Today was the first day of distance learning with 1 1/2 days of actual prep (learning different technological platforms through trial and error) and about 10 days to think about it. Yeah, I don't like it and neither do the students. All the grumbling they do throughout a normal day about school is just an ostentatious display of solidarity amongst them-- either that, or just a bad habit. Either way, they miss school. They miss me and their other teachers who love them, and they miss each other.
When the administration called me on the bus on my way home from the 8th grade trip just before Spring Break and told me to tell the students to take home all of their textbooks when they got off the bus at school, I half-thought he was kidding. I chuckled and thought, "Yeah, okay. Whatever." A lot happened in just 4 days while being cut off from the rest of the world.
As the reality of not returning to school began to sink in on me, I was just... angry. Very angry.
It eventually turned to Stoic as to not feel anything about it. Just do it. It doesn't matter why.
The general population is basically divided in to two camps on this issue: quarantine everyone or this is ridiculous. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it.
When I started interacting with my students through texts, group chats, YouTube videos, conference calls, and finally Zoom, they didn't discuss it, but I noticed how much the students are grieving their loss. I'm not even addressing what they will actually miss out on the school calendar but their immediate sense of being stripped away from their peers and their teachers and other staff members at school who impact their lives greatly-- with not much notice. No time to process or mentally prepare themselves. No time to say goodbye. This isn't like going into summer vacation which is a planned routine that they anticipate from the beginning. It's different.
I haven't broken down and wept yet. It's not time to worry yet, Atticus always says. But when I put it into words in conversations with those who this has directly affected, I get emotional. I will weep for the seniors. I will weep for the students who see school as their refuge. I have just a glimmer of hope yet that we will return to school in May for the last week and have some resolution to this mess and this school year. The seniors need it. The teachers need it. We are a small private school who doesn't technically fall under the state board of education's orders. We must follow state mandates, as to not break the law, but if the gathering rules are lifted, there's a chance.
As a teacher I suffer from this chain of events every year: I have my same students for 4 years in a row, 9th -12th grades. I invest so much of myself into them that I never want to give them up. Graduations are hard on me. Beginning a new school year is hard on me because it's always missing something-- the graduated seniors. It's a grieving process that doesn't really heal until about mid-September. It's like I finally decide to start over again with the new senior class and start pouring. It's a curious cycle. Not that I only focus on seniors... they are just more open to learn more about themselves and the world around them, outside of reading, writing, and arithmetic. They have their vessels and are collecting the wisdom that flows from our collected experiences as teachers. They are hungrier than the rest. The realization that this place called school has an expiration settles in on them and they start preparing themselves. Oh sure, they will complain due to the syndrome called senioritis and say how ready they are to be done... but they're not. Not in March anyway. It's not over. They aren't mentally ready to walk away just as we aren't ready to let them leave.
I just pray for closure to this school year. I promise you, reader, it's not going to come through group text messages or something like Zoom. And I know I'm being extremely selfish here. I know that my thin line of hope for this school year's end at my school is not possible for the thousands of public school seniors who have no hope of returning to say goodbye and close the longest chapter of their lives so far. It's so unfair, but I pray that they don't become bitter and carry it around with them until it becomes too heavy and crushes their souls, because the attitude of "Yeah, okay. Whatever," should be a short-lived stage of grief-- not a place to pitch a tent.
When the administration called me on the bus on my way home from the 8th grade trip just before Spring Break and told me to tell the students to take home all of their textbooks when they got off the bus at school, I half-thought he was kidding. I chuckled and thought, "Yeah, okay. Whatever." A lot happened in just 4 days while being cut off from the rest of the world.
As the reality of not returning to school began to sink in on me, I was just... angry. Very angry.
It eventually turned to Stoic as to not feel anything about it. Just do it. It doesn't matter why.
The general population is basically divided in to two camps on this issue: quarantine everyone or this is ridiculous. I get it. I don't like it, but I get it.
When I started interacting with my students through texts, group chats, YouTube videos, conference calls, and finally Zoom, they didn't discuss it, but I noticed how much the students are grieving their loss. I'm not even addressing what they will actually miss out on the school calendar but their immediate sense of being stripped away from their peers and their teachers and other staff members at school who impact their lives greatly-- with not much notice. No time to process or mentally prepare themselves. No time to say goodbye. This isn't like going into summer vacation which is a planned routine that they anticipate from the beginning. It's different.
I haven't broken down and wept yet. It's not time to worry yet, Atticus always says. But when I put it into words in conversations with those who this has directly affected, I get emotional. I will weep for the seniors. I will weep for the students who see school as their refuge. I have just a glimmer of hope yet that we will return to school in May for the last week and have some resolution to this mess and this school year. The seniors need it. The teachers need it. We are a small private school who doesn't technically fall under the state board of education's orders. We must follow state mandates, as to not break the law, but if the gathering rules are lifted, there's a chance.
As a teacher I suffer from this chain of events every year: I have my same students for 4 years in a row, 9th -12th grades. I invest so much of myself into them that I never want to give them up. Graduations are hard on me. Beginning a new school year is hard on me because it's always missing something-- the graduated seniors. It's a grieving process that doesn't really heal until about mid-September. It's like I finally decide to start over again with the new senior class and start pouring. It's a curious cycle. Not that I only focus on seniors... they are just more open to learn more about themselves and the world around them, outside of reading, writing, and arithmetic. They have their vessels and are collecting the wisdom that flows from our collected experiences as teachers. They are hungrier than the rest. The realization that this place called school has an expiration settles in on them and they start preparing themselves. Oh sure, they will complain due to the syndrome called senioritis and say how ready they are to be done... but they're not. Not in March anyway. It's not over. They aren't mentally ready to walk away just as we aren't ready to let them leave.
I just pray for closure to this school year. I promise you, reader, it's not going to come through group text messages or something like Zoom. And I know I'm being extremely selfish here. I know that my thin line of hope for this school year's end at my school is not possible for the thousands of public school seniors who have no hope of returning to say goodbye and close the longest chapter of their lives so far. It's so unfair, but I pray that they don't become bitter and carry it around with them until it becomes too heavy and crushes their souls, because the attitude of "Yeah, okay. Whatever," should be a short-lived stage of grief-- not a place to pitch a tent.
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