Code Yellow

In my first year of teaching in Compton, I had a whole lot to learn, just like any beginning teacher. I had to figure out how to plan lessons that were so engaging and interesting that my students didn't want to talk or misbehave because they were too busy learning. I had to learn that I didn't need to assign thirty math problems as homework when five would suffice. And I had to learn what to do during a "code yellow".

I had never heard of a code yellow before that simmering hot August of 1998, my first in Los Angeles. However, I soon learned that if there was someone shooting in the neighborhood around the school, or if someone came on campus and started shooting, that was a code yellow. If this happened, the school bells would ring in a particular sequence and I was to shut the doors to the classroom and have the students get down onto the floor and stay there till an "all-clear" bell rang. We did not have a PA system at my school so those bells were everything. I remember being very worried that I'd mix the sequence of code yellow bells up with the sequence that meant it was a fire drill. I did not want to be the teacher who took her students outside for a fire drill when they should have been inside for a code yellow.

We'd have unannounced code yellow drills just like we had fire drills and earthquake drills (another new thing for a non-California native). The first time a code yellow drill happened, my third graders immediately recognized the sequence of bells and told me that it was indeed a code yellow and not the fire bells. I immediately ran to shut the classroom door and then turned around to my students. I saw them there, flat on their bellies, so innocent yet so hard in their nonchalance. A few boys were discussing wrestling, arguing over Triple H being better than The Rock. Some of the girls were singing a Spice Girl tune. I shushed them frantically. Maybe the gunman would think there was no one inside if we were all quiet. One student, Santiago, told me, "Don't worry. It's just a drill."

Santi then launched into a story of some of the violence that he'd heard about and seen in the neighborhood. Two minutes later, every student wanted to chime in and share their story. They told me of folks they knew who'd been shot, a cousin who had a gun, random gunshots they'd heard in the middle of the night. One boy told of seeing a gun down in one of the curbside drainage ditches. He'd tried to lower himself into the ditch to get the gun but he hadn't been able to reach it.

A moment later, there was a banging on the door and a voice telling me to open up. I recognized the voice of my principal and remembered her serious instructions that no one was supposed to open their doors, no matter what, until we heard the all-clear bells. I didn't open the door and then, fortunately, the all-clear bells sounded a few minutes later.

Sometimes when I'd get to talking with people, you know the business man sitting next to me on a flight to Chicago or the woman relaxing in a cafe, sipping a latte, I'd mention that I was a teacher in Compton. I inevitably would hear something like, "Oh, you must go to work in a bullet-proof vest." That kind of comment used to infuriate me when I worked in Compton and it still does. It represents all of the images and stereotypes about poor communities of color in the United States.

The truth is, if blacks and Latinos get shot in Compton or Philly or DC, on a daily basis, we are not, for the most part, shocked and outraged. We are not calling for more gun control. We are not questioning why someone didn't notice a troubled kid earlier. Heck, I'll tell you what happens to troubled kids in low-income areas. They drop out or are pushed out of school by teachers that don't want to deal with them. And if that troubled kid gets shot, well, that's life in the hood, right? The unsaid message is that that kid brought it on themselves. You know, they were probably involved in drugs or gangs and that's the way it goes. If only they'd stayed in school...and worked harder than they did, right?

How easy it is to forget what that kid would be like if they didn't have to experience years of code yellows, whether real or practice.

Those code yellow drills repeated themselves regularly over the years I taught in Compton. Those drills, and what I knew people thought and expected of my students, were a reminder of why I needed to work so hard as a teacher, why my students deserved the same education as kids in wealthy areas. So, I learned to lay on the floor and continue the lesson I'd been teaching. I'd ask my students comprehension questions about the story we were reading. I'd give them math problems to work out in their heads.

We'd also talk about college and how it was a wonderful place to go. I'd tell them about how colleges have beautiful green grassy lawns where you can relax and be whoever you want to be. I'd tell them how you get to live in a dorm and listen to loud music and go to great parties and stay up all night without parents there to supervise. I'd tell them that they could go to class and learn about whatever they wanted to learn about and not have to worry about people shooting up the neighborhood or coming on campus with a gun. One time a student asked if there were really no code yellows in college. I confidently rolled my eyes and replied, "No, there aren't code yellow drills in college! People don't shoot each other at college."

It's strange to think that if I was still teaching, I wouldn't be able to say that now. I'd always be remembering that some crazy person could potentially walk into their college classroom and murder them, erasing years of hopes, hard work, dreams and determination.

Thankfully, the thing is that in the years I taught in Compton, my school never had a real code yellow. No one ever walked onto campus and shot up the school. But we were always prepared because of the realities around us.

The reality of violence, sadly enough, is everywhere now. Truly, there is no safe space anymore in the United States.