Getting Rid of the Monsters

She shocked me, and I'm not shocked often.

I'm usually the one dropping the big ones on them. I am the teacher, after all. But in this case, they got me.

I taught creative writing in the spring of 2023. I gave my class an assignment to create an original writing prompt. Every week, one person presented their prompt and we all participated.

My student, lovely, confident, and smart said, "Your writing prompt is this: write about your worst fear from the perspective of the fear."

"Cool, I can do this," I thought.

 And then I remembered my worst fear. I've already survived drowning, twice. And losing possessions doesn't scare me. Death? Not really. I'm at peace with God. What scares me? School shootings.

And I'm from Oxford.

I stared at the computer screen and its winking little cursor. Like it was waving at me, using its best Brooklyn accent, screaming, “What’re ya doin’ lady?! Are ya gettin’ along wid dis or not?”

The student that assigned the prompt had been in another class with me two years prior. In fact, it was on the same weekdays at the same time. In fact, three of the students in the creative writing class had been in “the one” two years prior.

“The one” is the class I was teaching when I found out about my hometown.

I broke the silence with my timer. The sound of Yoda’s voice streaming from my phone alerted us that our seven minutes to write was up. As usual, I asked people to share what they had written.

And as usual, they wrote amazing things. With this group, give them a prompt and they return a feeling. It wasn’t just good writing. It was a visceral experience. These students trusted themselves, and me, with knowing parts about them that I’m not sure they knew were there.

It was good writing.

And I couldn’t do that prompt.

I tried.

I wrote the lines, "It isn’t his face that scares me, because his face is unremarkable. Bland even. It’s not his eyes, devoid of all humanity. It isn’t even the gun. The fact is, I’m not sure which part scares me.”

I left that day and hated the words on the page. They were stupid. Pointless. Said nothing.

I got in my car and sat for a second. I felt the tears coming. Then I felt stupid. I wasn’t there. Why was I crying? My child wasn’t there. She wasn’t even in school yet.

But it was my home. My child would go there. I had friends there. I had friends with children there.

It wasn’t pointless. It was my home. I knew the building. I had pictures of myself inside. Pictures of me at thirteen years old. Pictures of my locker, decorated for my birthday. Pictures of my first boyfriend, asking me “out” in the hallway. My first dance in that cafeteria. The classroom where I fell in love with words. Oxford did creative things in the late 90s. My class went from one school to another to another to another, to finally settle at the “old” Oxford High School. The “new” school had been my middle school for eighth grade.

And then, it was a crime scene.

 

I drove back to my hometown in silence. The writing prompt dancing in my head.

In 2021, at roughly 1:00 p.m., it was a run-of-the-mill Thursday. I was teaching my favorite class that year.

My friend texted me telling me that there was a report of a firearm at Oxford High School. My immediate thought was some madman from the neighboring highway on a road rage incident. In hindsight, this thought made no sense.

Then, my phone started screaming at me. Texts from other friends. News alerts 

My class was watching a film adaptation of the latest novel we read. I excused myself and took my phone into the hall. What the world was going on?

Then I saw the words, “Active Shooter at Oxford High School.”

I felt cold. I had friends there, former classmates, children I knew.

I walked back into the classroom and shut off the film. I told my class that the session was over and my voice broke as I said, “There’s an active shooter in my hometown, in the high school.” They knew, because in those same moments, their own phones were going nuclear with texts and calls.

I cried in front of them. Unabashedly. I was afraid and they knew it. At that moment, we weren’t teacher and students. It was a moment of raw, honest humanity.

It wouldn’t be the first time I cried in front of my students that year.

When I returned to campus, I had to face another set of students. I cried in front of them too. I cried in front of every class that I had for the rest of the week.

I cried at night. I cried when I tucked my young daughter into bed. I cried when we visited the school and the memorial. I cried when I saw the news coverage. I cried when I saw the accused. I cried when I saw the faces of Hana, Tate, Justin, and Madisyn .

I got angry when a local reporter placed blame on the teachers at the school, so angry that said local reporter will no longer respond to my emails. I suppose she doesn’t like a person who four-pointed “journalistic ethics” throwing it in her face.  I knew she was wrong and could prove it on multiple levels. She has since blocked me- because she’s a “professional”. I hope to meet her one day. I’m a professional too.

I was angry when national news outlets hounded
Oxford students and residents.

I cried, and I was angry in solidarity with my community and for my community.

Since then, my own child has started school in Oxford. I love her first teacher. I love the friends that she has made. I love the moms that I have as a tribe.

It was March, 2023 and then I was given the writing prompt.

And there I sat, staring at a blank screen.

I thought a lot about the prompt and if I had anything to say.

I’ve watched every court hearing and I’ve prayed countless times for something that looks like justice.

So when asked to write about my biggest fear from the perspective of the fear, this time, I was afraid to say I couldn’t.

I can’t think like that.

Not just because I believe the accused is inhuman but because there’s no possible way I could write about losing my child to gun violence.

None.

I was six days shy of fourteen when Columbine happened.

I was in college when Virginia Tech happened. Coincidentally, I was reading a book about a school shooting as the school shooting was happening.

My baby wasn’t even a year old when Parkland happened.

I was 36 when Oxford happened.

I don’t really know how to perform a lockdown drill, and I’ve never been through ALICE training. But I know without a doubt that my biggest fear in this world is a kid with an angelic face without a soul behind it. I don’t want to fear teenagers. Sometimes, I do.

My biggest fear is losing my baby to another kid with a gun.

I came back to class and my lovely, confident, and smart student asked if I tackled her prompt. I told her that I couldn’t do it. I said I was sorry and I told her what my biggest fear is. Some might say I didn’t need to tell that to a student, but she’d already seen me breakdown to the point of shaking and still chose to take another class with me, so why not?

My student reached out and hugged me. Before I knew it, we were both crying. And she said, “Melissa, that’s what makes you such a great teacher.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what she meant but I rolled with it.

We had a great class and I remember one kid who wrote a story that was so funny that I snorted when I laughed.

I still remember the prompt and I wish I lived in a world without it.

I want a world where kids don’t shoot other kids just because they’re in teenage pain or have monsters for parents.

I want a world where kids don’t have access to guns.

I want a world where the lives of children outweigh “mah rights!” claims.

Only then can we actually turn a light on the monsters.