The BDN Opinion section operates independently and does not set news policies or contribute to reporting or editing articles elsewhere in the newspaper or on bangordailynews.com
Nicole Williams is senior manager of partnerships at The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.
I send my 6-year-old son to kindergarten wearing an AirTag.
I take pictures of him every day in the school drop-off line to remember his outfit.
I avoid buying light-up sneakers. I subconsciously stay away from bright colors.
I’ve memorized the shape of his birthmark and every single scar on his little body.
I do all this just in case.
Less than 30 days ago, my son, Myles, started elementary school — or “big boy school,” as he calls it. Days after the mass shooting at Apalachee High School where four people were killed and nine others injured, he was preparing for his first hard lockdown drill.
I’ve been terrified of this moment, as a journalist and a mom. I spent the majority of my career covering breaking news in the Southeast. Hurricanes, shootings, fatal accidents, you name it. But I grew up in the Midwest, during a time when my peers and I only experienced tornado drills. I simply didn’t worry about school shootings as a child. Now, it’s all I worry about.
My son’s elementary school encouraged us to talk to our kids before the scheduled drill and somehow prepare them for the unthinkable. Looking into his big blue eyes, I struggled to find the words, which is a first for me. His dad and I spoke to a few friends who work in education, and we agreed to approach it from a safety standpoint: a hard lockdown drill is meant to keep everyone in the building safe. You, your friends and your teachers.
I prayed that he wouldn’t ask us, “Safe from what?”
We discussed the importance of staying quiet and listening to his teacher. It’s OK to be scared, and it’s certainly OK to cry. But can you imagine telling a group of kindergarteners to be silent? He said he’d try.
We talked about hiding. This is why I avoid those nostalgic light-up sneakers. Someone would surely notice those blinking lights as he hid under a desk or behind the cubbies. He promised to hide somewhere good.
We told him when there’s a real lockdown, Mommy and Daddy would be outside of the building as soon as possible. The school app would notify me, right? I’d drive there like a madwoman and wait with the rest of the anxious, terrified parents.
We told him that police officers would come to help. They would walk through the hallways to make sure everyone was OK. But how soon would they get there? How long would it take to apprehend a “bad guy?”
My son came home from school, and I casually asked him how the drill went.
“It was OK,” Myles responded. “We went into the bathroom. It was stinky” — he giggled at this part — “and the lights were off. We had to sit on the floor! And then we went to a corner. But we had to stay down on the ground.”
“Oh, wow. Good job listening to your teacher,” I encouraged. “Were you scared?”
“Yeah, a little bit,” he said. “But if you’re scared, you can hold a friend’s hand.”
“I’m glad you could hold hands with someone,” I said. “Were your friends a little scared, too?”
“Yes, a couple kids were crying,” Myles said.
“Sometimes when we’re scared, we cry. And that’s OK,” I told him. “You guys were brave today. Did you see any police officers during the drill?”
“Yes. I saw some,” he said. “One had a funny hat on.” More giggles. “We had to wait until they knocked on our door and then the principal said everything is OK.”
“Great job, baby,” I said. “Did you feel safe?”
“Yeah,” he said. “But why do I have to hide, Mommy?”
This question hit me hard. I thought I had all the words. All the answers. Naively, I thought I was prepared to handle this moment that every parent in America must visit.
I assumed I would spit out some witty, knowledgeable comments to make my kid laugh and bring some lightness to the conversation. Again, he’s only 6. Our conversations usually revolve around slime, Pokémon and coloring. We do science experiments and have dance parties every morning. He’s learning to ride his new bike.
How do I tell him that someone could bring a gun to school? How do I tell him that students have died? How have we allowed this to happen again?
Atlanta Journal-Constitution reporter Helena Oliviero talked with mental health experts for tips on helping children process and manage their distress around school shootings.
“They really just need us to be there with them,” said Jody Baumstein, a therapist at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta. “You don’t need to have all of the magic words that don’t exist. And I think this is one of the most important points, which is when big scary things happen, kids are looking to us and learning how to navigate things in the world.”
And if you’re struggling to find the right words, please know that you’re not alone.
