Showing posts with label covid 19. Show all posts
Showing posts with label covid 19. Show all posts

Round 1: Version 2

September 25, 2020

 I don’t spend nearly as much time on Teacher Twitter than I used to, but the general sentiment seems to be, “Online teaching is rough, I don’t like it, and I feel like I’m a first-year teacher.”

While I am exhausted at the end of the day, despite needing to set a timer that reminds me hourly to get out of my chair and move, I genuinely enjoy my online experience. Yes, everything takes me twice as long. No, I don’t know what 3/4s of my students sound or look like. But nothing beats when you are explaining GUIs to 12-year-olds and you reveal that everyone used to have to use a command-line interface. “CRAZY,” they say in the chat. Or when you greet your high schoolers as they roll into Game Design and every one of them says hi back to you in the chat.

When I interviewed at my school, I asked my principal if there was anyone I could talk to about the teacher experience. She told me it was unlikely, as all teachers were on summer break, but she’d try. She called me about 10 minutes later and gave me the phone number of a math teacher. Turns out said math teacher loves Nintendo and is very friendly, so we’ve been chatting ever since. The other day, he messaged me, “So, did I oversell, undersell, or accurately display life at HVAM?”

I immediately messaged back, “Definitely accurate.”

I honestly don’t mind that my students aren’t required to come to my classes. Yes, sometimes it feels like I’m talking to a brick wall, especially when certain students don’t respond. Yes, online teaching has the fisheye effect x100. Yes, answering the same email is exhausting. But I love how engagement looks in my brand of online teaching. I enjoy the control I have without feeling like I’m erasing student voices or disproportionately focusing on certain students. I like the fact that students seem to enjoy coming to my class. I enjoy not being told that my breath stinks and not telling students to get to a voice level zero.

Without the pandemic and a complete paradigm shift in the American workforce, I’m not sure I would have ever considered this career move. Most if not all of my colleagues have children at home—most under 5, some in school as well—and cite the flexibility of online teaching as a priority for them. Me, a young adult with 4 housemates whose idea of a good Friday night is watching a Korean movie about the trials of hell or part four of the Pride and Prejudice 1995 miniseries, is a little out of place.

And yet, I feel myself flourishing. I am seeking out feedback, I look forward to class, I don’t mind sinking hours into spreadsheets or calling parents or developing an assignment, and I get off of work at 5 (we’re not going to talk about the work I push off to Saturday). I genuinely enjoy my colleagues, even though I don’t feel like I know a lot of them, and when they told me that everyone at HVAM is willing to answer questions and help out, they were really right.

On Thursday afternoon, I had a series of panicked emails from a student in my Game Design class. We eventually got on a call, and she set up a time to work with me on Friday. On Friday, after we had worked through the basics of the assignment, we were shooting the breeze a little bit and she was talking about the amount of work she has to do. “I help new students, I help teachers—but I haven’t had to help you too much! You’ve learned pretty fast!” I smile and then think of the many mistakes I’ve made over the last two weeks.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” I grinned as I clicked out of the window and took off my headset.

I don’t mind being a first-year teacher again if this is what it feels like: the paradoxical exhaustion and thrill that runs through me every day I wake up and remember, every time I see “Ms. Johnson,” every time I glance at my growing to-do list, every time I click the “x” on a classroom.


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Oscillate

May 01, 2020

Nathanael Kazmierczak and I became friends on the New England Saints trip (and lost touch afterward; if you are reading this, we should talk!). During the next semester, he shared a piece of music in the style of minimalism that he was studying—"Piano Phase (1967)" by Steve Reich. Take a minute and listen.


Yes, the whole 20 minutes is like that, and I somehow fell in love with it. Whenever it comes up on my instrumental playlist and I'm DJ-ing for house cleaning, I feel guilty enough to just skip the song. I'm not willing to subject people to 20 minutes of slowly losing their grip on music; however, I individually relish the chance. I sink into the beat—the sameness actually makes me lose awareness of when or how it morphs and suddenly I come out on the other side.

I sunk into the sameness of these days pretty well in March, but April is starting to grate.  I've lost the shock of the first few bars and now I believe that this is how it has always been, how the song is and forever will be.

What's it going to take to break the comforting pattern I lose myself in?

Somehow the free time I was able to find has been overtaken by my default mindset of optimizing every moment, and now I'm in too deep. I've refilled my time with things that I “need to do” and then have complained that I have no time to do the things I want to do, except now I know I'm lying to myself. Who can say they don't have enough time when they spend 3 hours on Animal Crossing: New Horizons catching bugs?

