There is humor in classroom lock down drills until reality sets in

Few things stop a teacher’s heart like the announcement over the loudspeaker, “Lockdown. Lockdown. Please take cover.”

If it happens when we are outdoors, we scramble indoors as fast as possible. From my vantage point outside, it’s not usually a surprise.  Helicopters hanging overhead like a threat warn me that something dangerous is happening nearby, and I divide my attention between the children on the playground and the loudspeakers on the school building, listening carefully for the lockdown announcement.  Most days though, a helicopter is just a helicopter, and we continue playing Steal the Bacon or breaking up squabbles on the soccer field.

If we get the lockdown announcement when we’re in the classroom, there’s no way not to be taken by surprise.  Reading books, pencils, or math lessons are tossed aside inelegantly as I herd the children to take cover.  While fire drills and earthquake drills are predictable and orderly, there is something about the extreme emotion attached to a lockdown that makes it harder to navigate well, for students and teachers alike.

At the beginning of each school year, I analyze my students and my classroom set-up for the best way to keep children safe during a lockdown.  Do I have any empty cupboards in which I can hide children? Does anyone fit in a cubby? Which children are large enough that they need to be under my desk? Is it more important to keep them away from windows or from the door?

Once children are safely huddled in place, the waiting begins. Inevitably one child will announce, “I need to use the restroom,” and three will ask, ‘Is this real or a drill?” A few students will tremble on the verge of tears, while their friends pat them reassuringly. As heartless as it sounds, I have to whisper to them, “Precious, you have to cry quietly please. This is a really good time to be extra-quiet.”

Fainters present a problem.  One school year, I had two of them, the kind that faint for a split second when presented with gross, stressful, or terrifying situations.  There’s nowhere to stretch them out, balled into the corner as they are, and no way to get them help. Their friends kept them propped up enough to avoid hitting their heads, and we waited.
Worse than fainters are vomiters. It’s stressful enough to be waiting, silent, not knowing what’s going on, without someone erupting like a volcano all over his classmates.  The ensuing screams would give away our position, and the stench in close quarters would cause others to become sick as well.  During one lockdown, I spent the entire time watching the child who had thrown up already earlier in the day.  Of course, I was worried about his safety and well-being, but I confess that too many of my thoughts during that lockdown were, “Don’t you DARE throw up right now. Don’t you dare.”

Waiting is the hardest part.  I pace, I reassure students, I hush them.  Sometimes I read aloud in a whisper-voice; sometimes I tell them dumb whispered jokes.  Sometimes I take advantage of the fact that they are finally silent to expound on a lesson they didn’t really follow well earlier.  I sit with the ones who are most scared, remind the boisterous ones that this is serious, and resist the urge to check my phone to see if there is any information about what’s happening outside.

I put on a front that is both calm and fierce. Before, during, and after lockdowns, I reassure my students that anyone coming through the door would have to get through me first in order to get to them.  “Oh, trust me,” I say with more bravado than I feel, “If anyone comes through that door, I will take him down.  I will bash him on the head with the fire extinguisher, and drag his body out into the hallway.  I’ve got your back.” Despite my tiny stature and noodle arms, the ferociousness in my voice lets them believe me.

After a lockdown is over, the relief in the room is palpable.  This is not another Sandy Hook, another San Bernardino, another Las Vegas.  Students giggle nervously, and as ten year olds often do, they relieve stress with mildly inappropriate humor.

“Dude, you totally farted.  You can’t do that in a lockdown.  That’s gross.”

“Remember last year, when Felicia had to go to the bathroom during the lockdown? She had to pee in the garbage can.”

As the stress drains away, we return to class and business as usual.  As I hustle to get them back on task, I am suffused with emotion. I hate that this is part of our reality, that kids should know this drill so well, but grateful that for today, we are safe.