Umpqua: The Place Was Haunted Long Before The Shooting

I went to Umpqua Community College at the time of the shooting, and I don't go there anymore. Right before the shooting on October 1st of last year, I got a part in the UCC production of Blithe Spirit by Noel Coward, a comedy about a bothersome ghost set to premiere around Halloween. I even got into the play by writing and performing my own monologue, in which I testified before Congress on the rights of "ethereal Americans," or ghosts. That one made the director, also my drama teacher, laugh many times.
On Monday of the first week into the term,  the first rehearsal was cancelled and pushed back to that Friday, I believe. Then, the following Thursday, one of the play's production assistants went to school and killed a bunch of people.
I had a lot more on my mind then, but I also knew that the play would most assuredly be cancelled, since it was a comedy about ghosts.
A few weeks later, I was offered a part in another play, replacing Blithe Spirit, which was A Woman Of No Importance by Oscar Wilde. My maybe-homophobic friend Ruth had the line, "I was wrong. God's law is only love," which I thought was neat.

The play was to take place in Centerstage Theatre, which is the smaller of the two theaters on the UCC campus. It seats maybe two hundred people, and some nights during the performance it was nearly full.
There were other people using Centerstage one night when we had rehearsals, so we had to go next door to Jacoby Auditorium, which seats, I would estimate, about a thousand people. Everyone met in Centerstage's dressing rooms, then got ready to go over to Jacoby.
"I can't find my hairbrush," somebody said.
"Maybe a ghost took it," I suggested, thinking of all the legends of theater ghosts.
"No, Oscar's in Jacoby," my new best friend, whom I had met from the play, remarked. She was a pansexual Christian who called me "Sunshine" after a character from the show Queer as Folk, which it turned out we both adored.
"Oscar Wilde is in Jacoby?!" I asked excitedly, thinking of the man who wrote the play we were all in. I didn't know if I believed in ghosts, but I wanted to, especially this one, whom I hope was pleased with my Lady Hunstanton. I didn't know why he would be here, of all places, but maybe he haunted places where his plays were shown. Maybe if I could get him alone, he would tell me what it was like to be gay (or bisexual, since he did marry and have children) in the nineteenth century. Maybe he would tell me how he wished me to play Lady Hunstanton. Maybe he would tell me what the afterlife was like. Maybe...
"No, he's just called Oscar," she answered. "That's what they've always called him."
"Do you think he's real?" I asked.
"I've heard him. I've also seen the lights flicker."
"Wow! How long has he been there?"
"At least as long as I've been doing plays, so at least ten years."
"That's amazing!" I declared, so excited to go and hopefully see a ghost, even if it wasn't Oscar Wilde. Especially since I aspired to be one someday, in a hundred years or more.
I wanted to tell everyone the good news. I was so happy to meet someone who had had a ghost encounter, much less possibly have one of my own.
"There's a ghost in Jacoby!" I practically sang out, to all the cast members who would listen.
"You told her there's a ghost in Jacoby?" a man who was in the play asked my friend.
"There is. I've heard him," she said.

We went over there. One of the "gels" or colored lenses on the stage lights, flickered high above us in that huge, cavernous theater.
"Is that Oscar?" the skeptical man asked.
"It's probably just a breeze up there," my friend replied.
I was confused as to how even a space as big as Jacoby could have its own air currents. I hoped it was Oscar, or whoever the ghost was.

