Harmonica
HDR of Hallway with Lockers — Photo by jacksonjesse. Retrieved from Depositphotos.
I completed my training in Nonviolent Crisis Intervention and dealt with students with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). At the onset of a PTSD episode, there would be signs: fear, a sudden change in movements, sometimes a screech, and sometimes a sudden gasp when hearing an unexpected sound, such as a box falling off a shelf or someone clapping. I would move close to them as it began, watching their hands and forearms, gripping them firmly, slipping behind them, and crossing their arms in front of them. I hugged them as firmly as I could. “Hey, it’s going to be okay,” I said. “It’s safe here.” I held them until the struggle subsided and they were calm. Sure, I can do that with one student at a time, not twenty-six.
…
Teachers do not like the return to school in autumn: the students would be testing the limits. They were not ready to come in from their summer freedoms. Every day was the first week of September for a supply teacher like me.
The classroom door opened, allowing the screeching of the students’ rubber-soled shoes on linoleum as they entered the classroom. My class was lined up, ready to go to the assembly. Without a word, another class passed. One voice was heard, “Don’t push.” The low note on a harmonica sounded, and silence returned to the hall. I stepped out of the door and looked in the direction of the harmonica. Teachers leading their classes had white harmonicas hanging from white lanyards with “PAX Silence'' written on them: to be in a state of silence. I was a supply teacher who would be back all week, so I decided to bring my Dixieland harmonica the next day.
When the students were in the library wandering the shelves and the harmonica sounded, those who had to sign out their books hurried to the counter, while those who already had their books lined up at the door in PAX Silence.
As I stepped into the office one morning, I noticed that the administrative assistant, Nicole, had my school system file displayed on a monitor that was turned toward the open office door. She spun around and smiled: “You do have your Nonviolent Crisis Intervention Certificate?”
“Yes,” I replied feeling delighted at the inside joke. The Nonviolent Crisis Intervention Certificate was a training program to handle students who were a danger to themselves or others. It included holds, releases from bites, hair pulling, and deflections of kicks and hits. They asked questions about the training as they wanted me to be able to handle the problems. To be an unfamiliar teacher intensified fear, but there were no hints of violence here.
“We are so pleased you came,” she continued, as she handed me the classroom keys and the class file.
The students were lined up at the classroom door. Their boots were arranged on the carpet under the hooks along the hallway where their coats were hung up. They waited in silence outside the locked door, like all the other classes. The morning bell rang as I unlocked the door.
Lesson plans had the periods of the day, but this school had a more detailed version than usual. “There is an assembly at 9:29. Line up at 9:21, open the door at 9:22, and proceed to the gym after the last class passes the door.” It was 9:19, and the silent class was working on their morning writing assignment. Transitions were often hard, even in Grade Five classes. The common cue was two slow claps and three quick claps. The first clap cracked the silence of the room. The students looked afraid and horrified. I stopped before the second clap.
I had been coming back to the harmonica school for months, and every time, I was asked if I had my Nonviolent Crisis Intervention Certificate. I’d carry my harmonica, working each day in PAX Silence. When you enter a school where you need to use the certificate, you can see or hear why you are asked.
The silence of the school was calming, but I felt uncomfortable: Why were the simple rules of the harmonica working?
…
When I returned in spring, there was a new principal. She rushed down the hall looking intense, concerned, worried. But I had not seen anything unusual as I walked up to the front door, which faced a busy street. No, nothing could have happened.
“Good morning,” said Nicole at the counter in the office. She handed me the folder with attendance sheets and the lesson plan. Nicole nodded with a tired, somber look, because it was the end of the school year, I thought.
I turned left to go to the Grade Six class. I glanced at the lesson plans: fire drill today. Many teachers disliked fire drills and would choose those days to call in a supply teacher.
I picked up the red emergency folder as I entered the classroom to check the class list and to make sure the red and green banners were inside. They were needed because once the students were lined up outside, you used these banners to indicate if you had all your students.
Eric’s name on the list had a line through it. I logged into the school system and found that he was still registered in the class. The bell sounded, and students walked in, in PAX Silence.
With the attendance complete, I stood up in front of the class and asked, “Is Eric still in this class?”
Aarya, sitting at the desk on the left and second from the back stood up with her hand on the surface of her desk. She learned to do this in her past, in a place where the students would respond to questions this way. She wore a hijab and a full black robe, as did several others in the class.
“Eric has been removed,” Aarya said.
“Why?”
She looked surprised by the question. “He failed to respond to the harmonica,” Aarya replied.
“That is harsh,” I said. “Now I know why the harmonica is so effective—you’re expelled if you do not respond.”
Many of the students looked surprised.
“Don’t you know what program this is?” asked Aarya, who was still standing beside her desk.
“Yes, it is a good one,” I replied.
“Don’t we look different from what is normal?” she asked.
I looked around: the students were like those in many schools I went to—some in hijabs like Aarya, some boys in yellow, orange, robes with pillbox hats, others with kerchiefs. “You look like the students from many schools I go to.”
“We are all refugees,” she said.
“I go to many schools with refugees. They are a bit different in the instructions we have to provide.”
“We are all from war zones,” Aarya continued.
“Yes,” I said, uncertain what she was suggesting.
“We have PTSD,” she continued.
“Oh,” I said as I looked around. There were twenty-six students. I had no idea what to do if ten were triggered by the alarm, if six were triggered, or if three were triggered.
The alarm cracked the silence. My pulse quickened as I drew a sudden painful lungful of air.
There was no reaction as the alarm throbbed. Who would show the first sign of panic? But the blank stares turned to wide smiles, as the alarm droned. Everyone was smiling with joy.
“It’s a fire alarm. Please line up at the door,” I said as I picked up the red folder. The students stood up and started to sway from side to side, a dancing step of those who had never danced before. The light steps of anticipation carried them to the lineup.
The door to the hall opened, inviting in the harsh sound of the two alarms on either side of the classroom door. The flashing strobe light cycled rapidly. Classes were making their way to the doors with the same dancing sway, smiles, and light steps.
My class started making their way down the hallway and through the door. With smiles and swaying to the loud howl of the four fire bells fixed to the outside of the gymnasium, they lined up on the grass alongside the other classes, who were also dancing to the music of the alarms.
The attendance was called out, and echoed responses completed the process. I held the green banner high and watched for the nod of the assistant principal, as she marked my class as complete on the school list.
Aarya was second in line, and she was smiling like the rest and swayed a dance to the cacophony of red sirens.
“Why does everyone like the fire drill so much?” I asked.
She looked at me, smiling happily, and she continued to rock side to side. “When the bombs fall, there is no warning. It is over, and it hurts.” She continued swaying and smiling. “We’ve all known what this is like …” She now focused on the space beside where I was standing. “We were playing with our friends, and they just fell, and then you hear the gunshots.”
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