>Awareness. Intervention. School climate. Knowledge is power. Speak; never assume.

In a school district near us, all of these came together to prevent a potential tragedy. As two students and a recent graduate plotted and planned, one of their friends realized that this was not a joke. He intervened. He was aware of the plot. The school climate was one where he was able to share his knowledge and feel safe about it. He spoke up. Part of his rationale included the idea that if this plot were real, he had a responsibility to save lives. Another part of his rationale was the need to get help for his friends. If they were talking about an attack of this magnitude, real or not, they needed counseling.

In the most recent shooting, some of these links were broken. Apparently, the young shooter had vented to his friends and other adults in the community about his anger. He had made veiled remarks that the principal wouldn’t make it past Homecoming. He had been suspended for aggression towards a teacher (throwing a stapler) and his reaction was limited to regret that the stapler hadn’t hit its target.
Here, people assumed. “No, we didn’t think he was serious. He wouldn’t do anything.”
They didn’t speak until it was too late. His ominous statements about the upcoming date? Ignored. Brushed off. This knowledge became power for the shooter, not the victims, because no one spoke up. Their awareness was compromised by their assumptions that “it doesn’t happen here. He’s not serious.”
It sounded like the school climate was excellent. The principal was an active part of the community, well-liked and well-respected, and an effective leader in this small district.
Intervention was limited to what happened at the moment. The school security plans worked; no students or other staff were injured or killed. A staff member (engineer or custodian) recognized the danger immediately and took action, wrestling a rifle or shotgun from the shooter. He was scared — no, terrified — when he realized the shooter had a second weapon.

There are times in many teachers’ lounges when the staff talks about events like this. “Could it happen here?” we wonder. And of course, it could. Our responsibility is to be aware, intervene, speak, use our knowledge, and never assume. Like the young man in Green Bay, we need to speak up. If the threat is credible, we may prevent it. If not, we can at least get help for the disturbed young people who plan such desperate acts.

>Another school shooting. This is two in one week, following closely on the heels of a narrowly avoided Columbine-style disaster. This time, a principal was shot. Earlier this week, a young girl was killed. The narrowly avoided attack? Who knows how many would have fallen, dead or injured?
It’s scary that we live in a world where these attacks occur. It’s good, in a way, that they rate heavy coverage: that means the events are rare enough to be considered news. I’m grateful that the potential disaster nearest my home was avoided by quick and efficient intervention.

A few years ago I spent a day training with some of my coworkers and a large number of police officers to help prepare for just such a situation. I’ve never forgotten it. Even though we knew it wasn’t real, we knew the guns were not loaded, and we all knew the script, it was still very intense.
We spent the morning hearing how such incidents used to be treated, and how and why that procedure has changed. We were treated to an analysis of the Columbine shooting and the response. Watching the account with teachers, administrators, and police was a valuable and moving experience. No one knows how many, if any, lives could have been saved had law enforcement entered the building earlier, but the confusion that reigned was shocking and upsetting.
We spent the afternoon participating in a drill. There were many surprises: how long it took to “sweep” the school (a relatively small building), how little we could hear from our corner of the dark classroom (one gunshot, a scream, a large vehicle arriving), and how dramatic and scary the evacuation was. Afterwards, staff and police met to discuss and suggest improvements.
Since then, all of our door locks have been replaced. We can now lock our classrooms from the inside and without a key. No one has to search for keys and step out into the hallway to secure a classroom. It was a small change, but it speeds up the process of securing the classroom and getting the kids safely in a corner. We fine-tuned our procedures wherever we found weaknesses.
Now when my students ask questions, I can answer them. I can tell them what’s “Hollywood” and what’s true. I can explain why we do what we do. Every time we have a lockdown drill, I tell them about my training, and I reassure them that our local police force knows how to handle any intruder.
One philosophy from our training sticks with me to this day. Drill like it’s real. Drill like your life depends on it — because it does. Whether it’s a fire drill, tornado drill, or lockdown, my students know I take it very seriously. Their lives depend on knowing what to do and being able to do it automatically.
Drill like it’s real.
Drill like your life depends on it — because it does.

>Tonight after school we gathered to remember a friend. “We” means teachers, other staff, parents, and students who wished to honor the memory of Mrs. S., a kindergarten teacher who died suddenly last spring. We planted a tree outside her former classroom and put in a garden along the playground that we now call “Mrs. S.’s Kinder-Garden”. But the best way for me to honor her memory is to reach into my heart and tell you about her.

The kids called her Mrs. S. I called her C.
C. was teaching in her dream job. I remember when she got the job: full day kindergarten, a fabulous school, not far from home. How she beamed! She kept saying, “It’s exactly what I wanted!” And it was a perfect fit for her. She had large classes — too large, really, for kindergarten — but she handled them with ease, the experience of years and the knowledge and understanding of the children’s ages. We teased her that she looked like a mother duck with a looong line of ducklings behind her when she walked them down the halls.
Students, parents, and teachers adored her. She called me one night and asked, “What’s this ‘Terrific Teachers’ thing on TV? Why are they coming to see me?” Well, C., it’s like this. You ARE a terrific teacher, and parents from your class want to be sure that you know it.
I still have trouble putting her in past tense. Yes, she was a terrific teacher, and a terrific person as well. When my father died, she was one of the first to hug me. She didn’t say a word until she knew I was ready. C. could always make the lunchroom feel light-hearted, even on a tough day. She was the reason I came to the lounge to eat lunch instead of working through lunch eating at my desk.
I dressed in Green Bay Packer garb today because C. wouldn’t miss a chance to wear her green and gold. Through thick and thin she backed the Pack. We commiserated when they lost and celebrated together when they won.
C. was one of the most understanding and caring people I’ve ever known. She knew when (and how!) to cheer someone up, and when to let them vent their troubles.
Her death came suddenly. She was on a field trip with her students on a Monday morning and went home that afternoon not feeling well. By Wednesday she had been hospitalized, and on Friday morning we were told that she was not expected to live. Still giving even in death, she donated her organs for transplant.
I miss her every time I walk into the school building. There’s a hole where her smile and laughter used to be. But she’d be upset with me for being sad; she’d want me to go on and enjoy teaching, enjoy the Packer games, enjoy her tree, enjoy the garden, and enjoy life.
It’s fitting that she will be remembered through a flower garden and a tree. Like her influence, these will live on. Like her, they’ll make me smile. And they’ll remind me how precious life is.

>Yawn. It’s definitely the start of a new school year. I have that “thank goodness I finished tonight’s papers because I can’t afford to get behind” feeling. It’s a lot like a letdown after a big race or competition, except that it happened every night this week. After coming home, dealing with snail mail and voice mail, making and serving supper, and then helping El Grande with his homework, the time came to finish my own work. It took all of Survivor (don’t ask me the tribe names, I was thinking about reading vocabulary and comprehension) and I missed Wheel of Fortune (which is fine with me because Jeopardy is MUCH better) correcting spelling tests. Early tomorrow morning I’ll huddle at my desk and hope no one interrupts me while I enter the scores in my computer.

But it’s a good kind of tired that I’m feeling. It’s the kind of tired that comes from a full day, a lot accomplished, and all that’s left are the prepare-for-morning routines. I can do that, feed bunnies, and then get into my pajamas. Pajamas. Mmmm…what a delicious thought.

Goodnight.

>
Posters. I need posters. I have enough to start two of the three new science units, but I own nothing for the first one. Solution? Take a little clip art, an overhead projector, and enlist the family in helping with the final drafts. Result? Take a look for yourself!