Reflections on April 16, 2007

Beth M. Waggenspack,
Virginia Tech

“Can you imagine this being at VT—-at any of our campuses? I can’t and I’m here. It’s just surreal.”

Those were the words I sent to a host of friends and family at 1:00 on April 16, 2007. All my reading and teaching about the impact of communication don’t come close to describing the altered reality I was pushed into that day. What follows is a three part-timeline, accompanied by emails, that might offer a glimpse into the real-life horror that outsiders didn’t experience. Even re-reading the emails causes a dreamlike sensation, although much that morning is burned in my memory, other hours and days are an emotional blur.

April 16, the day of the killings

I taught a class of 75 students that morning; in fact, they took a test, so all were there. At 8:50, I took the test forms to test scoring in another building. I walked past the back of Norris Hall at about 9:00. I walked back again past Norris at 9:20, going to my office. Later, I reflected that probably at about this time, the shooter had begun to chain the Norris doors from the inside. When I got into my building, another faculty member asked if I had heard anything about a shooting in one of the dorms. I hadn’t, but I said that I’d get on the scanner (I can do that from my computer) to see if I could pick anything up. My high schooler text messaged me right then, saying he was in lockdown because of something at Tech, and he wanted to know what was up. At 9:37 my department head reported by e-mail that University relations had confirmed a shooting in W. AJ (residence hall) early that morning. We were told to take  cell phones to class and check in between classes to see if the campus community receives additional information or instruction while people are in class.  We’re told to urge students to be watchful and cautious and to follow any instructions we receive from the police or university officials.  

I start checking my email. Here are a few of the dozens that started to flood my computer from students in the next 10 minutes. 9:46 I received a message from a student, saying she has an assignment to turn in but she can’t come because “There was a shooting in my dorm and I was told not to leave.” I get several more similar messages between 9:46 and 9:52. One says, “I will not be attending class today. There was a shooting this morning right in front of my dorm. In fear of my safety, I will stay in my room.” Another reports, “I can’t leave my room for apparently there’s a shooter in our dorm on my floor.” At 9:51, I email my 10:00 students and tell them that I’m not leaving my building for our class and if they hadn’t, they should just stay put. Can you imagine getting messages from students like that, or telling them to stay away? On the scanner, I thought I heard the words “two shooters” and I heard a colleague down the hall yell out that she heard that, too. We went outside and pulled in a visiting high school group of probably 30 kids and teachers. We didn’t want to scare them, but we “suggested” they go to a room in our basement until we could find out what was going on.

At 9:52, university relations sent out an email message, saying “A gunman is loose on campus. Stay in buildings until further notice. Stay away from all windows.” I invited four grad students to come sit with me in my office; I have a TV and they bring their computers and cell phones. For the next two hours, we combined sources and gathered information. We were isolated, but not really.

By 10:15, I started getting email messages from former students, family, and friends who were seeing the breaking news on TV, all checking in to see that I was ok. I couldn’t make any phone calls out, and none could come in, either by land lines or cells. I emailed my sons’ principals, asking them to make sure the boys know I’m ok. I don’t hear from them until they come home later that day. That’s disconcerting, because I’ve gotten used to being able to reach them by cell when I want or need.

The following emails give some sense of the chaos that was unfolding: 10:16 AM, a former student wrote “Dr. Waggenspack, When you get the chance, please let me know that you’re ok and please be safe. I’m really worried.” At 10:25, I contacted our local NBC affiliate to see what they’re hearing (they had just gone on the air). Two of their anchors teach for our department, and a third was my advisee. They asked via email what I was seeing. I wrote: ” there’s a bullhorn going outside our building right now telling us to get away from windows… just saw four ambulances going down the street right behind my office.” At 10:28, one anchor wrote me: “they’re saying multiple victims.” At 10:30:37 AM I emailed my sister, a teacher in Ohio:

“Multiple victims; all on lockdown. Unbelievable. Someone shot someone at a dorm, and then came across campus not far from me. If you can, turn on CNN. Make sure mom knows we’re ok. can’t get helicopters in the air due to wind. Now reporting 7-8 casualties.”

