly a dozen funerals.
“We have very, very crucial challenges ahead of us,” said the Archbishop.
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(Dallas Morning News staff writer Alfredo Corchado also contributed to this report from Uvalde.)
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