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We are hosted this week by Janice at Salt City Verse. Please join us by clicking through and enjoying a peek at the world through poetry.
Everything will be okay
I have watched the news over the past ten years. Heard stories of teachers sheltering their kiddos in classroom closets. Today I looked across a field where 700+ students had been corralled. Bomb-sniffing dogs led by combat-dressed squads spread out across a K-8 school. Every adult on the school grounds — teachers, aides, yard-duty personnel, counselors, staff, and unwitting volunteers — moved among restless lines of little ones, assuring them we were “practicing staying safe.”
We live in a world where a school day is upended by a bomb threat.
Long, damp grass; a perimeter fence pocked with dirt piles and pincer bugs; random dragonflies –all served to fascinate and conveniently distract five-year olds. Meanwhile, an hour planned to help assess new kinders in their first full week of school turned into four hours of finding ways to assure them we would return to the classroom, once it was safe.
After 30 minutes of waiting in 90-degree heat, the excuse of a drill was no longer reasonable. Some were thirsty. We were all hot. Children needed to go potty. Buckets were brought and set up behind a nearby screen. Kids were escorted to the line. Heads were constantly being counted. At some point, cases of water bottles showed up. This satisfied the children for another thirty minutes. Friends were being made as they busied themselves picking handfuls of fescue or tracking ants that crawled along the fence line.
Paper appeared and I taught the older kids to help make fans for the younger ones, trying to both make it a game and offer relief, meager as it was. Find someone to share with. Fan them to the count of 10, then let them fan you!
Ninety minutes in, staff engineered a mass move to a shadier space. We re-settled them, sweaty, some hungry, some tired of being outside. By now there were more than a few criers. Using my old mom-tricks, I grabbed water and one-by-one encouraged the sobbiest with my softest mom-voice to sip slowly. One little girl finally laid down. Two more nearby just wanted their moms. I engaged boys on the perimeter with guessing how old they were, how old I was, talk of birthdays and parties. Soon smiles were restored.
We live in a world where a school day is upended by a bomb threat.
This was good distraction for me. Because if given time, I wanted to fume. Real or fake, who would do this? I could only imagine the parents of these kiddos – panicked, wanting desperately to reach their children; with little news, wondering if they were okay; wondering who would hold them, hug them, comfort them when they couldn’t do the most instinctive thing a parent does?
Let me tell you: None of the dozens and dozens of children I was with exhibited any sense of fear. We were “practicing safety.” They were hot, hungry, tired. Their routine, if they even had a sense of one in the short time since the school year had begun, had been disrupted. Thankfully, they did not have a sense of danger.
Five-year-olds’ instinct is to let others smother them. Numerous times across the morning, a tiny hand would slip into mine. I would look down and find a half-body holding on to me. Five-year-olds smile back when you smile at them. Just a reassuring wink, a squeeze, a remark about their pink-sequined shoes or the planets on their tee-shirts is enough to reassure a small child that even this stranger will keep them safe.
I thought of teachers who have died trying to protect their kids. I was just a volunteer today. I was helping my sister. We were going to do assessments for an hour. Find out which kids know capital letters and letter sounds. But within minutes of my arrival, when word was relayed that this was a bomb threat, I looked across the field at the flurry of staff who did exactly what they have prepared for – everyone of us doing whatever was needed to keep these kids reassured and safe.
Two-plus hours in, one little boy could not hold it together any longer. He sobbed into my arms. He didn’t want water or a snack or even his nearby brother. He only wanted to be held. I wasn’t his mama. But I held him tight like she might. I swayed back and forth. I spoke softly into his ear. Everything will be okay. Whether or not he believed me, he held me tight, pressed his sweaty head into my neck, and wept.
everything will be okay
ponytails and pink-sequined shoes
deep brown eyes search
to make sense of the world
why ear-piercing sirens
why walking in lines
follow the leader
no playground time, practicing
like unwitting pincer bugs
in a pile of disturbed dirt
scurry to safety
squirmy in wet grass
what game is this?
can we go in? I’m hot
hug, hand squeeze, calm
voice reassures
how long must we pretend
everything will be okay
©draft, PJF
The ordeal did end. Five-year-olds also readily return to routine when given the chance. Back in the classroom, sticker-work got underway. Lunch boxes were opened. Juice bags slurped. The signal came that dismissal would begin. Outside a very tight reunification process was in place. I was given permission to leave. Making my way toward my car I watched a flood of parents, rushing the office. They had been waiting four agonizing hours nearby, their only desire to get to their children.
I write this for the parents. I want you to know that while you could not be with them, your children were cared for and kept safe. They were the highest priority of every adult on the school grounds. I don’t know you. I did not know your children. But even I was ready to do whatever was needed to protect them.
