Meg Lavery - The Kids Aren’t Alright

 

 

I was sitting on a metal stool in front of my desk holding a copy of Agatha Christie's And Then There Were None. When out of the corner of my eye I saw through the janky ass metal blinds that never really closed all the way shadows or figures. Before I could really process what I was seeing over the intercom blared this sound, “We are in a full building lockdown. Repeat. We are in a full building lockdown.” 

 

I prayed it was a drill, but I wasn't, for sure. And adrenaline pulsed through my body as I leaped from my stool, ran to the door, shutting it with one hand and ushering my students to stand, move against the wall and sit in front of the cabinets away from the window. 

 

The pounding started on the windows, pound, pound, pound. And two girls grabbed hands. Their matching friendship bracelets trembling on their wrists. A boy, who was usually so quiet and reserved, sat upright and spread his arms as if shielding the kids around him from the sound. The pounding continued, but faded as it moved down our windows to other classrooms until we were sitting in silence. I know that we were all holding our breath, because I was in a room with 27 seventh graders and I could hear the clock tick. 

 

Now, I had been in that classroom for many years, and I didn't even know that the clock made a sound. [audience laughter] Then, we started hearing some noise by the door. I had a synapse in my brain that made me panic that I had forgotten to lock it that morning. I had been very careful to come in through my door and lock it immediately ever since the staff meeting that we had a few weeks before. 

 

It was 2008, and there had been a shooting at Northern Illinois University on Valentine's Day. And that hit very close to home for the community where I taught at that time. And our principal worked with authorities to put together procedures, so that we, at our middle school, would have a process for a lockdown in case of an active shooter. 

 

We sat at the staff meeting and they told us they wanted it to mimic real life, so we weren't going to get the time or the date that it would happen, just know that we've given you a script, you know the procedures and your job is to keep the kids safe. And I took that very seriously, because school should be a safe place no matter where you live. [audience cheers and applause] 

 

That is why I was particularly worried that I hadn't locked the door. So, when we heard the noises, I was panicked. But thankfully I had, because the noises soon turned to shouting and panging, “Open the door. Open the door.” We sat and listened to the lock struggle to hold its place as the door was violently jerked. The kids who were sitting closest to the door were stricken. Their fists were clenched, their eyes were shut, their jaws were clenched. It's like they were bracing for impact. I just kept thinking, what the hell would I do if this was real? 

 

So, I reassured myself with the same idea that I told my students in reassurance a few minutes later when the drill was over, “This is the thing, guys. School shootings don't happen. In 10 years since Columbine, there's only been a handful of shootings, and they've all been at colleges and universities. We do tornado drills and fire drills, and you're not afraid of those. This is just something the school needs.” 

 

I felt okay about that answer until a girl raised her hand and said, “So, Miss Larry, what if I was like getting a drink or something when the lockdown happened? But when I came back, the door was locked. What would happen then?” Fuck. Shit. Fuck. [audience laughter] Obviously, I didn't say that to her. Thankfully, I had the script to go by, but I knew what the script said. And the script said that I had to look at that barely 13-year-old girl and tell her, “I had to leave her in the hallway, that I couldn't compromise the 26 students that were still in the classroom.” 

 

She looked at me and she recoiled, and a veil of innocence fell down her face with her tears and said, “You mean you would leave me out there to die?” What do you say? Yes, no, maybe?” I gave her the answer that I could fall back on, and that was again to reassure her that this was an anomaly, it was not going to happen in Lake County, Illinois. She accepted the answer, even though it wasn't the one that she wanted. Actually, everyone in that room accepted the answer, because it gave us all the security we needed to hear. 

 

Now, fast forward 10 years to 2019, I'm teaching in a new district, in a new school, still middle schoolers. And the thing is, these kids have been doing this drill, kids that are in middle school now since they were in kindergarten, they are seasoned veterans. And the thing is, I can no longer look at them and tell them that school shootings don't happen, that they're anomaly, that we don't have to be concerned about them, because a neighboring town had a middle schooler this year found with a loaded armed rifle in his bedroom after making threats to the school, many of whom my students knew. 

 

So, when the familiar lockdown announcement came on over the intercom, the students didn't look to me at all. They were more like military operatives than awkward teenagers as they planned how to barricade the door with which desks and which stapler would be the heaviest one to throw at someone. When I brought my finger to my mouth to help them be quiet, a kid looked at me unflinchingly and said words that cut to my core. “Miss Lavery, I know that that's what you think you're supposed to do, but your job is not to save us, we have to save ourselves.” 

 

I looked up at a sign that's been hanging in my room that says something like, “The job of a teacher is to enable the student to move forth without you.” I had looked at that sign a lot of times for inspiration, but I never thought the way I would see it play out was in that situation. Thank you.