First Person

When the Shooting Started

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By Joseph Flynn, Andrew Kemp, and Samara Madrid

Joseph Flynn: On February 14, a young man walked onto the campus of Northern Illinois University and opened fire inside a lecture hall. He killed five students and wounded more than 20. At the end of the onslaught, he took his own life, a grisly, common tale: Virginia Tech, Jonesboro, Columbine, to name a few. The term "school shooting" has become a sorrowful addition to the American lexicon, a vestige of the dark and ugly underbelly of popular culture and humanity.

I was in my office in Northern Illinois's department of teaching and learning when the shooting started. The gravity of the situation did not hit me until later, when I picked up my boy from preschool and showed my wife where the shooting was in relation to my office -- literally around the corner. The full extent of it did not dawn on me until the next morning, when all of the news outlets were still talking about it. Then I looked at myself in the mirror and realized: Students were shot and killed at my university.

As a newcomer to NIU, in my first year of my first tenure-track job, I found myself wondering: How am I supposed to deal with this? Much like a death in the family, this is a moment nobody in the profession can really prepare you for.

The campus shut down, and so did I. I spent the following day in two places: a movie theater and my bed. I lost myself in a double feature of Michael Clayton and No Country for Old Men. I slept. I wept. I talked to no one -- not even my wife and son, much to their consternation and concern. Aside from popcorn and Gummi Bears, I didn't eat. For 24 hours I wrapped myself in a cocoon, wondering, "Why in the hell did somebody come onto my campus and start shooting?"

I teach future teachers in the university's College of Education. On February 12, I was teaching an undergraduate class, and we were discussing what the students felt they needed for success in a classroom. Inevitably the conversation turned to safety. We discussed how the term "safety" was complicated -- physical, mental, spiritual safety -- and elusive.

I challenged the students that day: We often talk about safety in education as though it were the necessary condition for learning, in spite of the fact that around the world, and within our own country, children learn, succeed, and thrive under some of the most unsafe circumstances. Moreover, safety is always under attack and subverted in unexpected ways. Safety, for many, unknowingly serves as a code word for control. Do we stress safety as a way of maximizing control in a context that is naturally unpredictable?

Two days later, the safety issue hit home.

In retrospect, I feel terrible about having challenged the safety issue so immediately and intensely in the classroom. The irony does not escape me. But, at the same time, I know it was important to engage my students on the issue. How do we resolve those contradictions? In the end, like my mom says, "We all must shake the dirt from our sandals and journey on."

I'm not sure how to help my students (or myself) make sense of what happened on our campus. This is some serious on-the-job training. I suppose that is why today I wrote my portion of this essay and also submitted a conference proposal. Get back to it, you know? For my family, my friends, my students, my colleagues, my campus, and myself, I will find a way to shake the dirt off my sandals and journey on. It's just gonna be hard for a while.

Andrew Kemp: On Friday, February 15, I sat down with my 8-year-old daughter to explain why someone had shot students at my university. I didn't have an answer. I wanted to give her one, to tell her something that would make sense, but all I could say was, "I don't know." I felt helpless. I could tell she felt scared and confused.

A few weeks ago, a teacher at the school where my wife used to work was stabbed in the face, neck, chest, and back. The teacher ended up losing her eye. Now, in the wake of the shootings at my university, my daughter seemed to be asking, "Are we safe?"

I am new to the university this year, but I have already given my heart and soul to the place. Most days I wear something with the NIU logo, be it a jacket, hat, shirt, sweater, or scarf. I go to campus sporting events. Sometimes I wander the campus, in and out of buildings, just to know where things are. I believe that we, in this profession, in any profession, have to be a part of the place. By being a part of the place, the world has relevance.

So while I didn't know any of the victims, even though one of them was a student in my department, and I don't know their families, I am nonetheless hurt. My place has been hurt. My people have been hurt. My world has been hurt. And, in a deep way, I hurt.

Today the lamps in my office at work are turned off; my computer screen is black. The campus is deserted. I am home. I am home with my family and an outpouring of care and concern from the world. In the past 24 hours I have heard from former high-school students, administrators, friends, colleagues, and family from near and far.

And what am I doing right now? I am thinking about my daughter and wondering what I am going to say. I am wondering how I am going to answer her questions. My answer is still, "I don't know." But I know she wants to talk about it. I want to talk about it. I think it is time that we all talk about it. I think being a professor is about being a part of the dialogue.

Looking back, the situation at Virginia Tech was a tragedy. But it was a tragedy that happened there. As callous and simplistic as it might sound, that was how I perceived it. Now the same reality has hit Northern Illinois University. In my small world, I am ready to talk about it. Maybe we all are.

Samara Madrid: "Love is spoken here." Those are the words that I now have displayed in my office. I feel profoundly changed by our campus tragedy. Since that day, I have been discussing with family, friends, and colleagues what it all means.

I was not on the campus when the shootings happened. I had been in my office during the morning. I had a phone conference scheduled for 3 p.m. that was cancelled, so I left my office around 2 p.m. and went to the bank in a town about 30 miles away. As I was withdrawing cash, my colleague called on my cellphone and asked, "Are you locked in your office?"

Locked in my office? "No, I am at the bank," I responded. That was how I learned that a shooter was on our campus, and that my colleague was locked in her office with three of her students.

I quickly found a nearby restaurant and asked the waiters to put on the news. We watched the horrific experience live, as it unfolded. As soon as the campus was secured, I returned to my home, which is about a mile from the university. What the media did not capture on television that day was the sorrow, fear, pain, and sadness that hovered, like a gray fog, over our small town. There was not one person, one faculty member, or one student who was not deeply disturbed by this event. It does not matter if we knew one of the victims personally, or even if we were on the campus that day: We all are grieving.

As a new assistant professor, I never expected to witness such an event. NIU is my new home, and this campus is my new family. The tragedy has uncovered the love that resides within me for my students. It is a love that recognizes the fragility of life.

My primary concern now is my students' well-being. What will I say? How do we begin to heal? How do I help them feel safe? How can I use the love of my profession to help us move forward as a community? My answer is grounded in the quote above: "Love is spoken here." Love is what will heal us. Love is what is needed to move past the fear and grim reality of that day, to the light of who we will become in the weeks and months to come.

The Rev. Jesse Jackson spoke at the campus vigil on Friday night, after the shootings. He asked us to embrace one another, to reach out to those next to us. I stood in the back, with my colleague, good friend, and fellow assistant professor Kim Zebehazy, and with tears in our eyes, we honored those lost as we hugged and embraced those who are still here with us.

All Three of Us: Our prayers and condolences go out to our campus, to the families of the lost and wounded, and the family of the young man who touched off these events. Finally, we want to thank the first responders, the university administration, and our colleagues for the amazing strength and support they have provided during this tragedy. There are no words to convey our gratitude and pride in their professionalism.