Day Twenty Six. Morning, all. Here’s our distance-learning assignment for the week. I am asking the kids to consider their newly found freedom–and responsibility–with managing their schedules. Some, it seems, are thriving during this time, and others are evidently struggling to find balance between the freedom and responsibility in the “not-normal new” we are experiencing. I hope they find some productive purpose in our work this week.
And that’s what our week will look like. I hope the kids find some value in this task as they consider the challenge of time’s test.
Day Twenty Five. Morning, all. Gonna keep it short this morning. Missing my muse: the classroom experience. Yeah, we have a virtual classroom, and yeah, we are virtually working and connecting, but it falls short of the beautiful mess that is a classroom full kids. That’s my muse, and I miss my messy muse.
Day Twenty Four. Morning, all. Gonna share another letter from our Message in a Bottle assignment.
There is so much here. So much wisdom. So much truth. And for me, one who sees daily the abundant angst and anxiety of adolescence in the little humans I serve, I can’t help but be struck by the realization that while our kiddos have lost much, they have gained much, too. If anything, they have gained a break from the constant struggle in the “arena.” They have gained a moment to breathe. They have gained a moment to see.
Day Twenty Three. Morning, all. Wanted to give a shout out to my district this morning, for I believe they are making an exceptional effort at an impossible job. From the mind-staggering logistics of delivering food, technology, and instructional materials to our 378 square-smile district (largest geographically in the state) to the deep-sincerity of supporting staff from top to bottom, they are doing the very best they can during this unprecedented time to serve. And it is that–their service–of which I am immensely proud. I am honored to be a part of the Cheney School District #360 family.
Our superintendent, Rob Roettger, ends each communication-written or verbal with, “Us, We, Together.” And though I have always felt that’s been a steadfast sentiment in our family, I have never felt it more keenly than I do now, when it matters most. To all at the district office, to all still at the buildings, to all still cooking, delivering, copying, answering, coordinating, cleaning, I salute your service. Proud to call you family. Thank you.
Here’s a glimpse of what I want to call “Project 360.” As the points on the compass, our district is providing the best 360 degree service they can for now. It’s our “best” till we know better. And we will know and then do better as we move together through this tough time. It’s what we do. This is US.
I love that she recognizes the significance of the moment. I love, too, that she is making do, making most, making best–despite the significant challenges of this moment in history.
We are living history. Such an insightful, inspirational message. Proud of my kids. Proud to be a part of their history.
Day Twenty One. I can’t see their faces. This is not a melancholy, melodramatic musing of my missing my kids. This is business. When one puts all his eggs in the basket of teacher responsiveness, he’s left reeling when he can’t see their responses–to his “good morning,” to his instruction, to his feedback, to his empathy, to his humor, to his humanity, to his mistakes, to his “have a good day,” to his everything. Reading kids and responding to kids is teaching. I read them–every expression a lesson–from the time they enter to the time they leave. I need that.
Yesterday, as I was making our distance-learning assignment, I was struck by the realization at how much I initially consider (I imagine their responses as I plan) and subsequently require feedback from my kids for planning, delivering, and bettering our work. More, I was struck by how much of that presents itself through the non-verbal–primarily their facial expressions. I need to see their faces. And I am not talking about quick fixes found in platforms like Zoom and others. I am talking about in-the-classroom, in-person contact. And I know. I know we can’t have that right now. And more, it is not to criticize the earnest efforts being made by all to make do as best we can in these unprecedented times. This is not easy. But it’s also not effective. Well, let’s change that to, “there are limits to the effectiveness” of any distance model we may create, for it falls considerably short of contact. Considerably.
That said, we will make do. But as we move through this and eventually come out of this and try to plan for the future, I hope we don’t lose sight of the fragile faces in our baskets. Or, we may end up with egg on our face.
Day Twenty. Gonna take a break today. Our district has asked us to spread out our five spring break days over the coming weeks so we don’t disrupt the continuity we have created in support and communication for our students and families. So, today, I am going to take a “spring break day.” Of course, that doesn’t mean that I am fully stepping away. I will still check in with my kids, and I will still fulfill my Friday “attendance” obligations. But other than that, I’m gonna step away and go on a long drive with my family.
Day Nineteen. Seems a long time ago I was in a room of kids. Haven’t actually set foot in my room since Friday, March 13 (yes, Friday the 13th). I have gotten so familiar (not comfortable) with distance, that in-person seems now a distant memory.
Of course, it’s not a completely new phenomenon. Each summer I also experience a period of adjustment, a sensation of separation. But this sensation is different. More separate. More strange. Ghostly, perhaps. The kids are still there. I am still here. We connect digitally on the daily, but this ethereal existence carries a singular separation. It’s as if we are ghosts of the machine, as if we are in a state interdependently independent of the system that gave rise to our being in the first place. Here but not here. Hollow. Haunting. Ghosts we’ve become.
Happy Thursday, all. Sorry for the strange post this morning. Strange times. Missing the real.
Day Eighteen. Seems a mixed bag. For some kids, this new normal has been hard. For others, it has been a welcome break from the routine rut. For the rest, it’s all points between. Some are hating this. Some are loving it. Most are indifferent. Sounds a lot like school.
But, there’s a common thread that goes throughout either experience: the human connection. I don’t know what will or won’t change systemically after the dust settles from all of this, but I do know that one thing must and will survive: the human connection. Education policies and practices come and go, ebb and flow, but learning is our steady stream. It’s always been and always will be. This I know.
Day Seventeen. I suppose I knew it was gonna happen. I’ve had a sneaking suspicion for the last week that some time soon we’d face the inevitability of school closing for the remainder of the year. Yesterday became that “soon” with Governor Inslee announcing that Washington state schools would remain closed.
And even though I “knew,” I wasn’t quite ready for the reality, a reality I haven’t fully processed yet. I won’t ever have class, in person, with these kids again. That’s still sinking in. And it will continue to sink more deeply into me as the days and weeks ahead come and go. But, as emotionally overwhelming as this recent reality is, I cannot let it sink me. I have to keep floating. Kids have also been cast overboard with this newest revelation, and they will need some help getting back to shore. So, though my heart is heavy, I will not let it weigh me down, let it sink me. I have kids who need me. And, in truth, I need them. We will float on. Together. Sad, but not sunk.
Happy Tuesday, all. Stay afloat. Reach out if I can help.