My multi-tasking has grown exponentially. In order to fill the achievement holes that have been left by not going into school every day, I've somehow convinced myself that if I could potentially combine two things, like listening to a professional development video and completing citizen science research, I should. TV shows? Can't watch those; don't have a hobby where I can do something mindlessly with my hands. Reading? I can't be listening to something, so I'm not so sure if it's a good use of my time...

God forbid I just sit and just be.

Perhaps that’s a part of the reason why I haven’t been writing here: because it requires my full concentration to write. But somewhere deep down inside me, I’ve been missing it. I gave up on trying to write 30 poems in April, but I kept reading poetry. I stopped keeping up with the post calvin, but over the last couple days I’ve been knocked off my feet again and again by pieces by my fellow bloggers (particularly Will Montei’s “Journals”). I wrote in my journal (before I read that piece) recently and worked through something that I hadn’t been able to grasp before.

I thought this quarantine would give me the time to devote to more sole focuses. It hasn’t so far, and it seems ambitious to say I can break the cycle. But maybe I can modulate my notes, chip away little by little.


Recs:
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COVID Quarantine — Week 2

March 24, 2020
March 29th, 2020

A practice that I have kept very inconsistently but doggedly is reading Common Prayer compiled by Shane Claiborne, Jonathan Wilson-Hartgrove, and Enuma Okoro. There’s a beautiful book but also an app and an online version for ease of access. It is simple enough that I don’t give up after missing it for a few days but deep enough that it prompts me to further reflection.

Daily the authors share a quote from a foundational Christian thinker. Today’s is from Pierre Teillhard de Chardin, a “twentieth-century Jesuit philosopher.” He prayed this prayer:
Since once again, Lord, I have neither bread nor wine nor altar, I will raise myself beyond these symbols, up to the pure majesty of the real itself; I, your priest, will make the whole earth my altar and on it will offer you all the labors and suffering of the world.

Many of the things in our lives have shifted radically over the past few weeks, but one of them that I never anticipated missing was not gathering in a space of worship. I was there last Sunday to run the soundboard as we recorded the sermon to put online (Creston’s not a very techy community—haven’t quite figured out the live stream). As Linnea got up to preach, I got a little choked up thinking about all the people that I hadn’t seen in two weeks. Someone had tacked directory pages onto the seats so when you entered the sanctuary, all you saw were white sheets of paper tacked to the ugliest lime green chairs displaying the faces of the regular attendees and their regular seats; an act that both eased and sharpened my ache of missing community.

In the past week, I’ve introduced the software FlipGrid to the women’s bible study group (and exchanged more than a few emails trying to get it up and running) and set up a Zoom meeting for my fall house church group. We’re trying to connect through the only way most of us can now—virtually.

Like de Chardin, we do not have bread or wine or an altar, but we can make altars in our homes and in our spaces on the internet. I am striving to use this extra time gifted to me in this quarantine to continue to explore how to listen to God and how to serve him best while I am still house-bound. Here are a couple things that I have done to introduce prayerful attentiveness and general positivity into my days:

  • Common Prayer and the Biola University’s Lent Project: I’ve been even worse at keeping up with this, but it has a piece of music, a poem, a piece of art, a scripture, and a devotional for each day. A rich resource.
  • Zooniverse: a crowd-sourcing science platform. Great to make your TV bingeing time feel semi-productive for someone other than you.
  • FlipGrid: an asynchronous way of leaving messages for other people. I’ve been using it to connect with other English educators (sidenote: you can watch my video here—scroll down a bit) but I’m certain you could set one up for your family/classroom/whatever.
  • Morgan Harper Nichols: Instagrammer who shares words of encouragement on abstract art. Honestly, I usually scroll past her stuff, but it’s a nice shot of positivity when I do take the time to read.
  • Daily Examen: I introduced this to my housemates for my house devotions Thursday. We walked through the steps and used a zine to capture our thoughts with art and words. It was a practice that made me think more deeply about my emotions that day and what I wanted to lift to God.
  • Accountability Log: Last October, Elizabeth and I created a shared Google Doc where we reflect on our spiritual practices. It was supposed to keep us accountable (and it does sometimes), but for me it’s a really great place to reflect in writing about what God is teaching me or what I’m mulling over.

Let me know where you have been cultivating positivity or an altar in your own life. Happy Sunday, friends.

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March 24th, 2020

I got on Twitter, and now I’m mad.

