Menu
Spring 2022
Editorial: On Arming Teachers and Watching Movies
This April, I went to see my sister Julia at a pizza place in Dundee. We had just finished up with the tail end of planting season--which is not exactly a party--so I was excited to get away from Eastie and spend some time just sitting around and eating pizza.
Sitting with my sister, though, things weren’t as relaxed as I had hoped. Julia (and I can talk shit about Julia behind her back because she doesn’t read The Quarterly) spent most of lunch complaining about her step son’s biology teacher. Damien (her step son) actually has the same biology teacher I had years ago. And I do remember that teacher being worse than average, though pleasant enough.
His name was Coach Wilson. Generally Coach is not the preferred honorific of science teachers, but I found it refreshing. I saw it as Coach Wilson’s way of saying, “I know I’m only here to coach football. You know I’m only here to coach football. So why don’t we all just go on a walk instead of having class?” It was a trade-off I was happy to take. I still don’t know whether frogs are reptiles or not, but I had a great time on those mid-morning strolls.
He claimed he would retire if he wasn’t allowed to take us on walks. Or if he wasn’t allowed to wear shorts. Or if he had to teach summer school. Frankly, he was always threatening to retire. I used to wonder whether he thought it impressed us; if he hoped we would think, “Coach Wilson’s pretty cool. He doesn’t want to be at school, either.”
The main thing I remember about Coach Wilson was that he kept a table in the back of the classroom stocked with ingredients to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We students were not given access to this table. It was for players on the football team who would walk in in the middle of class, make a sandwich, and then leave. I don’t understand how so many football players had classes with optional attendance.
One day, my friend Emily found--in some public record, I assume--what the football coach at our public school was paid. She asked Coach Wilson if he thought it was fair that he was making thousands of dollars more than the drama teacher who also had to come in after school every day for rehearsal. Coach Wilson claimed that he spent more on peanut butter and bread than he ever made as a coach. Emily asked, if it was so costly, whether it was a good idea to keep buying *according to him* tens of thousands of dollars of white bread and peanut butter. In response, Coach Wilson threatened to retire. In his forties. Despite all the peanut butter debt.
Julia told me that the sandwiches had stopped, but the walks were still a constant part of the class. To Julia, the walks were part of a bigger problem. Some classes, he would just tell the students to read the textbook or ask them to go through a chapter and pick their favorite photo; things that would fill class time, but don’t really count as teaching. I understood why she was upset, though I was unable to get her to see why I was more sympathetic.
The way I saw it, most public school teachers are amazing. Practically angels on earth. But, if your school is going to have sports, then a few of your kid’s classes are going to be taught by fake teachers. Your fake teacher will be a real coach, and so you can still benefit from their expertise. You just need to play sports. Sometimes, you will get lucky and your real coach is also a real teacher. But other times, they ask you to call them Coach and take you on walks and are very upfront about the fact that they don’t know very much about biology. That’s just one of the costs of football on a community. And sure, Julia might choose biology over football, but I played basketball and soccer in high school, so I’m not that mad at the decision. If anything, she should be glad Damien had a fake teacher as a freshman. He has three years to catch up.
***
For me, the more upsetting part of our discussion regarded Damien’s active shooter drills at school; the end result of treating mass shootings like fires and tornadoes, an unstoppable force of nature.
When I think about all of the school shootings that have happened in my life, I feel my temperature drop. I can taste the adrenaline as I picture the cold metal weapon sweeping through the antiseptic hallways. I start to relive my happy high school memories tainted with a new terror. The only thing I can compare it to was when I was ten and tried to open a jammed old window by hitting it with the heel of my palm. My father grabbed my arm and explained what would have happened if the old window had broken and some of that shattered glass cut into my wrist. It is a realization that you are perfectly fine, but of the infinite yous in infinite universes, not all of them made it.
Now, Damien was in Coach Wilson’s class when they had an active shooter drill. And everyone followed the rules to the letter of the law. They turned off the lights, locked the doors, and hid from the hallway windows. But, once the drill was over, Coach Wilson let the class know that, should there be an actual shooter, they were going to handle things a little differently.
