While I think that arming kids with river rocks makes a lot more sense than arming teachers with AR-15s (for one thing, there are fewer moving parts), I can't help but see some logistical problems. Will these buckets be locked up in a book cabinet when not in use? If they are locked up, will the teacher have time to find the right key to the cabinet (Wait! Is that a double A or a single A key?) and distribute the lethal projectiles to his or her students before the shooter, presumably armed with assault rocks, comes barging into the room? Or, and this certainly gives me pause, will the bucket of rocks be sitting by the classroom door under the bulletin board as the students walk in? Will the kids, then, just pick a rock and put it in his or her pocket (Is that a rock in your pocket, or are you just glad to see me?) to have handy in case of an armed intruder?
What if all those kids are armed with lethal river rocks and no intruder shows up? I had a few sixth hour classes where the thought of 30 kids armed with rocks would certainly have made me work extra hard to create interesting lesson plans. An idea like that might even take the place of pay for performance contracts as a way to motivate all those lazy non-rock carrying teachers out there.
I guess the idea behind the river rocks is that when the shooter breaks into the classroom, all the kids will stand up, start screaming "stone him, stone him, stone him" and he will end up like some biblical adulterer, dead under a pile of granite. Of course, a handful of kids would end up dead as well, but that is the price we pay to guarantee the freedom of the NRA and the profit margin of gun manufacturers.
There is another rather large problem with the whole rock throwing scenario. Kids today have rotten arms. Have you seen them trying to play softball in the park? Of course not. They're too busy bullying each other on social media, arranging play dates, flash mobs, sharing gossip, and feeling ennui to work on their arms. And what about primary grade kids? Having a bucket of rocks at Sandy Hook probably would not have changed the outcome of that particular tragedy. And that is not to mention the fact that most teachers, since we don't have driver's ed and shop anymore, are women. At the risk of sounding like a sexist creep, women with rocks are no match for white supremacist nut cases with AR-15s.
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Today is Palm Sunday, the first day of Holy Week in the Catholic calendar. When I was an altar boy in Estes Park, this was my favorite time of year. It was my chance to be a star. Why was it my chance to be a star, you ask. Because I was the head altar boy at Our Lady of the Mountains. I worked my way up from Acolyte, to Thurifer, to Master of Ceremonies, that's what Father Sanger called the altar boy who got to stand next to him during high mass and see to it that all the candles were correctly lit, all the things needing incense were properly addressed, all the cruets and patens and bells were there at the ready.
First, there was Palm Sunday. My mom dropped me off at church at six in the morning and I served every mass. Then came Holy Thursday, a high mass and the liturgy a reenactment of the Last Supper. Good Friday wasn't a mass; it was just a solemn service commemorating Christ's passion, kind of like something Mel Gibson tried to do, but without the gore. Then, my favorite, Holy Saturday, another high mass. And the best part was by this time all the parishioners couldn't help but notice that I was a prominent figure at all these services. When I walked out of the sacristy after it was over, it felt like my granddaughter Brooklyn must have felt when she emerged from the dressing room after "Seussical." Easter Sunday was another day where I served every mass and had breakfast (lunch) with Father Sanger and his two sisters, Margaret and Bess, after the noon mass finished. Then, after breakfast, Father Sanger would give me a ride home and I would go eat Easter candy and colored eggs with my family.
Holy Week isn't like that for me anymore, but I have to be careful. I make it a point to steer clear of churches emptying out their well-dressed congregations because I can't help but get a little emotional and nostalgic for not only the theater of that week, but also for what used to be my faith.
Have a blessed week.
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