Signs or Messages
Oct. 9th, 2006 08:39 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dedalus_1947Well, here we are, September 30, 2006, the last day of the month, and I am now 59 years old. I am nine years older than I ever imagined when I was in my 30’s and 40’s. I’m writing on my blog, rather than my journal, because I needed more space to discuss the events and ramifications of last Sunday’s fire at my school.
Sunday had started out a really enjoyable day. The family assembled at Mass at 9:30 A.M., to hear Tony perform the First Reading of the Celebration of the Word, and later we went to brunch at a coffee shop to celebrate my birthday. I opened gifts, talked about what Tony and Prisa were doing in their lives, and laughed and kidded about the detours and surprises we were experiencing. DVD’s were a big hit. I received the entire HBO season of “Rome” from Kathy, and the first season of the new “Doctor Who” BBC T.V. series. Prisa provided me with UCLA gear I never have the time to buy for myself, anymore. After brunch, the kids took me to the cinema to see Jet Li’s new movie, “Fearless”. All in all, it was a rich haul in gifts and memories. Sunday was a leisurely and languid day with family, a great way to say goodbye to my last year in my 50’s.
The evening was settling into relaxing time with Kathy and me. We had some time alone, watched the news on T.V., and then decided to watch my new DVD, “Rome”, with cocktails and chips. Just as I was settling into my first drink, the phone call came at about 7:30 P.M. one of the coordinators called to inform me that he had received a telephone call from a teacher at school who was reporting that there were fire engines and trucks at school. There were no details, but both suspected that there was a fire at school.
These are the moments I hate as a principal. I dread being informed of events or situations which I have never experienced, because I have no guide to steer my actions or responses. The one mantra I kept repeating to myself was, “Act like you know what you're doing, act like you know what you're doing….” A slow, creeping fear seeped into me as I thanked my coordinator for the “heads up” about the fire. Horrible images of fire trucks, burning buildings, classrooms, and furniture, and endless torrents of water being shot through pressurized hoses gushing into offices, and down hallways, filled my mind. I looked over at my wife, who had been attentive to my exclamations and questions while on the telephone, and said, “I think there is a fire at school”. After her sympathetic words and sounds, she asked the inevitable question, “What are you going to do?” My honest reply was, “I don’t know”. What does one do when all they feel is a growing panic and insecurity? All I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to know about the fire, and I wished no one had called.
Even as these “fright and flight” sensations coursed through my body, I found myself picking up the phone and thinking, “Who do I need to call for help and information?” I found my school directory, and called my plant manager. District protocol required that the school’s plant manager be contacted first whenever there was a school disaster or emergency. If anyone knows the facts, it would be Cedric. I called his cell number, received the message that he was not available, and left a message for him to call me back. Just as I was ready to call another number, my cell phone rang. It was Cedric. His voice sounded strained and highly pitched. He told me that there had been a fire in the Administration Building, but the fire fighters had not informed him of the extent of the damage. He told me that he was going to speak to the fire fighters and would call me back with more information.
At this point I felt better. Action was having a soothing affect on my nerves. Cedric was at the scene, he was investigating the cause and extent of the damage, and he was taking charge. All I needed to do was just keep supporting him. So, I continued using the telephone. I called each of my administrators at their homes and informed them, mostly by message (only one was at home that evening), of what had occurred and our need to meet early the next morning. After the last call was made, I picked up my unfinished cocktail and sat down. My wife was looking at me with a puzzled look of concern and apprehension. I wanted to have another drink. I wanted to watch the end of the episode of “Rome” we had just started. I wanted to pretend that none of this was really happening to me, and that I wasn’t the only person really in charge of this emergency. I looked again at my wife and said, “I can’t stay here. I have to find out what is going on at school”. My temporary sensation of satisfaction deserted me as I plummeted, feet first, into a black whirlpool of anger and self pity.
Every step I took, every action leading to my departure, was punctuated with a curse or profanity. “God damn, my luck! What fucking student arsonists! What a shitty, ghetto school!” I felt powerless; like I was being led against my will. I should not be leaving my cocktail, my TV show, and my home, to investigate a fire! Kathy was scurrying about, trying to help by anticipating my needs. She offered to make coffee and kept assuring me that I needed to go and find out what was really happening. Her encouragement was wasted on me, as my mood darkened.
