Julie Smith of Readfield is a single parent whose son was in the Principles of Economics class at Brown University during the Dec. 13 shooting that resulted in the deaths of two students.

When classrooms become crime scenes, leadership is no longer measured by intentions or press statements. It is measured by outcomes—and by whether the people responsible for public safety are trusted and empowered to act without hesitation.

On December 13, 2025, a gunman opened fire during a review session for a Principles of Economics class at Brown University. Two students were murdered. Others were wounded. The campus was locked down as parents across the country waited for news no family should ever have to receive.

Maine was not watching from a distance.

My son, a recent graduate of a rural Maine high school, is a freshman at Brown. He was in that Principles of Economics class. He was not in the targeted study group—but students who sat beside him all semester were. These were not abstract victims. They were classmates and friends. Young people who should have been worried about finals, not hiding in lockdown, texting parents to say they were alive.

Despite the fact that the Brown shooting directly affected Maine families, Gov. Janet Mills offered no meaningful public acknowledgment of the tragedy. No recognition that Maine parents were among those grieving, afraid, and desperate for reassurance. In moments like these, acknowledgment matters. Silence is not neutral. It signals whose fear is seen—and whose is ignored. The violence at Brown is a Maine issue: our children are there. Our families are there. The fear, grief, and trauma do not stop at state lines.

The attack and what followed the attack deserve recognition. Law enforcement responded quickly, professionally, and courageously. Campus police, city officers, state police, and federal agents worked together to secure the campus and prevent further loss of life. Officers acted decisively because they understood their mission—and because they knew they would be supported for carrying it out.

That kind of coordination does not happen by accident. It depends on clear authority, mutual trust, and leadership that understands a basic truth: in moments of crisis, law enforcement must be free to work together immediately, without second-guessing.

Even when officers do everything right, the damage does not end when a campus is secured. Students return to classrooms changed—hyper-alert, distracted, scanning exits instead of absorbing ideas. Parents carry a constant, low-level dread, flinching at late-night calls and unknown numbers. Gun violence in schools does not just injure bodies; it fractures trust, rewires behavior, and leaves psychological scars that no statement or reassurance can undo.

That reality makes silence—and policy choices that undermine law enforcement—impossible to ignore.

After the Lewiston massacre in 2023, Governor Mills promised lessons would be learned—that warning signs would be taken seriously, mental-health systems strengthened, and public-safety coordination improved. Those promises mattered because Maine had already paid an unbearable price.

Instead of providing unequivocal support for law enforcement, the governor has taken actions that signal hesitation. Her decision to allow LD 1971 to become law is the latest example. The law introduces technical requirements that complicate inter-agency cooperation by emphasizing legal boundaries and procedural caution. Even when cooperation is technically “allowed,” the message to officers is unmistakable: slow down, worry about liability, protect yourself first.

In emergencies, that hesitation can cost lives. Hesitation by law enforcement in Providence could have cost my son his life. We cannot allow hesitation to become the precedent for Maine policies.

In 2025 alone, hundreds of gun-related incidents have occurred on K–12 and college campuses nationwide. This is not theoretical. This is the environment in which our children are expected to learn—and the reality Maine families carry with them wherever their children go.

My son worked his entire academic life—without wealth or legacy—for the chance to pursue higher education, believing it would allow him to return to Maine rather than leave it behind. Now he is asking a question no 18-year-old should have to ask: why come home to a state whose leaders hesitate to fully stand behind the people responsible for keeping him alive?

Maine’s leaders must decide whose side they are on when crisis strikes: the officers who run toward danger, or the politics that ask them to slow down first.

Parents are done with hollow promises. Students deserve leaders who show their support not with words—but with action.