So, how are we all doing on this 37th day of January, 2021?
I just moved a pile of clean but unfolded laundry from my bed to the recliner in the living room because "I'll fold it in the morning." This is the second night I've done this. The same load of laundry. I've picked out socks and underwear and a shirt from this same sad pile for two days because I just cannot. I just shuffle it around. I'll deal with it tomorrow. Promise.
This has been a long, long week. And a hard one.
But I began this morning with yoga (I haven't missed a day in 2021, and I've come to realize that starting my day with it, rather than putting it off until later in the afternoon when there is more chaos in my household, has the potential to shape my approach to the day entirely). And by the time I sat down to log in and greet my students, I could breathe, and it made all the difference.
*
Not everything is terrible.
This week, a few struggling students who have been mightily disengaged or dealing with significant trauma reached out for help, and they have been back in class this week. They even engaged in the chat box. Last night I broke my own boundary of not responding to e-mail after a certain hour (so many of us working from home understand how easy it is to just work all the time; I know I have a hard time disengaging from working and planning and texting and e-mailing during all hours I am awake) and spent a good chunk of the evening communicating with a kiddo who just needs to see a path forward out of this moment. It's so hard, isn't it? To see the big picture, when you're trapped in the small one?
I hope she slept a little easier last night. We're all doing the best we can.
Today I held the viva voce with one of "my" seniors, and it was hands-down the best viva voce I've ever had the privilege of conducting in all my years as an IB educator. I'm still thinking about it hours later. I don't actually even teach seniors this year, but the IB Diploma students write an Extended Essay -- an extended and self-directed piece of research culminating in a 4,000 word paper -- and each student selects a faculty advisor to help them navigate this process. I had the privilege of working with a student I taught in sophomore English two years ago. She's a brilliant young woman and I miss having her in class, so much.
The viva voce is essentially an exit interview, a culmination of the better part of a year's worth of work. It's a mandatory part of the process. Sometimes, I suppose, it feels like a box to check. The advisor asks questions; the student reflects; the advisor takes notes and submits final comments.
But sometimes magic happens, and the student reflects on the process in such a gracious and wise way that the teacher might experience literal full body chills. Literal goosebumps. Because this. This! Is what we want for our students. This expansive grace. This insightful awareness of what matters. It's the process, not so much the product. It's the learning. It's letting the low moments pass and coming through them. It's getting the thing done. It's literally just DOING THE DAMN THING. And it's doing the damn thing in a Pandemic, no less. A year ago, I couldn't have imagined conducting the viva voce from my dining room table while she logged on in her bedroom. Today, we talked and talked and neither one of us wanted the interview to end. I'm so proud of her. And so humbled. She's one of many kids who have made me hungry to learn more and do more and just...soak it up, and listen, and maybe offer a few tiny writing suggestions before getting out of the way.
The magic of teaching is this: I learn more from my students than I could ever hope to teach.
And it's these students who give me hope. Especially now.
*
Two thoughts about hope: My hope should never be their burden to carry, and hope is not the same thing as optimism.
Rebecca Solnit writes that hope is "a belief that what we do might matter, an understanding that the future is not yet written...Hope looks forward, but it draws its energies from the past, from knowing histories, including our victories, and their complexities and imperfections."
Optimism, she asserts, assumes that all will go well without our effort.
Maybe that's what my friends and family mean when they say I shouldn't be so political. If only we were more quiet. If only we kept (white) folks more comfortable. Why can't we all just get along? God is in control!
*
I find it pretty horrifying -- though not surprising -- that there are still folks in my life who think that speaking out against white supremacy is too "political."
And I find it interesting that some of these folks were outspokenly contemptuous of Colin Kaepernick because he "disrespected" our flag, or our country. And I'm obviously bringing this up because I have seen NOT ONE SINGLE PERSON who expressed an opinion about "taking a knee" take a stand against last week's insurrection at the Capitol.
Not. One.
I wonder why? (No. I don't. I don't wonder why.)
If you think I'm referring to you...you're right. I am.
*
I guess I'll just go ahead and admit that I'm afraid for what might happen on Wednesday. My school district has already begun the process of planning ways to handle possible chaos, which should break all of our hearts. And if your heart isn't breaking, or if you're dismissing real and valid fear because you're "not political," then I'm curious: what does your heart look like? Which puzzle piece in Trump's broken America?
No comments:
Post a Comment