The lockdown drill happens today, just like I know it will. Oh, sure, I have insider information from a
staff member who calls out sick. But I
also use common sense: snow is coming. No one knows if there will be school, won't
be school, will be a delay, won't be a delay…
Wednesday is the only day of reasonably steady weather, something that
will not impact either the school day nor traffic conditions on the roads thus
tying up the police who essentially run our drill.
As soon as the attendance is posted via the Internet, I'm on
alert. Traditionally the drill has
happened during second block, shortly after 9:00 a.m., and today is no
different. When the all-call comes
through with no pomp and no circumstance, I am ready. I have already locked the door, and I have
already arranged the desks away from any entrance to the room.
What I expect is a little pomp with my circumstance. You know, something like, "May I have
your attention please. At this time the
school will proceed to lockdown conditions. Please follow protocol. I repeat, we are now entering…"
What I get is, "May I have your attention. We are now in lockdown." Click.
That's it? That's all
we get? No sense of leadership? No sense of authority? Just casting us all into the winds of oblivion
and hoping we all play along?
I double-check the door, which has the one errant handle out
of all doors in this wing. I cover the
panel window in the door, and I fill out the emergency card, the green one for
"all accounted for and safe."
I tell the full classroom, the group that is bursting at the seams and
occupies every open chair and more, that they are to be silent, put their heads
down, and please do not do anything that will attract enough attention for an
administrator to unlock the door and find that we are still at our desks rather
than huddled in a mass on the filthy, construction-dust-laden floor.
Then I shut off the lights.
Except for the computer monitor in the back of the room, it is
absolutely pitch flipping dark. Because
the classroom now lacks windows, it's like someone just shut us into a
box. I light a small Halloween electric
candle I have fished out of the back closet and hope this is enough to stave
off nervousness amongst the children.
I hear the first responders walking the hallways, checking
on our paperwork and procedures and reaction time. It is at this moment that I realize I forgot
to tell the students one teeny, tiny little detail: Someone is going to attempt to open my door.
Yup, I forgot to tell them about the door trauma, and trauma
it is. Whoever rattles my funky door
handle works it and works it and works it.
He/she even gives it a little shove for good measure.
This is when I first hear noise. There is a murmuring coming from the back of
the room and audible panic from a girl nearer to the door. Houston,
we have a screamer. I can tell she
is trying not to shriek as she emits two high-pitched and noisy intakes of
breath.
A couple of minutes later, we get the "all clear"
announcement. I turn the lights back on
and apologize to the class, especially the girl who nearly lost her shit when
the hallway people attempted to get into our room. I can scarcely believe I forgot to mention so
basic an occurrence to the students. For
that matter, I forgot to mention it to my co-teacher, as well, who is sitting
mere inches from the door handle when it starts to clang around.
When it's all over and we know that it really is a drill and
that everyone is accounted for, I apologize for not informing the class of
exactly what happens during a lockdown.
Truthfully, though, I'm not sorry in the slightest. Sensing the entire class having a miniature
meltdown has been so worth the price of admission. Witnessing my co-teacher having the same
reaction? So be it.
After all, this is a
drill, a real-time simulation, and sometimes reality happens this way. Life has its own handle-shaking events. Might as well practice that reality now while
we can still bounce back.
