Trying to Find Words

I've been quiet the last few days. To tell the truth, I've been trying to find words to express my feelings over the shooting on Friday.

I still haven't found them.

On Friday, my co-workers and I sat in our offices glued to the screens. We, like so many others, watched the news, the horrific news, the heartbreaking news, in disbelief, our hands held over our mouths to stifle the gasps.

Then the phones began to ring.

I work for a school district, in the superintendent's office. When I first started working there, I wasn't exactly neutral on the subject of public school. If I'd had more money, I would have sent Joseph to private school or Montessori. Instead, I sent him to public school with an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that he'd simply be a number, a test score.

It wasn't a sudden realization I was wrong. It was gradual, a slow unfurling of information.

Joseph's Kindergarten teacher was amazing. She was sweet and patient and best of all, able to talk me down from a panic over the idea that Joseph was having a difficult time with reading. Joseph principal is, as Joseph puts it, his friend. He confidently walks up to Mr. S and tells him, "Hi! It's your friend Joseph." And Mr. S, the wonderful man, never fails to respond, "Of course it's my friend Joseph!"

Joseph's First Grade teacher emails me immediately when I have questions or concerns. She is a mother to a six-year-old herself and understands the way their little minds tick. She's a former RN who is now teaching my son about paragraphs and geography. She laughs when she tells me stories of Joseph's comments and his bright smile.

Maryanne and Debbie at the front office answer my questions with the patience of Job. They laugh with me when I tell them I'm a space case and when exactly does school start? They walk me through paperwork and forms and happily email me new ones when I misplace the old.

These men and women at Joseph's school began the unfurling, the realization the teachers and staff love my son. He's theirs.

Then I started working for a district office for the administrators. They spoke of the children in our district as theirs. "Our kids", they call them. It's not a term denoting dollar figures or a test score. It's a term of almost parental pride. "Look at what some of our kids did!" they'll exclaim, sharing a photo of a group of fourth graders' project. On football days, "our teams" are cheered as proudly as if they were actually our children. When one is hurt, the Superintendent asks for regular updates on his or her condition. And, when one is badly injured, the principals, the deans, the coaches, the teachers are at the hospital holding steady for the parents.

On the first day of school, one of our Assistant Superintendents helped sooth a crying Kindergartner. Our Superintendent visited the schools, introducing himself to the children and adults alike. When one of the students at our continuation high school needed clothes, the executive assistants brought in shirts and jeans. The principal of that same school ate worms because his students improved their grades.

The knowledge unfurled fully: This isn't a job; this is a vocation.

Which made it all the more difficult to watch the news on Friday.

Every instinct urged me to jump from behind my desk and race home. Every instinct pushed me to get Joseph, take him home, wrap him in my arms where he'd be safe.

Instead, I trusted the people who love him five days a week, 180 days a year, to do it for me.

And on Monday, when I kissed him goodbye and tried to find the courage to walk out the door instead of calling in sick and staying home where I could keep him safe, I put my trust in those same people again.

I made it until 10:30 when I finally couldn't take it any longer. I called Maryann and told her I was going to be one of those obnoxious parents wanting to be sure her child was safe.

"Is everything okay? Today?" I asked, my stomach churning.

"Everything is okay," she assured me in a calm voice.

"And everyone got to school okay?" I had to ask again.

"Everyone got to school fine. We have police officers patrolling the campus this week. We'll take care of Joseph."

I hung up the phone, feeling a little relieved. I remembered Joseph's campus not only has his teachers, his principal, the amazing office staff, the counselors...they're also currently under construction and not a single one of those burly men would hesitate to help a child in danger. Of this I have no doubt, because as Mr. Rogers was quoted as saying, I just have to look for the helpers. They far outnumber those who would do harm.