I wrote this poem last fall. It's been ringing in my ears all day.
Natural Disasters
In
how to handle tornadoes, we have been well trained: we kneel
against
lockers, foreheads touching cool metal, thin arms
awkwardly
crossed above our heads and exposed necks,
teachers
strolling inspection, scolding our stifled giggles. It’s just
a drill. Repeat anything enough and it becomes
routine, and dull.
When
I’m eleven, the playground skies turn yellow green, and sirens
outside
trigger our training. In orderly rows we walk the halls to claim
our
places against the lockers. We curl like caterpillars against the sounds
of
sirens still wailing, now muffled by cinderblock walls and howling
winds.
We wait for the all-clear. We trust it will come. It always does.
Years
later, sirens sound in the city and now in my twenties
I,
well-trained, travel dutifully down four flights to the basement. In the dark,
my
neighbors sit with necessities: a flashlight, a radio, a case of cheap beer.
They
have found folding chairs, metal, church basement style, and set them
in
a circle. Grandly, they offer me a seat and a beer. I take both.
We
trade tornado stories and track the storm. Midwesterners all, we laugh
about
drills in elementary school—different schools, different cities,
same
curled-up crouches, same whispering rows. And look: it worked.
Here
we are, in the basement, in our twenties, waiting for the sirens
to
stop. Say what you will about school drills. We are all well-trained.
In
my thirties, we don’t have basements but we do have drills. Familiar
in
ways, though I am now the teacher. Here, we have no sirens. Here,
a
voice comes on the intercom to begin the drill. I turn off the lights. I shush
my
students. I train them to crouch on the floor. Make yourself small. Cover
your
heads. In hushed anticipatory silence, we wait for the all-clear.
Unlike
me, my students are not well-trained. They haven’t spent childhood
marching
into place, don’t know how to stay silent and still, don’t
automatically
drop into rounded lumps like rows of toadstools. They
tangle
themselves in clusters of teenaged limbs. They whisper. They giggle.
I
hush. They fidget and fuss. They wonder and worry. Shhh, I shush. It’s just a
drill.
But
the shock, when it comes, does not feel like a drill. Our dusky
quiet
is suddenly interrupted. My startled students bolt straight.
The
banging like gunshots on the classroom door.
The
shouting voice, full of rage. LET ME IN. I HAVE A GUN.
My
students scream, loud as sirens. I scream too.
The
banging stops. The voice comes again, but now it is familiar; it belongs
to
the principal. This is a drill. Are you okay? he asks. Everyone okay?
We
giggle in giddy relief, my students and I. Sorry! I call. We’re okay!
We
have failed the drill. I let the principal in, and he lectures us all. Next time,
it
might be real. We nod solemnly. Next time, we’ll do better, we swear.
After
a year, we are all well-trained. We know how to hide
under
desks and tables. We stay silent when the shooter slams his fists
against
the classroom door. Eyes wide, we watch each other in darkness
while
the shooter shouts threats in the hallway. Shhhh,
our eyes say. It’s
only a drill. Repeated enough, it has become routine,
almost dull.
I
wonder where my students will be when their training kicks in
again.
In their teens? Twenties? Well-trained, crouched quiet
in
a dark room, sharing eyes with strangers who’ve been well-trained too—
will
they be at school? an airport? a church? the mall? a classroom
of
their own, teaching children
how
to hide under desks and tables,
how
to stay silent and still, crouched in quiet,
how
not to cry when the banging comes—
When
it comes
they
will be well-trained in how to survive
the
disasters we have agreed we are powerless
to
prevent. Repeated enough, it has become routine, almost
dull.
