Editor’s Note: June 12 marks the anniversary of the 2016 mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people died and 53 were wounded when a lone gunman attacked patrons of the gay nightclub. It was the deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history at the time (it’s since been eclipsed). This article originally ran just two days later.

I woke up Sunday morning blissfully unaware. It was a rare opportunity to sleep in, not having to get up and hustle into action. When I did roust myself, I leaned over, kissed my husband good morning, and shuffled into the kitchen to pour my morning cup of coffee. And, of course, I checked my phone.

The first thing I saw: a text from a good friend of mine.

“When I saw the news this morning, I immediately thought of you and Chris, and wanted to express my sadness and outrage that even in the most powerful country in the world, we are so flawed, so full of hatred and fear,” it said.

She went on to let me know that she loves me and my family, and was thinking of us.

I didn’t know what prompted her message.

A quick web search revealed facts about the mass shooting at Pulse, a gay nightclub in Orlando. Forty-nine people gunned down on a Saturday night. During Gay Pride Month.

And, once again, I had to decide how to discuss evil with my daughter.

Nightclub shooting our latest tough conversation

It’s not the first time. She’s almost 15. Like so many other parents, I’ve been having conversations with her since she was a toddler, with horrifying regularity. Sandy Hook. Virginia Tech. San Bernardino.

When she was little, I consulted books about how to talk about death and violence with children. Do you avoid the topic, and shield them from it altogether? Should you mask real-life tragedies in analogies or fables? Or, should you stay honest, but use gentle language that minimizes the brutality?

Now that she’s a teenager, we talk about this stuff with more directness and clarity. Real-life violence has yet to touch her life directly, which is a blessing. So we did talk about the Pulse nightclub shooting, and I decided to go with accuracy and less emotion (which is always difficult for me, as someone whose emotions tend to be the boss in my head): Who the shooter was, what he did, what was known/not known about him at the time.

We had our talk, and it was briefer than conversations in the past. She hadn’t seen the news yet so I just filled her in on the latest Horrible Thing that had happened, and that was that.

Her reaction was difficult to read. Whether that’s because we were used to these talks by now, or because she’s at the stage where she’d rather process stuff on her own, it’s hard to say. I did realize, though, that this tragedy in Orlando felt different from other mass shootings for me, and possibly for her as well. Why?

Because the Orlando shooting was the deadliest in American history.

A horrifying loss of human life.

Fueled, in part, by a hatred of gay people.

And, because, I am gay.

How can she not worry?

I have been out for five years, and this is the first time such a violent act has ripped into this community I proudly call my own.

My daughter tends to be a worrier. She’s gotten a handle on it over the years, but she has the double whammy of having a very active imagination and a short anxiety fuse. So when my husband and I go out at night and she stays home, she still gets a bit nervous if I don’t text her to check in at least once. (Total role reversal. In another year or so, I’ll be the one asking her to check in.)

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

And while our evenings out are usually pretty benign, my girl knows that every once in a while, we do love to go out dancing. Dancing is deeply important to us. It’s how we find our feelings, connect with the world, and thank the universe for everything that we have. We plan to keep on going out and dancing until we’re in wheelchairs. And hopefully, by then, science will have developed the technology to make robot legs and neural Groove implants so we can not only keep dancing but look even cooler than the young whippersnappers around us.

My daughter, the worrier, sees the news from Orlando about the Pulse nightclub shooting as such: people in a gay club — people there because they love their community, love each other and love dancing — being heartlessly killed. The gears in my girl’s brain turn, and she makes the connection.

Someday her dad and stepdad could be in a club, dancing happily, and be killed by someone evil, simply for being.

I know her. That’s how her brain works.

Evil will not triumph on the dancefloor

It’s not my teenage daughter’s job to worry about me. It’s supposed to be the other way around. That’s the way the universe is supposed to work.

But can I tell my daughter her worry is unfounded?

No.

Because the scary truth of it is, it’s sheer luck that I was never in a club at the same time as a monster with an AK-47. This was the killing of my people, in my house. There is no way to pretend otherwise.

So how do I talk about that with my daughter?

