Following our annual tradition the other evening, Rishabh and I attended ‘Back-to-School Night’ at his Middle school. The itinerary was simple: first, the principal’s welcome address in the gym, then the school jazz band’s performance in the cafeteria, and finally, scheduled eight-minute visits to classrooms to meet his teachers. “Good evening parents!”, the principal started his address warmly a few minutes behind schedule and moved on to discuss important but mundane things. We clapped for him when he finished. We also clapped for the jazz band when they finished, this time more energetically. “They were good, weren’t they?”, Rishabh quipped.
“Yup”, I nodded.
Before long, we found ourselves seated in Rishabh’s English classroom. “English is important,” we often joke, “but math is importanter”. Nonetheless, Rishabh likes his English teacher, Ms. M. Tonight, Ms. M was hosting classroom visitors with a bright smile and her four children, including one on her lap. Her husband works in a different city, and she has no family in town –nor do we pay our teachers enough– for afterhours childcare. So, her children were there participating in the evening’s formalities by clicking PowerPoint slides for their mom or adorably asking her innocent questions. Ms. M. was performing her duties exceptionally well while also refusing to neglect her children. As a parent, every adult in the room could relate. We all had a smile on our face.
Buzzz…. Buzzzz…Buzzz…
You may have heard those shrill fire alarms in your building of residence or work. It was a similar alarm, a bit softer but equally unrelenting, as if whooshing and whispering a darn warning. I had no idea what was going on.
“Lockdown!”, Rishabh whispered next to me. His hushed voice was surprisingly crisp.
“Is this a drill?” Someone in the room asked, their voice shaking a tinge here and there.
“No, it is not”, Ms. M firmly replied. “Please close all doors and get away from the window.”
There were two doors in the classroom. One opened into the hallway, and the other opened into an open shared space between three classrooms. One burly parent jumped onto the hallway door and closed it. “Lock it!”, someone blurted. The burly parent struggled to find the lock. Another parent came to the rescue and locked the door.
“This is happening? Really?”, a mother exclaimed on behalf of everyone.
'What about the other door?', the thought unnerved me. I turned around. One of Rishabh’s classmates was nervously trying to lock the second door, but it had somehow jammed. Every passing second felt terser than the previous one. The kid was literally shaking. I took it over from him and yanked the door shut. “Thank you!”, the kid said meekly.
“Please get over here and stay calm”, Ms. M was displaying remarkable poise as she corralled everyone to the far end of the room. Rishabh and I stood by the teacher’s desk. The intercom phone on the desk was silently flashing, ‘Lockdown! Lockdown!’.
Everyone in the room, it seemed, had seen a ghost or two. Some were quiet, others were on their phones. I perked up my ears for the telltale gunshots. 'I hear anything, I am getting Rishabh under that teacher’s desk. And then we will sort out the rest', I tried to stay calm.
“False alarm!”
It was the principal again, now via the intercom on the teacher’s desk. Someone had pushed the wrong button. The intercom monitor went blank and displayed nothing anymore.
I walked up to the kid who was trying to lock that second door and gave him a fist bump, “You were incredibly brave! Good job there!” “Thank you!”, his polite voice had now steadied.
As we walked out of the classroom a little later, I looked Rishabh in the eye. We did not say anything. But we shook our heads. Today, there were no bullets. But there was panic. There was fear. And there was raw anger for personally experiencing what our kids and teachers experience in this country daily. Education is important. But keeping our kids safe in schools is importanter. And that is NO joke.
