Maybe I'll add this blog as another project of its own: what would I end up with at the end of the year if I only post when America experiences a school shooting? (Will I have more entries than I posted in 2017? I only posted 18, a record low for me.)
There is, of course, much debate on what "counts" as a school shooting. Everytown for Gun Safety classifies it as any event in which a live firearm is discharged in a school building or on school grounds; that happens a lot. But if we "only" count those incidents in which a firearm kills or wounds someone in a school or on school grounds, during school hours, it's still way, way too many for a country that likes to brag about itself the way we do. And it's way too many for this mama, this teacher.
And after the latest massacre this week, even mere reports of gunfire have everyone here on edge. This morning my school chose to hold a surprise lockdown drill (I'm withholding comment on that for now). During that drill, we learned that gunfire had been reported on the campus of a local community college, where many of our students attend classes for Running Start. My students, held in a lockdown drill in our school, were texting their friends (also many of our students), held in a real lockdown. At that point, it didn't matter whether or not there was an actual shooter with intent to cause harm.
We are not okay.
Let me tell you about my morning, about how it felt to smooth my daughter's soft blonde hair away from her face and kiss her forehead as she called, "Dad, are you ready yet?" and glared at her watch. (He drops her off on the way to catch his bus, and my girl likes to be early.) Let me tell you about taking my son to his school on the way to my own, about reaching into the back seat to find his warm little hand, because for years now that has been our last good-bye in the morning -- before they jump out of the car and run into the gym for Morning Assembly I reach back and squeeze their hands three times. I (squeeze) love (squeeze) you (squeeze). Let me tell you about how it feels to hold those sensory images in my heart: my daughter's soft hair, my son's warm and slightly dry palm. Let me tell you about calling good-bye to one child as her dad drove her to school, about calling good-bye to the other as he jumped out of the car and ran into the gym, his backpack bouncing over his little butt, and the way I could just barely see the top of his Batman underwear peeking over the waistband of his jeans.
Let me tell you about my conscious thought: What if these were the last images of my children, alive? What if these moments were our last living memories?
I cried all the way to school. I listened to NPR. They read the names of all the victims who died in Parkland on Wednesday.
She was a soccer player and a creative writer. He unlocked a door to allow students in to hide from the shooter. She loved the beach. He had had just earned an academic scholarship to the University of Indianapolis. She was 14 and a member of the school marching band's winter guard. He reportedly died from wounds he sustained while shielding students from bullets.
"I sent her to school yesterday, and she was supposed to be safe...My job is to protect my children, and I sent my kid to school."
This is what it means to be a parent in America now. To live with that fear. Every fucking day, really.
And this is what it means to be a teacher in America: To understand that my students are scared, and the ways in which they process that are as varied as the students themselves. To cry with my colleagues every time this happens. Every. time. Do you have the vaguest idea what "every time" means? What is the number that means "fucking enough already"? Because we've done this so many times. And today we broke, at least at my school. We came to school shattered, and we were met with an unannounced lockdown drill. And then we heard about the real lockdown just up the road. And we tried to be calm for our kids but some of us were better at that than others, and when one of my kids brought me cookies he'd baked for me before lunch I couldn't keep the tears out of my eyes, and he just hugged me. And then kids came to eat lunch in my room and one of them was really, really not okay, and his friends told him to chill out, and then he was even less okay, and I couldn't make it better. And then some of my kids really just wanted "normal" by noon, so I tried to give them that, too. I don't think I did any of it particularly well. I taught with tears in my eyes all day long. I cried hard during my planning and once at lunch and twice in the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I cried hard after school, twice, before I walked to my car to drive home, trying to calm myself before I wrapped my own children in my arms.
And make no mistake: I was not the only teacher in tears today. And that's just in my school, three thousand miles away from Parkland, Florida. Ours weren't the only hearts breaking (again, fucking again) this week. I wasn't the only mother grieving and afraid as she kissed her children good-bye this morning.
And this is what I posted on Facebook this morning, before school, before I kissed my children good-bye, before our unannounced lockdown drill, before the lockdown at the nearby community college:
On President's Day, I will be making a donation to Everytown for Gun Safety.
I will give a specific dollar amount for:
who have the gall to express thoughts/prayers/condolences to the victims of gun violence in schools
I have more ideas, but I fear I will run out of money.
I will be donating for every school shooting in America in 2018. And I'm furious about it.
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