100 Posts in 100 Days
May 24, 2022
This isn’t the post I had pre-written and scheduled for today. But it is the post I needed write and the one that was scheduled will come another day.
This morning, I was walking our dogs and listening to the podcast Renegades: Born in the USA. It is a series of conversations between former President Barack Obama and rock superstar Bruce Springsteen. In the episode I listened to today, President Obama recalled some of what he went through when a group of children were massacred at Sandy Hook Elementary and, again, when a Bible Study group was viciously murdered in Charleston.
The Sandy Hook story brought back a flood of memories. I was in my first year as an elementary principal when that horrible event took place. I first heard the news of what had happened in the middle of our school day. I don’t remember exactly how I learned of the attack. I just remember feeling in shock.
My first thought was for my teachers, students, and families. Classes were in session, which meant most teachers were engaged with their students. But some were nearing lunch time and having their planning time, which meant they would likely be checking phone and email messages. The chance they would see or read the news was high. It was only a matter of time until the news would spread throughout our school. I wanted to check on every teacher and every classroom. I also didn’t want to be a walking announcement of the tragic news, alarming students and teachers. Obviously, by the next day, we would all know the news and would need to have support plans in place. But I just wanted to protect everyone for the few hours left in that school day.
I didn’t know the “right” thing to do, so I did the only thing I could think of: be present. I spent the entire day dropping in on classrooms, spending time on the playground, stopping in the teacher’s break room, hanging out in the main office, walking through the halls, and being outside at student dismissal time. On that day, I was visible and available.
I also remember walking in to my office late in the afternoon. Sitting atop my computer was a handwritten note from 2 of the paraeducators in my building. They wrote about how much courage it must take to be a building leader, how I must be feeling loss even though the events were so far away, and how they appreciated me. They cheered on my courage and bravery, as if I had done something heroic.
But I didn’t feel like I had done anything. And I certainly didn’t feel like a hero. I just felt worried. How was I ever going to keep our campus and our students and faculty safe? Our building was old. The front entrance was down a long walkway, under a covered area, making it barely visible from the parking lot. The main doors entered into a foyer. Upon entering, you could turn right toward the main office, straight past the multi-purpose room, or left toward the 5th and 6th grade classrooms. There were no security cameras in the front of the building or at the entrance.
Our office staff had no way of knowing who was entering our building or where they were going once inside.
As an “open campus”, we had two other hallways with entrance/exit doors that led to playground areas. They were always unlocked.
And, every classroom had both an interior door and exterior door.
And, this was only the main building. There was an annex that housed the gym, the 3rd and 4th grade classrooms, and the music room. All those doors were unlocked.
And we had 2 portable classrooms.
The next morning, when we met as a staff to check in with each other, to discuss what to say to our students, and to plan for a variety of social and emotional supports, I couldn’t answer how I would keep the campus safe. Only that we were a school family and we would always be there for each other.
Over time, new security procedures and campus upgrades were made. Some of them before my tenure was over, and more in the years since I have left. I am grateful for all of those measures.
This is what I was thinking as I walked this morning.
Yesterday, at a school board meeting, one of our members, who is also a parent, commented, “We send the most precious part of our lives to you every day.” It struck a chord and inspired a number of stories that I think are worth writing. Tonight, I sat down to begin writing a series of blogs about families as partners in learning.
As I picked up my phone to check the time, this is what I saw
I can’t even imagine. I’m writing this post, not even having opened those news reports. Not knowing why or the details of how this happened. I write this post full of disbelief. Disbelief that this has occurred. Again. Wondering what cosmic force started my day with Sandy Hook memories and is ending my day with this tragedy.
I am worried, again. I am worried about all of the families, all of the teachers and teaching assistants, worried about the principal and everyone else in that school. I am heartbroken for them.
I’m in disbelief that the lawmakers in the US refuse to enact the kinds of laws and policies that make schools more safe, that provide mental health care for all, and that restrict access to weapons.
I have no answers. Just disbelief. And grief. Grief for the entire school community and mostly the families impacted.
There is no elegant way to end this blog post. So, I will just make a small attempt to be that handwritten note atop the computer…
Thank you
Principals, Teachers, Teaching Assistants
Counselors, Nurses, Bus Drivers, Lunch Providers, Custodians
Security Officers
For doing all in your power to keep “the most precious parts of our lives” safe
Thank you
Parents
For entrusting educators and schools with “the most precious parts of your lives”