Tipping Point

Last week a note came home from school, informing us of the next day’s “code red” drill. I spoke with the boys about what to expect—”something similar to a fire drill, but instead of going outside, the teacher locks the door and keeps you away from the windows.” Eight wanted to know what sort of situation could prompt a code red. I responded “For safety–if someone enters the school that shouldn’t be there.” He pressed for more specifics.

“Remember that day after school on the playground when the teachers called us back inside because a person with a gun was in the neighborhood? Remember how we sat quietly and waited until the police informed the school that we could leave?”

On that day, two young men with guns gave the police chase. The fact that this occurred anywhere near the school proved both purely coincidental, and unfortunately not that surprising. Our neighborhood has pockets prone to intermittent police activity—typically involving gang activity or youth feuds. While the proximity of this particular incident definitely felt scary, in no way was the school itself under attack. Neither myself, nor my children experienced extreme fear—the threat was near, not there, and not directed at us thank God.

This incident provided a good code-red example for Eight—“good” for me because I could provide an honest answer without scaring the boys, but also “good” because I still didn’t have to pass the tipping point with them. Eight wanted more examples of types of code red situations. I didn’t provide any. He didn’t press me, but I could tell he didn’t feel completely satisfied.

I had no children at the times of Columbine or 9/11. During Katrina I nursed my baby and sobbed to CNN—vicariously traumatizing myself in the process of bearing witness. My tears and sense of safety felt like a small sacrifice toward the greater good of acknowledging what people endured. However, I’m not as willing to make that trade with my children’s feelings of safety and security. For instance, I decided my children had no need to know anything of the Bat Man movie or mall shootings. I saw a TV news segment about a McDonald’s massacre at their age. It didn’t educate me, provide me with any tools, or make me a better citizen of the world. It terrified me.

A couple weeks ago Eight asked us what started WWII. He changed it to WWI before I responded, and I realized his question was general in nature– “What starts a war?” In this instance, a general response about democracy and dictatorships sufficed, but hearing him even utter the words “World War Two,” made the Holocaust conversation I dread feel that much closer.

Jews live with the knowledge that the unthinkable happens and on a very personal level. Once a Jewish child learns about the Holocaust, they carry at least a tinge of darkness for the rest of their life. Even those of us who didn’t have close relatives perish or survive the camps still feel its weight—it runs silently through generations and emerges in strange ways. Once, after hearing a particularly tearful diaper change from the adjoining room, my dad said to me “Can you imagine if you were hiding?” One of my first mom friends shared that she keeps shoes with her at all times for herself and her child in case they have to flee. Regardless of how remote the chance of an actual threat, the darkness exists. I only have a year or two—maybe three? until that darkness reaches my boys.

I want to protect my kids’ innocence. Yet, as I type this blog post, my throne of “not in my backyard” privilege undermines my decision-making of how and when to tell. My brother’s children don’t enjoy this luxury when rockets land in Jerusalem and they must race into their bomb shelter. My neighbors don’t enjoy this luxury when shots ring out on their street.

My days of my keeping events from my kids or serving them vague answers are waning. My responsibility to inform them about their world mounts, and I can see Eight approaching the tipping point. The darkness—the knowledge that real-life terror not only exists but happens to people exactly like you, exactly your age and in a neighborhood school just like yours—awaits. The lack of reassuring and satisfying answers, too.

Right now the boys sit in a warm bath. Five just “accidentally” kicked Eight’s loose tooth out. A cold rain waits outside.

Prayers for Newton, CT. For all of us.