Category: Reflections

I have friends who are strictly quarantining… like “don’t leave your house” quarantining.  And they’re pretty adamant about how important it is, because Covid is literally killing people.  It’s terrifying.  I understand. 

I also have family who are in the “You gotta live your life.  We could all get hit by a bus tomorrow.”  And I understand that, too.  Living in perpetual fear feels like wasting a precious gift.  

Ultimately, I think I fall somewhere in the middle… like most of us probably do.  

Let me be clear… I’m a rule-follower.  Teachers generally are.  If there is a law or a regulation or a mandate, that’s not debatable.  Wear your masks.  No large gatherings.  No more than 10 people in your home.  If you live in a place where there are rules, you follow the rules.  

But I’ve been thinking a lot about how your privilege plays into your more subjective Covid choices. 

I am a middle-class white woman who spent her formative years in a trailer park.  My people are blue-collar people, but I’ve found myself in an upper-middle class suburb of Boston, often baffled by the entitlement that surrounds me.  

And I’m a little ashamed to admit, that entitlement is often mine to own.  I was exposed to Covid at work about 10 days ago.  I didn’t find out until Sunday night, so I’ve basically been self-quarantining for 3 days.  And I have four days to go.  

I’m not considered a close contact, because (although I spend 30 hours a week with this kid), I had no contact in the 48 hours before his positive test.  I’ve chosen to self-quarantine, but I’m not required to.  Ugh.  The privilege.    

I’ve ordered my groceries on Instacart.  Even with my subscription, that costs about $50 a week more than it would if I just went to the store.  Luckily, I can afford it now.  Ten years ago, I would have had to haul my ass to the grocery store.  

I’m pretty set on Christmas gifts, which is another change for us.  Up until a few years ago, we did much of our shopping on Christmas Eve, when my husband got his bonus check.  

I can work from home because I have reliable internet and I could afford to purchase a Wi-Fi booster that allows four of us to Zoom at the same time in our house.  And we’re blessed to have a home with enough space to have four people on virtual meetings without shouting over each other. 

Regardless of our privilege, we’ve all had to make our Covid rules.  We’ve all had to weigh the risks and benefits to each of our interactions.  And here’s where I landed.  I allow each of my children to socialize with two friends.  For my oldest, her two closest friends have already had Covid, and whether it’s reliable or not, I feel like they’re less of a risk to our family.  My middle child conquers depression and social isolation on a good day; during Covid, it’s a constant battle to balance his mental and physical health.  He spends time with two close friends, primarily because his risk of dying by suicide is much higher than his risk of dying by Covid.  My youngest spends time masked, outdoors, with two friends whose parents are incredibly Covid-conscious.  We purposely don’t see family who are at risk.  

Those are the Covid rules in our house.  They’re much stricter than the state guidelines.  They’re much looser than a strict quarantine.  But that’s where we landed, after assessing the risks.  

We could all argue about acceptable levels of risk. Nothing is fool-proof. If you follow all the state guidelines, is that enough?  Should we all be doing more? Are grocery stores really safe?  Are schools?  Family gatherings?  Who counts as family?  My stepsons don’t live with us.  We haven’t seen them in 9 months.  Is that reasonable?  Necessary?  Reasonable people could argue different perspectives on this.

But I think there is a missing piece in this conversation, and it has to do with class and privilege. 

Just imagine a few scenarios.

Number one is an upper-middle class family.  Both parents are professionals, banned from the office and working from home.  Kids may go to school from home, or maybe part time.  This family orders their groceries and occasionally orders restaurant take-out. They go for walks and play in their yard and interact with friends and family virtually.  

Number two is a middle class family. The father is a cop and the mom is a nurse.  The kids go to school part time and when they’re not in school, they’re part of a small learning ‘pod’ where a few families share childcare responsibilities.  They order groceries when they can, but they also take some masked trips to the store when needed.  The kids’ soccer teams still play, masked and distanced, so they get some exercise and maintain social connections. 

Number three is a struggling family.  A single mom, working at a grocery store.  While she works, her two kids are in daycare.  Ordering groceries is cost-prohibitive, so mom shops with her coupons on the weekends.  Elder care is unaffordable, so the grandmother lives in their small apartment, with family pitching in to provide supervision and care.  

When I imagine these scenarios, it becomes impossible to judge other people’s choices. 

