Sometimes it's hard to know how to dress for a walk at this time of year. Late April in the Pacific Northwest is often gorgeous, with bright blue skies and soft breezes, but it's been a cold and dry spring; sometimes sunny days hide a biting wind. Last week I thought the afternoon was warm enough for a thin, long-sleeved shirt and I shivered through the first two miles. A few days later I wore a t-shirt and a hoodie and wound up with sweat trickling down my back before tying the hoodie around my waist and arriving back home with a sunburn.
This morning, I taught through a drizzle that turned to rain. My classroom door was propped open, because it always is; the district has provided air purifiers to classrooms, but my broken window is still broken and my unventilated building is still full of mold. I'd likely have left my door open, COVID or no COVID, because I like fresh air and I love the smell of spring.
(I've missed the sound of a steady spring rain outside my classroom door, singing across the tops of the covered walkways. I won't miss the broken concrete sidewalks when we move into our new building in the fall, but I will miss the sound of rain.)
The rain tapered off throughout the morning. When Suzannah I arrived at home before lunch it had stopped completely, and by the time I'd signed out of afternoon office hours the sun was peeking through the clouds. My son went outside to blow bubbles; Suzannah bounced a basketball in the driveway. I shut down my laptop, put it away, changed my clothes and pulled my hair into a ponytail, and headed outside to walk the streets of my neighborhood like I've done almost every single day since March of 2020.
And I was cold at first. Five minutes into my walk I have the choice to walk down the hill to the edge of the water or up the hill for more panoramic views that take me through the streets overlooking Puget Sound. Both are lovely, but I chose to walk uphill, away from the wind, and soon I found myself sweating as the clouds dissipated. The water was a brilliant blue, and everything was blooming. I wished I'd brought sunglasses.
I turned on to a shaded side street, and this time I relished the cool breeze.
So much can change in an hour. In a month. In a year.
*
I wake up early, like I always do, but instead of reading on the couch in the pre-dawn light before my family rises, I shower and dress right away. I put on jeans instead of lounge pants underneath my shirt. I do not drink coffee at the dining room table while I prep for the day; I don't drink coffee at all, actually, unless I pull through my favorite coffee stand on the way home before lunch. Which I do. Partly because I love coffee, even if I have to wait until after ten o'clock in the morning to drink it, and partly because I miss the familiarity of that routine. This week I pulled up to the window and the barista cried, "You're back!" And she still knows my order, even after all this time.
My daughter is also an early riser, so there are no morning battles. She gets herself up, dressed, and fed, and the two of us are ready to leave the house an hour before she can check in for her daily health attestation. This is the life of a teacher's kid. We drive to school together and she hangs out in my classroom with me until it's time for her to check in, pick up her laptop for the day, and head to class.
I didn't expect that we'd be back in the building this year, because COVID continues to spread, school districts continue to be less than transparent about reporting, and we continue to learn. But here we are. We have two classes on campus in the morning, followed by an hour break for lunch and travel time, and two classes in the afternoon. On Thursdays and Fridays, we switch. Each class meets on campus twice a week, for those students who have chosen the hybrid model. Teachers manage both at the same time. Or we try. Two weeks in, and I'm still spinning. How can I make everyone feel included? How can I teach in-person from behind a desk, six feet away? How can I teach sitting down, through a screen? How can I do both, at once, and let them all know they matter? I have never been a teacher who sits while she teaches. Teaching energizes me; it calls me outside of myself. Forcing that energy through a screen, or through a mask from a distance, feels impossible.
But it also brings me life, even now. Because the alternative is -- what? Not teaching?
*
We made it three whole days into Hybrid before we had to quarantine a few classes due to a positive COVID case on campus. And I know perfectly well how many "friends" on social media think that quarantining, at this point, is an overreaction, and masks are merely "virtue signaling." I wonder how many of those folks have sat with a student (even virtually) who lost a grandparent -- or a parent -- to COVID. (For the record, I can't think of anyone even semi-close to me who has died from the flu, and certainly not multiple people. Just saying. For those of you who keep saying it's no worse, no different than the flu.) I wonder how many of those folks have lost a friend, or worried about a child. I wonder how many of those folks actually care about anyone other than themselves and their -- rights? Is that really the word we're using? Is this toxic individualism, or is it ignorance? Does it matter?