By the time I was dressed and ready to leave, the coffee wasn’t. “Fuck the coffee”, I said to Kathy, “I’ll pick some up at Starbucks on my way to the freeway”. I thought that nothing was going right, as I walked into the garage. I got into the car and backed up into the street. When I realized that I had not looked before completing this maneuver, I started repeating to myself, “OK, slow down, take it easy. Slow down, take it easy.” But although the mantra worked to slow down my driving, it did not lighten my mood.
As I drove up the Canyon leading to the freeway, memories of past school catastrophes poured into my head: The fire that consumed the Girl’s P.E. office; the asbestos floor tile emergency that forced the evacuation of half the school; and the angry picketing of parents demanding my removal before 3 TV station cameras. I was sure that the fates were, again, conspiring against me. I concluded, in fact, that from the very first day at this new school, I had been overwhelmed by one emergency after another; the inferior personnel, the bankrupted budget, and the plague of weekly graffiti, break-ins, and vandalism. In the midst of this swirling orgy of self-pity, visions of the possible damage I would find began to seep into my consciousness: flames sprouting out of rows of second floor windows, pressurized water gushing into classrooms and down hallways, and pillowing clouds of black smoke engulfing the skies around the school.
When I parked in front of Starbucks, I could not remember how I had gotten there, or when I had breathed last. Wave after wave of murky, suffocating depression pounded over my head, filling my lungs, and drowning me in fear and sadness. I managed to enter the store and get into a long line of customers. Thank God, I was distracted from the images racing through my head by the complicated selection menu over the counter. For the entire time I waited in line, I recited a bizarre obsessive compulsive chant of the coffee brand and size I might order. By the time the server greeted me, I blurted, “Drip Coffee, the House blend, grande, please”.
It was when I was pouring sugar into my grande cup that I looked out the store window. There was a group of 5 teenaged youngsters sitting around a table, smoking, talking, and laughing. I looked hard at a tall, gangly, young man in the middle, and thought, “I know that boy”. His name came to me in a flash, “David”. It was David, a boy I had known for 3 years at Shangri-la Middle School. I remembered greeting him almost every morning as he was dropped off by his mother at the front of school. As an 8th grader, he worked in the Main Office, and would walk into my office on many occasions to talk and make me laugh with his wry and self-deprecating humor. I had been especially touched when he and his mother presented me a departing graduation gift of an American flag tie. They said the design was significant because it was for the comfort I had given them both on September 11, 2001. On that morning, they had come up to me, as I was greeting students on the sidewalk in front of school, and asked if it was safe to attend, or should they go home. My answer was a heartfelt message that I had used many times that day, “I guarantee you, that David is safer here, today, than anywhere else in the world”. I had forgotten that exchange, but, obviously, David and his mother had not.
Seeing David again, older, taller, and comfortably smoking and laughing with friends filled me with joy. “What a treat”, I thought. I haven’t seen him since he graduated. I walked outside and advanced on the youthful group. I pointed at him, and asked, “David?” His look of shock and amazement assured me of his identity, and his shout of “Mr. D!” confirmed it. As he was explaining who I was to his friends, I decided to keep my remarks short and succinct: “I’m on my way to an urgent appointment, but I wanted to say hi. You look great and all grown up. You are a young man, now, and smoking! What would your mother say. I’m kidding. Say hi to your mom, for me”.
Walking back to my car, I was smiling, and shaking my head in wonderment at this chance encounter with this special student from my past. “How strange that it should happen now”, I thought. It was then that it hit me. My hand froze on the door handle of the car, and I realized that all of my fearful, imaginary, and self-pitting thoughts had vanished. I was here, in the Starbuck’s parking lot, getting ready to drive to my school to investigate an unconfirmed arson and fire. These were the facts; everything else had been a wild fire of memory and imagination, fueled by anger and self-pity. Everything had changed with this unexpected meeting, which might never have occurred: Kathy’s coffee had not been ready, I focused on my driving and remembered to stop at Starbucks, I cleared my mind in the waiting line, I looked out the window at the confection station, and I allowed myself to see what was before my eyes. Was this an accident, chance, or was it a sign? I started to think that something had stepped into the middle of my despair and shown me the way out.
