Team teaching #SOL22 1/31

I am finishing my third (or thirtieth or three hundredth) meeting of the afternoon when he pops in. He’s been “pushing in” to a class and thinks that maybe he’s stepping on the teacher’s toes just a little bit. I taught that class last semester and was grateful for every extra adult body I could get, but I trust his judgement. Maybe this new, young teacher has things under control; maybe she has a higher tolerance for high jinks; maybe she likes to have some space to teach by herself. Whatever it is, if he thinks he’ll serve the class better by stepping away for awhile, then that’s probably the right move. I, too, am finding that pushing in is complex.

He and I have only talked a handful of times, but we’ve already had several of those discussions that trip along from one topic to the next, our tongues flying and our hands gesturing. I don’t know much about him yet, but I already admire him. Today he senses my fatigue. “How’s that class going?” he asks. I take a deep breath.

I confess that we have finished unit 1 – Foundations – and are moving into a unit on history. I explain that I am drowning in information. I keep thinking of the title of an article I read in grad school: A Little Too Little and a Lot Too Much. I feel wildly uncertain. What is my next step? How can I honour student voice? How can I acknowledge what they know and what I don’t know?

He understands right away, and he points out – gently, politely – that I am too deep in my emotions and too light on academics. I shake my head: No. No. That can’t be it. I am a white woman teaching a course called “Anti-Black Racism in the Canadian Context”; I have to be aware of emotions and student knowledge and… “No,” he is saying, “no.” He can see through me. I am aiming for perfection. He laughs, “It’s just history. I know that teachers can be possessive of their classrooms, but…would you let me come tomorrow? This is my specialty. I am salivating at the thought of teaching this class.”

We talk. More than once each of us prefaces comments with “can I be honest here?” He finds the holes in the anti-racism that I hope permeates my soul but which I sometimes wear like armour. We talk about the dismal truth about the numbers of Black teachers in our board and our province. I tell him that I hope that someday I will not be teaching this class because someone more qualified will teach it. He reminds me that I am good enough even while he reminds me that I will never be enough. I push back, get frustrated and feel seen all at the same time.

We end up planning together – we are both committed to a pedagogy of inquiry – our ideas intertwine and the course takes shape again. When we pause he says, “I am a hugger. Are you a hugger?” and we hug because for now this course – which until today was taught by me, a white woman doing her best – will be team-taught by a white woman and a Black man who have found a way to disrupt the system that put us in separate spaces when we should be together.

Welcome to Day 1 of the annual March Slice of Life Challenge. Come, write with us for 31 days. We would love to meet you!

Disrespectful

I am running late to get to my friend’s 40th birthday celebration because, half a block from my house, I turned around to get a mask. I hadn’t been planning to wear a mask outdoors, but there are small groups of people – maskless and decked out with Canadian flags – gathered in clusters on the downtown streets. Lots of them. I did NOT want to mistaken for part of that group, so I ran back in and found my Ruth Bader Ginsberg mask, the one that says “NOT FRAGILE LIKE A FLOWER: FRAGILE LIKE A BOMB.” Now, properly attired and clearly indicating my position in this stand-off, I hurry towards my friend’s house.

The day is cold and sunny with a beautiful high blue sky. The crisp air would redden my cheeks had I not put on my mask. I thrust my gloved hands deep into my pockets and walk. I haven’t walked more than one block to the west of my house in almost three weeks, not since the “protests” began. The people I’m passing do not look like my neighbors. They are, to a person, white, though our neighborhood is home to people of many races. Along with the Canadian flags, they have black flags that say F*** Trudeau – only without the asterix. My neighbors tend to politely step to the side as others pass, making sure to offer each other space so that we can safely walk outdoors without masks. Not these people. On the streets, pickup trucks drive by and honk. The visitors shout and wave back.

