Days #195, 196, 197 Writing Through COVID-19: Not Writing

I didn't write Monday night because I was instead banging my forehead against the brick wall that is the 2020 yearbook. I reviewed and submitted spreads until my eyes bled. We still haven't finished the book, but we're getting closer.
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Because our school year ended in March, we are now trying to tell the story of what happened during those lost months. One of the spreads includes a module interviewing students who had contracted the virus. 

Years from now, the quotes from kids will take readers back to the symptoms ("I knew what it should taste like, but I physically couldn't taste anything"), what the test felt like ("literally stabbing my brain"), and how we managed time in quarantine ("Just hung around and watched a ton of movies").

Still, I was hesitant to print the module because students were talking about health issues. Legally, we could. Ethically, should we? 

I'm not sure if you, dear reader, care (or even need to care) about the subtleties of balancing journalistic principles when prior-review bumps up against honoring privacy and minimizing harm. 

But such micro-decisions are the meat and bone of teaching. Each day we have dozens of students entrusted to our care. So much of what we do pushes competing needs against each other: how to respond to an agitated or disruptive student; how to value growth and/or mastery when grading; how to manage students' emotional needs while still attending to content and "standards."

Ultimately, I chose to share the module with parents of the students and ask for their approval to publish. All four parents granted permission, and three of them thanked me for asking. 
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Last night I did not write because I was watching the debate. 

Let's not talk about that. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Tonight's video chat with the Wolf man.

Day #194 Writing Through COVID-19: Dreams and Worries

Last night I dreamed Andrea and Max sent Wolf to me for a week. They couldn't travel because of COVID, but they sent Wolf in a box.

As I gazed at him, I thought this must be a dream. He can't really be here. But then I reached out and picked him up, and his physicality was genuine. He was solid and soft and real: I was holding an 11-week-old baby. It was not a dream.

As I gazed at him, I realized his nose ended in a point. I thought, hmm, his nose doesn't look pointed in the photographs!

When I woke up, I felt so happy I'd held him and felt him, even if he had a pointy nose. Even if it wasn't real.
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My mother-in-law continues to worry. Right now she's concerned that the glare from her laptop might be hurting her vision. This spiral of worry began when one of her granddaughters shared a photo in which a child was wearing sunglasses while attending school virtually. 

Thus began her descent into computer-vision-syndrome worry.

This woman is a Hardanger artist and hand-quilter. She darns socks. I mean, she has lots of reasons for eye strain, including the time she spends writing lovely letters to dozens of lonely nursing home residents. 

"Are your eyes feeling strained?" I asked during our nightly outdoor, masked visit (which has replaced our indoor accordion practices since I've returned to school and now have increased community contact).

"No," she said. "But I don't want to damage my eyes."
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At 91, this woman has more energy than most 40-year-olds. She remembers more than I do. She's agile and funny and strong. She cleans her own house, cooks her own meals. Pre-COVID she played piano at the nursing home for the daily chapel services.

But her radar for decline is on high alert. A few weeks ago she had a flash of blackout after standing up quickly. A 30-year-old would bat that aside without a moment's worry; she thought it might be a brain tumor.

Telling her she's thriving doesn't seem to ease her hyperfocus on each aspect of her physical and mental health. In truth, who can blame her? As well as she's doing today, she can't really hope for improvement, only a slowing of the decline. 

How did this blog post take such a dark turn?
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Let me remember the lesson from yesterday's NCTE "Mindful Writing" webinar: worry is in the past (regret) or in the future (anxiety). But in the breath of here and now, we're okay. Hold the pen. Stay in the moment.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

His nose is perfect.

Day #193 Writing Through COVID-19: Nothing Gold Can Stay

Today was rough with my dad. His mental functioning is slipping precipitously. 

Earlier this week he wanted to set up Zoom on his desktop computer because his laptop connection is tenuous, causing image and audio lag. The Friendship Haven tech team said his desktop machine didn't have a camera or mic. So I ordered one, and on Friday they hooked it up. 

