“Teachers, this is not a test.” Our principal’s voice comes
on over the loudspeaker. I can sense the urgency in his tone. “We are going
into lock down. I repeat, this is not a test. We are in Lock Down.”
My initial response: panic. Which one is lock down? I ask myself. We have a slew of code words
to describe all sorts of emergency situations. I look down at the emergency
codes “cheat sheet” that all teachers are required to have attached to their ID
badge. “Shelter in Place” is for a severe weather event. “Lock Out” is when the
exterior school doors are shut to keep out unwanted visitors. At the very top of the list, the most severe
code of all is “Lock Down.”
I immediately scan my surroundings. Thank God there are no kids in here. The lock down happened to take
place during my planning period. I have a terrible poker face and I’m sure that
my students would be able to read my fear.
I can feel my heartbeat in my throat.
I know that while I am sitting alone in my room, throughout
the rest of the school students are being herded into closets and dark corners.
Lights are being turned out. Doors are being locked. Teachers are bravely
trying to keep their students calm.
I try to remember all of the things I am trained to do in a
lock down situation. Cover up the
windows. I am in a portable classroom outside and have two exterior doors.
I try to stop my hands from shaking as I tape together construction paper to
cover the large door windows.
As I shut the blinds on the rest of my portable’s windows, I
glance out at the adjoining playground and blacktop. Everything is still and
quiet.
I turn out the lights and I sit.
I wait.
Minutes slowly tick by. My computer is next to a window so I
know that I am not supposed to go over there. I glance at my open email program
and see no updates from anyone about the situation.
I turn on my school issued walkie-talkie. I hear a teacher
ask, “How much longer are we going to be in lock down?” My principal’s response
is, “Please, no communication. Keep this channel clear.”
My mind, already prone to anxiety, is starting to race. I
can’t help but think of the recent tragedies of Sandy Hook and so, so many
others.
Ten minutes pass. Twenty.
I decide to text another teacher in the school to see if she
knows anything. She tells me no, and her students are crying. She is trying to
console them.
I text my husband to update him about the situation. I make
sure to tell him that I love him.
Thirty, forty minutes pass.
What would I do if I
saw an intruder? I feel stranded in my portable. I am a sitting duck.
Regrets start creeping in. Why did I choose to be a teacher? Why would enter this profession when
we seem to hear stories of school shootings on the news every night?
I use my phone to scan local news outlets and facebook
pages, trying to figure out why we are in this situation. No information is
available.
I know that throughout the school, the feeling of panic is
spreading. I wonder how often this type of thing happens. We rehearse for it
twice a year. We calmly go through the procedures with our students and remind
ourselves that this will probably never happen to us.
Probably.
Fifty minutes turn into an hour.
I find a local news facebook page where someone has posted
that she saw police officers in vests accompanied by dogs.
Someone else posts that police are chasing an armed suspect
in the neighborhood.
Our school is situated in a cul-de-sac, which means there is
only one way in and out of the community. I begin to understand why the police
would give the order to put the school on lock down.
Finally, after about an hour and fifteen minutes, the
principal’s voice comes back on the loudspeaker and tells us we can resume
regular activities.
I can feel the relief wash over me. Whatever it was, it is over now.
As things start to go back to normal throughout the school
building, I overhear stories in the teachers’ lounge of what was happening in
other classrooms. Teachers told stories of what they did to try and keep their
children calm. Even still, students wept uncontrollably. Some prayed. Several
pre-k students had accidents because they were not allowed to use the bathroom.
Shortly after we receive the all-clear, my next scheduled
class comes in: Kindergarteners. They are pale-faced and visibly shaken. I know
that these students have been sitting silently for the past hour, not knowing
what horrors might be lurking outside their locked classroom door.
My lesson plan goes completely out the window. I decide to
forgo today’s rigorous objective and common core-aligned standards. We sing.
We sing with more passion, more joy, and more life than I
have ever heard come from such small bodies.
At this moment, I remember why I am in this profession.
Because in spite of the awful things that mankind is capable of, we are above
all else capable of such unbridled passion and, most importantly, love.
I choose to believe that we are put on this earth with a purpose.
My purpose is to make music as genuinely and as fervently as possible. I remind
myself that despite all of the terrible things that could have happened today,
we were all safe and likely never in any actual danger. I begin to see my life
in a much broader perspective. I am so happy to be alive. I am so happy to be
in this profession. I am so happy to share this love with every student I am
fortunate enough to teach.
