what is the number one piece of advice teachers would give you? (Marysville-Pilchuck High School Shooting)

Dearest, most Precious Readers:

 

Recent news in the State of Washington compels me to write about a tragic event that occurred on October 24th, 2014.

 

Jaylen Fryburg chose to shoot friends and family at his high school.

 

Before you close this page, I assure you that I will not be writing anything political about gun safety/availability or amendment rights. Instead, I am writing on a subject you all know is near and dear to my heart:  children.

 

On posts past, I’ve mentioned that I have never planned to have children, nor any plans for planning a family now. So, why should I care?

 

We ALL should.

 

Why does a school shooting bother me perhaps more than the average blogger or news observer?

 

My husband, Pilot, worked for Marysville-Pilchuck High School in 2012.

 

Please realize that my concern would not be, in any way, lessened should my husband not have worked for the school.

 

School shootings are nothing to glean over. However, I also don’t believe it should be exploited for personal gain by using a devastating event for political platforms.  The safety of children should always be a number one priority for every citizen of the planet Earth.

 

Much of the speculation-

 

…and at this point, that is all we can do: SPECULATE. SPECULATION DOES NOT EQUAL TRUTH.

 

-has been around the question of “Why?”

 

Why did he shoot his friends?  His family?

He was popular!

He played sports!

He was well liked!

He seemed normal!

 

Let’s hone in on that word now, shall we? “Normal.”

 

What is normal? What is your perception of normal?

 

Pilot is not just a teacher, but he is a special education teacher. He has focused the majority of his career on children with emotional and behavioral disorders.  Do you know what “normal” is for this group of children? Juvenile detention, abusive home lives, homelessness, drug dealing/addiction, being part of neighborhood gangs, violent tendencies, social workers, psychologists (if they can afford one), parole officers, etc. This is their “normal.” The average age of Pilot’s students?  15 years old.

 

The child in question in the Marysville-Pilchuck High School shooting was considered coming from a good home, with friends, popularity at school, extracurricular sports activities, etc. This was his “normal.”

 

There is a massive stigma against “loners,” “unpopular kids,” “goth,” etc. children that they are the usual suspects and the ones to watch for “threatening behavior.”

 

Earlier this year, the world lost an incredibly talented entertainer, Robin Williams, to suicide incurred due to depression. How many other countless celebrities can we name? Another loss last year, was Glee’s leading actor, Cory Monteith. From the 1990’s beloved actor Phil Harman was murdered by his wife. His wife shot their children, killed Hartman and committed suicide. Another local Washington state school experienced a shooting earlier this spring, Seattle Pacific University, a private college.

 

So what about last Friday? I am not going to propose any theories on this child’s life.  I’m not going to demonize him and continue calling him “shooter.”  He was a child. A child who made a horrible, irrefutably horrible and gruesome choice that has destroyed the lives of his family, the victims and their families, his classmates and the school’s faculty and staff, and anyone who is remotely connected to the school and the people of that school.

 

Based on new evidence coming to light, aka Twitter, it has come to the attention that several of Fryberg’s tweets from Twitter indicated disturbing “warning signs” that (in hindsight… and we all understand how hindsight works) should have indicated that there was major dissatisfaction with Fryberg.

 

Depression and pain doesn’t have a single type of face.  It’s a feeling.  It doesn’t hit one type of personality, race, gender, age, or background.  It can occur in anyone.  Stop making excuses and stop being an ostrich.  A shooting could happen anywhere, and it could be caused by any one going through pain.

 1

 I’ve gone through and suffer depression myself.  After a series of events between 2007-2009, I went on antidepressants.  I was in great denial.  It was after those closest to me suggested I talk with someone about the events during this two-year period (a post for another day) and that I should try to get help, it made me realize that if everyone was asking me to at least try it, I wasn’t being my normal perky, snarky self.  I was in such denial about it, that it took several of my loved ones to talk bring it to my attention before I actually sought out help.  Realizing I had a strong support net, even from people I’d least expect to be encouraging, is what pushed me forward.  I couldn’t realize it for myself, it took others’ efforts to get through to me.

 

One of the things I’ve learned after watching years of Pilot navigating the delicate tightrope of emotional turmoil that his students face every day, boils down to a few key things:

 

Involvement

Understanding

Support

 

Involvement: The key factor that unites all of the different problems these children face is lack of involvement from their parents/guardians.  Either the parents/guardians are too busy to help their children, or they have no interest in how their children spend time.

