Last week, my sixth-grade twins experienced a school crisis that thankfully never materialized. Just forty-five minutes before dismissal on an otherwise typical Wednesday, I received an automated message from the principal informing me of a verbal threat made at the school. The police were on-site, everything was under control, and the “children had shown remarkable bravery and cooperation.” My mind raced as I tried to process the situation. Should I rush to the school? Were the buses still running? Why was the message so vague?
As my phone buzzed with messages from other parents echoing my concerns, we attempted to share our questions on our private class Facebook group. To our dismay, the page administrators swiftly deleted our inquiries, which only heightened our anxiety as rumors began to swirl.
When I finally picked up my kids, they had even less clarity. The snippets of information they possessed were inconsistent, and because they had been instructed not to discuss the incident with anyone, they feared the worst. They ended up retreating to their beds, anxious about returning the following day. I paced around my house, reaching out to more informed parents, and eventually found someone who could provide accurate details to help me reassure my children. Finally, the principal posted on Facebook, offering some much-needed clarity.
In reality, there had been no shooting, nor was there a weapon involved. A troubled boy, who had suffered from bullying, had threatened on two separate occasions to bring a gun to school the next day to “kill as many people as possible.” Thankfully, the students he confided in alerted adults, leading to the boy’s apprehension. He is now presumably undergoing an investigation while navigating the juvenile justice system, school expulsion, and hopefully receiving trauma-informed therapy.
The fragility of our lives is startlingly apparent. It feels as if there’s no protective barrier at all. The realization that I’ve never been truly shielded from such violence hits hard, much like the moment I narrowly avoid being struck by a car while crossing the street—momentarily frozen in fear as a gust of wind rushes past.
In this instance, my family and I felt the weight of the near miss. We stood on the edge, hearts racing, fully aware of how close we were to catastrophe.
I initially felt anger towards how the incident was communicated, but soon I recognized that my emotions were misdirected. Beneath the inadequate sharing of our non-event was something far more disconcerting. If this had been an isolated incident, we might have exhaled, hugged each other, and moved forward with a newfound appreciation for life’s fragility. But this situation was different, and the unease lingered long into the evening.
Online, I noticed a comforting narrative emerging among parents discussing the threat: “It was a verbal threat, handled appropriately; schools have protocols in place for this.” Well-meaning parents repeated this mantra, emphasizing that it was an isolated occurrence. “Thank you for keeping our kids safe,” many wrote to the principal. Even my partner said, “The kid is in custody, and the school managed the situation.”
While this perspective is valid if we consider it as an isolated event, it feels eerily disconnected from the broader reality: a national epidemic. We are raising our children amidst a culture that has become accustomed to mass shootings. Phrases like “I’m going to come back with a gun and kill as many people as I can” are no longer shocking; they are part of our collective consciousness.
The alarming increase in school shootings—and similar violent events in churches, theaters, and public spaces—has transformed the way we engage in everyday activities. We often bemoan the frequency of these tragedies and the minimal media coverage they receive, yet what is even more concerning is our numbness when it nearly happens to our own families.
I do not blame the school administration or the parents discussing the incident. The lack of outrage is indicative of a deeper societal issue; we have become so desensitized to violence that even a close call fails to elicit a strong response. Perhaps voicing anger would force us to confront uncomfortable truths. Many, like me, may be struggling with their feelings in isolation, disconnected from a larger conversation. But it is a grim reality that it may take an actual shooting—bullets ricocheting off walls and terrorizing students—to provoke collective outrage.
Protocols, drills, and counseling services may provide a thin veneer of safety, but no child is truly safe in this culture. I, like many parents, am grateful that the principal helped protect my children, yet I do not delude myself into believing that their school can guarantee their safety or survival.
The students from Parkland who launched March for Our Lives and the parents from Sandy Hook who created the recent “Back to School” PSA are not just seeking justice for their lost loved ones; they are acutely aware of our precarious existence. They see with clarity that we are all standing on the brink, swaying between disaster and a narrow escape.
Every school in America is a potential Parkland. It’s crucial that we begin having open discussions from this precarious place, navigating the realities of active shooter drills and the unsettling nature of near-misses. We can start this conversation from the curb, and it is long overdue.
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In summary, it is vital to recognize the pervasive threat of violence in schools today. The near miss at my children’s school serves as a stark reminder of how fragile our safety is and how we must confront these realities head-on to foster a safer environment for future generations.
Keyphrase: school safety awareness
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