The rest of the ride was thought-less, except for the question I kept asking myself. “Have I been given other signs like this, at other moments of crisis, but never had the wisdom to see them?” Only one occasion came to mind. It was last year following a period of student unrest, and a series of off-campus fights. An angry-faced parent had barged, unexpectedly, into my office. Fearing the worst, I had hardened my heart and put on my stone-faced expression to weather the onslaught. But the siege did not come. The parent had not come to attack or complain, she had come seeking reassurances that her daughter was safe at my school. She was frightened about what she had heard, and she didn’t know if it was true or false. I promised her that her child was safe, and she was comforted by my words. However, upon her departure, I remember interpreting my encounter with her as a sign to act. I became convinced that more parents than I suspected felt alarmed and frightened, and decisive actions were required on my part to demonstrate to them that we were vigilant and prepared to protect the safety and well being of their children. I believed that my encounter with David was other such sign. I needed to act as a principal tonight, and not worry about my ability to do so.
The passage of time went swiftly, as I drove. I was conscious only of my breathing, and my altered frame of mind. Breathing in, I felt alive. Breathing out, I felt safe. All of my fearful memories and imaginary visions floated freely down through my thoughts, without clinging to my consciousness. They were not real, and I did not worry about them any more. The facts were waiting for me at school. I would deal with them when I found them. I had experienced these moments of clarity before, when I meditated. I was in a wakeful, meditative state: consciously breathing, without clinging to memories, feelings or emotions.
I saw the fire trucks and street barriers and blockades as I approached the school. I parked a block away and walked toward the first fire fighters I spied. “What do I say, what do I do?”, I kept asking myself. I just remembered to breathe. In a voice that sounded stronger and more confident than I felt, I introduced myself as the principal. A grizzled looking veteran shook my hand and said, “I’m sorry about the fire. Let me take you to the Captain”. He was very kind and solicitous. I had not expected that demeanor from this tall, huge, geared-up professional who battles fires for a living. He guided me into the darkened hallway of the Administration Building, as other combat attired firemen were walking out, lugging their equipment and hoses in their arms and on their shoulders.
“Captain, this is the principal”, my escort said to the equally tall man. He shook my hand, and in a low, gruff voice intoned the now familiar refrain, “I’m sorry about the fire”. He began to describe the nature of the fire and the extent of the damage in a calm and soothing voice, very little of which made immediate sense to me, at that time. Feeling a little dizzy, I looked around at the darkened hallway, the smoke stained walls, and shadowy firefighters walking back and forth. “Where did the fire start?” I finally asked, not caring if he had mentioned it before. He patiently pointed at the Dean’s Office and said, “It started here. It appears they used the microwave oven to detonate the fire in the adjoining room and then it spread here. We were able to localize it and knock it down”. The questions began flowing easier from my slowly clearing mind, and I finally started to get a picture of the fire and its damage. The office fire had not spread. The second floor was safe. They were still checking, but it appeared that none of the classrooms had been damaged. It was safe to turn on the lights and begin clean up operations. “Oh”, the Captain added, “there’s something I need to show you. It has us all confused”.
As we walked back toward the entrance, the Captain began pointing out smashed door windows, explaining that this was also an arson scene. Someone had entered the building, forced entry, vandalized various offices, and started a fire. “An Arson Unit is on site, so please don’t touch anything”, he said. “Is this your office?” he asked. I nodded, and that old sinking feeling of fear and despair began to well up in me as we looked at the smashed door window to my office. We entered, and he turned on the light. “Can you tell us if there has been any damage?” he asked. I was shocked as I looked into the small enclosure that was my office.
