Decompression

 When at last I shut down my computer this afternoon after logging nearly six straight hours of screen time, most of it in-person teaching to a grid of tiny dots filled with my students' initials, I considered crawling over to the couch, pulling my soft, fleecy blanket up over my head, and taking a nap. 

My eyes and brain felt raw and numb, but I knew in my heart that sleeping was probably not the best solution, and it was too early to start drinking, so, despite the pouring rain, I pulled on my boots, popped up my umbrella and went for a three mile walk. 

Back at home, I put the loaf of bread that had been rising since 6:30 in the oven, unzipped my ukulele from its case and strummed and sang for half an hour. Next, it was a 30 minute dance workout, after which I finally started feeling capable of maybe, maybe looking at another screen and start getting ready for tomorrow.

I used to be in the habit of relaxing by staring at my screen, scrolling through news and games and messages and social media posts, but all that has flipped along with my classroom. 

I only hope that my students are taking some breaks, too.

Magic Button

In addition to distance learning and teaching, this year our school has also made a move to block schedule. We did it to parallel the other middle schools in our district, because central office is, prudently, mandating as united a front as possible. Adapting to such a change has been an extra layer of challenge, but it has also allowed us to build in time for students to work away from their screens, which, after only 2 days of online school, I whole-heartedly support.

Having a block means that even though school started yesterday, there were still 2 sections of students to meet today. My first group was a lot like the classes yesterday: a little shy and quiet, but more than willing to follow the presentation and work on the assignment. But the next class was something else all together! From the minute I started the meeting, they were talking... not to me, but to each other. It was kind of refreshing to hear one kid greet another, and there was even good-natured teasing in both the real-time conversation and the chat. And it was almost like being in a rowdy classroom when it was time to start-- I had to raise my voice a little and ask for their attention. Honestly? It made me love them a little bit-- what powerful personalities they must have to shape a group from far away.

It didn't take too long before the students quieted down, and the lesson went well. When it was time for them to work independently on the assignment I had prepared, a student unmuted his mic to ask a question. "Can we talk while we work?"

I was unprepared for the inquiry.

"Uhhh," I started. "That's a good question! In school, I would say yes, as long as you worked quietly, so... I guess so? As long as it's not too loud or distracting."

"Cool!" he said.

But as they worked, the noise coming out of my laptop was loud and disjointed. I couldn't mute my speaker in case someone had a question, so at last, in a bit of tired desperation, I muted all of them. On my screen I watched to see if there was any reaction, but there wasn't. Some kids just kept on talking, sure that everyone else was listening, and others just kept on working. No one complained.

Friends, I am more than ready to return to the classroom as soon as it is safe. I can't wait to meet my students and spend time collaborating with my colleagues in person.

But I can already tell I'm going to miss that "mute all" button!

Distance Learning: Day 1

On the first day of school, a day fraught with so many technical problems that our neighbors were actually interviewed by the local news about their woes, I stood after a tense 5 hours at my desk, stretched my spasming back, and then headed out the door for a quick walk. As I powered through the neighborhood I came upon a man pitching baseballs for his daughter of about 6. "You be the outfield," he directed his son, who was even younger.

"Is this PE?" I laughed as I trotted past.

"You better believe it!" he answered.

Duty-free Lunch

As the ever-earlier late summer darkness fell on this September evening, my thoughts turned to my colleagues. As much time as we've had to process the reality of our situation, how strange it still is to begin a school year away from school! I picked up my phone and sent a quick good luck text to the group that was our team last year.


And so it was agreed. We'll meet and debrief as we always did, although it will be virtually. And I'm not sure how long it will be feasible or useful or desirable to do so, but when I scheduled the meeting, I had it repeat for every week day until the end of the year.

But that's really how our lunches always were-- the door was open to anyone who could make it.

Out of Competition

Once, a long time ago, when Heidi was coaching swimming for our middle school, she asked an excited-to-join sixth grader what his favorite stroke was. "Underwater!" he told her confidently. He was more than a little crestfallen when he discovered that underwater was not recognized in swimming competitions.

We still giggle a little at that memory sometimes, especially when we're at the pool trying to earn our activity goal. Treading water is effective, but we like to mix it up a bit, too. Heidi will do a little breast stroke, or even butterfly when she wants to show off, and I rely on the crawl, that one solid stroke I have.

"I'm going to do 10 lengths with flip turns," I'll announce, "but it's going to be the short way."

"How about underwater?" Heidi will suggest.

And then there's the side stroke, the one our moms and all the pool ladies of the sixties and seventies used to do so that their hair would stay dry. "Scissor kick and pick a peach and put it in the basket!" was the way somebody taught me to do it, and I learned! Even though it's not a competitive event, I can still sidestroke like nobody's business, and I usually do, all the way to the ladder whenever the guard calls break.

A Working Salute

Teachers everywhere, I see you!

You are using this holiday weekend to develop your professional knowledge, plan your lessons, create your materials and resources, and optimize it all for the unfamiliar platform of online learning, so that on Tuesday things will go as well as they can for your students.

Now that's what I call labor.

Finding The Way

One of our neighbors has a cool Mandalorian sticker on their car: a white, stylized helmet with the slogan This is the Way. Back in the spring, Heidi and I watched the whole first season of the series, partly because after 40 years, most things Stars Wars are kind of a must, and partly because one of Heidi's students was a huge fan and she wanted to be able to carry on a conversation with him. Either way, The Way, a code of honor and behavior which to Mandalorians includes, but is not limited to, never removing their helmets in front of others, is something we are familiar with. 

On our way home from the pool this afternoon we relived our disappointment with the appearance of the Mandalorian when at last the audience sees him without his helmet.

"I feel kind of bad," Heidi said, "because there wasn't anything wrong with the way he looked."

'I know," I agreed, "but it was kind of like that thing when you only hear someone on the radio, and then when you see a picture of them you're like--"

"That was NOT what I was expecting!" Heidi finished. We laughed for a minute, and then I thought back to all the phone calls I had made this week to parents and their students who will be starting in my class next week. To them I was only a disembodied voice on the line, and although they will see me on camera on Tuesday, I may as well have been wearing my helmet.

We teachers have been given strict guidance that we cannot require kids to turn on their cameras during virtual instruction, and I understand why. Revealing yourself and your current situation to others you may or may not know can be stressful. There is enough anxiety to go around these days without adding to it, especially when our objective is for kids to be in both a physical place where they can learn, and an emotional one as well.

Even so, I hope my students will feel comfortable enough to show their faces, if only because it seems like the most direct way to connect with each other. In the show, the Mandalorian is a lonely soul, isolated from others by choice and The Way. (Okay, Baby Yoda may have changed all that.)

As for me, when I called one of my homeroom students this morning, his mother shared their disappointment and frustration with not being able to fully join the virtual open house our school conducted yesterday morning.

"But we saw you in the car parade!" she continued, mentioning the caravan of teachers who drove an announced route through all our school's neighborhoods yesterday, cars decorated and horns honking. "And that made us feel so much better!"