An Open Letter to Dr. Michael T. Nietzel, President of Missouri State University.

President Nietzel,

I respond to your official statement on the subject of our beloved University’s safety procedures.

I am disappointed by the reiteration of Missouri State’s foolish and detrimental policy which prohibits legally carried firearms on our campus. We have seen in Virginia the danger of such discrimination.

As a student of Missouri State University, I have at all times abided by the stated policy in that I have not carried a firearm onto campus. I have followed this policy at risk to my own safety. Despite having been trained in the use of firearms and other tools of defense, I did not carry a firearm while in class. I did not carry a firearm while leaving the library after studying beyond midnight hours. I did not carry a firearm when walking or bicycling between the several blocks from my class halls to my once place of student employment. I did not carry a firearm when bicycle and bus commuting from my home to school, despite the subsequent exposure to drunkards, drug abusers, and attempted sexual abusers when traveling alone downtown in day and in night. I did not carry a firearm when an armed criminal had challenged and threatened multiple students on our campus parking lots.

I have survived physically unscathed. I have no evidence, however, that my survival is due to the security measures of Missouri State University. The security and police forces which I witnessed on campus were all, save a single exception, patrolling parking lots in order to assign tickets for parking violations. In my years at Missouri State, I encountered but one policeman in the campus proper; just one officer on the third floor of Strong Hall, far from the dangers a young woman faces when walking alone, unarmed, in the evening air.

I value my years at Missouri State. They have served as an excellent preparation for my future studies as I pursue academia. I strive to continue the gift of teaching that my professors have displayed. I can but hope and advocate that when I am entrusted with the minds and careers of a future generation of students, that I will not be so dreadfully limited in the protection of their physical safety as Dr. Liviu Librescu was limited in his classroom on Monday. The heroic Dr. Librescu’s only tool for the defense of his students was his seventy-seven year old body, which he used to blockade the door from the gunman while his students escaped through windows. I feel the loss of his life keenly, for I know that many of my mentors at Missouri State would have given their bodies as Dr. Librescu gave his. I mourn and I protest that Missouri State persists in the denial of our esteemed faculty access to their Constitutionally protected tools of defense.

As a student of history and political science, a significant percentage of my classmates are members of the Armed Forces. Many of those students have served overseas. All have had extensive training in the very tools which the Missouri State policy on firearms prohibits. I would be proud to have each of these soldier students sit next to me in a classroom, as equally armed and prepared as I and my fellow civilian students would be were we in an environment which truly valued liberty and protection. For we are the students — the military and the civilian, the honors and the average, the wealthy and the poor — who each day respect the policies of Missouri State as staunchly as we respect the rights of man. Only the very few, those who hold no such respect for society and for human rights, dare to trespass as the weak murderer so trespassed in Virginia Tech. The criminal which threatened our own campus in 2006 blatantly ignored the policy in question when he pursued his ill ends. When the community stands strongly and fervently, each individual acknowledging the other’s right to the pursuit of life and the defense thereof, such weaklings rarely attempt their crimes and ever more rarely succeed.

Therefore, President Nietzel, I respectfully oppose the current policy which restricts the legal carry of firearms and other tools of defense on the campus of Missouri State University.

Lorien D. Johnson
History and Political Science, Senior.

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My letter was sent in response to the following emails from the Missouri State University administration.

From: Office of the President
Sent: Tue 4/17/2007 12:19 PM
Subject: University Safety Procedures

Finally, matters of safety and security are everyone’s responsibility at some level — obeying the University’s restriction on having weapons on campus, being vigilant for breaches of security, locking doors to buildings and offices when we leave them for the day, encouraging individuals who may be undergoing stressful periods or experiencing obvious signs of emotional disturbance to seek professional intervention — are just some of the practices that each of us can render in the interests of all us. Please let me know of additional suggestion you might have to improve our capacity for responding to emergency situations on campus as we strive to make our campus as safe and secure as possible.