In this strange new world where some members of our nation are zealously clinging to their right to own guns, where any attempt at greater gun safety and regulation is met with an outcry of “You can’t take my guns away from me!”, where someone on an FBI watch list can still own a gun and carry it into a place of safety and sanctuary and act out his dream of being a vengeful god, where being gay can still result in persecution, shame and outright fear …

I don’t know what to say to my daughter about that. She’s afraid for me, and I can’t tell her that fear is unfounded.

All I can tell her is this:

Yes, there is a lot of hatred in the world.

That hatred tends to come from fear and ignorance of those we don’t understand.

That hatred can sometimes result in evil, violent action.

But there are far more people who believe in the value of love, and human life, than not. Evil doesn’t rule. It just gets more press.

Oh, and one other thing:

There’s no way in hell that evil is going to keep me from dancing. Ever.

Pulse nightclub mass shooting photo: ©  Alex / Adobe Stock.

Broadly speaking, it’s good we teach kids a few basics of safety. Not every parent is equipped to responsibly handle potentially dangerous situations. So we create very general guidelines that apply to most. That’s cool.

And kids should be learning about things like unwanted touches from others. Though there was a discussion at the preschool drop-off about getting everybody onboard with using the same body part names as used in the school lessons. But we all handle these things a little differently.

However, when the school sent home the “Never-Never Rules” that they’ll be studying soon I cringed a bit. Here they are:

• Never ride on wheels without wearing a helmet.
• Never cross the street without checking all ways for traffic.
• Never play with fire.
• Never touch a dog without asking the person in charge.
• Never use a sharp tool without an older person’s help.
• Never touch guns.
• Never ride in a car without wearing a seat belt.
• Never go in water without an older person watching.

As I cycling advocate, I object to the first item on this list of rules being “wear a helmet.” Really?! You’re going to put something as innocent and mundane as bicycle riding on the same list as “never touch guns?” OK. Fine. As a person hoping to eventually improve our bike culture to the point where we no longer need helmets (a la the Dutch), I get the need to balance the immediate risks with sending a larger advocacy message that biking should be fun and so safe that no helmet is necessary.

I could make the same argument for a number of items on this list though. Parents teaching their kids to use tools responsibly. Outdoor education that involves learning to properly start and put out a campfire. The exceptions are obvious. Yes, there are even some folks out there teaching their young kids to responsibly handle a gun.

For most families, we’d probably rather have the Never-Never Rules drilled into our children’s heads and give them with the freedom to “unlearn” them than allow unsuspecting kids to stumble into injury or death. But I can’t help but look at the Never-Never List and wonder when childhood got so … milquetoast.

Would I let my kids ride in a car without a seat belt? No. I won’t even let my kids cross the street by themselves because we live in an urban area. However, I’m not sure that riding around on the sidewalk in front of our house on a scooter belongs on a list of otherwise potentially deadly actions.

A version of this first appeared on Newfangled Dad. Photo by Whit Honea.

“I could make the jump.”

He was sitting across from me at a small bistro table sandwiched between walkway and railing.

We were sharing a pretzel, one of us more than the other, and speaking of the things that people do while shopping for shorts on a Saturday.

“I could jump to the escalator,” he reiterated against my disagreement. He mentioned his parkour training. He referenced his youth.

“There are better options,” I said.

We were in the same mall we always go to for back-to-school needs, having a new version of the same conversation we’ve had for years. The recent addition of a sporting goods store had made our previous plans all the more plausible. After all, they sell camping gear and baseball bats, not to mention food supplies and all the things required for anyone in the throes of a zombie apocalypse.

On one visit we had realized that bean bag chairs would fit perfectly in the giant iron chandeliers hanging throughout the mall, allowing enough room for our family of four to nest comfortably, assuming we could get into them.

“This mall needs a hardware store,” my oldest had said at the time, before deciding the maintenance department surely had the means of reaching such heights.

The leap to the escalator, however, was a twist, built not on the previous concept of hunkering down, but rather the fastest form of fleeing.

“It would depend where the shooter was,” he said.

When my wife worked in that mall, the shooter had been in a paper store. A man bent on murder found it in the card section, killing his former partner with a pistol like so many jilted lovers before him. Another life lost in senseless rage, just above the food court.

Meanwhile, thousands of shoppers went running.

