42 new york | march 16–29, 2020
conflagration could erupt, even today. “I want to tell you,” Taylonn
Murphy said to me, sitting in his office at Manhattan’s family court,
where he works to help people navigate the system, “that was our
worst fear: that someone from up the hill would come down the
hill and one of the students would be killed.” Murphy’s own teenage
daughter, a basketball phenom nicknamed Chicken, had been
murdered in a gang shooting in 2011.
But no one knew what to do. Or what to say. Or how to say it or to
whom. At semi-regular meetings up at Columbia, stakeholders—
Taylor, reps from Parks and the university, local politicians—would
listen to Harper’s crime report. “Barnard hasn’t attended,” Harper
told me. “They weren’t disinvited. They hadn’t expressed interest.”
(Barnard says it receives regular briefings from the NYPD.) When
Tess and all the other first-year students arrived on campus, no one
mentioned the spike of crime in the park. A mandatory safety brief-
ing was part of their orientation, they say, but it was worthless. “We
had all been out the night before. We were all falling asleep. They
stressed basic safety information. There was nothing specifically that
I can remember about, ‘Don’t go in Morningside Park after dark,’ ”
says Sasha Hochman, who is from Philadelphia. “I personally did
not pay attention,” recalls Tehila Cherry, who is from San Diego. She
remembers talking to her parents on the phone a few weeks after
she arrived on campus. “They asked if I felt safe walking through
New York, and I was like, ‘Oh, yeah, I feel totally safe.’ And my dad
was like, ‘It’s good that you feel safe, but don’t be naïve.’ ”
This past September, Brad Taylor wrote his umpteenth email to
Mark Levine, the city councilmember for the area, begging for
three full-time Parks patrols to be dedicated to Morningside. “This
request is completely reasonable,” he wrote. In November, Taylor
counted 23 street lamps out in Morningside Park, at least five in
the area at the base of the steps.the murder occurred on a Wednesday night during Finals Week.
In the libraries, laptops and phones were open and glowing—tex-
ting, thinking, flirting, writing, commiserating, and cramming all
part of the same mental stream—while back at the dorm, some
found it necessary to take brain breaks, to do laundry, or to watch a
crappy movie, as one first-year told me, like 50 Shades of Grey.
The first text came at around 8:30 p.m. “Barnard Public
Safety Police are investigating a robbery/stabbing inside Morn-
ingside Park,” it said. “Suspect is a male wearing a green jacket
and a mask. Please avoid the area.”This was weird, but not too weird. Barnard, like nearly every
other college or university, has to comply with the Clery Act, a fed-
eral statute that requires schools to alert students of crimes on
campus; at Barnard, and at Columbia too, students receive regular
safety warnings about robberies and assaults on school property.
But soon rumors began to travel. This was a murder. The victim
was a Barnard student. She was a first-year, one of them. Sketchy
news reports outpaced the internal notifications, and parents
began texting, calling, sending links. The second text came in at
10:30. The incident did involve a Barnard student, it said. “Expect
email shortly, including information about counseling hours.” In
the dorms, the first-years began to panic, “Oh my God, holy shit, it
could be anyone. It could be your best friend.” Text chains with
dozens of people on them were circulating, pleading, “Say that
you’re here.” In the library, young women began to close their lap-
tops and go in search of their friends.
Confirmation came at 11 p.m. in an email from college president
Sian Beilock’s office. “Mourning the Tragic Death of a Barnard Stu-
dent,” the subject line said. Earlier that evening, a first-year named
Tessa Majors had been killed—“off campus,” it said, in Morningside
Park. The email was sincere, even anguished, but these two little
words, “off campus,” reflected a lawyer’s touch, a self-protective
assertion, in writing, defining the costs and risks of living in a big city
as beyond the jurisdiction of the college recruiting students there.
“With broken hearts,” the email began, “we share tragic news.”
Paulette Arnold, a junior, was in the basement of her dorm, not 500
feet from where the attack occurred, putting her clothes in the
washer when she received the email. “I collapsed on the ground,
heaving,” she said. “My legs went jelly.” Paulette had met Tess in the
first weeks of school, when Tess attended a meeting of Rare Candy,
the online music magazine Paulette helped to edit. Now, throughout
the hallways where the first-years lived and where a group had
recently commandeered a communal bathroom at midnight to help
Tess dye her hair seaweed green, you could hear people scream.
