Friday, Sept. 1, 2023 | 2 a.m.
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I was putting the finishing touches on the syllabus for my “True Stories” class at Davidson College when I saw the bulletin about a lockdown at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. I prayed it was a false alarm. Then, I doublechecked that I had placed the right homework assignments in the correct place on the schedule while scrolling X, formerly Twitter, for updates on how many people had been killed, all the while hoping the tally would be zero but knowing it wouldn’t be.
It wasn’t. It was one — “only” one — a faculty member.
That’s how far we’ve fallen. An incident that terrified thousands, shut down a flagship university and forced young kids to remain inside area schools crouched in locked classrooms long after the final bell — but “only” one person was killed — had me momentarily exhaling.
It could have been worse, I thought, like Virginia Tech in 2011 when 32 people were murdered and more than a dozen others injured. Or ... pick your school or public mass shooting, a list far too long.
A graduate student, the alleged shooter, was in custody by late afternoon. By the end of Monday, UNC students had heard from their president, who offered condolences and spoke of the horror that had unfolded that day. Davidson’s president, Doug Hicks, sent out a reassuring message as well. I’m sure other college presidents and North Carolina officials did the same, trying to buoy students, faculty, staff, reminding us of the security procedures we have in place and what role we are supposed to play if a gunman comes for one of our campuses, even as they know — and they know we know — that there is no full proof plan.
Truth be told, the goal would be to minimize the amount of damage inflicted, maybe isolate the carnage as much as possible, and get back to usual as quickly and as smoothly attainable.
The show must go on. The Earth doesn’t stop spinning on its axis.
When that day comes for us, we’ll likely cancel classes for a day or two. Activities will be postponed. A high-profile coach or player on a football or basketball team will be asked to comment. Maybe a game will be dedicated to those we’ve lost, both teams locking arms or hands before or kneeling after the game to pray together in solidarity, to make a statement against hate.
“Let’s have a moment of silence,” the announcers will say grimly.
Then, the show will go on.
Some of us will angrily shout into a TV camera about the need to “Do something, now!”
Some call for calm and declare now’s not the right time to talk politics, especially about guns.
There will be vigils, candlelight and impromptu.
A few elected officials will pull out their stale bouquet of thoughts and prayers and make it publicly visible so critics won’t be able to label them heartless when they commence to doing what they really want to do, and that is to remind everyone that gun rights “shall not be abridged” in a country which is an outlier among rich nations for the amount of gun violence we routinely tolerate.
For others, the shooting and its aftermath won’t register, won’t even cause a second or two of contemplation. I mean, who could blame them? Noticing another shooting in America is like noticing you breathe air. It’s a remarkable reality rendered unremarkable by its frequency, its surety.
In the United States of America, there is death, there are taxes, and there is the next breaking news bulletin about a gunman on the loose at a college or school or mall or grocery store or Dollar General. Each time, the only real question for which we await an answer is will enough lives be snuffed out for it to qualify as a “mass” shooting and not the everyday garden variety that largely goes unremarked upon.
I know that I feel more than just sad about yet another shooting. And angry. And tired. And sick and tired. I know that I struggle to ward off the ghost of helplessness that haunts me like a thief in the night to steal the joy I had while anticipating the start of another school year, another chance to mold young minds, to improve the world just a little bit where I can.
And I know when I stand in front of the class to answer questions my students may have, I’ll have to choose between lying or making it hard for them to ward off their ghost of helplessness, too.
Isaac Bailey is a columnist for the Charlotte (N.C.) Observer.