At first glance, I could see nothing wrong. Then little anomalies jumped out at me: My walkie talkie radio was gone, there were four wadded-up newspapers strewn on my desk, three confiscated footballs were gone, and one framed picture of me and the Superintendent had been turned face-down on my bookcase. I was stunned. Except for the door, there was no evidence of violence, damage, or destruction. “I don’t get it”, I said, shaking my head in wonder, “it looks pretty much the way I left it on Friday”. “That’s not the only thing”, added the Captain, “look here”. He directed me outside again, and pointed his flashlight beam at the door. “Can you read that?” he asked. I looked closer at a blue post-it note that had been stapled to my door. It read: “SORRY!” I shook my head in total bewilderment. “I don’t know what it means”, I said.
The rest of the evening went by in a blur of activities, introductions, questions, investigations, and speculations. Once the fire department left, I met the Arson Unit operatives, safety inspectors, school police detectives, maintenance and operation teams, and my own school custodians and plant manager. I realized quickly that the only real expert was me. Everyone involved in that fire had a particular expertise and job to do, but few people had the ability to put all the pieces together and see them as a whole. It was only when the Plant Manager, our Complex Plant Manager, and I started inspecting every classroom and school building for damage and utility that we were able to construct a tentative scenario of the events that began with entry through a window in a second floor classroom, to the setting of a microwave fire in the Dean’s Office.
By 11:00 pm, there was no more I could do. Clean up operations would continue through the night. All in all, we were lucky. From the perspective of what could have been, the actual vandalism was relatively small, and the fire damage was localized. School would open on the following morning, and continuous mitigation efforts would slowly remove the smell and look of smoke and soot.
An odd peace settled over me as I walked back to my car on the cold and deserted street. I had done my job well, tonight, I thought. I had walked into a set of unknown factors and I had “acted” the role which I have been “playing” successfully for 15 years. Despite my panic, fears, despair, and self-pity, I had managed to put my thoughts, feelings, and memories aside, and simply ACT.
As I got into my car and drove home, the one nagging thought that still haunted me was, “What did that note on my door mean?” Was it a random, thoughtless act by one of the vandals, or was it a purposeful apology? Was it a message, or a sign? Could it be both? I remembered to breathe again, and as I exhaled, I smiled. The sight and actions of students had certainly saved me this evening. Seeing David and reading that note had yanked me out of despairing emotions and slapped me into present awareness. There was something at work here, I just needed to see it.
Sunday had started out a really enjoyable day. The family assembled at Mass at 9:30 A.M., to hear Tony perform the First Reading of the Celebration of the Word, and later we went to brunch at a coffee shop to celebrate my birthday. I opened gifts, talked about what Tony and Prisa were doing in their lives, and laughed and kidded about the detours and surprises we were experiencing. DVD’s were a big hit. I received the entire HBO season of “Rome” from Kathy, and the first season of the new “Doctor Who” BBC T.V. series. Prisa provided me with UCLA gear I never have the time to buy for myself, anymore. After brunch, the kids took me to the cinema to see Jet Li’s new movie, “Fearless”. All in all, it was a rich haul in gifts and memories. Sunday was a leisurely and languid day with family, a great way to say goodbye to my last year in my 50’s.
The evening was settling into relaxing time with Kathy and me. We had some time alone, watched the news on T.V., and then decided to watch my new DVD, “Rome”, with cocktails and chips. Just as I was settling into my first drink, the phone call came at about 7:30 P.M. one of the coordinators called to inform me that he had received a telephone call from a teacher at school who was reporting that there were fire engines and trucks at school. There were no details, but both suspected that there was a fire at school.
These are the moments I hate as a principal. I dread being informed of events or situations which I have never experienced, because I have no guide to steer my actions or responses. The one mantra I kept repeating to myself was, “Act like you know what you're doing, act like you know what you're doing….” A slow, creeping fear seeped into me as I thanked my coordinator for the “heads up” about the fire. Horrible images of fire trucks, burning buildings, classrooms, and furniture, and endless torrents of water being shot through pressurized hoses gushing into offices, and down hallways, filled my mind. I looked over at my wife, who had been attentive to my exclamations and questions while on the telephone, and said, “I think there is a fire at school”. After her sympathetic words and sounds, she asked the inevitable question, “What are you going to do?” My honest reply was, “I don’t know”. What does one do when all they feel is a growing panic and insecurity? All I knew for sure was that I didn’t want to be here, I didn’t want to know about the fire, and I wished no one had called.