Tess was tiny and feminine and among her peers had started touse
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PHOTOGRAPHS: WILLIAM FARRINGTON/POLARIS (WEAVER, LEWIS); ANDREW LICHTENSTEIN/GETTY IMAGES (VIGIL); RICHARD DREW/SHUTTERSTOCK (HUNT)eleleft: One of the accused
leaving court on February 15;
right: Another arriving
at court on February 19.“That was our worst fear: that someone from up the hill would com
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march 16–29, 2020 | new york 43
use they/them pronouns, although she didn’t insist on it. A friend at
Tess’s Barnard memorial said she wore too much eyeliner or exactly
the right amount, depending on your point of view. But more than
that she was “bold,” as a fellow first-year put it. “Challenging,” said a
Barnard administrator. “Fearless,” said someone who had known her
for a very long time. She was disarmingly direct. She came off, espe-
cially to other first-years just finding their place in a new pecking
order, as almost intimidatingly confident, though others put it dif-
ferently. Tess was just supersmart, the kind of kid who loved Latin,
who read From Beirut to Jerusalem at 15 on a family vacation, and
who as a little girl catalogued all the indigenous wildflowers of Vir-
ginia, where she lived, but was not so into ticking boxes in any kind
of rote or careerist way, this longtime intimate says. “The weirdest
thing about you was her favorite thing about you,” a close friend said
at her memorial down in Charlottesville.
When she was a baby, she sometimes wore a onesie that
made her look like an astronaut, and when she did, her father,
a novelist and an English professor, would sing this made-up
song: “Future baby, future baby / Goes so good with biscuits
and gravy.” And then, in a deep voice, he would intone, “One
day in the future, all babies will be this good.” In her senior year
at her private high school, Tess seemed to recapitulate that
lesson of inherent goodness in a speech she gave to incoming
freshmen. Wearing an ironical nunlike dress and white ankle
boots, Tess described her younger self as snarky and anxious—
qualities she knew kept others at a remove. But the distance was
self-protective, she explained: “I personally did not understand
why someone would be mean just for the sake of it.” As she grew
older, she came to understand that knowing other people was
worth the risk. “Expect the best from others,” she said. “It’s okay
to be disappointed when people aren’t kind.”
Sasha Hochman met Tess on the fourth night of school when
they went out with a big group of first-years into the city, and while
they never became close friends, Sasha liked seeing Tess in the
elevator or the cafeteria. Her smile, Sasha says, gave her a feelingof reassurance and closeness; it promised adventure. After Tess’s
death, Sasha deferred one final paper, for a class called Educational
Foundations. And the paper, when she wrote it, was in the form of
a letter to Tess on the subject of appropriate justice for the alleged
perpetrators: “What would justice look like in your case, Tess?
I know that you would think it’s not as simple as punishing the
teenagers who attempted to rob you and ultimately caused your
death. That it’s about looking at the whole system and asking why
those teenagers were robbing people in the first place. That any step
toward justice must include considering Columbia’s relationship
to Harlem.” Barnard is proud of its legacy of graduating generations
of independent-minded, accomplished women, and Hochman,
like the other students I spoke to, didn’t want Tess’s murder used
to incite fear or anxiety about walking alone, about being female,
or young, about using public spaces. She ended her paper with a
quote from Anna Quindlen, who famously said she “majored
in unafraid” at Barnard. Hochman wants to major in
unafraid. She knows Tess would have too.he morning after the murder, Morningside Park
was crawling with police. Banks of blinding lights, pow-
ered by generators and with enough wattage to illumi-
nate a night baseball game, were rolled into the park and
stationed at previously dim intersections. Cop cars
drove up on the sidewalks, and the machine-gun chop
of helicopters filled the air. “I’m not going to say it was
unbelievable, but it was crazy,” says Derrick Haynes, a neighbor-
hood activist who is also a basketball coach. “They had police at the
park entrances and exits, around the park, police on horseback.
They had the little scooters riding around the perimeter. It was
something I’ve never seen in Morningside Park. Very rarely do we
ge t police on horseback in the parks in Harlem.”
It felt to the neighborhood like an invasion. Overnight, before
anyone had the time to process this violent death, let alone to prop-
erly mourn or responsibly gather evidence and facts, the murder had
become a focal point in the nation’s most tribal fulminations. It was
PHOTOGRAPHS: WILLIAM FARRINGTON/POLARIS (WEAVER, LEWIS); ANDREW LICHTENSTEIN/GETTY IMAGES (VIGIL); RICHARD DREW/SHUTTERSTOCK (HUNT) the fault of “the city’s socialist leftist corruptlef t: A candlelight vigil for Majors
in Morningside Park on December 15.
