Today at school, we had a lock-down drill. In the middle of a lesson on comparing and contrasting nonfiction texts, we had to practice the procedure in case a threat invades our building. School shootings are deadly real and these drills are, sadly, common life for modern students. We have a few practices every year. Our teachers know what to do, sit in the “deep corner of the room”, the place that is the least likely to be seen from the window, sit quietly, don’t move, don’t make any noise at all, and wait. We wait, wondering what it would be like if a madman with a gun were running the halls, looking for targets. We wait, mentally casing the room for objects to bar the door, for objects to throw at an intruder, for weapons. We wait, breathing, grateful that it is merely a drill, mindful of those who have died at their desks, mindful of those who became targets in a deadly, real-life video game, mindful of the deadly necessity of these drills.
Afterwards, we discuss scenarios. The kids have been thinking about possibilities, too. When the drill is over, we field questions,
“What if I was in the bathroom?”
“You get to behind the first door you can find and lock it tight.”
“How long could we be waiting?”
“As long as it takes for the police to ‘neutralize the threat’, check all the rooms and evacuate us safely.”
“How do we know the drill is REALLY over?”
“There is a code word that we all know.”
“Should we close the blinds? Should we try to escape? Should we try to fight back?”
The questions, suggestions and discussions keep coming. The kids are getting used to the idea of planning their survival in the face of a threat, all in their place of learning.
A lesson about reading for information turned into survival training. I feel so sad that we have to practice this, that I have to walk down the halls of my school, considering safe hiding places and quick escape routes. How has our society become so broken that we prepare for the possibility that a person with a gun will invade a school to kill innocent people? A neighborhood school, the free and appropriate place of public education to which all children are entitled, reduced to a target range. How have we come to this?
All I know is that I don’t know. Maybe people are desensitized to violence from our culture of violent movies and videogames. Maybe guns are available to too many people, or available to too few of the right people. Maybe people are raised with a lack of love and affection. Maybe people are raised with the mistaken idea that their life will be easy and comfortable, then they can’t deal with the reality that life is tough and sad sometimes. Maybe people become so angry, wrapped up in fear, depression, and hate, that they lash out at the most innocent victims they can find. Maybe people in society are so disconnected and so lonely that they forget to treat their fellow man as precious, living beings and instead treat them as targets on which to vent their loneliness.
As teachers, we don’t just teach our students how to hide from threats. We talk about respect for all, responsibility for our actions, tolerance, kindness, no-name-calling, anti-bullying, positive behavior intervention and supports, etc, etc. We work hard to build positive learning communities that respect and value diversity. We build relationships, we show compassion, we model community service. We make our best effort to educate every student who comes to us, regardless of race, religion, gender, sexual orientation, socioeconomic status, disability. And then, we practice, in case someone walks in the door and starts shooting children.
In the midst of this dichotomy, I still have faith. I still believe that we can make a difference, in the life of a sad child, in the life of a poor child, in the life of an angry child. I still believe that love conquers hate, that love shines in the darkness and that the darkness does not overcome it. I still believe that the good we do in life means something, that the lives we touch with love will grow in love to toward others. I see it happen daily, in small moments of kindness between people. I still believe those moments of kindness count for something, that they make a difference in the ugliness of the world. While hiding on the floor, in the deep corner of my room, silently waiting with my students, I pray that my faith becomes sight some day.
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