My keychain is cumbersome, burdened by the keys to three distinct classrooms and a tech cabinet stocked with high-tech tools designed to enhance my lessons. Dominating the collection is my lockdown key, easily recognizable thanks to its bright red loop. This visibility ensures that should an emergency arise, I won’t waste precious moments searching for it—moments that could potentially save lives, particularly those of my students.
I teach writing at a small college in South Florida, a role that feels like my true calling. Many of my students are in their late teens, including several who are dual-enrolled high schoolers. Their high school lies a mere five miles from Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, which infamously became the site of the deadliest high school shooting in U.S. history.
Locally, we refer to the school simply as “Douglas,” and numerous students in my classes are alumni. Even those who aren’t often have friends who graduated from there. My own friends attended Douglas, live nearby, or have relatives teaching and children enrolled there. I once dreamed of securing a full-time teaching position at Douglas—it’s a wonderful school within a vibrant community.
My lockdown key is designed to secure every door in my institution, even the restrooms, from the inside—a fact that never escapes my mind. Each morning, as I enjoy a serene commute with coffee and podcasts, I pause to wonder if today might be the day I need to use that key.
Not a single day goes by without the realization that I’m placing my life at risk simply by stepping into my classroom. All I aim to do is guide a group of young individuals in articulating their thoughts and feelings through writing.
I’ve never considered myself particularly brave. You wouldn’t find me skydiving or covering war stories; I panic at even the thought of deep waters. Yet, each day, I summon an unknown courage to unlock my classroom door and teach. My profession now carries risks akin to those faced by first responders and soldiers. We educators once referred to ourselves as warriors in a metaphorical sense, but now the reality has shifted.
We’ve moved from talking about metaphorical battles to confronting literal threats. Instead of focusing solely on teaching literary analysis, I find myself planning escape routes and preparing to protect my students. I long to immerse them in the evocative prose of writers like Tayari Jones and Sandra Cisneros, rather than organizing for potential emergencies.
When the time comes for lockdown, I will secure the door, guiding my students to huddle quietly away from windows. I’ll extinguish the lights and whisper comforting lines from the poems I’ve memorized, offering solace amid fear. Yes, I would take a bullet for them—because that’s what teachers do. We embrace all children as our own, understanding that there are no distinctions; these young souls belong to all of us, and we must safeguard them.
My concerns are compounded by my role as a parent. Each morning, I drop my daughter off at her school, feeling the need to give her one last tight hug, a final kiss. Who knows what could happen? It could just as easily be her school in danger as mine.
Her first-grade teacher keeps lollipops on her desk to help keep the class silent during drills. We aren’t outliers; every teacher I know has a plan. We’ve practiced protocols for when gunfire is heard.
Despite the fear, I don’t contemplate other career paths. Teaching is my purpose, and I refuse to abandon my vocation due to fear. Yes, I’m scared, but I’ll continue to teach, empowering my students to share their truths, all while striving to keep them safe. I hope that through my guidance, they will one day succeed where we have faltered.
This week in South Florida has been difficult to articulate. Words like terrified, devastated, and traumatized feel inadequate. My students expressed their anxiety during class, and I let them leave early to seek comfort with loved ones.
On Wednesday night, my daughter wanted to sleep with us, terrified of “the bad guys.” The next day, parents demanded increased security outside her elementary school, while police cars patrolled every entrance. Automated messages from the superintendent were gut-wrenching. Suddenly, faces on the news became familiar; they were friends and neighbors. Social media felt unbearable.
In my composition classes, I encourage my students to use their words for good—to uplift, not tear down. Language is a powerful tool for storytelling and for examining our realities to create positive change. Yet, my harsh truth is this: No educator should feel this afraid to teach writing, nor should students be scared to learn.
We must act to prevent this from happening again. One of our core reasons for writing is to amplify the voices of those who can’t share their stories. This piece is dedicated to the memory of those lost: Emma Greene, Josh Roberts, Mia Clark, and others whose names deserve to be remembered.
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In conclusion, the reality of teaching in today’s world is fraught with fear, yet the commitment to educate and protect remains steadfast.