Month: May 2022

As I parked my car in the school parking lot, a police cruiser pulled in behind me.  We parked and walked in together, making small talk, but avoiding the discussion of why he was in our building today. 

 I walked up to the door, using my keycard to buzz us both in.  I walked him to the office (as protocol dictates), and found the principal and assistant principal there, making small talk with a second officer.  Everyone was smiling and pleasant, trying to pretend it was just another day. 

This morning, I had an email from the Superintendent.  And another from our director of Social Emotional Learning.  But, sadly, the contents were familiar, because we’ve been here before. 

*****

Here’s what we need to do today.  

Reassure students that schools are safe places.  (Are they?)

Talk to students in a developmentally appropriate way.  (When does mass murder become a developmentally appropriate topic?)

Be mindful of your own feelings about school violence.  (Translated as: Don’t cry.  Don’t panic.  Don’t let them know you’re scared, too.)

Empower students to take action. See something, Say something.  (Why can’t the adults take action, so the students don’t have to?)

*****

It’s not just another day, but we all go on as if it is.  Truthfully, most of our students are blissfully unaware.  They spent their evenings playing Fortnite, not watching CNN.  But there are a few who are reeling.  Who are scared.  Who feel vulnerable. 

And when you make eye contact with another adult in the hallway, there is a brief flicker.  We’re not okay.  We’re pretending, and maybe we can convince the kids, but we can’t convince each other.  

*****

We speculate on our lunch breaks.  And we imagine.  What if it were us?  How would it have looked here?  Are our protocols enough?  What would we have done? 

Would we recognize a kid as not being a student?  Would we stop him? Could we stop him?  What would we use to break the window and climb out? 

*****

The kids thought we would do an active shooter drill today.  I promised them we wouldn’t.  It would be too traumatic.  Too insensitive.  Too close to reality.  

But what if I’m wrong?  Or what if something does happen?  Have I told them too much? Am I being too reassuring? 

What’s the balance?  Is there a balance?  Damn it.  

*****

More silent speculation on my prep period.  Have we had students capable of this?  Did we see it?  Did we help them enough?  Did we make it worse? Who might have fallen through the cracks?  Who might be a target?  It’s so much easier to see red flags in hindsight. 

I flip through social media on my break.  Already the posts have become polarized.  Gun control.  More mental health supports.  Police in schools.  

And I can’t argue about it because I feel like screaming.  SOMETHING.  TRY SOMETHING.  And then if it doesn’t work, TRY SOMETHING ELSE.  But stop talking.  Stop posting.  Stop bickering and DO SOMETHING.  

The teachers have done all we can.  We have ID badges and keys and checkpoints and cameras and intercoms to ensure that we know who is in the building.  We have social emotional curriculum and bullying protocols and zero tolerance policies.  We have close connections with community resources so we can refer families for help.  We run active shooter drills.  We practice barricading our doors, hiding, running away, throwing things at an intruder.  

Many of us would literally sacrifice our SELVES for the safety of your children.  

And our elected officials just keep sending thoughts and prayers.  

It’s a little dreary outside, and we’re in for a heat wave today.  I’m sitting in my favorite corner spot on our new sectional, watching the birds through the picture window, sipping coffee, and listening to Garth Brooks’ most recent album.  

My birthday was in April, but I’m getting my gift today.  After 25 years of waiting, I’m finally going to see Garth in concert.  I’m little-kid-at-Christmas excited.  Foolishly excited.  

I bought not only one but TWO new shirts for the occasion.  They both read, “Blame it all on my roots,” because I’m THAT obsessed.  I bought two in case one didn’t fit right, but I’m glad I did because I’ll probably sweat right through the first one before we even get into the stadium.  

I mean, I would prefer it to be 70 degrees, but I’m not going to let a heat wave ruin my good time.  I’ve got a cooler full of water bottles and hard lemonades, and we’ll grab some sandwiches and chips from the local sub shop.  We’ll arrive early with our chairs and our cooler and our Garth playlist.  We’re doing this one right.  

*****

I’m seventeen years old; a newly licensed driver, relishing the freedom that comes with my own car.  I’m perched on the edge of the bed in my best friend’s room, letting her do my makeup.  Country radio is playing in the background, and when Garth comes on, the two of us grab hairbrush microphones and sing “Ain’t Going Down ‘till the Sun Comes Up” at the top of our lungs.  We’re jumping on the bed with the excitement of toddlers, gearing up for a bonfire in the woods.  

*****

I’m a freshman in college, with my fake ID in the back pocket of my low-rise jeans.  My tank top slips off my shoulder as my friends and I embrace and sing along to “Friends in Low Places” at the local bar.  We are young and foolish and full of possibility. 

******

I’m sixteen, in my tiny basement bedroom.  I’m just learning about betrayal, and my emotions are raw.  I’m proud of my new tape/CD player with detachable speakers, and I crank up the volume and play “The Thunder Rolls” on repeat, beating that iconic drum part with my concert band drumsticks on my twin mattress.  

*****

I’m fourteen years old, and mostly clueless about life.  But I’m full of teenage angst and optimism.  “The River” paints a picture of a life well-lived.  It feels like I’m learning a lesson from this song that I don’t fully understand yet.  But I sing along, dreaming of what the future might hold.   