My wife had been working in a restaurant. She had stepped up, as she is prone to do, and made sure guests and employees got out safely. The restaurant was deserted. There were bags and phones left on tables, strollers flat on their sides, the random shoe abandoned upon the tile.

The sound, she said, was stunning silence, save the distant hum of shouts and sirens, fans slowly spinning with Ed Sheeran singing in the background. She texted me that they were in lockdown.

We all know what that means.

Life in America is not needing to explain to our kids what is meant by “active shooter” or “lockdown.” Life in America is sitting in a mall, church, movie theater, school, office, restaurant, festival, concert … anywhere, and making sure you know where all the exits are should someone walk in and start shooting.

It is explaining to our children that the government cares more about money made from guns than the lives of its citizens, and it is a child’s quick “I know.”

Life in America is a stampede through Times Square over the eruption of a backfire, and it is 100 lives lost to gun violence daily.

It is publishing this piece and the comments sure to follow.

We all know what that means.

Is this where we still are in 2018: dads with daughters threatening their child’s friends, especially given the ongoing debate over gun control in the wake of mass shootings at our schools?

On this latest edition of the Modern Dads Podcast, three dads of daughters read essays they have written bashing the well-worn trope of the overprotective father.

Jason Greene, a NYC Dads Group member and longtime blog contributor, says dads who threaten their daughters’ dates annoy him. “Instead of bragging about your guns and the ‘whooping’ you’re going to do if some boy breaks her heart or mistreats her, teach your daughter to stick up for herself and others. … To value her own image and hold it in high self-esteem. To make good choices,” he says.

Canadian blogger Mike Reynolds lays out the “unrules” for dating his daughter. “You won’t find me standing behind the curtain with my rifle on prom day. You won’t find a Derringer in my coat pocket on her wedding day,” he says. “I’m not a threat to you. You’re dating my daughter, so I’m a friend. I don’t believe threatening someone is the best way to get them to reach their potential and I don’t think telling someone you’re going to shoot them if they make one wrong move is fair to you or my daughter.”

Chris Bernholdt, a Philly Dads Group member and longtime City Dads Group blog contributor, says there is a better way of raising daughters without threatening their dates. “How about we just teach our young boys what respect and love are truly about and give them the tools to make good decisions?” he says. “We can be better fathers by setting the example for the next generation and not using scare tactics. Our daughters are not unattainable prizes to be won. They are treasures to be cherished.”

Finally, City Dads Group columnist Whit Honea explains his perspective on the subject as the father of sons.

+ + Listen to ‘Dads with Daughters’ podcast + +

What if one fall night, as you’ve done on many other nights, you and your child decide to take a walk around your neighborhood. What if nothing happens but just fun memories and bonding time over discussions of chicken nuggets and the most recent episode of PJ Masks. But what if … something does happen?

This past October, my son, Peter, and I decided to take a night walk to spend some quality time together. We wanted to see the Halloween decorations outside the houses in our Queens neighborhood of Glendale. Our neighborhood is usually very quiet with the exception of local traffic but, on that night, I sensed something was off.

On our way home, I heard a car screeching down the street. Then I heard a pop.

Immediately, my left side under the shoulder blade started burning.

I had been shot.

I grabbed Peter, and ducked behind a car for protection. In pure panic, taking off my fleece jacket, I asked him, “Am I bleeding?”

Peter replied, “No, Daddy.”

I did notice a little bit of paint on my jacket, and thought that was odd.

We heard the car screech around the corner again. Terrified, we hid behind a van as they slowed down and then sped off again.

We walked home five blocks, moving very fast because we were both afraid. We didn’t know if our assailants were going to pass by for a third time. We were terrified.

We later found out that two young adults, ages 19 and 22 — out of boredom — were firing frozen paintball pellets at random people. The police caught them but not before they hit 10 victims, including a 2-year-old boy. Two people were badly injured: one who was hit in the head, resulting in a concussion, and one who was hit in the neck.

The next day, the night’s terror really hit me hard.

“What if?” I keep asking myself.

What if I was hit in the head and dropped to the ground unconscious or dead, my son screaming, “Daddy, Daddy!” Would he know to pick up my cell phone and dial 911 or my wife?

What if they hit my son, injuring or killing him? Would I forgive myself for taking him out that night or would I be able to live life without him?

