A Year Ago, Yesterday
A year ago yesterday, my hometown Thousand Oaks was known as a safe, quiet, nondescript suburbia — if it was known at all. Population ~128,000. Known locally as simply “T.O.” and recognized for our mall, which is basically our downtown. It’s a family place, lots of schools, parks, and kids. The nearby University of Cal Lutheran brings some college life to the area. It’s common to bump into people and fellow church friends at the grocery store.
Growing up, our family even had a little jingle we’d say whenever we ran into someone: “Everywhere you go, in TO, you see someone you know!” It’s that kind of neighborhood. At night, the street lights are dim enough where you can see the stars. It’s quiet; honking, rarely, sirens, almost never.
A year ago yesterday, in the middle of the night, all of that changed. It changed when a man decided to head into a local country bar, Borderline Bar & Grill, with a gun. He killed 12 people.
A year ago today, I woke up in my apartment in Fargo, North Dakota to a text from a friend. It was a link to an article from BBC News with the headline: “Police are responding to a mass shooting at a bar in Thousand Oaks, California.”
I cannot describe the gut-wrenching, gasping fear that twists your stomach when reading a headline like that. For the millions of residents who live in the 252 other cities that have experienced a shooting, I don’t have to. You never expect to see your once-unheard-of-hometown emblazoned across national and global headlines, attached to the word “shooting” and “massacre.” You never want to see that. I suddenly felt very, very far away.
I called my parents, waking them up. They hadn’t heard the news. Gasps. “We’ll call you back,” they said. I found out my brother had been at Borderline the week before. My cousin was supposed to be there that night but changed plans last minute. That’s the thing, suddenly a minor change of plans or “I didn’t feel like going” became the difference between life and death.
I knew Borderline well. Every summer in between my college year, I’d spend many a Wednesday college night there, shuffling along awkwardly to the line dancing and developing a taste for country music. It was kind of the place to go, and one of the only places, at the time — we’d run into old high school friends, play pool in the back area, or talk outside in the tiny, crammed patio. The signature piece was a huge cowboy hat made out of white lights that hung over the dance floor.
That grim morning, I walked through the entirety of Borderline in my mind, picturing the cowboy hat, the dance floor, the bar directly in front when you walk in, the upper area with booths off to the right, the pool tables to the left… and suddenly my perspective was shifted. I pictured a man with a gun entering the building. The dance floor — so exposed. The pool tables that became shields for patrons as they ducked beneath them. The back patio, one of the only escape routes. As I read about the chaos of the night, I could play it out so vividly in my mind. I went back and found an old video of my friends and I dancing at Borderline. I watched it in confusion. How could this place become the setting for a massacre? How could this happen? Why?
I followed the story for the rest of the day, moving distracted through my daily work priorities and checking in with my family. There was a this-can’t-be-real feeling seeing hashtags like #ThousandOaksShooting and #ThousandOaksMassacre trending on Twitter. It was like seeing a dark, evil word latched unwanted to a name that stood for the quiet, humble neighborhood of my childhood. An innocence was lost.
Then, the names of the victims slowly came to light. “Everywhere you go in TO, you see someone you know” — it’s a small community. Of the 12 people who were killed, most of the community either knew one of them or had a connection. My family included.
As I saw the #ThousandOaksMassacre hashtag spread, however, there was another hashtag. #ThousandOaksStrong. I confess I’d never really felt particularly proud to be from Thousand Oaks. I never really thought about it, to be honest. It was simply “that suburb outside of LA” where I grew up. Now, as the other 252 cities can attest to as well, it’s more than that.
Tragedy is refining. In a healthy community, it brings people together. I witnessed it in Fargo with the death of Officer Moszer and Savanna Greywind. I’ve read about it happening in the aftermath of shootings around the country. Seeing it happen here in my own hometown was naturally more intimate. My local favorite breakfast place, Eggs n Things, now sells shirts that say “Thousand Oaks Strong.” Its a mantra I see on stickers and flags around town. When I drive by that busy corner off of Moorpark Road towards Borderline, I see the flowers and remember the photos, placed there at the foot of an oak tree in the days after the shooting. Tonight, many will gather to celebrate what happened here, and what was lost.
No, good ol’ T.O. will never be the same as a year ago, yesterday. Inevitably, now, when Google searching the city, an article about the shooting will pop up. Now, when I mention the name of my hometown, some people pause and look somber. “Ah, wasn’t there a shooting there?”
It stung at first to think that this is now tied to my home. And in this is another layer of sadness that I’m sure other locals who’ve experienced hometown shootings can attest to; it begins to define your community to the world.
Yet what Thousand Oaks should be known for is not the half-hour of chaos and death on November 7, 2018. It should be known for the quiet stories, the local sports wins, the new breweries, the theatre productions. It should be known for the lives that are lived here. Lives like those that were lost: Telemachus Orfanos. Daniel Manrique. Ron Helus. Justin Meek. Alaina Housley. Cody Coffman. Noel Sparks. Kristina Morisette. Sean Adler. Mark Meza. Blake Dingman. Jake Dunham.
It’s defined in the “beauty from the ashes,” as Ron Helus’ wife said. The beauty that is seen in the tales of heroism, in the self-sacrifice of many of the victims who shielded others with their bodies and helped others escape, ensuring the death toll was far less than it could have been. It’s seen in the Borderline owners and community, as they continue to come together, to dance, to care for each other. It’s seen in the t-shirts and stickers, sharing the names of those who were lost. In the friends and family who continue to carry on their stories.
These are the stories that make Thousand Oaks strong. It may not be what it was a year ago yesterday, but this is Thousand Oaks, today.
Read more about the stories of the 12 victims and their families, here.
