Drilling in the United States
Ten Minutes of Lockdown
The lesson for class changed once the announcement was made
I was setting up the computer and Apple projector for my lesson on online journalism — how to embed videos and links. Before the bell, two of my editors arrived as well as a cub reporter.
Was my Editor-in-Chief okay with a quick mini-lesson for the class? She’s the boss. Class time means work time — publishing the school newspaper. In print and online. Podcasts. Videos.
It was 8:27.
I was standing beside my door to Room 605. The Main Office was across the hall. I saw the strobe lights flash and heard: “A lockdown has been initiated!” A lockdown has been initiated!”
Light travels faster than sound.
I quickly glanced at my pink “cheat” sheet for the types of drills. This was the most urgent. Two students in the hallway I told to quickly come inside.
“I’m Mr. Bowne,” I said. “Thank you.”
I unraveled the black shade to cover the door’s window. 605 has no windows. When I was a student here in the mid-80s, this was the Guidance Suite.
Then, we had fire drills. No lockdown drills. In the 60s, my mom in Philly had drills — cowering, huddled under her desk to protect from Soviet nukes.
I turned off the lights. Checked the lock on the door, clicking it several times. Unsure, I kept holding the doorknob while whispering to my two students. The projector eerily illuminated them. Was I reassuring? They seemed worried. My editor was already writing her story on gun shootings for the next issue of the school magazine — what six countries are the safest countries, and why.
Why was I holding the door? I told her the reason.
My students, three I knew very well, two not at all, found safety on their phones — connecting with the world beyond four concrete walls. Someone in authority in the hallway commanded students to an area. All students needed a secure space — the hallways swept clean. I whispered that this came at a convenient time for research on guns in America.
Later, she told me she just wanted me to stop whispering.
What if someone outside heard me? True.
Years ago, I recall a police demonstration for the staff in the gymnasium about the different sounds of gunfire. They shot real guns with blanks. It terrified me. What one hears in films and in real life, in real-time, is very different. The idea was to be familiar with the sound in order to act in case the real thing was happening.
For the duration of the drill, my hand remained on the handle. Did it seem like ten minutes? Or a decade? Two decades? More? How old was I when Columbine happened? Was I even teaching then? Columbine happened on 20 April 1999. I was 30 then. So young.
I started teaching in September 1999. This lockdown was on 20 April 2023.
How old would Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold be now? In their early forties?
Once the drill was over — “The lockdown drill has concluded” — the journalism staff sauntered in, chattering about the unexpected drill.
Why not write about what everyone was talking about? The mini lesson on online embedding could wait. Was that okay with my Editor-in-Chief. What should the staff do? She shared a Google Doc.
The quick eight-minute writing exercise included narrative writing, using concrete imagery, ethos and pathos. This turned into half an hour of writing.
Students searched for images and information on Lockdown Drills. Researched about the mental health of students during these drills.
On the Apple projector, I showed images of kindergarten students huddled under desks, and elementary students entering a class with hands on their heads with a soldier or an officer with a gun to protect them, standing by the door.
“What do these images portray?” I asked. “Think of the editorial comment. The decision for what photo hooks the reader. The intention. The pathos. Think about an image for your own short piece, as well as a headline.”
“Could the title be the emotion we were feeling?” my editor asked.
“Sounds like a great idea.”
Make sure you use concrete imagery in your narration — that’s my usual mantra. Use active verbs! Cut the fat!
“What did that bush look like that you wanted to hide behind? What were you feeling? What were you thinking? What did you perceive happening around you? People in authority make decisions for our safety, and what do you think and feel?”
In the last twenty minutes, the editor asked her staff to share and read. As the first, second, and third staffers read, I would interrupt to “edit” the fat. She asked if I could wait for the “edits.”
Sure thing. “My wife tells me to read her whole thing first before I jump to editor mode,” I said.
She may have laughed.
One cub reporter (and a great writer) finished reading her piece. The staff clapped. Said how good it was. She was a sophomore.
My editor said we could finish during the next class. She would share the Doc with the other journalism class.
“Great work today, staff,” I said. I pointed to my Believe sign over the door to 605. It’s from Ted Lasso, my favorite series. One of my former students on Facebook said I reminded him of Ted Lasso. Such a compliment!
Thank you, Alp!
“Just remember to Believe,” I told my staff as they left for Period 3.
Then, on May 10, the magazine came out with the color, double truck spread of their observations. Shoes and sneakers peeping under desks, and on the desk, portions of their narrative. The bulk of the narratives were placed online for the world to read.
Just another day as a journalism advisor.
