It has been over nine years now, and I still have a hard time explaining the impact that April 16th, 2007 had on my life. At the time, it was the worst mass shooting in US history. 32 people. Thirty. Two. Teachers and students at a university nestled in a picturesque valley in one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world. People pursuing academic goals surrounded by a community that felt small, warm, close, and welcoming, despite being quite large for a school (particularly by the state’s standards). These are some of the things I think about when I think about Virginia Tech and April 16th — how the sheer magnitude of what happened is still difficult to comprehend and how the strength and resilience of my Hokie community prevailed. The latter is how I like to talk about Tech and 4/16 and my love of Blacksburg, Enter Sandman, and all things maroon and orange. I like to try to share with people what an amazing experience it is to be a Hokie, to be part of this community. It was like this before 2007, but my particular cohort has an added connection. We are truly brothers and sisters.
What I leave out when I talk about my beloved alma mater is that other thing — the multifaceted fear that has been left behind to sit heavily upon my heart. It starts with the small fear of mentioning VT, which I love so much, and getting a negative reaction. It grows into the fear of never being able to make someone fully understand what being a Hokie means to me, partially healed wounds and all. But then the fear transforms into something different entirely. No longer a fear of disrespect or misunderstanding, this new fear has nothing to do with my love of the Hokie identity and everything to do with the one event that forever changed what that identity means. This new fear is the fear I have when I watch the news. It’s the sensation of my heart beating in my throat and tears pricking the corners of my eyes whenever I see the words “gunman” or “lockdown” or “shooting”. It’s the instinct, after nine years, to text a first responder friend of mine to make sure he’s doing all right after seeing the news. It’s always knowing where the exits are, disliking public transportation, and feeling anxious to the point of panic when I experience any sort of tension in public. It’s the emptiness in my stomach caused by the dread of watching a death toll climb. It’s the desperate anxiety of hoping it never reaches 32, never comes anywhere near a number that still seems so unfathomably high to me. Because I remember that day and the weeks and months following it. If that’s how 32 felt, I can only wish for my fellow human beings that they never have to know what 50 feels like.
But all of that has shattered. There is now a community that will know what 50 feels like. A new set of people who will grieve and be angry and afraid and feel helpless. A new group of people who, nine years from now, will still feel revictimized by each new gunman, each new tragedy. A new group of people who know what it’s like to read the words “worst mass shooting” and have them refer to your community. Sandy Hook and Aurora and San Bernardino were not my communities. Orlando is not my community (though I am proud to say that the queer community is). Except that they are, every last one of them. That day nine years ago, they said, “today, we are all Hokies.” But we’ve always all just been human beings. And I love all of these communities the way I love the Hokies. I stand with them in sadness and disbelief and embrace them in their time of need. I lament that they join in a grief too many people have known, but want them to know they are not alone. My head bows with them, my fists clench with theirs, my voice is lifted up with theirs.
I love you and I am with you.
