Perspective: This is Not a Drill

You are sitting in your English classroom at noon on a Tuesday. It’s lunchtime, and the smell of packaged leftovers and greasy cafeteria food permeates the air. Usually, you’d be down in the common area or off-campus, enjoying the spring sunlight. But your teacher has a microwave, and you’d be lost if you couldn’t heat up last night’s dinner: cold tofu isn’t exactly appetizing.

As you watch the machine whir, spinning the glass dish around, your friends burst out laughing. You turn briefly to see them passing around a phone, likely sharing some meme they found on Instagram. It brings a smirk to your face, and you impatiently tap your foot, waiting for the tiny green timer to finish counting down, down, down—

BANG!

Somewhere downstairs there is a jarring sound. It’s probably the cafeteria staff. Maybe they dropped the metal pot where they cooked the spaghetti; it wouldn’t be the first time. But, then you hear some yelling, the pounding of feet.

“Is there a fight going on down there?” someone asks, piquing your interest, as they go to check the door. 

Still, you don’t stray from your food. Little more than a minute left now: the clock dropping seconds in rhythmic pattern. You can feel your mouth watering, nearly taste the food on your tongue …

BANG! BANG! BANG!

This time the sound is clearer, and it punctuates the air with a distinct popping sound. Almost like …

“Are those gunshots?” your friend asks.

There is more yelling, and a teacher runs into the class. There are two other students on her heels, both of them without backpacks. Your English teacher stands from where she was sitting behind her desk.

“What’s going on?”

“They heard shots. They’re bringing everyone inside.”

A phone starts to ring. Your teacher picks up—it's her daughter, out of breath, you can hear her on the other end of the line:

“Mom? Mom? Are you there?”

“Yes,” she clutches the device to her ear. “Yes, where are you?” 

“Running. They told us to run. I’m with—” she breaks up. “We’re going to— house—I’m not sure what’s happening, I’m scared, we’re all running—”

“Get inside!” 

“We’re going to—’s house. We’re going.”

BANG!

The overhead speaker blares to life after the fifth shot, making your heart slam. There is a crackling as the microphone switches hands: a little quiet before the storm. Then, all hell breaks loose. 

“Lockdown! Locks! Lights! Out of sight!” 

The words are ice in your veins.

You scramble away from the windows. All of a sudden, you’re painfully aware of your surroundings. Chairs have become weapons, bookshelves turn into barricades, and the lights! S--t, you have to turn out the lights! 

“I repeat, lockdown! This is not a drill!”

The world narrows.

You’re on the ground, someone is shouting directions, but you can’t hear. Memories of elementary school return: you know what’s expected of you.

Be small.

Be quiet.

Be still.

They’ve instilled the protocol in you from day one: you are a machine from America’s public school system. This is what they’ve turned you into, this who they've taught you to be.

You duck your head while your heart pounds. Your body is numb and you live every second within your own mind. Life loses its chronology.

You can only focus on small things.

The whispers of one student, praying.

The quiet tears of another, crying.

Your own hands, shaking.

This can’t be real.

You unlock your phone. Your parents. You have to text them. Have to let them know just in case …

We’re in lockdown.

The message stalls, taking far too long to send. You close your eyes, wait. The school wi-fi betrays you for a final time. A couple messages from friends come through, but you can’t focus on them. You wait for that blue line on the top of your screen to make it all the way across. Then, you type another text.

I’m so scared.

You close your eyes again. No more gunfire echoes. No more screams. It's all silence now, and somehow that’s almost worse.

A buzz.

You glance down, your phone light dimmed. A message from your father flashes across the screen:

It’s ok. It’s probably just a suspicious looking guy on campus. You’re safe.

You realize, then, that they don’t know. They don’t f—ing know. About the gunfire or the screams or the way you’re folded into a ball in your English classroom. Why hasn’t the school called? Why haven’t they checked the news? They don’t know. They don’t f—ing know.

No, it's real.

Like it’s actually.

This is not a drill.

Red letters appear one after the other. Not delivered. Three times over. The messages go unread, the hellshow goes on. And they don’t know. They don’t f—ing know.

But some do.

Beside you, you watch messages populate your friend’s screen. You huddle over her phone. Videos and images and names sent on repeat. The same questions and the same fears.

Are u ok?

Where r u?

Did u run?

Who’s the shooter?

Is it a student?

Your ribcage turns into a prison. Some of your friends must have made it off campus. Some of them must be in the woods nearby. Others are probably only a classroom away. You wonder if they hesitated at all. Did they think about what they were leaving behind? Who were they leaving behind? And if not, can you even blame them?

A siren wails from somewhere. Lights flashing blue, then red. The police have arrived. The minutes stretch on, becoming hours. You sit and wait, because you can do nothing else. You refuse to pray. There is no God here. And even if there was, you don’t think you could believe in one after this.

Another video is sent, this one on Instagram. The same app that adults always shun you for using. Funny, how they call that dangerous when there’s a kid out there with a gun. You watch the clip. The police have a teenager pinned to the ground. Cars surround the scene, cops holding their own weapons. Fighting fire with more fire.

They caught him.

It’s a student.

The news spreads.

More messages pile in.

No one was injured.

They arrested two kids tho.

Should be safe now.

Safe? Safe? The world feels foreign. Were you ever safe? Were you safe when you walked into school today? Were you safe when you hit the ground and locked the door? Were you safe when the police arrived? You don’t think so. This didn’t start today. It began long before that student even got his hands on a gun, long before he felt the need to fire it.

You sit in the dark for a while longer. Eventually, the speaker crackles, the first sound allowed to permeate the air in over an hour.

“The lockdown has been lifted. We are entering secure mode. No one leaves or enters the building.”

There’s a pause, an exhale of collective breath.

“I repeat, the lockdown is over. We are safe.”

You cringe, hearing that word again. 

Slowly, people begin to shift and move, ghosts returning to their bodies. You get up, but your skin is chilled. You can still hear echoes, not just of the moments during, but of before. Of things you didn’t say and people you didn’t hold. Of memories you could have made and laughs you could have shared. But, you have another chance now.

And yet, you can’t help but wonder, how many didn’t?

How many children were sitting on the floor just like you had? How many of them texted their parents, only for the messages to go unread? And how many of them never left the classroom they thought they’d be safe in?

You could speak now if you wanted to, but no one does. The silence lingers as you look around the room at the people you might have died with if this had gone another way. You’re embarrassed when you realize you don’t even know all of their names.

“You’re lucky,” people will tell you later, throughout the day.

“It could have been worse.”

“At least no one was hurt.”

And maybe they’re right. Maybe you were lucky.

But that doesn’t mean you’re safe.

Because no one in the school is.

No one in the country is.

Not when it's easier to buy a gun than get an A in class.

Wake up, America, you want to scream. But would the nation even hear you over the sound of all the other students who weren’t prepared like you, lucky like you, safe like you? Would they even care?

So, instead, you write it:

Wake up, America.

This is not a drill.

The Carrborean published a parent's perspective last week. Other coverage of the incident on 4/14 can be found here. And an update from the Town of Carrboro is posted here.