Today feels almost like Canada Day, but there’s a nasty undertone. I don’t know if I’m making that up, but my nerves are frayed after three weeks of living blocks away from the “Freedom Convoy.” (I do not actually call them that – what they call freedom is pure selfishness – but aside from “occupiers,” the other words I use are not ones I care to admit to in this blog.) My family and I count ourselves lucky: we could only hear their incessant honking as a background drone, not an earsplitting nightmare; we don’t have their diesel fumes leaking into our living space; we are white, so we are not automatic targets when we go outside; we don’t have a Pride flag displayed, so no one has used our front yard as their toilet. All we have is inconvenience, in the grand scheme of things, plus an ever-present fear that things are going to become violent. Even the cold air feels like tension. Make no mistake: these trucks are weapons, and these people are here for hate, no matter how much they believe they are here for freedom.

Right now I just want to get to my friend’s party. Six of us are planning to sit outside in the freezing cold in camping chairs set up on their backyard skating rink. We will wrap ourselves in blankets, huddle around a tiny outdoor fire, drink hot cider with a splash bourbon and eat chocolate cake. We will last about an hour in this most Canadian of pandemic birthday celebrations. We have not been indoors together in nearly three years because too many germs from too many places make Covid too real of a possibility and we have young kids and grandparents to think about.

These people I am passing think differently. They believe conspiracy theories and that they should get everything they want, regardless of others. They don’t want the vaccine AND they want to participate freely in everything – swim lessons, restaurants, hockey teams, workplaces, all of it. I used to try to be open-minded, or at least curious, about their thinking, but three weeks into this illegal occupation, three weeks into harming businesses and workers and everyday people, three weeks of honking when the politicians they are mad at aren’t even in the city… well, my curiosity has waned.

These people are here for fun. I find myself thinking unkind thoughts about them. Ok, angry thoughts. Ok, rageful thoughts. I call my sister and curse into the phone while she laughs at my surprisingly curse-ridden vitriol. Better to tell her than to tell the people around me. My heart beats faster as I pass some groups. My anger rises as I see white people, maskless, flag-covered, sprawling across benches in the park we use, gathered on corners, insisting to store employees I recognize that they will come in without masks (later today both downtown grocery stores will close because they decide their employees are no longer safe; many restaurants have had to close; people have thrown bricks through the window of an Asian restaurant and set a small fire in an apartment building then tied the doors shut). I walk faster.

I remember Lisa telling her daughter to shoot them the bird and I wonder briefly what she would do if she could see this mess. I tell my sister, who is still patiently listening to me as I try to cross town, about what I am seeing and feeling. And then I spot them: a couple, sitting on a bench on a corner in the middle of the local shopping street. They are taking up a lot of space. On his belly, he’s balanced a box of poutine – classic Canadian street fare. She has a Canadian flag draped around her shoulders. He’s casually letting a pole with a “F#*& Trudeau” flag dangle into the sidewalk in front of me. 

“Disrespectful,” I hiss. “Get out of my city. Get out of my home.”

He starts to yell something back at me, but I am already past him and my sister is talking directly into my ears, “Mandy, this is a bad idea. Keep walking. Don’t engage.” Moments later, she is laughing and so am I. This? This is it? I’m in the middle of a slow-motion insurrection, surrounded by white supremacists using trucks as weapons and my go-to insult is “disrespectful”?

I pull my knitted cap lower over my expertly highlighted blonde hair, wrap myself more tightly in my hand-knitted scarf, and wonder at who I am: a middle class white teacher lady who curses on the phone in secret but can only engage the occupiers like a schoolmarm.

****

Days later, I am still wondering what more I can do, how much I will risk. Days later, I know that the failure of the “authorities” to protect (white) citizens, to keep us (white people) safe (from white people), to even begin to address this occupation (by white supremacists), has changed me completely. I cannot yet articulate how this will manifest, but I know that my tendency towards moderation has disappeared in the face of this. I am ashamed that only now do I truly understand what others have been saying for years: the police, the authorities are not trustworthy. I believed them, but until now I had not experienced this. Though I already thought that I was past this, I now know that I can no longer be the white moderate who Martin Luther King, Jr decries in Letter from Birmingham Jail: “I have been gravely disappointed with the white moderate. I have almost reached the regrettable conclusion that the Negro’s great stumbling block in his stride toward freedom is…the white moderate, who is more devoted to “order” than to justice; who prefers a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice; who constantly says: ‘I agree with you in the goal you seek, but I cannot agree with your methods of direct action.'”