It fills me with heartbreak that we live in a world where a bomb threat upends a school day. We send children to school trusting they will be safe, they will make friends, they will learn to love learning. I am astounded at what teachers and school staff take on – but they do it. They were ready to give their lives to keep your children safe.
So hug your children tight tonight.
And thank your teachers, school, and district staff tomorrow.
Patricia Franz writes picture books and poetry. She believes children, dogs, and sourdough have a lot to teach us about life, joy, and wonder. She has raised two boys, four dogs, and holds a master’s degree in Theology with a focus on children’s spirituality. Patricia, her husband, her Bernese Mountain dog, Bonny, and her sourdough starter split their time between the Arizona desert and the Sierra Nevada mountains. 
Heartbreaking and beautifully said, Patricia. Your, and others’, response to the children puts me in mind of Fred Rogers’ then-comforting advice for children—”Look for the helpers.” How unbearably necessary these drills are—and how different from my own childhood of crouching under desks for the Cold War fear of an imagined nuclear attack.
Patricia, your words show the cushion of care you made possible during the heartbreaking experience the children faced that day. I am eternally grateful for educators and volunteers like you who comfort the kids. It is my dream that someday the world’s children will n experience the end to violence of all kinds.
Heartbreaking 💔 Your witness to the care of these kids is comforting.
Why would someone do that? Last year a 12 year old in my county discovered that if you are under 13, you can make bomb threats without getting charged for it (so they did, three times). Disturbing. I’m glad you were there to help out.
Oh, Patricia! How heart-wrenching and awful. I’m glad you were there to help care for those poor kids and I hope you got lots of hugs when you got home too.
What a story! One that is only too common. I hope it helped you to write about it and it made me wonder what it was like for a young child and what it tells them about the world as it currently is. Thanks for sharing this and for helping out.
Oh, Patricia, this made me cry. I’m glad you and all those fine people were there to reassure the kids. And my heart hurts for the kids, and for the kids in other places for whom it’s not just a threat, but actual bombs, or actual gangs, or actual horrors of countless kinds.
I am grateful for all those who care, like you even as a volunteer, who stepped in and loved the children, cared for them. I taught older children so while they could be reassured that we were safe, they knew always what was happening. My hardest times through the years were talking in the ‘after’, of Columbine, Sandy Hook, and on. Thank you for this tribute to teachers everywhere, Patricia. I hope many will see it!
So glad those kids had you and your loving and caring ways. Your story brought tears to my eyes, imagining my own grands in that situation. Do you know the picture book One Thursday Afternoon by Barbara DiLorenzo? It was inspired by something similar when she was on a school visit (I think).
Patricia, your volunteer work exceeded what you thought it would be. I can see you comforting the children, trying to keep them comfortable, and being a strong Mom. The Lord was with you. I recall the times the nuns in my elementary school would lead down the stairs of a scarey basement to practice for a bomb threat. I have never forgotten the fear that was imparted to my classmates and me.
Thank you for bearing witness, for being there to comfort and help. What a world. What a crazy, screwed up world.
Oh Patricia! What a day! My heart is broken for these kids. What a terrible way to start the beginning of their school career. And the terrified parents who just sent their babies off and were likely already worried. It’s one of my biggest fears.
Such an insightful post and poem, Patrricia. I worked in NYC schools directly after 9/11 and still recall the palpable uncertainty surrounding schools and life within the city back then. So many drills were undertaken. They served to raise anxiety. Bewildered children. Schools should be a safe haven
Thank you so much for being there and doing what you did – hugging, consoling, and reassuring. Can I ask why the drill was so very long? I’m not trying to find blame, just understand. Who doesn’t understand what a kindergartener can tolerate? I’m baffled by the length of the drill. When I volunteered, there was a day I was in a K classrom where one of my sons was. There was an intruder drill that day when all 22 kids the teacher and I were squished into the classroom’s bathroom. Although this drill only lasted several minutes, there were still the same things you described – wimpers, crying, finding an adults hand or leg. But we were in the dark – total darkness, which again, for that age can be scary. I wish we lived in a world where these drills weren’t needed. No wonder so many grow up with anxiety.
This was not a drill. The school office received an email that morning, just as I arrived, that a bomb was set to go off somewhere on the school grounds. It took 4+ hours for the place to be searched and determined that it was, in fact, safe. No bomb was found. And sadly, the young person responsible for the email was arrested the next morning. We were grateful that the threat turned out to be just that, only a threat. But we did not know during this 4 hours that it was fake.
I’m so sorry I misunderstood- thankful all are safe.
Oh, Patricia, what a beautifully written piece about a terrifying time. I’m glad you were there. I’m sure your sister was glad you were there and so were the children you comforted. I’m glad the students had your hugs, hand squeezes, and calm voice as they practiced safety. I wish our world was different.