Please Pardon the SWAT Team
It's a typical Wednesday morning in the library-- about two hundred students are spread throughout our three floors at study carrels and tables, and Valerie and Heidi, research and instructional services librarians, are teaching a large class in the Rare Book Room, which doubles as a classroom. Faculty requests are popping up steadily in my inbox, and I'm working through a long list of book and article requests, looking up call numbers in our catalog and WorldCAT.
My office sits in the reference room, one of three small librarians' offices. I've positioned my desk diagonally-- a bit awkward, but it's the only way to have a clear sight line to the circulation desk and library entrance. The first sign of a disgruntled patron at the front door turnstiles, and I can be out there in a shot. And my eavesdropping ability is second to none (but, really, at this point I can almost tell by a patron's body language if a library fine is about to be disputed).
As the Access Services Librarian, that's my job, to have my finger on the pulse of the library. Third floor restroom sprung a leak? I'm on it. Man wanders in off the street and argues with the circulation desk attendant? Give him my card. Fire drill? Call me the floor warden. On any given day, I might wear the hats of librarian, plumber, and security guard. My Access Services colleagues and I joke that there's never a dull moment, like we're practically cops on the beat. Of course, there are plenty of days like today, of sitting in my office, filling faculty requests.
It's particularly quiet in the reference room, even though Monday and Wednesday mornings tend to be our busiest times. I'm flying through this request list, when at 10:30, I look up to see Valerie, who should be midway through her class, standing in the reference room, addressing the staff: "One of my students just received a text message that there's a man with a gun in Rubloff." Rubloff, our building.
Stories like Virginia Tech in 2007 and Northern Illinois in 2009 have scalded our collective sense of security. This phrase "a man with a gun," reverberates off the scraps of newspaper articles that are forever branded on your brain. I reach for the phone, but my mind fumbles for the direct line to the campus police. I remember something about 911 patching me directly into our police department, but I finally remember the direct number (that I've repeated in various trainings countless times), dial, and tell the dispatcher what I've just heard. He tells me that they're already in the building and asks if I have any more information. No, what I know is fourth hand.
All possibilities crunch together in my mind and feel extraordinarily real. That a man is going to walk through our front door any second with a gun pointed into the classroom that sits just off the main entrance. That it's happening right now in some other part of our building. That it's just a sick joke.
I grab my keys, cell phone, and the bull horn at the circulation desk by the front door. Two of the library administrators and the reference librarian on duty gather near the entrance and start asking students to come into the staff area of the library, safely hidden away behind the exposed reference and circulation areas (although reference is enclosed by glass and we have metal gates that we roll down when we close at night). Valerie and Heidi lead their students deeper into the Rare Book Room, which no one but library staff ever sees. We ask unsuspecting students entering the library to come into the staff areas. Everyone complies.
Finally we hear the official word, coming as text and voicemail messages, to stay in locked offices, and some professors are telling their students to go to the library. I am comforted knowing that we are the place of shelter for the students, who all move with deep calm.
I notice how exposed the librarians are at the entrance, which they finally lock. The front of the library is a glass wall, and we can see anyone coming up the stairs or around the corner. Someone gets the idea that we can freely move around the library since we are now locked in. We remind them that none of our many emergency entrances are truly secure. Yes, alarms will sound if those doors are opened, but anyone can enter the doors that run from various parts of Rubloff.
Suddenly I remember that those inner door alarms sounded twice shortly before we heard the news. Two times someone came from the outside. Or, someone left from inside. Either way, two trespasses. With that thought we seem that much closer to the man with the gun.
All the while I am feeling grateful that we have not seen anyone brandishing a weapon. We have not heard shots fired. But, we are gathered like a small herd of vulnerable people in the library's back offices. Our community has gotten smaller, and I see every face clearly, feeling responsible for their safety. Surprisingly I don't hear a lot of cell phones ringing. No one is crying. Most students have their laptops out and are working on research papers or updating Facebook. One student asks if there is a "time estimate". No, unfortunately, the man with the gun has not given us one.
By this point police officers and green- and weapon-clad members of the Chicago and FBI SWAT teams have descended upon the library. They appear on the library stairs soundlessly, and we have no idea how they got in. Their work gives the contradictory impression of being both methodical and haphazard, but I trust them completely. One of our oft-told library jokes is our wish that a SWAT team could swoop into professors' offices to rescue forever-lost books. But, the presence of these large men with very large guns is even more impressive than this imagined scenario.
An hour passes and the feeling of danger drains away with each minute and with the arrival of each police officer. Texts and rumors are filtering it. A description of the gunman, who has been reassuringly demoted to "a man with a gun", has come down to us. He had been spotted on the elevator on the eleventh floor. The witness had seen him fidget nervously with a pistol tucked into the bank of his waistband. A 20-something man in jeans, a black button-down, a quilted three-quarter-length coat. 5'8'' or 5'9''. Clean-shaven. The description ripples through the crowd of students, and eyes start roving from one person to the next. How do we know that we didn't usher this suspect in with the groups of students who are now crowded in with us?
