School Shooting Drills

One hour before midnight, the streets of Shinjuku were just waking up. The city hadn't slept. People of all kinds slipped into the night, chasing neon lights through narrow alleys, drawn by whatever the night had to offer. Not that far from the bustle, small buildings called kōban, police boxes, stood between the crowded streets. Strategically placed at busy intersections, each kōban provided a visible police presence to deter crime. Inside the Kabukichu kōban, two police officers were getting ready for their night patrol, while two others remained behind to provide a base. Amid the soft hum of radios and the rustle of paperwork, the two officers inside the kōban were quietly immersed in their tasks.

"Don't slack off," said Mr. Sato.

Sato Kirishima was the oldest among them, not just in age, but in years of service and experience. Like all Japanese police officers, he wore the standard navy-blue uniform, but what set him apart were the two stars on his shoulder straps, marking his rank. Meanwhile, Officers Toriyama and Masashi were out on patrol. Mr. Sato had poor eyesight. He sat at his desk, holding a magazine inches from his face just to make out the words. 

"Mr. Daigo," he called out to the officer beside him.

Since his transfer to the Shinjuku kōban, Daigo had been working under Mr. Sato's supervision. 

"Yes, sir," Daigo replied.

"Drop the formalities, son. Tell me, have you ever been to the U.S.?" Mr. Sato asked.

"No, sir."

"Come on, stop sounding like a robot."

"Sorry, Mr. Sato. I've never been outside Japan."

"Me neither," Mr. Sato said with a chuckle. "But my grandkid's been over there for the last five years."

"Do you want to go someday, Mr. Sato?" Daigo asked.

"Not a chance. That devilish land? No, thank you," he said sharply.

"I'm not planning on going either," Daigo replied calmly. "So, why bring this up now?"

"I came across an article in this magazine," Mr. Sato continued, "about a school shooting at an elementary school in California. Apparently, the Second Amendment in the U.S. grants people the right to bear arms, which, in theory, is necessary for the security of a free state and meant to protect freedoms. But like any tool, when it ends up in the wrong hands, it becomes something far more dangerous. Something that can take away other people's freedom." 

Daigo nodded slowly and calmly, "Despite the bullying issues we have in schools, it's hard to imagine something like that happening here." 

"God forbid," Mr. Sato said, shaking his head. "We're better off, no doubt about that."

"What else did the article say?" Daigo asked.

"Nothing much beyond the fact that the shooter took his own life after killing twelve students and three teachers," Mr. Sato replied. "But that's not what stuck with me." He leaned back slightly. "I'm not one to worry about what happens overseas, but I do like reading about it. It helps me compare their way of life with ours." 

"So what's really bothering you?" Daigo asked.

"My grandson told me something that made me think how Americans are foolishly stupid," Mr. Sato said, shaking his head with theatrical disappointment.

Daigo glanced at him, trying not to laugh. For a man casually insulting over 300 million people, Mr. Sato wore the face of someone delivering a tragic news report. "Seems like being rich and uneducated is part of the American dream now," Daigo added, watching Mr. Sato's face expression lit up with giggles and pride. 

"Listen to this, son," Mr. Sato began. "My grandson was doing some research at a high school over there. Just a regular day. He showed up around ten in the morning, ready to get started. But when he got inside, the place was completely empty. Not a single student in the hallways or classrooms. He was confused, didn't know what was going on. So he asked a woman who was cleaning one of the rooms. And you know what she told him? No classes for the day, the school was holding a shooting drill." 

"A shooting drill?" Daigo interrupted. "At a regular school?"

"Exactly, son," Mr. Sato said. "I even asked if it was some kind of military school, but nope. Just a normal school. Can you believe how ridiculous that is?"

Daigo leaned back, thinking quietly for a moment. "What did your grandson say about the drill itself?"

"He said it was meant to teach both staff and students how to respond if there's ever gun violence on campus. The procedures looked shockingly real. Some classrooms were locked down, lights were turned off. Teachers practiced using whatever they could to cover windows or barricade doors. And the students were taught how to run, hide, or, if all else failed, fight back to stop the attacker."

Daigo stood up from his chair and turned away from Mr. Sato. "When you really think about it... It is pretty ridiculous."

Mr. Sato nodded. "Do they ever consider how the students feel? Preparing them for something that might never happen, and in the process, traumatizing them, making them more stressed and anxious." 

Daigo glanced back at Mr. Sato. "And besides that, since school shooters are usually students from the same campus, while they're training kids how to protect themselves, aren't they also training the potential shooter?"

Mr. Sato looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. "You just made the whole thing sound even more ridiculous!" 

Daigo continued, "It must be terrifying for parents to realize they might be raising a potential shooter." 

Mr. Sato burst into laughter, his face flushing red. He wasn't just amused by what Daigo said, but also by how perfectly it confirmed his opinion of Americans. In that moment, he felt like he'd scored a small victory. A sudden phone call rang out, cutting through the rhythm of the kōban. The two officers paused, exchanged glances, then Mr. Sato reached for the receiver.

"Hello?" he answered. After a brief pause, he turned to his colleague and handed over the receiver.

"It's for you, Mr. Daigo."