We Didn't Have School Today

On the eve of our granddaughter’s eighth birthday, the lovely Madelyn Simone stood at the end of her driveway, waiting for the school bus with her young friend. It was already a warm, spring-like day in mid-February, and the afternoon temperature promised to climb to 70, a perfect day to play hooky. But after a four-day weekend, it was time to head back to school, to the reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic of second grade. Fortunately for Madelyn, those subjects are no longer taught to the tune of a hickory stick.

But on Tuesday morning, the school bus never came. Were they late? No, they’d even been a few minutes early. They’d watched other buses go past, so they knew school must be in session. So where was their bus? Would one of the dads have to drive them to school? Before they could load up the car, the automated messages began to arrive.

“ . . . self-inflicted gunshot wound . . . safety services . . . lockdown . . . all four elementary schools will remain closed today.”

According to local law enforcement, a seventh-grade child brought a “long gun” to school, along with “distractionary devices,” and they weren’t talking about fidget spinners. The subsequent lockdown was triggered by the discharge of that rifle, reportedly a self-inflicted gunshot wound.

In the days since the Ash Wednesday massacre in Parkland, Florida, much has been said and written about school shootings. Those of us of a certain age remember the Columbine school shooting in 1999; the West Nichol Mines shooting at the small Quaker school in Pennsylvania; the young children killed at Sandy Hook; those being buried this week in Florida.

And now, a week after the murders at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School, this became personal for me. This was not the duck and cover drill of my elementary classroom, in hindsight a rather foolish response to the threat of the cold war. This wasn’t lockdown practice or A.L.I.C.E. training. This was a live shooter in a middle school, the same school Madelyn will attend when she is in sixth grade, when she is eleven years old. These were our neighbors’ children, sixth, seventh, and eighth grade, under lockdown for almost four hours. These were our neighbors, scared to death that the specter of Parkland has descended upon Jackson. The rumors were flying, with trolls and bots on the rampage. The network news picked up the story, thrusting my granddaughter’s school district into the spotlight, at least for one news cycle.

Last week, it was personal for Dr. Abbie Youkilis, aunt to Jaime Guttenberg, murdered in Parkland. Jaime was in the ninth grade. Her aunt describes her: “She was intelligent and feisty and she danced with beauty and grace. She always looked out for the underdog and the bullied, and she probably had been kind to the student who shot her.” Youkilis continued: “Fred and Jen are the world’s most loving and over protective parents but they could not protect Jaime from the sickness that has gripped our country. Unless we change, nobody can protect us.”

I have strong views on nonviolence and gun control, which have garnered the harshest criticisms of my columnist days. Because of those convictions, I will march in solidarity with my young friends, joining in locations across the country to “March for Our Lives” on Saturday, March 24, either at the event being planned in Ashland or perhaps near Jackson Middle School. This is a public health crisis that cannot be ignored. Youkilis is right – we must change.

As I write, the news helicopters have flown on to their next crisis, and the incident in Jackson Township, Ohio will only be a blip on the nation’s radar by the weekend. But the fear born in Columbine and Sandy Hook, and rekindled in Parkland, knocked on our door this week, an unwelcome visitor for sure.

“Nana,” Madelyn said as we grilled burgers on a glorious winter evening, “we didn’t have school today. Do you know why?” What could I possibly say in response to our family’s precious little girl on the eve of her eighth birthday?