Standing at the Schoolhouse Door

First, let me begin by stating this is not meant to be performative. I understand that some may read this as such. It is not intended as such.

Second, this is not the first time, the second time, the third time, ad infinitum, that I have felt - viscerally - a reaction to a horrific event occurring in a school. Nor, and I know this - pragmatically - will this be the last time. I wish it would be. I know it won´t.

Third, and this is the point of my thoughts, I don´t have any answers. I simply have my own call to action; a call to action which I am proud to share with so many other men and women.

This weekend, while I was puttering away at yard work, a family member stopped by the house. And in the course of his visit, he began to relate the homily of one of our parish priests, who himself had related the Ascension with the most recent horrific tragedy occurring in a school.

As he began relating this to me, I thought he was going to ask if I had been to mass, or when I was going to, or anything along that line. Instead, he proceeded to unfold the supposed news of this most recent horrific tragedy occurring in a school.

Have I been following this, he asked. But before I could gather my wits and reply that I can´t, he dug into the details. The alleged timeline, the alleged background, the alleged response, the alleged motivation, the alleged reactions.

My mind froze. I tried to block him out, tried to not hear him. I tried to find something, anything else to focus my mind on: a bird, the grass, the piece of gravel under my foot.

He continued on, and I turned my body, trying to escape the sound of his voice, trying not to hear him. I could feel my heart rate increasing. I could feel my breathing quicken. I tried to, but couldn´t, swallow.

He mentioned the school staff, what they had done at the last, where they had been. Can you imagine, he asked. Can you imagine. What would you do, he asked. What would you do, he asked again.

My vision narrowed, my breathing slowed, my heart rate still pounded but slowed. I knew. I knew then, and I know now, and I have known because it has happened, and it will happen again.

One of my kids, I don´t remember which one, came outside just then and asked me - with a knowing nod - to help them find something inside. I walked past them into the house and mumbled thanks. It´s okay, they let me know.

This family member didn’t mean harm by talking about this horrific tragedy occurring in a school. They were, quite simply, trying to process the seemingly unthinkable yet recurring events.

I can’t process them. I can’t even try anymore. I used to try. I used to look at the yearbook pictures and names of students and staff. Every time I did, from the first time through the last, I´d break down gasping with tears. I don’t look anymore, don´t force myself to look at their eyes and read their names. It’s not healthy for me.

I was student-teaching when Columbine occurred. I can, in my mind´s eye, still recall that particular high school library where I stood with my mentor teacher watching the TV on a cart tell us about a horrific tragedy occurring in a school. I listened to Pearl Jam´s Jeremy on repeat that night. It didn´t help me make any more sense. The school I was student-teaching at was a well-resourced school, with ¨good¨ families. The next day, the assistant principal was standing at the schoolhouse door.

My first teaching job was at a school serving disaffected youths, there was an omnipresence of threats and aggression. Social workers and therapists were at the school, which served a very small student population, every day. So too were probation officers and police officers. But I assumed because I didn´t have any other experiences, that that was normal.

Another school I worked at had metal detectors, police, and security officers. There was a zero-tolerance policy. Still, there were incidents. So I took to walking the halls and the grounds and standing at one of the entrances in the morning.

I remember the first time I took a gun off of a student. It was my first day as an assistant principal. In a cyclical spin of the wheel of fate, one of the last things I did as an assistant principal years later was to take a gun off another student. I suppose I should relax - both of those horrific tragedies occurring in a school never came to be.

I worked in a school once where bullet-proof coating was applied to all of the schoolhouse windows. There were a lot of windows on that particular school building.

One time a bomb-sniffing dog sensed something amiss in that school building. A joint task force including local, state, and national law enforcement converged on the school. Nothing was found, but that was a stressful day.

One of my responsibilities has been as the hearing officer for expulsion hearings. Students who so much as breathe the word ¨gun” may be recommended for expulsion. Horrific tragedies occurring in schools continue.

While I was a principal, another horrific tragedy occurred in a school. That particular horrific tragedy occurring in a school was one that was supposed to change how our society proactively worked to ensure that there would be no more horrific tragedies occurring in schools.

I remember writing something to our school staff in an effort to help provide understanding, processing, clarity - in the aftermath of that particular horrific tragedy occurring in a school. A school principal has to provide clarity for their staff when horrific tragedies occur, even when the horrific tragedy occurs in a school several states away.

I don´t remember what I wrote. I sincerely doubt that I provided any understanding, processing, or clarity. I didn´t understand, process, or have clarity myself.

I do recall that I included a poem - Barter by Sara Teasdale. ¨Life has loveliness to sell,” she begins before listing a few and ending with ¨children´s faces looking up/ holding wonder like a cup.¨ That line still hits me, because I´ve seen kiddos facing looking up and holding the amazement of wonder like a cup asking for more.

