TW: gun violence, school shooting
“Be careful, it will be extremely hot. Let the vegetables sit a while so they cook fully,” the server cautioned as he turned up the hot plate between me and my partner, Ansis.
“I can’t believe you’ve never had hot pot!” Ansis exclaimed. “I guess it’s usually not very vegan-friendly, is it?”
The pot of water began to boil as we plunged various vegetables into it. Mushrooms, bok choy, tofu, a hole-filled root vegetable I’d never seen before: lotus root.
We arrived at Lamei Hot Pot in Downtown Providence just before the dinner rush on a quiet, chilly Saturday. It was 4:21 p.m. on December 13, 2025. The sun had just dozed off in the distance. Ansis and I were celebrating the near-completion of my first semester at Brown. All of my assignments were nearly done, and I had no in-person exams—the luxury of studying the humanities. The only persisting task was a daunting 10-page paper on Arthur Schopenhauer, the infamous pessimist philosopher of the early 19th century known for his disheveled hair and bleak perception on life. Schopenhauer argued that human existence is endless suffering and that tragedy is inescapable. Inside the walls of the centuries-old George Corliss house, the lectures on philosophical theory felt too great a distance to conceptualize. Now, the idea haunts the wrought-iron gates that surround the campus. No longer distant theory, but something embedded in aging stone and grand buildings.
In the restaurant, the vegetables had only just begun to soften when my phone rattled. After months of spam phone calls, I had installed an app that blocked unfamiliar numbers and funneled them to an automated screener to determine whether the caller was friend or foe. The call transcript displayed on my screen: “Please state your name and reason for calling, and I will see if the person you have dialed is available,” the automatically generated voice of my phone guardedly announced. “This is Brown University. There is an active shooter near Barus and Holley Engineering…”
A jolt of electricity pierced through my heart. “There’s a shooter at Brown!” I gasped, my throat catching onto the shock of my own words.
“It’s probably not on campus—I bet it’s nearby, and they’re just being cautious,” Ansis, a coolheaded man who always errs on the side of caution and reason, reassured gently. “It’s probably similar to that Citizen app where they have to share anything dangerous in the area—most likely it’s a domestic dispute near campus, but not actually on campus.” Usually, I believed him. This time, it felt different.
My phone continued to tremble as official texts flooded in, confirming what I feared. They offered step-by-step guidance on remaining hidden, and what those in the area should do. It cautioned: Run, hide, and as a last resort…fight. My group chats exploded. “Where is everyone?” “Like this message so we know you’re safe.” “I’m hiding in the bathroom right now…I saw what happened…”
“I just saw the news, where are you? Are you safe?!” My good friend Steph, from 2,500 miles away, reached out in alarm. “I see your location isn’t on campus, but please answer this right away,” another message poured in.
In a frenzy, Ansis and I rushed to pay the bill and charged to the exit. The other patrons continued to clink glasses and savor their steaming bowls, oblivious to the violence a couple miles up the road. Ansis grasped my hand and pulled me in close, preparing for the blistering outdoors. A native Michigander, he despised the cold, and sped for the car. My cheeks flushed to a dark cherry, but I could not register the temperature. I could only think of what news was to come.
Inside the car, my group texts continued to ping. “It sounds like nine people have been shot. Two have been confirmed dead.” My stomach writhed in a sharp twist, churning the vegetables in my stomach upside down. Two students had been confirmed dead on a campus that boasts compassion, curiosity, and care. Violence is antithetical to Brown. It’s a place of refuge. Home to a community grounded in openness and empathy. I couldn’t come to terms with it. Two students taking part in a study review session wouldn’t feel the embrace of their family again. They wouldn’t see their aspirations fulfilled or parade through the Van Wickle Gates on Graduation Day. The events of December 13 will leave a mark that can never heal, a jagged end to a journey that, for me, had only just begun.
I had arrived in Providence four months prior, almost to the day, to begin my time at Brown as one of the eight nontraditional students selected to the RUE program. I traveled from the Westernmost point in the contiguous United States to what felt like the Easternmost tip, to a little city I first heard of in Gossip Girl.
During orientation, RUE students and traditional transfers were molded into one singular unit: TRUE. Despite the lengthy calendar of activities, I only attended the required academic events. Activities like “Pilates on the green” or “cookie decorating” felt aimed at a type of student that I, a decade older than the gaggle of incoming transfers, did not embody. My free time was spent dissolved into the slouchy couch of my desolate off-campus apartment. The walls were covered in a cool, dreary gray that echoed the grim fall skies. I browsed MCM, philosophy, and gender studies courses while foraging online for local organic produce that wouldn’t enrich the coffers of Lord Bezos.
As classes began, I felt an abrupt and consuming desire to shrink. Back home, no one would have ever accused me of self-conscious behavior, but on this Ivy League campus, I suddenly wanted to disappear entirely. A body too tattooed to blend in with the generation born at the turn of the century, and opinions too seasoned to be mistaken for Gen Z. My six-foot limbs were smooshed into petite desk chairs, knees clashing with the bottom of the flimsy classroom apparatus, like a parent at a student-teacher conference for their kindergartener. When I spoke, I pleaded with my sonorous voice to relent as it overwhelmed lecture halls, students craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the unusual dialogue echoing from behind them. With every word I uttered, it felt clear that I was different from them.
