My keychain is quite weighty. It holds the keys to three different classrooms and a technology cabinet filled with valuable tools that enhance my lessons. The most significant key on this ring is my lockdown key, easily distinguishable by its bright red loop. This visibility ensures that if the unimaginable occurs, I won’t waste critical seconds searching for it—seconds that could potentially save lives, particularly those of my students.
I teach writing at a small college in South Florida, and I find it fulfilling—it’s truly my passion. Most of my students are in their late teens, including many who are still in high school, just a few miles from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, now known for the tragic mass shooting that claimed numerous lives.
Locally, we refer to the school simply as “Douglas.” Many of my students are alumni; others have friends who graduated from there. I, too, have connections to the school—friends who attended, neighbors who teach there, and children who are enrolled. I once aspired to teach full-time at Douglas, a school nestled in a vibrant community.
My lockdown key secures every door in my school, even the restrooms, from the inside. I can never forget that its presence is a daily reminder of the potential danger I face as I travel to work. Each morning during my calm commute, coffee in hand and podcasts playing, I pause to wonder if today will be the day I might need to use it.
Not a single day goes by without the realization that I am putting my life at risk simply by doing my job—standing before a classroom filled with eager young minds, guiding them in articulating their thoughts, ideas, and feelings.
I have never considered myself particularly brave. You won’t find me engaging in extreme sports or reporting from conflict zones. I struggle to even wade into the ocean without feeling anxious. Yet, I must muster the courage each day to unlock my classroom door and teach. I never imagined that my profession would come with risks akin to those faced by police officers, first responders, and soldiers. We often refer to ourselves as warriors, but it was a metaphor that has taken on a stark reality.
We have found ourselves in situations where we are preparing escape routes, facing unimaginable threats when all I want is to delve into literature. I yearn to share the powerful words of authors like Ta-Nehisi Coates or explore the enchanting prose of Tayari Jones. Instead, I find myself preparing for worst-case scenarios.
I will lock the door, and you will huddle in the back corner, away from windows, remaining silent. I’ll turn off the lights and recite comforting verses from poems I’ve memorized to bring you solace. And yes, I would take a bullet for you, because I deeply care for your well-being. As educators, we love all children, understanding that they are not just yours or mine—these young souls are our collective responsibility, and we must protect them.
As a teacher and a parent, my concerns multiply. Before heading to campus, I drop my daughter off at her school. I walk her to the door each morning, often squeezing her tightly, kissing her an extra time, and turning back one last time to see her freckled face, wondering… could her school be next? Or mine?
My daughter’s first-grade teacher has a bag of lollipops on her desk, believing that children remain quieter when they have something in their mouths while hiding in closets during a lockdown.
We are not alone in our worries. Every educator I know has a plan in place, having practiced what to do the moment we hear gunfire.
Despite all this, I don’t consider changing careers. When your job aligns with your purpose, fear becomes secondary. Teaching is my calling, and I refuse to abandon my life’s work, even though fear looms large. I will keep sharing my truth and teaching students to express theirs while striving to protect them. Perhaps by guiding them well, they will succeed in addressing the issues we have failed to resolve.
Being in South Florida this week is a complex experience. Words like terrified, devastated, and traumatized feel insufficient. My students were visibly shaken, prompting me to halt class so they could express their feelings. I encouraged them to go home and be with their loved ones.
On Wednesday night, our daughter climbed into bed with us, afraid of “the bad guys.” The following morning, parents demanded increased security at her elementary school, as police presence heightened. Heart-wrenching messages from our superintendent flooded our phones. Suddenly, the faces on the news were familiar—neighbors, friends, people we knew. Social media became unbearable.
In my composition classes, I urge students to use their words for good. They should never be tools for bullying or petty arguments. Words are a gift meant to uplift, to share our stories, and to create positive change.
Yet, the harsh truth is that I shouldn’t feel this fearful while teaching students how to write, nor should they feel scared sitting in a classroom. We must take action to prevent this from happening again.
Additionally, we write to give a voice to those who cannot tell their own stories. Every word here is for the victims: Alyssa, Scott, Martin, Nicholas, Aaron, Jaime, Christopher, Luke, Cara, Gina, Joaquin, Alaina, Meadow, Helena, Alex, Carmen, and Peter.
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In summary, my experience as a teacher in today’s world is filled with both passion for education and the weight of fear. I strive to create a safe environment for my students while grappling with the reality of potential threats. We must collectively work to ensure that our classrooms can be places of learning without the shadow of violence.