Teachers are Lambs to the Slaughter: The Fiction We Teach, The Reality We Live

By Kelsey Trumble

We hand students dystopian novels—1984, Fahrenheit 451, The Hunger Games—as warnings about what happens when fear becomes normal, when truth bends, when cruelty turns quiet. But somewhere along the way, the fiction blurred.

Now, when another teacher bleeds in a classroom, the outrage burns through feeds faster than facts can catch up. We repost. We tweet. We share. We stitch it on TikTok until the story loops like background noise—another tragedy buried beneath political hashtags and usernames. Truth burns, then fades, leaving only the smoke. And while the headlines cycle and the comments rage, the clocks on teachers’ and students’ lives keep tik-toking down.

In 1984, truth is rewritten until citizens doubt what they saw. We are the teachers—living in doublethink, hearing that no one could have predicted a teacher would be shot by a six-year-old, even after the warnings were filed. We remember differently. They are the officials—posting statements, retweeting condolences, rewriting truth to protect the system that failed us.

In Lamb to the Slaughter, the lamb—the symbol of innocence—is cooked and served to hide the crime. We are the teachers and the children—offered up again and again, our innocence consumed to maintain appearances. They are the officers—eating the evidence, calling it tragedy, complimenting the meal. After Uvalde, we watched press conferences instead of protection.

In The Lottery, neighbors stone one of their own because that’s what they’ve always done. We are the chosen names drawn from the black box. They are the bystanders—mourning in public, moving on in private, accepting the next sacrifice as inevitable. After Sandy Hook, we said “never again.” But the stones never stopped falling. Each year, another name is drawn. Another classroom. Another child. The ritual continues—stone by stone, bell by bell.

In Lord of the Flies, the children descend into chaos because the adults never return. We are the stranded—building fragile order from lesson plans and lockdown drills. They are the adults who never came back—too distant to notice that the island is still on fire. After Parkland, it was the students who became the adults we needed—showing up in person while others hid behind screens.

We used to teach these books so our students would recognize cruelty before it took root. Now we teach them while living inside their pages. We used to believe stories could save us. Now, we are the story.

The Abby Zwerner civil trial has forced the nation to confront what teachers have known for years: our warnings are ignored until blood is spilled. On January 6, 2023, Zwerner was shot in her first-grade classroom after alerting administrators that the student had a gun. Her lawsuit alleges that the district dismissed repeated warnings (CourtTV, 2025). Her calm after being shot—guiding twenty terrified children to safety—was called heroic. But it shouldn’t have had to be.

Teaching in America has become an act of quiet martyrdom.

Teaching in America has become an act of quiet martyrdom. According to the National Center for Education Statistics (2024), one in five teachers reports feeling unsafe at school, and nearly 60 percent say they have considered leaving the profession in the past year. The American Psychological Association (2023) found that educators experience higher rates of secondary trauma than health-care workers, often stemming from repeated lockdown drills and exposure to student violence. Many of us flinch at the sound of the intercom—the coded phrase, “This is a lockdown drill.” Some of us can’t sleep afterward. We joke about it to cope, but the jokes taste like iron.

We are the teachers—guardians, counselors, human shields. They are the policymakers and administrators who praise our bravery while refusing to fund safety measures or mental-health resources. We are expected to be both saints and soldiers, expected to die protecting children whose parents may vote against the very policies that would keep us alive.

The emotional toll of this reality is staggering. A 2023 RAND report found that teacher burnout is at a historic high, with 52 percent describing frequent job-related stress and 44 percent reporting symptoms of depression. The Centers for Disease Control (2023) recorded a sharp increase in educator mental-health claims following major school shootings, even among those not directly affected. Lockdown drills—once framed as proactive safety measures—now retraumatize both teachers and students. Children cry. Teachers shake. And the lesson continues as though nothing happened.

We are the teachers—performing calm for the children while our hearts race. They are the observers—watching footage of our drills, praising our composure, and then changing the channel.

Some of us are parents, too. Our own children might be sitting a few classrooms away while we are trained to throw ourselves between theirs and the gunfire. We are asked to choose—instinct or duty—and the question alone is a wound.

Teacher safety and mental health are not side issues; they are the foundation of education. The National Education Association (2024) advocates for federal investment in school mental health professionals, enhanced security infrastructure, and trauma-informed training. But policy without accountability is just another headline.

We are the teachers—bleeding from budget cuts and burnout. They are the lawmakers—passing the responsibility down the chain until it lands, once again, in our hands.

If the nation truly believes we are heroes, then it must stop asking us to be martyrs. It must stop demanding sacrifice and start offering protection.

Every day, teachers walk into classrooms that have become battlegrounds of fear and expectation. We tape over windows, stack desks against doors, whisper “I love you” to our students before drills begin. We do it because we love them—because they are children, and because someone must.

We used to teach The Lottery so our students would question the rituals society accepts. Now, we live inside one—watching names drawn from the black box of chance. We used to tell them 1984 was fiction. Now, we correct the record only in whispers.

We are the teachers—bleeding, grieving, enduring. They are the ones with the power to stop this—if only they chose to see.

The question is not whether teachers will keep showing up. It’s whether America will finally decide that our lives—and our students’ lives—are worth more than the next press conference.

Kelsey Trumble is a passionate ex-teacher turned graduate student, diving deep into the world of clinical mental health counseling. As a proud mom of two, I know firsthand the importance of nurturing young minds and hearts, which is why I founded Kid Thrive Academy; an enrichment program for children. I am incredibly passionate about fostering healthy bodies and minds in children and strive to promote wellness in everyone!

References (APA)
American Psychological Association. (2023). Educator stress and secondary trauma report. Washington, DC: APA.
Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. (2023). Mental health of education professionals, United States. Atlanta, GA: CDC.
CourtTV. (2025). Abby Zwerner civil trial coverage. Retrieved from https://www.courttv.com
National Center for Education Statistics. (2024). School safety and climate survey. Washington, DC: U.S. Department of Education.
National Education Association. (2024). Policy brief: Protecting educators and students through comprehensive safety reform. Washington, DC: NEA.
RAND Corporation. (2023). Teacher well-being and burnout report. Santa Monica, CA: RAND.

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