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LATEST SUBMISSIONS

Keeping Samara in our hearts

Friday, March 23 at 12:01 AM

By Lauren Harvey, Lakewood

Monday night was Laura’s 18th birthday. She was the first of our group to hit the landmark age, so we were all pretty excited to take part in the advantages that adulthood brings. You know, all the important stuff, like buying Lotto tickets and uh ... voting. Actually, Laura was most looking forward to getting her ear pierced. So while the rest of the group gathered at a local park for her birthday picnic, we took a detour to the tattoo parlor.

As I hopped in the car with Laura, I was happy to see that Samara would be riding with us. I had hung out with Samara Stricklen only a few times before, always in large groups, but during those times she was so obviously likable that I was eager to become a part of her circle.

Perhaps too eager, as I spent the next 20 minutes cracking any joke I could come up with to win her over. Fortunately for me, Samara was not a person that you had to impress and, by the end of the evening, her number was securely stored in my phone.

I can’t tell you how thankful I am for that night.

When I was first asked to write about Samara, I felt completely unqualified for the task and, in all honesty, I still do. There are so many who were so close to her, while my friendship with her was barely in its infancy. But because I fear more than anything that people will move on and forget her — and because she was someone who deserves to be remembered — I want to tell you everything I know about Samara.

She wore a green backpack. And not the typical, forest-green JanSport pack. It was more of a jungle-green, bright and small, like something a little kid would wear. She didn’t bother with the name-brands that so many teen girls drool over. She wore comfortable shoes.

Her name is pronounced Sam-AIR-ah, not Sam-AR-ah. I never heard anyone call her “Sam.” I can’t be sure, but I don’t think anyone did. It’s too common, too short. At her funeral, I learned that her parents named her in reference to the biblical story of the Good Samaritan. They couldn’t have chosen a more perfect name.

She was beautiful. But an unconventional kind of beauty, not like the buxom blondes in magazines, but more like the mysterious girl in an indie film. She had bright eyes, dark hair that bounced in a pony-tail, and a cute smile. I’m sure every girl that met her was jealous and that every guy that knew her had a crush on her. It would seem impossible not to.

She had impeccable taste in music. She was funny. She could hang with the guys and laugh at jokes that most other girls would squirm at. Half of the time she was the one cracking them. Her humor was witty and smart, but her intelligence was the kind that came from interacting with people rather than with books.

She was, is, and always will be, loved. Of this, I am more positive than anything else. In the past week, I have witnessed those closest to Samara, the very strongest of characters, crumble under the tragedy of her death. I have listened to countless memories that others have shared and I have reflected upon a precious few of my own. I witnessed the vast number of people her life has touched — crossing over social cliques, schools and entire communities.

But in the past week I have also witnessed a community — torn with questions and grief — turn to bitterness. I watched as one television anchor after another read Samara’s story from a teleprompter, paused briefly, and then cut to commercial break. And as I listened to, and even felt, the anger that seems impossible to avoid at such a time, I realized that the resentment I felt was more about me than anything else. In the past, I was the person who could watch the stories of drunk-driving accidents and dismiss them during a commercial break. I was jaded to the heartbreak of losing a loved one to carelessness, and now it terrifies me that others will dismiss Samara’s death in the same way.

So now I am praying that you don’t disregard this event. I am begging parents to continue to warn your kids of the dangers of alcohol regardless of how annoyed they might get and how uncool you might feel. I am asking my peers to be smart about your decisions, to rethink your invincibility, and to be brave against pressures. And above all, please remember Samara because she truly deserves to be remembered.

Lauren Harvey is a junior at Bear Creek High School.

READER COMMENTS

Hmmm...although this written awhile ago, I'd like to thank the writer. This is something written about Samara that doesn't make me bitter. I'm tired of hearing "it was just an accident", and the excuses. And finally someone writes something that has nothing to do with that. Its completely about Samara and how she was, I can't argue about anything in it.
Thanks, this definately was meaningful to me, and I'm sure it is to others who have felt so bitter about her life being taken.

Posted by Alyssa on June 26, 2007 02:43 AM

Thank you. This is beautifully written, and is exactly the defination of Samara.

Posted by Jessica on April 1, 2007 11:53 PM