Long Recess

In 3rd grade, one of the teachers in my elementary school accidentally started a small fire in the teacher’s lounge because she left popcorn in the microwave for too long. We found this out later in the day.

It was probably 12pm or 1pm, and the fire alarm went off. We were all used to drills and at that time, a fire drill was the best thing that could happen. We got to leave school for a bit, hang out outside, maybe get in some sneaky extra recess if we were lucky. We got to see friends from other classes who were in other lines with their teachers. In the best case, a fire drill could save you from being grossly underprepared for a spelling test. Something about being out in the parking lot for 10 minutes helped me remember how to spell “definitely.”

So on that day, this fire drill wasn’t a drill, it was a fire. But we didn’t know that at the time. Of course we didn’t know that, because you don’t tell those things to kids. We were being protected. Nobody even remotely got hurt in this fire, besides a microwave, but still a lot of the reality was shielded from us. Kids don’t grow up in fear. Fear is learned. Fear is an unfortunate side effect to facing tragedy and trauma. Kids are the ultimate optimists. 

Any other fire drill lasted a few minutes. On this day, it was a few hours. Fire trucks came, an ambulance for extra measure, and it was a beautiful spring day. All I remember from that day was the seemingly endless recess. It was one of the best days of the year. And that was the same year my crush complimented my tweety bird shirt so, the bar was already high.

The second thing I remember from that day was seeing the parents arrive. I guess I’ve always been very nosy observant. The parents looked so scared. They looked upset and worried and nervous and distraught. Because these parents just got a call that there was a fire at their kids’ school. When they got here they were assured that nobody was hurt, but getting that phone call is enough of a traumatic event. Many of them left work in the middle of the day to come get us, because firemen were still scanning the building and making sure there was no more smoke. 

At the time, I couldn’t understand why the parents looked so upset. We had just had the best day ever, 3rd grade was amazing. The longest recess in Burning Tree Elementary School history.

And now I understand that fear is learned. You burn your hand on a stove and then you go back to the kitchen the next day with more caution. The parents, that day, had seen more than we had seen. They remember where they were on 9/11. They picked us up early from school on that day too. 

This is the disconnect. Children should never have to know about the fire in the building. They should never go to school in fear and they should never get murdered. And this goes without saying, right?

Of all the images and videos and text that I’m sure all of us are absorbing today, I cannot stop looking at the video of the parents waiting outside the school yesterday. Waiting to take home their forever traumatized child, or going home without one. I cannot stop looking at it. Parents and grownups and adults know the evils of the world. They are supposed to protect kids from it. Usually they try their best. These kids didn’t go to school expecting the worst. They went to school looking forward to lunch and recess and their honor roll ceremony. Fear is not innate. It is learned and it is taught. And it makes me so sad.

I’ve always wanted to be a mother one day. I talk about it a lot. This is the first week where that prospect seems grim to me. How will I not be anxious about my kids all the time? How will my kids enjoy themselves in a crumbling world? If you think this take is far too pessimistic, maybe it is. Hopefully it is. Hopefully we’re at some sort of rock bottom and it’s only up from here. I don’t know. 

There’s been a lot of talk about how this is “one of the deadliest school shootings” in US history. But I can’t stand that we tally the numbers like this. If only one child was shot to death it would still be a deadly shooting. Do we only fall to our knees with grief when the number is large? Why have we allowed even one single child to be murdered at school? What the fuck is going on?

If I keep talking in rhetorical questions I’m going to sound like a democratic congressman, and that doesn’t help anybody. I wrote this today because in the brief moment this evening where I stopped crying, I felt very angry. I understand I’m preaching to the choir. None of my Pillowtown subscribers are card carrying NRA members. And I’m proud of that. But some days just feel bad. 

So, I’m not going to encourage you to vote. I’m not quite sure what that does anymore. It’s not bad, it’s just so bare minimum that it’s not my focus anymore. I want to encourage you to live in love. To take breaks from your job and take walks and take phone calls and take long lunches. To hug and kiss and breathe and drink too much and then drink nothing and be very present. We have to live because living is not a promise. Not at all. Help your neighbors with their groceries, make your friends laugh, tell your child and your mother and your cousin and your friend that you love them. Tell a senator that you hope they don’t sleep for one minute until gun laws drastically change in this country. 

Thank you for being here with me. Thank you for listening and sitting in this grief with me. It’s unbearable but we’re not alone, so that makes it even just a little possible.