Sunglasses Always Fit

In my class, we have a different theme to start each day. On Mondays, we catch up on big and small news. On “Teach Me Tuesdays,” I present something they might and I definitely care about, like how far a sneeze can travel, you gross little gremlins. We love “Thankful Thursdays.”

Wednesdays is “Where in the World” and I play Carmen Sandiego, showing pictures of countries to see if they can guess it. I print out fake passport stamps for the fake passports I’ve made, knowing 99% of my kids will never be able to apply for a passport, never travel farther than two hours outside our town. I show them pictures of my life, my families, my travels. We look at maps, I talk about traveling and share stories about the people I’ve met. We learn how to say “hello” in different languages. My unpaid and unofficial role as ambassador of America and World Citizen Extraordinaire continues.

One reason I have stayed teaching abroad so long is that I feel much safer outside of the United States. For example, in no other country must I simply accept “you might die of a school shooting” as a job risk. In Hong Kong, where I spent the last seven years, our lockdown drills were about wild boars somehow learning how to climb stairs. And now I live in the mountains of Guatemala. Snug as a bug in a rug. Minus the actual bugs that want to kill me.

But that illusion of safety shattered for me last week, during Teacher’s Appreciation Week, because I am one of God’s favorite test subjects. It went like this:

I was reviewing how to use coordinates in four quadrants, turning back and forth from the room to the whiteboard as I taught, and then it was time to move from whole-class to independent learning with a worksheet. 

For whatever reason, a boy in my class asked “Miss! Miss! Can I show you a magic trick?” He is a particularly tricky one that we’ve had many meetings about; he’s been through a behaviour plan, all the teachers know about him, he never shuts up. I have a soft spot for him – he’s going through a parent divorce around the same time I did, he’s the oldest, he’s class clown, he’s genuinely smart but exasperating. Like, I take lots of deep breaths and count to ten and he still shatters my illusions of peace and control on the regular. But I love him.

When I turned around from the board to look at him, time slowed down, my vision narrowed, and all I could see was that he was pointing a gun at me. 

“No, no,” I thought and maybe yelled. “But I love you, you love me!” I thought. I decided to duck right and lunged towards him, arm stretched out, aiming for the gun. Then I genuinely don’t remember the next few minutes very well. 

I remember waiting for the sound of the shot, the whiplash, wondering where it would hit me. He was about eight feet away, and I was able to snatch it from him. “Is a joke! Is a joke!” he cried. It did not look like a joke.

I know that after I had it, I said some things to the class about how pointing guns at people was never funny. I managed not to say “what the f@#k?!” the way I wanted to with every bone in my body. I hate guns, but I tucked it to me. I couldn’t let him shoot a student. It was heavy in my hands.

I was crying, shaking. The whole class went quiet.

Afterwards, I tried to get them back on task while I sat and pretended to type, trying to stop crying. I gave up, walked to the window, and luckily my friend was nearby. I beckoned her over and told her what happened, and she insisted I take a break and try to collect myself while she watched my class. I kept swearing I’d be fine, that I needed to stay with the kids, but within an hour, I’d talked to admin and they insisted I go home for the day.

The boys were pulled into the office and I found out later they were laughing, thinking it was all so funny how scared I’d been. The gun was heavy because it was full of water, a toy they’d bought at a fair and brought to school in their backpack to scare me with. He’d sneaked it in during their Spanish class and kept it hidden on his lap for the first 25 minutes of math, waiting for the right time to pull it on me. They were suspended for two days.

I kept thinking about it. Minutes before, this same kid had been asking me if I would come back next year, because all of their teachers leave. He loves me, always comes up to tell me some mundane story about his weekend. He’s a class clown but full of hugs and sweetness.

I managed the walk home, took off my bra, paced the room, took a hot shower, then a cold shower, then started dialling numbers as the tears started falling. My best friend was the first one who could pick up and she immediately heard the pain in my voice when I said “can you talk? Do you have a minute?”

And she said the most comforting words in the English language – “I’m here.” Just typing this now is difficult because, well, for a few moments there, I genuinely thought I was going to die.  But she was there and she let me feel every feeling and cry every tear and ask the hypotheticals and consider a new career path and oscillate between hysterical and oddly calm. And remember Columbine happened on April 20, 1999, when we were freshmen in high school, the Isla Vista shooter knocked on the door of my sorority Alpha Phi first, Sandy Hook, Ulvalde, and the thousands of other school shootings and teacher trainings that very rightly triggered this response in me.

I can still see so clearly the glint in his eyes as he pointed it at me, his quirky smile. I can feel the way the room went quiet, wondering what I would do. I can feel the instant sweat, the angles of the window sill pressing in as I leaned out, hoping someone would be there within yelling distance to tell me what to do, because every thought had left my body and I was breathing so hard I was worried I’d pass out. 

There is no neat and tidy way for me to end this blog, because what is neat and tidy and cute and pithy about thinking you’re about to die at the hands of one of the troubled students you’ve been pouring your life into? What possible quotable quote is on loan for this situation, I wonder? 

I’m okay now. I think. I’m pretty sure. I guess the American culture I brought to school that week as unofficial ambassador was learning about school shootings.

I am struggling to love those boys after their suspension. But I’m coping. A weekend away was involved. Wine is involved. Asking for constant pictures of my nieces and nephews is involved. I am so looking forward to summer and a few days on my parents couch doing nothing but holding a baby or a puppy and changing channels. 

Despite this being a massive event for me, it’s been met with complicated and mostly casual reactions here in my tiny town in Guatemala. The impression has been “Oh, relax! It’s because you’re American, and so you guys die from guns all the time! But not here! I mean, sorry for your trauma, but you kind of should have known it was a joke.”

Which, to be honest, I wish is how it could be. It is how it should be.

Living abroad and communicating life through so much digital exchange is, perhaps, a weird way to be but it’s been my way for quite a while now and I’m always so appreciative of those who show up in good times and especially bad. I’m really grateful for the many people who reached out and checked in on me and expressed similar outrage and sympathy and gave space to process. Wow, it is a gift to be loved.

thank you. i love you. and also, BIG fuck guns!

love, rachel.