If I’m going to live up to my RBG mask, I’m going to need some better insults.

Ice

Sometimes, when my heart or my head have raced so far ahead of my body that I can no longer tell if I am getting enough oxygen, I take a cube of ice from the freezer and clutch it until the sharp edges dig into the soft centre of my palm, until my fingers go cold, then numb. I close my eyes and feel every bit of the ice in my hand. I cling to it as my body’s warmth softens its sharp edges, as my animal heat grows and pushes against the coldness, until every bit of me – my cells, my blood, my breath – responds to this challenge and water, cold and clear, seeps through the cracks between my fingers. When I can breathe again, I let it go.

****

I am looking for the story equivalent of that ice cube, a cold hard undeniable centre that grounds me, but I’m having trouble finding it.

Protesters currently occupy Ottawa. I’ve lived in the capital cities of three different countries, so I’m familiar with protests. This one, though, this one is wearing me down. You can read about the protests on your favourite news site – but the long and the short of it is that there are trucks blocking our streets and honking honking honking. This despite the fact that there are few (no?) politicians currently in Ottawa. These protesters are mostly affecting residents, causing small businesses – already struggling from Covid restrictions – to close, along with public libraries, an elementary school (for one day), the local mall, city service centres, a vaccination clinic, a Sikh temple and more. People can’t think for the noise; the blocked streets prevent elderly people from getting their food delivered. Some of the people involved in the protest have behaved badly and their demands are unclear.

Monday morning, I tweeted about sending my child to school through the protesters. Monday evening, I spent hours hiding truly hateful responses – some threatening – and blocking accounts. The work was deeply unsettling and exhausting. 

I foolishly tried to lead a “discussion” with my classes – because this protest is affecting students, too, and because it’s a great example of how different news sources report different things and shape our thinking via diction, selection and omission –  but I was in no way able to model critical thinking. I was too tired and too angry. I even shared a piece of “news” that turned out to be false. I should have done better, but I did what I could.

****

Meanwhile, sexual harassment lurks in the hallways and corners of our school. Children who have learned largely online or in interrupted spurts are behaving badly. Some profess astonishment when teachers talk about truths: that sending unwanted pictures of body parts is harassment; that even “compliments” are often unwelcome when they are comments on people’s appearance. Others are angry that their requests for help are going unheard. Some of our students have told us about assault. Their stories are unsettling.

In the school, lines of communication feel broken. There is no time to talk. We’ve moved from a shooting threat to winter break to online school, then through a snowstorm and straight into the end of the semester. Tomorrow – a “catch up” day for students – is overflowing with meetings as staff members scramble to connect with one another, to find ways to cram months of desperately needed conversation into the hours that we desperately need to mark student work and begin writing report cards. Thursday, we will return to our pre-Covid school schedule (four classes per day) and call it “normal” even though half of our students have never experienced it. We have no time to plan for this. We will pretend this is ok.

In one of my circles of teacher friends, we no longer ask each other if we cried today; we ask if we cried in public or in private. Our sleep is restless or hard to find. We are exhausted.

****

Meanwhile, the pandemic rages on. In Canada, Wednesday saw the highest number of deaths from Covid so far. Wednesday.

In school, I endlessly repeat, “put your mask over your nose,” heed the recent notice that we should not open our classroom windows, pretend that it’s normal to have five, six, seven students away from each class.

I remind myself that endemic is not synonymous with mild and nevertheless hope for endemic.

****

What is my cold hard truth? What can I feel so deeply that it transforms? Today, it is Mary Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese.” Here, feel the pressure of its hard edges, then let her words melt between your fingers until you can breathe again.

