dbskheart
11-09-2011, 02:50 AM
The wailing of a siren can be heard not too far off in the distance at the Montessori. It slowly creeps its way into the ears of the kids playing on the playground during their brief four o’clock break. As the wailing grows louder, a few of the younger or newer kids run to the fence to hopefully catch a glimpse of the source of the unknown noise, but to no avail. The ones that have been at the Montessori longest merely look up for an instant when they notice the siren and then return swiftly to their previous activities. The teachers’ conversations about balancing their jobs and college flow on completely undisturbed. Even the younger children after they observe their seniors’ lack of fear return to their previous engagements with the conclusion that there is no need for alarm. Just as one of the younger teachers, Esperanza, notices that the siren is not fading away like usual but getting gradually more noticeable, the secretary of the Montessori comes tearing out of the office yelling, “Get the children inside now!” three times without a breath in between.
The air is suspended for a millisecond. Then time resumes, and all hell breaks loose.
The teachers immediately adopt the frantic and urgent state of the secretary and move to action to get the frightened children inside the building. With forcefulness never employed on the children before, Esperanza and the other female teachers heave the children into the rooms by pushing hard on their soft, warm bodies, like mother bears protecting their cubs from ravenous predators. Some attempt to extract any bit of information from the now nearly insensible secretary or the other office ladies that have also run out of the office, but all they get out of the frantic women is, “For goodness sake just—please, just—the children—somebody get the children!”
The sound of the impending siren mixes with the sound of frenzied yelling and terrified crying. Most of the children follow their first instinct to cry in face of the unknown while the rest freeze up and wear masks of horror similar to those on all the adults’ faces. Half of them run around screaming as loud as their little lungs can handle. Regardless of their individual reactions, when the teachers thrust them into the rooms, even the usual troublemakers have the sense to not try and resist.
Once everyone is safely inside the rooms, the building goes on lockdown. Esperanza frantically runs around the room shutting the blinds and covering windows without blinds with black construction paper and tape. In a frenzied state, she repeatedly mouths, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” while locking the door and putting various kiddie chairs up against it. When the basic necessities are taken care of, the dazed Esperanza collapses on the floor, shaking. The terrified children pull at her clothes with their grubby hands and cry to her for comfort.
“Sweethearts, everything is okay, nothing’s gonna happen, we’re all safe,” she whispers, but it is more to herself than to the kids. She pulls the children close to her, and holds on to them for reassurance. Her trembling voice and body and beads of salty sweat rolling down her faces give her true feelings away, and the children are not fooled. Not realizing that she is holding the children so tight that they can barely breath, Esperanza is a broken record, repeating the same three words over and over again: “What do I do, what do I do, what do I do.”
An hour into the lockdown, Esperanza is still in a trance, still clutching three kids close to her body, still staring straight forward. The only thing on Esperanza’s mind is the call from the police that the secretary received, the call about an armed robber on the loose that could possibly try to attack the Montessori and take someone hostage. The quivering children have exhausted their wet, warm tears and are sitting on the itchy, grimy carpet gathered around their teachers with their bright eyes desperately begging their equally helpless teacher for the reassurance and comfort that she cannot give.
The rooms seem to mock its prisoners with its colorful decorations and cute messages. The glittering spiders, wispy ghosts, cheerful witches and pumpkins on the walls smile because to them, the crisis is nonexistent. Without the customary cacophony of laughing, screaming, and giggling from the children and the yelling of directions from Esperanza, the room is eerily quiet. Some kids attempt to find something to do by sucking on their salty, grubby hair bands, or poking at the itchy, dirty carpet; some fall asleep. The room smells dead, with a musty smell of dirt and sweat in the air. The atmosphere is almost thick enough to touch.
They wait.
Near five, the children begin to get increasingly restless. Esperanza realizes why when her gurgling stomach tells her.
“They’re hungry,” she concludes. “I’m so stupid, of course they’re hungry, they haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.” She scavenges the room for anything to eat, but finds nothing but an ancient jar of peanut butter. Esperanza is preparing to panic again when she accidently bumps into her handbag and the two bananas she put in it the other day roll out. Their ride in the handbag has rendered them bruised to the point where there are more black spots on them than yellow. At first, she pauses, disgusted by the fruits, but then thinks, “Anything is better than nothing.”
She hesitantly holds up the bananas as a question to the children for their approval and is answered with nods from the worn-out children. One even smiles. Esperanza also smiles of relief and begins to cut the bananas into twenty pieces to share.
Each child gets barely a piece of a mush, messy, and moist banana, but it is enough. The children gobble the banana pieces up like starved dogs. To them, the bananas are gourmet chocolates. While eating, their faces are matching pictures, with a lazily charming smile on every one.
Though hardly filling, the banana pieces relax the tense mood by a centimeter. With food, the children are once again prepared to wait. As Esperanza cleans up, she finally faces reality.
“For god’s sake Esperanza, you’re their teacher,” she thinks, ashamed of herself, “and they need you to be strong. Get a hold of yourself Esperanza: this is your job.” She takes a deep breath to compose herself and walks over to the bookshelf.
She gathers the children around her in a circle and begins to read the book she picked out. She is reading the words and the children are listening to the words, but neither she nor the kids takes them in. Regardless, the books seem to hold a magic power over the people, calming the atmosphere and soothing everyone.
When Esperanza finishes the first book she reaches for a second. A pattern is quickly formed, and the books start coming off the shelves one by one. As the pile of books near Esperanza grows larger, so does her determination to take care of the children. By the fifth book, seven of the kids are fast asleep on the carpet. By the tenth book, thirteen are sleeping. Esperanza takes no notice, but continues to read on like an automated machine with fully charged batteries. When the bookshelf is empty, Esperanza looks at her kids and finds all twenty-six peacefully sleeping with smiles on their angelic faces. She breathes a sigh of relief, puts her head down on her knees, and cries tears of exhaustion.