I try not to bring my work home. I would try sometimes to not talk about particular situations. But my family could (and still can) see it in my body, on my face, and in my nonverbals, nonetheless.

Friends of ours, their child was named on a hit-list list. That was at a private school. One of our own children was named, among others, on a different hit-list. Thankfully, neither of those horrific tragedies occurring in different schools happened. But, those kids - now adults - are still working through those events.

As a high school principal, there were two things I did every day without fail. I started every day by standing at the main entrance of the school, greeting every kiddo by name, and directing any visitors. And every mid-day I spent every lunch period in the cafeteria, walking around, sitting with different tables of kids, eating with them.

The most important was greeting every student in the morning. I wasn´t merely shaking hands, doling out high-fives, and joking with teenagers about getting their homework done. I was scanning every student who entered: what was going on with each one of them, were they off, were they down, were they upset, was today going to be the day, was here going to be the next horrific tragedy set in a school.

That was a well-resourced school. When I, or the assistant principal, or our school resource officer, noticed a kiddo who seemed off, we could rally a whole team of experts for support. Home visits, mental health check-ins, outside doctors and therapists - the whole nine yards could and would be called upon.

Yet every day I went home worried that the next day would be the day because there were still incidents, still events. I´m not so naive to believe that my standing at the schoolhouse door stopped anything horrific from unfolding. I´m just pragmatic to understand that that´s all I had.

And I´ll do it again. I do it again. I´ll do it again Monday morning, and in August when kiddos return. I´ll do it in good weather and bad. I´ll do it when I´ve had a late night the night before staying at a basketball game, or a board meeting, or a band concert. I´ll do it whether the community votes down a levy, or votes to keep funding the schools. I´ll stand at the schoolhouse door.

Our middle daughter is studying to be a teacher. I didn´t heed the sage advice of Waylon Jennings to not let your babies grow up like you. She has the gift, and as she learns and practices the skills, she has the potential to be very good, a natural at both the art and science of teaching.

Right now, she´s learning the science of literacy development, and how vocabulary and word comprehension work with phonics and a student´s background knowledge. She´s practicing her pedagogy and developing a sense for interventions that align with content standards.

She´ll learn practical as well as theoretical knowledge of teaching as well. She´ll practice how to use various media to impact instruction. She´ll refine her lesson plan structure, and build anticipatory sets and closure activities. She´ll prepare tests and quizzes and rubrics.

And she´ll learn the thing that as her father scares me the most. She´ll learn how to scoop every kid out of the hallway, and scan the bathrooms if they´re nearby. She´ll learn to bolt the door and move furniture quickly while taking attendance and preparing for an alternate escape. She´ll learn to keep her students calm while listening for any noises from the hall. She´ll figure out what to use to defend her students.

She´ll do this. I know she will. She´ll stand at the classroom door.

I´m choking up as I write that. But I know she will. She´ll do it for the same reason I stand at the schoolhouse door, for the same reason so many men and women do the same at their schoolhouse doors and their classroom doors.

It´s our job.

So keep your angry mobs yelling vitriol about masks and virtual school and too much or too little prayer. Keep your witch-hunts against (or for) transgenderism. Keep your strawman ghost-hunts for critical race theory. Keep your arguments about too much taxation or vouchers. Keep your arguments about common core and new-fangled math and about the way school used to be when you were a kid. Keep your pearl-clutching.

I´ve got a job to do. My colleagues have a job to do. Very soon, my daughter will join us, and she too will have a job to do.

We´ll get your kids breakfast, and make sure they have lunch. If it´s cold out, and they don´t have a jacket, we´ll find one. We´ll call home when they´re absent, and follow up if they´re going to be out for a while.

We´ll work to make sure things are equitable. We´ll protect their privacy, and we´ll provide individual education and accommodations. We´ll uphold their rights, and work to ensure that they master the content. We´ll prepare them for their futures while understanding and respecting their past.

We´ll teach them to pledge their allegiance to the flag, walk in the halls, and share the art supplies. We´ll work with them to understand how to pick a team, how to work with a group, and how to present to the class.

We will continue to heed the biblical charges to receive each child in love and to protect each child (Matthew 18:5-6). We will continue to do this with love for our fellow humans, service to our communities, and purpose in our hearts.

We´ll talk to them. We´ll guide them. We´ll help them understand themselves. We´ll nurture them.

And we´ll defend them. We´ll protect them. We will quite literally stand between them and whatever is coming through the door.

We´ll be there - standing at the schoolhouse door, greeting your children, serving our students.