The Shelf Life of an Incident

As I walked into my Monday class with Professor Shelini Harris (Human Rights on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday) and took my seat, left side if your back was to the chalkboard and three seats from the door, the first conversation I overheard was the chatter from one of the adult students and some of the others my age.
“Did you hear about what happened Saturday?”
“At Bryan Hall? Yeah, my friend was on the same floor…can you believe it though?”
“I only heard bits and pieces…”
“Well, what I heard from Shelini was…”
The key piece was cut short by Shelini walking through the door and I resigned myself for the moment to asking Jenny, my roommate of three years. She was more isolated in her department, but she knew a few people in Bryan…maybe one of them had told her something. Either way, I would have heard it already if it was a big deal for three reasons. One, Guilford was open about a good chunk of things. We had had some cover-ups, like any business, but on the whole we were informed if something dangerous had happened. Two, I had plenty of friends with plenty of other friends. While I might have not gotten the info right away, I always seemed to know someone who knew someone and the same with Jenny. Had something huge gone down, someone somewhere would have heard and passed it on to us. Three, I was in one of the most socially aware program on campus. The Religious Studies department gossiped like old ladies at the beauty salon, and we chattered just as much. Someone would have passed information along, since everything else came through the grapevine. Point is, if it had been that big, I would have heard from someone.
There was something off though. Shelini was cheerful and animated, chattering and joking with those of us that had several classes with her. Even if she didn’t get the jokes we made (she was Sri Lakan, Tamil, and raised in Australia and the Middle East…sometimes things would go over her head), she wanted to understand the joke. That day though, she was quiet, tired looking, and serious. Shelini had those days, everyone did, but after the snippet of conversation…
She perched herself on the front table, as the last few stragglers wandered in, and took a deep breath. “So,” she sighed, “by now I think most of you have heard what happened at Bryan.”
Some nodded, some looked at each other, and one person asked, “What happened?”
She sighed again. “On Saturday, three students were assaulted in the Bryan Hall courtyard. They had to be taken to the hospital and offensive racial language was used. I’d like to take the rest of class to talk about this, because I’m sure there’s a lot of questions about what happened and you should know what occurred on your campus.” As she explained further, and more and more questions were raised, I felt myself just…stop thinking. This was Guilford. We didn’t have things like this here. We lived in a peaceful bubble where nothing really bad happened. That was our home, our nest, and three Palestinian students had been horribly beaten with possible intent to kill.
As soon as the period was done, I mechanically made my way back to the Mary Hobbs dorm where I was living on the second floor. Jenny and Ashley, our neighbor of three years (while never the closest of friends, we as a group relied on each other to avoid living next door to obnoxious people; Ash’s roommate was one occasionally but the person across the hall in the four room wing who was also a religious studies major was great and so were the people at the other end) were just chatting waiting for me. We always had dinner together, always; it was tradition from sophomore year to eat dinner and the lunches we could manage to face the crowded dining halls together, have someone to pass the time with, and generally unwind. Jenny’s head turned as soon as the door creaked open. “Finally…Shelini has no clue how to end on time, does she? We were debating going without you and leaving you a note because we’re starving and it’s like…twenty minutes after class was supposed to let out. Anyway, are you taking your keys or am I?”
I dropped my bag behind my chair, and sat Indian-style on my bed. “Three people had the crap kicked out of them…Saturday night…over in Bryan Hall…” I got out slowly, focusing on the floor for a moment.
Jenny paused, and turned to sit properly in her chair. “What?”
With that, everything I knew came tumbling out. Where it was, what was said in offense at the students, who it was (people I had met before...), everything I knew.
As soon as I babbled out everything, Jenny grabbed her keys and ID off her desk. “Okay, we’re getting food and you’re going to explain that again…come on.”
The dining hall (the only one on campus…almost everyone had to be here at some point during the day…) was filled with people jostling for trays and plates, last ditch efforts to grab what we hoped was edible, and shouting and laughing with friends over the general din. Re-converging at the upper level where one would see out the windows, I went back over everything in a slower tone, tracing over bits and pieces that I had been handed.
Ashley bit her lip when I was done. “Do they know who it was that attacked them?”
“No,” I murmured, resting my chin in my hand. “They’re not giving out names yet. I just know who was attacked.” It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. This was Guilford. That thought was a life-preserver. This was Guilford. Things like this didn’t happen here. This was Guilford.