Michael T. Nietzel

President

—-

As a follow-up to his earlier message, President Nietzel asked me to emphasize the campus policy regarding the presence of firearms and other weapons. Missouri State University strictly prohibits any firearms, whether concealed or in plain view, from campus, unless specifically approved by the Director of Safety and Transportation. Included in this prohibition is ammunition, as well as weapons of any kind, including explosive weapons. This policy applies to all areas of campus, including parking lots and vehicles.

Thank you for your assistance in abiding by this policy. Should you have any questions or concerns, please contact my office or the Director of Safety and Transportation, Gary Snavely.

Ken McClure

Associate Vice President for Administrative and Information Services

The feria defines my Cochabamba.

The feria is a fresh produce fair held in a stretched loop of good road near the center of town every Saturday and Sunday. My mother and I leave by 8:30 on Saturday mornings, always equipped with numerous bolsas and hopefully coated in sufficient sunscreen. We have our taxi park at the quiet end of the loop and happily enter the friendly cacophany.

Outdoor markets make me happy. They’re my favorite feature of Renaissance Fairs, and I watch Notting Hill to see the booths of crafted goods and arts (well, and maybe for the clever sap). When I pictured myself in Bolivia it was a chaotic and smiling road of not-really-organized tables and bustling bodies in which my mental image was placed. The feria of Cochabamba does not disappoint!

People are everywhere, everywhere and fall into four general categories: vendors, shoppers, cart-kids, and beggars.

The vendors generally buy their produce from campesino farmers. Their veggies and such are piled high on their tables and baskets. The fruit booths are the prettiest. The booth of nuts, herbs, and dried fruits is by far the most expensive. Veggies aren’t all that’s sold, although they’re certainly the most common. Girls and women wander around offering bunches of garlic or trashbags — usually both. One booth, right at the end where we enter, sells oodles of cheap earrings, beaded bracelets, and DVDs — generally not English DVDs, and hence not worth buying. I keep buying the cheap jewelry, though… then there’s the section of households supplies… and the apron lady… and the flowers are lovely.

Two flower spots occupy the feria. At the beginning of the feria is a small, happy, and sweet lady with the most wilted and pitiful flowers available. We always buy a small bundle from her and she adds another for free. At the opposite end of the feria is a cluster of tables with gorgeous bouquets. Today we bought 6 calalilies for just under a U.S. dollar, and these lovely fuschia somethings the lady called “ginger” for 75 cents.

Personalities vary, naturally, but generally the vendor ladies like to toss in a few extra of whatever you’ve bought just to make you happy.

The shoppers, quite interestingly, seem to be every bit as international as the vendors are Bolivian. Americans, Brits, Germans, and Spaniards seem to be in near-equal proportion to the Bolivians. Or, possibly, the increased number of international faces simply holds stronger in my mind because it’s the most varied crowd I’ve seen outside of the English-speaking church.

The cart-kids took a bit of time to stop jarring my sensibilities. They range in age from 6ish to 15ish, and they crowd in the center of the feria and at the back end. Each child has a wheelbarrow, and for two or three Bolivianos (U.S. $0.25–0.33) they will follow shoppers and carry their goods. A single child probably makes four-ish dollars in a weekend for what is bound to be a tiring work trodging along the hill on which the feria rests. We pay them particularly well, and I’m happy for their service. Whilst the ideal remains that they needn’t do such work, to deny them the work either personally or through public policy would injure them for more than their efforts. Doesn’t quite keep one’s heart from breaking a bit, mind you.

The beggars are a curious and entertaining lot. Tiny old ladies who silently stand at your hand with an outstretched hand until you take notice by handing them a coin, and middle-aged men who stand, press, and block your path until you buy their packs of chewing gum. A very disabled boy in his teens who smiles and stares with not-quite-right eyes. The blind girl, possibly in her twenties, who plays an accordian really very well. Mom’s favorite is the woman who sits in the middle of a path and will chat with you for a bit — although I’ve not quite been able to determine what she’s saying between my faulty Spanish, the noise of the feria, and her mumbling lips. She’s joyful, though, and welcomes a hand and a hug. A new team was in the fish corner today, a brother and sister or a mother and son — impossible to know, but I think the former — who sang very terribly (her) and drummed an ill rhythm (him). I gave them five Bolivianos, just out of delight… and maybe in apology for the unwilling grimace I know I must have made.

