This past summer, my organization lost a student to street violence. In historically underserved communities—like the one where I teach—we confront violence on its own turf. Educating for change is part of the territory, and it is a matter of life and death. We are afforded no sense of insularity; the violence can seem intractable. Even worse, the response is often rigid and predictable: defense and lockdown. Beefing up security and confronting violence with armed resistance are supposed to deter students or others contemplating violence.
The day after our student’s death, I read an article on armed teachers in Clarksville, Ark., where the district has trained over 20 staff, educators and administrators in police-style responses to armed threats in the school. These trainees were granted stipends with which to purchase a handgun and holster.
Regardless of one’s level of comfort or familiarity with firearms (I myself was raised in a rural community where gun ownership was the norm), the images of teachers moving like SWAT officers, prepared to intervene in a violent showdown—even if that means taking down their own student—are chilling. Focusing our energy on anticipating violence feels like an invitation to see danger—in our kids and every visitor who enters our building.
As educators, we must focus our conviction on the transformative power of education, as illustrated by another—more hopeful—event. In August, school staff member Antoinette Tuff became famous after she successfully talked an already-firing gunman into laying down his weapon and surrendering to police. Her story demonstrates the tremendous power of relationship. Divulging details of dark times in her own past that she had worked to overcome, she built a bridge with someone most of us would probably alienate—and that an armed staff member might have killed.
Every moment is an opportunity to teach and to learn, but this cannot occur without a safe and secure space. We, with our own presence and use of self, are school security officers of a certain sort, creating and preserving safe spaces for education through our commitment to our students no matter what. If we cease to be advocates of this safe space—if we do not insist on the demilitarization of education—then how do we expect our students to feel safe enough to learn? How can students be vulnerable, opening their minds to new ways of thinking, while knowing that the teacher before them is prepared to kill?
It is this no-matter-what-ness embodied by an educator who cannot and will not harm her students that invites the student’s own disarmament, that creates a space of trust where students’ brains can develop and understanding can grow.
I call for us as educators to stand up for our students by refusing to abandon them to violence, even if they are the ones pushing us to do just that. Doing so communicates our commitment to seeing students as capable of change, as educable, as valuable no matter what.
Swoveland works with high-risk students in Massachusetts, primarily preparing them for the GED exam. He also leads enrichment and engagement programs in writing, photography and art.
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