This I Believe - We Are Virginia Tech
I was in my office at Salem Middle School when someone popped their head in and asked me if I had heard Virginia Tech was on lockdown. I asked why. "There was a shooting in one of the dorms," was the reply. I remember thinking that it was tragic and worried that one of my former students could have been a victim.
I turned to my computer to find out more only to be greeted with national coverage of a very serious and ongoing situation. My blood ran cold. I knew we had teachers on staff who had children attending Virginia Tech. We had to inform them of what was going on and free them up to try to contact their kids. The rest of my work day was consumed with the story and the anxiety of helplessness as the news slowly released more and more details of what had happened.
Virginia Tech is my alma mater. I love that place like no other. I couldn't take my eyes away. The next morning during our daily moment of silence, I felt the weight of worry and ached as I tried to fathom the loss so many parents were feeling when they found out their children were victims, the loss of wives for husbands, of husbands for wives, of children for parents, of friends for friends, and on and on.
And how could it happen there of all places? It wasn't until a few days later that a quiet moment of reflection ended with me suddenly overwhelmed with emotion. I have always funneled my emotions most effectively through writing, and that's what I did then. Shortly thereafter I shaped what I had written into an essay and submitted it to "This I Believe," an NPR radio feature I have always enjoyed.
I wrote what follows 9 years ago, and I am sharing it here, more for me than for any other reason. April 16 is always a day when my thoughts wander back to 2007. There is a memorial for the victims positioned on the drill field at the base of majestic Burruss Hall, the most iconic of the buildings on Virginia Tech's campus. When I go back to campus I always stop by the memorial. Somehow it is always silent there.
It is a powerful silence. There is sadness there, of course, but there is also pride, defiance, strength, unity, hope, and healing. People often ask what a Hokie is? To me, there is no more powerful definition than what is unspoken by that memorial, a memorial that shouts through the silence, just as Nikki Giovanni did in the days that followed the tragedy, "We Are Virginia Tech!"
Here is what I wrote 9 years ago:
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I believe in moments of silence.
As a child, I sat in church while everyone prayed, listening to the silence enveloping the sanctuary. I imagined the inexorable hum that was the sound of silence was created by the thoughts and prayers of the congregation making their way to whatever ears would receive them.
In college, I was often struck by moments of silence as I trekked across the drill field at the heart of the sprawling campus of Virginia Tech. I never grew jaded to the beauty, both majestic and pastoral, of a place that more than any other molded who I am. In my four years at Virginia Tech, I transformed from the child I was to the adult I am. Virginia Tech is at the very core of my self-concept. There is no time I am not aware that I am a Hokie, just as I am a father, husband, son, brother, and educator.
I love silence because it is rare and pure, it provides focus, and it is time for me to reflect on who I am. Every morning in my school, we observe a moment of silence. In that moment I pray for my wife and daughters, I organize my priorities, I prepare for challenges both known and unknown, and I give myself pep talks.
On April 16th, my cherished silence was shattered by the news that Virginia Tech was in lockdown. I spent the day seeking news between the demands of being an assistant principal. Throughout that Monday, dread, fear, shock, and loathing grew in me.
Four days later, I sat on the leather couch in my den after putting my youngest daughter to bed. It was completely quiet … silent. I had not enjoyed the solace of silence in four days. The media barrage and my own conversations had cluttered my world with noise: unceasing, necessary, searching noise. Suddenly, I was alone with my thoughts. Tears began streaming down my face, first from anger over the desecration, and sadness for the victims and their families, and then over an overwhelming appreciation for the gifts of my life, and a rising resolve that no act of man could take what those gifts had given.
On April 20th, I asked over 200 twelve year olds to join me in silence to remember the tragedy at Virginia Tech. In that moment, they understood the seriousness of the events of those days. When the moment ended, they went back to their noise, as only a few hundred 6th graders at lunch can.
We always go back to our noise. For better or for worse, noise dominates our days. But I believe in the moments of silence. They keep us sane. They keep us in touch with who we are. They allow us to feel our humanity and to process our emotions, from grief to love. Without them, the noise would drown us out. In them, we find peace, we make sense of our world, and we know ourselves.