Gayla Clark

First grade teacher Jan Lichenstein was leading her class of first graders by my afternoon reading group. We were at a table in the Willamette commons of Riverbend Elementary School, reviewing the previous day's lesson before starting to read. Jan stopped briefly and whispered in my ear, "One of the chic

Carlos and Brian simultaneously started to grill me about the surprise in loud tones. Cara speculated to Rachel, John started jabbering in his high little voice, and Jessica sat with a half grin, slowly grasping that we might not be reading at this time. I put a finger to my lips, trying to look stern. They slowly quieted.

"My first direction is to be absolutely silent. If you have something to say, raise your hand." Five hands flew up. "I'm not listening to anyone right now. Hands down! Once we're in Ms Lichenstein's room you may raise your hand for permission to talk, but you must just whisper.

Leading the six children, I walked down the commons and into Jan's room. It was in fascinating disarray, a perfect first grade room. Spotting the bright light in the back, we wended our way toward it like a mother duck and ducklings. My ducklings were beginning to peep as we circled the large aquarium containing three intact eggs, egg shells, and a fragile, wet and scraggly chick on unsteady orange legs. Now my second grade ducklings started to quack!

"Shhhh," I admonished

While guiding their excited conjecture and questions, all delivered in pseudo whispers, I studied their animated faces. The children were precious. Filled with promise, the pain and poverty were momentarily erased .

Carlos, the bright politician, a handsome, dark haired boy who could retell any story we read with exact detail and astute inference. He could also easily tattle and pout.

Brian, who reads fluently and with expression, who called Carlos a "f -ing a-hole" and volunteered that was what his father called him when his mom was gone and his Dad's buddies were over drinking beer with the music cranked up.

John, looking like a darling tiny kindergartner, with shiny blue eyes, pink cheeks,

blond hair, and bright, squeaky little voice. An only child, he often has owies. The bigger second grade girls want to carry him at recess, practicing their maternal instincts.

Cara, sturdy pleasant daughter of older, worn looking, loving parents who reek of tobacco. Good to her younger sister, she is hard working in class, has a gorgeous smile, and is sometimes homeless.

Rachel, who lives with her two younger brothers, all being raised by grandma, her new baby brother in a permanent foster home, all removed from mom because of her treatment relapse.

These darling children, entranced with the baby chick, are my most promising reading group. They touched my heart!

My mind returned to that morning.

Arriving at 8:04, I had walked into the school office, greeted the secretary in passing, and continued as usual by the mailboxes and through the workroom. Good, here was Jennifer, the kindergarten teacher I needed to talk to. As I spoke, she kept walking, so I turned to walk back with her, meaning to share some important information I'd gotten from the principal.

"I've got to get out front," was her terse reply as she rushed ahead, obviously not wanting to talk. Three teachers bustled past in the hall, not speaking. I went on to the room shared with other specialists. Two were talking in hushed tones. I asked what happened. "There were sixteen people shot at Thurston High." I immediately started asking questions. "Who did it? Who got shot? Was it a parent, a student, terrorists?"

Nobody had answers.

"Well," I expounded, "I'm not surprised. Springfield is the meth capitol of the state!"

A voice on the intercom ordered all teachers to the front of the building to meet Jennifer. As we thronged out, some knowing, others not, there was palpable apprehension. Jennifer announced the shooting at Thurston, and directed us to spread out and to usher all children into the school as soon as they arrived. It wasn't known how many assailants there had been, or if they had been captured. We were to have a lockdown!

I immediately said I'd go to the back gate, far across the schoolyard. I had been stationed there for three weeks when the school year began. An Educational Assistant was already out there.

Kathy started to follow me, and said, her voice breaking, "Was it Thurston High, or Thurston Middle School? My daughter's there."

I said, "High school," with a tightening throat. "Why don't you wait by the back door? I'll send the kids in."

"O.K. I'll make it ."

After sending the Educational Assistant to check on her middle school daughter who was a block from the High School, I stayed at the back gate for thirty minutes, hurrying kids on to the building, then locking the gate when I went in. I was lonely. One block away, on Main Street, the succession of sirens had been continuous.

The children were all locked in their classrooms, windows covered with butcher paper. Jennifer, the skinny, prim, kindergarten teacher who was in charge because the principal and vice principal were not there, sent me to three different teachers whose children were students at the high school. I offered to take over their classrooms so they could go to their teenagers. After verifying their kids were safe, they insisted on staying with their students, knowing it would offer more stability.

I started my nine o'clock reading group at nine ten.

Chicks were hatching in several classrooms at Riverbend that day.