It's been five years and I can't help but wonder if every April will feel like this. If the beginning of every spring will have me thinking about how cold I was on that morning--how I waited for the bus outside my apartment and grumbled with my neighbor about the snow falling again in April. How the girl in my Equine Science class went running out of the room, her ambulance walkie-talkie blaring and everyones eyes following her out the door. How John's Mayer's Continuum album will forever remind me of this time -- how it was playing on the vet school's radio when we heard the numbers growing -- three people dead, ten people dead, now twenty and climbing.
The year it happened, I didn't find myself feeling very sad -- I think I was mostly shocked and hazy and overwhelmed with unimportant things, like figuring out which grades I'd be able to pass off as As rather than Bs with the new extension/exception rule they'd granted. I remember being relieved that I'd finish Syntax with a solid B, rather than the C+ I deserved. Relieved.
I remember getting calls and texts from people I hadn't talked to in years--how every person I knew from Louisa, whether I had their number or not, found a way to get in touch with me to make sure we were all here. I remember gathering in Katelyn's apartment with everyone to watch the news and figure out where we were supposed to go, what we were supposed to do, how we were supposed to feel. I remember hearing reports about students' cell phones vibrating and ringing in their pockets while they lay on the floor. This was the detail that stuck with me the most that day. My phone bill was over $300 that month from all the calls and messages I received--how many calls would be on theirs, and did anyone ever listen to those voicemails?
I remember being in a bar at UVA with Rebecca a few days after it happened, after they closed school and sent everyone home for a while. We are sitting in a dark room with throbbing music and Rebecca points out a beautiful girl in the corner, sipping a drink, surrounded by friends. "That's Reema's sister," she says to me. I will never forget seeing her there and trying to comprehend how she must be feeling. A few years later, I see their brother outside Burruss and next to Reema's stone, watch him on TV as he defends gun control. This year, Reema would be 23.
Every year since, I get a little sadder. The more time that passes, the more time I have to think and dwell and realize just how much it could have been me. It could have been me or any of my friends. How different would everything be if that were the case? I find myself thinking about the families of the people who were killed and how sad it is that they may never have another spring that's filled with flowers and sunshine and bliss. They'll never walk across the Drillfield or even drive down 460, past the cow fields and the Huckleberry Trail, without feeling sick or depressed or dead themselves.
I think about Cho's family and how horrible they must always feel. I wonder if they leave town every April, or if they have ever visited Blacksburg since. I have mixed feelings about all the slogans that cropped up after it happened--Live for 32. 3.2 for 32. I remember when someone placed a thirty-third Hokie Stone outside of Burruss and how everyone was offended by it being there. Should we really be insulted? We can't change what's happened -- what's the harm in acknowledging that his family has been affected, altered, ruined, too?
I get a little upset every April 16 when people who weren't there--who won't or can't or don't understand--go about their day without even thinking about what happened. Without even remembering. What if that had been me? Does it only take 5 years to be forgotten?
It's strange to visit Tech and be surrounded by students who weren't even there when it happened. They know the facts. They've seen the interviews. They wear the T-shirts (Hokies United, right?). But they'll never really get it. They'll never really understand or have that feeling that creeps up every time a freezing wind blows across the Drillfield or every time they see a fading neVer forgeT sticker on someone's bumper. They won't have that little nagging heaviness that sets in this time of year--the one that sneaks in and tricks you into feeling mad, sad, off. They won't have a go-to answer when someone asks, 'Were you there?' or 'Did you know anyone?'.
And part of me is glad that they won't. On a sick, twisted, selfish level, I like that I was a part of Tech when this happened. I am grateful that I was there then and I am here now to remember what it felt like and how beautifully the entire community--Blacksburg and beyond--responded to the aftershock. It brought me closer to my school, made me appreciate everything a little more. It's a weird kind of nostalgia. But, it is always here and thankfully, so am I.
