Thinking About Schools

by Betsy Ashton

Betsy Ashton, born in Washington, DC, was raised in Southern California where she ran wild with coyotes in the hills above Malibu. She protested the war in Vietnam, burned her bra for feminism, and is a steadfast Independent. She is a writer, a thinker, the mother of three grown stepchildren, companion and friend. She mentors writers and writes and publishes fiction. Her first mystery, Mad Max Unintended Consequences, was published in February 2013. The second in the series, Uncharted Territory, A Mad Max Mystery, came out in April 2015. In her spare time, she is the president of the state-wide Virginia Writers Club. She loves riding behind her husband on his motorcycle. You’ll have to decide for yourself if and where she has a tattoo.

April 9, 2018

Schools have been on my mind lately. Part nostalgia, part not. I clearly remember the first school I attended. I think it was kindergarten through third grade. London Avenue School had beautiful Spanish mission lines with terra cotta tile roofs. No, I don’t remember them. I’ve seen pictures. Mom was a delightful pack rat who kept a lot of my younger photos.

My grandmother walked me to school. One mile each way. Uphill. Barefoot. In the snow. Actually, not. Flat suburban landscape with sidewalks and no snow. Ever. I remember my third grade teacher, Mrs. Peete. She encouraged my reading, although I already knew how to read when I started in kindergarten, the gift of a school marm grandmother and a mother who binge read books, often aloud. Mrs. Peete was also the one who had to lead us through earthquake drills. Hide under your desks and cover your heads with your hands. She led us through drop-and-cover drills in case of nuclear attack. Same regimen for us, hide under our desks, except we had to turn them away from the windows. As if turning away from the windows would keep us safe from nuclear war.

I went to nine more schools before my last one, East High in Pueblo, Colorado. I remember Mrs. Spiess, who taught me Latin and English, Sam Genova, who taught biology, creepy Mr. Gadow who was afraid on the dark and dogs (yes, we tested his fear. He was right.) By this time we were no longer doing drop-and-cover, because we knew nothing would keep us safe if a bomb fell. And with no earthquakes in Colorado, we didn’t need anything beyond the regular fire drills.

I have no idea why I can’t remember the nine schools I attended between London Avenue and East High.

It pains me to think that other schools have knocked the schools I attended out of my memory. Schools whose names are forever imprinted in the national psyche. Columbine. Sandy Hook. Stoneman Douglas High. These students have never known a time in school when they didn’t practice for active shooter attacks. These are no more real than our drop-and-cover drills, but are more frightening because the odds of having an active shooter in your school far outweighed the possibility of the USSR nuking the United States.

The point is I can’t remember a time when children didn’t have to fear something in school. Not the evil algebra teacher in high school, but a fellow student with a dark side who wreaks havoc on what should be a safe place. I don’t want to turn this into a political diatribe or a hand-wringing fear-mongering essay. I just can’t stop thinking about students, then and now.

I think I’ll hide under my desk for the rest of the day.

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