It was Labor Day, the last day of the long weekend— so essentially, time to do all the homework we'd been neglecting. Sat in the library with hours of reading, I was internally groaning about all the work I still had to do and the gym I still needed to go to afterwards. So much to do, so little time and none of it I was very enthused about.
Two hours later, I was crouched in small dark office with fifty other terrified students. My university had sent out an alert that there was an active shooter on campus and to lock/barricade doors. I remembered the drills we were taught in high school, the countless news stories replaying in my mind, thousands of thoughts racing like the finish line was nowhere in sight. Those first fifteen minutes were entirely different from the fifteen before that and suddenly all I could see was the monumental fear in so many eyes around me.
The scariest part was not knowing. Not knowing if there was an active shooter wandering around campus, looking to take out their anger and frustration on innocent people. Not knowing if our entire life was about to change. Not knowing if that afternoon would be our last. Girls who had never met hugged each other, people called their families and friends, comforted each other in their panic, while others took control to keep calm and act quickly.
It becomes magnificently clear in moments like these what is most important. We know— we feel it. Each other. Not just our friends and immediate "social circle", all of us. I never expected to speak to any of the people I did that day, but suddenly I was practically sitting on top of three people I had never met and we were in it together. In those moments, I caught the slightest glimpse of how tragedy can remind us why we exist: to love and honor one another.
We go about our busy lives every day thinking about how much we have to do, where we need to be, that there is only so much time in the day. Our priorities become this clouded version of what we've deemed important and only rarely are we forced to see clearly. Because the truth is…. most of it isn't worth the value we give it.
When Will It Be Enough?
Thankfully, it was a false alarm and after a brief local police investigation, another alert assured us that we were safe to continue on our way. The relief was amazing, and I am incredibly grateful that there was no threat to anyone on campus. But part of me still asks, how on earth can we continue as if nothing happened? The shooter wasn't real, the gun wasn't either, but the panic was. It was realer than anything I've ever experienced.
For days afterwards, I've heard countless conversations on campus about how that panic has impacted people because despite the false alarm, it did. Less than a month ago, thousands in Times Square broke out in a hysterical stampede after a motorcycle backfired, pointing to a larger problem: people don't feel safe.
Unlike our parents and our parent's parents, we will remember what it was like to feel powerless. To be hiding under our desks, trying to keep quiet and praying that we'd be able to walk out and go home. We will remember being too young to vote on laws and for politicians that directly affect our lives (and when we were, still feeling like our voice was not heard). We will remember grieving our friends and family and the thousands we didn't know personally who have been killed by gun violence. This is not a way to live. It is our turn next, and we will be sure to end it.