But today when I called to (hopefully!) Zoom and play Bridge, my dad couldn't log onto his email for the Zoom invite.

For 40 minutes I repeated these lines:

• "Do you see a red M on a white background that looks like an envelope?"
• "What do you see on your screen right now?"
• "Can you drag your cursor over those words?"
• "Now type g-o-o-g-l-e-period-c-o-m."
• "Do you see a red, yellow, and green circle with a blue dot in the middle?"
• "Click on that!"

My dad responded:

• "I see a black box."
• "It says 'h t t p colon slash slash m s n...'"
• "I'm clicking but nothing is happening." 
• "I see a lot of ads."
• "I don't see that."

Sometime during our painful conversation, my dad said, "I think I typed zeros instead of o's."

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My dad would have kept plugging away at our spirling Zoom fiasco until his heart gave out. It was up to me to call it quits. 
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Until today, I've always been able to talk my dad onto his Gmail and into our zoom meetings.

But when I heard him snap at my mom "Don't interrupt!" I knew he'd had enough.

I suggested I call again later. 

He agreed.

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This evening, we circumvented Gmail and logged directly onto Zoom with the meeting ID and password.

But my dad's audio still didn't work. We could see each other's faces, but could only hear voices through the phone.

This was less than ideal, but it gave me the chance to see and talk to my mom.

Immediately my eyes welled with tears. I told her I missed her. 

She said she's been blowing bubbles, which told me she remembered her days on the farm. 

I told her we're now harvesting the beans she watched grow each time she walked to the mailbox.

"We loved the time we spent with you," she said. 

"Wasn't that the best?" I asked. 

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My parents' COVID time here was golden for all three of us. 

Nothing gold can stay.

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Wolf "saw" me today! He followed my image on FaceTime as Andrea moved the phone. I sang to him; he joined in with coos and smiles. 

Day #192 Writing Through COVID-19: Numbers and Highlights

Nine new cases in Cass County yesterday brought our total to 162 and our 14-day positivity average to 9.2%. In our small, rural Iowa county, these are big numbers.

After five weeks behind a mask for eight hours a day, you'd think I'd be used to it. Instead, I find myself increasingly tugging the mask away from my mouth to enunciate. Thursday I said something about grading and a student said, "I thought you said 'gravy'!"

The elastic pulls against the backs of my ears. By mid-day, my face feels damp and chapped. I'm trapped in a sauna of my own coffee breath.

I'm tired of not understanding my students' mumbles behind their masks, even as I appreciate the masks. Holding these contradictary positions makes my head hurt. 
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Yesterday three of the ahsneedle.com editors interviewed our school district superintendent on Zoom for a story about the recent surge in cases in our county and school district. Because the editors were in the same room, we had feedback issues. Two of them had to log off and just listen and take notes as the lead editor asked the questions. 

As I observed my students' handling of the interview and watched their notes unfold on the shared document, I was reminded of how far they've come as journalists over the past three years. The questions were tough but delivered without aggression. They circled back to re-ask un-answered questions in another way. 

The gist of their inquiry focused on the district's response to the past week's surge and why the administration is not releasing actual numbers. (The district did release a memo acknowledging "cases in students and staff in multiple locations" but has not provided numbers to the press.)

To watch 17-year-olds interview the person holding the position of highest leadership in our district, and doing so with poise, confidence and professionalism is a journalism teacher's dream. 

It was a highlight of my day.
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But wait! 

My freshmen discussed when/how true learning occurs today. On Thursday we'd watched Father Guido Sarducci's classic "Five-minute University" sketch to get us thinking about authentic learning vs. temporary (only for the test) learning.