His plan was as follows: The students would grab all of the textbooks and office supplies they could find in the classroom. Then, they would turn over two wooden tables in the back of the room and hide behind them. Once they were in position, Coach Wilson would open the door and turn the room lights on to lure the shooters into his intricate, Home Alone style trap. When the shooters come in, the students would throw their textbooks--their shot put weighted textbooks they had no practice throwing--across the room to hit the gunmen. Then, Coach Wilson would jump out, wrestle them to the ground, and then beat them with a baseball bat he kept by his desk.
I know what you might be thinking (you judgy little skeptic) and you’re right: Bats aren’t usually used in wrestling. You tend to need some space to build up a swing’s momentum. But in Coach Wilson’s defense, the further away you get, the more and more useful the gun becomes. Still, he wasn’t a physics teacher. He was a biology teacher. And he was barely a biology teacher. So how was he supposed to know?
Julia was horrified. Rightfully. It is the misguided plan of a dim egoist who’s desire to play Die Hard could get her kid killed. But far more worrying was that half of the fake teachers in school seemed to have their own pet plans. The basketball coach, somewhat ironically, kept a golf club by the door.
Apparently, the coaches think that they are the hero of their own cheesy, dumb Disney flick. Rather than sing in the shower, they dream about the day they get a chance to play action-hero. I can almost picture the movie. Their poor spouse scolds them: “Stop dreaming, Dan! You’ll never solve the gun epidemic with golf!” and they cry out, “You’ll see, honey! One day, you’ll see!”
I was in high school for some of the earliest rumblings about putting more guns in schools. One of my favorite teachers told me that he was for giving teachers weapons, but only broadswords. Little did he know that he’d still be better armed than any of the coaches in school.
The image of the sword sticks in my mind because it is a reminder of how silly and gruesome this whole situation would be. Guns are not “fix-it” buttons. They are one ingredient in a fight to the death. And if that had happened while I was in school, the man with the boom stick would have been Coach Wilson, with his poorly laid plan and unlocked door.
One of the students asked Coach Wilson whether he was a proponent of teachers carrying guns. He responded that he didn’t need one, but he would take the help if he could get it. I’m very grateful he didn’t have a gun while I was in his class. Of the infinite versions of me in infinite universes, I’m sure some of those guys were killed in school shootings. But I bet more were killed by ricocheted bullets and friendly fire coming through drywall than were ever saved by a football coach with a hero complex.
***
At a certain point, I practically had to beg Julia to change the conversation. It’s always an awkward moment, but Julia doesn’t have enough other friends to make a stink.
We went back to her house for an hour or two and had a pleasant enough time, but all of the school shooter talk really cast a pall over events. I left before dinner and spent the entire drive home imagining what could have happened to me if I had been a little less lucky.
When I returned home to my beloved Eastie and my beloved roommates, things weren’t much cheerier. I got back just in time to watch Come and See. It’s an old Soviet movie from the 80’s. It follows a teen caught in the Nazi invasion of Belarus. I love my roommates, but we do not always agree on what counts as a fun night in.
The movie is terrifying. Soldiers kill thousands of people. The living are starving and fighting for food. There is arson and rape and torture. I’m sure that--no matter when I watched this movie--it would have upset me. But, considering everything that is happening in the world right now from the Russian genocide in Ukraine to worries about a civil war in America, it hit too close to home. I started to really freak out. I should have gone into another room, but I couldn’t handle being alone and I was too far gone to express quite how I was feeling. I curled up into a ball and waited for someone to notice.
***
After the movie, we all went on a little walk. As the sun was setting on that cold spring day, I looked at the still leafless trees as their branches criss-crossed paths through the fading sky and charcoal clouds. My roommate put his arm around my waist and let me drink from his big, metal water bottle. My breathing slowed and my shoulders dropped. The doom started to melt.