On campus, I shied away from the student social calendar and rushed to the RUE lounge for shelter between classes. I never dared to set foot inside the dining halls. The communal spaces didn’t feel like mine. Something about them felt off-limits, as if a yard duty would lurch from the building, shove me outside, and yell: “You’re not supposed to be here.”
In one class, I sat catty-corner at a desk with a young gender studies student. I attempted to drum up small talk. We’re both tattooed and hold a fascination with the hypocrisy of Candace Owens’s anti-feminist rhetoric, but when I would pass her in the hall, she’d divert her eyes and offer a meekish hello. Perhaps she was generally shy. Yet, I could not discern whether this behavior stemmed from social anxiety or a genuine disinterest in me. Beyond our shared pursuit of academic greatness, what could we possibly have in common?
The feeling never waned, though my isolation was sporadically alleviated by the companionship of other nontraditional students—athletes, musicians, and mothers fulfilling childhood dreams. Some just on the cusp of their mid-20s; others nearing mid-life. Together, we recounted anecdotes of practical life, like paying taxes or learning to text via T9 on a flip phone. We talked of our alienation, and how younger students relegated us to the label of “unc,” whatever that means. We made a group chat to laugh off the discomfort.
But when I was off campus and alone, I succumbed to volleying justifications back and forth in my mind, desperate to explain why my path was so unorthodox. I’d rehearse lines: I couldn't read until I was 20! or There are no computers where I come from! But the answer was simpler: College just hadn’t been part of my life until now. At 18, I couldn’t be contained by brick-and-mortar walls; I chased experiences, discomfort, and dreams. Stages, runways, and competition arenas. I came to Brown to put those adventures onto paper.
The fall semester passed in a rush, and on the morning of Saturday, December 13, as my final assignments neared completion, I stood in my kitchen absentmindedly swiping butter over burnt toast when a tinge of sadness crossed my chest. Though I was a student at one of the most prestigious universities in the world, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had failed. As I bit into stiff sourdough, I wondered how much camaraderie I had missed by concealing myself in my small off-campus apartment. I thought of the collective exhaustion of midnight essays constructed in the Rockefeller Library. The shared cups of coffee sipped in the Underground. The rigorous study sessions with classmates, commiserating under high stress and boundless aspirations. I yearned for the kind of community forged in the pursuit of greatness. On the morning of Saturday, December 13, 2025, I had wished to be on campus with my peers. It feels so foolish now.
That night, Ansis flew out on a red-eye for an immovable work trip. He traveled often, and I usually welcomed a few evenings of alone time to binge old chick flicks or gorge on overpriced takeout. But that night, I was desperate for his comfort. I fashioned my childhood blanket painted with buckskin horses into a makeshift body double, clutching onto it and wishing it were him. With eyes rimmed red and raw, I drifted in and out of sleep to the wail of sirens and the thrum of helicopters. I awoke to Providence’s first snow of the winter and an unexpected knock at my front door. I never had guests. No one knew where I lived, and with the shooter still at large, every news anchor in Rhode Island cautioned audiences to keep their doors locked and remain indoors. Dressed in pajamas, with frazzled hair emulating Schopenhauer himself, I stared down my front door handle. Another knock. I didn’t know the proper process for how to handle a potential criminal at my door. I thought of the text sent from the University. Run. Hide. Fight. I clenched my fists together, forgetting the first two steps, and slowly opened the door, bracing myself for whatever was on the other side. Delivery driver. Wrong door. Package for my neighbor. I went back to sleep.
A few days later, I forced myself off of the slouchy couch, ran a brush through my unkempt hair, and made my way to campus. I approached the Van Wickle Gates that I gleefully marched through only months before during Convocation—now closed, somber, and petalled with bouquets and plush Bruno bears. On the sidewalk, news cameras imposed on every available space, reporters probing for a viable morbid spectacle in a city-wide competition for ratings. There again, I avoided the lens, bowed my head, and hid behind cheap, dark sunglasses. Even in mourning, I questioned if my presence was admissible. Was I allowed to pass through the frame of a news channel documenting student grief? Turning away from the cameras, I trudged across the campus. A light layer of snow draped the bronze Bruno. Every griever walking the sidewalks was slumped and silent. The air was unmoving—clenched in a shallow breath until a helicopter tore by, or a siren blared in the distance. I made my way to Barus and Holley. A man propped up a full-scale wooden cross in front of the building alongside dozens of bouquets of flowers. There were cameras. Reporters. Students. Professors. Locals. All bearing silent witness. There, I saw a familiar face. My corner desk partner—weeping and wrapped in an embrace. She looked over at me, nodded her head, and flickered a small hello. I offered a gentle bow of my chin in return and held back swells of tears.
Schopenhauer, in all of his gloom and chaotic bitterness, does believe that even in all of life’s devastating and unexplainable tragedies, we must continue on. And we must do this rooted in compassion for each other, acknowledging that suffering does not care for age, gender, or background. It doesn’t respect campus perimeters or delineate between degree holders. No one is immune to the horrors of the living. Tonight, as I write the final edits on this piece, my phone is once again illuminated with news alerts. Four people have been shot at a local high school hockey game, just over a mile from my home. Two have been confirmed dead. A helicopter bellows by. Ansis is out of town—I’m home alone. I lock the doors and reach for my blanket painted with buckskin horses.