*****

I’m eighteen years old, sitting with my bare feet on the dash of my boyfriend’s pickup truck. We’re sharing a gas station soda and a bag of gummy bears, singing along to “Wrapped Up In You.” I feel the warm wind blow through my hair and I can’t imagine a moment better than this one.

*****

I started dating my first boyfriend in 10^th grade.  We were together for nearly three years, and when we broke up during my freshman year in college, “Unanswered Prayers” was the anthem that I used to heal my broken heart.  

*****

Sevens came out during my senior year in High School.  It was one of Garth’s less successful albums, but the heartbreak spoke to me.  The ballads were different than the honkey-tonk music he was famous for, but the track, “You Move Me,” did just that, and I couldn’t stop listening.  “In Another’s Eyes” was heartfelt and brutal and beautiful (and his first duet with Trisha).  To this day, I can sing every word on that album, because I listened to it on repeat for so long. 

*****

I’m a words girl. Lyrics speak to me.  In my teens and twenties, when I bought a new CD, I would slide the sleeve out of the plastic case and listen to the entire album, reading along with the printed words, to make sure I got the full impact of the song.  “Belleau Wood” was the last song on the Sevens album, and the first song that ever brought me to tears.  I played it for everyone I knew, moved by the idea that it was possible to find beauty in the tragedy of war.  

*****

As I started to understand that the world was full of injustice and tragedy, “We Shall Be Free” came out.  It was a social justice anthem that spoke to me before I even knew what social justice meant.  

***** 

I’ve always been attracted to guys with a wild side.  But I’ve mostly been a straight and narrow kind of girl.  “Cowboys and Angels” made me feel understood and seen, and I would blast it on my discman, precariously balanced on the passenger seat of my 1984 Mercury Marquis and plugged into my car speaker.  Every time I hit a pothole, I would have to start it over, and it didn’t even make me mad. 

*****

Garth Brooks wrote the soundtrack to my teens and early twenties.  His music helped me to figure out who I was and imagine who I wanted to be. 

Music.  It changes us.  It speaks to us.  It brings us back.  It helps us dream. 

Tonight, I’m going to drink some hard lemonades and eat potato chips on the tailgate of my husband’s truck.  I’m going to sweat my ass off and sing at the top of my lungs and pack into a stadium with thousands of other people.  I’m going to see Garth Brooks LIVE and make a new memory to add to the list.  

I can’t wait. 

I’ve been a ball of nerves for two days.  It’s been hard to pinpoint one reason why, because the reasons wouldn’t stop swirling around my head long enough for me to pin them down. 

I think a lot of it was related to my ‘to-do’ list, so I started knocking things off, one by one.  Prepare a children’s message for church.  Fill out the spreadsheet for work.  Write that IEP.  Pay that bill.  Buy the snacks for that event.  Send that email.  Wash those dishes.  

As I get closer to the bottom of that list, the anxiety dissipates a little.  But I’m still a little off-kilter.  In that way that feels like I’m forgetting something. 

I think it happens when my compartmentalizing fails.  

When I left my classroom on Friday afternoon, I knew that I still had some work to do.  I was concerned about two big meetings coming up on Monday.  I still had a little prep to do for that.  And I hadn’t QUITE finished my lesson plans for next week.  There was also some prep to do for MCAS testing, which starts on Wednesday.  But I left my classroom anyway, trying to map out a schedule for how to get it all done.  I still squeezed in a few drinks with some colleagues and a movie with my family.  I knew there was a lot to do, but I didn’t want to give up the things that make me feel whole.  

This weekend, I also had a lot of church stuff going on.  And the church stuff is, quite literally, my second job.  I’m in charge of our Sunday School and Faith Formation, which also means some coordination of special events.  We hosted an event on Saturday, which required some prep and planning.  It was fun, and it went off without a hitch.  PLUS I got most of the work for Monday taken care of, so I was stressed but productive.  And then we had a fun, social event and I had some time to connect with friends and church members who bring me joy. 

This morning, I was in charge of the children’s message and a Sunday school lesson for church, which takes me more time than it probably should.  Yesterday, I had gathered some ideas, but this morning I got up early to work out the details and the kinks.  Mission accomplished. 

But the weekend isn’t over, because it’s also Mother’s Day.  So I’m hosting my husband’s family at my house this evening.  Jack and the kids are doing most of the work, but they still need a little supervision and direction.  I sliced the strawberries and prepped the potatoes and cleaned the upstairs bathroom.  And then I poured myself a glass of wine and headed up to my office.  

And here we are.  I’m writing instead of reviewing the MCAS accommodations one more time.  I’m sipping wine instead of sweeping the floor.  I’m resting instead of checking my work email.  

When I have to focus on all of the things in the short span of a weekend; the family stuff and the work stuff and the church stuff, the busy-ness takes over.  The doing takes over and I forget that it’s okay to just be, well… be-ing.  A human being instead of a human doing. 

But this weekend was good.  I feel like I tried to add balance.  I did some being.  I spent some time with family and friends.  I spent some time in prayer.  I spent some time writing.  I spent some time connecting.  

And now it’s time to spend some time relaxing.  Because, after all, it IS Mother’s Day.  The rest of it can wait.  It will all get done.  It always does. 

Happy Mother’s Day to those who are celebrating.  I hope you get to spend at least some of your day just being.