It feels like someone took a machete to my beautiful garden of flowers. Actually, it truly feels like that hailstorm we had last June that ravished my garden, destroying cucumbers and stunting zuchinni. They never recovered. They never reached their full potential.
I was finally back in the classroom for the first time in 3 years. Now, that experience is over, just like that. I feel many things: sadness, angry, helpless, and overwhelmed.
I’m sad not only for myself, not being able to have that classroom interaction, but moreso for my students. They are losing out on quality learning. Many struggle to find adequate internet access. Many have, or had, full time jobs where they are either being asked to work additional hours because they aren’t “in school,” or they have been laid off and are struggling, financially. Just one more stressor has been added to their plates. Most, if not all of my students, said, “Thank you,” to me at the end of every class. They enjoyed our time together. That’s over.
Some of my students are high school juniors and seniors, taking my online course for college credit. Those teenagers won’t have a Prom this year. They won’t attend a graduation ceremony and shake the hand of their principal when he hands them their diplomas. They are home, taking care of younger siblings while trying to complete not only their newly-online high school courses, but also their college course or courses. They are struggling. They are sad. We are all struggling. We are all sad.
I’m angry, too. I’m angry with our POTUS who stuck his head in the sand for weeks while this virus spread from other countries to our own soil, to our own backyard. I’m angry with the absolute ignorance that has led to hoarding, empty store shelves, and “lucky teachers.” I’m angry that I’m now paying for health insurance that I can’t use except in a case of emergency. I was looking forward to getting my teeth cleaned for the first time in a couple of years. I need new glasses, and I’m overdue for my glaucoma testing. I have a lump in my armpit and am overdue for a mammogram. It has all been postponed, indefinitely, right along with my counseling sessions.
I feel helpless. My new position as Writing Support Specialist for the Bristol Bay region was supposed to include traveling to the Aleutian and Pribilof Islands to meet with students and teachers in remote villages about college success and how to improve writing skills. Now, that’s not going to happen for the foreseeable future. Now, I’m scrambling to gather student phone numbers to make personal calls to offer my help in whatever way I can. It’s just not the same.
Yes, I have experience with online teaching. Yes, I’m better prepared than most teachers to deal with this crisis, but I’m wishing for a way to support those other teachers. I have so much that I could offer to them as far as interactive online activities, discussion forums, chat rooms, YouTube videos, creating assignments and tests, and even how to create grading rubrics that work extremely well in an online learning situation. Yet, here I sit, just another teacher in a crisis, unable to connect with students or collaborate with teachers.
Overwhelmed is not a big enough word for how emotionally exhausted I am. The torrent of information, meant to be helpful, is actually drowning me. Thirty-plus emails each day regarding COVID-19 leave me struggling to stay afloat with creating lesson plans. So many online educational resources have stepped up to the plate, making their material free for teachers and students, that it makes for a long, hard slog to find the best tools for my classes. Added to this overflow of information are hour and a half Zoom meetings about online teaching, health and safety, and state and federal mandates that are being updated again and again. It’s relentless.
Lucky Teachers. The 200 year old punishment of washing someone’s mouth out with soap for verbally disrespecting another person applies here with absolute certainty.
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