I kept hearing from friends and family members. 11:11 AM, my undergraduate college roommate emailed from Ohio and asks, “What the heck is going on over there? You’re having gunman on the loose monthly, aren’t you? Are you under lockdown again?” She remembered that we started the school year with a gunman right off campus. At 11:30, a student emailed me with this news: “My roommate’s in Deering Hall in some conference room with no windows on the second floor. He’s stuck there. They have one in custody, one person is dead and there are 7 to 8 more casualties. Also, one student called in and said there were some 30/40 shots in Norris this morning before he jumped out the window.” All this time, I see ambulances and police streaming down the sidewalk and street outside my window. We know it’s bad.

We got evacuated at around noon, and I was home by 12:30. Driving home through downtown was a nightmare of ambulances, police vehicles, and hundreds of stunned people.

At 9:15 that night, after hearing from over 150 people across the US , I sent out the following message:

“My older son and I have just come back from mass. We learned that one of our parishioners (a faculty member) was killed. I’m sure to know more. They keep saying that it is an engineering building, but the offices there are engineering, and the classrooms are general use. It could have been any of us.

I am still shaking and in disbelief at this horror.

The building where the mass second shooting took place isn’t all that far from my building, maybe about 2-3 blocks at most. If I stick my head out my office window, I can almost see the building. I was able to watch the ambulances fly down the sidewalk, and there were cops with guns drawn everywhere.

I do know that the RA killed in the dorm was a triple major, an honors student due to graduate in May.

Now there will be tons of questions, and I’m not that impressed with the university’s response so far. The initial response to the campus was slow, in my opinion. The initial shooting was around 7:30 AM. Why did it take until nearly 9:30 for anything to come out? We heard via student e-mail before the campus contacted us at all. The university’s “emergency bullhorn” system didn’t kick in until probably 10:00. It was nearly impossible to hear—-but it was scary when you did hear it, as it said “This is an Emergency. There is a shooter on campus (I think that’s what it said). Lock your doors and stay away from windows.” Many people didn’t hear that if they were in interior classes. I don’t know if any of my classrooms lock, and the outer doors to my office building do not. It was more than madness.

Nightmares to come, I’m sure, for all of us.

Can you imagine this being at VT—-at any of our campuses? I can’t and I’m here. It’s just surreal.”

***

April 17-19, sadness and revelations

The next day was the convocation that was broadcast nationally. I was there, along with colleagues, still all numb with horror. It was just all so sad. And when I got home, a major shock was soon to come. The FBI called me to affirm that I had the shooter in class this semester. I hadn’t even connected links at this point, but I went back to my rosters for this semester of 75 and 150 students, and there he was. I didn’t recognize him from the TV pictures, and I honestly can’t say I remember him in that large lecture halls. So I returned to campus to meet with the FBI (the first of several meetings with law enforcement) to see if I could give them any information. I really couldn’t. The shooter (I can’t say his name) wrote for me in that 150 person class—-but his writings were innocuous (I still had one in the office he never picked up). As we reviewed the semester, I started to discover some coincidences.

The shooter didn’t come to class on April 2, when there was a second test, which was day of the first bomb threat, in Torgeson Hall. My class was MWF 10:10 in Torg. I don’t know if he was there the next week, but I know he wasn’t there on April 13, because another paper was due in hard copy form. That was the day of the second bomb threat in the same building. Although both bomb threats came after my classes so we weren’t evacuated, a germ of “what if” began in the back of my mind. It would take firmer hold within the next day or so. I had had that fleeting thought when we heard initial reports that the shooter was an English major that he could have just as easily come gunning to Shanks Hall, where our offices are, too. I could have easily drawn him to us.

Just before bed, I learned that a freshman in my 8:00 class was killed. She took a test that day for me; I was likely one of the last to see her alive. Her dad is a faculty member at Tech.

