Coming to School and Praying Today It’s Not Us

I waited. My door open wide; the, “It’s a good day for a good day,” metal sign hanging next to the slit window in my classroom door. My tenth graders would return from lunch momentarily.

Then a quiet whisper, garbled, and unclear with the words, “…please leave the building,” contradictingly calm, came across the loud speaker. It sounded as though someone was playing a scratchy record on the opposite side of the room from where the intercom sat.

A few moments later my classroom neighbor popped his head in and slid the magnet on my door up, stating that we should lock our doors, just in case.

The bell Rang, Signaling the End of Lunch

My students began to filter back into the class, as I stood welcoming them at the door. There was some horse-play, but many of them were asking for clarification as to what was said over the PA system. I told them it was hard to hear, and that a follow-up announcement came on saying to resume class as usual.

We left the magnet slid up, allowing the door to lock behind the students.

As we began to jump back into the lesson, one student asked, “Aren’t we supposed to go in the corner?” I again assured him that we were told everything was fine, though our door remained locked. 

Teal and white painted shiplap covers the majority of my door’s window. A small slit remains, shielded with white and black-flowered contact paper, held up by a piece of tape, creating my lookout.

I Am Forced To Ask Myself

Do I freak my already jumpy students out by lifting the flap to make sure whoever is at the door is safe? Or, do I try to keep the facade that everything is fine, even though I’m having the same concerns? That I hope we aren’t another school who thought it would never happen to them.

I lift the flap.

As my students were hard at work, and I was sitting at my desk, one student came up and whispered, “I hope it’s not a school shooting. There are so many of those going on right now. They scare me.” 

I assured her we were fine.

I was keenly aware of the tensed bodies and turning heads, as I rose to open the door once more. Another knock sent a student beginning to dart to the corner. The “hard” corner. The one that is the hardest for a shooter to see. My heart broke.

Students and teachers alike are hoping they make it home at night. They are hoping that today isn’t the day it’s our school. 

I Worry About My Girls’ Survival Skills

I pray that my daughter with Down syndrome, who goes off to elementary school, understands what to do when there is a drill, or God-forbid, a real shooting. Would she fully grasp the concept that she has to stay quiet and still: something that she can struggle with?

I pray that my eighth grader, a newly-appointed teen, is able to keep her wits about her. I pray she does what she needs to do to remain safe. That when the chaos gets too noisy, and she’s feeling overstimulated, that she doesn’t freeze up and shut down. I pray she puts to use the inherited hyper-vigilance. That she knows her exits and closely observes those around her: aware of a shift in mood or demeanor. I pray that she knows whether to stay still or run.

I pray I never have to find out.

I pray we all make it home.

The Announcement Was In Fact A False Alarm

We did make it home.

But so many others have not been that fortunate. I envision the fear, the lost potential, the laughter that’s gone silent. I see the heartbroken parents no longer able to hold and hug their children. A gunshot ripping their lives apart.

A shot from a gun resonates, piercing the security that we feel and creating an environment conditioned to be on guard.

Though today we were assured we could lower our guard.

The alarming announcement was due to a card malfunctioning in an out-dated system, hardwired to the loudspeaker, but technicians were onsite to remedy the issue.

My classroom door remains locked, and my guard remains up.

What Can We Do?

As our hearts are breaking and our minds are assessing our surroundings, silence causes us to suffer alone. Pretending that it’s not our problem because it wasn’t our school; worrying that we will make things worse if we talk about the hard things, but we are thinking about it. We avoid the conversations with the students, trying not to instill or project our fears upon them.

Silence forces us to remain locked alone, imprisoned with our thoughts that are running wild. 

The magnet remains slid up, still peering out from behind the taped up white and black-flowered contact paper.

And I go to school, praying today it’s not us.