Memoir of a School Day

My journey into high school commenced with an unexpected twist when I ended up at Nazarene High School in August, of 2012. The school welcomed me, Shamiah Ireland, alongside my twin sister, Shaniah. Nazarene wasn’t my first choice, nor was it on my mother's list for us. However, my sister's Primary School Examination results changed the course of our plans. It wasn't a matter of Shaniah’s intelligence; rather, nervousness had caused her to skip a section on the math exam. While I had the opportunity to attend one of the top schools in Belize City based on my performance on the exam, my mother's "no twin left behind" policy redirected my path. From preschool, my mother had insisted on keeping us together, a sentiment grounded in both convenience and her unwavering belief that twins shouldn't be separated.

Despite my initial disappointment, I adapted to the change. However, due to my introverted personality, life at Nazarene proved challenging. While my sister effortlessly made friends, I struggled with socializing. My family’s move from Black Man Eddy Village to Hattieville the year before hadn’t been easy. Leaving behind childhood friends, I struggled to make new connections. Most days, I found solace in my classroom, either napping, reading a book, or drawing. My sister often pulled me into her social circles, though her classmates misinterpreted my quiet demeanor as being “stuck-up.” 

A turning point came a few months into our first year when I befriended Tia, a second-year student, along with her best friend Deon, a third-year student. Unbeknownst to my sister and me, Tia and Deon were the children of two of my mother's coworkers and friends, and they lived in the same village we had recently moved to. The four of us made it a routine to travel to and from school together, forging a strong bond, and on campus, our quartet blissfully navigated each school day together.  

Until one terrifying day that altered our high school experience. January 8th, 2013 began like any other school day. It was a few days after our return from Christmas vacation. Getting off the bus at the Pallotti Junction, unaware of the news about shootings in Belize City, we walked down Princess Margaret Drive with our usual lighthearted banter and talking about Youth Group activities.

The group of us, Tia, Deon, Shaniah, and I, made our predictable beeline for the vendor selling breakfast tacos on the sidewalk in front of our campus. The aroma of sizzling meat and hot tortillas and the enticing blend of herbs and spices were the markers of each school day’s beginning. With breakfast in hand, we headed through the school gates where the vigilant gateman checked our adherence to the dress code. It was a ritual, a daily checkpoint that was as much a part of our routine as the first bell. Next, we made our way to Tia's classroom, our designated breakfast spot, to gobble down our tacos before the bell rang. Once the bell rang, Deon would head to the third form area at the back of the campus, Tia would remain in the second form area, and Shaniah and I would proceed to our respective first form classes. 

Although my mom wanted us to stay in the same school, she insisted we be placed in different classes, claiming we were too chatty and would distract each other. Therefore, we found ourselves in different neighboring classrooms on the upper level of a two-story building, which housed three classrooms. Shaniah's class was situated in the middle, and mine was at the right end. The classroom windows offered a glimpse of the outside world, but within its walls, hour after hour, the monotony of the school day unfolded.  

I settled into my chair and desk beside the window listening to the drone of teachers and the ebb and flow of the usual lessons. It was, as I said, a regular, uneventful day. Break time brought a moment of reprieve. I made my way toward Tia's class, casually strolling past my sister's classroom so we could walk together. 

Tia's class was a sanctuary of sorts, which I, especially appreciated. Her classmates embraced us with open arms, creating an atmosphere where I felt welcomed and at ease. It was a stark contrast to the challenges I faced with my own classmates or my sister’s. The camaraderie with Tia and her friends became a comforting routine, a respite from my social struggles. 

Break time ended, and the rhythmic sound of footsteps, and the chatter and laughter that usually accompanied these transitions, echoed in the hallways as students made their way back to their classrooms. Back at my desk, the morning resumed its usual routine. A couple of minutes into a class discussion, the air was pierced by loud screaming from outside, followed by a chorus of voices carried by a wave of fear throughout the school buildings. The shouts and screams escalated and were no longer confined to the walls of our school but also emanated from the neighboring private school. At first, the commotion seemed inconsequential, perhaps a spirited rally or some similar event of little consequence. However, that illusion was shattered by the unmistakable sound of gunshots and police sirens and the urgent wails of an ambulance. 

Some students, their curiosity overpowering their better judgment, started running out of nearby classrooms toward the school's fence, ignoring the cautionary words of their teachers scolding them and urging them to return to their seats. The air in my classroom thickened with tension, a palpable unease that gripped everyone at that moment. I sat still, my eyes darting with the movements of those daring to venture outside as my teacher and some classmates, too, rushed outside to investigate. The scene outside the window was a surreal tableau, a blend of confusion and concern etched in the faces of those who dared to peer beyond the school's boundaries. 

The seconds ticked by, and uncertainty hung in the air. Then, just as we thought the excitement had ended, as teachers ushered everyone back to their classes, more gunshots rang out from the neighboring school. Students of that school, attempting to escape, added to the pandemonium as a police chase unfolded before our very eyes. We observed intently as a police officer pursued a man through the neighboring schoolyard, the chase culminating in a swift tackle that brought the suspect to the ground. 

