Bridget Veltri
arts@mustangdaily.net
I have never felt about Reno the way Carrie Bradshaw does about her beloved New York City. But I now have a newfound respect for my hometown, and it didn’t come in the form of a man, nor did I have to traipse around in a pair of $500 shoes to find it. I didn’t even have to be there to understand what my hometown was made of. I witnessed it from afar.
As I went home for the holidays this Christmas, Brianna Denison didn’t. It has been a little over a year since the 19-year-old college student’s body was found in a field just eight miles away from where she was taken. Autopsy results indicated that she had been strangled to death and sexually assaulted.
The magazines and newspapers that told the circumstances of her disappearance have long been recycled, and the man accused of her kidnapping, rape and murder is scheduled to go on trial next year, facing the death penalty. James Michael Biela is accused of kidnapping Denison from a friend’s house, where she was sleeping on the couch after going out that night.
It would seem that the occasional blue heart on a freeway overpass and the tattered blue ribbons adorning a few Reno fences are the only remnants of the tragic story that rocked the biggest little city to the core. But they are not – at least not to me.
The disappearance and death of Denison hit not only my hometown, but also my heart. I didn’t know this young woman, but that doesn’t matter. Our lives paralleled in so many ways: she attended Santa Barbara City College just two hours south of Cal Poly, we attended the same junior college, both lost our fathers at young ages, we look similar, and of course I have also crashed on a friend’s couch after late nights when home over break.
Denison’s death has forever humbled me, and reminded me that I’m not invincible. It also showed me what my hometown is made of.
Looked on by many as a shabby second-hand Vegas wannabe, Reno tends to have a bad reputation. I never thought much of my tacky hometown and was eager to move on and escape to college in California.
In the past year, Denison’s death has made me proud of where I came from. I was astounded by the city’s overwhelming reaction to Denison’s disappearance. As last year’s late January snow piled high on the ground, support for Denison’s family grew, and the frantic search for the college sophomore expanded.
The headlines read “kidnapped while she slept,” and her picture and story flashed on local and national news stations. A blue ribbon became synonymous with her name. “Bring back Bri” posters adorned every Reno street corner. Instead of coming attractions, casinos displayed Denison’s photo with the caption “missing” above it. Facebook and MySpace groups were created as a way for others to show support.
There was a feeling of eminence that, until Denison’s body was found, she might be coming home. Community members that knew Denison, as well as those that didn’t, volunteered for search parties and scoured areas looking for any trace of Denison or any sign of suspicious behavior.
During the investigation, an estimated $291,163 was raised from 233 donors to speed up processing of backlogged DNA samples. Over 100 people and businesses are mentioned on the Justice for Bri Web site along with her obituary, songs written in her honor and links to news articles past and current. The Bring Bri Justice Foundation has been established in her honor to raise awareness about the prevention of violent crime.
I am not naive to the fact that Denison was not the only woman to be abducted and murdered in Reno or anywhere else, and that women often do not disappear in the sensational, headline-friendly circumstances of Denison or Natalee Holloway. Most women don’t come from families that have the resources to push and pressure authorities into continuing the search. Yet all of these tragedies, whether they receive adequate media coverage or not, are scary and sobering.
Chances are that I will never live in Reno again, but I am grateful for my newfound respect for the city, and it puts me at ease to think that if I had been Brianna Dennison and disappeared at age 19, that my community would have done the same for me. Sometimes it takes a tragedy to really appreciate where you come from. Reno may be tacky, but it’s tough.
Bridget Veltri is a journalism senior and a Mustang Daily guest columnist.