I was not quite one month into my first teaching job when the Nickel Mines school shooting occurred. If the staggering number of similar incidents in the subsequent twelve years has blurred your memory of this particular one, allow me to refresh it. On October 2, 2006, a gunman entered an Amish schoolhouse and held hostage ten girls between the ages of 6 and 13. Five of those hostages would eventually be killed, but not before two of the girls offered their lives in exchange for the others.
I'd just recently moved away from a dear friend I'd made working for an educational theatre company in New England. He heard the news and, having only a general idea of where I was geographically and a vague recollection that I would be teaching at a Quaker (which is often mistaken for Amish) school, texted me frantically, asking if I was ok. I remember apologizing to him later for my reply, uncharacteristically terse from processing what felt like the incomprehensible:
"I'm ok. Not our school."
I'd just recently moved away from a dear friend I'd made working for an educational theatre company in New England. He heard the news and, having only a general idea of where I was geographically and a vague recollection that I would be teaching at a Quaker (which is often mistaken for Amish) school, texted me frantically, asking if I was ok. I remember apologizing to him later for my reply, uncharacteristically terse from processing what felt like the incomprehensible:
"I'm ok. Not our school."
I was eight months pregnant with my younger daughter when I learned about Sandy Hook. Remember, this was the incident when twenty children between the ages of 6 and 7 years old (as well as six adults) were murdered by a gunman who'd entered their school. I was getting ready to leave my job for the day and pick up my toddler at her childcare center. I cried hysterically in the bathroom of my school, not trusting that I would be able to drive safely after having heard the news. I realized, with an overwhelming surge of nausea, that I'd actually performed at Sandy Hook Elementary with that very same theatre company. They booked us every year.
It was not our school. But I was not ok.
It was not our school. But I was not ok.
I dropped off my daughters, now five and six years old, at school today. But instead of staying and teaching in my classroom, like I usually do, I came back home to write report cards. The unease had settled on me well before I even thought to click on today's news. The thought - the worry - was there, as I find it always is these days. It becomes, on a daily basis, less shadowy and more distinct. It becomes the fully-formed, crystal-clear thought, as it did today. What if?
Having had anxiety for as long as I can remember, I've learned a lot of ways to deal with it. One of my first strategies is usually asking myself the likelihood that what I'm fearing will actually happen. I've become a bit of an expert on the statistical chances of many random scenarios.
There has been, on average, one school shooting per week in the United States in 2018. We are less than six months into the year.
Today, it's not our school. Maybe it's not your child's school. Maybe it's someone else's.
But are you ok with that?
Having had anxiety for as long as I can remember, I've learned a lot of ways to deal with it. One of my first strategies is usually asking myself the likelihood that what I'm fearing will actually happen. I've become a bit of an expert on the statistical chances of many random scenarios.
There has been, on average, one school shooting per week in the United States in 2018. We are less than six months into the year.
Today, it's not our school. Maybe it's not your child's school. Maybe it's someone else's.
But are you ok with that?
