I do not get paid enough to be a martyr
But I’d die to save my students.
I do not get paid enough to be a martyr
But I’d die to save my students.
How morbid is it
To imagine the outlines of bodies
In different colors of the sidewalk chalk
bullet holes through my bulletin board
And my rainbow carpet stained mono-color?
We did not learn literacy or math
Techniques this year.
We learned
How to build barriers to hold
A classroom door shut
After opening it wide to families;
How to distract a gunman
Using my students to help-
I am supposed to be a savior.
But how can I save my students
When we cannot confront the truth
Behind the gunman in the room-
They will never call him terrorist.
Never acknowledge that our
Biggest threats are found
In the homeland
Where the assassin is supplied
Weapons from the same people
Who will prosecute him
If he dares to use them.
The families of the victims are
Left with homes that feel
More like vaults: holding the living
And the dead all in one place.
The world no longer spins for them.
It is stuck on its axis like a rusted globe
filled with memories and “could have been’s”
And clothes that will
Never outgrow their children.
They have begged us to care
About the piece of them
That is missing.
The NRA,
Not really alarmed
Will argue arming our teachers,
And securing our schools
Avoiding the blood
On their hands- I mean weapons;
Ignoring their signature
On the death certificates-
I mean proof of purchase...
They will say the guns
Weren’t for him
While wearing a blindfold
To the mental health status
Of the 27 million buyers
Each year
Only crossing their fingers
That 1 out of 27 million
Won’t have a psychotic break,
Except
1 in 5 have a mental illness.
What the NRA really means is
We hold our gun rights closer
Than our children’s right to life.
My job is viewed by many as babysitting,
Has encompassed the role of nurse, mother,
social worker, police, leader, guidance counselor,
and now army general-
I call the shots when the shots have been fired.
I call the shots
When the shots
Have been fired.
I do not get paid enough to be a martyr
But I’d die to save my students
Though my students could be called casualties
Though my classroom could be called battlefield
Though the gunman will never be called terrorist.
My students will be forgotten
Footprints washed away by the incoming tide
America: do you care how many children have died?
The casualties will only be statistics
A numerical value only valid
When the next massacre
Occurs.
The classroom, an empty cocoon
Robbed of its caterpillars
Our children are dying.
And I am worried I will not
Be enough to protect them.
I am just a teacher.
I do not get paid enough to be a martyr
But I’d die to save my students
I will die to save my students
Because America wants to
live with its right to bear arms.
About the Creator
Kara G.
23-year-old teacher in Baltimore.
I write about my life in stories and poems.
@poetryandsunflowers
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