When the police break open the door at three A.M. the next morning, they find Esperanza lying next to the children with her eyes closed and her mouth fixed into a peaceful smile.
The air is suspended for a millisecond. Then time resumes, and all hell breaks loose.
The teachers immediately adopt the frantic and urgent state of the secretary and move to action to get the frightened children inside the building. With forcefulness never employed on the children before, Esperanza and the other female teachers heave the children into the rooms by pushing hard on their soft, warm bodies, like mother bears protecting their cubs from ravenous predators. Some attempt to extract any bit of information from the now nearly insensible secretary or the other office ladies that have also run out of the office, but all they get out of the frantic women is, “For goodness sake just—please, just—the children—somebody get the children!”
The sound of the impending siren mixes with the sound of frenzied yelling and terrified crying. Most of the children follow their first instinct to cry in face of the unknown while the rest freeze up and wear masks of horror similar to those on all the adults’ faces. Half of them run around screaming as loud as their little lungs can handle. Regardless of their individual reactions, when the teachers thrust them into the rooms, even the usual troublemakers have the sense to not try and resist.
Once everyone is safely inside the rooms, the building goes on lockdown. Esperanza frantically runs around the room shutting the blinds and covering windows without blinds with black construction paper and tape. In a frenzied state, she repeatedly mouths, “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” while locking the door and putting various kiddie chairs up against it. When the basic necessities are taken care of, the dazed Esperanza collapses on the floor, shaking. The terrified children pull at her clothes with their grubby hands and cry to her for comfort.
“Sweethearts, everything is okay, nothing’s gonna happen, we’re all safe,” she whispers, but it is more to herself than to the kids. She pulls the children close to her, and holds on to them for reassurance. Her trembling voice and body and beads of salty sweat rolling down her faces give her true feelings away, and the children are not fooled. Not realizing that she is holding the children so tight that they can barely breath, Esperanza is a broken record, repeating the same three words over and over again: “What do I do, what do I do, what do I do.”
An hour into the lockdown, Esperanza is still in a trance, still clutching three kids close to her body, still staring straight forward. The only thing on Esperanza’s mind is the call from the police that the secretary received, the call about an armed robber on the loose that could possibly try to attack the Montessori and take someone hostage. The quivering children have exhausted their wet, warm tears and are sitting on the itchy, grimy carpet gathered around their teachers with their bright eyes desperately begging their equally helpless teacher for the reassurance and comfort that she cannot give.
The rooms seem to mock its prisoners with its colorful decorations and cute messages. The glittering spiders, wispy ghosts, cheerful witches and pumpkins on the walls smile because to them, the crisis is nonexistent. Without the customary cacophony of laughing, screaming, and giggling from the children and the yelling of directions from Esperanza, the room is eerily quiet. Some kids attempt to find something to do by sucking on their salty, grubby hair bands, or poking at the itchy, dirty carpet; some fall asleep. The room smells dead, with a musty smell of dirt and sweat in the air. The atmosphere is almost thick enough to touch.
They wait.
Near five, the children begin to get increasingly restless. Esperanza realizes why when her gurgling stomach tells her.
“They’re hungry,” she concludes. “I’m so stupid, of course they’re hungry, they haven’t had anything to eat since lunch.” She scavenges the room for anything to eat, but finds nothing but an ancient jar of peanut butter. Esperanza is preparing to panic again when she accidently bumps into her handbag and the two bananas she put in it the other day roll out. Their ride in the handbag has rendered them bruised to the point where there are more black spots on them than yellow. At first, she pauses, disgusted by the fruits, but then thinks, “Anything is better than nothing.”
She hesitantly holds up the bananas as a question to the children for their approval and is answered with nods from the worn-out children. One even smiles. Esperanza also smiles of relief and begins to cut the bananas into twenty pieces to share.
Each child gets barely a piece of a mush, messy, and moist banana, but it is enough. The children gobble the banana pieces up like starved dogs. To them, the bananas are gourmet chocolates. While eating, their faces are matching pictures, with a lazily charming smile on every one.
Though hardly filling, the banana pieces relax the tense mood by a centimeter. With food, the children are once again prepared to wait. As Esperanza cleans up, she finally faces reality.
“For god’s sake Esperanza, you’re their teacher,” she thinks, ashamed of herself, “and they need you to be strong. Get a hold of yourself Esperanza: this is your job.” She takes a deep breath to compose herself and walks over to the bookshelf.
She gathers the children around her in a circle and begins to read the book she picked out. She is reading the words and the children are listening to the words, but neither she nor the kids takes them in. Regardless, the books seem to hold a magic power over the people, calming the atmosphere and soothing everyone.
When Esperanza finishes the first book she reaches for a second. A pattern is quickly formed, and the books start coming off the shelves one by one. As the pile of books near Esperanza grows larger, so does her determination to take care of the children. By the fifth book, seven of the kids are fast asleep on the carpet. By the tenth book, thirteen are sleeping. Esperanza takes no notice, but continues to read on like an automated machine with fully charged batteries. When the bookshelf is empty, Esperanza looks at her kids and finds all twenty-six peacefully sleeping with smiles on their angelic faces. She breathes a sigh of relief, puts her head down on her knees, and cries tears of exhaustion.
When the police break open the door at three A.M. the next morning, they find Esperanza lying next to the children with her eyes closed and her mouth fixed into a peaceful smile.