Here’s the important bit, though — everyone is at the feria working hard. The vendors who try to prove their cauliflower is better than that of the booth’s next door. The shoppers parting with their Bolivianos in order to feed their families and decorate their homes. The children carting fifty pounds of barrow and goods up and down the hill. The beggars who wait for an offer of personalized welfare.

and every one of them is smiling.

Not at first, for some, but one can make even the grumpiest little ninety-year-old Aymaran woman cackle with glee at a joke over the overly-strong flavor of her herbs, and the most reserved and stern old bat will cave when you ask her how to best cook the root you’re considering buying. A tired little one will smile shyly when offered a cotton candy or their choice of hair-barrette at the accessories cart. With a few steady visits, a kind voice, and a session of haggling in which you pay full price after having already won a lower quote, nearly every person at the feria will greet you with a smile, a hug, and a chaste cheeky kiss.

This is Cochabamba.

Insanity.

Totally bonkers and nutty and filled with stress.

That’s what’s it’s like to try and fly on Lloyd Aereo Boliviano.

First one cancellation, then the second. I went to the airport and they gave me a voucher for a hotel. The Red Roof Inn at MIA was perfectly pleasant. I walked next door and paid way too much for decent food at Bennigan’s. I enjoyed walking in the evening of Miami, though, after the chills of Missouri. So, okay, good hotel experience for a free night.

I was told that the next day we’d have a flight. Right, whatever. I went with it, though. I scheduled it with the contact in Miami, the kind family that let me stay at their house when the flights were cancelled, to store my luggage (8 pieces, not counting the cat) in their pickup throughout the day. That way I wouldn’t have to deal with that monstrousity of a headache while negotiating to make sure I had a flight. Plan fell through. Without delving into details, I soon found myself with all 8 pieces of luggage and a cat in the airport completely on my own. Oh, but was this fun!

I camped out with all of the luggage right in front of the LAB ticketing counter. It was 2:00pm. The counter would open at 7:00pm. At about 3:30pm I realized that I had to get to the bank in order to pull out the cash for my luggage and any emergencies overseas between Miami and Cochabamba, Bolivia. and yet? Luggage. I had all of the trunks and duffel bags stacked onto two airport luggage carts, with Captain Pausert’s Prison perched atop one of them. Keep in mind that my previous airport experience involved my passport/wallet/ID/cash/everything stolen while I was carrying it. I was not about to leave my luggage. I did part from it to run the 60 feet to an airport directory map in order to determine where the bank was.

The LAB counter, where I was camped, was in Concourse E Level 2. The Bank of America was in Concourse A Level 4. Maybe B. I think A. Whatever — it was far.

I pushed one cart ahead of me and pulled the other behind. They were disastrous to steer — I’d aim them in the necessary direction and then move forward about six feet. Then I’d pause, re-align, and push. Repeat. Repeat through elevators. Repeat through countless long hallways. Repeat up and down inclines. Repeat repeat repeat. I made it to the Bank of America and back to the LAB counter with my luggage carts only unstacking themselves messily once, and I burned about 9,000,000 calories. It took almost an hour and a half.

Skip ahead through the hours. I’m tired and pissy and I want to be in Bolivia. The LAB fellow comes out and starts arranging the line-organizing-poles. I was smiley and making chitchat. All was well. They started speaking very, very fast Spanish to let everyone know what the deal was. I essentially monopolized the Guy In Charge because he was willing to speak English. They had a list of names of the people that were going to be able to fly out that night. I was #2.

This was a Very Good Thing.