What if we were both knocked to the ground? Would I be able to keep calm for the both of us?

What if it was a real gun with real bullets?

There are a few things I think about constantly, even before this incident, where I ask myself, “What if?”

What if I was not as involved in my son’s life as I am? What if I didn’t discipline my son? What if I didn’t teach my son to respect others or show my son lots of love? Would he turn out to be like these two guys who shot me?

One thing I learned from this experience is that I am not as prepared for an emergency as I thought I was. I panicked, and that made my son panic. I blame myself for this even though I know no one really knows how they are going to react in a situation like that one. Another thing I learned, most importantly, is that I really do cherish every single moment I have with my son. This feeling grows stronger daily because of that frightening situation.

As parents, we will always have “what if” moments, but in this case, I learned how to better react. My son and I have recovered, and our father-and-son bond couldn’t be stronger because he knows I love him and he loves me.

Longtime NYC Dads Group member Larry Interrante lives in Queens. A version of this first appeared on his blog Life with PC. 

She clings to the green monkey bar on our backyard play set with her little fingers. The nail on her right index finger is an angry purple-blue. The scar from a lost battle with the small iron trap door in the ground by our mailbox that conceals our water meter, which is as endlessly fascinating to a 1-year-old as it is hazardous to appendages.

I stand below the bars, my hands resting on her hips. She presses the souls of her pink and black sneakers against my chest, smiles her heart-melting smile, and giggles as she pushes herself up. Her waist at bar level, leaning forward to peak over the fence into our neighbor’s yard, she probably feels like she’s flying. Her eyes dance as she drops herself back down, dangles for a moment, and presses her body against me for support. For safety.

Despite her precarious position, six feet above hard ground covered with only a thinning layer of red rubber mulch, she is safe simply because of the strength of my arms.

If only it were always that easy to keep our children safe.

The Valentine’s Day school shooting that left 17 dead at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Fla., some 200 miles south of our backyard in Orlando, hit close to home. The Pulse nightclub shooting here two years ago obviously hit our local community hard, but Parkland was equally terrifying. Not because of proximity but because it was yet another incomprehensible incursion on the sanctity of our children’s schools.

I was moving back and forth under the monkey bars on that Valentine’s Day morning. Lifting my daughter up and helping her drop down softly onto the ground. We kept at it for what seemed like an hour. I learned to comply with her instructions even if I never fully understood them. It was a lovely morning.

A couple weeks prior, my oldest son, a kindergartener, told me he almost cried while hiding in the bathroom at school during a Code Red, or school shooting, drill. On Valentine’s Day, after school while we were playing outside, just after I learned about Parkland, we heard the elementary school intercom in the distance: an electronic beep, then a voice.

“We have to be quiet and listen when the announcement comes on,” my kindergartener said as we waited. “In case there’s a bad guy and they are calling a Code Red.”

He said it matter-of-factly. Like he was reading one of those very boring kindergarten reader books: I saw the dog. The dog ran. We have to listen in case a bad guy is coming to kill us.

I didn’t feel anything at that moment. Maybe a whisper of sadness or anger, but I was too spent to muster any strong feelings. It’s the subtlety that gets you. The little injustices start to pile up and before we know it, they are just an accepted part of our existence. We let them slide because it is easier to forget. We don’t want to think about what we are doing to our children because we are too cowardly or apathetic to take meaningful action. Instead, we continue to place the weight of everything onto their small shoulders as they crouch in a darkened school bathroom.

Later that night, after the kids were in bed, I sat on the couch next to my wife. We each scrolled through our phones, searching.

I read that the Florida state legislature was introducing legislation that would allow teachers to carry guns during school hours. If something like that were to become law, what would we do? Home school? Move? Out of state? Out of country?

This is what we think about now. Until we don’t. Until the news fades and the pressure of daily life washes away the immediate fear. We go numb. And we wait.

In the mornings, while my oldest two kids are at school, my daughter and I amble around our neighborhood. She pushes herself around haltingly on her red three-wheeled scooter, stopping frequently to drag it along behind her. Bump, bump, bump, the scooter goes along the asphalt street. I hope that bumping is the only sound I hear. I hope I don’t hear the ding of the school intercom in the distance. Or sirens. Or something worse. I think, “Could I hear gun shots from here, half a mile away, if the shooter was inside the building?”

