School Lockdown

"Attention staff...WE ARE IN LOCKDOWN," came the announcement over the PA system in our school. It was Mary, our school secretary who made the call. Mary is the poster girl for cool-calm-and collected; but today her voice was different. Fearful. This was no drill; it was the real deal.

We sprang into action. Close the blinds. Hide the students.  Joanne runs across the hall to check the restroom for stray students and dashes down another corridor to lock the door to the playground. We hate this part.  If we hear gunshots it's agreed that we will not open the door to let her back in. She will be on her own out there. The students come first. She sprints back and Terri, who's watching anxiously through the blinds at the doorway, allows her to slip quietly back into the room and re-locks the door.

Now we wait. I try to control the trembling in my hand as I stroke the head of little Angelica, who sits under a table next to me. She looks up at me, her eyes are big and round and full of anxiety. "Is this for real?" she whispers.

"Yes honey. Hush. We'll be fine." But I wonder. I pray silently for guardian angels and policemen; and try to recall comforting Bible verses. He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord; he is my refuge...

Time.Ticks.By.

 Every sound is magnified. I strain to hear voices in the hallway or God-forbid...gunshots. Someone coughs. I cringe. It's grade-school. Somebody's always got a cold. Absolute silence is impossible in a roomful of third graders. The halls are strangely silent. Eerie. The table I'm crouched under is kid-sized and my joints are stiffening up from being hunched into a little ball. I try to adjust myself a bit. Peeking up at the clock I see that it's been about twenty minutes. Where are the police? I look toward the windows, searching for shadows or perhaps the sun reflecting off a windshield of a of car entering the parking lot. Nothing. Where are they? An airplane buzzes lazily overhead. It feels otherworldly. Surreal.

The fear is subsiding as time passes and I am no longer trembling. I look around the room. What can I use for defense? Books? Overhead projector? Chairs? This is not good. There is nothing within reach that I could use as a weapon. I whisper to the librarian who's hunched up under the table with me and Angelica, "If we have to, we can turn this table over and shield ourselves." She nods. Not much of a plan. But it's all we've got.

With my 'plan' in place, my thought turn philosophical. If we get out of here...should I keep this job? Is it worth this kind of risk? If something really happens in this room will I sacrifice my life for a child? The answers were easy and immediate. Yes. Yes. And Yes. I wish I had my cell phone so I could text my husband and children. Note to self: Keep your cellphone with you at all times.

Across the room Joanne is crawling on her hands and knees toward the a closet. What on earth is she doing? She places trash can inside the closet, then beckons a boy. He crawls, commando-style to the closet and goes in and closes the door partway. Then he comes out. It dawns on me. He had to pee.
I have to chuckle. Custodian's gonna love that!

It's been over an hour. Finally, a voice comes over the PA. "This is Mr. B. You are in no immediate danger but we will remain in lockdown for a while longer."

I could feel a collective sigh of relief coming from every classroom in the school. Then a short time later, another announcement. Partial lockdown. We can move about the school, but are safely locked inside. And then... it was over.

Sometime after 10 a.m. on May 2nd a 911 caller said that there was a man with a rifle at the local high school and that gunshots had been fired. A short time later another 911 report was made that there was a shooter at the hardware store. At the same time there was a stabbing at a home near an elementary school. The police; figuring the events were somehow connected; ordered a lockdown of our entire school district. A SWAT team was sent to the high school where every room and student was searched. In all, Two high schools, two middle schools, five elementary schools; several thousand children were locked down for about an hour and a half. In the end it appears that the man who committed the stabbing and later shot himself had called in the reports to throw police off his trail.

Thankfully, we were all safe. The stabbing victim survived. And in a way, this event turned out to be a blessing. This is my Facebook post following the crisis...

Dear friends,
I've been giving a lot of thought to the hour or so we all spent in lockdown in our school district. In retrospect, I've come to see that the experience was a unique gift. Blessedly, without experiencing a terrible loss, we were all given a chance to view ourselves and others through the lens of a crisis. Who were we for that hour? I know personally, and heard from others; we were ordinary people who were willing to try and protect children first. That's who we--who YOU were for that hour. And that's who we--who YOU really are. What an exquisite gift! (But I still hope it never happens again!) 

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And so dear friends, in closing, please; when tempted to malign teachers, I hope you remember this story. I hope you remember that there are those of us who, when we initially answered the call of our hearts to teach young children; had no idea that it might involve sacrificing our very lives for them. And yet we remain true to the profession. Of course there are bad teachers; and please, by all means--hold us to the highest standards! Expect excellence, your kids deserve no less. But always remember that one day it could be your child or grandchild crouched under that desk with her teacher stroking her hair, hugging her and reassuring her that she will be OK. That teacher is willing to give her life, if necessary, to protect your baby.

So this summer break,

 instead of griping about all of the time off that your children's teachers have...

 

 wish us well.  

***

 

Purple is My Faborite...From the Heart of a Para-Educator

     Note to the Reader...

People often ask me what I do as a para-educator. It's hard to explain. Para-education, for me, is loving children where they are. Then the teaching follows. This piece is entirely fictitious; there is no Pietra. And yet there are thousands of Pietras out there who would never make it in school without the love and care of a group of wonderful people called Para-educators.