 

Understanding: I don’t like to believe anyone is a lost cause. Adults seem to forget that children are much sharper than they’re given credit for.  A child doesn’t necessarily need to be book smart to be intelligent. Many of the children I’ve seen Pilot work with are sharp, aware, and hyperaware of their environment.

 

Support: America has its priorities messed up.  There, I said it, and I’ll say it again.  America has its priorities messed up.  We do not put enough value on education.

modern schoolteacher

(http://thegrumpyvoter.ca/site/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/the.modern.school.teacher.jpg)

 

America does not put enough funding into our social work systems, the foster care system, education, mental care, medical facilities, and programs to assist with those who are homeless/jobless.  Many of these children do not receive the necessary resources required to assist with their advancement.

 

Continuing with the support idea, many parents and those not involved in the school systems ask, “What are schools doing to prevent a shooting from happening again?

 

The answer?  You can’t.

 

I know that’s not the answer you wanted to hear.  Sorry, you just can’t.  No more than you can stop a corner store armed robbery from occurring.

 

Education lives in a rock and a hard place right now.  All schools can do is have good security staff on hand, an emergency drill plan, clear communication channels to local law enforcement, and train their faculty/staff in self defense and classroom management in case a situation like this occurs.  Faculty of every educational institution has to go through some type of psychology training.  Some schools in rougher neighborhoods have metal detectors and body search wands (like at the airport).

 

Nothing is going to deter someone from wanting to inflict harm in others, except for one thing: Someone taking notice of that person’s behavior.  You can have all of the training and preparation in the world.  Taking control of how to handle a situation like that and executing routine practice drills is all of the control you can provide in that situation.

 

Silence is what kills.  Not acting upon that piece of instinct within you to ask the tough questions.  If you notice behavior is off with someone you know, it is worth the risk of creating an awkward situation by asking if something is bothering that person.  I would much rather risk a friendship and dealing with an uncomfortable conversation, than no conversation occurring at all –with dire results as the aftermath.

 

I would rather risk a friendship and push conversations into the “tough stuff” so that the other person knows that I’m always there to listen, open mindedly (that’s key, here people), to what their thoughts are.  You may not agree with their morals or ethics, you may not agree with their opinion, but being willing to listen in the first place and letting the person know they’ve been heard is usually the first step in alleviating anxiety, stress, pain and depression for the other person.

 

If you don’t feel comfortable confronting the person in regards to their change in behavior, speak with someone else close to that person.

 

Again, silence is what kills.

 

Kids today in general have so much more pressure. One key factor I believe causes this, is our world is smaller.  Cell phones, internet, instant messaging, social media, texting, instagram, etc. has made our world more connected, yes, but it has also made each user be placed dead center under literally a world of scrutiny.  Add in the typical pressures of a teenager, growing up, being an adult, still being a kid, academic pressure, extracurricular activity performance pressure, getting into college/not getting into college, home life, jobs, friends, boyfriends/girlfriends/in-between, now you throw in gender identity, dating, sex, love, marriage, hookups, breakups, SAT’s, GED’s, drugs, drinking, expectations/lack of expectations… the list goes on and on.  It’s enough to make anyone cringe at those few, intense years that very few can say with 100% certainty that they survived unscathed.

 

Even the “normal” kids face incredible amounts of pressure I can barely keep up with to try and understand, and I wasn’t a teenager/young adult that long ago.

 

Break the silence.  It’s better to have checked in with someone than let it go.  I don’t know what was going through Fryberg’s mind leading up to and during October 24, 2014.  I can guarantee, that child must have felt severely alone, desperate, angry, resentful and/or any combination of those emotions.

 

It isn’t a “type” of person who feels those things.  Every human being has felt one or more of those emotions at some point in her/his life. Maybe his friends and family might have even talked to him about it leading up to it.  A decision to kill isn’t born into someone. It’s caused.

 

We need to be made more aware of the people around us. Not with a discerning, skeptical, calculating eye, but with a caring, respectful, and genuine sense of community for each other.

 

For parents, all Pilot and I can both suggest as a method to staying Involved, Understanding, and Supportive:

 

  1. LISTEN to your kids. Don’t talk AT them, talk WITH them.  I don’t always succeed in my execution of this, but my efforts are still noted. Even if the conversation doesn’t work the first time, keep at it.  It may not get easier, but at least your kids will know they have safe place to share their thoughts.