We keep walking in the warm morning sun of early spring in Florida. A car turns into our quiet dead-end street. It heads toward us slowly. I move beside my daughter and her scooter and place my hand on her head to hold her in place until the car passes. To keep her safe.

There are countless problems in the world. They can be found in Sudan, Syria, England, Brazil and Ethiopia, to name but a few. Everywhere there are terrifying acts of nature and unnatural acts of terror. They are here, in America, too: gender and racial inequality, a lack of common-sense gun laws, incurable disease (and the profiting from it), the demonization of poverty, a culture of violence, the celebration of ignorance, and a demagogue wearing hate as a brand who wants nothing more than his bully in the pulpit. The lists go on and on, all of them, and it can seem overwhelming. Some issues affect us personally in our respective daily lives, others anger us from a never-ending newsfeed, and together they build one upon the other, brick upon brick of everything wrong, mortared by our shared fears, adhesive as they are.

They keep me awake at night.

Speaking to kids about such things may seem daunting, and granted, the level of discussion should always depend upon several factors that will vary from child to child: age, maturity, want of knowledge, and other things that parents know best, but the talk(s) should happen, nonetheless.

Why?

For starters, why not?

Of course there are arguments against it, namely the wonder and innocence of childhood being compromised by concerns they can do nothing about. I get it. I have used this same argument for years. I champion the concept of wonder and innocence as a life philosophy that should be curated for as long as possible — forever if you can get it; however, I do not believe innocence and information need be mutually exclusive.

What I do believe, is that allowing a child insight into the worst of us may very well inspire the best in them. Providing children access, albeit with parental guidance, to the ills of the world, puts perspective to our predestined privilege, even preventing said privilege from manifesting itself too fully. Instead, children that have a greater and broader appreciation of the workings of the world become more invested in it, more susceptible to empathy and compassion, more willing to stand for what is right. Show a child a problem, and chances are they may see a solution.

That isn’t to say that I would expect (or ask) future generations to fix all we have broke. Rather, I think they will be better prepared to avoid additions to it. I think it clear that our children are better than us, and their generation already has the capacity to address the issues, to tear down the walls we are building from so much fear and rote.

Children need to be able to defend themselves and what they know as good and right. We can give them the means for protection with context and knowledge. Don’t (only) tell them why you are against something, but show them what that something is against. Don’t guilt them into overindulging on a side dish because children are starving, well, everywhere, but show them what hunger looks like. Show them the effects of bad decisions and greed, the favela, the refugee, the farmer and the broken unions of people.

There is no better teacher than failure, and with that we have taught our children well. We may be overwhelmed by all of the problems in the world, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t also solutions, and by including our children in the conversation we are investing in them and their ability. After all, they are the future, and the future starts now. The wonder is theirs for the keeping.

Child’s Insight into Trump Word drawing by Z. Honea.

I grew up in a house full of boys. We had black eyes and broken windows, a garage overflowing with every sports-related implement, and a fridge needing constant stocking as our ravenous appetites fueled our growing bodies.

When I became a father for the first time I was somewhat relieved my first child was a boy. I knew my knowledge of what it takes to become a man would come in handy.

When my first daughter arrived, I was scared. Raising daughters was an unknown for me. I laugh now at the old me who thought it would be different. Caring for an infant, be it a boy or girl, is generally the same. I loved them the same way even if their diaper changes required slightly different work. I sang them the same songs and attended to their cries the same. At bedtime, I hugged and kissed them the same.

That’s why it bothers me when I see dads wearing shirts setting rules for dating their daughters. I get weary of the photos of dad with a gun threatening future suitors with violence if they don’t behave themselves. I’m all for protecting my daughters but this implied violence accomplishes nothing.

How about we just teach our young boys what respect and love are truly about and give them the tools to make good decisions?

We can be better fathers by setting an example for the next generation and not using scare tactics on teenage boys. Our daughters are not unattainable prizes to be won. They are treasures to be cherished.

‘Raising daughters is nothing short of magical’

In a post on Facebook recently, a soon-to-be dad posted that if he and his wife have a baby girl, he hoped she would be born ugly.

Let that sink in for a moment.

