My wife is an elementary school teacher. Our daughter goes to her school. Yesterday I asked her a question that no one should have to ask their spouse, or their child's teacher:
"Does your school do active shooter drills?"
Her answer broke me…
"Does your school do active shooter drills?"
Her answer broke me…
They don't call them "active shooter drills," my wife said. But yes, they practice for "intruders." It's the same thing, though. My wife's students aren't old enough to do long division, but they all have learned what to do if a gunman comes to their school.
It makes sense to practice for school massacres. We do fire drills even though children rarely die in school fires. School shootings are rare too, but less rare than school fires. Far less. Of course we should be practicing these things.
This is the horrible math of our reality.
This is the horrible math of our reality.
The plan at my wife's school is about what you've heard elsewhere. The kids hide. My wife closes the door; she always keeps it locked (for this very reason.) Then she pulls the paper clips from the roll of black butcher paper hung above the door window (for this very reason.)
There's not enough closet space, so she'd put the smallest ones in cupboards. The rest will cower in a corner and she'll try to shield them. My wife used the words "protect them with my body" the same way she uses the words "teach them fractions."
This is our new normal.
This is our new normal.
If the kids are on the playground or in the gym, where they'd be open targets, they've been taught to run around and throw things like lunchboxes. If that sounds like an awful plan, it's because it is. And it's also the best plan there is.
That's how few options exist.
That's how few options exist.
I didn't want to ask, but I did: "If something like this happened, is there anything you can do for our daughter?"
"No," she said. "I know I would want to do whatever I could to protect her, but that's not my job. My job is to protect my students."
"No," she said. "I know I would want to do whatever I could to protect her, but that's not my job. My job is to protect my students."
I didn't want to ask, but I did: "Even if you thought there was something you could do to protect our daughter?"
"Yes," she said. "Even then. My job is to protect my students."
"Yes," she said. "Even then. My job is to protect my students."
I've been under fire; I thought about nothing in those moments other than my own safety. But I don't doubt my wife would instinctively guard her students' lives, even at the cost of her own.
Not because she's particularly heroic, although she is, but because she's a teacher.
Not because she's particularly heroic, although she is, but because she's a teacher.
Somehow, I know our daughter's teacher would guard our child with her life, too.
And I don't know you, or your child, or your child's teacher, but I'd bet dollars to donuts that teacher would lay down their life to protect their students.
And I don't know you, or your child, or your child's teacher, but I'd bet dollars to donuts that teacher would lay down their life to protect their students.
Teachers. Principals. School psychologists. Janitors. Coaches. Substitutes. Time and again, in these terrible moments, they put themselves between a gunman and their students.
Time and again.
Time and again.
This is not a story we should hear time and again. This is not something any teacher's spouse should have to know about their partner. This is not something any parent should have to know about their child's teacher.
This is not the world we're supposed to live in.
This is not the world we're supposed to live in.
Yet this is the world we live in.