 

  1. BE AWARE of your kids’ internet/cell phone use. DO NOT SNOOP.  Establishing at the beginning what the rules are for using computers, cell phones, and other methods of communication are within your home (setting expectations) are key to understanding the world your child has created for herself/himself.  Believe me, you may not have full access to whom /where your kids are spending their time, but Facebook/Twitter sure do.

 

cheating vs social media
http://media-cache-ec0.pinimg.com/236x/7f/06/b4/7f06b4fd9eb38ce67b25b30379628933.jpg

 

  1. CARE. I once heard that 99% of parenting is showing up.  Being physically present, or even a phone call (NOT TEXT.  I SAID CALL.  A voice connects you to each other far more than reading letters on a screen) to wish your child good luck with their next activity when you’re not able to attend.  Let them know you’re taking them out afterward to celebrate (whether it goes well or not, especially when it does not).  You have a child in your life. This is a precious gift. Be involved, or get involved.

 

I asked Pilot what the one piece of advice he would give parents/guardians and I’ll paraphrase it here:

 

Be consciously involved in your child’s education and life.

 

Going back to the question of, “What are schools doing to prevent a shooting from happening again?”  There is a mindset becoming more prevalent in parent/teacher conferences:  That the kids spend all of their time at school, so the teachers are responsible for their child’s behavior.

 

This is ass backwards, and here is why:

 

Children spend 6 hours a day in school.  Let’s say 7 hours total to include commute time (assuming your child goes to a nearby school).  I ask you, how many hours are there in a day?  How good are your math skills?  Mine suck, and I can tell you that 7 out of 24 hours is not a lot of time.

 

changes in time

http://pjmedia-new.pjmedia.netdna-cdn.com/lifestyle//user-content/36/files//2014/01/funny-parents-grades-teachers-comic.jpg

 

Children spend 1/3 of their day at school.  Estimate the average 8 hours of sleep at their place of residence, and where is the rest?  With their family or chosen extracurricular activity/jobs.  Do you know where your child works?  Who they work with?  These are questions you should already know the answer to, don’t you think?

 

The point of all of this:  Be there for your children.  Be involved in your children’s lives.  It takes effort, time, and patience, but it’s worth it.  They won’t be children for long, and it’s a tough world.  Not to sound corny, but who they are and how they interact with the world is every person’s responsibility, and they will be our future leaders.  Their choices will shape our future.

 

Be Involved.

Be Understanding.

Be Supportive.

 

What are your methods for staying involved with the children in your life?

How do you monitor your child’s use of technology and social media?

Have you talked to your children to keep an eye out for rash behavioral changes in their friends and peers?

Do your children know where to go at school/work/extracurricular activities to report concerning behavior safely?

For those in the education field, what are your tips for keeping your classrooms safe?

you always remember your first

Do you remember your first?

Grabbed your attention, didn’t I?  I’ll tell you what. I’ll even give you his real name.  His name was Bob.  I know, lame-o name for a first, right? But he was a year older than me, slim body, reliable. We went through high school and most of college together. I have so many memories with Bob.  How could I ever forget him or his amazingly bright green paint job?

Oh, did I forget to mention that Bob is a car?

Bob was the epitome of the safest vehicle on my entire high school parking lot.  My father chose him specifically for me.  Him being a car guy, he knew exactly which car would always get me where I needed to go, never crap out on me, and definitely wasn’t capable of being dangerous.

It was so safe, it couldn’t even do doughnuts. It was a great selling point to my dad, by the way.  And I TRIED!  My dad took me to an icy parking lot in January and we TRIED!

NOTHING! ZIP! NADA! Not even a doughnut hole!

Bob was with me every step of the way. Through every job, through every latte stand, through every incident I was late to school on final’s day.  I got to know Pilot in that car.

You might be wondering about the name.  Well, in my family it’s a tradition to name our cars. Ok, maybe I started the tradition.

My mother’s purple soccer-mom vehicle was dubbed “The Grape Van,” (for a family of three, I still question the need for a damn van), my dad’s jeep was the “Beep Beep,” as named by my mother, but the name hasn’t stuck. It’s been renamed to Grease Lightning since then.  Even Pilot’s vehicle was christened upon the commencement of our relationship. His car was named “The Exploder.” (More on the Exploder another day.)