I did see a mouse. One of the other girls started screaming because she saw a mouse coming out from under a cabinet backstage, so I went over and left food out for it. It came out and grabbed it, and disappeared again.
Ruth was laughing because I was feeding it chunks of my apple, the other girl was screaming and cringing, running away, and the skeptical guy looked at me in horror and said, with a weird look on his face, "You are disgusting!"
"I'm not touching it," I protested. And if it was already there, then it was already there, and there was no point in making it starve. I hid my apple cores behind a trash can, too, so it and its friends could eat off of them. I hoped that an exterminator wouldn't find them in such a big building, or that it would at least be humanely relocated.
Later, Ruth would tell people that mouse story whenever she could. "She was feeding it!" she laughed, pointing at me in class.
So maybe ghosts can take the form of mice, when they want to. Who knows? I saw a video of Obama doing it, one time, so a ghost would be even more powerful. I hope I gained the ghost's trust by feeding it.
So "Oscar" has apparently been there for at least ten years, and his legend did not start with my friend. I did not hear anything of him being particularly sad or angry. He was just there, choosing Jacoby as his home, for whatever reason.
At least I know the people killed at UCC have a potential friend. I hope they're all at peace. I hope the mice are doing good too. At any rate, I'm glad to be out of the play, and out of that school.
I'm kind of disappointed that I didn't get to meet Oscar Wilde, though. If you're reading this, Mr. Wilde, you can come to my house and visit me there, if you like. I hope I did a good job playing the character you wrote.

Umpqua: The Gay-Straight Alliance Is Full Of Potheads

So recreational marijuana use is legal in Oregon now, and though it's still in kind of an uneasy gray area, there are now four or five pot stores in Douglas County, that I've seen. A Black Friday ad for a store in Roseburg, our biggest city, even recently advertised a "Free Four Foot Bong" as a door prize.
 I'm not sure what percentage of local residents partake of it, though I haven't and I thought most others hadn't. Until I had a rather amusing and interesting awakening a few months ago at a meeting of the Umpqua Community College Gay-Straight Alliance Club. (Though the Umpqua students might be a special case, since there was a shooting there October 1st that everyone is still very shook up about.)

I walked in to find maybe six or seven others sitting in an empty classroom, having various conversations. On the blackboard, a girl had written "Free The Female Nipple," in a very pretty cursive scrawl. It was always the same girl, and she did that for every meeting. She had also made up the position of "Cannabis Officer" and gotten elected, a few weeks earlier, after inquiring whether there would be any "420 Friendly" baked goods at the next fundraiser. (It had taken me a few minutes to remember that "420" was shorthand for weed.)
As I walked in, another girl came in behind me.
"Do you have any on you?" Captain Cannabis asked the other girl eagerly.
"No, I don't carry," the friend replied, emphasizing that word. It reminded me of the way gun owners use the word "carry." People who were likely on opposite sides of the political spectrum used the exact same word, with the exact same emphasis. I thought that was rather interesting. You always know what's most important to someone when they use the word "carry" with special emphasis.
"Why make yourself a target?" she went on.
I think, though, that she was not telling the complete truth. When I had first met her the week before, she had grabbed my hand, examining it closely and measuring it against hers. "You're so dainty!" she declared, fascinated. My hands are small, but I don't think they're that interesting.
It reminds me of the old cliche that someone who is high will be fascinated by their own hand. I guess extremely extroverted people are fascinated by other people's hands. She might not have been carrying because she had just used it up.
Another guy nodded in agreement. "Yeah, just get out of school, get your homework done, and then..."
"Oh, no, I always write my papers while high!" yet another dude chimed in.
"There's a picture of Ruby Rose topless," a trans guy, whom I'll call Adam, said, showing me on his phone. "I LOVE Ruby Rose!"
I may lose readers for this, but I don't care for Ruby Rose. Tattoos and an accent are treated as sexiness cheat codes nowadays, which is rather lazy, if you ask me. But I kept my opinions to myself, since the rest of the world goes crazy for her.
"But if any of you bind with ACE bandages, I will hurt you!" he exclaimed, addressing the room in general.
Someone asked why, not knowing that it's not safe, and soon Adam was lifting his shirt. The binder looked rather like a little tank top to me. The discussion of medically safe binders then turned to packers, artificial penises that one could pee out of, if you selected the right one.
 "I had one that was over three hundred dollars," Adam said. "I could pee out of it, it had erection rods so you could fuck someone, it even had erection rods inside of it, so you could get fucked while you're fucking someone! But then I tore it right between the balls and the shaft," he said in disappointment.
Apparently, the PeeCock is of shoddy quality. And apparently, you can't use it or repair it once it's been torn. Personally, if I felt the need to stuff my pants, I would have seen if I could take a hot glue gun to that thing, but I wasn't about to offer to do that for someone else's urinary prosthetic. He can glue his own package back together.
I'm also a little confused as to how one tears something like that, especially in the place that it's customarily worn in. I'll bet it had something to do with the erection rods, though I really don't want to know for sure.
Then Captain Cannabis showed us her new nipple rings, and everyone started talking about what piercings they wanted to get next and whether they would accidentally come out or not (apparently the back of the neck is a problem area).
"That sounds so painful," I remarked. "How can you guys stand it?"
"The endorphins afterword are addicting," Adam explained.
"Oh," I nodded.
This is going to be great for our image. Yes, the gays are just like everyone else, I thought, Just like straight cisgendered people, they're all a bunch of nice, friendly...weirdos. At least, if you're in Oregon. Everyone's a weirdo in Oregon.
My own weirdness is just probably not as visible. Except maybe on this blog, of course. :)

