I was in school, during class, and had a thought, but not even. It materialized for half a second, not long enough to be called a thought.
I wish I had a gun.
I’m a teacher in an all-boys high school. My job is to stay cool despite my surroundings. I’m encircled by young adults who have the freedom and license to say what they’d like without any consequences. The most vile and rude words have been said to my face. I usually laugh it off. But sometimes I have bad days, where the cruel words get under my skin.
Combined with being tired and not feeling accomplished as a teacher, I react poorly. In these moments, I don’t trust myself with a gun. I would not want access to a firearm because some of my worst moments as a human being have been in front of children. My worst thoughts, my worst impulses, my most inhumane and angry flashes.
One time, I was called out of my ninth-grade class down to the principal’s office. A particularly misbehaving ninth-grader’s parents came in for a meeting with my employer. I was a mess, fighting with my class to settle down. Worse, I was not expecting this conference and had many thoughts and feelings building up to this moment.
Adrenaline-running, I forced myself to smile, to craft some modicum of professionalism. My boss was sitting behind his messy desk across from the parents as the student stood there awkwardly. This was after four months of torment from this child.
I was angry and my bottled-up feelings all rose to the top. My employer asked me what was wrong with the student. I was rushed to get back to my classroom, as it turned to chaos in my absence. I didn’t want to talk with the parents with the student in the room, but the parents were adamant.
“What you could say to us you could say to him. He has to hear it.”
I replied. “He’s a sociopath.” I regretted the words as they left my lips. I lost my cool, all semblance of myself.
I’ve yelled at students. I’ve been mean to students. Most of the time, as they say things only teens can craft, I stand there in front of the class stoically, reminding myself that this role has beautiful moments, even if the payoff might be years away. I am shaping the next generation of leaders. How lucky I am. I draw my mind to the students I see as successes, the ones I never gave up on who are now thriving.
But there are dark moments when I only see red. When I lose my human side. At the end of a particularly long day, I stared at the clock, counting down the seconds till the bell rang. When it did, I ran out of the room to the teachers’ lounge, yelling out good-byes unceremoniously.
I felt myself trapped in my body. I got into the lounge and slammed the door. The anxiety was still racing through my veins, and I found myself punching the wall. Sometimes being around teenagers causes me to regress to those years. I would not have wanted access to a firearm in those minutes.
I have felt threatened and been threatened. I have been body checked by students who are bigger than me and my 5-foot-7 frame. Possessing a gun would only add to the tension. According to a 2012 study done by Jessica Witt and James Brockmole, having a gun increases the bias that the other person has a gun as well. I don’t think my students have guns.
I firmly don’t believe it. But I have unconscious biases that will increase tension in an already tense environment. In a split second, I could easily make a mistake, one that I can’t take back.
There’s also another issue. On a broader level, teachers are undertrained. I started teaching as an undergraduate student, without much guidance. I wanted to be trained, but my school can’t afford professional development and the administration is not invested in making me a better teacher.
Can one imagine how much training a gun would require? We barely train teachers for their jobs, informing them about the latest development in pedagogy. How can we expect teachers to be trained in very precise and tactical gun usage, with a high potential for collateral damage if they are barely trained enough to do their jobs?
For some of my students, I may be the sanest adult in their lives. I’ve had students from broken homes, students with incarcerated parents, students whose parents have died. I create my classroom as an oasis, as a safe zone.
No abuse or hate is allowed. No weapons, made of metal or words. Possessing a gun flies in the face of this ideal. Possessing a firearm, even one safely hidden, soaks up all the safe air. Even if I never mention it or show it off, my students would know it’s there. I can’t in good conscience tell a student that he’s safe if I carry that thing. I don’t trust myself alone with it. Especially not around our most vulnerable citizens.
After each shooting, we play the what-if game. After each massacre, I tell my kids that I love them and that they should hug the ones they love. If I’m carrying a gun, I’m no longer an ally. I’m part of the problem.
Eli Reiter is a teacher and storyteller living in New York. A three time Moth slam winner, Reiter hosts and produces a live longform storytelling show called “Long Story Long.”