The First Lesson
Louise Olivia, age 16, USA
As I walk into school on Monday morning, I am greeted by the discordant beeping of the metal detectors on either side of the doors. I glance at the offending backpack as I gather my things on the other side. I know I am not the only person breathing a shallow sigh of relief when the young security guard pulls out a forgotten Ipad. The bored-looking student ahead is dismissed without another word, and quickly pulls their indigo bag off the table. I remove my laptop from my satchel and slide it across the table to my left. I shuffle through the foyer. My peers drifting sleepily through the line are exhausted and so done with this and numb to the crying of the machines looming over us- but they are not surprised. Since the machines appeared, we have had fewer days stuck in our classrooms with the doors locked and the curtains drawn. Yet the desks at the back of my chemistry class still whisper absurd and dangerous things smuggled past the weary security guards. We are grateful to have something, anything- even if we all know that the most dedicated members of the student body won’t be dissuaded by red lights or incessant beeping. I walk to the commons and see my friends, a colourful cacophony in a sea of chattering students in dark hoodies. They are hanging in there, surviving and everything that is dull yet expected but no one is honest. Most of them haven’t slept last night, kept up by racing thoughts about everything from AP assignments to the headlines flooding their Instagram feeds. This is not the first time today that I fear for my friends’ safety, and it won’t be the last.