As a class, we considered times we've sought out learning independently, not for a grade or extrinsic reward, but because we wanted to learn/know something. One student told about learning to juggle and flying a remote-control airplane. Another said he is interested in psychology and seeks out learning related to this. One said politics. Another said she wanted to learn to drive the manual transmission jeep on her farm, but when her dad was too busy to teach her, she looked it up on the internet and taught herself. A boy told us about memorizing the periodic table in fifth grade just to prove to his dad he could do it.

Our discussion led to classwide agreement that intrinsically-motivated learning is fun--even exciting--despite its difficulty. 

Unfortunately, in school, the learning goals are too often extrinsic. 

What is a teacher to do when she is teaching a concept that she truly believes will enhance students' communication skills (and thereby their lives), but that the students are not intrinsically motivated to learn?

From these questions we headed to our notebooks to write as a means to figuring out our thoughts.

When I invited students to share their discoveries, the room exploded: kids told about times grades motivated them, and times grades stunted their learning. They talked about their parents sometimes caring more about the grades than they did. They spoke of a desire for corrective, instructive feedback, as long as that feedback comes from teachers they feel understand and care about them. The voiced frustration when they can't see a connection between learning and their own lives. They cited times a teacher's praise fed a small flame of possibility.

That, too, was a highlight of my day.
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Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #190-191 Writing Through COVID-19: By the Numbers

0 - Number of times I let my COVID guard down during the first days back at school, almost five weeks ago.

2.5 - Positivity percentage of COVID testing (14-day average) on Sept. 11.

2.7 - Positivity percentage of COVID testing (14-day average) on Sept. 18.

7.9 - Positivity percentage of COVID testing (14-day average) today.

17 - Percent of Cass County's total COVID cases (152) reported during the past six days.

26 - Number of new cases in Cass County since last Friday.

50+  Times I touched a student's computer, messed with my mask, broke the 6'-barrier or otherwise let my guard down today.

100 - Percent of over this, sick of this, tired of this fatigue I'm feeling tonight.

193 - Days since the COVID-19 lockdown that ended the 2020 school year.  

7956 - Miles to my grandbaby.

Bald, beautiful, too far away.

From the New York Times
Click the image to clearly see the trend.

Day #189 Writing Through COVID-19: Back to Scrubs

The 14-day positivity average in Cass County was up to 5.4% this morning, so I again donned the scrubs. 

When I wore my first dress last week, I told students I'd be their COVID baramoter: If I'm wearing scrubs, our numbers are over 5%. Mask up. Distance. 
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My first-period broadcasting class was angry today. They're COVID fatigued. "We have to live our lives," one student said. "We can't just live in fear," said another. 

These are kind and respectful kids. They came to school the first days wearing masks and honoring the district's social-distancing recommendations. 

But after five months of high-alert for this virus, and after four weeks of haphazard safety enforcement in school, and after the confusing, ever-changing guidelines from the CDC, everyone--especially our teenagers, for whom a week feels like a year and a month feels like a lifetime--wants to throw in the towel.

Who can blame kids for gravitating to the "no big deal" message. "Invincibility" is already hardwired into their adolescent minds. Plus the "big deal" message from the scientists is such a bummer. 
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What got them going today was word that we won't be having a Homecoming parade. 
Or a Homecoming assembly.
Or a Homecoming dance.

No wonder they just want to declare COVID a hoax, or a live-with-it inconvenience, and just get back to their (very big, larger than life) teenage world.
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I spend far more time with teenagers than most people do. So I empathized with what they expressed today. I was a big-hearted listener. But I also tried to gently remind them that although their own return to normal was not, likely, a risk to them (which they kept asserting), it does constitute a risk to their parents, grandparents, teachers, and community members.

No, they admitted, they didn't want those people to die. 

But couldn't we have a Homecoming parade? Outside? Wearing masks? Distanced?

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #188 Writing Through COVID-19: Nonagenarians on the Loose

Quick recap:

From mid-March to August, my parents lived in my basement. It's a walkout, not a dungeon. They were isolated from nearly the entire world, except for me, who scrubbed diligently and minimized my own contact with our low-COVID community.

