It’s Easy — “Dance for Paul”

June 5th, 2014 our school community lost Paul Lee to an armed gunman that stepped into Demaray Hall. My roommate at the time, 20 minutes or so before the attack was waiting in the lobby of that building for class. But she had a moment of intuition say, “skip class — head back to your dorm.” She left. Not even an hour later, I drove back to campus with my RHMC (Resident Hall Ministry Coordinator) from our one-on-one check-in over happy hour nachos. We both fell silent in the car when we saw an ambulance out front of the hall, paramedics running in urgency. Us now, in disbelief thinking, “where are we?” What we saw didn’t reflect the campus we knew. As I neared the intersection, I saw Paul in a stretcher to my left, outside of the ambulance; I turn right and do the only thing I could think of at the moment: head to my sister’s house, just 5 minutes away. Campus security at this point had urged everyone to remain off campus and if on campus, to remain in lock-down. 

My former roommate having left the hall, would have been in the thick of the scene — she is alive today, married, and became a mom a few years ago. At the time, I was the Student Ministry Coordinator for my floor and because of that, my roommate had the endearing term, “Pastor’s Wife” along with the rest of the other roomies of SMC’s. Separated, I remember a lot of check-ins and updates over the next few hours. I remember feeling grateful she had skipped class and was with our floor-mates. I remember feeling completely out of place with my RHMC at my sister’s, as we just waited it out. 

When my RHMC and I got the green light to return to campus, we came back with a vision of comprehension that many other students might not ever have. It was a degree of separation closer to the trauma we’d all experienced collectively, but where vision of it has the power to transform you. Hearing about it is one thing, going with the flow of procedure is another. Seeing a young kid though, most likely taking his last breaths or having already passed in the stretcher he was in, in an environment of learning, changes you. It warps and threatens your understanding of learning, community and even faith (faith-based institution). It creates a shift of morale to raise the standards around the quality of life just as much as it depresses your cognizance of just how meaningless a life lost can be. 

I didn’t know Paul, but I sat in the same rooms as he did in Demaray Hall.

I didn’t know Paul, but I shared a stage with others that did know him.

I didn’t know Paul, but I saw him just after, or as his soul was departing. 

I didn’t know Paul, but twelve years later, I weep for what was lost, for his parents who lost their son. I weep for what I knew of him. 

Paul danced.

Later that day, we had a community prayer in Martin Square. The sun was shining as we sat in the grass, holding hands, holding space for the life that was stolen from us and the trauma and threat we just experienced as a community. Paul wasn’t the only student shot, but he was the only life lost. A graduating senior had tackled the gunman, preventing any further injuries or fatalities.

Twelve years later, I bet Paul would have graduated and gone on to do a lot with his life. We have the phrase, “Dance for Paul” because of him — you don’t get through life without moving. 

If you feel stuck in life, move. Dance. 

Dance for the kid who was robbed of doing so.

Dance for Paul.

-B

Paul should be alive today.
The students at Brown should be alive today.
Jubilant, Rob and Michelle should be alive today.
Every single child and individual we’ve lost to gun violence should be alive today. The reason they aren’t is because we live in a country that continues to prioritize the pride of owning a weapon over implementing the logic of who is capable of owning or utilizing one. It’s not a problem in other countries like it is here. “It could happen anywhere” is an option we have to start removing from the budget.