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
Love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

Pure love

7:47am I should be getting ready for work. Correction: I should be ready for work. I should have done some yoga this morning. I should definitely have checked that Mr. 11 wore boots when he left for school. But it’s cold and I’m tired and the semester is coming to an end and my tea is warm and…

A sudden blur of brown and white flashes outside our sliding glass door. Our cat, Tippy, rises from her bed, looks out, does the cat version of rolling her eyes, and settles herself disdainfully back on her perch. Her sister, Hera, puffs up her tail and retreats towards the other end of the house, indignant.

Indigo has come for a visit. She is our neighbour’s Boston terrier and she regularly comes over to remind us that she needs to love us – or that we need to love her. Unclear. She tears out of her backdoor, bounds down the steps, across the yard and up the stairs onto our deck. Once there, she skids to a halt somewhere near where the door opens and sort of hurls herself at the glass, hoping we’ll be there.

If we are home and open the door, her whole body quivers with excitement. Sometimes she accidentally starts to roll over before she gets all the way into the kitchen. Sometimes she runs in, does a wild loop around the kitchen island, and then throws herself gleefully onto her back while she wiggles her butt, already anticipating a good belly rub.

She never stays for long. After a good pet, I say, “Go on, go home” and she bolts back out the door and over to her house, happy.

I’m happy, too. Since I’m already standing, I grab one more sip of tea and start gathering things for work, trying to love myself as purely as that nutty dog loves me.

So many questions

Today’s post is a small sample of the questions students have asked this week. Online learning is… confusing?

  • What is my overall score 3+, 4-, 4??
    Fear not, I had put the final score on the assignment.

  • Is it possible if you could proof read it before I submit? it would honestly mean a-lot. 
    Turns out that a good spell check & grammar check program works wonders – but I appreciate the vote of confidence for my editing.

  • Hey Mrs P I have  a lot to do like apply for university and work for other courses is it ok if I give you this either between this Friday and Sunday ?Lemme know ASAP

  • Is there any suggestions as to due dates for these assignments ?
    I mean, we actually have due dates. They are on the assignments and posted on the Google classroom.

  • If data is “Facts and statistics collected together for reference or analysis.” and contains “Raw figures and facts”, according to one website, then how can it be biased? Does it depend on WHICH data you collect resulting in the information that is then presented? Is it because of omission and selection of certain data that causes it to be biased? If information can’t exist, as it relies on data, how then is the information never neutral?

  • I was just wondering if you had a chance to fill out the reference sheet that I gave you in an email a while ago? I don’t mean to rush you I just want everything to be finished so I can submit it before the due date before  March. 
    Got it done waaay before that March deadline.

  • I have no clue what is going on.
    Ok, not really a question, but this feels like a question. We chatted; the student now has at least some clue about what is going on.

  • Would you mind just replying to me that you did get this message when you have a chance??
    As you can imagine, this email was somewhat longer.

  • How is the algorithm biased and what makes it biased? It must be us because we all have different lenses, right? So, the data we decide to collect is what makes it biased?

    One of the big ideas we discussed was how language shapes our understanding of information. But how exactly? Is it because language goes hand in hand with culture, therefore changing the way we decode and process the information? Or perhaps it is diction? 
    Look at these amazing questions.

  • I just finished my applications for post-secondary studies and it said I need a minimum of 70 % in ENG4U so can you please let me know where I’m at?
    Pretty sure this question came from the same student who asked to turn their work in between Friday and Sunday.

  • How do you take attendance? I was in class.
    Conveniently, this student had been marked present because, well, they were in class. I even double-checked.

  • I might be slowly going insane, like that woman from The Yellow paper,  and I haven’t even gotten to the part where I connect what I’ve learned to other things.

    How do metaphors influence/determine what and how we think? Yes, metaphors can change the way we think about ourselves, others and the world, but how? These are only physical things to understand abstract concepts, yet how can it change our perception and rationality of things?

