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A Day Like Any Other ... Until He Walked In
As we stared in shock at TV images of police and firefighters swarming an Omaha mall just an hour down the road, my editor turned to me and asked: "Do you want to go?"
My first, unspoken reaction: No.
No, I don't want to throw myself into our state's biggest news story of the year. No, I don't want to throw myself out into the bitterly cold afternoon to compete against the legions of media already on the scene and those undoubtedly headed to Westroads Mall.
"Sure," I told him, trying to feign confidence.
It was 2:30 p.m. Dec. 5.
Many of you know the story by now: A 19-year-old man walks into a Von Maur in a busy shopping mall, takes an elevator to the third floor, pulls out an AK-47 and emerges, assault rifle blazing.
Minutes later, eight people and the shooter, Robert Hawkins, are dead.
Back in my newsroom at the Lincoln Journal Star, I grabbed my work bag and began searching for the tools I would need to report this overwhelmingly tragic event.
A video camera.
A tripod.
A digital recorder.
A notebook.
Plenty of pens.
Grabbing a copy of the latest news about the shooting and directions to the mall off the printer, I rushed out of the newsroom and into the unknown.
An hour later, I stepped out of my warm car and into a biting arctic wind. I walked a few blocks to the mall and found my way past a police cordon to the JC Penney at the mall.
In the growing shadow of the nearby Von Maur, I joined about 15 other journalists trying to find witnesses to interview.
It was about 4:30 p.m.
Every few minutes, handfuls of shocked and scared people rushed from the JC Penney door and past the yellow police tape surrounding the mall.
Every time a group emerged, the media would swarm. I had mixed feelings about being part of that.
I've always believed journalism serves a vital democratic function in our society, documenting each day's events in order to provide citizens the information they need to improve their lives and that of their fellow men and women.
But standing there with video cameras rolling in witnesses' faces, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a better way. That day, I couldn't think of one.
One older woman, with white hair and a brightly colored Christmas sweater, talked to reporters about working on the third floor earlier that day. About how it was like any other day in the Von Maur customer service center.
She and other customer service workers were wrapping presents. Attaching bows and labels to gifts for strangers they had never met.
A day like any other.
Until he walked in.
Like so many others that day, she thought it was construction. A hammer being slammed into wood.
Then it grew louder, and she knew. She hid in a back room with 11 others until Omaha police arrived a half hour later. One woman beside her looked at her watch to see what time she was going to die.
Two young women, cousins, stood facing the JC Penney entrance, praying that their mother and aunt would emerge. Two hours had passed and they still hadn't seen their loved one - a woman who like clockwork took her lunch every day at 1:30 p.m. (20 minutes before the first 911 call came in) in the Von Maur third-floor employees' breakroom (the same floor Hawkins opened fire).
Finally, they received word: Their mother and aunt was waiting at a nearby restaurant. She was safe.
A story of hope amidst so much sadness.
As I jumped in my car that day - having spent so much of the previous three hours trying to talk to distraught people whose lives had just been upended and to police helpless to relieve their suffering - I thought about the day's events.
But it wasn't until later that night, as I rode home in my car after writing my story for the next day's newspaper that it began to sink in.
Nine people were dead. Who were they? I tried to imagine.
Shoppers trying to find that last little gift to show someone how much they cared.
Store employees wrapping gifts for strangers. Taking care not to rip the delicate paper covering some child's toy or son's sweater.
All relatively unknown souls whose names soon would be written in history, alongside that of a young man whose troubled life they had only caught a glimpse of that day.
A day unlike any other.
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Comments?
The necessity of carrying grief
I’m grateful for this blog entry. It’s important that journalists remind each other how difficult the job can be, how emotionally taxing. Sometimes the job can make us feel less than human. In particular, I’d like to comment on this part of your story:
Every time a group emerged, the media would swarm. I had mixed feelings about being part of that. / I've always believed journalism serves a vital democratic function in our society, documenting each day's events in order to provide citizens the information they need to improve their lives and that of their fellow men and women. / But standing there with video cameras rolling in witnesses' faces, I couldn't help but wonder if there was a better way. That day, I couldn't think of one.
I want to speak to the necessity of what you and the other reporters did, because I think there doesn’t need to be a better way. When journalists record such moments of raw grief, we serve a valuable purpose, likely as valuable (if not more so) than helping inform readers in advance of an election. We help people make sense of the world. By listening as people speak of their suffering, journalists provide them an opportunity to give shape to their grief. By carrying that grief and passing it on, we help others begin to understand a world that shocks and confuses. As a conduit of grief, the journalist connects the sufferers to the sympathetic, helps create a solidarity that we need in the horrible moments, such as in Omaha, more than at any other time. James Baldwin wrote in his short story “Sonny’s Blues” that though “the tale of how we suffer, and how we are delighted, and how we may triumph is never new, it must always be heard. There isn't any other tale to tell, it's the only light we've got in all this darkness.” Carrying such news is a burden, one no one should relish; I see no way any reporter can feel comfortable doing it, but I’m grateful, Kevin, that you did.
-- Michael Downs
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