eSCAping Type 1

As a former teacher and newish mom, I am feeling all the feels right now. Over and over I keep hearing and thinking, “I can’t even imagine.”

I can’t. I don’t ever want to. But I can share my various Lockdown memories with those who have never done one. I can help you see what every single American teacher experiences several times a year…

 

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It’s 9am on a Tuesday. A large group of teens is in your room for math class. Well, kind of large – a few are out on a college tour, one is in the nurse’s office pretending to have a stomach ache, one is doing her makeup in the bathroom, and one is waiting patiently for her to get back so he can get his calculator from his locker.

The sun is shining brightly through your second-story windows – there would probably be a nice breeze if you could open them. At least the oscillating fan you bought with your own money will cool down a corner of the room.

Suddenly, a crackling sound overhead indicates an upcoming announcement. “Lockdown! Lockdown!” the principal’s booming voice repeats on the loudspeaker.

They used to call a “Mr. Red” to the office; good call changing that to something everyone can quickly understand.

You rush to the door, lock it and slam it shut, turning the lights off as students quietly file up against the wall. Most of them are holding their textbooks, which now double as shields and weapons. Something to protect your face from shattered glass. Something to throw at the gunman to distract him from shooting.

The kids – your kids – slide down, sitting on the floor as you walk past them, counting. You’re missing one. She’s in the bathroom.

She knows to go to the nearest classroom. Or at least pull her feet up so they can’t be seen. You taught her that. Right before reviewing the quadratic equation. Because THAT is why you have a Master’s degree in mathematics; to teach kids how to avoid being shot.

It’s not like you can even let her in if she came back to your room right now anyway. Once a door is shut during a Lockdown, it stays shut. It doesn’t matter what you hear in the hallway. It doesn’t matter who you think is pounding on it, calling your name, begging to come in.

Your room is “empty.” That’s why you are all hiding silently in the dark. The students you can see are your priority. You are responsible for them, and opening your door for any reason jeopardizes their lives.

That’s kind of why escaping out a window isn’t really an option. It sure seems like a good idea – especially if you’re on the first floor with windows that actually open. And “just get yourself out of the building as quickly as possible” used to be the real plan of action. Until school shootings became a common occurrence, that is.

But now we’re taught to stay away from the windows since you don’t know if it’s “safe” out there. There could be another gunman, or a backpack full of explosives, or even a SWAT team who needs that area clear. Once you lose sight of a student you have no idea if they’re ok.

Doesn’t everyone have work meetings run by police officers explaining detailed life or death scenarios to you?

In the silence, you hear a cell phone buzzing in one of the teen’s pockets. Their undivided attention is supposed to be on the door; the second they look away could be the second they need to act. But what if it’s their mom texting “I love you” one last time? Or a friend complaining about the person they’re stuck sitting next to?

Footsteps in the hallway bring an unwanted distraction. You subconsciously hold your breath as the lock on your door jiggles and clicks. It opens… and the principal pokes his face in. “Good job, everyone,” he says while flipping on the lights before heading to the next classroom.

Your students shuffle back to their seats, completely unphased, and open what is now once again their textbooks. The girl who was in the bathroom saunters in, handing the hall pass to the unprepared boy. You walk back over to the whiteboard, continuing your lesson as if you haven’t all just gone through that trauma-inducing experience.

 

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