Bob was purchased out of a creepy, out-of-the-way location from a shabbily decorated lot.  After a not-really-trying dealer semi-haggled with my family, we purchased Bob, an ’83 Mercury Topaz, the new addition to our fleet.  (I know, right?)  Within the vehicle we found a dirty chamois, a screwdriver, and a Bob Marley tape.

I know, I know. The story sounds familiar. We named it Bob, the dog taught me a lot out of life and then he tear-jerkingly died.  Don’t worry, this story doesn’t end tragically. Promise.

While vacationing with my parents in Leavenworth, I found an “I Heart Bob” glow-in-the-dark key chain for him.  Unfortunately, our relationship had to come to an end. While in college at CWU, my parents’ growing concern for the two-hour drive over Snoqualmie Pass (especially in Washington winter which is December to March-ish) made them decide I needed a four-wheel drive vehicle instead.  So now I have Grease Lightning.

Mostly, I think my parents just wanted a new car, but my dad didn’t want to part with his Jeep and couldn’t justify having four cars for a family of three.

But don’t worry. Like I said, this story has a happy ending.  (Remember, I love a good HEA, even for an inanimate object.) Bob was still extremely reliable, and fully functional, so we tried to find a good home.  We found his new parents in my aunt and uncle. Now he has new owners, he’s still in the family and I get to visit him whenever I see my aunt and uncle.

What was your first car?  What were your favorite memories in there?

Wait, maybe that’s a bad question. But it’s out there now, so… Oh, well.

Daily Writing Challenge

*You may have noticed I didn’t post a DWC yesterday. The question for Day 11 (ironic, right? ) was “What was a day like for your character at work?” Since the DWC was part of a WIP, I didn’t want to post it here. So here’s Day 12.

Day 12: What does your character do when their day isn’t a normal day? Write a scene where something goes amiss in your characters day-to-day life.

Thud.

As I wait for my tow truck, the leather steering wheel making what I’m sure is a lovely indentation on my forehead. Sometimes I think that technology hates me. No, seriously. HATES ME. I’m supposed to be leaving for vacation in four hours and not only did my alarm not go off causing me to be late to work, but my computer decided today was a great day to stop functioning, preventing me from printing my boarding pass. After a mad dash to my neighbor’s house to print, sending a quick prayer of thanks for Mr. Rothenburger, I’m now on the side of the highway listening to a strange and ominous hiss coming from underneath the hood of my car.

Well, that’s actually not true. While driving, I heard a whirr plus a ka-thunk with a little dash of glug-a-glug. Then, the hissing.

As I reread the sun visor warning label for the thirty-seventh time, I glance at my suitcase. Poor little suitcase. Sitting there in the back of my car, patiently waiting to be loaded onto a plane to Hawaii.  It’s bright orange with stickers from everywhere I’ve traveled. I hadn’t been to Hawaii yet, and I was itchy to go for some fun in the sun.

There’s a light tapping on the window. As my eye rolls up to look outside, an annoyingly cheerful but yummy looking mouth smiles back at me.  His voice is slightly muffled as he announces himself through the glass.

“Are you Jenny Eppson, yellow Neon JRF-502?”

I nod and straighten up in my driver’s seat, brushing my plain brown hair off my face.  I roll down the window.

“Davis Motors?”

“Yup, Davis Bogart. That’s me.” I pop the hood and step out of the car.  My por little Neon, I grab my poor little suitcase, and set it next to poor little me on the side of the road.  A tall, slightly tanned from working outside, muscled man with dark hair and dark eyes winks at me.

He nods towards my suitcase, “So where you headed?”

“I’m supposed to leave for Hawaii in…” I steal a quick glance at my cell phone. “Make that three hours.”

“Well let’s see what we can do about getting you on your way.”

“Wait a second… Bogart?” I raise my eyebrows at him.  He gave a slight chuckle.

“Yeah, I know. But I’ll tell you what, I’m a huge hit with women over fifty.” He goes over to check my engine.  I watched Yummy Mouth bend over my hood.  Hmm.  Not bad for our generation either.

“Hmm… Looks like your transmission blew. We’re going to have to take it in.”

“Nooo! Could this day get any worse?!” I yell to no one in particular.  When I look back down Davis’ eyes widen a little.

“Bad day, huh?” he said, handing me a clipboard. “Sign here please.”

