Tuesday, April 30th, my husband, Ralf, and I were driving to campus. It was just three few days after the attack on the Poway synagogue and the murder of Lori Kaye Gilbert.
I was afraid. I was afraid to go and teach, again, the
history of antisemitism, the way the Holocaust is marketed, the terrible
recurring history of hate.
“I’m thinking about
the cost of teaching these courses,” I said. “What if someone becomes
radicalized, finds our course and its location, comes in to my classroom and
starts shooting at me and my students?”
That day, I told the students in my antisemitism class that
they might be the last students to take the course. I explained why.
Afterwards, I went to my office to see students. My last student
of the day and I spoke about her growing strength, her own awareness that as a
woman of color she needs, as she said, “to get loud.” If you only knew her
story – if you only knew – then, you would know my pride in her.
Around 5 pm, she and I left the building, and hugged happy
goodbyes. I met my husband at his building and we walked toward the garage, got
into our car, and left campus.
Just about fifteen minutes later, as I was reading email on the way home, a message flashed on my phone screen. “Run. Hide. Fight.”
Campus was locked down. Frantically, I tried to understand. Kennedy,
Kennedy. Every report mentioned the Kennedy Building, the building I see when I
look out my office windows in Macy. At first it seemed that someone had shot
students in the open gathering space outside Kennedy and outside Macy, too. I kept
replaying the minutes when I had been near that space with my student. She is
tall. Would she have been easily shot? What would we have done? What would I
have done?
I couldn’t stop transposing time, even as I emailed with
that same student, who had returned to Macy for an evening class. She and her
fellow students had just seen students running from the Kennedy Building, she
wrote. One was bleeding from being shot. He had collapsed just at the entrance
to Macy.
A colleague who has the office next to mine was still working
when the building was locked down. Later that night I learned that when she
finally got home the apartment complex was filled with reporters and police. The
shooter lived a few floors above her.
For days I have been emailing and texting with my beloved
students. For days I have replayed the active shooter training my department
had the Monday after the Tree of Life Synagogue massacre. I keep putting myself
in the actual room where the shooter murdered two of our students and shot four
others. I had a training for online teaching in that very room last summer.
What would I have done? What would I have done?
One of my students has experienced so much recent violence that I immediately worried about the triggering this would cause. I wrote to ask: How are you? I wrote my classes, multiple times. I sent links to counseling services, help lines. I wrote individual students. I gave out my home number. I heard from students who long-since graduated. From colleagues, from administrators as we untangled what to do about final exams, final projects, finals of any kind. (Forgive it all, let go, give students time to take care of themselves…)
No one who knows me does not know the measure of my love for
my students, for my department, for my beloved UNCC campus. Yet I was unable to
protect our students, my colleagues, our campus.
On Tuesday, April 30th, just hours before the
shooting, one of the students in my course on gender and sexuality in Hebrew
Bible was assessing texts of violence we had studied. He said: “Sometimes, the
silent scream is the loudest.”
I have been screaming for days without a single sound coming
out of my mouth.
In one week right wing radicalism destroyed the peace of a
Jewish community and took the life of a woman at prayer. In that same week, two
young people – two of UNCC’s beloved students – were murdered. Four more were
shot and injured.
There is no one on our campus who has not been assaulted. We
are all screaming.
Who can hear us?
