Column by Leanne Stahulak
Photo by Ashley Mickens
Call it a hunch, or a lead, or a curiosity. Call it investigative journalism, or pure nosiness. Regardless, three months ago, I had a burning desire to know the story behind the two female runaways in Oxford.
They were both 16 years old, both students at Talawanda High School, and both on the run. One girl disappeared for almost a month, from December 2019 through January 2020. The other girl was gone for three days this past February. Both cases sparked police investigations and alerts on Facebook, rallying Oxford citizens to help find the girls. But I never had a chance to find out why—that burning question of why—either of them vanished in the first place.
I spent the first few weeks of the semester compiling police records of other juvenile cases, a list of sources and community Facebook posts. I pictured interviews with loved ones or friends of the girls—even testimonials from the runaways themselves. The edges of a story began to take shape in my mind, building on the latest juvenile crimes and recent updates from the Oxford Police Department. It was a story few had covered, and none had reported on extensively — a perfect opportunity for a journalist writing her first long-form investigative piece.
But a bigger story emerged before I even had the chance to start asking questions. The day before my first interview, President Greg Crawford announced that Miami University would officially move to online classes until April 12. The reason was plastered across every news feed, every headline, every social media caption and Facebook post.
COVID-19. Coronavirus.
Almost overnight, the university descended into chaos. Carefree partiers swarmed the bars Uptown, shoving on top of one another and spilling drinks and swapping spit like it was New Year’s Eve all over again. Some panicked packers crammed their belongings into draw-string bags and laundry bins, filling their cars to the brim before speeding down Route 27. Professors scrambled to adjust their syllabi, rewrite assignments and convert class discussions into video conferences overnight. And some of us stayed home, finishing the homework that was still due the next day before watching The Bachelor finale on Hulu Live TV.
Time stopped that first night. But by the next morning, it felt like years had passed.
Barren sidewalks and skeleton crews and the rumbling of empty buses greeted me on my way to work. An eerie quiet settled into Oxford’s streets, like if someone stepped too loudly they’d awaken a sleeping beast. It was only sixteen hours since President Crawford had announced students could leave Oxford and return home for online classes, but it felt like campus had been a ghost town for decades. The absence of human life certainly made the rest of us feel like ghosts.
By this point, the investigative piece I’d planned to write about the runaways in Oxford had been replaced with a different assignment. I could pursue the story on my own if I still wanted to, but we were under no obligation to go out and interview or meet with people unless we absolutely wanted to.
I already knew this story would be somewhat challenging to report on, and that was before the world urged us to isolate ourselves and limit human interaction. Knowing that juvenile crime is an important and timely topic, but recognizing the limitations placed on me by the current situation, I knew I couldn’t do the story justice right now.
It was too big and too important a topic to half-ass from the safety of my bed in Indianapolis. If I was going to write this story in the future, it would be when I could look into the faces of the people I interviewed and walk through the Butler County Juvenile Detention Center without fear of collecting germs. Both my dad and my grandparents were immunocompromised, and I wasn't willing to risk their lives for an in-person interview or photo op.
But that doesn’t mean I’m done writing and reporting. The story’s just shifted now.
Brenna Koelblin and Abigale Faith started running months ago. Now, students and citizens of Oxford are following right behind them, running from the fear and uncertainty plaguing all of us as the virus creeps closer and closer to our city. While I can’t speak for the girls’ motivations to get out of town, I can speak for the friends and classmates and professors who packed up their cars and left. I can speak for myself, when, seven days after President Crawford’s announcement, I too got the hell out of Oxford.
Not because I wanted to leave behind my senior friends or apartment or junior year. But because I knew it would be better for my family and myself if I settled at home in Indy.
At first, getting into my car and driving off may have felt like running away. But maybe we’re all just running towards something: a better memory, a better future, a better goodbye. Maybe we’re saying this is not the last we’ll see of Oxford and the people in it, and we’re just waiting for the right time to come home.
I hope that all of Oxford’s runaways find peace and solace as we lock ourselves in and throw away the key. I hope that by the end of this, we’ll all be running back to Oxford, back to the people and the community we all know and love. I hope we remember that the road will always be there, to take us away or welcome us home.