It was safe and, with access to a wide farm lawn, they were not horribly constricted.

August: I returned to school and could no longer maintain the barrier of protection around my folks, so we re-homed them to the care center in Ft. Dodge.

The rules required my parents to quarantine with twice-a-day temperature checks for 14 days after arriving. We dropped Vern at Critter Camp because they couldn't leave their room even to walk their dog. They were miserable, but we got through it.

After two weeks, they could, if masked, walk down the hall and go outside. They could even host pre-scheduled 30-minute outdoor visits from family.

But then.

Their care center experienced a water-damage event (something about sprinklers, I think) that rendered one of their independent-living buildings inhabitable. As they scrambled to find spaces for the displaced residents, they opened up my parents' "protected" building. That is, my parents could now come and go as they pleased.

This delighted them, while horrifying their children. 

When my sister took my parents to my dad's sisters' funerals two weeks ago, she threw herself--pop-up armor!--in front of my dad when well-wishing relatives tried to swoop in and hug him. Like a mother bear, she protected her elderly cubs.
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Nestled in my basement, my parents knew all was not right out there in the COVID world; however, they also weren't learning the new ways to move about in public if you want to be safe. Many of us have learned to eye a six-foot radius around ourselves. We carry hand-sanitizer, wipe the grocery cart, honor the plexiglass shields that greet us at places of business.

Sending my parents out into the community of Ft. Dodge (14-day rolling positivity rate of 9.6%) is like sending three-year-olds into a candy shop, alone, reminding them not to touch anything.
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At the end of last Saturday's phone call with my dad, I told him I'd call at 8:15 on Sunday to hook him up to ZOOM for Sunday School, which is our routine.

On Sunday, 7:45 a.m., he called me to say he and my mom were attending church in person and wouldn't need to zoom. They would take a taxi. 

I hung up, called my sister. We shrieked and wailed (something like that) before I frantically called my dad back, hoping they hadn't already left.

"Do you have hand sanitizer?" No.
"It's important you not touch your face or mask after you get into the taxi. Sanitize your hands as soon as you get into church. Do not touch anyone. Don't shake hands. Don't hug. Stay six feet away from everyone."

As I rattled off my directives, flinging little prayers, the futility of it all hung in the air like...those COVID aerosol droplets the CDC is warnining (now not warning) about.

My dad can't remember the three steps to open his computer, open his Gmail, and open Zoom without me talking him through it. My mom spent her two weeks in quarantine angry at "the people" who weren't letting her out of her room.

I can't expect them to self-monitor their safety in public. I can't seem to elevate their concern to the level of mine. Part of me doesn't want to because living with my level of concern is not fun.

Today the Cass County rolling positivity rate is back up to 5% after tallying 10 new cases since Friday.

I'll be back to wearing scrubs again today.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Sleep tight, Wolf.

Day #187 Writing Through COVID-19: Rethinking Royalty

The Homecoming candidates were announced on Friday. Every year I hate this. So many of my lovely, wonderful, awesome students feel deep rejection on this day. Others ignore it because they have never felt seen or valued by their peers. 

The concept of shining golden light on our already most popular students tears at my teacher-heart. Each day I work to help students embrace their authentic selves, value each member of our learning community as worthy people deserving of acceptance and equity. 

It's as if for eight months of the school year we tell students: Every student is an equal member of our school community! Then during Homecoming month, we say: Forget that! Let's build a pedestal, vote on which students we'd like to put on top of the rest of us!
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Disclaimer: When I didn't make the Ft. Dodge Dodgers' Homecoming Court in 1977, I thought I'd died. I'd already failed to win a place on the (student-voted) cheer squad. Rejection on the Homecoming Court was the nail in my popularity coffin. I know this hurts. 

More Disclaimers: My (privileged) children were on Homecoming courts. Two of my daughters "reigned" as queens. As their mom, I was proud they were seen as leaders, friendly, positive people. That's what I told myself the "honor" was for.

