life update
time off
A Difference a Week Can Make
As seems to be the theme with everything this year, this past week has taken me off guard completely.
On March 5th, I left robotics club early and drove home, walking in the rain to get to a local church. They run a community supper every Tuesday and Thursday, and this Thursday my church was supporting it. I greeted my fellow church members and hopped straight in, serving chocolate milk and shepherd's pie. When I ate my own dinner an hour or so later, I glimpsed a Festival of Faith and Writing email subject header before I swiped the notification away. Some bell went off in my head, and I opened the email.
Our aspiration… host… unfortunate news… postponed… April 7th, 2021… COVID-19.
When Linnea joined me, I was bursting.
"Did you see they are postponing the Festival? Because of the coronavirus?"
She furrowed her brow. "Are you serious? That seems a little excessive." I nodded. She leaned back in her chair. "I was really looking forward to it."
On March 10th, my coworker showed me a Tik Tok. "These kids in Vietnam made up a dance about the coronavirus."
"Think we should teach it to our kids during advisory?" The other sixth grader teacher cracked, grinning.
I invited myself over to my pastor's house for dinner. After the stories had been read and the clothes changed and the littles put to bed, we sat around the living room. "I just can't believe how big this is getting," I say.
On March 11th, I stay up too late reading the news—a case in Michigan, Calvin moving to online classes, educators tweeting about the inequalities that are about to be laid bare. When I tell my roommate Shira that I'm anxious, she says, "What? You should be excited!"
On March 12th, I've just gotten the class to put away their origami boxes. "I'm going to teach you about—Zionna, level 0—about the history of origami." I slide the the back of the room to change my powepoint slide. "Paper was invented in China—"
Immediately a disengaged student scoots his chair away from the table. "CORONA VIRUS. CORONA VIRUS."
I sigh, "No, I—"
"CO. RO. NA. VIR. US."
I try again. "I'm talking about at the turn of the century—"
He bugs out his eyes and cuts me off again. "CORONA VIRUS." I shake my head and move into my next point.
On March 13th, I'm sitting on my coach, an hour into my 5 hour long mission to finish watching Peter Weber's journey to find love. "You should teach your kids about xenophobia," says Fae, who had her spring break extended another week and gets to stay in Massachusetts for a little longer. Later in the conversation, she asks me if I'm coming home. And now that I have 3 weeks off, it's not a crazy suggestion.
"If anyone wants to come to the school this morning, we are going to pack up to book fair and respond to parents who show up." My boss texts that morning, right as I'm getting used to the idea that yesterday was the last day I would see my students for a while. "You are welcome to join us and support, but not required."
I showed up at 7am on the Friday of an absolutely unexpected week along with the rest of the leadership team. We tape boxes of books and watch the sunrise and stress about student well being. "We've been depended on to provide so much," the music teacher smiles wryly, "and now that support is gone. It shouldn't be all on us. It shouldn't be all on schools."
But we answer the phones and talk to parents and put out the fresh fruit we have left. We stuff report cards into envelopes and put together online resources for students and talk about grocery stores. We provide.
"As crazy as this all is, we really need this break," my boss says.
As I'm dancing in my kitchen that night, legs and tongue loosened by my spiked lemonade, I'm inclined to agree.
On March 5th, I left robotics club early and drove home, walking in the rain to get to a local church. They run a community supper every Tuesday and Thursday, and this Thursday my church was supporting it. I greeted my fellow church members and hopped straight in, serving chocolate milk and shepherd's pie. When I ate my own dinner an hour or so later, I glimpsed a Festival of Faith and Writing email subject header before I swiped the notification away. Some bell went off in my head, and I opened the email.
Our aspiration… host… unfortunate news… postponed… April 7th, 2021… COVID-19.
When Linnea joined me, I was bursting.
"Did you see they are postponing the Festival? Because of the coronavirus?"
She furrowed her brow. "Are you serious? That seems a little excessive." I nodded. She leaned back in her chair. "I was really looking forward to it."
On March 10th, my coworker showed me a Tik Tok. "These kids in Vietnam made up a dance about the coronavirus."
"Think we should teach it to our kids during advisory?" The other sixth grader teacher cracked, grinning.
I invited myself over to my pastor's house for dinner. After the stories had been read and the clothes changed and the littles put to bed, we sat around the living room. "I just can't believe how big this is getting," I say.
On March 11th, I stay up too late reading the news—a case in Michigan, Calvin moving to online classes, educators tweeting about the inequalities that are about to be laid bare. When I tell my roommate Shira that I'm anxious, she says, "What? You should be excited!"
On March 12th, I've just gotten the class to put away their origami boxes. "I'm going to teach you about—Zionna, level 0—about the history of origami." I slide the the back of the room to change my powepoint slide. "Paper was invented in China—"
Immediately a disengaged student scoots his chair away from the table. "CORONA VIRUS. CORONA VIRUS."
I sigh, "No, I—"
"CO. RO. NA. VIR. US."
I try again. "I'm talking about at the turn of the century—"
He bugs out his eyes and cuts me off again. "CORONA VIRUS." I shake my head and move into my next point.
On March 13th, I'm sitting on my coach, an hour into my 5 hour long mission to finish watching Peter Weber's journey to find love. "You should teach your kids about xenophobia," says Fae, who had her spring break extended another week and gets to stay in Massachusetts for a little longer. Later in the conversation, she asks me if I'm coming home. And now that I have 3 weeks off, it's not a crazy suggestion.
"If anyone wants to come to the school this morning, we are going to pack up to book fair and respond to parents who show up." My boss texts that morning, right as I'm getting used to the idea that yesterday was the last day I would see my students for a while. "You are welcome to join us and support, but not required."
I showed up at 7am on the Friday of an absolutely unexpected week along with the rest of the leadership team. We tape boxes of books and watch the sunrise and stress about student well being. "We've been depended on to provide so much," the music teacher smiles wryly, "and now that support is gone. It shouldn't be all on us. It shouldn't be all on schools."
But we answer the phones and talk to parents and put out the fresh fruit we have left. We stuff report cards into envelopes and put together online resources for students and talk about grocery stores. We provide.
"As crazy as this all is, we really need this break," my boss says.
As I'm dancing in my kitchen that night, legs and tongue loosened by my spiked lemonade, I'm inclined to agree.
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