Thirty Eight Seconds

On May 18, 2009, a student walked into my classroom brandishing a gun and spouting profanity at a classroom full of seventh graders. The clock on my podium blinked 8:52, and it was the middle of my first period class. Until that moment, I’d been thrilled how the end of school was going, and that the students loved their end of year projects.

Thirty-eight seconds can feel like a lifetime, and even after when I was asked how long he remained in my room, I said a few minutes, for we’d like to believe that the events that alter the course of our lives at least amount to minutes, if not hours or days. How could it only be seconds?

In the seconds he remained in my room, not a single student moved. Their innocent and fearful eyes remained on me, waiting for me to show them what to do. I stared at this pale teenage boy in camouflage shorts, and thought that this had to be some security drill, for how could it possibly be real? My mind formed a loop of It can’t be real…Is this real? It can’t be real…

He yelled and cursed and told us to get down, but his words were background noise. I stared at that gun and thought it had to be a toy. Didn’t it look fake? Wasn’t it something to be bought in the toy department? When he attempted to shoot at the dry erase board and the gun didn’t fire, my brain offered it up as proof that it wasn’t real. When he played with the gun’s safety feature, I actually shifted from behind the podium considering a motion to move forward, but then he turned the gun on me.

I gave him one of my looks. My students called it “you’ve really said something stupid” look. I taught seventh graders and used the look often. They’d always back track and correct themselves. I waited for him to laugh, to say that it was a hoax. For how could this be real? He told me to pray to Marilynn Manson which made it even more unbelievable, since I had long stopped praying to anybody. Why would I need to pray for a hoax?

It wasn’t until the gun fired and plaster splattered through the air onto me and the students near me, that my brain wavered in its conviction that it was some elaborate safety drill or prank.

I whipped around to see the gaping chunk of plaster missing, and my brain stopped all thoughts, everything became sharper. The disgusted sound he’d muttered after, the stroll to the back of the class, his attempt to take another student from the room with him. Though I couldn’t speak through the paralysis that had overtaken me, I maintained eye contact with my student, pleading with my eyes for him not to go. My students looked to me, and I was powerless to stop whatever might happen at that moment, in what felt like eternity, but was only seconds.

In the thirty-eight seconds he remained in my room, fear never overcame me. Fear required time to think, and it was during the walk to the door he’d left open behind him as he ran out where fear coursed through me. I needed to lock that door, but what if he returned before I made it to the door? What if he waited for me on the other side?

The hours that followed in that darkened classroom were what I thought were the longest of my life. I was wrong.

Inside those four walls each person in that room had seen the same incident. We were relieved to be unharmed, and we didn’t judge how anyone reacted in the aftermath. We could laugh and not worry what the outside world would say upon our exit.

There was a brief moment during those hours, that the fear nearly gripped me. The bullet had ricocheted off the wall and landed near the feet of a student. When he handed me the bullet with shaking fingers and fear clouding his brown eyes, I held it in the palm of my hand and shook with the realization that it had been meant for me. But even then, I didn’t have time to give into fear because my students called to me, needing reassurance that it was over, that he wasn’t coming back. They needed me to be strong. I would not give into fear. Though I have qualms about what I could have done differently, I’ll always know that I showed them how to exhibit strength and calmness during a crisis.

Fear did not come until I was separated from my students. When I was removed from everyone and had to watch children being evacuated with their hands in the air with SWAT looking down from the school’s roof. When I had to watch his sister being told about her brother. When others gave me looks of sympathy. That’s when I took deep breaths and told myself that I wasn’t going to cry. It had happened to me at my school, but I sat there unharmed and my students were okay. After my interview with the detectives and the Sheriff, I was given the choice to remain alone or return to my students. I returned to my students. Calmness could return when I could look in their faces and see that they were still okay. It meant that I could be okay, too.

During the interview, one of the detectives told me that I could go home and curl up in a ball and cry. I didn’t. I generally only spark with anger when upset, refusing to give into tears. It wasn’t until the Saturday morning six days later, when I received a call that the student had died from his self-inflicted gunshot wound, that I cried.

I didn’t understand my tears that day, because the only emotion I’d allowed into my self-imposed numbness was anger. Anger that it had happened to me. I felt raw and vulnerable. Two emotions that I never allowed myself.

It wasn’t until months later, when no one asked how I was doing anymore, that I understood the tears. He’d died, and I’d never know why. If he’d believed I was a bad teacher, had treated him unfairly, had spoken unkind words then I could find a reason in the randomness. A reason that I’d done something that I should have been punished for. But I didn’t know him or ever teach him. I didn’t even know if he was a student at our school the day he walked into my classroom. I’ll never know why he chose me except for my proximity to the restroom, which seems insignificant for the life changing effects of how that incident has affected me.

Most people thought I wouldn’t return to teaching. Most people who know me know that I never planned on being a life-long teacher. Sheer will and a need to be there for any student who returned to my class propelled me to school the next day. Eleven of the twenty-three returned to my class the next day. Sheer determination kept me returning for the remaining two weeks of school as one by one they returned to me searching for assurances. I believed I’d be okay.

Then a new school year dawned, and I had to begin anew with a group of students that I didn’t know, all strangers like the shooter had been. That first day felt like my first year of teaching even after eleven years. I searched their faces, wondering about the thoughts behind those faces. Could I trust them? What pain did they hide from the world?

Luckily, I had a wonderful group of students who taught me just as much as I taught them. Most days I could enter my classroom and focus on what mattered, and that was being the person who listened when they needed me to, and taught them to open their eyes to the world through literature and writing. Most importantly, they taught me that I still wanted to be a teacher .

Most days I can pretend I’m safe, as long as I avoid the stairs, as long as my door is locked, as long as the lights don’t go off, and the list goes on. It’s a delicate balance that I hope one day to forget that I’m walking.

At the beginning of a new school year, I was always thrilled for the chance to start fresh. Now I can’t wait until I know my students, and my fears can rest as I walk into my classroom.

A student will always ask. Some brave soul who’s heard rumors about the shooting and has courage enough to want to know the truth. I’ll always be honest, but I’m also the teacher. If we don’t open the eyes of the people who can change things, we may not prevent it from happening again.

Because as my son said, “If he didn’t hurt anyone, then he didn’t deserve to die.” Maybe next time that someone will know to ask for help if he/she knows someone is listening, and that’s all we can ask for.