As an early educator I wear many hats: educator, nurse, cheerleader, play facilitator, therapist, role model, scientist, puppeteer mediator…. the list could go on.  However, there is one role I value more than all the rest: protector. The amount of trust that it takes for a caregiver to leave their children with a virtual stranger for the day is not lost on me. When I, like many teachers, refer to my students as “my children” I mean it with the deepest sincerity. I give them hugs when they are sad. I bandage their cuts when they are hurt. I cheer them on as they jump from stump to stump. In moments like this my role of protector is not just about their physical safety, but emotional safety as well.

The weight of this responsibility sits heavy when I review what to expect during a fire drill with my class and a child asks, “Nicole, what would happen if there was a fire blocking the way the children get out? What would we do?” It hits hard when children express worries about an earthquake and I reassure them it is their grown-up’s jobs to keep them safe in an emergency. That if they feel worried or scared, they can count on the adults in their lives to keep them safe. It weighs deep in my heart as I comfort students when their adults are late and I reassure them, “Sometimes grown-ups are late. They will be here as soon as they can. You are safe here.”  

Yet as their teacher, I know this may not be completely true. I am not able to keep them safe from all the bad things that could happen. I watch as the news of another mass shooting happens at school. I read stories about families celebrating their children’s honor roll ceremony in the morning, not knowing it would be the last time they see them. I read about teachers living through the worst-case scenario that they have been “trained” to handle. I watch videos discussing the teachers who sacrifice their lives to protect their children, just as I know I would for my own. I lay awake at night thinking through the places where I can hide children. Brainstorming the activities that would keep them quiet. Running through strategies that would distract the children from the scariness of what might happen.

 I wonder about what my students might know about the most recent event. I think through the different conversations that might arise the next day. I run through the age-appropriate responses I keep in my back pocket incase a child mentions it. I watch in the morning as caregivers linger at drop off a little longer and more somber than usual. I observe as they stick around for that extra hug goodbye instead of rushing about their morning like they typically do. An unspoken sadness among adults while the children happily chatter about their morning. The weight of the caregivers’ trust in their children’s teachers sits thick in the air. In the classroom, I listen closely to conversations waiting for any mention of the horrible events of the last few days. I observe as children move about their day, seemingly unaware of the horror happening in this moment. 

Back in 2020 I wrote about being worried. Scared of what the pandemic would do to early education. Nervous of how it would affect teachers. Worried about the impact it would have on children. Two years later and I’m still afraid. This time less nervous about our “pandemic normal” and instead worried for my students, my colleagues, and my friends and family members who at any moment could be involved in next mass shooting. I sit in the grief of yet another tragedy hoping that maybe this time leaders who have the power to protect my students will do more than send thoughts and prayers. I try to make sense of the tragedy knowing that it will never make sense. 

However, just when the hopelessness hits, a dear friend reminds me that, “we won’t ever ‘get over’ the feelings of fear and grief and pain and heartbreak… but we can get behind them. Push them into action. Move them into changing something.” In moments that I cannot protect my students from, I can take action to make changes. I can educate myself on gun reform. I can call my representatives  requesting they speak out for gun reform. I can reach out to my senators encouraging them to support Bill HR8. I can take the steps to honor my responsibility to my students and their families. 

When all else fails and things start to feel difficult again, I can throw myself into my work. I can plan engaging activities for the children to explore. I can dive into their joy as they run through the hose on a hot day. I can travel into their world of pirates and dinosaurs for a short reprieve from the heaviness of the world. In that moment I am not their protector, but they are mine.

Photo by Artem Podrez from Pexels: https://www.pexels.com/photo/brown-wooden-table-with-chairs-8088099/