Unlocked and bare, without guards or censors or cameras, Southeast Middle stood a vulnerable smattering of blonde bricks. Theft: a cell phone, a pocketbook, a computer. Vandalism: a bathroom fire, a naughty drawing. Pot in a book bag as common as a pack of bubble gum. A knife. A pistol.
So, to safeguard against these security breaches, color codes were in place to signal how to proceed—whether or not to “lock down” the room, prepare for hurricane force winds, or ignore the violent thrashings of a psychic-ward-bound preteen just outside your door.
“Code Red. That means we are on a lock down,” the intercom voice harked one morning. “Lock. Down. No one is to move from their location. Lock. Down.” The voice was breathy and shaky - different than routine fire drills or the daily pledge of allegiance. Had the Principal been running laps? Shaking children off his limbs? Holding back armed intruders?
When the phone call came, I, like every other teacher, was eventually asked to escort my students into the gymnasium. But, unlike the others, I was also asked to leave my students and please follow the administration and police officers into the barren west wing of the building. I asked why the entire school was in the gym: "Ms. Field, a bomb threat has been phoned in. I asked again why the entire school was in the gym when bomb-threat protocol surely called for outside shelter, plenty of paces away from a potential structural annihilation: “It’s raining, Ms. Field. We can’t have 900 students standing in the rain.” The logic didn’t satisfy me, but I was silenced. I followed orders, unclear as to why I had been asked to leave my students alone. And when another twenty-something female teacher approached we were given our task casually and as routinely as if we’d been asked to add paper to the library printer.
“What you two are going to do is go from classroom to classroom and look for a bomb.” Blunt. Composed. Sterile.
“What! Are you kidding? What does a bomb look like? And why are we the ones that should have to die looking for one?” Like a round of ammo, we spit-fired questions, convinced that they had the wrong duo and would humbly apologize while motioning for the police to take over.
“Just look for anything suspicious. Cell phones. Look inside pen caps. Book sacks. Especially book sacks.” The two of us were still nervously laughing. “We picked you ladies because we thought you’d approach this calmly. Holler if anything looks fishy. We’ll be at the end of the hallway with the police officers.” I peered down the corridor at the supposed professionals who’d been called upon to help. Large and suited up for duty, the pair stood with their hands in their pockets, bellies up, and uninterested in assisting the two teachers called upon to assure safety and protection for the gym-ridden school.
“Can we look together or do we have to split up?” I asked as if I were a student, crossing her fingers that this particular assignment required partners. I asked because if I was going to explode I wasn’t doing it alone.
“I suppose you can go around together. Just be quick. And, when you give us the go-ahead, we’ll release everyone back to class.” The school was comprised of dozens of rooms one after another all filled with the chaos of education that may or may not have housed a bomb. In fear of full facial detonation I turned my scrunched up face to the side and used periphery vision to examine the student’s articles—poking and prodding like a picky eater to a vegetable-filled platter. But, when you're the teacher and not the student, hysteria is never encouraged to change your circumstances. So, my partner and I shut-up, shuffled through each room, and emerged with a weak confidence that the school would not blow up.
It didn't. But I noted that caution may be used when approached by police and your boss.
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