I’ve been deeply, deeply rattled by the most recent mass shooting in Oregon.  Not just because I’m a mom, and I mourn the inconceivable loss of the children. Not just because I’m a writer, and mourn the loss of the creative writing teacher. And not just because I’m a human, and mourn the violence and tragedy of anyone killed at the hands of another.

I’m utterly devastated because I’m a classroom teacher, and I’m tired of worrying if this will happen to me. I’m a junior high school teacher, concentrating on serving students with the best education I can. I’m focused on watching developing minds bloom, and creating lessons to capture their attention and engage their minds. I’m intent on offering the very best of me every single minute of my work day. My intention is to help make the world a better place by teaching kids to be confident, kind, and compassionate humans.

I’m not focused on protecting them from a mass shooter – but now, I feel like I need to start paying attention.

I’ve made it no secret how I feel about guns and violence. I’ve written about every mass shooting in schools since I started this blog. I’ve shared my fears and my anger over and over, both here and on social media.

I’ve likely lost some friends because of it, too. My voice becomes too loud for some when they have a fundamental disagreement with what its saying.

I’m sorry it has to end that way, but honestly, I’m OK with it.

Last spring, I wrote about what a school lockdown really feels like. My first-person narrative has been reprinted in the Huffington Post, on Bonbon Break, and many other websites. It has been shared hundreds of times, and on September 1, even turned into a podcast interview for Ten too Twenty Parenting.

And then last week, fifteen minutes before I was instructed to huddle once again on the floor of my classroom, I saw the news alert about the Umpqua Community College. My shoulders slumped, my jaw dropped, and I felt the tears coming. Not again. NOT AGAIN!

The bell rang and my students tumbled into the classroom. We did the safety drill. We talked about why we were doing it. We discussed the reality of the world, and how scary it was that people with guns were coming to schools to hurt students and teachers.

No teacher wants to have those conversations with their students. No parent wants to know their child is in lockdown.

Out of the wake of any tragedy, the media frenzy commences. The people begin talking, politicians begin sharing, and tempers flare. One side says this, the other that. Friends realize how different they might be. Families realize they don’t agree.

Once again, before the crime scene tape has been renewed, the media headlines begin, shouting out solutions. Over and over again, my temper rises as the default solution escapes from the lips of those who don’t set foot in classrooms: Arm the teachers. Teach them to kill.

As my anger escalates, the words escape me – it is that unimaginable to ask me, a mother, wife and 25-year teaching veteran, to arm myself before I walk into the classroom to serve my students.

There has got to be a more sensible solution.

I’m sharing this with you to start a dialogue. Gun violence is a multi-faceted issue, of that I am sure. I know we all want the same outcome: we want the killing to stop. But arming teachers isn’t the answer. It shouldn’t even be on the table.

I’d love for you to read my weekly post for The Educator’s Room – I’m talking about Gun Violence: An Educator’s New Normal? If you don’t understand my stand against arming teachers, listen to their conversations. Talk to your child’s school administration. Think about your favorite teacher from the past – is it really their job to be the first responder to an armed shooter? Shouldn’t we, couldn’t we, come up with a better answer?

One thing I know for sure – arming teachers isn’t the right one.

I welcome your comments that enable a discussion about solutions – if you have hate and vitriol to spew, do it somewhere else.

Remember, I’m a teacher.

p.s. – In the time since I wrote this and it was published, there have been TWO more school shootings – one in Arizona, and one in Texas. This teacher mom demands ACTION!
photo credit: Blackstar Arms via photopin (license)
photo credit: Caution: School Crossing via photopin (license)

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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Mono Lake, considered one of the loneliest places on Earth.

I cannot imagine writing a eulogy for my child.

When I hesitantly turned on the news yesterday, that is what assaulted me: a mother’s last words to the six-year-old son she was leaving.

As the images of his life flashed on the screen, I quickly left the room.  I would share her grief, her sorrow her tears.  But I cannot imagine doing what she had to do.

The community of motherhood grieves in solidarity after the Newtown school shootings.  Not one of us who has held our child, nursed them through illness, consoled them through sadness, beamed with them through happiness, or cradled them with love, can help but share the pain, the agony, and the devastation that twenty mothers in Connecticut are crawling through every day for the rest of their lives.

And we feel the guilt, too.  

Each time my thirteen-year-old son hugs me, I feel it.

When my sixteen-year-old daughter kisses me goodnight, I feel it.

When I crack open their bedroom doors in the darkness, just to see if they’re breathing, I feel it.

My dear friend, writer Dawn Wink, expressed it this way on her blog, Dewdrops:

“ I immediately envisioned the intricate lace of a spider web, glistening with dew in the morning sun. I thought of the strength and tension of these gossamer strands and how the slightest movement or touch anywhere on the web sends waves of vibration through its entirety. How very like life. The web of each of our lives, interwoven and connected. I think of the web of my own life and relationships – of how often I have felt the vibrations of each movement on each strand. Whether they are vibrations of joy or pain, they affect the whole, ultimately collecting a lifetime of experiences.”

I will feel it on Christmas morning, on the last day of high school and the first day they go to college.  I will feel it on their birthdays, on Halloween, and when they walk down the aisle.  I will feel it when they win a race and lose a friend, when they sing along to the radio and when we savor a sweet chocolate chip cookie made together with love.

I will feel it because it didn’t just happen to them – it happened to all of us.

The fear of watching my children walk away is constant; there is never a time when they leave me that I don’t worry.  Irrational? Maybe.  But in today’s world, in my mind, it only takes an instant.  There is no longer protection in the ‘it won’t happen to me’ world; there is simply randomness, the unexplainable, the irrational.  It could happen to me.  I’m not that special.

There’s a reason I’m called mamawolfe.

Protecting and nurturing my children flows through me with uncontrollable strength.  It fills my days as a teacher and my nights as a mother, consuming any sense of relaxation into dedicating my life to make it better.  Irrational? Maybe.

I have a clear understanding of the need to let my babies go, to trust they will come back.  I clearly comprehend the need to stand next to them as they make their mistakes, take their chances, and find their dreams.  

I whisper daily prayers to the darkness, hoping the universe is listening.  I ask for protection, for comfort, for the universe to fold over our children and take them in.  I breathe a ‘thank you’ as my words are answered, and take my gratitude for everyday life with me.

I have had eleven more years of gratitude than many of the mothers in our web.  I get another day, another Christmas, another morning.  

I feel the vibrations, their howls of anguish.  I know the wetness of their tears and the firmness of the arms around us, holding on for fear of crumpling into the wet earth.  I see the pain, the sorrow, and the fear.  

I just cannot imagine writing it.

Jennifer Wolfe

Jennifer Wolfe, a writer-teacher-mom, is dedicated to finding the extraordinary in the ordinary moments of life by thinking deeply, loving fiercely, and teaching audaciously. Jennifer is a Google Certified Educator, Hyperdoc fanatic, and a voracious reader. Read her stories on her blog, mamawolfe, and grab free copies of her teaching and parenting resources.

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