Even as these “fright and flight” sensations coursed through my body, I found myself picking up the phone and thinking, “Who do I need to call for help and information?” I found my school directory, and called my plant manager. District protocol required that the school’s plant manager be contacted first whenever there was a school disaster or emergency. If anyone knows the facts, it would be Cedric. I called his cell number, received the message that he was not available, and left a message for him to call me back. Just as I was ready to call another number, my cell phone rang. It was Cedric. His voice sounded strained and highly pitched. He told me that there had been a fire in the Administration Building, but the fire fighters had not informed him of the extent of the damage. He told me that he was going to speak to the fire fighters and would call me back with more information.
At this point I felt better. Action was having a soothing affect on my nerves. Cedric was at the scene, he was investigating the cause and extent of the damage, and he was taking charge. All I needed to do was just keep supporting him. So, I continued using the telephone. I called each of my administrators at their homes and informed them, mostly by message (only one was at home that evening), of what had occurred and our need to meet early the next morning. After the last call was made, I picked up my unfinished cocktail and sat down. My wife was looking at me with a puzzled look of concern and apprehension. I wanted to have another drink. I wanted to watch the end of the episode of “Rome” we had just started. I wanted to pretend that none of this was really happening to me, and that I wasn’t the only person really in charge of this emergency. I looked again at my wife and said, “I can’t stay here. I have to find out what is going on at school”. My temporary sensation of satisfaction deserted me as I plummeted, feet first, into a black whirlpool of anger and self pity.
Every step I took, every action leading to my departure, was punctuated with a curse or profanity. “God damn, my luck! What fucking student arsonists! What a shitty, ghetto school!” I felt powerless; like I was being led against my will. I should not be leaving my cocktail, my TV show, and my home, to investigate a fire! Kathy was scurrying about, trying to help by anticipating my needs. She offered to make coffee and kept assuring me that I needed to go and find out what was really happening. Her encouragement was wasted on me, as my mood darkened.
By the time I was dressed and ready to leave, the coffee wasn’t. “Fuck the coffee”, I said to Kathy, “I’ll pick some up at Starbucks on my way to the freeway”. I thought that nothing was going right, as I walked into the garage. I got into the car and backed up into the street. When I realized that I had not looked before completing this maneuver, I started repeating to myself, “OK, slow down, take it easy. Slow down, take it easy.” But although the mantra worked to slow down my driving, it did not lighten my mood.
As I drove up the Canyon leading to the freeway, memories of past school catastrophes poured into my head: The fire that consumed the Girl’s P.E. office; the asbestos floor tile emergency that forced the evacuation of half the school; and the angry picketing of parents demanding my removal before 3 TV station cameras. I was sure that the fates were, again, conspiring against me. I concluded, in fact, that from the very first day at this new school, I had been overwhelmed by one emergency after another; the inferior personnel, the bankrupted budget, and the plague of weekly graffiti, break-ins, and vandalism. In the midst of this swirling orgy of self-pity, visions of the possible damage I would find began to seep into my consciousness: flames sprouting out of rows of second floor windows, pressurized water gushing into classrooms and down hallways, and pillowing clouds of black smoke engulfing the skies around the school.
When I parked in front of Starbucks, I could not remember how I had gotten there, or when I had breathed last. Wave after wave of murky, suffocating depression pounded over my head, filling my lungs, and drowning me in fear and sadness. I managed to enter the store and get into a long line of customers. Thank God, I was distracted from the images racing through my head by the complicated selection menu over the counter. For the entire time I waited in line, I recited a bizarre obsessive compulsive chant of the coffee brand and size I might order. By the time the server greeted me, I blurted, “Drip Coffee, the House blend, grande, please”.