If you’ve talked to me in the last couple days, I’ve been pretty blase about this whole ordeal. I am in an extremely privileged position: I have some duties that I can do remotely so I am paid yet my workload has effectively been cut by 75%, I live in a house that communicates well and loves each other and is okay with me wanting to hang out with them a lot, my family is in constant communication and is hanging in there, my house has enough food, and I have more than enough entertainment to keep me sustained. This quarantine has kind of been a dream come true for me.

I’m learning how to hold my position in this quarantine with the fact that there are people around me that are fearing for their lives because of this disease. There are people who have lost their jobs and don’t know where else to turn. There are people depending on the government to freeze rent or they may get evicted. There are Asian Americans experiencing extreme racism due to this disease beginning in China, and this racism is coming from the top of the country—Trump—all the way down to Instagram live commenters on author Kelly Yang’s free online writing class for teenagers. There are students who are going to fall further behind because they don’t have the structure of school to support them and their families.

So now I’m mad, and I’m not sure where to put it. Into further educating myself as an anti-racist educator? Into reading the professional development books that crowd my bookshelf? Into resting and taking a break over the burn out that has been slowly creeping into my life? Into deciding if I want to stay at my current school? Into this blog post?

Realistically, there’s not much I can do to prevent the spread of this virus beyond what my housemates, my family, my friends, and I are doing. We are staying at home, only getting groceries when absolutely necessary, and trying to keep ourselves healthy and whole. Does that give me the excuse to sit on my couch and watch Mamma Mia 2: Here We Go Again? Read more books of poetry? Take a nap? Is it enough to know and acknowledge the pain, or should I as a privileged person take it on myself?

I’m putting some of my money where my mouth is, but I’m not sure what else to do. Guess I’m going to continue to learn and take care of myself the best I can.

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COVID Quarantine — Week 1

March 17, 2020
March 22nd, 2020
No. I will not apologize for not writing. I created in other ways, like collaging and editing a vlog together.

With all this time on my hands, I've been reading a lot of poetry. Two Saturdays ago, I went to downtown GR on a whim to register to vote. It was too late for me to register online, and the free bussing and sunshine lured me right out of my house. After registering and voting, I made my way to the main branch of the library and skimmed across the poetry shelves, looking for covers I recognized from Goodreads or names I knew from Twitter. I picked up 3 books, Natasha Trethewey, Ada Limon, and Danez Smith, and have been reading them alongside my usual fare of YA books.

Trethewey wrote a lot about grief, and two of her earlier poems really got me. "Early Evening, Frankfort, Kentucky" paints a picture of Trethewey's parents and ends with her mother lying "down among clover / and sweet grass, right here, right now— / dead center of her life." It knocked the wind out of me, and then I thought, "I could write a poem like that. Calculate the center of Mom's life."

Whenever I connect on a personal level to a poem, my first thought is to mimic it. But I'm trying something different today (because writing poetry is dang hard): I'm going to muse about a poem that struck me—"Killing Methods" by Ada Limón.

The poem felt disjointed to me the first time I read it; perhaps it did to you as well. Limón pivots from a metaphor about stories to grief to people outside of grief to her killing a truth. As someone whose profession is to propel people to love stories, this poem is making me question how we do that. Limón seems to argue that we draw stories from our own lives and wrestle them into an agreeable form. We take the wildness and stab it out of our stories, only leaving the beauty. But I'm not sure that is everything. At the end of the poem, the speaker is killing out of desperation, out of a plea to be believed and understood. Writing and storytelling and the narratives we tell ourselves about it can seem so calculating, but in reality writers write to understand themselves and understand the world around them.

During this moment, I've been avoiding writing, despite Penny Kittle and Kelley Gallagher whispering in my ear, "Write every day. Write every day." I feel the pressure to pluck the perfect story, to arrange its limbs clearly, and to script the genus clearly under it. I want to make sense of this historical time and to document, to show what it's like to be living through this. But I'm not sure "how to hold this truth," so I've been letting them fly away. But when I'm back to regular teaching, when the children are driving me up the wall, or when I'm in year 2 of remote teaching, I will want to be reminded of how these days slipped through my hands, at how I couldn't touch anyone, how I finally understood the pain of dry skin and of the world being out to get you at any moment, and how keenly I felt the absence of things like my church community, a regular structure, and a general assumption of safety. These stories seem boring and over-abundant, but perhaps I'm just afraid of what their confinement on a page will show about me.

