My son's science project triggered a school lockdown. He built a radio.

My son's science project triggered a

school lockdown. He built a radio. My

son Kenzo spent the summer teaching

himself to build a working AM/FM radio

from scratch for his eighth grade

science fair. No kit, no instructions,

just YouTube tutorials, a $30 soldering

kit, and about a 100 failed attempts in

our garage. He soldered every circuit

himself, tested it for what felt like

ages in the garage, and nearly cried

when it finally picked up a signal. I

dropped him off at school early that

morning, feeling like the proudest dad

in the world. The call came at 10:47

a.m. I remember because I looked at the

clock when my phone buzzed and thought

it was too early for the science fair to

be over, but it wasn't the school

calling to tell me Kenzo won. It was the

front office, and the woman's voice was

shaking. There's been an incident. Your

son brought a device to school and we've

had to evacuate. We need you here

immediately. I broke about six traffic

laws getting there and when I turned

onto the street, I couldn't even get

close. Cop cars blocking every entrance.

Fire trucks and ambulance. Yellow tape

stretched across the parking lot like

someone had died. I parked on someone's

lawn and ran toward the school until an

officer grabbed my arm and told me I

couldn't go any further. My son is in

there. That's why you can't go in, sir.

The building is in lockdown. Because of

what? A student brought a suspicious

device. We're treating it as a potential

threat. It's a radio. He built it for

the science fair. The officer looked at

me like I just told him the sky was

green. He said they couldn't take

chances. That protocol was protocol. And

that I needed to wait behind the line

like everyone else. So, I waited. I

waited while parents around me panicked.

I waited while the news helicopter got

lower. I waited while a bomb squad van

rolled past me and parked right in front

of the gym doors. An hour passed. Then

two, then three, I called Kenzo's phone

so many times, it went straight to

voicemail. I called the office and got a

busy signal. I texted him, "I'm outside.

Everything will be okay." Even though I

had no idea if that was true. A mom next

to me was on the phone with a lawyer.

Another dad was screaming at a

firefighter. I just stood there watching

men in blast suits walk in and out of my

son's school. When they finally let

parents inside, a cop escorted me

directly to the principal's office. Dr.

Barrera was behind her desk, looking

like she'd rehearsed this moment. Kenzo

was in a plastic chair against the wall,

hunched over, arms wrapped around

himself like he was trying to disappear.

His eyes were red and puffy. He didn't

look up when I walked in. Dr. Barrera

started talking before I could even get

to my son. She explained that a security

guard had observed Kenzo setting up an

unidentified device with exposed wiring

and an antenna and had followed protocol

by alerting administration. She said the

device was emitting a signal that could

not be identified and that given the

current climate, they had no choice but

to treat it as a credible threat. I

asked if anyone had asked Kenzo what it

was. She said there wasn't time. They

had to prioritize student safety. I

asked where the project was now. She

paused and said the bomb squad had

neutralized it. I didn't know what that

meant until Kenzo finally spoke. They

broke it, Dad. They smashed it with a

robot and then cut it apart. They didn't

even turn it on. Two months of work gone

cuz nobody asked a single question. And

then Dr. Dr. Barrera folded her hands

and said we needed to discuss Kenzo's

role in the disruption. She said he had

failed to properly notify the school

about his project and that disciplinary

action might be necessary. I asked her

if she was joking. She said she was not.

My son was facing suspension for

building a radio. Before Dr. Barrera

could say another word, the office door

opened and a man in bomb squad gear

walked in. He was holding something in

his hand, a piece of circuit board with

wires hanging off it. What was left of

Kenzo's radio? Sergeant Delgado, he

said. Not to us, but to Dr. Barrera. And

I need you to explain to me why my team

just spent 4 hours responding to a

science fair project. Dr. Barrera

straightened up. The device had exposed

wiring and was emitting an unidentified

It's a radio. Delgato's voice was flat.

an AM/FM receiver. The kind kids build

for science fairs. The unidentified

signal was 98.7 FM. It was tuned to the

pop station. We destroyed this boy's

project while it was playing Taylor

Swift. He set the destroyed circuit

board on her desk. My daughter goes to

this school. She spent 3 hours on a

football field because nobody in this

building thought to ask a 13-year-old

what he built. He looked at me then at

Kenzo. I'm filing a report with the

district and the city. And if I hear one

word about this kid facing disciplinary

action, I'll make sure every news

station that was circling this building

today knows exactly what happened here.

Dr. Barrera didn't say anything. She

just stared at the burned out piece of

radio on her desk. The security guard

got transferred to a different school.

Kenzo rebuilt his radio from scratch and

took first place at the regional science

fair.