Umpqua: I Am On The "Friendly Atheist" Blog

After the shooting at my school (Umpqua Community College) happened, the school was suddenly in the national spotlight. So I thought that some people would like to hear my story about being an atheist at UCC, and trying to start an atheist club there last year.
But my blog is small, and even people who would want to hear it might not get to. So I contacted Hemant Mehta of the Friendly Atheist blog, whom I had long respected and admired, about being a guest writer there. I thought I could be friendly enough, after all.
Here is my story, which I don't feel I should reprint here--after all, I wrote it for Hemant's blog. But I will provide the link to it, and I may elaborate on the same story here on this blog if I have time.
Some people who have commented on The Friendly Atheist have said that they would like to see me contribute more to that site. I think that I will (with Hemant's permission), if I have something that would be of interest to all or most atheists, and is specifically on the topic of atheism or religion. Here, it is more about life's journey, so that I talk about all different subjects, and interesting or funny incidences that happen to me.
If I write again for The Friendly Atheist or any other site, I will provide the link on this blog.

Going Back To Umpqua

I went back to Umpqua Community College, for the first time since the shooting, on Tuesday. The media and many people from the community were there on Monday, I knew, but my class was on Tuesday.
There were no flags hanging from the tops of utility trucks, like I had seen in pictures of Umpqua College Road on Monday, but I did drive past many signs showing support.
There was also a large purple RV with the words "Billy Graham" splashed across it, sitting on the side of the road by the college's first driveway. I assume that was as close as they could get legally. There was a man sitting in the open door. He wasn't Billy or his son Franklin. The ministry people had obviously thought that we didn't have any churches in Roseburg, so they sent a Port-A-Preacher.

There wasn't anything else that had changed, when I walked into the small theater in which I had my acting class. Of course, I had arrived a few minutes early.
The substitute for our teacher arrived and I shook hands with her. The original teacher had had to take time off, after what happened. Apparently it had affected her very closely.
I was only the second student to arrive. After all of the others had arrived, that was when the parade began.

 In addition to the nine students and our new teacher, there were, crowded in that space:

Two therapy dogs
Two dog handlers
Another guy from the therapy dog agency
Three social workers from an organization known as Community Health Alliance
Two people from the community college in Salem
The director of the art and theater department


The famous comedian, Carol Burnett, was one of the dog handlers, but she lied and said that her name was Barb. We're onto you, Carol.
"There are people all across the country thinking about you--and praying for you," Carol said, significantly. The dog people made us all take business cards for both of the dogs, Hannah and Moses, whom they said each had their own Facebook pages.
This is what the cards looked like:

And the bible verses on their cards match the bible verses on their Facebook pages, in the "About" tab.
"They're like Pokemon cards," the man who wasn't a handler said. "You gotta collect them all. Except they all have the same power. They throw Comfort-Bombs!" he said enthusiastically.
His joke made me uncomfortable.