Still More Disclaimers: This is too complicated. I've been both hurt and rewarded by this questionable tradition. 

This is nothing against the children who are voted onto the court. They are wonderful people! I love them all (especially the journalists :-). 

But schools should not promote events that wreak havoc on so many students' self-esteem.
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As we try to sneak back to more normal living, despite Iowa COVID numbers hovering nearly as high as ever, I've referenced Shirley Jackson's short story "The Lottery." In the story, everyone takes part in a yearly ritual: the community gathers for a game of chance. The "prize" is to be stoned by the rest of the community. Yes, the story is shocking and disturbing. But I've thought of it a lot during the past two months as we return to school, understanding that yes, some kids and teachers will get sick. Some might die. But we all hope our own chance of drawing that black dot is small. 

Until it isn't. 

Tonight I'm thinking about a central theme to the story: When do we decide that a tradition is no longer one to keep? "We've always done this" is not much of a reason to keep stoning a person year after year. 

Nor does it stand up well as a reason to repeat the school-sponsored praising of 14 well-liked kids while reminding the other 110 in their class that they are not royalty. ROYALTY? Kings and queens? Seriously. Do we really want to do this?

Enough.
Enough.
Enough.

I'll try to be more cheerful tomorrow.
I'll tell you about my parents' return to in-person church. 

Allison

Wolf, left; Wolf's dad Max, right.

Day #185-186 Writing Through COVID-19: Warning: Getting Political

Last evening I looked at my phone and learned Ruth Bader Ginsburg had died. It felt like a gut punch. 

In the spring of 2016, Senator Grassley made his 99-county tour stop at Atlantic High School. Students and community members asked questions. After the auditorium cleared, I talked to the senator one-on-one, asking why he was stalling on Merrick Garland's nomination to the Supreme Court. He said it was important to delay confirmation until after the November election, to let the PEOPLE decide (as if the "people" had not, in fact, elected President Obama). 

I've never voted for Grassley myself, but until that spring, I did respect him as a man of conscience and decency. 

However, his refusal to bring the Garland nomination to the floor was, I believe, a step onto a slippery slope that has since become a free fall. In the past four years, I've watched Grassley's moral spine bend, curl, and ultimately dissolve. 

I want to think he will remember his claim that voting on a Supreme Court Justice in the year before a presidential election fails to "let the PEOPLE decide." In his own words, pushing through a Trump nominee six weeks before the election is not acceptable. 

Why am I cynical about what Grassley will do now?

We live in a time when politicians are no longer ashamed when confronted with their hypocrisy, a time when honesty and ethics are abandoned to win the approval of an unstable autocrat.  
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It's strange how a piece of sad news can overwhelm an otherwise happy day.

So let me refocus. 

My broadcast students posted a solid show Friday. Watch it here: The Eye of the Needle. I'm proud of their growth under this fall's challenging circumstances.

The yearbook crew is cranking out pages to finish our 2020 book. 

My Intro to Journalism kids went all-in on our Friday news quiz competition, with eighth-period knocking out a 544/600 score.

When the temperature warmed in the afternoon, my English 9 students asked to read outside. It was lovely. Yesterday they watched this film about identity (suggested by the friend I mentioned last Saturday), and on Friday they began writing honest, compelling essays about their own experiences hiding their true selves.

Somewhere in Friday's whirlwind of high-school teaching, I strapped on my accordion and played a mistake-riddled rendition of "Happy Birthday" for a colleague turning 29. 

I helped a senior fill out her first college application. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Stuart and Harrison are hunting mule deer in Montana.

Sweet Wolf is in good hands with his adoring
(and adorable) parents.

Day #184 Writing Through COVID-19: A Good Day

Today our district superintendent sent a notice to parents and staff: "We were notified last evening that we had positive COVID test results from individuals in the school district." The notification said that "Individuals affected by these positive cases have been communicated with."