Except, of course, I would be flying on a different airline and thus only be able to take one piece of luggage. LAB would fly all of my other 8 luggage pieces via cargo the next week. Problem: when luggage flies cargo, the cargo goes through the very intense version of customs. Fortunes are swiftly charged. I’d pay more in customs than I’d paid to purchase the supplies and fly them via passenger plane! Unacceptable, and the LAB guy was openly lying about the customs issue and mocking my refusal. The alternative was that I accept the flight on AeroSur and put my luggage on standby. I knew, though, that once I signed and accepted the AeroSur ticket that LAB would no longer accept me as their responsibility. The guy even said so, at one point! So, hypothetically, I could end up stuck in Miami with all of my things, having been abandoned by the contact who’d promised my father he’d manage the airport headaches, and be without a ticket to Bolivia and without a voucher for hotels.

That would be a Very Bad Thing.

I spent the next hour + some arguing and fighting for a commitment that my luggage would be accepted and LAB would Make Everything Work. I recorded it all, and one of these days I’ll upload it for amusement and posterity. The process was maddening — I’d negotiate with LAB Jerkface who claimed he was the Highest LAB Official on the Eastern U.S. Coast that night, my father would call me for an update, he’d call the travel agent and find out that what LAB Jerkface was saying was nonsense, and then I’d negotiate again. Eventually everything was at a standstill. I agreed to let LAB store my luggage in their office while I grabbed a sandwich and went to the bathroom. One sandwich purchased and stored in my TimBuk2 and a HUGE espresso swiftly guzzled at Starbucks, and I was set. I camped out back at the LAB counter and photographed the LAB Jerkface for records-purposes.

I reinitiated chats with my fellow stranded passengers. A bond had quickly grown between us throughout the day. Most of them barely spoke English, and I’d not practiced Spanish since the college courses… it was limited. One lady, however, informed me that AeroSur was allowing extra luggage after all. A bit of questioning later, and I decided to go to AeroSur myself to find out what was up.

In the meantime, my father had called the boss of the fellow who’d abandoned me at MIA. The boss sent the guy back out. By that time, of course, I’d gotten past the worst of the experiences and really wasn’t excited about dealing with an additional variable, no matter how good the fellow’s intentions were. Regardless, he reappeared and helped me cart my things through the lines at AeroSur, which I did greatly appreciate.

For the first time in hours, I had hopes of making it out of the country intact.

On December 17th, 2006, my plane from Kansas City left at 7:25am to Miami, Florida, from which I would continue to Bolivia, South America.

I was not on that plane.

Rewind.

Summarized To Do List:
– 3 finals
– 2 papers
– 4 trunks to ship to Bolivia
– 1 apartment to pack
– 3 cars to empty and clean
– 1 tea party to hold
– 2,730.3 loose ends to tie

12.3.2006
Grandmother is about to leave for KC. She needs a laptop, desperately, in order to communicate. Funds were tight, no sufficient sales. I decided to sell her my computer for $250. Bought a new notebook, an upgrade from my 2005 model, for $600. $350 investment, brand new computer. Had to move everything over.

12.5.2006
Grandmother leaves for Kenya.
12.7.2006
Two of the four trunks are packed and shipped ahead to Miami.

12.8.2006

The car dies.

12.9.2006

I rent a car.

12.10.2006
I enter the apartment (have been living in the house for convenience) to grab a bag to take to my Paper Writing Day at the library. Raining inside. Pipe had burst. Massive amounts of the next several days are used for cleanup, meeting/conversations with insurance, you name it…

12.11.2006
Inquisition final submitted.

12.12.2006
Finals for Public Administration and Research Analysis Methods are taken. Require a 95% on the Research Analysis final in order to maintain an A in the course.

12.14.2006
One paper is finished, at long last, and is quite lackluster comparative to my other work. I somehow don’t care. Meanwhile, I realize with a gasp that there’s not a snowball’s chance that I can successfully finish my Inquisition paper. Incomplete is requested — there’ll be time to write on the planes.

12.15.2006
I clean clean clean the house. Kristin and Katherine arrive. Gloriously casual tea party is held with Earl Grey, Cranberry Scones, Cucumber Sandwiches, Clotted Cream, Black Raspberry Jam, and Champagne. Christmas gifts are exchanged. Giggly videos are made. I am subjected to a seven minute recorded interrogation on the subject of whether I will find a Hot Bolivian Husband (Lorien: “NO. Marxists deserve to be stoned, not wed.”). Said video will never see the light of day. Kristin and Katherine secretly plot to steal said video.

