FORT LAUDERDALE, Fla. — After the carnage that took 17 lives at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School one year ago, few in the halls and classrooms of the Parkland school walked away with the toxic mix of emotions that weigh on Ernie Rospierski.

The 37-year-old social studies teacher lost six students he considered his own that day as gunfire ricocheted around him through the hallway chaos on the third floor of Building 12. It might have been more had Rospierski, with an 18-month-old son at home, not put himself between the shooter and the students, sending them fleeing toward a stairwell exit.

Grazed by two bullets, the burly former rugby player then pressed himself against the stairwell door, denying the gunman’s attempts to open it as Rospierski watched the last students help a seriously injured friend down the final steps to safety. No more children were shot that day.

“Ernie Rospierski is an unsung hero,” said the chairman of the state commission investigating the MSD shooting.

Rospierski does not allow himself that title, his memory of what transpired outside Room 1249 a storm of conflicting emotions. He reluctantly accepts the satisfaction of having helped most of the students with him reach safety, something he says any Douglas teacher would have done.

But this is balanced by regret at having forgotten his keys when the door locked behind him during what he thought was a fire drill, trapping Rospierski and his students outside the shelter of their classroom. Some were shot and killed while huddled in the alcove by the door, others while trying to run. When he held the stairwell door, as the gunman peered through the glass and jiggled the handle, one of his students lay mortally wounded at Rospierski’s feet.

And yet, somehow, he has reached a standoff with the darkest elements of the nightmare. Despite having to walk past a fenced-off Building 12 each day, through passages once sealed by police tape, seeing the faces of students and faculty who also witnessed bloodshed, Rospierski has been able to rekindle the optimism that has made him such a popular teacher at the school.

“Is it something that I’ve played over in my head? Yeah, a couple of times. But I’ve also been very careful to avoid the what-ifs. Dealing with what happened is enough as it is,” Rospierski says. “That stuff, from that day, is never gonna leave me. And I’m OK with that. I’ve made my peace with that stuff.”

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Garrulous and charismatic, the Michigan-raised Rospierski is well schooled, but speaks with the unadorned vernacular of a man adept at making complex ideas understandable. He’s a teacher, an educator. Even as the definition of what a teacher is evolves, he’ll tell you there is no higher calling.

“I did what I think any person who I consider a friend would do,” says Rospierski, remembering the teachers who acted forcefully, fearlessly, selflessly as bullets flew around them, to protect not just their own students, but any student in Building 12.

Geography teacher Scott Beigel, died in the doorway of his third-floor classroom while helping kids get inside. English teacher Stacey Lippel was wounded while pulling student Madalyn Snyder from the line of fire at the last second.

Another friend, athletic director Chris Hixon, ran toward the gunfire, confronting the gunman in the first-floor hallway, where he was fatally shot. About 30 seconds later popular coach Aaron Feis stood in front of the gunman and was shot and killed.

It is in honor of those individuals and their extraordinary actions that Rospierski lives his life. More so than ever, he is a teacher who is also a role model, confidante and cheerleader.

“I know I was very lucky. I know that not everyone around me was. And that’s terrible. But, I’m here, so I’ve got to make the most of it. Otherwise them not being here is even a greater loss,” Rospierski says.

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From the moment the first shots were fired down the hall on the third floor of Building 12 until the gunman stepped away from the stairwell door that Rospierski was blocking, 63 seconds elapsed, according to the final report of the state’s Marjory Stoneman Douglas Public Safety Commission.

Surveillance footage and pictures show Rospierski’s movements with the students, from the alcove outside Room 1249 and, in the seconds the shooter stopped to reload, their flight into the stairwell. Rospierski, who now keeps his keys on a retractable cord at his hip, says that by the time he discovered he didn’t have his keys, he was being shot at.

He has made a point to avoid seeing the video.

“Given the situation I was in, I think I did as best as I could have, in a god-awful situation,” he says. “I don’t ever want to see the tape, but from what the guys who did the investigation for the commission said, by the time he was in the hallway and shooting down, I was by my door. So I don’t know if I would have been able to open it up and get the kids inside safely anyway.”

The report includes a photograph taken from a video inside the stairwell, showing Rospierski, still holding his class roster and other emergency paperwork, braced against the door, out of sight of the gunman, who is seen looking through a small window.

The shooter tried to push through the door three times, says Rospierski, who gives partial credit to the cheap shoes he was wearing — “I’m a teacher, after all” — that had a flimsy sole that caught under the door.

The picture of the gunman looking through the window in the door as Rospierski blocks him is saved on his computer as a reminder.

“If I’m having a bad day or think I’m having a bad day, I look at that and say, ‘Today wasn’t that bad,’” he says.

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Rospierski’s most effective mental health tool since the day of the shooting has been something that comes naturally: talking about it. He talks with his wife, Douglas teacher and coach Andrea Kowalski-Rospierski, friends, clergy and professionals. And he speaks openly with Douglas students about what happened, urging them to share their feelings with others.

“Talking to him reassures me that the feelings I have are normal,” says student Kyle Laman, the severely wounded student who escaped the stairwell while Rospierski held the door.

For a school community and a city still healing, Rospierski represents one way forward on the first anniversary of the tragedy.

“When we came back … I was like, ‘Guys, let’s do it. We can do this. We can get through it,’” he says. “I tried to model the best behavior that I could. To show them what I expected from them. What I want them to try and do. If they needed to talk, I was there to talk. If they wanted to sit there and color, I’d sit there and color with them. Why? Because it was cathartic for me, too.”

The stress level that steadily dissipated at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School over the past 12 months has been on the rise with the approach of Feb. 14.

