caisen chandler

I still remember my first lockdown drill. I was in Mrs. Ibarra’s classroom in the blue wing of my elementary school. The blue on most days was a happy, comforting color, but that day in the dark it felt more sinister and scary. My classmates and I huddled silently in the corner as Mrs. Ibarra piled a mound of desks in front of the door. Earlier that day, she told us that in the event of a real shooting, we were to do everything we could to protect ourselves. She pointed out the window at the undeveloped plot of land behind our school — a wavy wheat field typical of Kansas summers.