12.16.2006
I awake at 6:15, two hours later than my alarm had been set. I pack one trunk. Kristin and Katherine wake up. We go to a bridal shop to inspect a dress Kristin had spotted through a window. Pleats are admired. Library books are returned, including one that was intended for a different library. Oops? Return home. I’m officially Stressed. More stressed than I have ever been in my life. Katherine and Kristin go about finding ways to help, and they’re marvelous — dishes from the tea party, unplugging appliances, packing the car, keeping me sane… nonetheless, I often find myself switching rooms and doing Lamaze breathing and 3 second bursts of tears. Stress intensifies when I realize just how many of my parents’ supplies I have to leave behind. I decide to NOT pack the apartment. Or clean the cars. Or. Or. Or. Car is packed. We leave town 2.5 hours later than intended. I’m a mess. We get to Kansas City and have dinner with Kristin’s fiancee Josh. Entirely exhausted, we all go to my motel by the airport. It’s dark and spooky, but it’s $64 for the 4 hours I intend to be there. Luggage and cat are placed inside, and the three of us tearfully pray and say goodbye.

12.17.2006
I awake at 4:30, one hour later than my alarm had been set, by my father calling. I rearrange the luggage so that one of my purses can be emptied and abandoned. I rearrange my wallet so that my daily wallet can be emptied and abandoned. Everything is set. I carry my luggage to the shuttle. I’m the only one. I’m driven to the airport. My hand is on my wallet throughout the shuttle ride. I even think “obsessive, much?”. Get out of the shuttle. Carry luggage 30–40 feet from shuttle to the check-in counter. It takes about a minute to a minute and a half for me to realize that in that time and space my wallet as disappeared.

My wallet contained:
– Passport
– Driver’s License
– International Driver’s License
– My bank and credit cards
– My father’s bank and credit cards
– My mother’s bank and credit cards
– $500 cash

Gone.

AirTran lets me check-in regardless. I have to rearrange part of the luggage in order to only have one bag overweight. I’m given a boarding pass so that if I find my wallet I can get on the plane quickly.

I go off to the side to look around and dig through my carryons. Can’t find it. This woman walks through the door and comes straight towards me, doesn’t even look around. Just looks at me and says, “Don’t cry, honey. It’ll be alright.” and walks on. I didn’t think to look to see where she went, but I didn’t see her again. I’m not positive she was human.

I spend the next several hours in a state of almost constantly brimming tears. They rarely spilled, but they were there.

I can’t fly.

6:00am: IM my mother — “URGENT. WALLET GONE. NEED DAD.” Discuss the matter with Dad.
6:30am: Receive text from Katherine — “I love you. Miss you already.“
7:00am: There’s no way I’m finding my wallet. The AirTran lady that was taking care of me told me to make a police statement.

The police come by.
Policeman #1: “You lost a wallet?“
Lorien: “Yes sir.“
P#1: “Why’d you call US?“
L: “The ticketing people told me to.“
P#1: {gets huffy and impatient. Still he’s apparently very bored. He sticks around.}
Policeman #2: {arrives}

They have me go through my carryons in case they see the wallet. They have me call the shuttle driver back so they can search the shuttle. P#1 is very eager to interrogate a shuttle driver who likely has a criminal record (because he’s a shuttle driver, they say), and is almost definitely illegal (ditto). No luck.

I text/call Katherine. She leaves church to come and get me.

We stick around the airport until 9:51, when the last possible flight that I could have taken left.

I recommend AirTran. I didn’t even ask, but they gave me a FULL credit for my plane ticket, the fee for my cat’s flight, refunded the extra baggage weight cost, AND waived the $50 cancellation fee. PJ at the K/MCI Airport’s AirTran booth is a dear and kind lady.

Katherine takes me to the motel to search the room, just in case. Nothing.