I watch as a detective discretely asks a young man to step outside the reference room. Through the glass wall we see the student taking off his jacket. He is politely smiling, but I feel embarrassed for him, on display as he is. He is explaining himself, his presence here, and the detective finally tells him he can reenter the herd. We open the glass door and suck him back into our room of worry.
It's noon. And dangerously close to lunchtime. The students are patient, and the administrators are trying to find more information. The students want their laptops, hastily left in the classroom. Some want food. We joke with the SWAT team that we are about to demand pizzas and sandwiches, knowing well we have no one to negotiate with except the unknown. One guard eyes my water bottle and says with a grin, "Hey, drink slowly, you gotta make it last. One cap-full an hour at the most." SWAT humor. Who knew?
The officers seem eager to talk. It must be somewhat intoxicating, a room packed with people looking at you with hope and relief in their faces. A machine-gun strapped to your body. One says, "Everything changed with Columbine. Now we do two searches minimum, but statistically, most shootings happen in the first ten minutes." They describe the chaos of one office shooting downtown where occupants didn't know whether to stay or go. And, I don't know what I would want to do, if given the choice, to stay with my fellow librarians or tear down the street away from this glass and beam building.
Their search is long and thorough. Students aren't allowed to use the restrooms, but we escort them anyway, waving to the security personnel-- it's just us, here to use the facilities! Librarians dig out candy from their drawers and shake bags of sweets into the waiting palms of students, who are surprised that we have back offices, impressed at our book vault, and happy for the candy.
One member of the SWAT team, who spoke quietly and asked me about being a librarian, said, "Hey" through the metal gate that we had shut between the library's reference room (us) and the entrance (them and anyone else). "Good news. You're free to go." He says it so quietly and privately, I don't know if I can share it with as much enthusiasm as I'd like. "He says we are free to go," I tell the library administrators, who repeat it at full volume.
Although we open the library doors, we soon realize that the building itself is still locked down, but at least we are no longer cramped together in the reference room.
The circulation and reference staff gather at the circulation desk, stunned and adrenaline-drained-tired. There's no question, did that just happen? The atmosphere has completely changed. Students are still coming through the turnstiles though, ready to get back to work. I want to tell each one, "Stay safe."
A short while later we hear that the lockdown has been lifted. No man with a gun has been found. I take a turn around each floor of the library, telling individual students that the building is open, they're free to come and go as they like. They look up from their laptops, smile, and say thank you.
We will not squander this gratitude.
My office sits in the reference room, one of three small librarians' offices. I've positioned my desk diagonally-- a bit awkward, but it's the only way to have a clear sight line to the circulation desk and library entrance. The first sign of a disgruntled patron at the front door turnstiles, and I can be out there in a shot. And my eavesdropping ability is second to none (but, really, at this point I can almost tell by a patron's body language if a library fine is about to be disputed).
As the Access Services Librarian, that's my job, to have my finger on the pulse of the library. Third floor restroom sprung a leak? I'm on it. Man wanders in off the street and argues with the circulation desk attendant? Give him my card. Fire drill? Call me the floor warden. On any given day, I might wear the hats of librarian, plumber, and security guard. My Access Services colleagues and I joke that there's never a dull moment, like we're practically cops on the beat. Of course, there are plenty of days like today, of sitting in my office, filling faculty requests.
It's particularly quiet in the reference room, even though Monday and Wednesday mornings tend to be our busiest times. I'm flying through this request list, when at 10:30, I look up to see Valerie, who should be midway through her class, standing in the reference room, addressing the staff: "One of my students just received a text message that there's a man with a gun in Rubloff." Rubloff, our building.
Stories like Virginia Tech in 2007 and Northern Illinois in 2009 have scalded our collective sense of security. This phrase "a man with a gun," reverberates off the scraps of newspaper articles that are forever branded on your brain. I reach for the phone, but my mind fumbles for the direct line to the campus police. I remember something about 911 patching me directly into our police department, but I finally remember the direct number (that I've repeated in various trainings countless times), dial, and tell the dispatcher what I've just heard. He tells me that they're already in the building and asks if I have any more information. No, what I know is fourth hand.
All possibilities crunch together in my mind and feel extraordinarily real. That a man is going to walk through our front door any second with a gun pointed into the classroom that sits just off the main entrance. That it's happening right now in some other part of our building. That it's just a sick joke.
I grab my keys, cell phone, and the bull horn at the circulation desk by the front door. Two of the library administrators and the reference librarian on duty gather near the entrance and start asking students to come into the staff area of the library, safely hidden away behind the exposed reference and circulation areas (although reference is enclosed by glass and we have metal gates that we roll down when we close at night). Valerie and Heidi lead their students deeper into the Rare Book Room, which no one but library staff ever sees. We ask unsuspecting students entering the library to come into the staff areas. Everyone complies.
