A knock at my office door catches my attention. Looking up, I see Portia and Luca—two of the small group of students I work with—standing there. I beckon for them to come in. It’s not like them to knock, let alone to stand on formality, hovering at the doorway. But I can tell they’re not quite themselves. Standing just behind them is a third young woman. The three of them seem rattled. Their anxiety is palpable; it’s as if their young worlds are tipping on their axis.
This is Thursday afternoon of the last week of classes. The Friday before, on November 14, 2015, ISIS had claimed responsibility for the Paris terrorist attacks, which killed over a hundred and thirty individuals, and harmed countless more, in countless ways. The news, national or international, talks of little else. The campus absorbs the buzz. These were already the dark days of November, when whatever combination of seasonal factors combine with looming exams to elevate stress levels for students.
Everyone was rattled, and at a level beneath, saddened. Paris was on our minds, and felt improbably proximal to those of us living in Kamloops, here in the south-central interior of BC. Apparently, the Paris attacks also loomed on the minds of the less stable among us. Only an hour before this moment, a bomb threat had triggered the evacuation of the recreation centre across the road from campus, a short walk from my office. Hundreds had been rushed from pool and playing field. An adjacent building on campus has also been closed, we’d only just learned.
At my bidding, the three come in and slide into chairs. Their impulse to come to me would have been at least partly pragmatic: Luca has a study session to lead, scheduled to begin at 4:30, hardly an hour away; Portia is to observe part of the session in her role as mentor. The other young woman? I have no idea if she’s waiting to attend that session, or just hanging out with the other two—a friend or younger sibling of one of them, perhaps.
At first, we explore the ramifications for the upcoming session. From its scheduled room on the third floor of the science building, they tell me you can hear the sirens, and see lights from the emergency vehicles that cordoning off the area under threat. Should we cancel the session? Or move to a different location?
No, we decide—or I do, in that moment, keeping barely ten seconds ahead of them. Luca will hold her session as scheduled. But I’d stay and observe, releasing Portia of that responsibility—I carefully explain, moving a full step ahead of them as I improvise. Luca is to keep her session plan light, but busy and engaging. She’ll model calmness; maintaining perspective—or appearing to, at any rate.
The perspective I want, with a sudden urgency, to impress upon these girls is that we are far from Paris. And yet, that we could be inspired by the courage the Parisians were displaying. And that this is in all probability some stupid stunt to toy with our anxiety, playing on that very real and substantial tragedy half a world away. As they listen, they appear to relax before my eyes, to be sinking into their chairs as if they might never leave.
And as their panic eases, I grow angry: that the world is so threatened by these sick and unmoored individuals calling themselves ISIS; and then by the audacity of idiots right here in our own backyard, who, on whatever whim, would further unbalance my students, these bright young women. “They can all just fuck off,” I hear myself saying. And at that moment realize (perhaps prompted by the surprise registering on their faces) that I’ve cursed in front of students. Usually I withhold my less professional, more casual side—at least until leaders have had come to know me better than Luca would, still in her first term as student leader. (Never mind their companion, whom I don’t know at all.)
By now, I’m starting to worry about how many boundaries I may have traipsed across: counselling when that’s neither my role nor expertise; letting my down my guard; and worse yet, might I be putting them in harm’s way? Misreading the seriousness of the threat? As I’m mentally scanning those concerns, the friend speaks up, asking me if I think it would be okay for her to go and get groceries. She’s out of food, and hungry, but her boyfriend has texted to advise that she stay inside.
All right, I say, let’s think: what would it serve any nut bar to harm us on our not-very-important or prominent campus, here in BC? Do we really think ISIS, or anyone, might boast: First Paris; then Kamloops. Really? She laughs. We agree that it seemed unlikely, compared to the minor, but more tangible, danger of going hungry. With that, I rustle around in my snack drawer and find some granola bars. Which we inhale. And then, giddy on some mix of relief and sugar, off they’ll go: the one whose name I never did learn, to get groceries; Portia home to study; and Luca to get ready for her session. Which she’ll handle brilliantly: a virtual fount of poise and serenity. For the first twenty minutes, I’d watch from the sidelines as clusters of students study biology together, lit at regular intervals by garish bands of blue and red light.
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