My son is still fully remote and will be through the end of the year. He isn't "muzzled" (and if you've used that word to describe children wearing masks, you're an asshole). He's thriving with his absolutely wonderful teacher and his classmates, and he -- as an eleven-year-old -- understands that sometimes we make sacrifices to keep other people safe. I wish more adults did.
My son also went into sudden and total kidney failure when he was little and we spent some time at Mary Bridge Children's Hospital. He has a clean bill of health now, but since we're seeing a lot of "oh, well, they had an underlying condition" comments regarding kids and COVID, you'd best believe I am not fucking around with that. You'd also best believe that if you're one of the folks who says, "If you're scared, YOU stay home!" then I think you're the very worst of humanity. (If we're friends on social media, I literally have no idea why. I keep saying this, and folks keep not believing me.)
As a teacher called back to the classroom -- a place I belong -- I understand exactly why our kids need to be back in school. I do not understand folks who are outraged about sending their kids to school in masks. Look, none of us love them (though they are nice when it's freezing outside, or when one has a zit on one's chin), but decent human beings understand that being uncomfortable sometimes is the very smallest price to pay for someone's life, or even for someone's well-being. Unless you're an asshole.
*
Years of journals reveal that I always think that May is the worst month to be a teacher. This is from 2017:
There is something about this time of year that I love, even when it's hard, even when I say (and mean) that May is the worst month to be a teacher, so far from the romance of September. Everyone is so done. But also, the promise of summer, of long, languid afternoons spent sprawled on the patio with a book and a glass of iced tea while the kids run through the sprinkler -- it's still just around the corner, far enough away that I'm not yet afraid of it slipping through my fingers. The anticipation is delicious, and it's just close enough.
Even in a Pandemic Year. There is something about this time of year that is awfully sweet, despite everything. And in this Pandemic Year, something about being back on campus after a full year away is more than that. Maybe it's everything. And for six weeks, I can do anything.
And it is not lost on me that I am lucky to teach exactly where I am. That I am lucky enough to raise my kids in this community.
*
Teaching, right now, feels a bit like going on long walks in late spring, in a strange year. I never really know what to wear. I'm freezing, and then I'm dripping sweat down my back. I pass a lot of friendly neighbors, folks I feel I've gotten to know over the past year. I know who walks their dog early in the morning, who jogs, who takes ambling afternoon walks, who mows their lawn on Wednesdays instead of Saturdays. And then there's the glaring man in the house that, until a few weeks after the storming of the Capitol, displayed a huge "NO MORE BULLSHIT, TRUMP 2020" flag that covered half his siding. In February, he replaced the flag with what looks like a tiny Trump bumper sticker in his window, but he still stands in his yard, smoking a cigar and glaring.
A year ago, I couldn't have imagined this. A year ago, I couldn't process the possibility that we wouldn't be back in school September. I couldn't imagine my fourth grade son not setting foot inside a classroom before middle school; I mourned my little girl's lost freshman year.
I roll with it, as well as I can. If the last year has taught me anything, it is that the world happens to all of us, and all things considered, we are senselessly privileged. I can't control the anti-mask assholes; I can't control much of anything, really. But I can try my damndest to advocate for and protect my family. I can try my damndest to serve my students, knowing full well that I can't give them enough of what they need.
I have no idea how to effectively use multiple screens, cameras, or any other tricks to engage both in-person and remote learners at the same time and make them realize that they are a class and a community, together. I can only hope that the energy I try to project shows them that they matter.
We have six weeks left. In a Pandemic Year, that's enough for teachers to admit that they're exhausted and done, and the same is true for our kids. But the pandemic isn't their fault, either, and they still deserve our best.
And to be clear: that doesn't mean our best teaching, because that isn't possible in this context. But maybe we can give something else. Maybe we can extend grace to our kids, and to each other. Maybe we can hang on to the reasons we're here to begin with. Maybe we can take what we've learned from this year and make ourselves better. I need to believe that all is not lost.
*
I walked and walked after school today, trying to clear my head through sunshine and clouds, spatters of rain and fresh breezes. I was chilled, and then I was too hot. I waved at friendly faces and ignored the one who wasn't.
The air smelled like heaven.