Finally we hear the official word, coming as text and voicemail messages, to stay in locked offices, and some professors are telling their students to go to the library. I am comforted knowing that we are the place of shelter for the students, who all move with deep calm.
I notice how exposed the librarians are at the entrance, which they finally lock. The front of the library is a glass wall, and we can see anyone coming up the stairs or around the corner. Someone gets the idea that we can freely move around the library since we are now locked in. We remind them that none of our many emergency entrances are truly secure. Yes, alarms will sound if those doors are opened, but anyone can enter the doors that run from various parts of Rubloff.
Suddenly I remember that those inner door alarms sounded twice shortly before we heard the news. Two times someone came from the outside. Or, someone left from inside. Either way, two trespasses. With that thought we seem that much closer to the man with the gun.
All the while I am feeling grateful that we have not seen anyone brandishing a weapon. We have not heard shots fired. But, we are gathered like a small herd of vulnerable people in the library's back offices. Our community has gotten smaller, and I see every face clearly, feeling responsible for their safety. Surprisingly I don't hear a lot of cell phones ringing. No one is crying. Most students have their laptops out and are working on research papers or updating Facebook. One student asks if there is a "time estimate". No, unfortunately, the man with the gun has not given us one.
By this point police officers and green- and weapon-clad members of the Chicago and FBI SWAT teams have descended upon the library. They appear on the library stairs soundlessly, and we have no idea how they got in. Their work gives the contradictory impression of being both methodical and haphazard, but I trust them completely. One of our oft-told library jokes is our wish that a SWAT team could swoop into professors' offices to rescue forever-lost books. But, the presence of these large men with very large guns is even more impressive than this imagined scenario.
An hour passes and the feeling of danger drains away with each minute and with the arrival of each police officer. Texts and rumors are filtering it. A description of the gunman, who has been reassuringly demoted to "a man with a gun", has come down to us. He had been spotted on the elevator on the eleventh floor. The witness had seen him fidget nervously with a pistol tucked into the bank of his waistband. A 20-something man in jeans, a black button-down, a quilted three-quarter-length coat. 5'8'' or 5'9''. Clean-shaven. The description ripples through the crowd of students, and eyes start roving from one person to the next. How do we know that we didn't usher this suspect in with the groups of students who are now crowded in with us?
I watch as a detective discretely asks a young man to step outside the reference room. Through the glass wall we see the student taking off his jacket. He is politely smiling, but I feel embarrassed for him, on display as he is. He is explaining himself, his presence here, and the detective finally tells him he can reenter the herd. We open the glass door and suck him back into our room of worry.
It's noon. And dangerously close to lunchtime. The students are patient, and the administrators are trying to find more information. The students want their laptops, hastily left in the classroom. Some want food. We joke with the SWAT team that we are about to demand pizzas and sandwiches, knowing well we have no one to negotiate with except the unknown. One guard eyes my water bottle and says with a grin, "Hey, drink slowly, you gotta make it last. One cap-full an hour at the most." SWAT humor. Who knew?
The officers seem eager to talk. It must be somewhat intoxicating, a room packed with people looking at you with hope and relief in their faces. A machine-gun strapped to your body. One says, "Everything changed with Columbine. Now we do two searches minimum, but statistically, most shootings happen in the first ten minutes." They describe the chaos of one office shooting downtown where occupants didn't know whether to stay or go. And, I don't know what I would want to do, if given the choice, to stay with my fellow librarians or tear down the street away from this glass and beam building.
Their search is long and thorough. Students aren't allowed to use the restrooms, but we escort them anyway, waving to the security personnel-- it's just us, here to use the facilities! Librarians dig out candy from their drawers and shake bags of sweets into the waiting palms of students, who are surprised that we have back offices, impressed at our book vault, and happy for the candy.
One member of the SWAT team, who spoke quietly and asked me about being a librarian, said, "Hey" through the metal gate that we had shut between the library's reference room (us) and the entrance (them and anyone else). "Good news. You're free to go." He says it so quietly and privately, I don't know if I can share it with as much enthusiasm as I'd like. "He says we are free to go," I tell the library administrators, who repeat it at full volume.
Although we open the library doors, we soon realize that the building itself is still locked down, but at least we are no longer cramped together in the reference room.
The circulation and reference staff gather at the circulation desk, stunned and adrenaline-drained-tired. There's no question, did that just happen? The atmosphere has completely changed. Students are still coming through the turnstiles though, ready to get back to work. I want to tell each one, "Stay safe."
A short while later we hear that the lockdown has been lifted. No man with a gun has been found. I take a turn around each floor of the library, telling individual students that the building is open, they're free to come and go as they like. They look up from their laptops, smile, and say thank you.
We will not squander this gratitude.
