Backpacks
By Ranesia Duval
It is summer. My kids are outside playing with their friends. Tiny is basically the mayor of our neighborhood. She’s constantly funneling out snacks to her hungry constituents and asking me to make lemonade or Gatorade to help them all beat the heat. My yes may come with the occasional heavy sigh or eye roll because let’s be real… groceries aren’t cheap—but it makes me proud to see how much she cares about others. Who would want to extinguish that love? She has a soft spot for younger kids and tells me every day she wants to be a babysitter when she grows up. I imagine she’ll be great at it. Her take-no-shit attitude gives me both pause and hope for her future.
Her big sister is the yin to her yang. Z is less social, quiet and pensive. She also loves being outside, but prefers a shady spot on a blanket, nestled under a tree with an intimidating stack of books, lazily soaking up the day like a cat in a sunbeam. She loves sharing what she reads with the people she loves and wants to be a writer when she grows up. The half-written and illustrated stories peppered throughout our house tell me she’ll get there.
Though it would be a lie to say every day is summer sunshine, these kids bring me so much joy I can’t imagine my life without them.
Yet, I find myself worrying about it.
I worry more than I think is normal.
The thought often consumes me.
It confronts me frequently in everyday moments.
Back-to-school shopping used to be simple. Crayons, markers, folders, and Kleenex— so, so much Kleenex. But, something new is trending, and parents huddled in tight groups whisper about them: bulletproof backpacks.
The notion feels vicious. Predatory… like companies preying on parents who lie awake, fearing back to school.
I open our garage so my girls can get to their toys, and I take a moment to straighten up. I heave my husband’s worn, old flak vest out of the messy walkway and put it with its cousins: towers of empty ammo cans recycled into storage, and a stack of out-of-date combat boots topped with haphazardly folded Air Force uniforms.
I stop and lift the vest again, cautiously noting where the thick, protective plates fit inside. Google tells me the plates aren’t effective against pistols or rifles, but I can’t stop wondering if tucking the plates in their backpacks would give them an edge. Its weight pulls against my arm. It’s so heavy; a burden I am unsure my kids can bear.
I think about the backpacks.
When the school year starts, my daughters participate in active shooter drills. They tell me how they crouched quietly in darkness, holding each other accountable for every whisper, hidden behind teachers and locked doors.
“I got in trouble,” Z tells me. “I was crying, and my teacher told me you can’t cry in a drill. Being too loud could get someone hurt.”
There’s a Facebook post about a little boy turning down new light-up shoes because a shooter might see their flashing lights and find his class.
I think about the backpacks.
Months pass like this. Then a text: “Dismissal is likely to be delayed as we are investigating a situation inside our building. All students are safe. We will provide more information as we are able to.”
I think about the backpacks.
Little morning fights over breakfast, over unbrushed hair, over missing socks, over untied shoes, seize in my throat like dry swallowing pills as I meet their embrace.
I tell them I am glad to see them. I tell them I am glad they’re safe. I tell them I love them.
As we walk to the car, Tiny’s hand in my own, they mostly complain about the new school rules banning candy in goody bags. I commiserate with them, but I think about the backpacks.
When they are finally laid to rest, I can’t sleep.
Though it would be a lie to say every day is summer sunshine, these kids bring me so much joy I cannot imagine my life without them.
Yet, I find myself worrying about it.
The thought often consumes me.
It confronts me frequently.
In everyday moments, I think about the backpacks.