But the problem with a thought is that they can be wrong. Guilford College was a Quaker institution almost 120 years old, a station on the Underground Railroad, a National Historic District (one of very few schools to have that honor), almost shielded on all sides by trees and open space, a peaceful emerald on the outskirts of a bustling city. We were a hot bed of liberal ideology, and one of our claims to fame (although not really touted) was one of our students was arrested for smuggling a weapon onto an airplane to prove the security system didn’t work and was then hired to show them how he got around the security. None of this would ever be foolproof protection against the realities of the world around us, no matter how much we wished it so.
On Saturday night, January 20th, 2007, six members of the football team assaulted three Palestinian students while under the influence of alcohol (some reports said approximately 15 jumped the three students); the Palestinian students tried to fight back, but failed in the end. The three students were brought to the hospital by a professor who had to be called by a mutual associate, where they were diagnosed with severe concussions, a fractured nose, and a broken jaw amongst other wounds. One doctor noted there was a possible intent to kill.
January 21st, an initial announcement was released to the campus by email. Some like myself may have dismissed it because we receive so many “announcements” that it is easy to bypass them.
On the 23rd, the college website has an incident response on the front page.
The 24th saw an open forum in the Quaker tradition across the street at the Quaker meeting house. President Chabotar gave opening remarks and then opened the floor to the people present. Some led prayer, some spoke of their fear. “Friend speak my mind” was uttered so many times, it become the standard response to the call. One girl rose and spoke to her own Quaker roots, asking that we punish the three students as well since they did throw punches back which went against our stance of non-violence but did not say they should be punished as harshly. The next girl to speak berated the previous girl, and through her words made the other leave in tears. I saw the first breaking down of our Quaker traditions. Outside the press stood, vultures circling the dead.
Stump speeches, where a person could stand on a milk crate and speak their mind freely, happened the same day where one man read a letter from his brother (a previous graduate). Following was a combination candle-light vigil and Quaker worship on the front steps of Dana Auditorium.
On the 25th, there was a student walk-out from class in order to “stand for justice, and to see the incident not swept under the rug and dealt with quickly.” They walked out from classes being taught by professors as shaken as they were, and desiring the exact same things as them. I also posted an open letter to Guilford on my LiveJournal that was read by almost no-one. I was furious with the actions of the community, especially with the walk-out.
Alumni and families of current students were updated on the incident on the 26th. There was also a FAQ and updated incident response posted on the website, and the student newspaper The Guilfordian published their first article. They noted that racial slurs were used including “terrorists” and “sand niggers”, brass knuckles had been confiscated, and students were concerned about how long it took Public Safety to respond along with how many students just stood there watching.
The 28th brought an updating of the response to the incident and emphasis of the commitment to Quakerism.
There was a forum on the 31st led by the student-run initiative OURStory, with the panel of representatives from various on-campus groups responding to three questions created ahead of time.
Febuary 4th saw three off-campus people enter Bryan Hall in search of the aggressors. They left before apphrended, and an email and Web update were sent to reflect this act.
The 7th, and local papers printed an op-ed from President Chabotar.
The 11th saw a meeting for worship with a leaning toward business.
On the 15th, the Chronicle of Higher Education published a report.
By the 23rd, an attorney made a comment about on the case, and Guilford published a statement in response.
March 1st was the conclusion of the student judicial process, and on the 14th the criminal charges were dropped.
It took until the 23rd for The Guilfordian to publish that the criminal charges had been dropped.
An August 31st, 2007 letter from the editor in the The Guilfordian mentioned the incident as one of many serious events on campus.
On January 25, 2008, The Guilfordian published a piece reflecting on the Bryan incident and the year after it.
After that, one cannot find any new information generated by the incident.

The little AIM screen popped up on my laptop, flashing and blinking in blissful unawareness that I was currently trying to sort out the edges of a colored pencil puzzle. “Did you hear what happened at Guilco?” Jenny was asking.
“Nope…why?” I typed back, before flicking the last piece of the top in place. The tiniest little flat edge…those pieces I hated. It was so easy to pass them by.
A little link was sent back, one with the words “bias incident” tucked near the very end. I sighed a little, rolling my eyes. The problem with a campus full of major left-wing liberals was that someone was always complaining about something. Always. Wrapping up my puzzle, I could always breeze through the middle once the edges were done, I double-clicked and scanned the first lines.
“Guilford College is responding to two homophobic incidents that occurred last week in Bryan Hall. Both actions were in writing, anonymous and directed at the same student.”
My heart sunk lower and lower into my gut as I continued down the page. The boy had found a letter taped to his door that Monday, threatening him, and on that Thursday around 11:30 a rock and another threatening note had been dropped through his open windows.
“Gods…” I murmured, typing the same back to Jenny.
“I know…” was her short response.
Part of me wanted to cry. This was not the Guilford I knew and love. It hadn’t been since January 2007. So much had happened. One of my professors had found a swastki and “Death to fags” scribbled on the “Safe Space” flyer on his door. My advisor had been fired under what our department considered questionable circumstances. Another professor in a different department had met the same fate, and yet a third had as well. The third floor men’s bathroom in Milner had been smeared with feces and urine left in malt liquor bottles twice in the same year, along with an incredibly demeaning letter to the cleaning staff.
I knew that nothing could ever change the core of Guilford. Nothing could ever change the professors that you went out to get coffee and smoke the hookah with at 12 AM, chattering about the human rights lecture the group had went to, or that hurried you into their office, shut the door and buried you in a tight hug when you respond to their “Geez…all in black?” tease with a broken “My…a family friend shot himself yesterday…” as you realize you’re wearing all black for a reason and you start to cry. Nothing could ever change the RA that taught you how to knit during Stitch and Bitch, all patience as you screwed up time after time, and laughed and giggled with a whole group of us crammed onto her bed complaining about classes and significant others and daily life. Nothing could ever change late night outings with friends, whether to the diner or to lay beside the lake and chatter curled up in the dew damp grass before heading to the always-open Hut (our campus ministry) to light a fire and keep talking. Nothing could ever change the staff that laughed and joked with you, teasing you for having your nose buried in a book during lunch or asked if “you lost some weight or something because you look really good today!” as she swipes your ID to let you into the cafeteria. Nothing could ever change that.
That doesn’t mean that horrible things don’t happen. The only thing that could, that does, change is that sometimes…every now and then…the walls of the bubble drop, and the ugliness of humanity can seep through the cracks and mar even the most well protected protective circle.