After 9/11, I had to begin implementing “lockdown drills” with kindergartners. We would hide in a closet with the lights off until the designated person from the outside had come to let us out. I don’t remember the things we thought of to say to reassure them, but I do remember their wide eyes, their hands and nails squeezing me in the dark, and the panic that always climbed up my throat even though I knew this was just practice. I remember that we were supposed to be so quiet and there was always that one child who couldn’t stop chattering.
That was always the child who needed to be hugged the longest and hardest when we were back out in the light.
Those were the days when we were called upon to really think what lengths we would go to to protect our students. After Sandy Hook, we began to practice “active shooter drills” in a different way. I remember a police officer, who has since been slain, telling me that all I needed to think about now, rather than scrambling to cover the windows and lock the doors, was finding a way to get the children out and having them run. Rather than locking down, rather than hiding (although hiding was still to be encouraged in some circumstances, and locking down was still something to remember the steps for), the best thing to do would be to flee.
I was working with infants and toddlers at the time. I visualized pushing open the heavy back door that led to an alleyway where the rats liked to linger at night and waving my little friends who were capable of crawling and walking through. I imagined telling the tiny people who spent all day clinging to my legs and following me from place to place, “Run! Go!” I knew they wouldn’t. It became a question of how many I could carry at one time.
It’s safe to say that almost every teacher would take a bullet for their students. I surely would.
Several years ago, the hill across from my work burst into flames. We had to evacuate the school, notifying each family individually and waiting for each child to be picked up by an authorized adult. There was one family that couldn’t be reached and so I kept their infant in my classroom and eventually, his preschool-aged sister came to join us. It was my responsibility to stay until everyone was gone, so I watched the smoke and tried calling the family again and again. Just as I was hoisting the emergency backpack onto my shoulders in preparation for walking to our backup meeting spot, the children were picked up. As I walked to my car, a firefighter said, “You really need to go.”
Now we’re tasked with checking temperatures, listening carefully to coughs, somehow wiping things down and washing things off more than we ever did (and it’s all we did sometimes). We’re tasked with doing our best to keep six feet of distance between bodies while still feeding babies, comforting crying toddlers, reading stories, changing diapers, and applying sunscreen.
And, you know what? I can’t wait! I can’t wait to hug those little bodies and get back to exploring the world together. I am not fully myself until I’m engaged with my students. This is simply to say that I never set out to be a frontline worker. I’m not a very brave person by nature and I don’t wear a badge or save lives on a regular basis (don’t worry about choking, I’ve got your back). I just want to teach. I’ve always considered caregivers of all sorts to be the most essential of essential workers -- I mean, where would we be without them? -- but my hat is really off to the childcare programs that have been open from the beginning of this pandemic through now. You’re amazing.
These unsung heroes not only set aside their fear for themselves and their families but worked to find the necessary supplies to do the mandated cleaning. They monitored and followed the ever-changing regulations and recommendations. They gave the frontline heroes peace of mind, knowing that their children were safe and engaged, to focus on the work of literally saving lives and keeping us all fed. These caregivers, so long dismissed as “babysitters,” keep the wheels of our world turning and we all owe them a debt of gratitude.