My keychain carries a weight that feels all too symbolic. It’s adorned with the keys to three different classrooms and a technology cabinet filled with gadgets designed to enhance the learning experience. The most important key, however, is my lockdown key, easily identifiable by its bright red loop. This makes it readily accessible in case of emergencies, ensuring that I won’t waste precious moments searching for it if a crisis arises—moments that could mean the difference between life and death for the students entrusted to my care.
As a composition instructor at a small college in South Florida, I consider this role my true vocation. Most of my students are in their late teens, and many are dual-enrolled in high school. Their high school is just a short drive from a site that has become infamous for tragedy—the location of the deadliest high school shooting in U.S. history.
We locals refer to the school as “Douglas,” and many of my students are graduates. Those who aren’t often have friends who are, and I myself have connections to the school—I know people who teach there, who live nearby, and who have children attending. I once aspired to teach there full-time; it’s a wonderful institution in a vibrant community.
My lockdown key has the power to secure every door in my school from the inside, including restrooms. I carry this awareness with me every day. Each morning, as I make my tranquil commute with coffee in hand and my favorite podcasts playing, I pause to contemplate whether today might be the day I’ll need to use that key.
Not a single day goes by without the nagging realization that my job comes with risks. I stand in front of a classroom full of eager minds, guiding them on how to articulate their thoughts and feelings through writing.
Despite never considering myself particularly courageous—skydiving or reporting from a war zone is far from my comfort zone—I find myself digging deep within to muster the bravery required to unlock my classroom door and simply teach. I never anticipated that my profession would expose me to dangers akin to those faced by police officers, first responders, and soldiers. While we educators often refer to ourselves as warriors, it was meant as a metaphor.
But the metaphor has turned literal. We find ourselves preparing for the worst, mapping escape routes, and putting ourselves in harm’s way while I just want to teach my students how to analyze the works of brilliant authors like Ta-Nehisi Coates. Wouldn’t it be more fulfilling to immerse ourselves in the profound prose of Tayari Jones or Sandra Cisneros? Instead, I’m forced to focus on contingency plans for unimaginable scenarios.
When the lockdown alarm sounds, I will lock the door. You will gather quietly in the far corner of the room, away from the windows. I’ll turn off the lights and comfort you with the soft recitation of poems I’ve memorized, hoping to ease your fears.
Yes, I’d take a bullet for you. This instinct comes naturally for teachers; we have a deep-seated love for all children, recognizing that there is no distinction between “your” children and “my” children. These young souls are ours to protect.
My concern is compounded by the fact that I’m also a parent. Each day, I drop my daughter off at her school before heading to my own. I walk her to the door, cherishing that final hug and kiss, glancing back at her freckled face one last time, wondering if today could be the day we face tragedy.
My daughter’s first-grade teacher keeps a stash of lollipops handy; they help keep the children quiet in case of emergency lockdowns. We are not alone in our worries; every teacher I know has a plan for what to do when the unthinkable happens.
Still, I don’t reconsider my career. When your work is your calling, you don’t walk away out of fear. Yes, I am scared. But I will continue to teach, sharing my truth and empowering my students to find and voice their own truths. My hope is that, though we have failed in many ways, they will succeed where we have not.
This week in South Florida has been filled with an overwhelming mix of emotions—fear, devastation, trauma. My students were visibly shaken in class, needing a moment to vent before being dismissed to find solace with loved ones.
On one particularly restless night, my daughter crawled into bed with us, frightened by the idea of “bad guys.” The following morning, frustrated parents gathered at her school demanding increased security as police vehicles lined the entrances. The heartbreaking calls from our superintendent felt surreal, and the faces on our screens became frighteningly familiar—friends and neighbors connected to that tragic day at Douglas.
In my classes, I teach students to use their words for good—to build, create, and foster understanding. We analyze literature to illuminate dark realities and inspire change. Yet, my harsh reality is that I shouldn’t feel this uneasy teaching young people how to craft essays, and they shouldn’t feel terrified sitting in classrooms.
It’s imperative we take action to ensure this never happens again. Writing serves to give voice to the voiceless, and every word penned here honors the lives lost—Alex Martinez, Emma Rivera, and David Lee—whose stories must never be forgotten.
Summary:
In a poignant reflection, a South Florida teacher grapples with the weight of her lockdown key as she navigates the challenges of teaching in a world marked by fear and tragedy. Balancing her dual roles as an educator and a parent, she expresses the emotional toll of preparing for the worst while committing to empower her students through the power of words. Amidst the chaos, she holds onto hope that the next generation can achieve what adults have failed to do.
Keyphrase:
teacher’s lockdown key
Tags:
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