While it may have been in jest, the rudimentary feeling is that women aren’t safe from men because we only think of one thing. This thinking, that an attractive young girl is going to have a tough time in the world today, is why we as fathers who believe in our daughters must prepare them better.

Here’s some news for that guy. Locking your daughter up in an ivory tower is never going to go well.

If you have a daughter, she’s going to be beautiful. You’re going to look at her and see yourself or your wife in her eyes or her little nose.

You’ll hear yourself in her laugh and spend hours looking at her toes. Those same toes will carry her far away someday.

She’s going to be curious about what is out there and you’ll want to protect her. But here’s the thing, you’ll also want to watch what she becomes.

I can tell you firsthand that raising a daughter is nothing short of magical. She will go through an amazing transformation seemingly overnight from the helpless little girl you once held in your arms to the teenager asking for the keys to the car. Don’t keep her from the world.

Both of my daughters are beautiful. They are smart. They are tenacious. I’ve seen those traits before somewhere. Oh yeah, from their mom! I mean, I purposely dated their mother because of those attributes. Instead of being afraid of your daughter garnering attention for who she is, embrace it.

Dads – let’s empower our daughters

I get it, you’re scared. You think that the world is inherently evil and that they can’t fend for themselves. Trust me when I say this: Keeping her from experiencing anger, fear, and sadness will only make her wonder more about what else is out there.

Instead of relying on threats, let’s empower our daughters. Let’s give them the tools they need to succeed. Your gun will never protect them in the way their humor, wit and creativity ever will.

Be better fathers by encouraging strong and smart as the norm. Foster curiosity and inquisitiveness. Let’s learn when to step back so they can be independent women who will make their own decisions and learn from them. Most of all, be there to support them when they fall and believe in them so they get back up.

You’ll do all of this without even realizing it when she is a baby. She’ll be curious about the world. She will want to explore and you’ll let her. Some day, she will be reaching for a block and you will want to give it to her but know you should hold back. You will want her to get there so badly you might be tempted to just give it to her.

Some days she will never get there and she will cry like it’s the end of the world. That’s when you’ll scoop her up in your arms and tell her it will be OK. She will forget all about that block and you’ll be there to console her.

Then there will come a day when she finally reaches that infernal block and raises it triumphantly in her little hand. That’s when she will look at you with the light catching her eyes and you’ll say to yourself, “Everything about you is beautiful.” And she will smile and say: “Thanks, Dad.”

A version of this first appeared on DadNCharge. Photo: IMG_0941 via photopin (license)

It is happening. Summer, despite the heat suggesting otherwise, is already ending. School is starting again, and with it the new clothes, supplies, schedules and everything that summer is not. The kids have not stretched enough, they are still working on the art of laziness, and needless to say, they are not thrilled. Not all change is wanted or welcome.

He had his hands up, innocent and obvious, but the shouts kept coming and they were followed by the bullets. There was a camera. There were witnesses. Everything was black and white. And he was dead, just like the man last week, the woman a day before, gone but for the headlines and lack of justice.

Still, when it comes to milestones, this is a big one. The boys will each be in the last year of their respective schools — the kings of the schoolyard — one last hurrah at the top of the slide before they get to the bottom and they do it again. Few things are as helter-skelter as the social dynamics of the public school system. This is where bonds bend, break and tie their ends again. This is where they go for a ride.

The last sound they heard was a scream borne of laughter. There had been a beat or a burger, a bar or a counter, the joy of good company and the good company of joy. The pistol was pressed against the children. The dancers pressed against the floor. The screaming stopped and it spread accordingly, a wave of terror breaking across the news cycle.

There is so much at stake, from the furthering of their education to the labels they apply and have applied upon them. After all, it is through transition that we get to where we are going, and it is, as they say, the journey that makes the difference. These are the years that will be built upon for inspiration and lesson, the stuff of scars and starlight.

They were just doing their job, protecting and serving, their shirts pressed and blue. The shots rang in echoes of the madness, their lives lost pointlessly upon the thin line of duty. Flags were lowered and too often folded. The sirens spinning something endless.

I can only hope that their mother and I have given the boys the tools needed to pursue their own dreams, or what passes for them, as they move from one path to another; to know what is right and wrong, and have the strength to seek knowledge whenever the chance presents itself. I want them to find happiness, kindness and gratitude, too, and to share each of them generously.