Classes were cancelled for the rest of the week for us and all the schools. My boys and I hunkered down in the house, but I wouldn’t let them watch TV coverage. It was nearly impossible for me to turn off, but I knew that I should. I did get the papers but don’t read any of them. They’re still in a box. When the NBC report came about the shooter’s videotape, I let myself watch it, and I let my older son watch with me. We turned it off after two minutes. My son’s comments were “that guy was just so sick. I’ll bet he was bullied in school.” These were perceptive comments from someone who has been bullied too, and we talked about how people deal with problems. My sons see me cry more that week than they had since my dad died.

On April 18, we received notice from the university: “We have just received confirmation from the Attorney General – please remember that FERPA rights survives death – please be aware of confidentiality of the students involved – I understand we are in troubled waters now, but we are getting complaints regarding the type/amount of information being shared.  Only directory information may be shared – and only if that student did NOT mark their record confidential.”

This announcement causes some real consternation, because all of us have a huge need to talk, and it seems that we’re being stifled. I’m sure this announcement was made in light of comments faculty colleagues made on television, but by this point, I really didn’t care.

I just stayed at home. I didn’t talk to many people here in town, but I kept getting phone calls from people I haven’t heard from in years; it’s a strange time to try and catch up. I stayed away from campus, because I didn’t want to talk to the media who were shadowing everything that moved. I realize that’s a very odd decision by a communication professor, but they’re not “us”——they’re “them” and their intrusions on us and attempts to frame us as something we’re not make them the enemy.

On April 19th, my department met. We share many tears and concerns. By this time, the university had decided to effectively end the semester. We all try to figure out how to do grades when there are still 3 weeks left. We also learned of the massive counseling offensive that will take place for students, faculty, and staff. We’re given ideas about how to talk with students, and we’re told that those who had students killed will have grief counselors in our rooms if we want them. Later that day, I get a call inviting me to a meeting with the other faculty who had the shooter in class that semester. We shared a special bond, and talking with three of the five faculty was another in the list of strange incidents. We talked about what we knew, but more importantly, we talked about the fears and uncertainties that were haunting us, about how this kid could have come after us or our classes. It was at that point that I decided that I couldn’t live with “what ifs” any more. It didn’t happen to me.

That day, I sent out this email to my two class listserves and my advising list.

“I’m just checking in and would appreciate hearing from you, too, just to know where you are and how you’re doing.  The reaching out is important, and I really have this need to hear from all of you, if you’re willing.  If you’re here on campus, I’m here too and would be happy to meet with you if you’d like.

As faculty, we’re struggling to figure this out. We came together today for a departmental meeting, and it was good to share with my colleagues the feelings we’re trying to work through. A few were about grading, but most were about you, and us, and the Hokie Nation.  Everyone is coping in his/her own way.

The provost has posted a message about how we’ll finish the semester on the main VT website.  I’m certain you’ll be hearing from faculty, too.  Be sure to check your Blackboards; that’s where we’re posting announcements.

Given all that we’re going through, it seems horrible to even have to think about academics. I’m asking that you not worry about that. For right now, what’s important is that you should go to families and friends and tell them with everything in your heart how much you love and cherish them. Do kind things for yourself and for others. We all need it.  We can manage the academic sides, and the university will work with you.  You know I will.

If you need me, just e-mail. I know we’re all going through our own personal “what ifs”, and there will be more to come. I feel certain that all of you have been touched in a personal way by this tragedy: you knew one of those killed or injured, you had a class with one of those profs or in Norris, and so on.  It’s the same for me.

You know that I’m a Buckeye until the day I die. My office is filled with OSU “stuff,” my cars have Buckeye licenses, my dog’s name is Woody. I wear Scarlet and Gray every Friday during football season (many of you have suffered through that). However, this week, I, too, am a Hokie.

Please take care of yourself, and tell those around you how much you love them.  Make those memories now,  because we’ve now all unfortunately had the life-changing experience of knowing that you can’t make things up that you never got around to doing.

Please let me know how you are.

Dr. W. ”

I got 137 responses within 10 hours from students.

April 20-25, recovery and reconciliation

On April 25 my email to my family, friends, and colleagues list gave an update:

“We made it past week one and a new sense of life has come to our campus. I finally have a moment to let you know how we’re doing. There are so many images that I can only relate a few to you.

