Unsettling

As some of you know I've returned to school to get my PhD. in Educational Leadership at Florida Atlantic University. The main campus of the school is located in the well-to-do city of Boca Raton,which means loosely translated "Rat's Mouth." Not quite the image you want to conjure up when you want to entice others of means to move there.

FAU has satellite campuses in Jupiter, Port St. Lucie, Ft. Lauderdale, and Davie, Florida. Two of my classes meet on the Davie campus. When I first began this academic sojourn nine years ago, I needed to start from scratch since I had little or no idea as to how to study, do homework, etc. The place they would give me these tools was Broward County Community College, now known as Broward College.

I started there because that institution has an "open enrollment" policy. Meaning, if you apply you're in. BCC also has satellite campuses doting the landscape of the County. One of them abuts the FAU campus in Davie. I took many of my pre-requisite survey courses at the Davie facility.

In January of 2002, the spring semester had just begun.. I still felt the uneasiness of being one of a handful of non-traditional (older) students on the Davie campus. My micro-economics class was letting out. I made my way to the small quad located two non-descript, institutional, two story buildings away. Benches were situated on all four sides, each facing in a different direction. Each day when I attended class in Davie, I would make my daily phone call to my wife from the bench that put my back to the library and facing the FAU campus; keeping an eye on the future you could say. But before I sat down, something happened that I have rarely given any thought to these past eight and half years. However, I think about it now every Tuesday and Thursday.

I watch the local news in the evening. Kinda a comedic respite from the days mundane events. Yes, I'm being sarcastic. Many times when there's been a shooting, a witness will say they heard a pop that sounded similar to a firecracker. To them I say, you're idiots. That day in 2002 I heard a gunshot and it sounded nothing like a firecracker.

Above five paces from my designated calling area, I heard a gunshot, then moments later I heard another. The sounds came from about fifty yards away. The rapport echoed making the shots sound closer still. Uh-oh I thought.

In the blink of an eye a rushing torrent of students came racing around the corner of one of the non-descript two-story buildings. I had already placed the call to my wife and started to describe the mayhem.

As I told her of the gunshots I had just heard, watching the panicked race to unmarked finish line only they could see, I thought what if the person wielding the gun came around the corner. My heart raced. I remained seated. Since my amputation, my days of racing pell mell to anywhere were over. As I unfolded the scene to my wife, I didn't even think that I may be causing her great angst. I knew at the moment , If there were more individuals on the gunman's hit parade, the best I could muster is hitting the deck.

I have always been a realist. When your number comes up, your number comes up. Your perspective is altered a bit by a near death experience and my motorcycle accident certainly qualified. I did not fear dying that day at the hand of some crazed Charles Whitman wannabe. But I'll tell you, I wasn't thrilled at the prospect.

A disgruntled boyfriend -that's how they say it on the news- ("disgruntled" just doesn't seem strong enough) had shot his estranged girlfriend as she exited English Comp I. Then he put the gun to his own head and saved the taxpayers a ton of dough.

Several weeks ago when classes began, just as I was about to enter the Liberal Arts building where my class was held, I glanced over at the Broward College Davie campus quad. I saw the bench I regularly sat at. I then glanced to the corner of the building from where the tide of students rushed forth. In 2002 I was angry at what had occurred. In 2010, I'm saddened by the events of that day. I feel sorry for the victims and their families. I wonder when there'll be closure.

Each Tuesday and Thursday since that first week of class, as I make my way into the Liberal Arts building, my eyes are drawn to the bench. I can't help myself. Try as I might, my gaze goes to the bench then the corner of the building as if being pulled by some magnetic force. I almost expect at any moment a brand new mass of humanity will spew forth. But all is quiet on the western front. It may be quiet, but it's still unsettling nonetheless.