    For example, how can your perception change when I say “Jill is like an ugly duckling” compared to “Jill is like a rough diamond”or if I say “love is like a journey” compared to “love is like a fire “. I know we’ve watched a video in class about it, but I can’t grasp the explanation.     
    I feel like this student already deserves an A just for the thinking in the emails they’ve been sending.

  • Hi Mrs. Potts, when is the review due?
    I swear I give due dates. Really.

  • I had 2 questions to ask you one is that I can’t find the meet so can you please send the link or are we not doing one today? Also, I re-submitted an assignment. Can you re-grade that too? 
    Y’all, that meet link is in the same place it always has been.

  • I’m just not sure where to start. Is there any requirements you’re looking for to get a good grade on it? 
    Yes, there is.

To be honest, I love that kids send me all these questions – and these truly are only a sample. I love how easily they communicate and how willing they are to reach out. That doesn’t keep me from giggling every now and then. I mean, who sends an email to their teacher that just says, “I have no clue what is going on”?

Thank goodness we’re back in person tomorrow. Covid notwithstanding, it’ll be good to see their faces and hear the questions they’ve come up with since last week.

Many thanks to Two Writing Teachers for hosting this wonderful space for teachers to write.

After classes

As I watch, the little circles disappear, one by one. Some of the students say or write goodbye before they leave, but some simply vanish. The last one blinks out and I end the call. Then, defeated, I close my eyes, fill my lungs with air, and I let my head fall into my hands. I will not cry, I think fiercely. There is no point in crying. Breathe. Breathe again.

It’s the end of the second day of the most recent round of online school. I will not cry. I close the laptop, close the Chromebook. I stand up and close the folding screen that hides my laundry space when I’m teaching.

This first week, I’m teaching two two-and-a-half hour classes. We found out on Monday that we would be online starting Wednesday. Not enough time. Not enough time to change what would have been on the whiteboard into pre-prepared slides with little room for reacting to the students as they learn. Not enough time to figure out how to slow down to accommodate the pace of online learning and still finish the course in the 10 days that are left. Not enough time to make sure all the students have computers (they don’t) or wifi (they don’t). Not enough time.

But I got it done. Wait – *we* got it done. Four teachers worked together – remotely – for hours to create days worth of effective on-line learning for our grade 9 classes. Teachers shared slides and lessons on Twitter. Everyone chipped in. I didn’t sleep well Monday or Tuesday nights, my brain so steeped in planning that it couldn’t quite turn off.

And now it’s Thursday, only two days into our two weeks of online school. And I’d forgotten about the silence, and the stiffness of being stationary for so long. I’d forgotten about asking questions to a bunch of empty space. I’d forgotten how often I fumble with the various classroom tools, how foolish I feel. I’d forgotten how much I hate this.

To shake off today’s teaching, I take a walk and call a friend. I try to laugh about how much planning is required to give directions well. I remember an assignment in grad school: we had to give our peers directions for a game, and they had to follow our directions exactly. I thought I would nail it the first time. I did not. All these years later, I know how to plan directions – break the steps down; leave plenty of wait time; be precise; anticipate questions; speak slowly; add visuals – but somehow, today, it didn’t work.

I text my planning buddies. I say “no one participated.” (This is untrue). I say “they don’t see the value in learning unless they have already done the work.” (This is untrue.) I swear I am NOT going to teach tomorrow; I’m just going to give an assignment and make them work.

I eat dinner, hang out with my children. Then, when they head off to bed, I go back to planning. I write out the directions I will say. I start writing this post to calm myself down. I remember that this is just a slice of life; tomorrow’s slice will be different.

Relax

We’ve spent the past two weeks at home, doing not much at all. We did not see the holiday lights on Parliament Hill, even though we live only a 15 minute walk away. We did not go for a hike in the Gatineau Hills, even though it’s a 15 minute drive and beautiful. We didn’t decorate the tree until a few days before Christmas – heck, we didn’t even GET the tree until a few days before Christmas. We didn’t deep clean anything. I didn’t grade any schoolwork. My children didn’t do any homework. Even my partner, who does not work in education, took two weeks off and barely looked at his work pile. 