In the car, Katherine gasps: “!!! You can come to the CHRISTMAS PARTY and surprise Kristin! Don’t you dare tell Kristin!” A plan is formed.

Katherine takes me to her home. We have tea and cookies. Her family gets home. We have lunch. It’s very much like my own family, so everything is very easy and comfortable. Katherine’s parents are incredibly kind.

We go out to the World Market and Target for presents and wrapping. That evening is the Christmas Party for the learning center at which we all used to tutor and where we became friends in the first place back in our early years of college. We decide to craft the Ultimate Kristin Gift. Earl Grey tea, Cranberry scone mix, clotted cream, and lemon curd (sound familiar?). Katherine gets that, and I buy a box of Kung Fu Fido (“Someday you’ll find yourself barking up the RIGHT tree!”).

Back to Katherine’s house for tea and ironing.

Christmas party. Kristin was presenting Zee Boy and Zee Ring that evening, and we daren’t endanger that. We arrived a half hour late. Kristin was still not there. Katherine went inside, ready to text me when it was safe to come in. Fifteen minutes pass, and Kristin and Josh arrive. They drive up and their headlights are directly facing Katherine’s car where I’m hunkering down so as not to be seen. Ten minutes more. Katherine texts: “come”. I enter.

I can hear Katherine babbling nearby to distract from my entrance. Leta, our old boss, spots me. “It’s so good to SEE YOU!!!” Kristin hears and turns. It was brilliant. She physically staggered, bent sideways at the waist as if she wasn’t really seeing properly, gasped, pointed, made fish expressions, and came towards me.

In short: Katherine and I will a) never again achieve such an effect, and b) shortly be dead in a puddle of Kristin’s vengeance.

The gift exchange was a roaring success. Someone else opened the Tea in a Bag gift that Katherine had prepared, and Kristin’s face grew increasingly amazed as she watched its unwrapping. Katherine and I spent the next half hour stealing things from Kristin whenever we could manage it in order to ensure that she captured the Tea. Katherine wound up with a neat collection of gourmet cocoas (one of which she gave to me, because she’s spectacularly sweet) and I kept my Kung Fu Fido fortune cookies.

Another goodbye with Kristin, and we went back to Katherine’s house.

12.18.2006

I wake up at 5:45am. More sleep than I’ve had in weeks. Captain Pausert, my poor cat who had been with me throughout this dreadful adventure, had expressed his dismay and discontent and lack of a litterbox by peeing on my leg in Katherine’s guest room bed.

Thought #1: “EWUGH!!“
Thought #2: “Oh maaaaaaaaaan.“
Thought #3: “and her Mom has been so nice to me!“
Thought #4: “Oh. ack. I hope they believe me when I say it was the cat.” (By the way, I just looked. Apparently this is a Cat Thing. Ew.)

I showered. I locked myself OUT of the room. Katherine’s Dad took off the door. Katherine helped me set the sheets a-washing. We had breakfast. Katherine’s Mom hugged me even though Pausert made a mattress stinky. Katherine has a good mom. I managed to not bawl. I’d told Katherine that I knew I would, since I knew that any existence of maternal presence was going to make me weep. I didn’t manage to speak to my own mother until Tuesday, because I knew I’d be a mess the moment I did. By Tuesday I could handle it. Anyway.

We went to the Longview Lab so that Katherine could work and I could wait for my ride to Springfield. We hoped that a student or a math tutor would eat one of the dog cookies — no luck, too few students available. My ride arrived — a friend of my father’s very kindly drove me back to Springfield.

12.19.2006

I did nothing.

12.20.2006

I have written this. I am fixing the websites. I am in Springfield. I am going to be in Springfield for at least a few more weeks. Possibly a month and a half. I despise it. This is life. I am going to pack the apartment, empty the flooded garage, tie up all of the loose ends. I will write the Inquisition paper. I will finish my undergraduate thesis. If I decide to wait another three weeks, I will take the LSAT. Then I will go to Bolivia.

The loss/theft of a 8“x5” leather bundle has changed the course of two months of my life.

Surreal.