As far as I could tell, all the dogs have biblical names. I found a "Jonah" puppy on Facebook, but that was all I could find in a cursory search. (Edit: I have since found a Cubby, a Susie, a Zippy, a Tabby, and an Angel, though "Angel" doesn't really count as secular. There are still a lot of biblical names, though, Jacob, for example.)
There were also large Jesus-fishes splashed across the dogs' vests, in addition to the fishes and bible verses on their cards. All of this is a huge violation, in my opinion, of these dogs' freedom of religion. You can't tell me that every single one of those dogs is a Christian. That's statistically impossible.
These "Lutheran Church Charities" people are obviously compensating for not being able to preach or give out gospel tracts in the places where they go to help. And I thought I was a little militant by wearing my tiny rainbow flag pins everywhere. (Yes, I wore them that day, and I was glad that I had.)
Of course, I did appreciate all of these offers of help, from many different people and animals. But I knew that the people who really needed help the most were probably absent. And these helping people couldn't reach out to them.
I also knew that at least for me, it is most difficult long after a tragedy, not right after. I can easily say, "My cat died yesterday," for example, but a week or month afterwards, it's extremely difficult to even think about it, much less talk about it.
I didn't really need it (though others might have), but it was neat having dogs in the class, and petting them, because they were cleaner and calmer than my two large, difficult-to-wash dogs.
And I was polite to the Lutherans and the others. I smiled, and said "Thank you," for their prayers and cards, though I was a little uncomfortable with so much attention and their overly soothing tones of voice. I smiled, but (with church people) they didn't know that I wasn't always smiling with them...

Umpqua: "AJ Would Have Been Martyred!"

 This is embarrassing, because I hit the "Publish" button by accident, before I had actually written this post. Sorry for any confusion.

I went to a family reunion recently, or as I morbidly call it, my "Look everyone, I'm not dead!" tour.
I attend Umpqua Community College, and I had talked to my grandparents that very day to tell them that I was okay. But when my grandmother greeted me with a hug yesterday (our family custom), she said, rather emotionally, "I haven't seen you since all this happened! I am so glad you are all right!" I thought she was making too big a deal out of it, but, well, it was a mass murder, and I certainly am grateful that I'm alive. They probably didn't know that I had my class in the afternoon, either, with the shooting in the morning.
My mom tells me that at one point, my "Uncle 'Phobe" remarked, intensely, "Just think, if AJ had been there, she would have been shot, because she would have said, 'Yes, I am a Christian!'"
Supposedly, the gunman targeted Christians, though I have learned that that was not exactly the case.
I'm not sure my uncle should have said such a thing to my mother, either. The thought of losing a child has to be a parent's worst fear.
And as for what he said, you can probably tell that most of my family does not know that I am kind of, well...not. Sometimes I'm not even sure that the word "atheist" accurately describes me either. I don't really know what I am, but I know very well what I'm not.
As my mom told me this story on the way home, she said, "And I thought, no, she wouldn't have!"
The tone in her voice almost sounded as if she were saying, "You BETTER not!"
A few days after the shooting, as we were talking about it, she had said, "You remember this: I would rather have a live coward than a dead hero!" And when she said it, I felt...loved.

I am rather surprised that my Uncle 'Phobe thought that I would say that. I had assumed that he thought I wasn't a "real" Christian anyway, after disagreeing with him about gay rights. Apparently he thinks that one can be saved, and also be "wrong" about things. That was a pleasant surprise.

I used to be bothered about not being able to express my doubts in front of my family, or even call myself an atheist to my family, but after learning about all of the shit that LGBTQ people have to go through, I rather identify with them, as a bisexual person and an ally, more than I identify with atheists. Whether one believes in God or not is really of no consequence to me now; what matters is how people treat one another. And yes, I did think that religion led to bad treatment, until I met a lot of good-hearted gay and allied Christians.
But I do think it's ironic that if my extended family knew that I would say the right words to save my life, they would worry about me so much more, not less. And that saving my own life becomes a wicked act, when I don't even do it at other people's expense. And even for most of my gay Christian friends, I can't imagine them denying Christ.
What I can imagine, however, is an all-loving Christ being perfectly understanding about things like this. My own mother would rather have me say that I hated her, and live, than to say that I loved her, and die. I know--I asked. And she feels this way, well, because she cares about me.
I wonder what that says about some people's conception of God...

