Guns as Protection in Schools

There is always a focus on schools as sites of possible mass-shootings.

Aimrs.phpfter last week’s shooting in Orlando, I—like many others—have been trying to figure out how to respond. School is out, so my normal reaction to this—bring in an article related to the debate and read, write, and discuss with students—isn’t available. Some others feel this isn’t appropriate, to be speaking so openly about guns and violence with kids. However, we can’t afford to ignore it.

There is always a focus on schools as sites of possible mass-shootings.

After Newtown, CT the school that I then worked at began to finally lock the front door during all hours except when students arrived in the morning. This was a common-sense measure and I felt better about my safety and that of my students.

This year my students and I endured three lockdown drills at my new school, as well as one active shooter drill with only the faculty involved. This too, though it was disruptive to the schedule and unnerving, makes us safer overall.

Due in part to a fire started by arson at the school a few years ago, teachers are instructed to keep kids from taking backpacks into the classrooms, unless they’re see-through. I’m unsure if this makes us safer. It certainly causes students to feel that they’re not trusted.

Some gun-rights advocates want to go further than these measures and post armed security guards or police within schools. Still others want to arm teachers.

I want nothing to do with those people who claim that more guns for law-abiding citizens equals more safety.

I don’t want a gun in my classroom, even if I’m supposedly “trained”; I don’t want any of the security guards at my school to carry guns.

Sure, there have been some instances where your average citizen with a gun has defended themselves from another person who has attacked them or others. This is—anecdotally at least—possible. However, I believe that the price of this (illusion of) safety is too high.

As anyone who is trying to de-escalate an argument knows, if you introduce a weapon, you automatically increase the chances that someone is going to get seriously harmed, perhaps even killed.

Rhetorically I will ask, How many arguments between two previously law-abiding citizens have escalated into murder and manslaughter because one or both carried a gun or a knife and thought “their life was in danger”? How many simply used these weapons as an outlet for their anger?

More guns in the hands of citizens does not equal further safety, and especially does not equal safer schools.

About Those Yams: Language, Subversion, and Humor in the Classroom

[NOTE: the following blog entry may only be funny either to those between the ages of 15 and 18, or to those who work with said age group.]

Sometimes class goes like this:

6th Period, last class of the day; both the students and I are dragging a bit, and we’re reviewing the previous night’s reading from Chinua Achebe’s novel Things Fall Apart via students’ selected quotes and an informal, teacher-lead recitation.

One student has written the following quote on the board: “Yam, the king of crops, was a man’s crop.”

Mr. Forsyth: throwing in the emphasis as much as possible “So Okonkwo is this man’s man–he’s a farmer—and the yam is a man’s crop!”

Students snicker here and there in the room. Several grin at Mr. Forsyth, others roll their eyes.

Mr. Forsyth: honestly curious. What’s so funny? He’s a man—he believes—and the yam is a man’s crop.

More of the same from students.

Mr. Forsyth: Okay, each class today has laughed at that when I say it—and I realize I’m being a bit silly with it—but can someone let me in on the joke?

General silence for a moment. One brave student speaks up.

Brave Student: Mr. Forsyth, yam means ‘vagina’.

Students snicker again, watching for my reaction.

Mr. Forsyth: ‘Vagina?’

Brave Student: It’s like, ‘I’m going to go find me some yams tonight.’

General laughter at this students’ words, the recognition, and my fake-flustered look.

Lots of folks from outside of my school—as well as some students within the school itself—criticize the speech of my students. “Are you teaching them English?” they’ll ask, and I’ll have to launch into my explanation of code-switching, and how society decides whose speech is denigrated and whose is standardized. It’s about power and context-specific savvy, not about correctness.

Much of the vocabulary and grammatical structure of my students’ Black Speech (AAVE, Ebonics, whatever you want to call it) is wonderfully subversive. It’s designed to be a language of the hallways that (mostly) white teachers can’t catch. It has its roots in survival and subterfuge.

But sometimes the confusion can just be flat-out hilarious.

This quasi-performance has become a common trope of mine: act like the dorky clueless white dude, try to invite (in an admittedly small way) my students’ language into the classroom as a tool and as worthy of study, and laugh a little bit too when I put my foot in my mouth.

Because we all need a little chuckle now and then in the classroom, and because building relationships through curriculum is some of our most important educational work.