The phones lines in Blacksburg were so jammed that we couldn’t get through. We sent emails and texts hoping to hear from her; for an hour we heard nothing. The silence was unbearable but the constant news updates only heightened our worry. As I started searching for flights to Virginia, my phone rang. I timidly answered and heard the words, “I’m OK.” Then the call dropped.
The deadliest school shooting in modern history happened before colleges and universities instituted emergency alert systems, and before the pervasiveness of social media allowed for instantaneous notifications. Many students continued to move between classes unaware of what was unfolding around them. My sister heard the sounds and knew something was wrong but didn’t receive an immediate warning to shelter in place. Physically, she was OK. But the emotional toll was overwhelming and enduring. Textbook definitions would classify her as a survivor. But those who have ever experienced a traumatic event will tell you that surviving is much more complicated.
Dr. Khalilah L. Brown-Dean
Returning to campus was difficult because of the overwhelming presence of media outlets who seemed more concerned with getting a compelling story than creating a space for students to process their complex web of emotions. Some students hoped getting back to their normal routines would distract from the confusion they felt, while others feared for their safety going back into classrooms. Those who survived were weighed down by a profound sense of guilt that while they were able to choose whether to go back to campus, there were 33 families making funeral arrangements for students who didn’t have a choice.
With every new story of a mass shooting, I immediately think of my sister. I check in with her because I know that new events reignite old pain. There are moments when the pain seems overwhelming and indescribable and other moments when it doesn’t register until there’s a familiar sound or smell. But that pain, is always there.
That lesson became abundantly clear to us again in 2011 when our 21-year-old cousin, Brian Anthony Patterson, was murdered at a party in Virginia. A 19-year-old stood over Brian and fired 9 shots into his body. Brian was a son. A brother. And a beloved cousin. His life was significant. Amid the feelings of hurt, anger, confusion and yes, shame, our family was left feeling as if his loss was dismissed by others as just another “urban narrative.”
