I have a box in my classroom that keeps my students and myself safe. You see, it has a tourniquet, a billy club, some gloves, and other items designed to help in the event of a shooter. This is cool and good and normal. I especially like that my fingerprint is required to open the box. But don’t worry, if someone accidentally lifts the cover to the fingerprint scanner it will call the police anyway. They’ll be at the school in under three minutes and know exactly which box was activated.

Yes, I like the box looming over my desk, installed over a weekend where my “You Are Loved” rainbow poster used to be. Its invitingly sharp corners remind me I’m safe. The harsh green LEDs, the kind my astigmatism can never resolve clearly, bathe the room in a calming wan glow. The seemingly random tests, the ones where the man’s voice barks in my left ear, let me and my students know all is well.

I love telling my students where we will go if someone wants to shoot us. I love explaining to them that running is our best option. I love the look in their eyes when they tell me they would hide under the tables and stab the shooter with scissors. I love reminding them that life isn’t a fucking video game.

I’m happy to have the box, this reminder of death in my classroom.