I Go To Umpqua Community College

I did not know the shooter, but I am good friends with people who did. As far as I can tell, no one I know was hurt or killed.
My gay baby, "Harrison," is unharmed. My conservative-in-all-the-wrong-ways friend "Ruth" is unharmed. (I am glad, though I hate how she is a mixture of good and evil. She doesn't deserve death, she just deserves to have her rights taken away from her until she understands.)
The young man who danced with a loaf of bread after not being interested in me is unharmed. All of the people I have mentioned on this blog are unharmed.
The killer, Chris Harper Mercer, was to be a production assistant in my very first play in which I had been cast. When my mom learned of it, she had to lie down.
The play was called "Blithe Spirit" by Noel Coward. It was a comedy about a pesky ex-wife who is also a ghost. Given the subject matter, I am guessing that it will be cancelled now.
"I painted with him!" Ruth said.
Harrison's phone cracked the previous day, so they (I learned recently that Harrison is actually androgynous, and so goes by "they" and not "he") decided to go without it, on what turned out to be the worst possible day to do so. I was only worried for an hour or two, since I contacted someone who was sitting right next to them, on the bus, I presume. But others were worried, very much so. I tried to tell those people that Harrison was okay, whenever I saw someone asking about them.


I was at home at the time of the shooting. I have an afternoon class, and I was going to go to school later that day. My mom called and didn't even say hello before ordering me, "You are not going to school today!"
"Okay," I said, knowing something was wrong. "Why not?"
"There's been a shooting. Like, fifteen kids are dead!" (Supposedly, we now know it's only ten. "Only" ten.)
I went on Facebook to learn more, my heart sinking. Someone I barely knew messaged me, "Are you okay???" I said that I was.
There was a lot of frantic scrambling, on Facebook, to see if friends were all right. It was chaos. I decided it needed some organization, so I made a huge, long, public list of every name that I could find that was all right. I also made a special page, "List of Umpqua Community College Shooting Survivors," and updated both lists every time I found a new name. I knew that people I didn't even know would search for something like this, so I created that special page.
I was somewhat of a celebrity over the next few hours. People were liking my posts, sharing them all over. People commented, saying, "Thank you for doing this," "This is a blessing," etc. I have had four new friend requests, and people that I sent friend requests to months ago accepted.
"Where is Harrison??!!" somebody shouted.
"I saw his name on a list of people who were okay," someone else said.
"Yes, it is AJ's page," one of my friends informed them, mentioning me so that I could see her talking about me.
"I don't know, I just saw a screenshot of it," the former person said.

"Oh Ruth, I was so relieved to see your name on AJ's list!" gushed someone that I didn't even know, had never even heard of.

People gave me as many names as they could. Sometimes they would say, "My brother is all right," or "I saw Jane Doe's niece, Nancy." So I said, "A brother of John Doe, who is also confirmed unharmed, but whose name is unknown." I also said, "Nancy Doe--I believe it is Nancy Doe, she is the niece of Jane Doe." I listed their names even if they were total strangers to me.
I wanted to give as much hope to as many people as possible, and people were very grateful for it. I thought it was kind of cool that I had left my "gay pride" filter up, from the marriage equality ruling months ago. So total strangers knew that someone who could be gay was doing this.

I don't have nearly as much trauma and grief from this as some others, but I am feeling very shocked by this, in a sort of fog where I don't quite know what to do with myself. Suddenly, my hometown is famous, and not in a good way. Instead of struggling to pronounce, "Umpqua," people now know our name like they know Laramie and Columbine. I never thought I would ever be so close to the center of the action, especially this kind of action.

I don't know when the next family gathering is, but I assume my Uncle 'Phobe will probably ask me about it. If he mentions it, I will say, "Well, it wasn't the gays, because this lesbian wasn't on campus." (I'm bi, but it's not like he would know the difference.) I've just decided to come out to my family by being myself and making jokes about my gay self, whatever those jokes are at the moment.

There are rumors that the Westboro Baptist Church ("God hates fags" people) is going to attend the funerals. If you see any news videos, look for me, the girl in the bright pink t-shirt that says "Fag And Proud" and holding a sign that says "UCC Gay-Straight Alliance Club."