The hate was in the handgun. It was a vest and a backpack. It was planned, the deliberate act of fear and ignorance. It was unexpected, a normal day ending anything but, the seasons lost to shadows and a blur of bullets heading to our sweet spots. It was a day like any other, families torn asunder, and tomorrow the sun will rise again.

It is happening.

My wife and I didn’t hear the gunshots.

We were picking Penny up from school when suddenly people were running back inside. What’s happening? Should we go? To the car? Inside? Is there danger? Get the kids!

Penny and Simon were walking toward the car, against the wave of parents, students and teachers, like two tiny salmon swimming upstream, without a care in the world. We were soon among the last people still outside. Penny! Simon! Over here! Stay right next to us.

“MOVE NOW!” a teacher shouted. “Someone is shooting. Get in the building NOW!”

Allie is normally at work for pickup, but was excited to get Penny on this special occasion. She took a half day off because it was Rosh Hashanah, the start of the Jewish New Year. This is not, however, the kind of bang she had hoped to start the year off with. Instead, it was a depressing reminder that we live in a world where we are happy our child’s school has a plan to protect her and her classmates from an armed assailant.

Let me back up and be clear, this was not a “school shooting” incident. The gun fire was outside the school, which is why we were being corralled back inside for a lockdown. From the get-go, it was apparent that whatever this was, it had nothing to do with any of the students, parents or faculty. Directly across the street from the school is a housing project littered with empty beer cans and broken bottles. Maybe that’s where the violence started. Maybe whoever was being shot at would seek refuge in the school and the gunman would follow. We had no idea and that’s what was scary. We’ve all seen it on the news: “stray bullet hits innocent victim.” We live in Jersey City and gun violence, while certainly not an everyday occurrence, is not uncommon.

School lockdown begins

We were ushered into a classroom with 20 or so students and another parent and her child. There were two teachers with us. They started the lockdown procedures: pulling down the shades and blacking out the window on the classroom door, though I’m not sure if it was locked. One of the teachers vigilantly watched the door, while the other teacher patrolled the window. If someone wanted to force their way in, I imagine they could have done so. But still the teachers stood guard. They’d practiced this.

Students and parents alike were told to sit against a wall and be as quiet as possible. The room was meant to seem empty. It was darker than a classroom should be and quieter. It was very quiet until Simon, who is two and a half and curious, wanted to know what was going on.

He asked LOUDLY and REPEATEDLY.

There was a petrified student hiding under a desk whose eyes pleaded with me to shut that kid the fuck up. Wanting to be of some help, anyway, I found a few scraps of paper and crayons for my kids to entertain themselves. They colored and the room was virtually silent once more. I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to do anything else, but at least I could do that.

Some time passed. Everyone started breathing again. The teacher guarding the door told us that as soon as she got the signal, we’d all be able to leave. The announcement came over the P.A. system a minute or two later.

Looking back at the lockdown, nothing really happened. It turns out the incident occurred a couple blocks away and we were never in danger. At the time, however, the situation was genuinely frightening. It offered a rare glimpse into every parent’s worst nightmare: something horrifying happening to your scared child in a place where you cannot possibly protect or comfort her, because you’re not there. Even as the stay-at-home parent, I am not with Penny for at least eight hours a day, five days a week.

One of the reasons I like this school is because of its security. That sounds tragic, I know. There are a ton of other reasons, too. Most of them are actually related to my daughter’s education. But when we were looking at kindergartens, I appreciated that everyone had to be buzzed into the school and walk past a security guard. I don’t want anyone in the school that doesn’t belong there. After seeing the security plan carried out, I feel even better. I trust Penny’s school and I know that when she’s not with me she’s in good hands.

Also, I feel sad. Knowing something bad could happen is different than knowing it really could happen.

On the ride home, when Allie and I were breathing deep sighs of relief we talked to Penny about the experience. She told us that she understood someone was shooting a gun outside the school, though she didn’t know why.

“Didn’t they know kids could get hurt!?” she asked, naively not understanding the un-understandable.

A version of School Lockdown first appeared on Amateur Idiot/Professional Dad. Photo by DXL on Unsplash.