“She knows, now, absolutely… that Damien’s theory of jet lag is correct… Souls can’t move that quickly, and are left behind, and must be awaited, upon arrival, like lost luggage.” -William Gibson
I’ve always liked the idea that when you travel, it takes some time for your soul to catch up with your body. Maybe this explains my feeling of being in two places at the same time last week. My soul was in Providence with my husband and children, while my body was at Bondi Beach.
I had traveled to Sydney to attend the wedding of an old friend who moved there and fell in love with an Aussie. The wedding events were centered around Bondi, where my friend is a lifeguard. The ceremony invoked Mary Oliver and Stephen Sondheim. The reception culminated with a Celine Dion impersonator who delivered a scathing roast of the grooms and sang “Because You Loved Me” for the first dance. Everyone left on a tender high.
How strange it was to wake up the next morning, a world away from home, and hear the news of a shooting at Brown University. Friends back in Providence deliberated on a group text about how much to share with our children. My husband and I decided, via text (he was home with the kids) that our six-year-old would know what happened, and our four-year-old would not. While a frozen Providence sheltered in place, Sydney’s summertime holiday season was in full swing. The swimwear shops were decked out for Christmas and Hanukkah. Beachgoers lined up to meet Santa. My husband sent me a video of our kids plugging in the lights on the Christmas tree.
I arrived at the post-wedding brunch in a daze and shared the news. My new Aussie friends spoke about how hard it was for them to imagine life in America, where mass shootings happen so frequently. How scary it must be to live here. The Americans just looked at me with grim understanding.
“What is wrong with our country,” we wondered, and then, “Should we all move to Australia?” “How can we keep our children safe?” “How can we continue this way?” “What do we do?”
On the evening of Sunday the 14th – the day after the Brown shooting – I took myself out to dinner at a restaurant overlooking Bondi Beach. I read the devastating news from Providence as the surfers surfed and the waves crashed and the sun streamed into the restaurant. And then I got the check and walked outside.
I thought the people on the beach were playing a sport. There were so many people running. Then I looked further up the beach and saw an ocean of people, hundreds and hundreds of bodies, running as fast as they could. Just outside the restaurant there were cars driving wildly, swerving to avoid all the people. There are no shootings in Australia, I thought, maybe a crazed driver went onto the beach? People poured into the restaurant looking to take cover. And then I heard the gun shots.
Something moved me to shout out, “I’m an American – I know what to do!!” Just writing this, I feel a deep embarrassment. I do not know what to do in a mass shooting. Does anyone?
Someone responded, “Oh thank god, someone knows what to do,” and I worried they were being sarcastic. Even in the middle of a shooting, there I was, wondering if someone was mad at me. I directed people away from the windows and toward the back of the building. I thought, if my country is horrible, if this is something I’m used to, maybe at least that means that I can be helpful? It would feel good to be helpful.
It was very quiet for a long time. Finally someone said the shooter had been caught, and looking out over the beach we could see people walking, and the blue police lights approaching. I realized that I had my camera in my purse, and remembered what I’d read about photographers who find themselves in the middle of something horrific. You never know if it might help, later, for there to be photos.
I walked toward the center of the beach where emergency responders were arranging a triage area. Temporary metal fencing had been set up for crowd control at the Hanukkah celebration, and I saw teams of EMTs and civilians using the fencing as stretchers to carry the wounded. There were shoes strewn everywhere. Beach blankets, towels, tote bags, all left behind by people who had dropped everything and ran.
A cop shouted to the onlookers, “Have some respect, go home, you don’t need to be here.”
In the past I have judged people for gawking at tragedy. But no one wanted to leave. Where is there to go? People who’ve witnessed something unthinkable become united with their fellow witnesses. In an instant, a community is formed of the only people in the world who will ever know exactly what it was like to be there. The standing and watching didn’t seem like gawking, it seemed like care. It felt prayerful. What else is there to do, but be together and let your presence be a vigil?
I called my husband even though it was 3:30am in Providence. He’d left his phone’s ringer on, just in case, since they were still searching for the shooter in Rhode Island. I asked if he could hear my voice over the helicopters. “Yeah,” he said, “I couldn’t get to sleep because of all the helicopters here.”
On the endless flight home, I kept thinking about my embarrassing announcement: “I’m American, I know what to do!!” My shame comes from recognizing that amidst this horrible scene, some unflattering part of my subconscious was ready to position myself as the main character. But if I try to give myself a little grace, I can also see that as Americans, the awful truth is that we are prepared for this. We see it on the news, we imagine what it’s like to be there, and we brace for the inevitable impact when it’s our turn.
That whole day, my body was in Sydney but my soul had been in Providence. I’d been thinking of the countless times I’d driven up Waterman Street and passed by the Barus and Holley Building. I’d been thinking of the nearby parks where my children play. I’d been thinking of my friends who teach at Brown. All day, I’d been talking to my Providence community about how it feels when it finally happens to us.
Rebecca Atwood is a photographer and filmmaker under the banner of her company Atomic Clock. Her photos have appeared in the Boston Globe, Romper, The Public’s Radio, and on ABC’s Nightline. She served as President of the West Broadway Neighborhood Association from 2022 to 2024. She lives in Providence with her family.
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