First, thanks to all of you who have reached out to all of us. I’ve tried to respond to everyone, but I’ve gotten up to 300 e-mails a day, and it’s not possible! Your comments, prayers, wishes, etc. meant more to me and others than you can possibly know.

The world community has touched us beyond belief; I’ve heard from hundreds of former students, friends, grad school buddies, college colleagues, old high school boyfriends…you name it. Everyone here has been overwhelmed. I know many of your schools or groups did or are doing something; we appreciate it all. The banners that have been sent are all over our student center, and they keep coming in. I’ve gone over several times to see the gifts that are pouring in.

Our university has also been magnificent. Although I still disagree with the decision not to inform us of the first shooting, since then, they’ve written a new playbook on how to handle a crisis. We still have lessons we’re learning, and I know that in the future, we’ll be called upon to share them with others. There are hundreds of counselors here on campus for students, faculty, and staff. Monday (first day back) each of us who had a student killed from our classes had a counselor or two standing by outside the door (or we could invite them in). Every building has Red Cross volunteers and other “May I Help You” people who are there for us. The faculty are working with students to help them end the semester (we only have this week and three days next week).

We’re giving tentative grades, making huge allowances on work, etc. Our students are here—on Monday at 8 AM, I had 63 out of 75 show up in the first class; I knew where 4 others were. I told my classes about my week, and then I let them talk. It was a good way to ease us back. Same thing in my 10:00 class; I had 138 out of 150 come, more than usual. There are cops everywhere, just being a presence. The media are gone for the most part, and we have signs on every building denying them access. I now understand why celebrities hate the paparazzi. Many of these “journalists” had no respect for anyone. I stopped watching TV last week and haven’t touched a newspaper; they’re sitting here in a box, and eventually I’ll read them. Maybe.

On Sunday night, I got to meet with a group of Columbine parents who flew in on their own to our church. I got to spend an hour one-on-one with three of them. It was the most remarkable experience and helped me beyond words. I came away changed from that one. They were parents and teachers and a nurse, all had kids there. Being able to tell them about it as I tried to sort out my feelings was but one step in a long journey for me. They were able to tell me about feelings and the future; I shared that with my students and colleagues. Each of us is finding that kind of help and healing in our own ways.

I still can’t believe it happened here, no matter that I’ve gone to two funerals, attended campus vigils, and have talked endlessly about it. Everyone goes around hugging everyone now——

As for the shooter (I don’t use his name), he was one sick kid. “The system” here really did try to help him; most of that hasn’t yet come out, but you know there’s limits that outsiders can do. I think the lawsuits are fast approaching. I have no anger towards him; he was too sick to be angry at. His family is clearly devastated as we all are.

The stories that are coming out are still surreal: the kid who put a tourniquet on himself was a COMM major (you see his iconic picture everywhere being carried out of Norris by four people); those who barricaded doors; the faculty who saved their classes or died with them; the roommate who didn’t come home Sunday night, and as a result, she wasn’t killed in the first shooting. The police and rescue people are having difficulty dealing with the carnage. Many of the victims were shot in the head or face and then other places, too. Their cell phones rang continuously as they lay dead or dying. The victims were honors students, valedictorians, only children, great researchers, favorite teachers, every race, many majors——the loss is staggering.

Our campus poet, Nikki Giovanni, gave a tremendous speech at the convocation. I hope you got to see it, and if you didn’t, you can get the podcast at http://www.vt.edu. She said, “We’re Virginia Tech. We will prevail.” Those words are everywhere in this town.

So that’s it from here. We will prevail.”