Purple is My Faborite...From the Heart of a Para-Educator

     You're standing in the doorway to Mrs. Lincoln's second-grade classroom scanning the room for the new student, Pietra, a recent transfer from another state. Her transcripts say she's got behavior issues, and possible learning disabilities. It's the age old chicken-and-the-egg question...is she behind because she won't behave...or does she misbehave because she struggles to learn?  Mrs. Lincoln is busy helping children find their desk so you wander into the room and help incoming children hang their backpacks and coats.
     It is there, under the coat-rack,  that you first meet Pietra. She's a scrawny-looking little thing with tangled yellow hair and dull blue eyes. Her faded party dress of purple organza (which you will later learn is her favorite and that she will wear most every day this year) is two sizes too big and hangs on her tiny frame like a potato sack. Yellow galoshes. You wonder whether she or her mother decided that yellow galoshes go with purple organza. Or does she even have a mother? Her wonky glasses are perched precariously atop a button nose; they make her eyes appear twice as large as they really are. Her lips are pursed in a defiant pout and she is holding onto her backpack for dear life. She eyes you suspiciously.
     "I see you've met Pietra," says Mrs. Lincoln with thin smile, "she's not making good choices today. Her directions were to hang up her backpack and to take a seat at her desk, but as you can see, she's not following directions."
     Mrs. Lincoln looks exhausted. Of the twenty-eight children in her classroom; five have special needs. One barely speaks English. Last week, after seeing black and blue bruises on the arms and legs of one of her students, she called CPS. The parents, livid with her; threatened to file discrimination charges to retaliate. And today her classroom has a foul fecal stench; one of her students has encopresis and has inadvertently pooped his pants. Despite the freezing weather, she's opened all the windows...trying to air the room out. It's chilly in here. You try not to breath too deeply and button up your cardigan.
     "Hi Pietra, I'm Mrs. Smith." you say quietly.
      No response.
     "I love your purple dress!"
     She eases up a bit, but still clutches the backpack. "Purple's my faborite."
     "Mine too!" you lie.
     A para-ed's favorite color is purple, red, black, brown, blue, green...any color; as long as it build rapport with a wary child.
     "So whatcha-got in your backpack?"
     You're too smart to try to take the backpack. Tried it before with other kids. It's a Bad scene.
     "My Princess Barbie."
     "Can I see her?"
     "My Daddy bought it for me."
     Her voice is filled with Pride. Awe. Affection. Grief.
     "Wow, that's so special! Did Daddy bring you to school today?"
     "He's in jail. But he's comin' home in Nobember," she brightens, "and when he does, he's gonna get me a castle for my Barbie!"
     A broad smile spreads across her tiny face. She's actually kind of cute when she smiles.
     "It's the doll..." you explain to Mrs. Lincoln, "it's her connection to her father." 
     For that week, Pietra is allowed to keep her backpack safely beneath her chair. Often she pulls the Barbie out, just to make sure it's still there; and to tell her classmates about her Daddy and the castle and that he's coming home in Nobember. It's a huge distraction to her and to the other students; but necessary to keep her on an even emotional keel.
     Over the next several months and years Pietra's struggles become your very own. You try to become the One.Constant.Thing in her life. When dad gets out of jail and he keeps her home for a week to celebrate; you tell her you miss her and encourage her to come to school every day. When you read in the papers that he's been picked up again on drug charges; you meet her at the door with a special hug. You make up silly alphabet games to teach her letters; and when she finally learns to read; you have a BIG celebration and boast about her to anyone who will listen. No matter that she's two years behind. The main thing is...she's learning. Slowly, sometimes painstakingly,  but she's learning. Two steps forward, one step back.
     You know, and you dread the day that is coming; when she will become REALLY angry. At her father. At life. At her disabilities. At the system. Why does her father act this way? Why was she born into this family and not that one? Why is she reading first grade books in sixth grade?
     "Did you know," she asks as she sits quietly coloring her map of the United States, "that he never bought me that stupid castle for my Barbie doll? He promised!"
     Then she adds..."But he always found money for drugs."
     "I know, honey," you say softly.
     She's in sixth grade now. There's no way to sugar-coat the facts. So you tell her the truth.
     "You've had a hard time of it and people that you should be able to count on have let you down. But look who you've become in spite of it all! Remember when we met that day...under the coat rack? Back then you couldn't read. Couldn't do math. But you worked hard, and you learned. And if you keep working hard, you will learn more... I promise. You will become more than you ever could imagine if you don't give up. Please, Pietra, don't let yourself down!"
     She looks dubious. Though you've always tried to keep your word to her, you know it might not be enough. How many broken promises...broken dreams can one child endure? How many times can a broken heart heal?
     It's sixth grade graduation day and she gives you a wallet-size school photo. (You anonymously paid for her pictures this year, selfishly hoping she'd give you one, and you're thrilled when she does.) You take the picture home and proudly position it on the fridge, right next to your children's photos. She's grown so pretty. Her long blond hair is pulled into a pretty French-braid. Her wonky old glasses replaced with flattering ones that accentuate her lovely blue eyes. She's filling out; becoming a young lady. The form-fitting purple shirt she is wearing in the photograph attests to that. You look at it and smile. Purple. It's still her faborite color!
     Purple has become your faborite color too.
     Next fall there will be another child. He will be hiding under a coat-rack. Or she will be sitting in the hall outside her classroom, sulking. You will say "Hi, I'm Mrs. Smith. I love your green tennis-shoes. Green is my favorite color you know. Really... is it your's too?!"

***