We don't know how many people in our district tested positive, but the plural "results" and "individuals" indicate it's more than one. We don't know which buildings were impacted or if it was teachers or students with positive results. 

But I was glad to see the community was at least told something. Up to this point our district has not released any COVID numbers on staff or students testing positive. I believe the public has a right to know the number of cases, and the buildings affected, to best make decisions for their students and families. 
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My freshman English students shared more of their "Where I'm From" poems with the class today. We are learning how to feed our writers by pointing out the lines and phrases that speak to us, move us, resonate with us. I tell my students that writers need to be heard. When we share with them what we gleaned from their words, we are giving them sustenance and energy to write again.

I feel the same way about readers of my blog. While I come to this page to make sense of the flotsam and jetsam of the day, I need to know I'm talking to someone. That's you.
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We tried a new group microphone during my ZOOM class today, and my Remote Learners said it was a big improvement. They could even hear soft-spoken Kyra--masked--in the back row! 

I can't believe this is only our 18th day of school. In some ways, it feels like 100. 
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I will say today was fun. Room #408 buzzed with learning from 8 a.m. to 3:13 p.m. 

The broadcasting team had heated moments as they taped and edited video for tomorrow's show. Afterward, three students said they were sorry about the conflict in the J-Lab. I'll call that a win because learning to APOLOGIZE is a #Top10 life skill. (As is learning to resolve conflict with colleagues, although I don't see either of these tested on the ACT.)

My yearbook editors came to the conclusion that we will not, in fact, have our 2020 book finished by tomorrow, which was our week's goal. Nevertheless, they were pleased with how much work has been done this week. Shoot for the moon and land in the stars (something like that). 

The Intro to Journalism kids are writing stories for the Senior Magazine. This entails interviewing seniors they may not know. Learning to talk to strangers is one more #Top10 life skills that the powers-that-be fail to value and measure. 

My newspaper kids are a joy of my day. The class is small, meets after lunch, and is peopled with hardworking, funny writers. We work hard. We laugh hard. We share outlandish moments that do not translate well onto this space. Let me just say I'm sorry we only have 45 minutes together.

And that brings me to my freshman English classes. I love journalism. But I have a poet's heart. My two freshman English classes (the ones that shared their "Where I'm From" poems today) are my raison d'etre. Today we read, shared our poetry, then watched, analyzed, and discussed a short film (with a mic that worked)! The bell rang too soon.
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Our county's positivity rating edged up to 3.1% today, but it's still under 5, so I got to wear a dress.

I'll call that a good day.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Handsome Wolf, bald as a bean.

Day #183 Writing Through COVID-19: Less Is More

We have now had 17 days of class. 

I've worn scrubs for 16 of those days.

Today I wore a dress.
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My son's girlfriend, a nurse, reinforced my idea to wear scrubs when school started. She said in her work she knows she comes in contact with germs throughout the day. She can whip off the scrubs, wash them in hot water, take a shower, and mitigate transferring germs to her home and loved ones. When I asked her if she thought I, a teacher, would benefit from scrubs, she said, "I think you can assume at some point. you'll be contaminated."

That gave me the go-ahead. I bought four pairs of Walmart scrubs and one fancy pair of Figs. They're incredibly comfortable. They match my no-fuss COVID persona.

But our positivity rate in the county is at 2.2%. 

And the weather report said we can expect cooler weather tomorrow.

And I have a summer dress I wore only once this year, to a ZOOM wedding back in June.

Can you see where I'm headed?

I set a new guide: If Cass County positivity rate is <5%, I'm wearing dresses! When we go above that, I'm back to scrubs. I will be a walking barometer of the Cass County COVID rate!

A dress!

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One of the tenets that has kept me from collapsing this past month is "Less is more. Simple is better." I am a teacher who usually spins as many plates as I possibly can. In the past, I figured the smashed plates were worth the ultimate success of the show.

