The Highway 70 dashcam clip is short. A school bus from Montgomery County veers to the left, crosses the center line, and collides head-on with a TDOT dump truck. There were twenty-nine passengers. Of them, twenty-four were children. Zoe and Arianna, two eighth-graders from Kenwood Middle School, failed to return home that afternoon. They were on their way to Jackson for a field trip. The video moves quickly. The fallout hasn’t.
After a week, the questions seem more important than the answers. Classmates left folded notes and flowers outside Kenwood, which curled in the springtime damp. Parents gathered in little groups, just as people do when they are at a loss for words. After something like this, a town experiences a certain calm, and Clarksville has been experiencing it.
As usual, the seatbelt debate reappeared almost immediately. Tom Lee, a Nashville attorney and lobbyist who advocated for school bus restraints over ten years ago, shared with WKRN an insightful statement. Schoolchildren on buses are the only people in Tennessee who are permitted to drive without a three-point harness. In 2014, that was accurate. It’s still true today. A 2017 bill that attempted to address it quietly died, as most safety bills do when the math becomes difficult. A brand-new bus costs between $80,000 and $90,000. You’re looking at an additional 10 or 12 percent when you include belts. Districts blink. Lawmakers move on.
To be fair, some drivers have always resisted. A few years ago, one told News 2 that she would have to remove ninety terrified children from their seats if a bus caught fire. It’s not an irrational fear. Additionally, it’s more of an argument for training than an argument against belts, and that distinction is often overlooked. For many years, the NTSB has made it clear that compartmentalization—the high-backed, cushioned seat design that buses rely on—is insufficient for side impacts and rollovers. The science is clear. The money isn’t.
Tennessee schools are eligible to apply for a state grant to retrofit buses. Lee believes the fund is almost empty. No one had verified anything different as of last week. It’s difficult to ignore the pattern: a tragedy, a flurry of media attention, a grant that is forgotten until the next time.
Then there’s the other Tennessee ride safety tale, the Elizabethton tale that keeps coming up at strange times like this. Teresa Tryon, a mother, allowed her ten-year-old daughter to ride her bike to school a few years ago. The girl knew the route because her mother had ridden it with her, had taken safety classes, and was wearing a helmet. When a local police officer objected to the plan, he loaded the child into his patrol car and took her home. A neglect file was opened by Child Protective Services. Apparently, the danger was the bike.
You begin to recognize its shape. In a state where two children on a school bus perish without a seatbelt to keep them in place, the mother of a child who pedals to school on her own is investigated. The tolerance for risk is reversed. It’s possible that this lesson has nothing to do with belts or bikes in particular. It has to do with who we choose to trust and who we choose to confirm.
Up to two years may pass while the NTSB investigates Carroll County. It’s likely that another bill will have passed by then. Clarksville parents are already aware of the changes they would like to see. Nashville’s agreement is a different, more involved question. The buses continue to operate. The grant is largely vacant. For those who have seen it, the dashcam footage never truly disappears.