“The anniversary is difficult. It’s been very, very difficult. There’s a lot, a lot of emotion. It’s raw. And it seems to be coming back,” says MSD teacher Amy Kenny, a close friend of Rospierski and his wife. “How does that manifest itself? Things like kids coming to me crying before class, ‘I’m having too much anxiety. I can’t do this today. Can I go to the wellness center?’ … There are many more tears.”

Once an English teacher, Kenny became a part-time yoga instructor at Douglas four years ago. She’s now a full-time yoga teacher, making Douglas the only school in Broward County to offer yoga as a full-time course, Kenny says. Her six classes, with 45-50 students each, are filled to capacity.

In the wake of the shooting, Kenny adapted her classes to the circumstances, replacing more physical movement with a focus on meditation and mindfulness. She says it was difficult for some students to sit quietly, with their eyes closed, alone with their thoughts.

An hour before the shooting, Kenny led a yoga class outside the 1200 Building.

“When I walk by that building I literally feel like the ground will open up and swallow me if I stay too long,” she says. “That’s me — and I’m an adult. I’m a well-adjusted adult who has all kinds of techniques, and I’m a yoga teacher. So, then, you have to wonder about these kids. The triggers are everywhere.”

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Rospierski has a barely perceptible scar on his face where a bullet flew past his cheek, and another mark where he was hit in the hip, a wound he only noticed the next morning in the shower (later discovering bullet fragments in his pants). He created a more permanent reminder on the back of his right calf — a large tattoo of an eagle, the school mascot, with “MSD” and “9/17” layered over it, a memorial to his six students and three faculty friends among the 17 victims.

“There’s a reason why that tattoo that I got is on the back of my leg,” he says. “It’s not easy to see. But it’s always gonna be there. It’s like the people that I lost on that day. They’re always gonna be there for me.”

It never occurred to Rospierski not to go back to school, though some days are harder than others.

“Am I good, most days? Yeah. But am I healed 100 percent? No. There are still days when it’s not easy being on campus. There are still days when getting out of bed and going to school is rough. But I try to get out of bed and get it done, because A) my kids need me, and B) I need them,” Rospierski says. “No matter what my biggest complaint is, it seems small compared to those people who don’t have those complaints anymore. That little bit of perspective always humbles me right back up.”

The experience has strengthened the bond between Rospierski and his 242 students, including several he did not know before the shooting, he says.

“I got a lot of hugs, and lots of thank yous. That’s all I need,” he says. “I talk to all those kids all the time, especially the kids that were in the hallway with me. They stop by all the time to check to see how I’m doing.”

Kenny is not surprised that students gravitate toward Rospierski’s positive outlook.

“He’s a resilient person. That’s who he is. He uses the tools that he has in his tool box and he just remains positive and forward thinking, moving forward and thinking forward about that half-full glass,” she says.

Among the students Rospierski keeps in close contact with is Kyle Laman, who has undergone multiple surgeries on the right ankle ripped apart by a bullet. They’ve spoken about the day of the shooting a few times, but have moved on to other subjects. Kyle also has a study-hall class with Rospierski’s wife.

“Mr. Rospierski helps me in so many ways. Sometimes he sees that I am in a funk and distracts me by talking about things like jets and fishing,” Kyle says. “I always know I can turn to him when I need to, and that helps me while being back at school. Some days are hard for me to be there, but he and a couple of other teachers and staff members always help me when I need it.”

Rospierski says Kyle seems to be on the right track. “His parents are doing a good job of keeping him talking to people. He’s got a pass to come see me anytime he wants,” he says.

Questions from students about the day of the shooting and the victims are inevitable, and Rospierski says he tries to answer honestly. But he is careful to remind his audience that those lost should not be defined by the shooting.

“My memories of the people aren’t of that day. My memories of Jaime (Guttenberg, who was at his feet in the stairwell), of Peter (Wang, also shot while running to the stairwell) aren’t the last time I saw them. It’s the first time I saw them. Or the first time I got them to smile. Or the first time I got them to be in my room and be comfortable,” he says.

Rospierski says he recently had a 40-minute study-hall conversation with a student who was thinking about a friend, Luke Hoyer, killed in the shooting, and conflicted about how to honor him on the anniversary.

“I told him the biggest thing for you is to be with people,” he says. “Be with people and talk. Tell stories about Luke. Don’t make it sad. Yes, it sucks, you’re missing your friend. Luke played sports, you liked to argue about sports, so go do that. Get your friends together, and go do the stuff you would do with Luke.”

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Room 1249 was filled with the personal items Rospierski displayed to make the space a reflection of its occupant. The room remains as it was a year ago. Rospierski, now based in a portable classroom, is looking forward to getting his stuff.

The items include a podium his father made, a first edition of John Jakes’ “The Bastard” from his Aunt Darlene, and an assortment of maps from trips the former geography teacher took to Rome, Vienna, Munich and other cities. The maps were a conversation starter, an illustration of what the future might hold for his students.

“I put the maps up to get them interested in travel. The maps are in different languages, so the kids would ask me questions about them. And it worked every year,” Rospierski says.

Also still in the room are a trove of souvenirs that students gave Rospierski, simple items that he prizes beyond their cost, like the sea turtle magnet from the Bahamas that is stuck to a filing cabinet next to his desk. It came from Luke Hoyer.

Rospierski is spending this week traveling himself. He was among the victims who received compensation from the Broward Education Foundation, and immediately booked a trip to Rome.

He and his wife recently celebrated their 10th wedding anniversary, and the trip will serve as the honeymoon they never had, but he admits the timing is not accidental. A Catholic, Rospierski will spend the anniversary of the shooting at the Vatican.

“I know I’m going to have to have a pocketful of Euros to light candles in St. Peter’s, and remember the people that way,” he says. “I’ll ask whoever is watching over me to go check on ’em, see how they’re doing.”

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