I tried to write about school last week, and I could not do it.
Do not -- do not -- ask me what I think will happen in September, because I am not capable of having that conversation. That's the conversation that makes me want to crawl under the covers and cry, and the collective tears cried by teachers in the last two months could fill all of the swimming pools in the country. Here's what we know: that it won't be anything resembling "normal." That's as far as I can go with that conversation. I do not want to talk about that right now.
Right now, I'm trying to breathe and figure out how in the hell I'm going to say good-bye to my seniors over Zoom. I don't know how to do that.
And this is perhaps something that needs to wait a few weeks, at least until I've tried to process the end of this school year, but I'm thinking about how to teach what I need to teach in a context I've never experienced. I don't know how it's possible. What I'm doing now? It isn't teaching. This. Isn't. Teaching. What I'm doing now will not work in September. I realized early on that I had to throw my planned content right out the window, along with the notion that kids would have either the motivation or the support to keep up with assignments that resembled anything I would give in a classroom; the important thing is keeping them connected through this trauma, because that is exactly what this is. It is the thing that matters. Connection, authentic connection, is the heart and soul of what I do. I don't know how to do that with kids online, especially kids I haven't locked eyes with in a classroom, in a shared physical space. (I have at least learned this about myself: I have zero interest in distance learning as a possible career path ever.) We've seen a lot about jobs that we now know can be done from home, and I am here to tell you that teaching is not one of them.
At least it's not something I can do from home, not forever, and while some kids probably do thrive in an independent setting, I don't believe that this is best for most of them. (This is maybe where I pause to jot down notes for future blog entries.) And I don't feel like I'm doing anything particularly well, even as I understand that most of us feel that way. And most of the time, I can extend that small grace to myself, perfectionist that I am. But then some days, I spend too much time on social media, which evokes all kinds of complicated emotions. I work with so many amazing people, and sometimes I have no idea how in the world I can keep up with them, even as I understand -- I do understand -- that it's not about that.
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The Hysteria of the Week, of course, is what schools will look like in September.
If you're not a teacher, I respectfully request that you stop speculating and panicking, and please don't use the widely-circulating "CDC guidelines" as fuel, which is an inaccurate portrayal without proper context of actual guidelines you can access on the CDC website. Be critical readers before you start announcing on Facebook that if this is how it's going to be, you're going to homeschool your kids! Or hire your own teachers!
(My friend/work wife and I have a thing for Venn diagrams. I wonder about the overlap between folks who claim they'll homeschool and folks who refuse to wear masks in public because they think they're oppressed by the government. I'm just guessing Shonda would say, "Doesn't that just look like a circle?")
(I was also honestly surprised to see so many "I'll just hire my own teachers" comments. What do those people think teachers are worth? And what do they think teachers do? I am genuinely curious.)
If you're panicking about what schools could like like and you're making assumptions (look, I'm absolutely guilty of this in all sorts of contexts! Sometimes we need to step back and breathe and listen!) and you're tossing out comments like, "That sounds like a concentration camp," please know that is not okay, ever. Why, WHY are so many folks doing this? Why? Am I just noticing it more because I'm a teacher and these are the sorts of things that make it onto my radar? Please take two seconds and consider your language. It is unacceptable to compare this situation and measures to keep people safe to the Holocaust, to slavery, to horrific tools of slaughter and oppression. Again, I suspect that these are the same folks who broadcast their refusal to wear masks, and it's unlikely that those folks are reading anything I write here because I hope (I fervently hope) that our circles don't overlap. But it's also my hope that any friends who are reading this who have friends who are posting these comments will have that conversation. We need to do better, together.
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If you're not a teacher, please know this: We're working really, really hard. I say this not to prove that we still deserve our paychecks (because I trust that intelligent folks who take two seconds to consider what it has meant to completely, completely rethink and redesign everything that we do to serve the kids we teach in a completely new context will understand this, and probably the other kind of person isn't reading this blog). We want to get back into the classroom as much as anyone, and we also want to keep everyone safe: our kids and every adult who works with them. We are not willing to offer up our kids or the folks who teach them as public health experiments.
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A week ago, I couldn't think about this and I couldn't write about this. I tried, and I just kept crying and raging and deleting. Tonight, I'm grieving the end of the school year and all the things we're missing with our kids. I'm anxious and worried about what school might look like as my own daughter's eighth grade year ends without the closure and celebration we'd hoped for, and as she begins high school in a new school without her friends, much less any sense of what school will actually look like for her. For any of us.
But I'm also heartened sometimes. My own students have given me thoughtful feedback about what what works and what they need. They have shown great resilience and kindness. They've grappled with what it means to balance our needs with the needs of our community. They've made me so proud, and they're exactly the reason I'm doing my damndest to weather the now and trust that I'll eventually be lucky enough to share physical space with them again, when we can look into each other's eyes when we talk about what matters. When that doesn't have to happen through a screen.
They're imagining a more hopeful future, and, as always, adults could stand to follow their lead. Tomorrow is promised to none of us, and I am frequently anxious about what the future holds. But the world happens to all of us, and the only way to move through it is to remember we're doing it together. Our hearts might be broken, but our resolve isn't.
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