After the carnage, we searched for ways to heal. Everywhere you went, you saw people with glazed expressions. Conversations were no longer casual. They were “where were you” and “Did you know anyone” and “how are you doing, really?” A colleague said every meeting was like a confessional, with spontaneous embraces. The local papers were filled with victim’s photos and biographies. You couldn’t help but think of the immeasurable grief of their families, and I was existing in part of it, too. Austin Cloyd, a beautiful, bright freshman, took my 8:00 test that morning (everyone here knows that shorthand now) and then went off to be killed in Norris Hall, where her 9:00 class met. I still see her face, handing me that test. I know that some images never leave us, and I think that’s a way that I will keep this 18 year old in my heart every time I enter a classroom from this point forward. I found myself going to the drillfield where the “Hokie Stone” memorials are placed. It’s hard not to go there, to what became sacred ground, but eventually I forced myself to stop, because it was keeping the wound too fresh. I walked with a young cop to one of my classrooms; he had suggested it because of my questions about the bomb threats, my class, and my beliefs that the shooter was testing police response time (there’s been no established link between the threats and the shooter). My classroom had 4 doors; none of them could be locked. He could easily have chained two of them (as he did in the other building). However, the room arrangement was such that my students could have been fairly protected (I wouldn’t have been). The cop told me that the shooter didn’t want anyone in particular; it was a random choice.

During the last two weeks of school, we tried to determine our new normality. Monday April 23 was spent just talking with my students, listening to their fears and concerns. We talked about the need to reach out for help. We talked about what we had been doing. In my 8:00 class, I let Austin’s best friend talk about her (she was enrolled there, too). Three other kids had good friends killed. In my 10:00 class, no one brought up the shooter; to this day, I’m not sure they knew he was enrolled. I call those two students my bookends: one child killed, another who was so damaged by biology and circumstance that he, too, was a victim in all of this. I let my students know that the coming weeks might have some “reckless surprises” still in store: more drinking, driving fast, getting angry. I tell them about post-traumatic stress and urge them to talk with counselors, ministers, parents, and friends. I’m so proud of these kids; they’ve demonstrated some deep values in ways most of us are rarely called upon to show in public. They represented themselves and all of us so well.

Epilogue, 5 months later

Classes have been in session for six weeks now, and it’s gone better than anyone could predict. Although the undercurrent of April 16 is never far (invariably, it comes up in a classroom example, either from me or from a student: how media framing existed, what cognitive dissonance is, how organizations deal with ambiguity, how relationships are formed). The permanent memorial on the drillfield is still a magnet, but I’ve only gone a few times. I have to walk past Norris twice daily on my way to class, but my head no longer turns towards it when I pass by. People still show symbolic ribbons on their clothes, their cars, and their email signatures; we know what it means. The daily stories that peppered us throughout the summer have finally lessened to weekly ones as the review reports of the incident and responses come out. The hardest thing now has been how we’ve become the poster child for bad campus behavior; since September, there have been lockdowns at other colleges, and it’s always reported that their response was “because of Virginia Tech.” The student who is tasered at a Florida college had that done to him “because of Virginia Tech.” Our colleagues at other universities begin to view us and talk about us as research case studies. That bothers me to the extent that I ask CRTNET to remind people who want to develop convention panels about the “VT Incident” that this is their colleagues they’re talking about. I wrote in an email: I understand that the tragedy that occurred on our campus on April 16 is destined to become a multitude of future case studies.  I recognize that our discipline has much to offer and discuss concerning the events surrounding it, including media coverage, handling stress, crisis management, and so on.  However, as a Virginia Tech faculty member, this event isn’t a case study.  It was and is all too real.” We have become the short hand symbol, just as words like Kent State, the Murra Building, and 9/11 conjure up a host of images and emotions.

I recognize symbolic convergence in action. I lived through media misrepresentation. I felt shared values emerge across a community. It’s the stuff I teach, and I have an entirely new respect for the perspectives of my field.

About the Author

Beth M. Waggenspack is an Associate Professor (PhD, Ohio State University, M.A. Texas Tech, B.A. Muskingum College) in the Department of Communication at Virginia Tech. She has received awards for her advising and teaching and most recently received a summer grant to develop an online version of the Introduction to Communication Studies. Additionally her research about the rhetoric of Eleanor Roosevelt has been published by the Michigan State University Press. I received an email from Beth through the NCA Basic Course List Serv, chronicling the events of April 16. At my request, Beth shares her reflections about that day and its aftermath.