Friday morning before homeroom started, a parent with a head
full of steam came careening through the sea of children, blew right by those
of us trying to stop her, and proceeded through the wing and up the
stairs. She was not wearing a required
visitor pass nor was she adhering even to the rules of common manners as she
shoved her way through the throng of people while on her personal mission.
I didn't know if she might be mad at her child, angry with a
teacher, or just harried because whatever errand she felt needed doing might be
making her late doing everything else.
Perhaps she was suffering from the domino effect on her own morning.
However, she was a loose parent, unsupervised, undocumented,
and unwelcome in our school. After the
Newtown massacre, no intelligent person would knowingly scare children (nor
adults, for that matter) by entering a school, especially entering with
attitude and ignoring staff.
I immediately called the office to find out if any parent
had permission to enter the occupied portion of the school (beyond the front
hallway and office) and was told no one had registered with the front
desk. That sent the vice principal
scrambling to locate the parent and escort her out.
The few students who overheard me report the incident to the
switchboard were curious but quiet.
After the VP came in and gave me the all-clear, the rest of the
students, who had since trickled to their desks, questioned why I was so
concerned. Now, I know these kids are
only thirteen, but they're not stupid, and when I'm in charge of them, I'll
protect them and treat them like my own, so I was honest with them. I explained without any melodrama that
"No adult has the right to enter without a visitor pass. This is a secure building. After what happened in Connecticut, nobody
walks these halls but us. We will keep
everyone safe."
I didn't want to scare them, at least not intentionally, and
they seemed satisfied with my answer.
Then I took attendance, we pledged the flag, had our morning
announcements, and went about our business of Greek and Latin roots.
I wish I could say that was the end of my security concerns
for the day, but I have to be honest, that's just not the case. You see, construction started Thursday
outside of my window. The construction
is less than a football field away, and workers in hard hats and regular
construction gear walk along my windows most of the day. Right
along, so if I were to open the window when one walks by, I could reach out
and box his ears if I so choose as the workers and I are at eye level
throughout the day. It suddenly dawned
on me that I don't know these people.
Anybody with an orange highway department vest and standard yellow hardhat
can enter the area and would have access to the side of the building and all
the windows. Just beyond their vehicles,
the woods start, deep and thick and intricately smattered with boulders and
branches and pathways and escape routes.
As the kids were working in groups, I started to lose my
grip about security concerns. I wondered
why we didn't go into shelter in place while the errant adult was escorted from
the building. I wondered why we have
merely taped the lockdown procedures to our doors and not had an actual drill
yet this year. I know we're incredibly
good at it and have a wonderful system in place (that I double-checked and
reworked for my new room the same afternoon of the Newtown massacre when I read
about it while checking my school email account), but we also have new staff
and many of us are now in different rooms, different hallways, different wings.
The first school day after Newtown, I covered the window
that's in the class door. I taught in
the modular classrooms for a year, the only area of our building that has
windowless doors. At first having no
window in the door scared me; now I'm so used to it that having a clear view in
from and out to the hallway unnerves me.
I moved bookshelves and boxes and made sure I could get the shades all
the way down within seconds. I decided
where I will huddle the children that might provide the best cover and least
likely target spot. And now I'm watching
the hallways, the bathrooms, the stairwells, and the construction site like a
sentinel.
I worry that I've missed something, that something will slip
so obviously by me. I also worry that my
mind is too preoccupied with everything else going on around my classroom, both
inside and out, that I might lose sight of the main objective - educating the
children - for the more righteous goal of simply keeping them safe.
But more than worry, I feel tinges of anger. I am angry over a world gone amok. I am angry at mentally deranged whackos who
think killing people by whatever means is simply acceptable and ultimately
reasonable. I am angry with the media
and politicians and activists who have made the security of children at schools
into various rallying cries for their agendas.
And I am furiously angry with the family and lawyer who filed that
outrageously self-serving lawsuit trying to gain money from their child's and the
neighbors' trauma - the suit may be dropped, but the damage is done;
grave-robbing at its lowest form.
Up until Friday morning, I had been angry at myself for
splitting my brain in two. Educating the
students no longer held the number one spot on my priority list; security
shared that spot evenly where before it had always been a priority but priority
number two.
Then I saw that parent weeding through the masses of
students, eye on whatever prize she was going for, completely unaware of the
multiple adults trying to stop her. It
terrified me, it angered me, and it empowered me because I realized in that
moment that whatever happens, whatever or whoever might walk through the front
door of my school, I will react and I will protect at least to the best of my
ability.
It has to be enough, and I must accept that it has to be
enough. Safe and Sound is merely a state of mind; I must trust that my mind
will be quick and strong enough to do what needs to be done.