It was when I was pouring sugar into my grande cup that I looked out the store window. There was a group of 5 teenaged youngsters sitting around a table, smoking, talking, and laughing. I looked hard at a tall, gangly, young man in the middle, and thought, “I know that boy”. His name came to me in a flash, “David”. It was David, a boy I had known for 3 years at Shangri-la Middle School. I remembered greeting him almost every morning as he was dropped off by his mother at the front of school. As an 8th grader, he worked in the Main Office, and would walk into my office on many occasions to talk and make me laugh with his wry and self-deprecating humor. I had been especially touched when he and his mother presented me a departing graduation gift of an American flag tie. They said the design was significant because it was for the comfort I had given them both on September 11, 2001. On that morning, they had come up to me, as I was greeting students on the sidewalk in front of school, and asked if it was safe to attend, or should they go home. My answer was a heartfelt message that I had used many times that day, “I guarantee you, that David is safer here, today, than anywhere else in the world”. I had forgotten that exchange, but, obviously, David and his mother had not.
Seeing David again, older, taller, and comfortably smoking and laughing with friends filled me with joy. “What a treat”, I thought. I haven’t seen him since he graduated. I walked outside and advanced on the youthful group. I pointed at him, and asked, “David?” His look of shock and amazement assured me of his identity, and his shout of “Mr. D!” confirmed it. As he was explaining who I was to his friends, I decided to keep my remarks short and succinct: “I’m on my way to an urgent appointment, but I wanted to say hi. You look great and all grown up. You are a young man, now, and smoking! What would your mother say. I’m kidding. Say hi to your mom, for me”.
Walking back to my car, I was smiling, and shaking my head in wonderment at this chance encounter with this special student from my past. “How strange that it should happen now”, I thought. It was then that it hit me. My hand froze on the door handle of the car, and I realized that all of my fearful, imaginary, and self-pitting thoughts had vanished. I was here, in the Starbuck’s parking lot, getting ready to drive to my school to investigate an unconfirmed arson and fire. These were the facts; everything else had been a wild fire of memory and imagination, fueled by anger and self-pity. Everything had changed with this unexpected meeting, which might never have occurred: Kathy’s coffee had not been ready, I focused on my driving and remembered to stop at Starbucks, I cleared my mind in the waiting line, I looked out the window at the confection station, and I allowed myself to see what was before my eyes. Was this an accident, chance, or was it a sign? I started to think that something had stepped into the middle of my despair and shown me the way out.
The rest of the ride was thought-less, except for the question I kept asking myself. “Have I been given other signs like this, at other moments of crisis, but never had the wisdom to see them?” Only one occasion came to mind. It was last year following a period of student unrest, and a series of off-campus fights. An angry-faced parent had barged, unexpectedly, into my office. Fearing the worst, I had hardened my heart and put on my stone-faced expression to weather the onslaught. But the siege did not come. The parent had not come to attack or complain, she had come seeking reassurances that her daughter was safe at my school. She was frightened about what she had heard, and she didn’t know if it was true or false. I promised her that her child was safe, and she was comforted by my words. However, upon her departure, I remember interpreting my encounter with her as a sign to act. I became convinced that more parents than I suspected felt alarmed and frightened, and decisive actions were required on my part to demonstrate to them that we were vigilant and prepared to protect the safety and well being of their children. I believed that my encounter with David was other such sign. I needed to act as a principal tonight, and not worry about my ability to do so.
The passage of time went swiftly, as I drove. I was conscious only of my breathing, and my altered frame of mind. Breathing in, I felt alive. Breathing out, I felt safe. All of my fearful memories and imaginary visions floated freely down through my thoughts, without clinging to my consciousness. They were not real, and I did not worry about them any more. The facts were waiting for me at school. I would deal with them when I found them. I had experienced these moments of clarity before, when I meditated. I was in a wakeful, meditative state: consciously breathing, without clinging to memories, feelings or emotions.
I saw the fire trucks and street barriers and blockades as I approached the school. I parked a block away and walked toward the first fire fighters I spied. “What do I say, what do I do?”, I kept asking myself. I just remembered to breathe. In a voice that sounded stronger and more confident than I felt, I introduced myself as the principal. A grizzled looking veteran shook my hand and said, “I’m sorry about the fire. Let me take you to the Captain”. He was very kind and solicitous. I had not expected that demeanor from this tall, huge, geared-up professional who battles fires for a living. He guided me into the darkened hallway of the Administration Building, as other combat attired firemen were walking out, lugging their equipment and hoses in their arms and on their shoulders.
