Just as I was sitting down to write, my youngest asked if you could be traumatized by something that never happened. Heavy topic for an easy weekend morning, eh, but, I imagine, since my adult brain keeps replaying Friday’s events that it should go to say that hers would, too.
See, on Friday, the third day of school, there was a bomb threat at my kids’ high school. This wasn’t like the bomb threats my oldest has experienced there; this time they evacuated the building.
But first, let me back up. As I was dropping the kids off Friday morning, my youngest told me they had talked about active shooters on the first day of school. A new school with four times as many students, and she’s a little nervous. “Listen, everything is okay, I love you,” I said, as she was leaving the car. At 11:17 a.m., when the first text came from my daughter that read, “There’s a bomb threat.” I again responded, “You’ll be okay.” Next was, “Code Yellow.” I said, “You’re okay. What does that mean?”
Meanwhile, I began texting my oldest because she was scheduled to be picked up at noon for an appointment. She confirmed the Code Yellow and then said, “Mom, they’re not going to let me leave.” That’s when I left the house, dialed the school number and used the excuse of asking if I could pick up both of my kids instead of just one. I was told that school was dismissed, to meet the buses at the park. I was the first car in the second pickup line, and I can’t explain to you the thoughts I had as I sat there, watching the buses go up the hill to the school. There was a 53-minute gap between the time my child let me know what was going on and the school calling. My oldest spoke first in the car. She said, “Mom, my teacher called his wife and …”
That was all it took for the adrenaline to settle in her emotions.
At one point Friday night, my kid started reading aloud comments on a photo of the perpetrator’s Instagram. The comments were typical teenage trauma responses, clowning and tough talk. I told her I didn’t want to hear anymore. “Why not?” she wanted to know. “Because that young man is not okay. He’s probably experienced trauma and doesn’t need anyone else bringing that energy.”
She put her head down and said, “Yeah, you’re right.”
School was always my happy place. There were no bad surprises when I was in school. No one’s dad died there. No one had to go to the hospital and worry about your family there. No one lost jobs there or used food stamps there. I loved school for so many reasons, but, looking back, probably because of the predictable consistency of it was at the top of the list.
Yesterday, before the “Code Yellow” text arrived, I had gotten one to tell me that a kid who hasn’t seen my kid in a year couldn’t wait to jump back into his bullshit game of calling her “fat girl.” After a while, the whole, “he’s just an unhappy boy who hurts other people so they feel like him” isn’t even believable to me. I’ve reached my limit with mean kids, too, and told her to say something that won’t make it to print back to him. She’s done taking it, and I get it.
When we talk about raising kids, we often hear that it takes a village. Every image of a village in my head starts with the elders and their wisdom. At what point are we moved to be better elders? When do we accept accountability for our communities? We have generations now being traumatized by active shooter drills! We have groups of parents who raise hell with the school board because learning about the reproductive process of seahorses isn’t age-appropriate, but we sit and pretend that active shooter drills are?!?
If we don’t stand up as adults and demand that things in our communities get straightened up, then we’re failing our kids AND our role as elders in the village.
Friday’s trauma hit a little harder for some of us more than others because of our lived experience. We’re not only battling COVID-19 but another public health crisis – mental health. It’s beyond time for us to insist that adults who are with our kids understand and use trauma-informed care. Juvenile detention isn’t what the young man needs, but now he’s skipped the parts of the healing process that prevented it. Somewhere, a trained adult missed the signs. No one should have to place a bomb threat as a soundboard or a way of asking for help. No. One.
Let’s repair the village,
Amy Jo