I am so grateful for the domestic beauty of my lovely life and home and friends. I had spent the whole movie feeling death coming--and maybe it still is--but, I am endlessly thankful for peace while it is here; my life while I have it.
Sitting with my sister, though, things weren’t as relaxed as I had hoped. Julia (and I can talk shit about Julia behind her back because she doesn’t read The Quarterly) spent most of lunch complaining about her step son’s biology teacher. Damien (her step son) actually has the same biology teacher I had years ago. And I do remember that teacher being worse than average, though pleasant enough.
His name was Coach Wilson. Generally Coach is not the preferred honorific of science teachers, but I found it refreshing. I saw it as Coach Wilson’s way of saying, “I know I’m only here to coach football. You know I’m only here to coach football. So why don’t we all just go on a walk instead of having class?” It was a trade-off I was happy to take. I still don’t know whether frogs are reptiles or not, but I had a great time on those mid-morning strolls.
He claimed he would retire if he wasn’t allowed to take us on walks. Or if he wasn’t allowed to wear shorts. Or if he had to teach summer school. Frankly, he was always threatening to retire. I used to wonder whether he thought it impressed us; if he hoped we would think, “Coach Wilson’s pretty cool. He doesn’t want to be at school, either.”
The main thing I remember about Coach Wilson was that he kept a table in the back of the classroom stocked with ingredients to make peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We students were not given access to this table. It was for players on the football team who would walk in in the middle of class, make a sandwich, and then leave. I don’t understand how so many football players had classes with optional attendance.
One day, my friend Emily found--in some public record, I assume--what the football coach at our public school was paid. She asked Coach Wilson if he thought it was fair that he was making thousands of dollars more than the drama teacher who also had to come in after school every day for rehearsal. Coach Wilson claimed that he spent more on peanut butter and bread than he ever made as a coach. Emily asked, if it was so costly, whether it was a good idea to keep buying *according to him* tens of thousands of dollars of white bread and peanut butter. In response, Coach Wilson threatened to retire. In his forties. Despite all the peanut butter debt.
Julia told me that the sandwiches had stopped, but the walks were still a constant part of the class. To Julia, the walks were part of a bigger problem. Some classes, he would just tell the students to read the textbook or ask them to go through a chapter and pick their favorite photo; things that would fill class time, but don’t really count as teaching. I understood why she was upset, though I was unable to get her to see why I was more sympathetic.
The way I saw it, most public school teachers are amazing. Practically angels on earth. But, if your school is going to have sports, then a few of your kid’s classes are going to be taught by fake teachers. Your fake teacher will be a real coach, and so you can still benefit from their expertise. You just need to play sports. Sometimes, you will get lucky and your real coach is also a real teacher. But other times, they ask you to call them Coach and take you on walks and are very upfront about the fact that they don’t know very much about biology. That’s just one of the costs of football on a community. And sure, Julia might choose biology over football, but I played basketball and soccer in high school, so I’m not that mad at the decision. If anything, she should be glad Damien had a fake teacher as a freshman. He has three years to catch up.
***
For me, the more upsetting part of our discussion regarded Damien’s active shooter drills at school; the end result of treating mass shootings like fires and tornadoes, an unstoppable force of nature.
When I think about all of the school shootings that have happened in my life, I feel my temperature drop. I can taste the adrenaline as I picture the cold metal weapon sweeping through the antiseptic hallways. I start to relive my happy high school memories tainted with a new terror. The only thing I can compare it to was when I was ten and tried to open a jammed old window by hitting it with the heel of my palm. My father grabbed my arm and explained what would have happened if the old window had broken and some of that shattered glass cut into my wrist. It is a realization that you are perfectly fine, but of the infinite yous in infinite universes, not all of them made it.
Now, Damien was in Coach Wilson’s class when they had an active shooter drill. And everyone followed the rules to the letter of the law. They turned off the lights, locked the doors, and hid from the hallway windows. But, once the drill was over, Coach Wilson let the class know that, should there be an actual shooter, they were going to handle things a little differently.