right: Harlem residents Calvin Hunt
and his son, Cameron, outside a court
where one of the accused appeared.ould come down the hill and one of the students would be killed.”T(Continued on page 91)Y ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EICTRANSMITTED________ COPY ___ DD ___ AD ___ PD ___ EIC0620FEA_Majors_lay [Print]_36890197.indd 43 3/13/20 9:09 PMmarch16–29, 2020 | newyork 43use they/them pronouns, although she didn’t insist on it. A friend at
Tess’s Barnard memorial said she wore too much eyeliner or exactly
the right amount, depending on your point of view. But more than
that she was “bold,” as a fellow first-year put it. “Challenging,” said a
Barnard administrator. “Fearless,” said someone who had known her
for a very long time. She was disarmingly direct. She came off, espe-
cially to other first-years just finding their place in a new pecking
order, as almost intimidatingly confident, though others put it dif-
ferently. Tess was just supersmart, the kind of kid who loved Latin,
who read From Beirut to Jerusalem at 15 on a family vacation, and
who as a little girl catalogued all the indigenous wildflowers of Vir-
ginia, where she lived, but was not so into ticking boxes in any kind
of rote or careerist way, this longtime intimate says. “The weirdest
thing about you was her favorite thing about you,” a close friend said
at her memorial down in Charlottesville.
When she was a baby, she sometimes wore a onesie that
made her look like an astronaut, and when she did, her father,
a novelist and an English professor, would sing this made-up
song: “Future baby, future baby / Goes so good with biscuits
and gravy.” And then, in a deep voice, he would intone, “One
day in the future, all babies will be this good.” In her senior year
at her private high school, Tess seemed to recapitulate that
lesson of inherent goodness in a speech she gave to incoming
freshmen. Wearing an ironical nunlike dress and white ankle
boots, Tess described her younger self as snarky and anxious—
qualities she knew kept others at a remove. But the distance was
self-protective, she explained: “I personally did not understand
why someone would be mean just for the sake of it.” As she grew
older, she came to understand that knowing other people was
worth the risk. “Expect the best from others,” she said. “It’s okay
to be disappointed when people aren’t kind.”
Sasha Hochman met Tess on the fourth night of school when
they went out with a big group of first-years into the city, and while
they never became close friends, Sasha liked seeing Tess in the
elevator or the cafeteria. Her smile, Sasha says, gave her a feelingof reassuranceandcloseness;it promisedadventure.AfterTess’s
death, Sashadeferredonefinalpaper, fora classcalledEducational
Foundations.Andthepaper, whenshewroteit,wasintheformof
a letter to Tessonthesubject ofappropriatejusticeforthealleged
perpetrators:“Whatwouldjusticelooklike inyourcase,Tess?
I know that youwouldthinkit’s notassimpleaspunishingthe
teenagers whoattemptedtorobyouandultimatelycausedyour
death. Thatit’s aboutlookingat thewholesystemandaskingwhy
those teenagerswererobbingpeopleinthefirstplace.Thatany step
toward justicemust includeconsideringColumbia’s relationship
to Harlem.” Barnardis proudof itslegacy of graduatinggenerations
of independent-minded,accomplishedwomen,andHochman,
like the other students I spoke to, didn’t want Tess’s murderused
to incite fear or anxiety about walking alone, about beingfemale,
or young, about using public spaces. She ended her paper with a
quote from Anna Quindlen, who famously said she “majored
in unafraid” at Barnard. Hochman wants to major in
unafraid. She knows Tess would have too.he morning after the murder, Morningside Park
was crawling with police. Banks of blinding lights, pow-
ered by generators and with enough wattage to illumi-
nate a night baseball game, were rolled into the park and
stationed at previously dim intersections. Cop cars
drove up on the sidewalks, and the machine-gun chop
of helicopters filled the air. “I’m not going to say it was
unbelievable, but it was crazy,” says Derrick Haynes, a neighbor-
hood activist who is also a basketball coach. “They had police at the
park entrances and exits, around the park, police on horseback.
They had the little scooters riding around the perimeter.It was
something I’ve never seen in Morningside Park. Veryrarelydowe
ge t police on horseback in the parks in Harlem.”
It felt to the neighborhood like an invasion. Overnight,before
anyone had the time to process this violent death, letalonetoprop-
erly mourn or responsibly gather evidence and facts, themurderhad
become a focal point in the nation’s most tribal fulminations.It was
the fault of “the city’s socialist leftist corruptlef t: A candlelight vigil for Majors
in Morningside Park on December 15.
right: Harlem residents Calvin Hunt
and his son, Cameron, outside a court
where one of the accused appeared.ould come down the hill and one of the students would be killed.”
T(Continued on page 91)