Consider this:

In the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that our nation seems to have expanded its definition of “hero.” It’s no longer reserved for firefighters, police officers, teachers, and all the folks who regularly put themselves on the frontlines of saving, helping, educating, and inspiring. Now, the word “hero” includes this chilling definition: “Kids who fight back before being shot to death at school.”

The moniker “hero” is, of course, apt. Anyone who confronts an active shooter is unfathomably brave, courageous, selfless, and truly heroic. Kendrick Castillo, the young man who died in Colorado last week tackling an armed classmate, is being described as legendary, extraordinary, and patriotic. I imagine his parents must be both utterly devastated and fiercely proud of their heroic son. What parent doesn’t want to raise a human being who is worthy of such a title?

Well, I don’t. Not any more. Sure, there was a time when “hero” was something I’d want my kids to aspire to be. If you’d asked me, I’d have said it meant they were, among other things, empathetic, ethical, loyal, and just. But in light of the new definition I see peppered throughout media reports of late, I don’t want my kids to be considered heroes.

Why? Because in our age of spiraling, ubiquitous gun violence, hero is a synonym for dead.

I haven’t yet found a graceful way to tell my strong, independent teenage boys I hope they’ll never, ever be heroes. I haven’t found the words to tell them that, if my worst fears come true, I want them to run and hide rather than heroically resist. I don’t have the semantic skills to say to each of them, for my sake, please save yourself.

The idea of uttering such words to my children is so soul-shattering, I have broached the topic only in the broadest of terms. “If you see or hear anything weird,” I’ll say with forced lightness, “get out of there fast. Don’t wait. Just go.”

Remember when kids didn’t have to do anything more “heroic” at school than listen and learn? Remember when they didn’t have to be alert to popping noises in auditorium, a disturbance in the hall, a random kid carrying a guitar case? They didn’t have to wonder if the classroom door locked securely, if a bookcase would serve as a barricade, or how many students could take cover in the supply closet at the back of the room.

When our kids are at school, I think they should be considered heroes simply for paying attention, respecting others, and doing their best. If they also manage to get good grades, help out in the community, read a few books, and set and clear the table each night, I consider them medal-worthy. Instead, now our children become heroes by bravely rushing an armed shooter and dying, senselessly, on a classroom’s cold, hard floor.

Heroic? Without a doubt. But also dead.

These days, when I say goodbye to my boys as they head out the door to school, I bite my tongue. I do not say what I’m thinking: “Please, my darlings, please do not be a hero today.”

This article appeared in the Marin Independent Journal