You’ve heard stories about incomprehensible lesson plans, and teachers that get on Zoom dressed as contestants from The Masked Singer. So I won’t complain. Much. Because unlike thousands of set designers, flamenco dancers, judo instructors, travel agents, university tutors, et al… high school teachers are still employed. However, you’re reading this for my take on 2020.
It was April. I was rummaging through my desk for snacks when my colleague walked into the eerily empty core subject staff room. She was one of the new staff, many of whom just started teaching this year. In the staff room, the desks were an elbow-space apart. I would get to know this woman well. I asked her what she thought about the changes. “I’m not just worried that some people in Australia might die,” she said, “I am worried that the next time we’re in this staff room, some of us won’t be here.” And then it hit me: we were exposed to hundreds of students a day, twenty or thirty simultaneously in crowded classrooms, breathing uncirculated air. Some were going to watch others fall critically sick. Some were going to experience income loss, separation, divorce, or even domestic violence and suicide. And some would drunkenly bake and photograph sourdough. I thought of all the things they had prepared us for – drills with various codes: fire drills, evacuation drills, shelter-in-place drills, etc. But there was never a drill for a pandemic. It felt like we were treading water with the next generation on our backs. Now it is August and we are still adrift. It seems, paradoxically, like time is formless even though there are more boundaries.
Yesterday, I was feeling as if I could only contact the troops by walkie-talkie. And this will go on for weeks. And it is winter. There are not enough dogs to walk. I soon discovered that my tendency towards introversion had been a reaction to the plethora of outside stimuli usually available. Without those options, I unexpectedly daydream about concerts in the dirtiest crowds. After three-o-four, we have half a dozen meetings, emails, and attachments, to attend to. We mark submitted work – if any. We plan lessons. We text each other photographs of homemade desserts. But we feel the walls closing. If my lessons start to look like this: ALL WORK AND NO PLAY MAKES ME A DULL GIRL, my colleagues know to call the EAP. Until then, I will ruminate over conversations we had when we were last together:
Me: Please stop touching each other.
Student 1: Why?
Me: Because of distancing rules.
Student 1: Miss, you know that Covid-19 is fake, right?
Me: … Why do you think it's fake?
Student 1: Think about it…. Have you seen any pigeons lately? […] They recalled them…. They’re changing the message….
Me: ... Where do you get your information?
Student 1: I can't believe you don't know about THE INTERNET, Miss.
Student 2: There’s the bell. We hope you live, Miss!
Student 1: Bye! We hope you live!
- By E. Liew.
- By E. Liew.
Originally published at: The Neighbourhood Clinic Initiative and also Stories from Corona
... also at Facebook: Life in the Time of Corona. Thanks, Bill Adamson.
... also at Facebook: Life in the Time of Corona. Thanks, Bill Adamson.