Before he went inside the house, he stopped in front of Boo Radley.
“Thank you for my children, Arthur,” he said.
– Harper Lee, To Kill A Mockingbird
I was eight years old, in third grade, when the big tornado blew through our town – taking away our backyard fence and part of our roof. It also left many hurt and a few dead throughout the city. My mother told me I needed to go check on Mrs. Phoenix, and, dutiful son that I was, I did.
Mrs. Phoenix lived a few streets over; she was my teacher. I can still see her gray hair and black-rimmed glasses, looking down at me from way up at the top of her front porch steps.
“Why, Chris, what are you doing here?” she asked, in a smiling tone so different from the one she used in the classroom. “I thought you’d have blown away last night.”
“No, ma’am. My mother said I should come see if you’re okay.” (In that moment, having just walked two whole wind-battered blocks, it felt like an enormous, man-sized responsibility.)
“You tell her I’m fine. Are y’all okay?”
“Yes, ma’am. Goodbye!” I’d run out of conversation … it was the first time I’d ever really thought of Mrs. Phoenix as a – well, as a person. With a home. With a family. A person tornadoes would dare to blow around. (Nobody messed with Mrs. Phoenix.)
Now that I’m married to a teacher, I see that same wonder in the eyes of her students when they see her at Target, or Chik-fil-A. It’s like rounding a corner and running into someone from your favorite TV show – who knew they actually existed, outside of that little box?
I can only imagine what it’s like, when you realize that familiar, formidable person – your funny math teacher, your boring English instructor, your way-too-demanding coach – just died saving your life.
My wife has explained to me how it’s supposed to work. The Incident begins, the school goes into lockdown, teachers herd their kids out of the line of sight and lock the classroom door. (They’re also supposed to – imagine – confiscate all the children’s cell phones.) The door stays locked until the all-clear.
What the policy doesn’t allow for is the child coming back from the bathroom. The little one just dropped off from a dentist appointment. The kid who ran something up to the office at the teacher’s request.
Very few teachers – hearing the frantic pounding on the door and knowing little Julie or Pete or Phoebe is out there – will be able to resist opening that door, policy or not. Except that opening the door could let a gunman in to kill 26 other children.
When we set teachers’ salaries, we tend to overlook the fact that we’re asking people whose specialties are grading essays, crafting science projects, and picking out social studies textbooks to make those kinds of life-and-death decisions.
Geography teacher Scott Beigel, 35, had to make the call in Parkland, Florida a few days ago. He chose to open the door. He got a bunch of panicked kids inside and was trying to lock it again when the boy with the gun cut him down.
The kids from the hall survived.
Parents ask themselves if their child’s teacher is being too strict … giving too much homework … showing favorites in deciding who makes the team. They don’t ask: would this person die to save my kid’s life?
The parents of Parkland now know that coach Aaron Feis, 37, would. He deliberately stepped up and put his massive bulk between fleeing teens and flying bullets.
Most of those who ran past him are still alive.
We expect our school athletic directors to work out good schedules, hire savvy coaches, keep the courts clean and the fields trimmed. We don’t require that they run toward the sound of gunfire.
But that afternoon, in Parkland, Chris Hixon, 49, did.
The media rampage and public debates go on, and on. Deep down, we face the terrifying, frustrating, certain knowledge that those possessed by evil will always find a way to get to the innocent. That’s not politics. That’s life.
Our hope lies not in gun laws, nor town hall debates … but with men and women who care more about our children than they do their own lives.
They were there at Columbine, at Sandy Hook, and last week, in Parkland, Florida. Sadly, it’s the school names, the weeping youth, the assassins we tend to remember. The sacrifice of these grown ups is quickly blurred and soon forgotten.
But not by the parents whose children they saved. Nor by the God who – faced with depths of evil we will never understand – knows exactly what it costs to open the Door.
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