It’s day three of 180 and we’re huddled in the floor.
My students and I sit as close to my interior classroom wall as possible.
Knees to our chins.
Silent with 27 teenagers.
You could hear a pin drop.
Minutes before this moment, I’m prepping them:
“We’re having an intruder drill at the beginning of class today so let’s walk through some procedures really quickly before it starts.”
I just met them 48 hours ago and now I’m preparing them on how to survive in room 1182.
“Here’s the remote that controls all of my lamps so that we can make it dark in an instant.”
“Behind this letterboard by the door is a door stopper – just slide it under the door and twist the bottom handle until we’re safely locked inside.”
Sitting on my window ledge is an antique clothes iron.
“Since these windows don’t actually open, we would use this iron to bust the glass in case the door is breached.”
I half-heartedly tell them that even if someone did manage to come in, our district paid for all the teachers to have “Stop the Bleed” training a few years back, so I’m qualified to apply a tourniquet fashioned out of someone’s t-shirt if needed.
The loudspeaker interrupts my voice as I’m telling this fresh batch of high school juniors that we would never actually sit in a corner and wait to be killed – that they must fight with anything they can find, and nothing is off limits.
“At this time, we will begin our intruder drill.” the school secretary announces as if she’s placing an order in a drive through.
I click the lights, and we all go silent. I whisper a reminder to stay still and quiet when they hear admin rattle my doorknob – a test of our abilities to stay calm in a moment of crisis. Minutes pass as we sit, friends and strangers cramped together on the carpet.
“Wow, this group is really good at this.” I think silently to myself, and I’m immediately grossed out by my own pride of their ability to stay quiet as they pretend a gunman is on the loose.
I imagine, like I have for the past 14 years of my career, what I would do if this were a real thing. All I can ever picture are my babies. Make it home to them, no matter what. In that same instant, I remember the parents of the babies in front of me – these babies have to make it home too. Over half of them are taller than me; their voices deep, their facial hair thick. They drive cars and work jobs and raise siblings – but they are babies. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if they didn’t leave this building safely too. File it under the “other duties as assigned” portion of my teaching contract.
“This concludes our intruder drill.”
The announcement snaps us all back to reality and I shake images of police cars and news vans from my head.
“Okay guys let’s go ahead and continue our discussion on the colonial regions.”
27 students begrudgingly return to their seats, gathering their notebooks and readying themselves to discuss US History – likely not recognizing the significance of what they just did. Another unremarkable moment in the American school system. “It wasn’t always like this.” my inner monologue recalls, wishing that this generation could remember a pre-Columbine America. This will never not be normal to them.
I don’t have a profound thought on the issue. No “this will solve it” recommendation.
I have nothing but deep disgust for a nation I love.
Disgust for every American who chooses to ignore the mental health crisis in this country.
Disgust for every American who prioritizes the 2nd amendment over the safety of our nation’s future. Because that’s what this is about. The future leaders of our country are being murdered in cold blood by their own classmates. Parents are burying children riddled with bullet holes so your great Uncle Bobby can have his doomsday stockpile.
Something has got to fucking give.
I don’t have answers. But I’m ready and willing to discuss options with any person in power who’s willing to sit on the carpet with me.
Knees to your chin.
Silent with 27 teenagers.
Watching their nearly adult faces shift uncomfortably as they contemplate the “what if.”
Knowing that, statistically, it would likely be one of them holding the gun.
Lest you think I have it tough – cram your adult body into a classroom bathroom with 21 kindergarteners as you gently remind them to be super quiet and super still. Remind them that the art closet and underneath the teacher’s desk are also places to hide if we’re in a hurry. Defining the word “intruder” as best you can to a room full of curiously terrified 5-year-olds. Beg the smallest of them not to cry – “It’s just a drill but we have to practice and do our very best. We’re safe….today.”
It’s day 17 of 180 and a school one state over is huddled in the floor.
Knees to their chins.
Silent with 27 teenagers.
Bullets ricocheting off the walls.
Blue bubbles light up a mother’s phone.
“school shooting rn”
“i’m scared”
“i’m not joking”
“i love you”
“someone’s dead”
words you asked for {+some you didn't} 