We read a lot and watched movies. We did some puzzles and played some board games. My kids (ok, and my husband) played too many video games. I just kind of lolled about doing the NYTimes crossword and knitting – and scrolling social media, of course. I took walks, the kids hamster-sat, we played Hearts. 

It was wonderful.

Truthfully, I’m still tired. Tomorrow we go back to school, and we’re back online again. Even contemplating the prospect is exhausting. I’m setting up my “office” in the basement, crossing my fingers that the internet won’t conk out when all four of us are online at the same time, paring back (and back and back) on what I had hoped to teach, praying that most students will have access to tech, that they mostly show up, that this time we’re back in person soon… I’m kind of ready and I’m kind of panicking. For the past year or so – for all of COVID, in fact – this has more or less been my constant state.

Clearly, I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions. I’ve just been trying to keep my head above water. (Did I mention that I have a sore throat? I have a sore throat. This, along with everything else, is a symptom of Covid. SIGH. I’m getting tested.) I wasn’t going to choose “one little word” this year, either – it was just all too much. I wasn’t even thinking about it, really, until I started reading about the words other people chose. “Hmmm,” I would catch myself thinking, “that’s a good word. But it’s not my word.” Or “Oooh, I like that word; maybe I could adopt it next year.” None of the words was just right. Good thing I had decided not to do the whole one little word thing.

And then, Sunday night, a word popped into my head. It was not the word I wanted. I was hoping for a word like, I don’t know, amazement or courage or even energize. I was expecting spark or resist or fight. Maybe joy? Or persist? Instead, my brain was whispering relax. RELAX? 

Has my brain even been with me for my whole life? That is not my word. I am so far from relaxed right now that I can barely even contemplate it. So, I tried to have an argument with my own brain. I suggested changing our word to breathe – breathing is close to relaxing, I think. Nope, it didn’t stick. I pushed for stretch – too active – let go – too judgy – quiet – too impossible. No matter what I suggested, my mind returned stubbornly to relax. I know myself well enough to know that even if I pretend it’s not my one little word, it is. That sucker is going to follow me all year, whether I adopt it or not.

Can I relax? Maybe. I imagine whispering this to myself in the middle of a meeting where my shoulders are tense from frustration – relax. I can see myself standing in the middle of a classroom where everything has gone awry – again – and hearing the echo of relax. I wonder if, maybe, at home I can worry less about getting things done and more about being where we are. Maybe this summer we can visit our relatives and just hang out. Relax.Relax.Imagine relaxing…

Look, I’m still not actually happy about this – I like my words to be something to strive towards… Oh. Wait. I think I need to relax. 

Alright 2022, here I come. Slowly. As relaxed as I can get.

Tomorrow

TW: threats of violence/shooting in school.

The post circulated during lunchtime, which meant that none of the teachers knew about it until class started. I had opened my classroom early, as usual, and enlisted a few students to help with some tidying. They didn’t know either. We’d been laughing at my apparent infatuation with pretty file folders and had no idea anything was wrong. In fact, as the students wandered in, only M’s dry “I assume you know about the, uh, social media, issue?” caught my attention. I sighed.

“What is it this time?”

High school is busy, you know? Last week, it was a mean instagram account where someone was posting pictures of students without their consent. Or maybe there were two accounts? One of students sleeping & one of eating? And one was mocking but one was not? Or maybe I’m wrong. This year alone we’ve had everything from the really bad – sexual harassment – to the really minor – soccer balls should not, in fact, be dribbled down the hallways. I’d love to blame it on the pandemic, but that’s not the truth: high school is always about transgressing rules. Part of my job is deciding which rules are worth enforcing (sexual harassment is NEVER ok) and which aren’t (I honestly do not care if you use the sign out sheet for the bathroom – but don’t tell the kids).

