Post #25 of 40
Giving Up Tears
As I wrote post number 24, a person entered a Presbyterian school in Nashville, the city where I was born and grew up. This person killed three children and three adults. One of the adults was the head of school.
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Many years ago on a hot July day when I was head of a school, I was looking over schedules and handbooks when my office phone rang. Gina, the extraordinary after-school and summer camp director, had received a call from Penny, the summer bus driver. Penny called from the golf course parking lot where she had been waiting for the summer camp golfers to finish their camp.
Penny and the bus had been shot at by a man in a car as he drove through the parking lot. Penny had called the police before calling Gina. The elementary school campers had been on the golf course far away from the bus, the parking lot, and the shots. Penny’s legs were cut up by shrapnel, but other than that, she was physically fine. The campers would finish in about an hour.
Gina, Candy, and I drove our cars and minivans to the golf course. The office staff split up the list of campers and called their parents to let them know what had happened, and that they would be transported by private vehicles to the school unless they wanted to meet us at the golf course. As I walked to my car, I called the president of the board to let him know what had happened, emphasizing that all the children were safe, and that the bus driver had minor wounds to her legs. I asked him to let the other board members and our attorney know.
We got the campers back to the campus, and their parents picked them up, greeting them with extra big hugs and tears in their eyes.
During the afternoon, the office staff called various car rental companies to try to rent a van or SUV until our bus could be repaired. Apparently, all the vans and SUVs in Alabama were on summer vacation. A father who owned a car dealership pulled some strings and found a giant SUV for us to rent for a couple of weeks to help with camp.
Penny called me after getting her legs cleaned up at the emergency room. She told me she’d be staying at a friend’s house and that she had to quit. I told her we would pay her for the rest of the month. Then she told me that the man who had shot the bus and her legs was someone she knew. She identified him by name and address to the police.
I started composing an email to all the parents at the school so that the facts would be out there instead of rumors. That took me well into the evening making sure every word was correct, and that I had the thumbs-up from the board president and attorney. I remember some discussion about whether to send the email to all the parents since it was summer or only to the parents of the ten campers. I insisted that all parents be told the facts and before the end of day. Once I clicked send from my dining room table, the replies poured in. Many were “out of office replies.” Most were messages of sadness and gratitude.
The only email I specifically remember was from Dan, a dad who was on the board and knew the details about the shooter. He said, “I know you said that Penny won’t be working at the school anymore. I am concerned, though. Did you fire her? I don’t see how we can fire a woman in this situation.”
I assured Dan that I had not fired her, that she had quit, and that we would be paying her for the rest of the month.
The next morning, I met with the office staff and admin team in the conference room. I went through the timeline of what had happened, what we knew, the communication we had sent, the transportation plan, the extra police presence we had requested, etc.
Their eyes fixed on mine as I looked around the conference table. They heard me say - almost robotically - the line that had been in the email, and it was true. “At the time of the shooting, the campers were on the golf course, far away from the bus and the parking lot.” Their eyes pierced mine, like a tiny pin in a water balloon, and then my tears began to flow for the first time since the shooting.
After lunch, I listened to a voicemail from a reporter. I called the board president, and we decided to consult with another board member before returning the call. I had been taught to talk to reporters. “No comment” was usually not in the best interest of the school. By late afternoon, with the help of the two board members, I had my strategy. I would answer truthfully, of course, but my tone would be nonchalant, almost like it was a boring story, no big deal. We didn’t want this to be a front-page story.
“Yes, the bus was shot by someone who drove through the parking lot.”
“The children? Oh, they were nowhere even close to the bus.”
“Yes, the bus driver is fine. She had some minor cuts on her legs. That’s all.”
The story never made the news. It was too boring.
I drove home late that afternoon in the rented SUV. After changing into a loose cotton dress and greeting Tom and our kids with longer than usual hugs, we ate some sort of simple dinner on the covered part of the deck, the unbalanced ceiling fan whirring and clicking above us.
After dinner and dishes, I walked back outside, crossed the deck, went down the steps, and sat by our pool. I thought this might be a good time to have a good cry, not just a few tears. I needed the cleansing. Everything I said in every communication was absolutely true.
But, I knew that if the shooter had come one hour later, the story would have been very different.
I waited for the tears, but they were locked up. Knowing the power of water, I pulled the dress over my head and jumped in the pool to wash off the dirtiness of the past two days.
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Tears won’t stop the shootings in the USA. Neither will jumping in the water, I know.
Thoughts and prayers are only going so far. Please think through the action steps — letters, emails, phone calls, donations — to those who have the power to end this insanity. We can do better. We must do better.