I unlock the door to class then lock it back.
As we go in I say, “This is what I do
to protect you in the event of active shooter attack.”
Students laugh. It’s early. There are only a few,
so I go on to say, “Just so you know,
that’s pretty much it. I shut the door so
no one in the hallway can kill you fast.”
In my idea of myself, I could master
a sweet little Glock 40 and holster it
and pull it out when needed. “My aim is true,”
I’d sing in my head as I blew holes clean through
my targets. But oh, my students and I, we get
an image of things going badly with me armed.
I want to be Raylan Givens, that tough, that cool.
I’d be lucky to be Constable Bob. First do no harm?
Not with this clumsy, gun-totin’ prof in the room.
(I would be BEYOND lucky to be Constable Bob. “Drewbacca” indeed. And also, p.s., I can’t even pretend to begin to imagine I could ever be as cool as Ava.)