Why My School Is Slowly Starting to Feel Like a Prison
I stood at the main entrance this morning, watching students file past the new security checkpoint. The officer nods at each one, scans their ID badge, and gestures toward the X-ray conveyor belt where backpacks slide through like luggage at an airport. One sophomore tried to walk through with a water bottle still in her bag. A gentle beep, a sigh, a small line forming behind her. She pulled out the bottle, placed it in a tray, and moved on without making eye contact with anyone.
This is the sixth new safety measure this year. Last month it was the clear backpacks. The month before, we stopped allowing students to leave campus during lunch. The month before that, the classroom doors got new locks that require a key from the inside—which is good, I know, for the drills. But it also means the doors are essentially always closed now. I teach four classes a day, and I’ve gotten used to the subtle click of the lock engaging every time I shut the door. It’s a small sound, but it adds up.
I don’t want to sound ungrateful. I understand why these measures exist. My own kids are in this district. I’ve lost sleep thinking about the unthinkable. But there’s a moment during second period, when the intercom crackles with yet another “code gray” announcement (which just means a suspicious person near the perimeter), and I watch twenty-six students freeze mid-sentence, that I realize something has shifted.
They don’t look scared. That’s the strange part. They look bored. They quietly pull out their phones—though they’re not supposed to—and wait. A few glance at the door. One girl in the front row crosses her arms and stares at the floor. When the announcement ends, I say, “Okay, let’s pick up on page 44,” and we do. Nobody asks questions. Nobody seems relieved. They just continue, like this is a normal part of the school day. Because it is.
My own high school years were a different kind of normal. We had fire drills, sure, but the doors stayed open between classes. We could walk to the courtyard during lunch. The bathroom doors didn’t have locks that only open from one side. I remember the way the hallway in late spring smelled like cut grass and rank gym shoes, and kids leaned against the lockers just… lingering. There was no reason to hurry, no reason to keep moving.
That lingering is gone now. Between classes, students walk faster than they used to. They keep their heads down, partly because they’re on phones, partly because there isn’t much to see. The walls are covered with posters about bullying, mental health resources, and step-by-step instructions for what to do if a threat enters the building. One poster shows a graphic of a student hiding under a desk with the caption “Silence. Lights. Lock.” It’s a good thing to teach. I know that. But I also know that my students have internalized this as normal, and I’m not sure that’s okay.
Let me give you a concrete example. Last week, I had to write a bathroom pass for a student named Darius. He’d been sitting quietly, working, and asked politely. I gave him the pass—it’s a laminated piece of paper with a clip on it, the kind that loops around a wrist. He was gone five minutes. When he came back, he handed me the pass and said, “Why do we have to carry these anyway? It’s not like we’re going to escape.”
I laughed because it was funny. Then I didn’t know why I laughed. Because he’s right. The passes, the locked doors, the ID scans—they’re all designed to keep trouble out, not to keep kids in. But to a seventeen-year-old, the effect feels the same. You can’t go where you want, when you want, without someone tracking you. The word “prison” comes up more than I’d like to admit. Not in a whiny, complaining tone. More like a quiet observation. “School’s just like a jail, Mr. R.” I usually respond with something light, like “At least you get lunch here.” But the comment stays with me.
There’s a developmental angle here that doesn’t get discussed enough. Teenagers need to test boundaries. They need to feel a certain amount of autonomy to build a sense of self. When we strip away all the small, low-risk freedoms—choosing your own seat, walking across the hall without a pass, staying after class to talk to a teacher—we don’t just increase security. We decrease opportunities for kids to practice self-regulation. A student who never has to make a choice about how to move through the school day will struggle when someone suddenly asks them to make a bigger choice. That’s not a theory. I see it every time a senior freezes in the parking lot because they’re not sure if they’re allowed to leave without waving at the office.
I’m not saying we should throw caution to the wind. But I think parents and teachers need to be honest about what’s being traded. A school that feels like a prison—even a “lowkey” one—creates a constant low-level stress. It’s not the kind that makes you jump when a door slams. It’s the kind that makes you stop thinking about the door altogether. It wears you down without a dramatic event. You just get quieter. More compliant. Less curious.
There are small things that help. One teacher I work with started a “soft start” for her first period: students come in, put their phones in a bucket, and choose from a basket of fidget toys or drawing supplies. It’s not a cure. But it gives kids five minutes where they aren’t being monitored, just welcomed. Another colleague lets students pick their own groups for projects at the beginning of each quarter, knowing they’ll pair up with friends and probably get less done. But he says it’s worth it because they feel a sliver of control.
For parents, I’d suggest asking your child about the feel of school, not just the logistics. Skip “How was your day?” and try something specific: “What’s one rule at school that feels unfair to you?” Then don’t jump in and explain why the rule exists. Just listen. You might hear about the locked bathrooms, the constant intercom announcements, or the fact that they can’t leave the cafeteria without a hall pass. Feeing heard is a real counterweight to feeling caged.
I’ll be honest: I don’t have an ending for this. The security measures aren’t going away. They’ll probably expand. Next semester, there’s talk about a new visitor system that requires a background check for every parent picking up a student. It’s meant to protect kids. I know that. But when I watch a first-grader walk through the metal detector with his backpack pressed tight against his chest like a blanket, I wonder what we’re really protecting them from.
Maybe this is just what school looks like now. Or maybe there’s a way to keep people safe without making kids feel like they’re on the inside of a cage. I’m still not sure. But I’m watching, and I’m asking questions, and I’m keeping an eye out for the small cracks of breathing room—the unlocked door at the back of the gym, the teacher who lets kids sit on the windowsill, the one day a month the principal cancels intercom announcements just to give everyone a break. Those cracks matter. They might be all we have for now.
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