“Captain, this is the principal”, my escort said to the equally tall man. He shook my hand, and in a low, gruff voice intoned the now familiar refrain, “I’m sorry about the fire”. He began to describe the nature of the fire and the extent of the damage in a calm and soothing voice, very little of which made immediate sense to me, at that time. Feeling a little dizzy, I looked around at the darkened hallway, the smoke stained walls, and shadowy firefighters walking back and forth. “Where did the fire start?” I finally asked, not caring if he had mentioned it before. He patiently pointed at the Dean’s Office and said, “It started here. It appears they used the microwave oven to detonate the fire in the adjoining room and then it spread here. We were able to localize it and knock it down”. The questions began flowing easier from my slowly clearing mind, and I finally started to get a picture of the fire and its damage. The office fire had not spread. The second floor was safe. They were still checking, but it appeared that none of the classrooms had been damaged. It was safe to turn on the lights and begin clean up operations. “Oh”, the Captain added, “there’s something I need to show you. It has us all confused”.
As we walked back toward the entrance, the Captain began pointing out smashed door windows, explaining that this was also an arson scene. Someone had entered the building, forced entry, vandalized various offices, and started a fire. “An Arson Unit is on site, so please don’t touch anything”, he said. “Is this your office?” he asked. I nodded, and that old sinking feeling of fear and despair began to well up in me as we looked at the smashed door window to my office. We entered, and he turned on the light. “Can you tell us if there has been any damage?” he asked. I was shocked as I looked into the small enclosure that was my office.
At first glance, I could see nothing wrong. Then little anomalies jumped out at me: My walkie talkie radio was gone, there were four wadded-up newspapers strewn on my desk, three confiscated footballs were gone, and one framed picture of me and the Superintendent had been turned face-down on my bookcase. I was stunned. Except for the door, there was no evidence of violence, damage, or destruction. “I don’t get it”, I said, shaking my head in wonder, “it looks pretty much the way I left it on Friday”. “That’s not the only thing”, added the Captain, “look here”. He directed me outside again, and pointed his flashlight beam at the door. “Can you read that?” he asked. I looked closer at a blue post-it note that had been stapled to my door. It read: “SORRY!” I shook my head in total bewilderment. “I don’t know what it means”, I said.
The rest of the evening went by in a blur of activities, introductions, questions, investigations, and speculations. Once the fire department left, I met the Arson Unit operatives, safety inspectors, school police detectives, maintenance and operation teams, and my own school custodians and plant manager. I realized quickly that the only real expert was me. Everyone involved in that fire had a particular expertise and job to do, but few people had the ability to put all the pieces together and see them as a whole. It was only when the Plant Manager, our Complex Plant Manager, and I started inspecting every classroom and school building for damage and utility that we were able to construct a tentative scenario of the events that began with entry through a window in a second floor classroom, to the setting of a microwave fire in the Dean’s Office.
By 11:00 pm, there was no more I could do. Clean up operations would continue through the night. All in all, we were lucky. From the perspective of what could have been, the actual vandalism was relatively small, and the fire damage was localized. School would open on the following morning, and continuous mitigation efforts would slowly remove the smell and look of smoke and soot.
An odd peace settled over me as I walked back to my car on the cold and deserted street. I had done my job well, tonight, I thought. I had walked into a set of unknown factors and I had “acted” the role which I have been “playing” successfully for 15 years. Despite my panic, fears, despair, and self-pity, I had managed to put my thoughts, feelings, and memories aside, and simply ACT.
As I got into my car and drove home, the one nagging thought that still haunted me was, “What did that note on my door mean?” Was it a random, thoughtless act by one of the vandals, or was it a purposeful apology? Was it a message, or a sign? Could it be both? I remembered to breathe again, and as I exhaled, I smiled. The sight and actions of students had certainly saved me this evening. Seeing David and reading that note had yanked me out of despairing emotions and slapped me into present awareness. There was something at work here, I just needed to see it.