This time, however, “it” was an explicit angry threat to shoot the Vice Principal, teachers and students tomorrow. Or maybe Thursday – because the day of the week and the day of the month in the threat do not match. The note is chilling, but it’s also oddly high school – a few errors here and there; that date mismatch; the assurance that this is NOT a “hoax” complete with the air quotes that drive me around a bend when they show up in formal writing. There were pictures of guns, too, of course.

I’ve taught through a lot: 9/11 in a school in Washington, DC; the sniper who was targeting schools & children (for days we shielded them with our bodies while they boarded the bus home); intruders in the school; a day when a bunch of children reported that they had taken unauthorized pills and were afraid of the results; drills for an anthrax attack, drills for a “dirty bomb”, lockdown drills, evacuation drills; a shooter in the neighbourhood where my own children attend school – while across the city my school was “secured”. I’ve never taught through the threat of a school shooting, but I’m practiced in helping students deal with threats of violence.

So I listened when my students worried, and I told them we were safe for now. I told them about my plan to keep them physically safe – a plan I didn’t even realize I had but which was remarkably well-formulated when I needed it. I told them about times when my students and I have been safe. I made them laugh, then I made them put their phones away – social media only fans the fire – and I assured them that the antidote to fear is focus and made them write. And, because teenagers are amazing – and trusting – they did.

After school, we had a staff meeting – virtual, of course, because this potential shooter is not the only threat we are dealing with. And, while the Principal tried to offer staff what I had offered students, there really is only so much assurance anyone can provide. Someone has threatened to come to school and shoot people tomorrow. They threatened a VP by name; they threatened an “English class” and students. I am an English teacher. That could be my class.

After work, teachers from other schools wrote to make sure I was aware of the threat, to encourage me to stay home or stay strong. Many students will stay home tomorrow and the rest of the week, and I totally understand. I suspect that many teachers will stay home, too, and that also makes sense – what other protection is there, really?

When I chose teaching years ago no one had ever died in a school shooting. Can you remember that? Can you imagine it? There was a time when people who chose teaching did not also choose to put ourselves in harm’s way.

Tomorrow, I will wake up and decide if I am going to work. I will have to decide if this threat is credible, if the school system can adequately protect me. (It cannot.) This is not a decision I should have to make, but here we are.

As I go to bed this evening, I keep thinking about my students. Do they know how much I care about them – how deeply I wish to help them become themselves? I don’t know what else to hope. I don’t know how else to pray. I will pray with love and for love. I will pray that we can continue to create a society and a school system where all children feel valued and supported. I will pray that someday we create schools full of joy.

And I will (almost definitely) go to school tomorrow.

What’s best

She waits after class until everyone is gone, even rolling her eyes at a friend who normally stays pretty close. “I’ll be right there,” she says, languidly lifting her fingers to shoo the other girl away.

Now it’s quiet in the aftermath of the chaotic class period. She dips her head downward, avoiding eye contact. “What is it, Chrissy*?” I ask and then I wait while she finds her voice.

“Is it really ok with you if I sleep in class?” she whispers.

My heart breaks a little. She has been sleeping through large parts of English class for the past two weeks. Not every day, but many. Dark circles linger under her eyes. I know, more or less, what’s happening, and I know she needs the sleep. In my experience, very few students sleep in class when everything is going well, so I’ve already asked her if she wants me to wake her or let her sleep when she nods off. She chose sleep, mostly. But here she is.

I pause, wondering what she is really asking. Is she realizing that the lesson goes on while she sleeps? Is she starting to be aware of what the other students must think? My guess is that she’s all too familiar with those two things. Ah…maybe she’s asking if we’re still ok, if I can still care for this animal part of her.

“Listen,” I say, “I am here to help you be the very best Chrissy that you can be. Some days, that means you need sleep; some days, that means you need to be awake for class. We can work together to figure out when you need what.”

