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The bell rang to announce the beginning of the drill. The room went dark, the lights shut off by the student seated closest to the door. I was right beside her, keys in hand, locking and double-checking the deadbolt lock. I ducked out of view of the window, to then cover it with a thick curtain. Often I worry the curtain draws more attention to us. What if?
My heart beat fast as I thought about what we were practicing for. What if it were a real active shooter on the other side of that door? Would I be able to perform my duties as easily, or would I be struggling with dangling keys in shaky hands? What if I froze? What if my students panicked?
I looked around the room at my middle school students, who remain so uncharacteristically quiet during the entire drill. While they usually snicker and giggle through every lesson, these drills bring a somber tone that would highlight a single sigh or pen-drop. I wondered what was going through their young minds. Today, it was likely the recent news was at the forefront of their thoughts.
“Five dead in school shooting” the headline read just two days earlier. It was the second
headline like it just this week.
Five students. Five lives were taken in a school just like ours, while many more lives were
forever changed. Five sets of parents and siblings grieving, hundreds of students left
traumatized, and a nation wondering who’s next.
The same old, same old questions ring through the news and social media:
“Where did he buy the gun?”
“Where were the parents?”
“Was he troubled?”
“How did no one know?”
The same unanswered questions will circulate for a week or so, until the next similar story rises to the spotlight. It’s become a constant hamster wheel of anger and intention that is ultimately dulled by a lack of any real change. So I continue to walk into my school and my classroom each day with nothing more than a prayer, a semblance of a plan, and a heightened sense of anxiety.
As I looked around at my students, a real pain formed in my chest when I imagined five empty seats in their place. That is another teacher’s reality — another teacher just like me.
The bell rang again, signaling the end of the drill. We unlocked doors and removed curtains slowly, as we awkwardly shifted back to adverbs and adjectives. Now is the part where we go back to pretending our lives aren’t in danger.
Thankfully, the lunch bell was the next to ring, giving me a moment to recollect myself and step outside on my short lunch break. As I walked on the sidewalk toward my car, I glanced to the elementary school located right beside the middle school where I teach. I could just barely see the edge of my son’s third grade building. My daughter’s pre-k classroom sits on the opposite side of the school. I wondered how long it would take me to run there.
They, too, had an active shooter drill today. My concern for my students safety brings tears to my eyes; my kids’ safety hits me like a ton of bricks. Sending my kids to school is not only about who I entrust with their education, but now it’s also who I trust would take a bullet in their defense.
It isn’t fair.
Would I be expected to take a bullet for my students and leave three of my own children
motherless? As a teacher-mom, I never signed up for this level of sacrifice.
I’ve witnessed teacher friends pull their own kids out of a well-loved school system due to
safety concerns. I’ve looked into homeschool curriculums and I’ve gone over every possible safety scenario with my 8-year-old son who hardly understands. Thinking of my children’s anxiety, I’ve weighed the pros and cons of my children’s innocence and their preparedness. I’ve battled against my instinctual protectiveness in order to follow school protocols for my students. My humanness and my job description are at constant odds with each other when it comes to issues that are life-or-death.
The mom guilt and the teacher guilt collectively washed over me as I defeatedly walked back into the school with the sound of yet another bell. I walked through the metal detectors that witness each visitor, parent, teacher and student. No one is safe from the paranoia; an unlocked school door has become a distant memory. The secretary plays of game of ‘three little pigs’ with every knock at the door, and we count on her like our lives depend on it.
As I re-entered my classroom, I couldn’t stop my mind racing. I covered the window with the curtain once more. I walked into the hallway and stared at the curtain to triple-check that no one could see through. Just to be sure. You never know. Our lives could count on it.
I begin our English lesson again. Today’s learning objectives were a mix of adverbs and
adjectives and shooter drills. A typical Wednesday morning in the modern classroom.