“The worst,” I grumble to myself, reluctantly taking the pen and sign my name and car away.

“I’m sorry. We’ll get it back to my garage… Unfortunately, my guys won’t be able to work on the vehicle until Monday.”

“Nooo!” I say again as I kick the tire. Shame on me for buying a Neon.

“Here, hop in the front seat.”  He glanced down at the form.  “Look, it’s late, my shift is almost over… and my mother would be shaking in her curlers if I left a young lady stranded without a ride.  I could give you a lift to the airport. You wouldn’t want to pay for those parking fees anyway.  We’ll store your car, free of charge until we can get to work on it.”

My jaw dropped.  “You don’t have to do that, really.”  I wrinkled my nose. “But if you want to stay in good standing with your mother, you might not want to mention the curlers. Oh, and thank you for calling me young.”  He laughed.

“No really, it’s ok.  My garage is on the way. Besides, we can take the carpool lane and maybe make up for the time you’ve lost from this whole transmission issue of yours.”

His logic and generosity was music to my ears.

“Bogey, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

never forgot, never will

Silence.

The phone rings. I wake up and answer in the middle of the second ring. It’s my mother announcing that the Twin Towers in New York had been hit by a hijacked plane.  After turning on the television to see what was going on, I witness a second plane flying low. Way too low. It crashes into the second tower.  I see people jumping to their deaths because it was better than burning alive.

It was my senior year of high school, just starting out my last year before entering adulthood. The first thought I had? “I need to find Yak.” If the nickname sounds odd, it was a high school nickname and she was OK with it. One of her favorite sweaters that she wore almost all the time was made out of yak fur, hence the nickname.

School.  Get to school.  The staff might be trying to track where students are.

I got ready for school and drove my car, Bob as quickly as possible. My concern for my friend was number one. I remember searching for her at the school.  She wasn’t there. I remember calling her. My heartbeat pounding in my eardrums. Waiting for those four words. Praying to hear those four words versus the alternative. I heard her pick up the phone.

“I’m ok… He’s ok.”

Relief comes swiftly, briefly. “Oh, thank, God.” I briefly closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose.

Hearing the assurance in her voice and the finality of her statement partially soothed the ache from the morning’s events. The one good thing from that day was that her family was ok. Yak’s brother had recently moved to New York just before 9/11.  My fear was she had lost someone she cared about, and I wouldn’t know how to be there for her.  They were one of the lucky ones.  Any relief was short-lived after closing the fear on her potential loss, and focusing on the rest of the victims.

Every member of the academic institution was gathered in a common area watching the news live. Teachers, students, administration…

Here was this gathering, a space crammed full of people to the point of standing room only, our entire high school population grouped together. Afraid to leave because… Well, what else was there to do?  We couldn’t talk. We couldn’t move.  All we could do was watch.  The only sound being made were the muted voices coming from the television tuned to the news.

What do I remember?  I remember the silence.

We weren’t a school that morning. It didn’t matter if you were old, young, senior, freshman, popular, nerdy, band geek, jock, cheerleader, goth, white, black, rich, poor, purple, striped or polka-dotted.  For that horrible moment, we were just people. Attempting to come to grips with the thousands of people who had just lost their lives. To the thousands of survivors who would have to bear a burden no person should, guilt for surviving. To the families and friends of the lost who were dealing with suffering, confusion, anger and utter devastation.

No, not even now. I cannot comprehend their ability to move forward. It’s a courage I’m unsure I’m capable of having.

Earlier today I re-read a post from one of my favorite bloggers, Jonathan Fields. Maybe I’ve seen him, maybe not.  He was there. This happened in his own backyard, his wife and child at home, nearby. Perhaps any of us caught a glimpse of him in the background on the news.

Jonathan’s story is haunting. He expressed an experience I will never fully understand.  I’m not sure anyone fully understands it.  Please read his story, because he represents the voice of those still here and of those who are gone. Read his story because his and the voice he represents deserved to be listened to.

So what’s the point of this post?  I don’t know, you tell me. I have no clue.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe that being a lifetime member of the West Coast, it was difficult for citizens on this side of the States to fully comprehend with what had happened. In my opinion, I believe there was a delay. A temporary dulling of the senses for those of us trying to connect with what was happening to our citizen brethren on the other side of our country.  It may sound harsh, but I believe it’s true.  What do you think?  I don’t know.

I just know I’ll never forget.