His plan was as follows: The students would grab all of the textbooks and office supplies they could find in the classroom. Then, they would turn over two wooden tables in the back of the room and hide behind them. Once they were in position, Coach Wilson would open the door and turn the room lights on to lure the shooters into his intricate, Home Alone style trap. When the shooters come in, the students would throw their textbooks--their shot put weighted textbooks they had no practice throwing--across the room to hit the gunmen. Then, Coach Wilson would jump out, wrestle them to the ground, and then beat them with a baseball bat he kept by his desk.
I know what you might be thinking (you judgy little skeptic) and you’re right: Bats aren’t usually used in wrestling. You tend to need some space to build up a swing’s momentum. But in Coach Wilson’s defense, the further away you get, the more and more useful the gun becomes. Still, he wasn’t a physics teacher. He was a biology teacher. And he was barely a biology teacher. So how was he supposed to know?
Julia was horrified. Rightfully. It is the misguided plan of a dim egoist who’s desire to play Die Hard could get her kid killed. But far more worrying was that half of the fake teachers in school seemed to have their own pet plans. The basketball coach, somewhat ironically, kept a golf club by the door.
Apparently, the coaches think that they are the hero of their own cheesy, dumb Disney flick. Rather than sing in the shower, they dream about the day they get a chance to play action-hero. I can almost picture the movie. Their poor spouse scolds them: “Stop dreaming, Dan! You’ll never solve the gun epidemic with golf!” and they cry out, “You’ll see, honey! One day, you’ll see!”
I was in high school for some of the earliest rumblings about putting more guns in schools. One of my favorite teachers told me that he was for giving teachers weapons, but only broadswords. Little did he know that he’d still be better armed than any of the coaches in school.
The image of the sword sticks in my mind because it is a reminder of how silly and gruesome this whole situation would be. Guns are not “fix-it” buttons. They are one ingredient in a fight to the death. And if that had happened while I was in school, the man with the boom stick would have been Coach Wilson, with his poorly laid plan and unlocked door.
One of the students asked Coach Wilson whether he was a proponent of teachers carrying guns. He responded that he didn’t need one, but he would take the help if he could get it. I’m very grateful he didn’t have a gun while I was in his class. Of the infinite versions of me in infinite universes, I’m sure some of those guys were killed in school shootings. But I bet more were killed by ricocheted bullets and friendly fire coming through drywall than were ever saved by a football coach with a hero complex.
***
At a certain point, I practically had to beg Julia to change the conversation. It’s always an awkward moment, but Julia doesn’t have enough other friends to make a stink.
We went back to her house for an hour or two and had a pleasant enough time, but all of the school shooter talk really cast a pall over events. I left before dinner and spent the entire drive home imagining what could have happened to me if I had been a little less lucky.
When I returned home to my beloved Eastie and my beloved roommates, things weren’t much cheerier. I got back just in time to watch Come and See. It’s an old Soviet movie from the 80’s. It follows a teen caught in the Nazi invasion of Belarus. I love my roommates, but we do not always agree on what counts as a fun night in.
The movie is terrifying. Soldiers kill thousands of people. The living are starving and fighting for food. There is arson and rape and torture. I’m sure that--no matter when I watched this movie--it would have upset me. But, considering everything that is happening in the world right now from the Russian genocide in Ukraine to worries about a civil war in America, it hit too close to home. I started to really freak out. I should have gone into another room, but I couldn’t handle being alone and I was too far gone to express quite how I was feeling. I curled up into a ball and waited for someone to notice.
***
After the movie, we all went on a little walk. As the sun was setting on that cold spring day, I looked at the still leafless trees as their branches criss-crossed paths through the fading sky and charcoal clouds. My roommate put his arm around my waist and let me drink from his big, metal water bottle. My breathing slowed and my shoulders dropped. The doom started to melt.
I am so grateful for the domestic beauty of my lovely life and home and friends. I had spent the whole movie feeling death coming--and maybe it still is--but, I am endlessly thankful for peace while it is here; my life while I have it.
Copyright © 2015