Better Safe Than Sorry

The wind whipped angrily last Wednesday, pushing and pulling leaves around the campus quad. I instinctively pulled my shoulders up to my ears, protecting my bare neck from the cold. It was nearly five o’clock. I’d gathered my presentation papers into my bag, said good night to my staff, and tried not to be tired, knowing my work day was extended for the second time in 3 days.

As I quickly shuffled my way across campus, my mind was on everything from worrying that the kids were where they should be that evening, and cursing the amount of money we spend on babysitters, to replaying a tough conversation I had with a colleague earlier in the day.

When I entered the classroom, I smiled at the students who were sitting quietly, earbuds in, and phones in hand. I exchanged warm hellos with the instructor, a mentor of mine, and we reviewed the plan: she’d take attendance, go over some housekeeping, and slip out to join another function on campus. Then, the floor would be mine. We each got our technology queued up and I turned on the projector, happy that it functioned on the first try.

During the roll call, I checked my texts (one from the sitter confirming dinner), silenced my phone, and smoothed my dress. End of the day presentations are always tough, not just because of childcare, but because I've been up since five in the morning and I just want to go home and take off my underclothes and put on pajamas. The tiredness always melts away once we begin. It’s an honor and a privilege to spend each day with college students and I’ve yet to get bored when talking with them about their future hopes and dreams, and for the chance to be a small part of their career journey.

The room was quiet as I began my pitch, doing my best to infuse a bit of humor into what can be a dry topic, because who really wants to talk about resumes at 5 pm on a Wednesday night? As I spoke, my friend waved and slipped out of the room. The next hour was mine and I had a lot of content to cover.

Just as I was providing tips on attire, I heard a collective buzz go around the room and my phone rang. Recognizing the number as the college's emergency alert system, I stopped talking and picked up the phone. The automated voice shared what is called A Timely Warning: University Police has received notification that a current student believed to be on campus is threatening to shoot members of the campus community. Shelter in place.

I hit the red button on my phone and cast my eyes around the room.

"Ok." I said as I made eye contact with as many students as I could. "I'm going to turn off the lights now." Someone's cell phone chimed loudly. "Silence your phones, right now, please." I urged.

I crossed the room to the door and glanced out the small, vertical window. I quickly opened the door, then shut it in haste. A few students walked by and I could sort of see the class next door through their window. Students were seated at their desks and the lights were still on. We heard loud noises on the floor above us and I asked aloud why people were making so much noise when we should be as quiet as possible. I'd later learn it was the sound of desks and chairs being pushed up against the door, forming a barricade.

I turned back to my class and crossed the room to the computer. My shoes were making little clicking sounds so I took them off and put them by my bag. I quickly shut down the projector, eliminating more light. The shades were closed, so I peeked outside and could see some people walking to their cars. No one was running. No panic. I looked back at the class. It was cloudy outside so the room was particularly dark. The florescent lights in the hallway shone through the sliver of window near our door.

"Everyone ok?" I asked. Heads nodded. We sat in silence for about 15 minutes, everyone's heads down, fingers furiously texting. I decided I'd do the same and sent a text to Andy with a basic message: Don't panic. There may be an active shooter on campus. Seconds later, my phone buzzed multiple times but I hit the red button each time, not wanting my phone to make any sounds. He texted back, telling me he'd called the Sheriff's office and not to worry, it was a threat only, and the police were on it.

We continued to sit in silence, most students maintaining a calm stillness. A few students started to tear up and I reassured everyone that my husband talked to the Sheriff and the shelter in place was just a precaution. I wondered how long we would have to sit in the dark. I looked at my watch, knowing that I was running out of time to finish my presentation.

A student glanced up from their phone nervously, "My friend said the shooter in in our building. The SWAT team is in our building right now!"

Within seconds, all of the students had pushed out of their desks and taken cover in the corners of the room. They huddled shoulder to shoulder without saying a word. I deeply regretted wearing a dress as I tucked myself under the small table at the front of the room, apologizing to the students near me about the possibility of seeing my underwear. After a few minutes, I crouched down and made my way down the wall, asking students if they were ok and telling them I had received a text from their teacher. She was also sheltering in place on campus and she hadn't heard anything different from what we already knew. A few students stood shoulder to shoulder by the door. One had grabbed another student's umbrella, and grasped it in their hand.

They know the drill. They know what to do, I realized. They have done this before.

