“Forward, together forward”

“There’s victory in view”

“Come on you Huskies, fight on you Huskies”

“And win for NIU”

Huskie Fight Song, Northern Illinois University

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The last time I saw Rus Elder in person was Homecoming of 1992. I lived in Maryland, but was excited about returning to DeKalb for the festivities. I was excited to see friends, and I was excited to see Rus.

When I arrived on campus, the photo lab in Cole Hall was my first stop. I found Rus busy with preparations for the weekend. I asked if I could help.

I don’t remember the specifics of what we did, but it involved a walk across campus. We walked and talked about our lives during the past seven years. I told him about my career. He told me about changes taking place on campus.

What I really wanted to do was thank him for everything he had done for me when I was a student. Seeds that were planted then had taken root over the years and, even if I didn’t fully appreciate everything when I graduated, I did by the time I returned.

Expressing emotion had always been awkward for me. Sure, I had said thank you before, but that was not enough. So we walked and talked and, all the while, in the back of my mind, I was wondering how to bring that up.

When we were about to say goodbye, I just blurted it out—a heartfelt declaration of what he meant to me as a teacher and mentor, an acknowledgment of how important those lessons had become to me and how often I still used them, and an offer that if he ever needed anything from me, he only had to ask.

He looked at me, smiled and said, “Don’t tell me. Tell the university.”

The friend I was most excited to see was Jill. She was already at the stadium with a few other friends. Once everyone was present, Jill and her husband announced that they were expecting a child in May.

I congratulated them. We watched the Huskies defeat Southern Mississippi and I headed home.

I wrote an impassioned letter to the university. I told them about the impact the journalism program had on me and my career—that any success I’ve had is a direct result of that program. And that it would be a shame if future students were denied the same opportunity.

The programs merged anyway.

I didn’t think much about NIU after that. Jill had a boy the following spring. She named him Kevin.

Children came for me as well, Alex and Jake.

Life got busy. Somewhere along the way, I read that Rus retired.

Then, on Valentine’s Day in 2008, I turned on the news. There was NIU, but it didn’t look like a happy story. It wasn’t. A gunman opened fire in Cole Hall killing five students and injuring 17 more before fatally shooting himself.

It was a gut punch—not just because school shootings are horrific, but because this one hit closer to home.

I spent the formative years of my life on that campus—in that building. It was my safe place. It still held all of those memories. Now, it would never be that place for future generations.

Instead, it would be a place remembered for violence. Forever.

The building was closed. Eventually it became an administrative building. It will never host classes again.

“Forward, together forward” became a mantra for getting through that horrific event.

The next time I visited the NIU campus was 2019. Jill was with me.

I had only seen her a couple times in the 26 years after that Homecoming game. But in 2018, we reconnected—both single, both wondering what moving forward would look like.

By the time we returned to campus, we hoped to be moving forward together.

We went to the education building where Jill learned to be a teacher. She had risen to the top of her profession over the years.

We went to Cole Hall as well. A monument stood in front of the building with the words, “Forward, Together Forward” on top and the names of those who lost their lives underneath. More than 10 years after the event, people still left flowers.

We walked inside—past the lecture hall where the shooting occurred. We paused to pay our respects and imagined what it must have been like that day.

We headed down the stairs to where the photo lab used to be. It’s not there anymore. I didn’t expect it to be. Tragedies aside, there is no need for darkrooms and film processing in today’s world of digital photography.

What I found surprised me. As I entered the space, the halls looked the same—long and narrow with cinderblock walls painted white, lit by fluorescent light fixtures that still buzzed with the same sound. It was like stepping back in time.

And on the walls—photographs, just like there always had been. But when I looked at the photos, they were different. Instead of students’ work lining the walls, it was the students themselves—a picture of every class of photojournalism students who had passed through this building.

I found myself in those pictures. Young. Hopeful. Ready to take on the world. I recognized that person. I remembered him. Oddly, though, when I looked at his face I saw my son, who was currently in college, staring back at me.

Jill and I stayed for a while, took some pictures and headed for the door. Before we left, I stopped her and kissed her.

“I wish I would have done that 35 years ago,” I said.

And we left.

It’s interesting, the tapestries we create in our lives—woven together by time, always moving in one direction.

Things we wish we had done.

Things we wish we could do again.

Things that don’t change.

Things we wish would stay the same.

Loss. New love. Tragedy. Joy.

Roxy, Blitz, Dakota and I moved to Illinois the following year to be with Jill. Later that year, Kevin, who had grown into a firefighter and paramedic, met a nurse named Brittany. They fell in love and married in 2023.

I proposed to Jill at their wedding. We were married in 2024.

And just last week, Kevin and Brittany welcomed their first child, Kinsley Alexandra. Jill’s granddaughter. My granddaughter.

Kinsley came into the world two months early. She is doing very well. But there has been a whirlwind of activity surrounding her arrival—the scramble to do things we thought there was more time to do mixed with all of the emotions that come when something this important happens sooner than expected.

Sometimes it seems overwhelming.

Sometimes we wonder how we will get through it.

Sometimes we don’t know which way to go.

The answer?

Forward. Together forward.

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If you’re an NIU photojournalism alum and want to see the photos hanging in Cole Hall, you can click here to see the gallery.