We need a better word for this

On this cold and drizzly Friday afternoon, I'm sitting at my dining room table across from my son, who is coloring. He shed his socks like normal within five minutes of dropping his backpack on the family room floor, and now he's in his usual position, kneeling on the chair, bare feet tucked under his bum.

Let me back up a bit.

Last night, I attended a district-wide meeting on Gun Violence and School Safety. Twelve hours later, I'm still processing the intensity of it all. I sat across the room from teachers at my daughter's school. I sat across the room from my son's teacher, and I listened to her speak about how sometimes, she has to sacrifice the sacred math and reading time for more important things--the kids' social and emotional needs. ("Even if I get in trouble," she said.) I wanted to tell her then that as the mother of a child in her classroom, I appreciate every single second she spends on these kids' social and emotional needs. My son comes home from school talking about that. He doesn't come home from school eager to talk about what he's learning in math.

But I didn't have the chance last night, or at any rate, I lost the ability to speak.

We had some important conversations last night, and teachers raised important questions. We talked about what we need, as educators, from our district. I was grateful to be there with friends and colleagues who, as one of them said, could lead and listen and hold space. It was a difficult, necessary, and emotional night.

Gun violence and school safety weighs heavily on my heart as an educator every day now. And it weighs on me as a mother who understands that other teachers put their bodies on the line every day for my children. Last night, I was overwhelmed both as a teacher and as a mother, sitting in a room with my children's teachers and watching a video called "Surviving a School Shooting." I watched my son's teacher watch this video, and something in me broke. Tears began streaming down my face, and I couldn't stop them. I tried, but I just could not stop crying. Many teachers were visibly upset after this video, but during the debrief, all I could say to my table was this: "My son's teacher is here. I watched her watch this video." I couldn't articulate any more than that.

I cried all the way home. I wasn't sobbing; it just felt like something inside me had come loose, and for the life of me I couldn't figure out how to tighten it back up. I walked in the door after thirteen hours away from my family, exhausted and spent and trying to tighten whatever it was that had come loose. Unsuccessful, I just went to bed instead.

I woke up at four o'clock this morning, unable to go back to sleep. My eyes were sore and swollen enough that I soaked a cotton pad in witch hazel and pressed it against my eyelids for a few minutes. But I actually had a decent day; these days, going to school heals my heart even when my heart is so frequently broken there, because if there is hope to be found in this broken world, in this broken country, it's in our kids.

And then this happened: Twenty-five minutes before my son's school day ended, as I drove from my own school to pick him up, his school went into lockdown. Someone had set off illegal fireworks outside, near enough to my son's classroom that it sounded like gunfire. The adults heard it. The kids heard it.

Imagine what it feels like to be a teacher, emotionally drained after a night of intense discussion surrounding what steps our district will take to deal with the threat of gun violence. Imagine a night of intense discussion of our individual schools' safety needs, a night in which teachers see a simulation of an elementary school shooting and see their own students--see themselves--in that video. Then imagine the very next afternoon: a sound just outside the classroom door that sounds like gunfire, because an entire box of fireworks ignited at once is no joke, especially in March. Imagine the lockdown, imagine sheltering frightened second-graders behind overturned desks in the corner, away from the door.

I didn't have the whole story when I met my son at his door; the call from the district office referenced only "loud noises" and reassured us that students and staff were safe at all times. But I watched those nervous kids leave class today, and I saw the tears in their teacher's eyes, and all I could do was hug her and say Thank you. Thank you for being there for my son.

My son sits across from me, coloring.

We're talking about it, intermittently. I ask him how it made him feel.

"It was so scary," he said. He told me exactly what they heard and how they hid. His teacher is wonderful; she kept them calm, and they talked about it afterwards. Shared a group hug. She creates a safe space for these kids to process their feelings, which matters far more to me than math or reading. At home, Isaac and I talked about how teachers work to keep kids safe. We talked about how it was good to practice, so they know what to do.

Less than 24 hours ago, I watched my son's teacher watch that video, and this afternoon, my son sheltered behind an overturned desk after hearing what he thought was a shooter. My little boy was terrified in his own classroom. He has never felt anything but safe in schools. My boy has spent his entire life in schools. And today, that safety was stolen from him a little bit. I'd hoped it wouldn't happen so soon.

I'm well aware he was never in any real danger. Do you understand that our souls are shaken, though? Because we understand that we are not safe in our schools, and teachers understand that the rest of the country is placing that burden squarely on our shoulders. We have to learn to defend ourselves, to secure ourselves. In the meantime, our country doesn't seem to think it needs to make it any more difficult for those would do harm to have access to the weapons that would harm us. That would violate our "rights."

The insanity defies all words.

So I hold my son on my lap and kiss his cheek before he wriggles out of my grip. So I sit across from my little boy at the dining room table and talk to him about how he felt this afternoon when he thought a shooter was outside his classroom door. So I cry in the shower, cry in my car. So I talk to my students about where to run and how to hide, and I'm learning more about how to fight. So I say to a crying fifteen-year-old boy who is angry and scared, "It's okay not to be okay, because nothing about this is okay." So I scream at the news and nod with my children who already know the adults running the country have failed them. (But the teenagers speaking out may very well be what saves us.)

*

A couple of weeks ago I pondered how active this blog would be if I only posted after a school shooting. Had today "only" been about illegal fireworks and my son's fear, about the collective rage and heartbreak of teachers, I probably would have posted anyway. But as it turns out, two people were shot dead at Central Michigan University, which brings the total count to twelve school shootings so far in 2018.

Shortly after the shooting this morning, my dear friend Alicia posted this:

Shooting at CMU in Michigan. Where a colleague of mine now waits and worries on lockdown, his wife also on lockdown because she works on campus too. And his two daughters? They are on lockdown because of their school’s proximity to campus. It started from a domestic dispute. Never say to me we don’t need stricter gun laws.

It is too damn easy to shoot someone.

And tonight, again, I am making a donation to counter those who believe their right to their weapons weighs more than my child's right to attend school in safety. To live without this fear. To live.

I'm furious. I will never not be furious. We need a better word for this in our language: what word is enough for this fear, this rage, this heartbreak?