We sat on the floor for what felt like hours. Everyone was getting messages- from students on campus, off campus, and even from around the country. We learned that it made many local news outlets. Several of my friends sent their own messages and I confirmed that I was on campus and I was sheltering in place with a classroom of students. Prayers were wished and updates requested.

We continued to sit and I continued to stare at the door and the light coming in through the window. I told myself, over and over, that the shelter in place was a precaution, yet the fear in the room was palpable, and it included my own.

What the fu@k would I do if I heard gun fire?

What if I die today, on Andy's birthday?

I thought about Columbine and Sandy Hook, other schools, colleges, nightclubs, places of worship, yoga studios, grocery stores, movie theaters and concerts.

I thought about how being in an active shooter situation isn't an if but a when.

Was this our when?

I made quiet small talk with the students, listening the various bits of information they were getting from the outside. It's hard to know what to believe, and not to be afraid, when you are sitting on the floor of a dark classroom, staring at a door, and trying to prepare yourself in case there really is an active shooter on your campus, in your building. Outside of your door.

I texted my mom. I texted my brother. I knew the girls wouldn't have their iPads, but I texted them both anyway, "I love you!" Then, I texted their babysitter who is a student at my school. I knew she'd gotten the Timely Warning message, too. I wrote that I was ok. I wrote, "Don't tell the girls."

I could hear two faculty in the hallway, talking about the doors. Were they saying they were locked? Were they going to lock them? I couldn't quite hear and I was definitely not going to open the door.

When we got the "All Clear" message, we all quietly cheered. I asked the students if they were comfortable getting up and with me turning on the lights. Cautiously, everyone sat back at their seats and I turned on the lights. I opened the door and watched as other students were filing out of the building.

Back to normal. Disbelief mixed with relief. Did this really just happen?

I promised the students that I wouldn't make them stay, and as they gathered their bags, one asked me about what else I was going to cover in the presentation. I put on my shoes and started telling them about the missed lecture, thankful to be going home in a matter of minutes. I was interrupted by a massive amount of running and screaming in the hall. In seconds, our door was closed, lights were off and we were again huddled into the corners. Students were openly crying now. I stared at the window, again. I told them it was ok, but I wasn't actually sure now. A student suggested we could break the window to escape the building if we needed to. Some were shaking. Was I shaking? I texted my friend who was still in another building, asking what in the hell was going on. She replied that her building cleared. The shelter in place was over. It was confirmed. The noise must have been students just wanting to get out as fast as possible. I later learned that an "all clear" alarm had caused the panic.

I coaxed myself, and then the students, out of the corners and turned the lights back on. This time, there was no small talk. I stood at the door as they left in silence. I hugged them each tightly and said I was thankful for them and grateful to them. I told them they were brave.

My friend walked back to the classroom just as the last students were filing out. We hugged. I could feel the emotion, that I'd kept hidden, rising up and through my body and I choked out some words, which I no longer remember. We were both in shock. Leaving the college, I quickly wrote a social media post to reassure friends and family that I was ok. In the dark comfort of my car, I cried the entire way home.

I told the kids, briefly, what had happened. They told me, again, about their school drills for an active shooter, like they were reading to me off of the lunch menu. We then had cake to celebrate Andy's birthday and I took a sleeping pill and dreamed all night about a shooter in the classroom.

I woke up the next day to an adrenaline hang over. As I helped the kids get ready and put them on the bus, I tried to act like nothing happened. I walked into my building and bee-lined for my office. I was the only one of my team who had been on campus. One of my staff said good morning and asked how I was and I couldn't stop crying.

I had to pull it together.

Nothing had happened.

I was ok. We were all ok.

It had been a threat and we were now learning that it was actually a cyber-crime.

We were better safe than sorry.

We were lucky.

Nothing had happened.

Except for those of us who had been on campus,- pouring off the field during a game, locked in classrooms, the gymnasium, the pool, residential halls, the campus union, huddled alone in offices, wondering what was going on outside of our own confines.

For us, something had happened.

We are raising Generation Mass Shooting. We are raising children who know that death is real and that they could be shot and killed anywhere, at any time, even at school. Especially at school.

When I got home Thursday night, Charlotte had her iPad in her hand. She was looking at the text I'd sent.

"Mom, you sent me a text yesterday that says I love you. Why?"

"No reason. Because I love you, Buddy."

"No, Mom. You wrote it because you thought you were going to die."