I see an administrator running in the library. I turn to my colleagues. We are working in our 鈥減rofessional learning community鈥� to get better at our jobs, but really my colleague just showed me a video of her baby son enjoying swinging on a swing set and blowing a kiss to mom. Of course, I shared back with a video of my grown son singing in his rock band plus a picture of me cradling his head in our backyard in Ohio in the spring of 2000鈥攈e was born two months after Columbine.
鈥淚 just saw an administrator running out of the library,鈥� I say. We are in an enclosed room in the library that is soundproof, and it鈥檚 a professional development day so no students in the building. It鈥檚 quiet and peaceful.
鈥淭here鈥檚 a bomb threat,鈥� a voice says. 鈥淕et out of the building now.鈥� We do.
Welcome to the new normal. A week prior, a threat was posted on social media: a picture of an AR-15 with dates and schools, including ours, superimposed. Our school is scheduled for Sept. 24, but we have emails from administrators claiming the threat is no longer credible. As teachers, we know the central office will not share any specific details. Legally, they can鈥檛, they say. But this morning鈥檚 threat is ahead of the 鈥渘o longer credible threat鈥� we carry in the back of our minds.
I thought about calling in sick today. I have loads of personal statements for college applications to read, prep for Monday, hours of required videos to watch about safety issues, health issues, dyslexia, airborne pathogens, Title IX, and so on, due Oct. 1, 2024.
Now, I鈥檓 at our dining room table鈥攐ne of our grown kids was able to snatch me from a parking lot near the school and take me home鈥攂ut still feeling the adrenaline and turning to writing. My keys are back at school, and dogs from the St. Louis airport will arrive to take hours sniffing each classroom. Until they are done, no chance of getting back in the building.
What I see in her is what I see in myself, and it鈥檚 what I see in my colleagues despite differing pedagogical and political beliefs.
As I was fast-walking to the nearest exit, I thought about making a detour to get my keys so I could get home, but I thought: If I get blown up grabbing my keys, my wife will be so pissed at me. 鈥淲hat did he do?鈥� she would ask incredulously after my death. Instead, I鈥檓 fine with her text about how I鈥檓 always supposed to have my keys with me.
When was the last time anyone actually blew up a bomb in an American school? This morning before school, I was thinking about the explosions in Lebanon and my new student who wrote about dancing an Arabic dance during a Maronite Church retreat鈥攕he was sick yesterday. Does she have relatives in Lebanon? Are they OK? Is she OK? It鈥檚 too early in the school year for me to know her well enough to ask.
I鈥檓 sweating. I wore a pink T-shirt to school today with jeans hoping I could wear it tonight to hear a poetry reading. For some reason, the poet part of my brain has been triggered. It happened after seeing a video on Instagram and involved a dead baby being pulled from wreckage. I want to start a club at school called The Poetic Justice Club or the Social Poet鈥檚 Club. I鈥檝e talked to students about it. They are excited to read poetry from other countries, poets who know that, as Audre Lorde wrote, 鈥淧oetry is not a luxury.鈥� That will be our slogan. Anyway, in the poem I wrote, I quoted from Tawfiq Zayyad鈥檚 poem 鈥淗ere We Shall Stay鈥�: 鈥淲e shall remain/like a wall upon your chest.鈥� I feel buried by his poem but also inspired by it. I must act. I want students to feel that, too. That will be a great club if I can get it going.
To do that, I must go back. The teachers who are experiencing the new normal must go back into school each day, despite mounting evidence that maybe our skills, energy, talents, and life force should do good anywhere else. That was kind of what I was saying to my colleague as we walked to a rally point following the bomb threat. She鈥檚 so young and can do something else to help young people so she can take care of her baby son. That鈥檚 all I wanted to do as a dad. But what I see in her is what I see in myself, and it鈥檚 what I see in my colleagues despite differing pedagogical and political beliefs.
The pressure is on us to keep going in, to remain teachers who believe that the answer to the threats, the bullets, the bombs, the bombast of our politicians, is contained in the act of educating young people to think for themselves and to see the fragile humanity of people beyond the walls some would build or smash down upon the innocent鈥攊ncluding ourselves.
Editor鈥檚 note: An earlier version of this essay was published in Vox Populi.
