Fallout

Tuesday, I wrote about the lockdown at the school where I work. I am amazed at a few things.

First, last night, as I was leaving work at about 6:10, there were news vehicles and reporters all over the place.

Why?

Yes, it was a big deal. It was scary and horrible for the people involved, but it happened ON TUESDAY!!! There is nothing new to report. The story is over, at least at that location. I did see a reporter yesterday morning reporting (insert breathless, excited voice here) "LIVE! From the Justice Center! Where, later today (much later... it was still DARK OUTSIDE) the young man who fired the rifle will be in court!! STAY TUNED!!!

It's a friggin' circus.

Then. I feel funny when I go to work. I feel exposed out there in the parking lot. Rationally, of course, I know I'm not in any more danger than I ever have been out there, but I'm a mother. I don't have to be rational.

Also. I feel more maternal toward the kids I'm taking care of. Not that I haven't always cared for them, but the realization that I am literally responsible for their lives was a surprise to me. It's hard to express that exactly right. I mean, I've always considered my responsibilities in the form of safety. So I keep them from running in the cafeteria, from hurting each other either inadvertently or on purpose, and make sure they wash their hands before they eat and cover their mouths when they cough. This has taken my perspective to a whole new level.

And. This is the worst thing for me, at least.
I've been having horribly violent, bloody dreams. In all of them, I am cast in the role of protector. I am sort of disgusted that part of my brain can bring forth the images I've been seeing. I'm astounded at the actions I have taken in those dreams to keep other people safe.
Am I a savage beneath my semi-civilized exterior?
Don't know. All I can tell you is, sleep isn't terribly restful the past three nights. I seem to be a teeny bit tense.

I've given some thought to the whole thing, of course. And it's been discussed over and over at school. The kids looked at it mostly as an adventure. They don't seem fearful, but they do want to talk about the details over and over. Allie* has said many times that "We could see the entire SQUAT team out there! They were all around the school!"
There's humor in every situation, right?

The reaction from the parents I've spoken to is a deep anger at the 15 year old who did the shooting and a desire in one case to personally choke the kid to death.
One father told me yesterday that the boy 'should be dragged out and shot.' He then advocated teaching gun safety to every school age child. Suggested that every child should know exactly what kind of damage a bullet can do. I fail to see how that would help, but it made him feel better, more manly to spout off, I think. He wasn't there to protect his son on Tuesday afternoon, and is feeling guilt over it in my amateur psychologist opinion. I just listened to him until he ran down.

I have a different feeling for the boy who fired the shots. I feel sorry for a child who, for whatever reason, has reached the point of desperation. 15 year olds, no matter how mature or happy or (insert your word of choice here) are sometimes prone to do stupid, knee-jerk things. It's just that most of them don't cross the invisible line into dementia. What happened to him that he took this action? What series of events rubbed away the part of his brain that knew okay from not okay? What happened that finally pushed him over the edge?

The newspaper said his mother wept as he was brought into court for the preliminaries the other day. I can't even imagine. I feel sorry for her. I'm glad she's not dealing with the death of any students on top of her anguish and broken heart.

The child who did this is 15 years old. It's a measure 11 offense, which means that he can quite possibly spend the next 30 years in jail. 30 years. For being 15, desperate and not having the inner strength to stop himself or to go to someone for help.

What a shame.



*you know that's not her real name, don't you?