A Childhood of Bomb Threats

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A Childhood of Bomb Threats

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In my school district, we went from elementary schools to middle schools to secondary school to high school.

So it was four schools that funneled to three schools to one school and stayed like that through high school.

9/11 happened when I was in kindergarten and I watched as technology got better so quickly. 

I remember chalkboards, wipe off boards and overhead projectors with the pens in elementary school, and by the time I was in seventh grade every classroom had a smartboard.

When I was in eighth grade, I remember a lot of violence happening.

I remember walking past a fight that was being broken up by teachers and weave all over the floor.

Two girls had gotten into this fight, the girlfriend and the side chick who got into a fight with each other instead of taking it up with the boy. 

But one thing that happened so often that I have become numb to the fact that it occurs.

In eighth grade, it felt like every week there was a bomb threat. There had to have been one at least once a month. 

It was like a joke. The loudspeaker would come on and tell us to stay where we were. Everyone should stay quiet and try not to move around. We were being asked to sit and stay in a school with a bomb somewhere in the school. 

Was it the right thing to do?

Some might say yes. Nobody would run around like a chicken with its head cut off. You could accurately keep a headcount and know the whereabouts of everyone. 

What are the downfalls of this?

Well, you are asking eighth and ninth graders to sit in a school with a Fucking bomb in it! Who the Fuck thought that was safe! If this bomb could go off at any moment, am I supposed to just accept the fact I could just go up with it?

When I got into ninth grade, it got better but there were still threats every now and again.

My favorite was being stuck in lunch for what felt like three hours. 

That sounds great, right? WRONG! 

First, the threat came in at the start of lunch. Which means everything was stopped and closed down. So there I am starving because the last time I ate was at 6:40 am and it’s now 11:40. 

We couldn’t talk to each other; people who brought lunch couldn’t eat it.

The lunch monitors would threaten us if we even whispered, at one point I think one kid got yelled at for his stomach growling too loud.

Eventually, we got the all clear, and the day continued on like normal. We all went to our next classes and then went home or to our after-school activities.

Unfortunately, the story doesn’t end here with my run-in with bomb threats.

During my second year of college, I encountered another one.

There I am in math class, I believe it was Algebra 2 and we hear people outside. 

Nothing out of the normal classes let out whenever they want in college, not like high school where the whole campus is following the same schedule. 

Until we hear the running of heels across the floor getting closer. A woman busts open the door and tell us all to leave there is a bomb threat. 

People practically killing themselves to pack up and leave as fast as they physically could. There’s me calmly packing up and walking out of the classroom.

People are sprinting and running and trying to get to their cars and leave as fast as possible. There’s me still calmly walking to my car, looking both ways, calmly unlocking my car and getting in. 

The whole time I’m thinking to myself that everyone is overreacting and should just calm down, but then I realize I probably look like the unusual one.

I get stuck in the traffic of people trying to leave school and I decided that I’m not going anywhere fast might as well call my dad to tell him what’s up.

Me: Hey, Dad. I’m on my way home.

Dad: That’s cool! Did class let out early? 

Me: Not really. Apparently, there is a bomb threat.

Dad: Are you okay? Do you need me to come get you?

Me: Nope. I’m sitting in the traffic of people trying to leave. I’m sure they wouldn’t let you in any way.

Dad: Good that you are safe. You sound calm. Are you okay?

Me: Yeah. This has been my usual since eighth grade, as sad as that is.

At least I get to leave during bomb threats now.

We said our goodbyes, and I took a very long, cop directed detour home.