She looks relieved? doubtful? wary?

“You think my job is to teach English.” She nods. “I think my job is to teach you, the whole you. And sometimes you need to sleep.”

“Really?” she asks, wonderingly.

“The whole Chrissy,” I respond and she smiles.

Is this the right decision? I don’t know. She needs to grow into the strong woman she is meant to become. To do that, she needs to read and write and learn. She needs vocabulary to express herself and knowledge to help her make sense of the world. But there’s no growth without sleep and there’s no sleep where she’s staying right now.

“We’ve got this,” I tell her. She wiggles her fingers at me as she heads out the door to join her friend

* Not her real name
***************************************

I call four homes tonight. Four times I report that their student has lied, has broken the rules, has been rude. With each phone call, with each parent, I talk about wanting to support their child, wanting them to do well. With each phone call, the parents worry:
“My child’s grades have gone down and I don’t know why.”
“Do you think he is spending time with the wrong people?”
“He just doesn’t understand how hard it will be to go to university.”
“I am afraid he has forgotten all the work we did to make his life better.”

My heart breaks a little.

I try to allow each conversation its own space; I try to tell each parent something good about their child; nevertheless, I am calling because I am angry about the lies, angry about the behaviour. I tell the parents, tell myself, that I am calling because I want what is best for each child – I want them to learn more, to engage, to do better – but as I hang up after the last call, I wonder if I have made the right decision. I don’t know. They need to grow into the strong people they are meant to become. To do that, they need to learn. They need to listen to voices that are not their own and find ways to speak truth, not lies, to power. But there’s little growth in anger and they are angry right now.

In fact, one student emails, furious, before bed. They’re probably all mad, but he’s the only one who has written. Yet. My response is fact-based and terse. Yes, I do believe that he lied. Yes, his father did ask about his cell phone in class and no, he’s not managing it well. Or at all, really. I end with a stereotypical teacher phrase: “We will talk about this tomorrow.” I do not try to tell him that I want what is best for him. I’m not sure I know what that is.

Just add salsa

I was still grumpy from school nonsense when I got home. Since the time changed this weekend, I’ve been walking in the mornings, but my husband took one look at me and suggested I should maybe take an evening walk, too. I declined. He backed out of the kitchen, supposedly to go finish some work.

I stewed.
I scrolled.
I texted.
I muttered.

Finally, I had to admit that none of this was making me feel any better at all. And since I was filling the kitchen with my frustration, no one was making dinner, either. Even Mr. 11 – hungry, as ever, 20 minutes before dinner time – had abandoned the space when I glared and said he could not have a snack. Harumph.

At least if I was alone in the kitchen, I could play my own music. My finger hovered over my list – this was not the moment to let some app determine what I needed to hear – and I landed on Dream in Blue by Los Lobos. I heated water for the pasta and smiled at the thought of Patrick – his horror at my unformed musical taste; his insistence that I listen to, well, everything; his eclectic music the soundtrack to our relationship and the fun we had while it lasted and we listened. 

By now I was reheating the chili and cutting the bread. When the song ended, I didn’t hesitate: very sharp knife in hand, I found Carlos Vives and cranked the volume on Pa Mayte. Ah… My feet started moving, then my hips, and despite the fact that I was in the kitchen making dinner for my family, despite the fact that I will turn 50 in two short weeks, I was back in Chief Ike’s Mambo Room with Linda, sweaty and happy as we danced with whichever partner was nearby, danced after-hours until we were so tired that only their hands and the music held us up. I was at the Gipsy Kings concert dancing on the lawn and I was in Belize, with Amy and Janny and no, I don’t remember how we ended up at the club, but oh, we danced until our feet hurt and we took our shoes off and danced barefoot and then…

Well, then the pasta was done and the chili was warm. Andre came in and turned down the volume because he needed to tell me something. The kids tumbled in and we sat for dinner. And it was good, life was good, life is good.

(especially if you can fit in a little salsa)