It has been almost exactly a month since I've written. Remembering myself a month ago, when I thought that perhaps we were living through an important moment in history...and then...George Floyd, Ahmad Arbery, Breonna Taylor...and nationwide outrage, now I know for sure that we are witnessing history being made, revolution being lived, and change being made.
Hope during a time of hopelessness. Unity in a time of separation. I want to write much more about the movement we are witnessing, and participating in right now. Tonight, I want to talk about remote teaching coming to a close.
This is my backyard on Friday afternoon, June 5th. I had just finished my last google meet class of the academic year.
The lilacs have just about gone by. The peonies are about to open. It almost feels like summer, and then again, it doesn't.
After all, for my entire childhood and most of my adult life, summer has been marked by the closing of school! Farewell rituals, end of year celebrations, watching a movie in class...The chance to do our dance in space one last time, move about in the push and pull of the classroom, to let ourselves feel joy and loss in a bittersweet moment of goodbyes. I always try to hold onto those moments, as the transition always hits me so hard...one day I am surrounded by hundreds of students, and the next, I am alone in my classroom, trying to regroup and plan for next year.
But this year...a grid of icons, muted and closed, staring back at me as I try to find the words to say goodbye. To thank them for their work, and for sharing of themselves, and making this journey with me. I feel awkward, and alone, and like I'm talking into a vacuum. I honestly don't know what to say, except that I miss my students, and I wish things could have been different, and "Have a good summer!". Instead of the eerie noiselessness in my classroom, I'm alone in my backyard with the plants and the breeze and a heartful of wondering.
Like many last days of school, it delivered both wings of relief and that cumbrous parcel of sorrow. Distance learning has been so, so hard, and I am glad that it is over, for now. But I won't stop thinking about all that was lost this spring, and the relationships built with all my students. Relationships that seemed to take on a strange, tacky and almost synthetic quality as we tried to reproduce those human interactions with online technology. Once upon a time I could tell if a student was having a bad day, or needed a little extra encouragement, or didn't understand what I saying simply by the way they looked up at me. Now, even though I was streaming directly into their households via the miracle of google meet, I felt clueless as to their daily existence, their real well being, and honestly, whether or not they were really learning anything. Distance learning felt just that: distant, and stale.
I surprised myself last week when I was running errands in Middlebury, and I happened to drive by the high school. As I approached, I felt the lump in my throat, and tears spring to my eyes. As I passed by the drive up to the school, much to my surprise, I melted into full on ugly-cry sobs. It occurs to me now that perhaps we are all grieving, and need to honor the grieving process for all that we've lost. And, in the light of much more serious problems facing our society and our culture right now, to grieve for my little island of purpose seems almost blasphemous. Feeling sorry for myself isn't something I am good at, it always feels to luxurious and self indulgent to warrant my emotional energy. But, perhaps taking a moment to take stock of the loss of school, and my teaching job as I knew it, is warranted.
And so I move to a phrase of reviewing student work, entering grades, reflecting with colleagues, and facing a summer at home with no child care! There are many other general life updates I'll post soon (including how we are navigating life, play dates, and seeing parents now that the proverbial spigot is opening!), and my non-stop fantasies about taking just a short trip to the beach...somewhere...anywhere!
Normally I would beginning planning for next year, and may begin to do so during our upcoming in-service days...but with so many unknowns at this point, it is hard to think about the fall without feeling really overwhelmed. I know we need to figure out how to do this better, how to make distance learning work for our students. But the double stress of possibly homeschooling kids again while managing distance teaching is enough to put me right over the edge again...for now I'm breathing and taking one day at a time.
Monday, June 8th
US cases: 1,938, 823
VT cases: 1,075
Hope during a time of hopelessness. Unity in a time of separation. I want to write much more about the movement we are witnessing, and participating in right now. Tonight, I want to talk about remote teaching coming to a close.
This is my backyard on Friday afternoon, June 5th. I had just finished my last google meet class of the academic year.
The lilacs have just about gone by. The peonies are about to open. It almost feels like summer, and then again, it doesn't.
After all, for my entire childhood and most of my adult life, summer has been marked by the closing of school! Farewell rituals, end of year celebrations, watching a movie in class...The chance to do our dance in space one last time, move about in the push and pull of the classroom, to let ourselves feel joy and loss in a bittersweet moment of goodbyes. I always try to hold onto those moments, as the transition always hits me so hard...one day I am surrounded by hundreds of students, and the next, I am alone in my classroom, trying to regroup and plan for next year.
But this year...a grid of icons, muted and closed, staring back at me as I try to find the words to say goodbye. To thank them for their work, and for sharing of themselves, and making this journey with me. I feel awkward, and alone, and like I'm talking into a vacuum. I honestly don't know what to say, except that I miss my students, and I wish things could have been different, and "Have a good summer!". Instead of the eerie noiselessness in my classroom, I'm alone in my backyard with the plants and the breeze and a heartful of wondering.
Like many last days of school, it delivered both wings of relief and that cumbrous parcel of sorrow. Distance learning has been so, so hard, and I am glad that it is over, for now. But I won't stop thinking about all that was lost this spring, and the relationships built with all my students. Relationships that seemed to take on a strange, tacky and almost synthetic quality as we tried to reproduce those human interactions with online technology. Once upon a time I could tell if a student was having a bad day, or needed a little extra encouragement, or didn't understand what I saying simply by the way they looked up at me. Now, even though I was streaming directly into their households via the miracle of google meet, I felt clueless as to their daily existence, their real well being, and honestly, whether or not they were really learning anything. Distance learning felt just that: distant, and stale.
I surprised myself last week when I was running errands in Middlebury, and I happened to drive by the high school. As I approached, I felt the lump in my throat, and tears spring to my eyes. As I passed by the drive up to the school, much to my surprise, I melted into full on ugly-cry sobs. It occurs to me now that perhaps we are all grieving, and need to honor the grieving process for all that we've lost. And, in the light of much more serious problems facing our society and our culture right now, to grieve for my little island of purpose seems almost blasphemous. Feeling sorry for myself isn't something I am good at, it always feels to luxurious and self indulgent to warrant my emotional energy. But, perhaps taking a moment to take stock of the loss of school, and my teaching job as I knew it, is warranted.
And so I move to a phrase of reviewing student work, entering grades, reflecting with colleagues, and facing a summer at home with no child care! There are many other general life updates I'll post soon (including how we are navigating life, play dates, and seeing parents now that the proverbial spigot is opening!), and my non-stop fantasies about taking just a short trip to the beach...somewhere...anywhere!
Normally I would beginning planning for next year, and may begin to do so during our upcoming in-service days...but with so many unknowns at this point, it is hard to think about the fall without feeling really overwhelmed. I know we need to figure out how to do this better, how to make distance learning work for our students. But the double stress of possibly homeschooling kids again while managing distance teaching is enough to put me right over the edge again...for now I'm breathing and taking one day at a time.
Monday, June 8th
US cases: 1,938, 823
VT cases: 1,075
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