How a Madman Changed Our Lives: When a gunman drove through our quiet town on a shooting spree, he shattered our sense of peace.(My Turn)(Brief Article)

Two years ago I started high school in a peaceful suburb on the North Side of Chicago. I was terrified at first (as many freshmen are) to make the leap into this new stage of my teenage years. Luckily things began wonderfully. I adjusted to the new courseload, teachers and friends, and I discovered one of the best perks that my small Jewish private school offered: an open campus where every student could leave during free periods. I spent a lot of my own free time walking through the sleepy West Rogers Park neighborhood where my school was located. The windows and doors of my school were left unlocked, and there was not one security guard or camera in the building.

On weekends, I often slept over at friends' houses just blocks away from school, and since no one could drive on the Sabbath, we would walk around the area on Friday nights. I never felt an ounce of fear. It is amazing how one man changed that for all of us.

On the night of July 2, 1999, Benjamin Smith began his shooting rampage in the streets of West Rogers Park. My school is located directly in the path that Smith took.

I found out the next day that the first person Smith took a shot at was my friend Efraim. He and his father were walking back from synagogue when his father saw a man in a car parked in front of their house. He went to tell the man to park the car away from the fire hydrant, lest he get a ticket, when suddenly the car door swung open. The man stepped out, pointing a gun and shooting. Efraim's father yelled for him to run into the backyard with him.

While his father made it to the safety of the back door, Efraim stood paralyzed in fear, staring into the face of the madman. Efraim later told me that it wasn't until he felt a bullet zip past his ear that he got the courage to run. The gunman sped away, and Efraim's father rushed to the aid of a neighbor who had been hit by a stray bullet.

The rampage did not end there. Smith drove on and shot at five more people in the area, including a teacher and a student from my school.

Meanwhile, a few miles away in my hometown of Skokie, my parents and sister began their weekly Friday-night stroll. I had decided to stay home and read. We've always walked in the same direction--down the block, across the busy street at its end and down the street that follows. For some reason, on that night my father chose to take a different route.

About five minutes later Smith drove into our quiet suburb, shot and killed former Northwestern University basketball coach Ricky Byrdsong, then sped off. It happened just one block from where my father had decided to turn. For the next week I was haunted by the thought, "What if my family had never come home?"

Time went by slowly that weekend as we anxiously awaited news about the gunman. The suspense was over by Sunday night, when we heard he had killed himself in a struggle with police. The shooting spree was worldwide news. Though it was soon overshadowed by other events, the residents of the West Rogers Park area did not forget.

Nor did my school. At an assembly at the start of the school year, we were told about the new security measures that were being taken. Cameras were being installed, and every exit would be monitored by a guard. All outside doors would be locked during the day, and no one would be allowed to leave unless he or she used the main entrance, which would be patrolled by another guard.

As sad as it was to see our school turn into a chapter from the book "1984" (in which Big Brother is constantly watching you), every citizen of West Rogers Park is now aware how sorely the new security is needed. One crazy man speeding through the streets of Illinois, two troubled kids at Columbine High and an angry Atlanta man who took his frustration out on office workers have made us feel we can't step out of our homes without looking over our shoulders. And these are just some of the most dramatic incidents. Each act of violence chips away at our sense of safety.

My parents chose my high school because they believed I'd be safe there. They bought a house in Skokie because it was known to be a quiet place. Unfortunately, anything can happen anywhere. Efraim has told me that for a while after that fateful night, his heart raced whenever he heard a car coming down the street.

My classmates and I now feel that same foreboding when we stroll through West Rogers Park. With the whir of each approaching car, the unfortunate slogan of the '90s flashes through our minds: "Which way do I run?"

Pollack is a junior in high school.

How a Madman Changed Our Lives: When a gunman drove through our quiet town on a shooting spree, he shattered our sense of peace.(My Turn)(Brief Article)

Two years ago I started high school in a peaceful suburb on the North Side of Chicago. I was terrified at first (as many freshmen are) to make the leap into this new stage of my teenage years. Luckily things began wonderfully. I adjusted to the new courseload, teachers and friends, and I discovered one of the best perks that my small Jewish private school offered: an open campus where every student could leave during free periods. I spent a lot of my own free time walking through the sleepy West Rogers Park neighborhood where my school was located. The windows and doors of my school were left unlocked, and there was not one security guard or camera in the building.

On weekends, I often slept over at friends' houses just blocks away from school, and since no one could drive on the Sabbath, we would walk around the area on Friday nights. I never felt an ounce of fear. It is amazing how one man changed that for all of us.

On the night of July 2, 1999, Benjamin Smith began his shooting rampage in the streets of West Rogers Park. My school is located directly in the path that Smith took.

I found out the next day that the first person Smith took a shot at was my friend Efraim. He and his father were walking back from synagogue when his father saw a man in a car parked in front of their house. He went to tell the man to park the car away from the fire hydrant, lest he get a ticket, when suddenly the car door swung open. The man stepped out, pointing a gun and shooting. Efraim's father yelled for him to run into the backyard with him.

While his father made it to the safety of the back door, Efraim stood paralyzed in fear, staring into the face of the madman. Efraim later told me that it wasn't until he felt a bullet zip past his ear that he got the courage to run. The gunman sped away, and Efraim's father rushed to the aid of a neighbor who had been hit by a stray bullet.

The rampage did not end there. Smith drove on and shot at five more people in the area, including a teacher and a student from my school.

Meanwhile, a few miles away in my hometown of Skokie, my parents and sister began their weekly Friday-night stroll. I had decided to stay home and read. We've always walked in the same direction--down the block, across the busy street at its end and down the street that follows. For some reason, on that night my father chose to take a different route.

About five minutes later Smith drove into our quiet suburb, shot and killed former Northwestern University basketball coach Ricky Byrdsong, then sped off. It happened just one block from where my father had decided to turn. For the next week I was haunted by the thought, "What if my family had never come home?"

Time went by slowly that weekend as we anxiously awaited news about the gunman. The suspense was over by Sunday night, when we heard he had killed himself in a struggle with police. The shooting spree was worldwide news. Though it was soon overshadowed by other events, the residents of the West Rogers Park area did not forget.

Nor did my school. At an assembly at the start of the school year, we were told about the new security measures that were being taken. Cameras were being installed, and every exit would be monitored by a guard. All outside doors would be locked during the day, and no one would be allowed to leave unless he or she used the main entrance, which would be patrolled by another guard.

As sad as it was to see our school turn into a chapter from the book "1984" (in which Big Brother is constantly watching you), every citizen of West Rogers Park is now aware how sorely the new security is needed. One crazy man speeding through the streets of Illinois, two troubled kids at Columbine High and an angry Atlanta man who took his frustration out on office workers have made us feel we can't step out of our homes without looking over our shoulders. And these are just some of the most dramatic incidents. Each act of violence chips away at our sense of safety.

My parents chose my high school because they believed I'd be safe there. They bought a house in Skokie because it was known to be a quiet place. Unfortunately, anything can happen anywhere. Efraim has told me that for a while after that fateful night, his heart raced whenever he heard a car coming down the street.

My classmates and I now feel that same foreboding when we stroll through West Rogers Park. With the whir of each approaching car, the unfortunate slogan of the '90s flashes through our minds: "Which way do I run?"

Pollack is a junior in high school.