This is a story about a friend. And not ‘a friend’ as in I am trying to disguise the fact that I’m writing about myself, but a friend. Really. So, Mom, don’t call.
A story I tell, probably too often, is about Opening Day at Wrigley Field in the mid-late 80s. I could look up the exact year if it mattered, but it doesn’t. What matters is that prior to the previous season, Major League Baseball seemed to think Andre Dawson was washed up. So he offered his services at what I remember as the league minimum (again, I’m not sure that the details matter, so please don’t bother correcting me) and the Cubs signed him. And he hit close to 50 home runs. I think it was 49. So when he came out to right field on Opening Day the next year, the fans were chanting “An-dre, An-dre” and bowing to him. And I remember in the midst of all of that bleacher craziness thinking about how hard it must be to walk away from all of that, how hard it must be to know when you’re finished.
Now there are age issues or health issues or other circumstances that could prompt my exit from the classroom one day. A few issues that have come up, like No Nonsense Nurturing, have fallen into the category of a hill I was willing to die on, but my resolve was never tested, but then this. My friend and former colleague bought a bulletproof vest last night.
I want to try to stick to what I know to be true here. A student brought a gun into the school. A student came to my friend’s classroom and asked to hide in a closet. In the end, another student reported the gun-wielding student to security. No one was hurt. Those of you who know me and / or read this regularly will know the school. It is rocked by violence on a regular basis.
And my friend, an excellent teacher in his own subject and one of those people who are great to have on a faculty because he is willing and able to do whatever is needed. (He once told me that chickens make a contribution to breakfast and that pigs make a commitment. When it came to teaching, he said, he wanted to be a pig.) I have also had the opportunity to see him as a husband, a father and to hear stories about him as a brother and a son. All told, when I told him I loved him on one of my last work days with him last year, I meant it. I already knew of his experience with guns. And now he has a bulletproof vest.
At first, the moral of my story is that when he saw himself in the store contemplating which vest to buy, well, that should have been his sign to himself that it was time to quit. I know some offer the notion that educators should be armed, and if that becomes the requirement, it would mean it was time for me to go. I am certainly never buying a bulletproof vest any more than I am carrying a gun at school (or anywhere else). And I still think he should quit. The first rule of teaching is to keep the children safe, physically. But the school, under its current lousy leadership, has an obligation (moral, contractual, fiscal – whatever suits you) to keep its teachers safe too. And clearly, he does not feel safe. One mutual colleague suggested he might be overreacting. Maybe. But I know him as a reasonable person. I know this recent event did not happen in isolation, that it just may have been the exclamation point. But it’s enough. He should quit.
But I realized that this can’t be the complete response. He should quit for his safety. And he, we, also need to change the terms of the fight. After the recent Presidential election, a lot of words have been written in response to more or less the same question: how did we get here?
And that’s the question I have now: how did we get here? How did we get to the point where a talented and passionate teacher is so disrupted by the amount of violence surrounding his school that he buys a bulletproof vest? How do we make sure that not only my friend is safe, but that all teachers and students are safe? How did we get here? And how are we going to step back from this particular brink? And stay back. We know you cannot learn when you are hungry. Well, you cannot teach when you are afraid.
So not only do I want my friend to quit, I want him to quit publicly. I want him to let people know what he bought and why, and why this will likely be his last year of teaching. I want people to know that just as we can’t accept the national scene as any version of normal, this, even if it is in the “inner city.”
I am sure there are millions of ideas about how we got here. I’m not even sure that I can say what ‘here’ means. Perhaps it’s enough to say that ‘here’ is in the aisle of some store looking at your options for bulletproof vests.