The classroom phone rang. I wish I could say it shattered the silence, but I could barely hear it above the intense noise of the classroom. I made furious hushing gestures with my hands, straining to hear the disembodied voice in the receiver. It was the discipline counselor’s secretary, looking for Sebastian. Again.
I shushed the class into some semblance of quiet, enough to catch Sebastian’s attention.
“They need you in room 108.” Frankly, I was relieved to have him out of the classroom for a while; only months into my first assignment teaching middle school, I was often overwhelmed. One less disruptive student would make the next half hour easier.
Sebastian picked up his book — a book he couldn’t read — and banged it down on the desk, hard. “If I’m in trouble, I swear I’m going to come back with my rifle and shoot everyone!” He stomped out of the room. The thin walls of the portable classroom shook as he thundered down the ramp, a slamming door in his wake.
I watched through the window as his slender back receded in the distance. Sebastian worried me. Angry and fidgety, he could barely read or write and wasn’t particularly interested in doing either. He hadn’t mastered the multiplication tables, even a few months into 6th grade. I was pretty sure he’d repeated a grade, but I was new to the school and didn’t know where to find his permanent record or who to ask. I knew I would have to fill out paperwork to have him tested for learning disabilities, but I didn’t know how to do that yet either. Frankly, in the boisterous group of 36 students, Sebastian wasn’t my biggest academic or social concern.
In a good mood, Sebastian could be affable and devastatingly funny. More often, though, he was moody and explosive. Savvy classmates knew to steer clear of him, but unsuspecting innocents tripped over his outstretched leg, squeaked in pain as they ran into his sharply pointed pencil, or flinched as he unleashed a stream of insults. His own thin forearms bore the marks of his anger; delicate scars crisscrossed the skin.
Despite knowing his mercurial temper, it didn’t occur to me to be frightened by Sebastian’s threat. In fact, I didn’t report it to school authorities; there was no established protocol for doing so, and he couldn’t possibly be serious, could he? While less than two years had passed since the massacre at Columbine High School, school shootings were still largely unheard of. His angry words barely registered with any of us that day as we moved from math to history.
A few months later, in March 2001, news of another school shooting close to home rocked the class. Fifteen year old Charles Andrew Williams killed two people and wounded thirteen at local Santana High School. By his own account, he was tired of being bullied and wanted to be taken seriously. Concerned about the potential for danger among my students, I sat them down for a chat.
I was surprised to see nearly two-thirds of the class raise their hands to affirm that they had firearms in their homes. My astonishment grew as I heard students vociferously defend the Santana shooter. Of course he had the right to shoot classmates who bullied him, multiple students posited. Anger and frustration flashed across their faces as they talked.
As I listened, I remembered Sebastian’s words from months earlier. The class filed out at the end of the day; I asked him to stay behind.
“Remember when you threatened to bring your rifle to school and shoot everyone? You need to know that if you make a threat like that again, I will call the police.”
Sebastian smiled mischievously. “Ay, teacher, you know I wouldn’t really do it.”
I stared coolly at him, willing him to understand the seriousness of the moment. “How could I possibly know that?”
“I never bring a backpack to school. Where would I carry my gun?” He laughed as he spoke, not the vicious laugh of a cold-blooded killer, but the goofy laugh of a preteen. He had no idea of the magnitude of his words. And although I worried about him, I wasn’t afraid of this lanky child in front of me.
Maybe if I were smarter or more experienced, I’d have been frightened. Perhaps if school shootings were as common as they are now, I’d have intervened.
We were fortunate.
Sebastian didn’t join the growing list of school shooters. I didn’t have to regret my inaction nor mourn my students.
Years later, every mass shooting reminds me that I gambled our safety. Luckily for all of us, I won.
I will not bet so carelessly again.
