That morning, my students met me with hugs for my selfless words, but with each shooting, with each added ounce of blood that spills, I feel that selflessness waning, feel my fear rising. I have envisioned countless scenarios. I have mapped out escape routes, hiding spots, defensive talking strategies. But in each imagined scene, I don’t get deemed a hero. My picture doesn’t appear on cable news stations across the country. There are no vigils held in my honor. I survive. That’s all.
I’m no more a shield than my black bookcase, and yet I feel this pressure to be. I feel ashamed for not knowing what I would do in such a dangerous situation. Would I duck and cover with my students, just as terrified? Would I confidently stand in front of them, my body protecting someone else’s child, destroying my hope to have children of my own someday?
Each year, I am asked to do things beyond my job description, participate in building-improvement committees, organize fundraisers, write college recommendations, but this ask — my life — is beyond what I think I’m capable of giving.
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