By James Tatter, Editor-in-Chief

On Friday, May 1, I was at the Greensboro airport. I had just gotten off a plane flying from New York, where I had been at a funeral that morning.

The thing about funerals is that they always get you thinking in that deep kind of way that I most of the time try to avoid. You think about what really matters, and how you should really be living your life.

I flipped off airplane mode on my phone and began receiving the notifications I had missed during my flight. I had a text that warranted a response:

“Did you hear about Reese?”

No, I responded, I had not heard anything in particular about Reese O’Brien, a Reynolds classmate of mine.

“He hit somebody with his car and the person died.”

It was like getting punched in the stomach. I had to sit there for a second, my mind racing. This kid who I saw every day in the halls, whose house I passed on my way to and from school every Monday through Friday, had hit and killed someone.

I read the Winston-Salem Journal story to get the clarifying details.

Police reported to the media that no alcohol was involved and that speeding was not a factor – the first things that tend to cross people’s minds when teen drivers are involved in accidents. Police also stated that Reese said he tried to swerve to avoid the 64-year-old Winston-Salem man, but couldn’t avoid the collision on University Parkway.

The evidence provided by the police report suggests this was just a freak accident on Reese’s drive to work, a horrible sequence of events that couldn’t be blamed on Reese.

This could have happened to anyone.

It was hard to wrap my mind around this. I knew this kid – there’s no way something like this could happen to someone I know.
I haven’t been able to shake the feeling in my stomach the past few days. When I’ve gotten in my car I’ve put my phone deep in my pocket and left it there. I’ve looked around on high alert everywhere I go. I keep thinking about how that could have happened to me. That could have happened to any of us.

Reese’s life was changed forever last Friday. He struck a pedestrian, which resulted in the loss of life. Even though he wasn’t to blame, he still has to live with that moment.

Death is always scary, and it always gets you thinking. But preventable death is at least easy to comprehend. A death like this is not. You can’t point a finger and say, don’t drink and drive, or don’t speed, or don’t text and drive. You can’t blame someone, and you really want to, because that would make it easy. That would allow you to say, “I wouldn’t do that. This couldn’t happen to me.”

As I sit here sharing my stream of consciousness as I try to come to grips with this, I can’t help but feel selfish. For all intents and purposes, I am unaffected by this. I won’t face any consequences from the result of this incident. So why should I be feeling so worked up that I’d write a 700-word catharsis about it?

I can’t say this enough: This could have been me. It could have been any other student at Reynolds. Or a teacher or family member or family friend. Like the feeling after a funeral, this gets you thinking.

I need to appreciate every second I’ve got, because as cliché as it is, the next moment is not guaranteed to anyone. My life could change, or end, in a split second. I need to try to make the world a better place, and be responsible, and always be kind. Because you never know what the next hour is going to bring.

For seniors, May is supposed to be about examinations and graduation and celebration and preparation for college. I can’t imagine what Reese is going through. There aren’t words to describe my sympathy for him as he begins a journey that none of us could ever understand following Friday’s accident.

All I can do is try to appreciate what I’ve got, and hope that the result of what happened can inspire all of us to understand how fortunate we really are, and maybe live better because of it.

Editors’ note: Exactly how to address a major news event involving an RJR classmate weighed heavily on our hearts the past several days. This reflection appears with the blessing of the family in the hopes that these words can help begin the healing process for all involved.