This is NOT School and It Doesn’t Matter How Much We Pretend

There they are – clear water bottles and masks trump their first day of school outfits and new shoes.

He likes her, but his innocent gazing eyes are misconstrued because she can’t see the corners of his lips curling into an I like you smile. He decides to just hope that maybe she’ll follow back on Instagram.

Maybe they’re smiling; maybe they’re frowning – I can’t see. Maybe they want to talk to the student next to them about some teenager drama on Snapchat, but there is little whispering possible when your peer is an entire six feet away.

I wonder if they’re okay. I wonder what they’re thinking. Most of them were probably tired of the four walls of their bedrooms, but is this what they expected? - Grab and go breakfasts and temperature checks. Signage that reads DON’T TOUCH THIS and THIS DOOR IS AN EXIT ONLY.

My students are here today.

“Good morning,” I announce as they enter my door. “What’s your name?”

“Miss, it’s me, _________.”

I didn’t recognize that she was the one messaging me about her work and chatting with me about world events and entertainment news, because of course – I can only see half of her face.

“Miss, what supplies do we need to bring?”

She’s excited to ask me that – I can feel it. She wants to do everything right and continue to make the straight A’s she’s accustomed to making.

“All you need is your Chromebook and your water bottle,” I respond.

I could tell she wanted to hear a request for pens, pencils, journals, binders and dividers.

They’ve completed assignments for me for six weeks now, but many of them I’ve never met.

Today, for the first time in my 11-year career – my desks are in rows. I have a seating chart for the first time. Their names are written on post-its at their desks – the desks they must sit in just in case the principal has to submit a contact tracing report.

Not one of them questions the seating chart. They simply take their seats and await instruction - but there is no lesson; at least not one for me to stand and deliver with my best animations. I stood in my classroom window this morning and recorded an eight-minute video introduction to The Scarlet Letter. Not at all the way I like to introduce teenagers to my homie Hester Prynne, whom her whack a** husband Chillingworth has completely messed up. 

You see, I can’t engage the students like I want for the entire class period, because I’m sitting at my desk answering questions for the students who are learning from home.

It’s no one’s fault, but this sucks.

My classroom is quiet. The students all have on earbuds, watching my instructional video. My classroom is quiet and I hate a quiet classroom. Every few minutes I find myself blurting out “are you guys okay?” They nod their heads. “Do you all hate this?” They shake their heads no in unison.

Maybe they’re telling the truth. Or maybe, like so many teenagers – they just don’t want to complain because they know that nothing about this will change.

I’m telling a joke now. A really good joke too. They’re laughing, but I can’t see their faces. They can’t see my smile.

The laughter is short-lived.

A nice young lady has a question for me about question number two. I hop from my desk, take two steps in her direction and then I realize that I can’t lean over her to point at the most important word in the question. I can’t pat her shoulder and say “you’ve got it” once she realizes that she didn’t need to second-guess herself and that she was right all along.

The young man sitting by the wall needs to go to the restroom. “Of course you can go,” I tell him. No restroom request has ever been met with a no in my classroom, but this time he must fill out his own hall pass and I’ll sign it without touching the paper.

“Make sure you flip the sign to red when you enter the restroom,” I remind him. “Oh, and wash your hands before and after you use the restroom.”

That last part wasn’t in our manual for this first day, but perhaps I do have maternal instincts - I want my children to wash their hands after touching an exposed sign BEFORE using the restroom.

On dreary days I usually get excited for the students to have their escape to the cafeteria. Today, I know that they are entering a cafeteria where they must sit and eat behind plexiglass. They will see their friends, but it just won’t be the same.

I wonder if the cafeteria will be as quiet as the classrooms are today?

The nice young man who left for the restroom is knocking on my door now. The young lady closest to the door rises to get the door. “No, no, sweetie – I’ll get the door,” I stop her. The exact moment I touch the doorknob – I realize that I welcomed this young man back into the room with my bare hand on the same doorknob that he just touched to leave the room.

Do I sanitize my hands viciously and run the risk of offending him? Or do I just hope that the young man isn’t a carrier of the coronavirus? 

I don’t have much time to think about it, as the bell is about to ring and a new group of students will enter. I have to sanitize the desks and send emails to the students at home who’ve yet to click the attendance button.

Maybe I’ll cry at lunch. I just don’t have time right now.

Shit! That’s what I want to say. That’s what I’m saying behind this mask, if I’m being completely transparent. Some teachers will call this hard, but this isn’t hard. This is just not school. This is forcing school during a pandemic.

These children are being incredibly cooperative. They are adhering to the new policies. They are looking over their masks at me, asking me with their eyes if I’ll be upset if they sneeze again. Their eyes are apologizing for having to go to the restroom, because they know I’ll be the one to rush from my desk to open the door when they return to the classroom. Their eyes are telling me that they are sorry school is happening this way and that they appreciate me trying to teach them the best way I can.

It’s almost 4 p.m.

My heart has almost beat outside of my chest at least five times today and it suddenly dawns on me – I haven’t taken the anxiety pill my doctor prescribed for me the week it was announced that schools were reopening. 

I left my blood pressure monitor at home. I don’t suffer from high blood pressure, but my pandemic blood pressure ain’t normal.

The administrators have done everything possible to make this building safe. They come by often to make sure we’re okay. I don’t blame them for any of this. The anxiety is just so overwhelming.

Part of me still wants to be their favorite teacher.

It’s the last period of the day. Maybe my masked charm worked. Two students try to linger and chat. But I have to rush them away. Students can’t linger this year. “Send them out of the building immediately,” we’re instructed. Perhaps they want to express concern about a “difficult” teacher; ask questions about my assignment or maybe even chat with me about the Cowboys failed attempt at a win yesterday. But they have to leave. Whether mom is in the parking lot yet or not – they have to leave this classroom and exit the building.

The adults were in such a rush to return the country to “normal” that no one bothered to give a damn about sending children to a familiar place that would offer no degree of normalcy.

Someone entered this school today with Covid-19, but he or she is feeling fine, showing no symptoms and has no idea.

He or she used the microwave to heat up lunch. That person used the restroom before another person; seconds before the faithful custodian could spray the sanitizer gun at the doorknob.

I hope it’s not me.