In other news, the entirety of Ada Limón's The Carrying is as thought-provoking and beautiful as this poem. Find some way to read it, please. Here are a few of my favorites that have found some homes online:

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March 20th, 2020
(inspired by Ada Limon's "Dead Stars")
Collages created from Pexels, Unsplash, Lunapic, and Canva

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March 19th, 2020
Collages created from home photos, Pexels, Unsplash, Lunapic, and Canva



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March 18th, 2020
5 Acts of Tenderness: (inspired by this prompt from Twitter)
  1. Today I sat down at the dining room table. A benefit of living with five other people in a house that used to be a duplex is that you can still avoid other people when you need to and find them when you need to connect. Linnea took one look at me and said, “How are you doing with Shira leaving and Annika flying out?” I paused and said, “Actually, not that great.” I verbally processed with her, leading me to realize that today was not going to be an average day of productivity.
  2. A student emailed me for a password the other day. Since I’m teaching an elective class for middle school and a specials class for elementary, there aren’t a lot of students clamoring for my attention (which makes me feel less-than, especially when all the educators I follow on Twitter are like “I miss my students so much! They keep sending me videos!”). But I replied, gave some best wishes, and she wrote back “Thank you Ms. Johnson and I hope you are doing well and staying safe. See you soon.”
  3. I’m being cautious because of the pandemic. On my way to pick Anni up to bring her to the airport so she can fly home, I briefly considered the idea of keeping the 6 feet between us since she’s been at Calvin and encountering different germs. But when she held open the door to her apartment, there was no way that I was not going to give her a hug.
  4. I’ve taken it upon myself to plan “fun-tivities” since I’m the only one in my house that is on semi-vacation due to the quarantine. For the first one, I decided to teach the adults in my house the origami I’ve been teaching middle schoolers. It went interestingly to say the least; however, they were very gracious with my “just fold it!” instructions and hand-waving on how perfect it is supposed to look.
  5. Linnea played Psalm 126 on the piano yesterday, and it reminded me of how beautiful worship music can be.
Please read this blog post—"It’s Okay to be Afraid". It’s lovely.


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March 17th, 2020

I made a daily schedule for myself to keep myself accountable during the craziness of the world. It’s a little lenient, as in a lot of free time where I get to read and watch movies and whatever, but one section of it is “Academic work.” Two hours in the morning that I commit to working—planning lessons, updating my resume, deciding if I want to teach at River City again next year.

Yesterday, I went into school because I had to rearrange my classroom for cleaning. I also wanted to connect with my coworkers and get some work done. I hunkered down in my transformed room (desks piled to the left, chairs in rows like I was about to put on a show on the whiteboard) and worked for hours on my lesson plans. As I left at 2:30pm with lessons printed and in my mailbox, I thought “Awesome, I don’t have to do any work tomorrow.”

This morning, I planned on watching the Metropolitan Opera’s video of Carman, streaming for free until 3/17 at 3:30pm. I hunkered down, grabbed some popcorn, and watched the first five minutes before I googled “Carman summary.” Then, as you do, I hopped from summary to Facebook to Twitter, where the first thing I saw was Penny Kittle.

Penny Kittle is my teaching hero. I adore the work she does. So when I clicked on the video of Kelly Gallagher and her talking about teaching and learning and saw that it was 31 minutes long, I thought, “I trust Kittle. I guess this’ll be my academic work for today.”

Gallagher and Kittle talked about books and writing, but they began by acknowledging that teachers need a community during this time. They had both just shared some lesson plans for online learning for their classroom, and Kittle was surprised at teachers not just saying, “Thanks for your thinking” but also “Thanks for reaching out.” So they decided to talk for a bit each day about their pedagogical thinking and how it intersects with the coronavirus pandemic today. If you know Kittle and Gallagher’s work, it was very on-brand: talking about their own writing and reading and how to get students passionate about their own work.

At the end of the video, Gallagher closes with “Thank you all for hanging with us today. We look forward to building a community of thinking and a community that’s going to help us through these troubling times.”

And me, the washed-up English teacher who has been teaching art, who is so excited to not be teaching for 3 or more weeks? I started to cry.

I’m worried about my students, yes. I’m worried that they won’t be able to learn like they were at school. But I’m also concerned that these students aren’t getting the kind of English education that Gallagher and Kittle are providing. When they talk about students writing in notebooks and student choice, and then I turn around to hear my coworkers discussing testing our students for the skills they know and creating lessons around that, I want to scream. I wish I could convince my school system that these short stories focused on skill-building isn’t the way to teach students to take in information and love reading. I wish I had the courage to walk into that English classroom and put the focus back on language rather than testing.

But perhaps these kinds of videos and this kind of community will start that courage. Right now, it’s making me want to write and document. So here I am, welcoming you into my space. Make yourself at home.

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