I think about the teachers and cops and nurses I know.  Each of us is ‘required’ to accept a certain level of risk. Because we’re ‘essential,’ we feel obligated to accept these risks, and we do.  Teachers interact with hundreds of students a day.  Police intervene when people refuse to follow regulations.  Nurses hold the hands of dying patients, knowing they’re putting themselves at risk. 

And in my mind, the key point is this….

How can we encourage these ‘essential’ employees to take on unimaginable risks to protect us and provide for us, and then ALSO expect them to share the risk perspective of the privileged?  

How can we expect a nurse to hold the hand of a Covid patient, and then judge her for having coffee with a friend?  How is one of those risks acceptable, and the other is not? 

How can we ask a teacher to work with 300 students during the day, and then not allow one child in her home in the evening?  

How can we ask police officers to tolerate being spit on and assaulted and then tell them that a beer around a fire pit is too risky?  

How can we expect a single mother to interact with hundreds of people at work and expose her children to dozens of children at daycare and then tell her she can’t ask a relative to come to her home to help with her aging mother?  

I keep hearing about ‘the science.’  And I have to say, I think that’s too simplistic.  Because human nature is so much more complex than that.  It’s not about whether you ‘believe’ in COVID or not. 

If the risk you are FORCED to accept professionally is greater than the risk you’re ALLOWED to accept personally, there’s bound to be a disconnect. 

That’s where I find myself.  I’m trying to make decisions that put my family and my community at the least risk… given the risk I’ve been forced to assume.  

I find myself in the same position as everyone I know.  Trying to make the best decisions I can. 

And reminding myself over and over again, that judging other people’s choices is not my responsibility… and it shouldn’t be my privilege.  

The school where I teach was closed for most of the week.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  The school was closed to students for most of the week.  

The health team identified a case of possible in-school transmission of COVID, so they shut down for three days.  Students switched to a remote learning model.  But teachers needed to be in the building.  I taught my classes, sitting at my desk, wearing my mask and my coat.  And I’m kinda pissed.  

I’m not pissed at my principal or my superintendent.  I’m not pissed at my union reps or the school administration.  I’m pissed about the plethora of OPINIONS out there that impact MY ability to do my job.  

When the teachers asked why we needed to be in the building (we already teach from home one day a week), the answer was, “The taxpayers like to see your cars in the parking lot.”  No joke.  

So when our custodians SHOULD be deep-cleaning an empty building, instead, they have to deal with all the doorknobs and handles we’ve touched.  They have to disinfect in the evenings after we leave.  They have to re-wash everything they’ve already washed. 

Three teachers work in my classroom.  We need to remain masked all day.  We’re each hosting different zoom classes, so we don our headphones and shout over each other, literally tethered to our computers. The masks make it even harder to communicate with our students over glitchy connections and mediocre technology. 

If we have a five minute break, there is nowhere to go.  We don’t visit or talk with each other.  Everyone has a sign on their door, stating “Zoom Class in progress.  Please do not disturb.”  The teacher’s room is sad and lonely.  Nobody sits there anymore.  There are three labeled, socially distant spots to sit in case you don’t want to eat in your classroom.  They are almost never in use.  

To help with ventilation, we’ve been told to keep our windows open at all times.  This is not a suggestion.  It’s an expectation.  Regardless of winter temperatures, the windows stay open.  On really cold days, we wear our coats.  One of my partner teachers brings a blanket to work when the kids aren’t there.  We dress in layers and wish we could at least move around… but we are stuck in front of these computers, trying our best to communicate through the noise and the masks and the cold.  

When I teach from home, I have a great little set up.  I have a document camera that allows me to take notes or explain concepts in real time.  I have a desk in the corner of my bedroom with a white board and a stack of middle grade novels and resources.  I can light a candle and sip my coffee and teach without shouting over other people in the room.  When I have a five-minute break, I can chat with my kids or switch a load of laundry or pet my dog.  My workspace is warm and I can smile and laugh with my students, unhindered by a mask over my face.  

I know that’s not the case for all teachers.  Some much prefer to be in the classroom while they teach.  They should have that option.  But requiring teachers to physically be in the building when students are not?  That’s demeaning and punitive. 

We are educated professionals.  Educated professionals all over the country are working from home.  Working from home doesn’t make any employee less accountable.  If you don’t do your job, there should still be consequences.  Systems for evaluation should still be in place.  Actual, effective supervision is still possible.  

