My mom has called me once a month since my freshman year. With the critical sincerity of nearly every Jewish mother, she asks me the same questions. “Are you eating enough?” “Remember, soup isn’t a meal.” “What is your stress level?” “Are you having any fun?”
But as we approach Colonials Weekend, when our campus will swarm with fanny-packed mothers and camera-toting fathers, I have realized that this year my mother’s calls have changed.
The Navy Yard shooting brought the year’s first call. She told me she was worried and that I should stay in my room.
Two weeks later, a woman was shot down after a car chase near the Capitol. I received a voicemail: “Jakey, someone was shot near your campus. Call me so I know you’re safe.”
A few days later, a man set himself on fire on the National Mall. “I just want to make sure you’re okay,” my mother tells me over the phone. “A lot of crazy things have been happening.”
“I’m safe. I’m always safe,” I tell her every time.
But recently, I’ve felt differently.
I have convinced myself – and my mother – that I exist in a bubble at GW. Supposedly cordoned off on GW’s streets with blue light phones on every corner, I am protected by the many police forces in D.C. Danger and tragedy may be present in D.C., but not in GW’s D.C.
Watching these events, what I felt was not fear, but confusion. A shooting, a car chase, a public suicide – they did not fit into my idea of safe D.C. life. They didn’t occur in the “bad” parts D.C., but rather at the guarded Capitol, our National Mall and a navy base, home to those who protect our country.
I watched the news of the Navy Yard shooting as though I was sitting in front of my TV at home in California, unable to recognize my proximity to these acts. I should have felt fear, or empathized with the sadness felt by those affected by the shooting.
My reaction proves I am still a tourist in the District. I am not here to live, only to collect an education, some fond memories and a diploma. Then I will depart, never truly experiencing or acknowledging anything outside of privileged living.
These recent tragedies and acts of violence have challenged my idea of safety in D.C., and they have shed light on what it actually means to live in the so-called GW bubble.
As I’ve come to see it, the GW bubble comes from picking and choosing the aspects of D.C. that I would like to fold into my life – not just as a student, but in general. I choose the cliché college life, the national monuments and the shoulder-brushing with senators, and I block out the negatives – the things that keep my mother dialing my number every day.
I should acknowledge that my D.C. and GW experience isn’t limited to monument walks and late nights in Gelman. We live on the national stage for the angry who wish to be heard, a place with some of the greatest socioeconomic disparities in the nation, with schools so poor they’re referred to as “dropout factories.” But that D.C. does not appear to be part of the GW experience.
This is wrong, finding solace in my ability to ignore so much of what is around me. But it is what keeps the GW bubble from bursting. In it, I find the ability to tell my mom that I am safe, knowing only in the back of my mind that this is merely a half-truth.
The writer, a senior majoring in English and creative writing, is The Hatchet’s contributing opinions editor.
