It may be totally unrelated. Or it may not be.
At 3:30 this afternoon, an hour after dismissal for Wednesdays, teachers were meeting in the computer lab to learn how to enter comments in with semester grades. Seven gunshots. Not surprising anymore, since it's the third time I've heard them in the last four months. But seven. At 3:30 in the afternoon.
The fools in us all came out as one teacher faked rolling on the floor, another nonchalantly confirmed what we all knew the sound was. Another first year sat next to me looking mortified as she and I sat silently among the group of rowdy teachers, most laughing after the gunshots went off. I presume it's a sign of stress and an uncomfortable release.
A little over an hour later, it was confirmed that a child died. A boy. Not one of ours, mind you, but still one of ours by relation.
I'm sick. Sick. Sick sick sick.
I don't care about my principal's unfounded accusations on the first day back from winter break. I don't care about the teacher tickets for bullshit like not putting my boards up. I don't care about the attendance I sent in late.
All I ever think about is how to make myself better for the kids, so somehow they can have something they didn't otherwise. I want to throw up as I think about how ludicrous it is that tomorrow, I will go to school and teach another lesson and review linear equations almost as if nothing at all happened.
Something about this isn't right. Maybe it's the fact that I can't even find information about the shooting online, because it's so commonplace in that neighborhood that apparently it's no longer news. Maybe it's the fact that I have to keep thinking about my lesson plan and focus on the one thing that can take my kids out of this situation: education. Or maybe it's that I feel no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to give them what they need.
And this is just another reminder of why I have to. I have to. I have to give them what they need. I have to get them out of this place. And myself too.
