I went back to work today. Correction: Today I went back to the building I USED to work in, before we embarked on this crazy ‘teaching from home’ experiment.
When we first found out about the closure, many of us struggled to answer the question, “How will we move our classrooms online?” Inevitably, the answer was, “We’re not sure… but we’ll make it work.”
Teachers began to gather resources and collaborate virtually and create shared documents for ideas. We were slightly comforted by the direction that we weren’t required to present new material; only review to keep kids connected and engaged.
When our district made the choice to move from optional, flexible online review to something more permanent and structured, the panic set in a little. How would we manage teaching with our own small kids at home? What would the schedule look like? What about kids without access? Struggling learners? We had so many questions, and not enough answers. Once again, most conversations ended with some version of, “We’re going to have to make it work.”
Administration offered us the chance to come in and gather our materials. Teachers signed up for time slots. No more than ten of us could be in the building at once, and we had 15 minutes to gather what we needed and head back home. We were asked to respect social distancing and not to gather and chat.
I joked with some friends that this time would feel like the game show, “Supermarket Sweep.” I expected it to feel a little frantic and silly.
It did not.
I had prepared myself with a list of materials to gather. I had brought along milk crates and bags to load up. I reminded myself to grab my hand sanitizer (purchased with my own money, for those who are concerned). I thought I was ready for the task.
But what I had not prepared for was the wall of emotion that hit me when I walked into my classroom. The date and a graphic organizer were still written on the board. Completed work sat in the bins to be corrected. My planbook was on my desk, filled with notes and ‘to-do’ lists that were no longer relevant. This space got frozen in such an optimistic time. We had all expected to come back the next day and continue learning and working in this little community we had built.
As I gathered materials, I came across lessons and projects that are a part of our classroom traditions. The popsicle sticks to build a Trojan Horse- a project the kids look forward to each year that won’t happen for this particular class. The poetry library that I won’t be able to share with them. The Holocaust Unit that is too intense and emotional to teach virtually.
I hadn’t fully considered these losses until that moment, and the ache moved from my heart to my throat. I cried.
The empty hallways and empty classrooms were further reminders of what we’ve lost. A few teachers exchanged awkward greetings in the halls, staying a full 15 feet apart and pretending that everything is okay.
As much as virtual teaching and learning is a struggle, thinking about what we’ve lost is even harder. Today, I’m going to let myself mourn a little. And tomorrow, I’ll unpack all those materials and do my best to figure out how to do amazing things with my students in a totally different format. Because that’s what we do.
We’re teachers. We make it work.