This week’s Poetry Friday reader is 13-year-old Aeka Joshi of Flagstaff. She came into the recording booth with a poem she’d written about adolescence. But, it was a different poem she shared at the end of her session that really hit hard. ‘The Clock’ is about her fear of school shootings and the surreal, stressful experience of having to practice active shooter drills in the classroom. So far this year, there have been at least 22 school shootings in the U.S. in which someone was injured or killed. Here is Aeka Joshi with this week’s Poetry Friday segment.
AJ: The first thing is we get an announcement on the PA. You know, to be perfectly honest, sometimes you don’t even hear the PA beep it’s so common. And then someone over the PA says, ‘We’re starting a Shelter in Place drill. Teachers, lock your doors.’ We have paper hanging over our classroom doors to hide us from the inside.
Sometimes – and I am horrified to say this – they’re almost fun. It’s like the lesson is over, and we’re just hanging out in the classroom, and it’s so easy to forget that this is a drill for something scary. And then other ones it’s all too easy to remember: you know, we get behind the chairs in the back. There’s no talking. Even if it is just a drill, we’re sort of waiting to hear footsteps in the hallway. Even if it’s just the principal, we’re scared if we hear footsteps. I’ve definitely had a few kids break down around me, and that kind of reminds everyone that this is what’s happening.
Actually, the scary part is I don’t feel it at all. I don’t feel it at all. I mean, I was playing Tic-Tac-Toe with a friend during a lockdown. I didn’t really think about it then, but then I realized, wow…is this so normal that I can just sit and play Tic-Tac-Toe with my friend in the middle of a lockdown? Seriously? Is this what we have to do? Are kids gonna get used to this? Are my kids, or my generation’s kids gonna be, like, ‘Oh, ok. Lockdown. Test. Quiz. Homework.’
I think, you know, if you become desensitized, it’s a slippery slope. You know, you kind of stop caring after a point. I hope I won’t hit that point, but I feel like it’s becoming almost normal. It is a little bit scary, but, you know, a little bit scary? Think about it. I mean, it’s kind of an awful way to describe an active shooter drill. I mean, you kind of stop thinking about it. Like, midway through the lockdown, you start thinking, ‘Oh. I’m bored. When’s lunch?’ And then you snap back all of a sudden, ‘Oh my god. What if there’s an active shooter? There could be an active shooter in my school building. There could be one right now, someone who wants to kill me.’ That’s scary.
I do know a few kids – not super close friends – but I do know some kids in my school who definitely struggle with this more than I do. I’m not sure what their personal connections are. I never asked. I didn’t want to. But, I do know there are kids who struggle a lot more.
I’m going to be reading ‘The Clock’. It’s about my fear of mass shootings, school shootings and the general gun violence going on.
The Clock, by Aeka Joshi
We think the clock’s ticking
never falls
Silent
A whir in the background
We learn to ignore
And so we do –
Until we hear a distant chime.
Maybe it’s the woman
Who lives down the street
Or the man
At the back of the bus.
Maybe
It’s a class full of children
Their clocks stopped
Before their midnight’s chime.
A bullet shatters the glass
The hands stop moving,
eyes go still.
Voices take to the street
Alarms scream
“Time’s up!”
We’re still ticking
But all it takes
Is a bullet
To stop a ticking clock.
Hickory
Dickory
Dock
The gunman broke the clock.
The sand trickles away
Fallen grains
Cover the bodies.
How much more
Until
We
Are all
Buried?
Poetry Friday is produced by KNAU's Gillian Ferris. If you have an idea for a segment, drop her an email at Gillian.Ferris@nau.edu.
