As with most of my news these days, I found out on Facebook. I had just gotten home from work and was checking my newsfeed, and I saw a post from a high school classmate: a link to a breaking news story about a school shooting…at our high school. It was a surreal moment of thinking,
“What? In my hometown, five minutes from my parents’ house?”
But it was true. A student had walked into school that Monday morning, dug a loaded gun out of his backpack, and fired a shot into the ground. A few seconds later, as he moved down the main staircase towards the common area, still packed with students milling around, he fired a second shot into the air. Then, before anything else could transpire, a teacher tackled him to the ground and wrestled the weapon away. It was over in a matter of seconds, but as I read the news article detailing the events, I wondered, how much damage did that kid just do, despite the miracle that he didn’t actually hurt anyone?
School shootings are far too commonplace these days, no longer surprising, really, when they pop up every few months in the national news. But this one was shocking to me because it happened at the school I had attended. And what’s more, the school where I worked last year for four months during my student teaching. I could visualize the exact spot where he’d fired that second time because it was the same setting of so many of my happy high school memories. I passed that hero teacher in the hallway plenty of times last spring, and though I never had him as a teacher myself, both of my brothers did, and they loved him. This was all so very, very close to home.
Since it happened, I’ve still struggled to wrap my mind around the event. How could the peaceful backdrop of so many childhood memories have nearly become the scene of a tragedy? What if it had happened last year, when I was there, potentially climbing those very stairs? For the first few hours, nothing was reported about the shooter, and my stomach was tied in knots, fearing that perhaps it was one of the troubled freshmen I worked with last year. I now know that it was not. But that doesn’t change how scared I feel that so many people I personally know—well over a hundred students and dozens of teachers and staff were put in danger that day, in a place that should be safe.
That’s what really frightens me about the whole thing: school should be safe, and thus, school shootings are a teacher’s worst nightmare. I often send up a prayer on my way to school, asking for protection over my school from whoever (whether it be a terrorist group or a disgruntled student) might want to harm us there. But this event, which has rocked my quiet little hometown, reminds me that this kind of danger can strike anywhere, any school. And no amount of metal detectors at the doors will make any difference.
On a positive note, it’s been amazing to see how students, staff, alumni, and community members have hailed this incredible teacher as the hero he is. I honestly doubt if I would have had the courage to do what he did, but his actions make me proud to be in the same profession. I go to work each day hoping I might change a life. He saved a life, maybe many lives. If that doesn’t qualify you for teacher of year, I don’t know what does! But, the way teachers’ salaries in our state work, the guy probably won’t even see a raise this year.
I still have my high school memories, and I’m so thankful that during my time there, both as a student and a teacher, I felt very safe. But what about the students and staff there now? How do you come into work the next day and teach like nothing has changed? How do you pay attention in class when, in the back of your mind, you’re listening for gunshots?
Mercifully, it seems like the shooter wasn’t planning a massacre; there’s a possibility he was just hoping his actions would get him shot by police, a kind of suicide ploy. But for so many people, an illusion of safety and a kind of innocence have been shattered, and that kind of damage, much like a bullet to the heart, can’t be undone.