So when you drive by a school with no students and a full parking lot?  That’s not proof that teachers are hard at work.  It’s proof that a lot of unfounded, uneducated opinions won out over the voices of the teachers in the trenches.  It’s proof that educators are being treated like children. It’s proof that a visible car in the parking lot is more important than the health and well-being and safety of the teachers who care for and educate your children.

And maybe you should be pissed, too.

It’s 7am, and I’m sitting in my backyard with a cup of coffee and my computer.  The leaves are starting to change, and there’s a chill in the air.  My hair is pulled back and still damp from my shower, so there’s a spot on the back of my neck that’s just slightly cooler than the rest of me. I’m wearing my gray crocks; the ones that relieve my foot pain and provide just the right amount of cushioning under my feet.  They feel like a guilty pleasure because I only wear them in my house.  They’re too ugly to be seen in public, but I love them anyway.  I take a sip of my cinnamon coffee and breathe in.  The air is cool but heavy.  There’s a humidity that reminds me that summer could reappear at any moment.  I pull my softest sweatshirt over my hands, slipping my thumbs through the thumb-holes.  I love a sweatshirt with thumb-holes, and this recent second-hand find is my new favorite.  It’s the softest thing I own… a Patriot’s shirt that’s slightly too big for me, in a cozy, comfortable sort of way.  The fit is flattering with leggings or jeans, and it’s the type of quality garment that I rarely invest in at full price.  These things go for $50 or more, and I always manage to convince myself that the knockoff $10 t-shirts at the Job Lot are good enough.   But this one was $8 at the thrift store, and well-worth every penny.  

During these quiet morning moments, I think back to yesterday and plan for today.  What’s on the to-do list?  How will we sneak in a little fun?  Did I work enough yesterday that I can allow myself some down-time today? 

I’m not sure if this way of thinking is a product of my culture or my upbringing or my own personality.  But I do know that I put a tremendous amount of value on doing.  I judge myself (and if I’m honest, my family, too) based on productivity.  Did I get enough DONE?  

But I’m doing a lot of reading and podcast listening and trying to understand the ways that COVID has changed us.  There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ve changed.  Maybe we all have.

And while I can’t entirely shake this productivity mindset, I am starting to see the value in not just doing, but being.  I’m becoming more aware of the value in those un-productive moments.  Sitting in my yard.  Going for a walk.  Watching my kids.  Plopping on the floor to pet my dog.  Baking unnecessary cinnamon buns.  Wandering through a thrift shop.  

As a teacher during this crazy time, my to-do list is endless and overwhelming.  There’s so much to learn about online teaching and learning.  There are so many schedule variations to plan for.  There is so much legal documentation required. There are important lessons to teach and difficult conversations to navigate.  

As a parent, the same is true.  There are assignments to be checked and emails to be read and forms to be completed.  There are schedules to plan and appointments to make and laundry to be folded.  And there are kids who need attention and reassurance and a little tough love. 

At any typical time, these jobs can feel like too much.  And now? With the enormity of the task?  With the impossibility of what we’re being asked to do? Well, I feel like I have two choices. I could drown, thrashing in this flood of unrealistic expectations and impossible asks and exhausting criticisms.  Or I could pause and take a breath and remember how to float.  

If I focus solely on the doing, I will wind up depleted.  I will run out of energy and stamina and optimism.  Because there is no finish line.  I will never reach the end of this to-do list.  I will never be able to do all of these things well, because this is not how these things were ever meant to be done.   

I’m working harder than I’ve ever worked before.  I’m spending nights and weekends researching and making phone calls and planning and scheduling and updating paperwork.  But I know myself.  I’ll get caught up in the high of all that doing… I’ll keep working toward some impossible, imaginary finish line.  Unless I consciously interrupt the cycle.  

So I’m sitting in my backyard with a cup of coffee and my computer, wearing my ugly crocs and my comfy sweatshirt and putting my thoughts down on paper.   I’m planning the day so that I can finish the lesson plans and the laundry and also pick pumpkins and watch football and worship online with my family.    

There’s no doubt about it… COVID sucks.  But sometimes the hardest, suckiest things teach us the most valuable lessons.  I’m going to keep trying to learn them; one breath, one walk, one cozy sweatshirt, one cup of coffee at a time. 

When George Floyd was murdered, I cried.  I cried to my husband and I sat down my kids and we all talked with sincerity about racism and power and using our voices.  For those of you who don’t know, I have a black daughter and a white trans son and a white, cis-hetero son.  And as I looked at them, my heart split wide open.  I thought about all of the ways in which two of them will be forever vulnerable, just by nature of who they are.  And I thought about that third child.  The one who will live a more privileged life, based on nothing but his gender and the color of his skin.  How do I help these children to be brave and use their voices to fight for each other’s humanity?  How do I help them to see all that is wrong with the world and still shine a light on the beauty and kindness that exists there? How do we equip them to fight a problem that has plagued us for centuries? 

