I don’t like talking about it. It’s been two years, and I still don’t like talking about it. It seems like most people don’t. However, when we do talk about it, it's when another one happens. That’s all we do. We talk.
I was in Isla Vista on the night of the May 23 shooting in 2013. I was putting on an improv show with my friends in Embarcadero Hall right where the gunman drove by on his rampage. The improv team from Cal Poly was visiting and we were having a rivalry show, so the house of 247 was completely filled. My dad had driven up to see the show with a woman he was seeing. I had just gone to the back of the room with my friend Ian for a game we were playing. A member of our production staff came running into the room and grabbed Ian’s sleeve. I remember thinking that it was unlike her to grab someone with such urgency and her fingers were white from gripping so hard. She told us that gunshots had been heard outside and that we needed to lock the doors immediately.
Having been in Isla Vista all year, I thought I knew how this was supposed to go. On one night when the power went out across IV, our neighbors fired flares and fireworks into the air in an act of millennial rebellion and immature mental states. I was sure that this was just another bunch of bored college students firing off fireworks, until I saw our production staff sitting in the dark of the lobby waiting for us to arrive with the keys.
The Campus Security Officer who was with us was talking on his walkie-talkie. It was his first night working this shift and we had joked that it’s an easy one and he might be bored. From there we went into lockdown, and they told us not to tell the audience until we absolutely had to.
While I was waiting on the side of the stage, my phone started to vibrate in my pocket. My roommate Korrin was calling me which confused me because she knew I was doing a show. I ignored it and went on to do a game with my teammate. As we were getting suggestions, I looked to the back of the theater to see my boyfriend rise from his seat and look at his illuminated phone. He looked at me and mouthed the word, “Korrin.” I saw concern cross his face as he went to the back of the room.
We finished the show and Shelby was getting ready to send the audience home when I had to announce to the room what had happened. I told them the truth, which was that we were in a lockdown and that something had happened outside. Our show had gone a bit longer than normal, but we told the audience that we would do some more improv for them to keep them entertained during the lockdown. As we continued to put on a show, all of us received texts from friends.
One dead.
Three dead.
Four dead.
Where are you? I’m safe. I’m locked in the kitchen at Silvergreens.
Where are you?
Where are you?
When we eventually ran out of material, we decided to put on a movie to distract some of the younger kids in the audience who had no idea what was going on. As that played, we continued to receive texts and updates.
When we were finally taken off of lockdown, I remember walking into the streets, expecting to be met with silence and the soft glow of police sirens, but there was a party happening across the street. People were skateboarding to get food, and people were laughing. It was like nobody knew what happened.
For a couple of days after the shooting, things did seem different. People were more respectful of silence and space when walking down the street, people were sharing their stories online and were offering support to neighbors, and everyone seemed to latch onto the hashtag #notonemore as it was painted with shaky hands across campus.
In the following days, I shivered when cars drove past me at night, I hated sitting near windows and I refused to walk anywhere alone, but also hated walking with my boyfriend for fear that if something were to happen, I would have to watch him get hurt in front of me.
After the summer, things went back to normal. I still get stopped on the street sometimes by drunk males calling me names dripping with misogyny and disrespect. I still get men coming up to me when I bike home late at night trying to push me off of my bike. These things still happen. I, however, am different.
I hate going to the movie theater now because every time the lights dim, I can’t help but begin to question everyone around me and their motives as I search for the best escape route. I hate flying because I’m frightened of what could happen if I can’t leave. I am now so used to hearing about shootings on campuses and off, that I mourn for moments, only to be drawn to the next article on my BBC app. I don’t want to be this way. I want change. I don’t want to keep talking about it. I don’t enjoy talking about it. I want it to stop. I want it all to stop.
