Uvalde school shooting survivors struggle as they await answers

Oscar Orona had a chance to take his son home 33 minutes before the 10-year-old’s class was massacred.

The memory of May 24 haunts. It was awards day at Robb Elementary School. Noah was beaming and asked to leave school with Orona. But Papi had to go to work, and Mami was recovering from surgery at home. Orona thought it better that Noah stay with his friends. The boy said OK and bounded off.

Noah ran to the school building door, stopped, and turned around to wave goodbye.

"That was the last time I would see my old son, and now I have a new son," Orono, 59, said. "He survived physically, but mentally, emotionally, I don't know who this young man is."

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Noah, 10, survived a gunshot wound in the massacre, in which 19 students and two teachers were killed. But the family’s days are now a carousel of chaos. Medical appointments. Therapy sessions. Victim, council, and legal meetings. Calls. Condolences. Rallies and marches. Media leaks. Interviews. Money worries. Heartbreak on repeat.

For the families of Uvalde, Texas, the dead are buried, but there is little peace for the living. Grief stalks downtown. Rage bursts forth from residents. Distrust shrouds every word delivered by officials. Hugs are the currency of solidarity but deliver few answers.

When answers materialize — as in the case of a new 77-minute video leaked last week — they arrive ruthlessly and rip the wounds anew.

Uvalde’s mayor has accused the state police chief of deception in describing what he said happened to evade responsibility. Col. Steven C. McCraw, in turn, alleged it was the school’s police chief, Pedro “Pete” Arredondo, who failed while in charge. The governor lauded law enforcement’s alleged heroism and later declared himself livid at being misled about their inaction. The school board hasn’t presented a plan for the day school starts — in four weeks.

Already, the circumstances are taking a huge financial toll on those left behind. Some families have been able to survive with generous direct donations or GoFundMes. Funeral costs were covered by a private donor, and some medical needs were met by insurance waivers. But the recovery is far more costly than any expected, several surviving families said. Some have made things work by stringing together the initial emergency federal assistance of $1,400 per family with donated gas cards and grocery gift cards.

But the financial support promised by Gov. Greg Abbott and other officials within days of the shooting has not fully materialized. Abbott promised that no affected family would have to worry about costs, citing $5 million in state money. But while the government has provided services and help in accessing specific benefits such as health insurance, some families are still having trouble with daily, immediate, and unexpected expenses.

Abbott also said all of the families would be assigned a victim advocate to help them navigate all the resources available, but when asked, several said they were unclear who that person was. Several families said information about how to access public or private funds has been unclear, intermittent, or nonexistent.

The governor’s office did not answer specific questions about whether families would receive emergency cash assistance from the $5 million state pledge and directed inquiries to a news release, which did not deliver an answer.

While Abbott had pledged to make sure even eyeglasses were paid for, for example, Orona has not received any money to pay for those his son lost that day.

On the private funding side, more than seven memorial funds for Uvalde families are growing and funneling into one large account now worth more than $14 million, but the long process of distributing the money means the families won't be able to apply for that financial support until fall.

"I'm barely making it," said Jose Martinez, father of AJ Martinez, who was shot in the leg and grazed by another bullet. "The last of our savings is almost done."

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Martinez is a truck driver, owner, and operator, and his wife, Kassandra Chavez, is a homemaker. He would normally be on the road, delivering produce cross-country and bringing in nearly $4,000 a week. But that’s not possible with a traumatized son. Between 160-mile round trips to San Antonio for medical and therapeutic care several days a week are the nights they clean and bandage AJ’s wounds and coax the 9-year-old to sleep.

The family has bills to pay, but they are not the kind of people to ask for help, Chavez said. They said they are confused about what’s available and don’t have time to investigate.

"Nobody understands the aftermath for the surviving children," Chavez said. "Yes, they see our kids walking around, but really, you don't know. You don't know what the next morning is going to bring. You don't know if he's going to get angry or upset. Anything triggers him and gets him upset. This is our life now, and we can't change it."