I called 911 the first time back in 2010 when a car exploded in front of my apartment at 2am.
Don’t worry, I called 911 before I took the picture.
The second time, it was because my friend was bitten by a bug and didn’t have her EpiPen on her. And I’d like to take this moment to tell anyone who is prescribed one, please, please carry it with you because it is terrifying to watch a friend not be able to breathe over a bug bite.
This week, I had to call 911 for a third time. This time, it was for the police.
For those of you who don’t know, I work in a rough neighborhood school. In fact, as soon as school started up in August, we had a window smashed in the kindergarten hall. Our on campus police officer stays busy, as do the Behavior Management Technicians (BMTs). A surprising number of my students have at least one parent in prison right now, and a few of our 8th graders come and go from jail like it’s a second home. Last year, I had a student steal money from my pocket, and thanks to a student threat and a police report, I now know that a “chopper” is a gun (I thought I was being threatened with a chainsaw).
On Thursday, I left the school at 4:30, stopping to say hello to a former student of mine at the front doors. The school counselor had informed me that his 19 year old sister was murdered two weeks ago by her boyfriend, and I wanted to make sure he was okay, but I couldn’t find the right words to say past, “How are you doing?” to which he said, “Fine,” and left it at that. Without wanting to push anything, I smiled and said goodbye.
As I drove out of the parking lot, I passed a stopped car at the entrance. A woman in the passenger seat put her hand out the window and waved at me. I stopped my car in front of them, thinking maybe they had broken down, but as soon as I stopped, their car moved forward and came to pass me. I rolled down my window as they passed to see if they needed something. The woman in the passenger seat was sobbing and called to me, “Call the police!” but before I could make sense of the situation, the man at the wheel drove off, turning right onto the main road and toward ‘the hood.’
I grabbed my phone and started dialing 911, but then a thought occurred to me: “How are the police ever going to find a moving vehicle? What do I tell them? It was white with a temporary license plate that was too faded to read. The windshield was shattered like someone had thrown a big rock at it and the back driver’s side window was out. But would that be enough for them to find the car?” I had to be able to tell them where it was going!
So without any further reasoning, I turned right, following them into the labyrinth of narrow streets around the school, all the while, listening to 911 ring for so long that I thought I had dialed the wrong number.
The car turned down a narrow street right next to the school and I followed. But as soon as I did, survival instincts kicked in and I realized that this was a horrible idea. I stopped my car. As soon as I did, the white car stopped as well. And then it backed up and started making a 3 point turn.
My life didn’t flash before my eyes. Possible news headlines did. “Teacher killed in her car after calling 911 on a suspicious driver.” I looked around and thought to myself, “I”m going to die. This is where I’m going to die–in a little narrow road less than a block from my school. Will anyone even see me die? God, are you done with my life? Is this all I was meant to live?”
Thankfully, by this time, the 911 operator picked up on the other end and distracted me from myself just long enough to stumble through the sentence, “This woman in a car told me to call 911, but then the car drove off.”
“Okay. Don’t follow the car,” she told me.
“Oh. I am.”
By this time, the car came past me again, heading in the opposite direction. I didn’t know whether I should hide the phone and pretend I hadn’t called 911, or to show them that I had, in hopes of deterring any further problems. The woman still screamed from the passenger seat, “Call the police!”
On the speaker phone in my lap, the 911 operator said, “Can you ask her why?”
Before I could do anything, the car pulled back out onto the main road, cutting off traffic and causing a school bus to honk its horn. ”
“They’re gone,” I told the operator.
She asked me several more questions: “What did they look like? Was there any drugs, alcohol, or firearms? What clothing were they wearing?” All with the most bored sounding voice that made me believe that no police were even going to bother coming. For a minute, I thought about rushing back out there and following them again to make sure something was going to be done. Did the operator not take it seriously? Did she think we were being over dramatic? Will I ever know if that poor woman got help?
And then it occurred to me: Those people had come from our school parking lot. Chances are, one or both of them had a kid in the school. Was one of our students going to go home to that? Whether it was a domestic dispute, abuse, rape, or kidnapping that I witnessed, chances are one of our students was going to feel the consequences of it.
I cried and prayed my way back home to my safe and peaceful apartment (not the same place where a car exploded), wondering what was happening in my student’s homes that night.