And my husband and I, who mostly disagree on all things political, agreed that THIS, in fact, was NOT.  Valuing the life of a human being is NOT a political stance.  That first night, we were on the same page.  We denounced those police officers.  We denounced systemic racism.  We acknowledged our own white privilege.  We talked to our family from a place of privilege AND pain.  We owned our shit.  It was hard, but it was good.  

And then, it was time to do my own work.  I had done enough reading to know that white women’s tears are worthless to a black mother who has lost her child.  I dug a little deeper.  I went in search of the black and brown voices that needed to be elevated.  I listened to podcasts.  I ordered some books.  I dug into the painful rejoinder that “All Lives Matter” because OF COURSE they do.  And all lives will not matter until Black Lives Matter.  I admitted to myself that I have shied away from difficult conversations for far too long.  I vowed to do better.

***** 

And then I got a tearful phone call from a dear friend.  Her husband, a NYC police officer, was deployed into what he describes as a war zone.  The destruction and the riots and the protests quite literally put my friend’s life on the line and I choked.  He tells us that it’s so much worse than the media is reporting.  He tells us that it’s one of the worst things he’s ever seen, and he was a first responder on 9/11.  I love and respect this man.  I fear for him.  I admire his strength and his intelligence and his compassion.  I pray for him. I pray for his family.  And I cry again.  

And the see-saw begins in my brain.  

Is that how a black mother feels every time her son leaves the house?  

Of course there are riots.  Peaceful protests didn’t work. 

Do we value white people’s property over black people’s lives? 

How do we show respect for the men and women who serve and protect without diminishing the pain of those who have suffered a system that has denied their humanity for centuries?  

*****

Once again, it all becomes political.  For a few days, my husband and I retreat into our separate, angry, defensive corners.  We are afraid to bring up this topic, even with each other, because it is so charged and we have argued over far less important things.  

We slowly break away from our singularly sided news sources and definitively partisan news feeds and begin to sift through all the misinformation to find truth.  We share articles with each other.  We move toward each other.  We worry together.  We cry together.  

Because the underlying truth is that a fight for humanity is NOT partisan.  A respect for police is not partisan.  My husband and I love each other deeply.  We respect each other deeply.  And we sometimes disagree deeply.  But we keep showing up to have hard conversations.  We are able to do it because we reside on a foundation of love and respect.  

One of those podcasts I listened to helped me to see a trap we all fall into.  When we identify with someone or some group, we tend to attribute to them all of their best qualities.  When we don’t identify with them, we tend to attribute to them all of their worst qualities.  That’s how we come up with stereotypes of ignorant southerners or lazy black people or racist conservatives or snowflake liberals.   

In my house, those are the worst fights.  When he calls me a sheep and a snowflake and I call him ignorant and bigoted.  In our anger, we resort to stereotypes and name-calling.  Nuanced, complex, productive conversation is trampled.  Instead of searching for solutions and hearing each others’ voices, we are throwing firebombs at imaginary targets.  I am watching this happen on a global scale and it terrifies me. 

We are all so deeply afraid in this moment.  

And I don’t know how to handle it on a large scale. 

But all the years of this liberal living with a stubborn, passionate, loving, open-minded, funny, hard-working conservative have taught me how to handle it in my own home.  

We take a breath, but we don’t walk away.  We can’t afford to because there is too much at stake.  But the name-calling and firebombs won’t move us forward.  We cannot accomplish anything until we reset. We need to remember our shared humanity.  We need to acknowledge our shared fears.  We need to face difficult conversations and really, actually LISTEN to each other’s voices.  We need to get curious about what we don’t know instead of getting defensive about what we think we know.  We need to dig into a conversation that requires less responding and more learning.  

I don’t know what to do on a large scale.  I’m still planning to attend a rally this weekend.  I’m still praying for my friend in New York.  And I will continue doing the things in my own life that lay a foundation for my children to grow into adults who listen and learn and consider different perspectives.  I will continue to teach them that it is their sacred duty to stand in a place of love and use their voices to stand up for their brothers and sisters, both in this family and out there in the big, beautiful, scary, breathtaking world.  That’s all I know how to do.