My keychain is burdened with the weight of multiple responsibilities. It carries the keys to three different classrooms and a technology cabinet brimming with gadgets that enhance learning experiences. The most prominent key on the ring is my lockdown key, distinguished by a bright red loop. This visibility ensures that, should the unimaginable occur, I won’t waste precious moments scrambling for it—moments that could save lives. Lives of my students.
I teach writing at a small college in South Florida, a role that feels like my true vocation. Most of my students are in their late teens, many of whom are dual-enrolled high school students. Their high school is just a short drive from a location that has become synonymous with tragedy—the site of America’s deadliest high school shooting.
Locally, we refer to the school simply as “Douglas,” and numerous students in my classes are graduates. Some have friends who attended there, while others have family members connected to that community. At one point, I aspired to teach at Douglas; it’s a wonderful institution within a vibrant, supportive community.
My lockdown key is designed to secure every door in my building, including restrooms, from the inside. This thought lingers in my mind daily. Each morning, during my peaceful commute with coffee and podcasts, I find myself pondering whether today is the day I might need to use it.
Not a single day goes by without the realization that my job could put my life at risk. And I’m simply standing in front of eager young minds, guiding them in articulating their thoughts and feelings through writing.
I’ve never considered myself particularly brave. You wouldn’t find me skydiving or reporting from a war zone. Even the thought of wading into the ocean makes me anxious. Yet, I must summon the courage from deep within to unlock my classroom door and teach. I never anticipated that my profession would carry risks akin to those faced by police officers or soldiers. We educators often refer to ourselves as warriors, but it’s a metaphor—until it isn’t.
Now, the risks are tangible. We are mapping out escape routes, preparing for scenarios that no educator should have to imagine. I just want to teach, to share the powerful words of authors like Ta-Nehisi Coates and Tayari Jones. I wish we could focus on literary masterpieces instead of contemplating emergency protocols.
I will secure the door and instruct you to huddle quietly in the corner, away from the windows. I’ll turn off the lights and recite comforting poems from memory to soothe your fears. And yes, I would take a bullet for you. Why? Because I genuinely care for every child in my classroom. We educators understand that there are no “your children” or “my children”; they are all ours to protect.
As a teacher, my anxiety is compounded by my role as a parent. Each day, I drop my daughter off at her school, taking the time to walk her to the door, to give her an extra squeeze, and to steal one last glance at her smiling face. Who knows what could happen? It could be her school next, or mine.
My daughter’s teacher keeps a stash of lollipops on her desk, believing that they help keep the children quiet during lockdown drills. We aren’t alone in this; every teacher I know has a plan in place and has practiced how to respond when the first shots are fired.
Despite the fear, I don’t reconsider my career. When your work is your passion, fear doesn’t dictate your choices. Teaching is my calling, and I refuse to let fear dictate my path. I will continue to empower our young adults to express themselves, doing everything in my power to keep them safe. I hope that, through my teaching, they will one day effect change where we have fallen short.
In South Florida, the atmosphere is thick with tension this week. Words like terrified and traumatized feel inadequate. My students sat trembling at their desks, and I paused class to let them share their feelings before sending them home to their loved ones.
That night, my daughter slept beside us, afraid of “the bad guys.” The next morning, frustrated parents gathered outside her school, demanding increased security, while police cars patrolled the entrances. Disturbing automated calls from our superintendent echoed through the community, and the faces on the news were familiar—friends and acquaintances connected to the tragedy at Douglas.
In my classes, I urge my students to use their words for positive change. Language is a powerful tool that should uplift and inspire, not tear down or provoke. We share our stories, examine our realities, and strive to improve the world around us. This is my harsh reality: I shouldn’t feel unsafe teaching students how to craft essays, and they shouldn’t dread being in a classroom.
Let’s take action to ensure this does not happen again. Another reason we write is to amplify the voices of those who can no longer share their stories. Each word I’ve written here honors the memory of those lost: Alyssa, Scott, Martin, Nicholas, Aaron, Jaime, Christopher, Luke, Cara, Gina, Joaquin, Alaina, Meadow, Helena, Alex, Carmen, and Peter.
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