A few weeks ago I caught a short news documentary concerning a public school safety drill. This one was in a fourth grade class and, like a fire drill, everyone knew what to expect. All were rehearsed. With the exceptions of three visiting parents and the film crew, the children and teacher seemed normal.
The difference was the reason.
This was an Active Shooter Drill.
It sent chills to this retired public school teacher. Oh, we had practiced fire, tornado, and the post 911 era lockdowns, but never because of guns. Since the painful nightmare of Sandy Hook, I wondered what I would do as the teacher, how would I react? Should we, as taxpayers, support police officers on our campuses? Should we arm teachers? That one really worried as I prayed for my precious granddaughters.
Then my antique-collecting memory brought forth a vision of diving beneath my own fourth grade wooden desk and slapping one arm over my eyes and one over my neck. Twisted into a ball, hoping my dress covered my white cotton panties, I waited for the teacher to announce, “You may come up now.” As children we wondered if we were really protected from an atomic bomb. Did our parents wonder why their children were still not safe after they had fought WWII?
Now, I wonder and worry why there’s little to no gun control. Why must our grandchildren learn “An Active Shooter Drill”? In their future will they wonder what on earth were the adults were thinking?
Enough!
PS: Yes, I am drafting, revising, editing, and searching for an agent. Hopefully, after the midterms, I will be able to think less politically. Silly Me.
Eleanor Tatum 
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