Wash your hands…

It has been nearly 1 year since my classroom has been full of students. 1 year. For many of these months I taught from my empty house. I thought that was hard. Then we started working in our classrooms again. The empty classroom is much harder than the empty home. I can still hear the echos of laughter, see visions of dance parties and simulations, even remember the feel of the tears that would often land on my shoulder. And I miss every minute of it. I miss every snarky remark, every tested boundary and every disengaged face I had to try and win over. I miss all the seemingly mundane tasks. I miss staff meetings. I miss it all. I didn’t know I was taking it for granted. I thought I was appreciating every day. And in many ways I was. But having something ripped away always makes you appreciate it more. It’s so hard right now. This job is overwhelming and exhausting. It’s new every day. It’s like being a first year teacher with a new assignment every month. But without the joy of the kids, who are the reason we do this job, coming into our classes each day. Some days it is so overwhelming I feel like I can’t breathe. I question why I’m even still doing this. What else I could be doing that would be more impactful. That just wouldn’t be this. But then 8:05 hits. I put on some music and open up my google classroom. 8:10am hits and students start showing up on the screen. 80-90-% will not be faces. They will be colorful circles with a letter in the middle. Most students don’t want to have their cameras on. I don’t fight them on it. I don’t know what might be behind that screen that they don’t want all their peers to see. But I know that they are there. And in that moment, that’s enough. I put on a big smile. I dance around to make them laugh. I do what I can to make it feel like everything is okay. I teach to the best of my ability with all these limitations. I try desperately to make the content accessible and fun and engaging and rigorous and everything else it’s supposed to be. But mostly I try to make them smile or laugh. I try to help them see that there is still good. That we are still together. That everything is going to be okay. And I pray. I pray that they are okay. I pray that they know someone cares. I pray that they don’t give up. And I pray that someday, very soon, I will see their wonderful faces (masked, of course) walking through my classroom door. I dream of the moment I will be able to air hug them and hear their voices shout our class “I Am Somebody” statement. I dream of talking to them at their desks. Of being able to have meaningful conversations. Of being able to make posters and do simulations and teach the way I’m meant to. I pray I’ll be strong enough to help them through that transition. I pray I’ll be strong enough to hold on until then.  And at the end of the day, I thank God that I have a job. I thank Him that I’m still here. And I thank Him for every face and every circle with a letter in it. For every life behind those screens. And for allowing me to be a teacher. Even now. Especially now.