Not the world we grew up in
“We had a fire drill,” he told me. “We all lined up and left the building. Then we practiced a Code Blue.”
“Yeah, it’s if someone breaks into the school or something. We all have to hide under our desks and not make even peep of sound. And the teacher locks the door and closes the windows.”
Christ, what’s the world come to? Kindergarteners rehearse for school shootings. A wave of mixed emotions wash over me. I’m glad they have a system in place and practice; I’m sickened that they need too.
I’ve remained silent too long. “Daddy?”
“Do they have Code Blue’s at the clinic?”
Yes, but we call them Code Blacks. I recall sitting on the floor, doors locked, blinds down, pondering the likely lack of bullet resistance of my office walls.
“Well…. Well that’s confusing. Why would they call a Code Blue a Code Black? That doesn’t make any sense.”
Well, in medicine, when someone has a heart attack we call it a Code Blue. So we had to pick another color for lock downs.
“Well, I think everyone should call them Code Blues so little kids don’t get confused.”
I say a quick prayer for all children everywhere, and then we drive on in silence.
“Isn’t Friday a good day for ice cream?” asks Rio.
Indeed it is. I can think of nothing I’d like better at this moment than to share a cherry dipped ice cream cone at DQ with my little son.