Assuming the incident had concluded the “front-row spectators,” buzzing with the adrenaline of witnessing such an event, made their way back to their classrooms. Our teachers rallied to regain control as they ushered students back to their classes.  Then, sensing the need for more definitive action, left to confer with the principal. In our teacher's absence, responsibility for the class fell on the class president, appointed to steer the ship in the midst of this unforeseen chaos. 

I rested my head on my desk, contemplating the events that had just transpired. Little did I know, the day had even more surprises in store, challenging our assumptions about safety and routine. 

Our teacher returned and instructed us to pack up our belongings and gather in the courtyard where the school held the morning devotions. Before heading over, I sought out my sister, determined to navigate the unfolding events together. I waited for her to pack her bag, then we made our way to the courtyard where we spotted Tia—a familiar and comforting presence—in the midst of uncertainty. Without hesitation, we joined her, finding solace in each other's company.  

The principal, Mr. Sullivan, explained that due to incidents of gang violence getting too close to multiple schools across the city, and similar incidents of shootouts like what we had just witnessed, the Ministry of Education made the decision to suspend school activities for the rest of day, for students’ safety, until the police could stabilize the situation.  Even though cell phones were strictly prohibited within the school premises, the gravity of the situation prompted the principal to make an exception. Continuing to address the school, he told us students, "If yuh gat yuh phone pan yuh, call yuh parents or a guardian bikaaz no student noh allowed fi lef school grounds widout one." A flurry of urgent calls followed, to

ensure every student's safe departure under the supervision of an adult. 

Being without a phone at that moment, my sister, Tia and I navigated through the crowded chaos, determined to locate Deon. We eventually found him and his sibling, engaged in a phone call to their dad. I asked if they could ask their dad to inform our mom about the situation. Tia also asked Deon to do likewise and call her father. In those critical moments, our interconnected relationships, as friends and through our parents, provided an important network of support and communication, bridging the gap between uncertainty and reassurance. After he ended the call, Deon informed us that his dad said he would let our parents know and to remain close together because he was going to pick up all of us.  

While we anxiously waited in the chaos of the courtyard, the school office was filled with students desperately trying to reach their parents, their anxious voices jumbled into a cacophony of concern. A few minutes later, the street and sidewalk outside campus mirrored the pandemonium within, as parents flooded in to collect their children from our school and the neighboring institutions. 

Then finally, a sight of familiarity brought a spark of relief. Deon's father, Mr. Warrior, the prison's bus driver, arrived in the distinctive prison employees’ bus. The bus itself seemed like a fortress against the surrounding disarray. He parked it across the street and walked up to the school gate and informed the gateman that he came to pick us up. We had already moved to the gate, ready to make our exit, when we saw the bus arriving. The gateman released us, but we had to wait for Mr. Warrior, who was in a conversation with some teachers and the principal. After a few minutes, Mr. Sullivan announced to the crowd of students that Mr. Warrior would take home all the children of the prison officers who couldn't make it due to work and other constraints. Mr. Sullivan, displaying a remarkable calmness in the midst of chaos, asked if other students from Hattieville could go with Mr. Warrior who would take them home, to which Mr. Warrior agreed.  We all boarded the bus, grateful for the refuge it offered in the midst of the tumult. 

The bus then proceeded on a journey through the city, stopping at various primary and high schools to pick up other children from Hattieville and prison guards’ family members who had requested the transport. As we navigated through the congested traffic and witnessed groups of students moving in clusters, each under the protective watch of an adult, the chaotic scene somehow developed a semblance of order. I couldn't help but feel a sense of unity as the community came together to ensure the safety of its children. The prison employees’ bus itself became a symbol of shared responsibility and collective care.  

As we journeyed home in the prison work bus, the tension that had gripped us began to ease, thanks to Mr. Warrior's attempt at humor. "Unu pikni don’t haftu worry bout getting shot; dis yah bus bulletproof." This prompted a collective chuckle from us students, followed by a buzz of conversations as we discussed the protective features of the seemingly invincible bus and shared anecdotes about the day's unexpected turn of events.

Some were relieved to have an impromptu half-day from school, while others wondered out loud about the safety of their friends. 

As we arrived in Hattieville and Mr. Warrior dropped us off at the usual school children’s drop-off points, the sense of community persisted. The shared experience had forged a bond among our quartet and other students who we usually didn’t speak to. 

Arriving home, I checked my phone and discovered several missed calls and a text from our mom. We called her back, recounting the day's chaos and reassuring her of our safety. She said that their boss had promptly facilitated Mr. Warrior's use of the bus, enabling him to transport us home safely. 

The night unfolded with a mix of relief and reflection as we sat with our mother watching the news on Channel 5. “Schools, businesses, and banks, close upon perceived threat,” the lead story captioned, as the news anchor reported on the violence that had gripped the city. The images on the screen mirrored the surreal events we had experienced, and the government's response was discussed. We sat there together as a family, navigating the aftermath of this day that, against the backdrop of terror and turmoil, had unexpectedly united a community.

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Shemiah Ireland is an English major at the University of Belize. She lives in Ontario Village and enjoys reading and listening to music.