My keychain feels excessively weighty. It carries the keys to three distinct classrooms, along with a technology cabinet brimming with valuable tools designed to enhance the learning experience. The most prominent key on the ring is my lockdown key, attached with a noticeable red loop for quick access. In the event of an emergency, I can’t afford to waste time searching for it—every second counts when it comes to protecting lives, especially the lives of children.
As a composition instructor at a small college in South Florida, I consider this role a calling. Most of my students are in their late teens, including many who are simultaneously enrolled in high school. Their school is only a few miles from the site of a tragic event—the infamous Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, which experienced the deadliest high school shooting in U.S. history.
Locally, we refer to it simply as “Douglas.” Many of my students are graduates of that school, and those who aren’t often have friends who are. I have personal connections as well: friends who attended, acquaintances living near, and relatives teaching there. I once aspired to secure a full-time teaching position at Douglas. It’s a respected institution within a vibrant community.
My lockdown key has the capability to secure every door in my school, even the bathrooms, from the inside. That reality is never far from my thoughts. Each morning, as I enjoy a peaceful commute with coffee and podcasts, I find myself pondering whether today will be the day I need to use that key.
Not a single day goes by without the underlying awareness that my job carries significant risks. I stand before a classroom full of young minds, teaching them how to articulate their thoughts, emotions, and ideas through writing.
I’ve never considered myself particularly brave. You won’t find me skydiving or covering conflicts in war zones; even wading knee-deep in the ocean can trigger a panic attack. Yet, each day, I must summon an unexpected courage to unlock my classroom door and simply… teach. It’s bewildering to realize that my profession now comes with risks similar to those faced by first responders or military personnel. Educators often refer to themselves as warriors, but we meant it in a metaphorical sense—until now.
Somehow, our calling has become literal. We find ourselves planning escape routes, putting ourselves in harm’s way, when all I want is to guide my students through the beauty of literature. I want to introduce them to the captivating words of writers like Maya Angelou or Mark Twain, rather than devising a strategy for a potential tragedy.
When the lockdown alarm sounds, I will secure the door. You will huddle quietly in the corner, away from windows and sound. I will turn off the lights and recite soothing poetry, hoping to offer you comfort amidst fear. And yes, I would take a bullet for you. I’m passionate about caring for all children because, in our hearts, we know that they are all our children, and we must protect them.
As a teacher, my concern is compounded because I am also a parent. Each morning, I drop my daughter off at her school, walking her to the door, giving her an extra squeeze, one last kiss, and turning back to see her freckled face—because who knows? It could be her school in the news next time, or it could be mine.
My daughter’s teacher keeps a stash of lollipops on her desk, claiming it helps keep the children quiet if they need to hide in a supply closet. We aren’t outliers; every teacher I know has a plan in place. We practice the protocol, preparing for that moment when we hear the first gunshot.
Despite the fear, I don’t reconsider my career. Teaching is my purpose, and I refuse to abandon it out of fear. Yes, I am scared, but I will continue to speak my truth and teach our young adults how to articulate their own truths. My hope is that if I can impart knowledge and strength, they might succeed where we have failed them.
Describing the atmosphere in South Florida this week seems inadequate—words like terrified, devastated, and traumatized feel too simplistic. My students were visibly shaken during class; I had to pause to allow them to express their feelings and let them leave early. “Go home and be with your loved ones,” I urged them.
On Wednesday night, my daughter slept with us, frightened of “the bad guys.” The following morning, parents gathered outside her elementary school, clamoring for increased security as police cars patrolled the area. Robotic calls from our superintendent flooded in. Suddenly, faces on the news became familiar—people we knew in real life. Everyone seems to have a connection to Douglas. Social media felt unbearable.
In my freshman composition classes, I emphasize the importance of using our words for good. They shouldn’t be tools for bullying or petty arguments; language is a gift meant for building and creation. In my class, we focus on storytelling, sharing experiences, and critically examining our world to enact positive change. Words can illuminate harsh truths and rally support.
This is my harsh reality: I shouldn’t have to fear for my safety in a room where I’m merely teaching young people to write essays, and they shouldn’t have to fear for their lives while seated at their desks.
It’s time to take action to ensure this never happens again. We write to give voice to those who can’t tell their stories, and every word I’ve penned here honors the memory of those lost—people like Grace Thompson, James Carter, and Mia Rodriguez, who should still be with us today.
In conclusion, the world of teaching has changed dramatically, and we must adapt to ensure the safety and well-being of our students while nurturing their minds. It is essential for us to continue advocating for change and building a better future for the next generation.
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