This morning I asked my students what it is like to come to school when the news headlines are filled with shootings around the country. Their answers were varied. One of my boys cocked his head sideways and asked me why adults are shooting children, and why children are shooting adults. He was dead serious. I told him that I did not know, and then rephrased my answer a couple of times, as if somehow, as I spoke, an answer would float to the back of my throat, and I could shape it, clothe it with my voice and let it comfort the worried group. Instead, I ended up sounding like a thesaurus.
Our district is now on a heightened security status and we were informed this morning that we will remain there indefinitely. External doors are permanently locked; we have discussed the disaster drill coming Friday; and we go on pretending, forgetting that evil is not confined to the inner city, or places far away from where we are. The question of evil is real. The back of my throat remains empty, and children live afraid.
I looked at my unusually-attentive morning class and told them that whatever the answer is, I am unalterably convinced that evil exists. They nodded and murmured agreement. Some asked questions. Many sat in watchful silence. I was thinking about how the Eskimos are known to have many words for snow. Will this generation attain linguistic renown for having as many ways to say fear?
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I never had to think of these things when I attended school...never needed the words at such an early age.
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