However, this year, post-COVID (or should I say mid-COVID), I am keeping my lessons focused, minimizing homework, responding to student writing with a big heart and a very tiny red pen. Less is more. Simple is better.

I am determined to keep my eye on the must-dos rather than the should-dos and the want-to-dos.
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Then today I was approached with two more projects that I'd classify as "should-" or "want-to." The pre-COVID me would have said yes to both. The new me said wait, maybe.

This is a step in the right direction.

I'm realizing that the sanity- and health-saving measures I'm taking now are, in fact, long overdue. 

Less is more. 
Simple is better. 

Sometimes I marvel at how much I can, at age 60, still learn in a day.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Beautiful Wolf.

Day #182 Writing Through COVID-19: Why Poetry?

I tried a new mic system to improve my Remote Learners' sound quality, but it didn't help. I want to find a mic that can hang from the ceiling and pick up voices all around the room. 
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My freshmen are setting up their blogs. We use a private system so the only readers of our blogs are our classmates. 

Last year my students posted once a week. We used our  Passion Blogs  to analyze topics and questions we cared passionately about. This year we'll include poetry in our blogs as well.
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COVID brought our undulating life rhythms to a screeching halt. When we crept back to a new normal, we saw our world had changed. Mundane actions such as a handshake, standing in line, or passing a clerk your credit card suddenly demanded forethought and caution. Choices to attend a parade, a church service, or a picnic were weighed with the deliberation of a major purchase or elective surgery. 

There is no such thing as a free lunch: if energy is expended on getting through the day (Did I sanitize after I touched that public door handle?), it is drawn from the finite reservoir of energy we would have used elsewhere. 

My students shoulder worries and questions they did not carry last February. As their English teacher, I want them to know that writing can help us all make sense of our feelings and experiences. Poetry, specifically, invites us to sift through the clutter and find the best words to capture the distilled essence of our thoughts. In a supportive community, poets can feel brave and heard and liberated. 

Especially in times of stress and uncertainty, leading students toward the solace of poetry is my calling. 
-------------------------

As I guide students to poetry, I use mentor texts. That is, we examine a poem together, noticing how the poet's words made us think and feel. Then we analyze the poet's choices that achieved the desired effect. 

I like to share my own attempt to write using the model as my guide. The students can then share their perceptions as readers, and I can tell them my perspective as the writer. 

At this point, students are invariably ready to write. Their ideas are bursting. They want to try.

Today we wrote "Where I'm From" poems, based on George Ella Lyon's poem by the same name. 
--------------------------

Tonight before blogging, I read the first four poems that had been submitted. Here is a composite:

Action, adventure, and fantasy   I am from those books  Writing my own story  Writing and writing

I am from the cancer that took my grandma, the cancer that tried to take my dad.

I am from the smiles my parents used to share.

I am from the rights and wrongs I make. -----------------------------

This gentle invitation to poetry allowed my students to explore books, cancer, divorce, and mistakes.

The form is open and forgiving.

We can all use a little of that.

Enough, Be well. Write poetry.

Allison

Evening #IowaSky

Day #181 Writing Through COVID-19: Your One Wild and Precious Life?

I'm struggling to maintain the running, Bridge with my dad, and daily blogging I established during COVID now that school is in full swing. 

Many people hated the shriveling of their lives as the pandemic prevented them from participating in social activities and life events.

I missed those too. Especially snuggling Wolf. 

But for the most part, my messy life needed some major Marie Kondo de-cluttering magic. Isolating gave me that. I was granted permission to say no: No church. No parades. No socializing. No meetings. No obligations. 

Just say no.

While I thought I enjoyed (or at least didn't mind) my pre-COVID activities, I felt a freeing release when my only jobs were to stay home, feed my parents, get some exercise.
---------------------------

Now that I'm back in school, I'm alive again. I'm engaged and thinking and problem-solving and interacting from 8 a.m. to 3:13 p.m.  My evenings and mornings are packed with grading, planning, and prep for the next day.

After five months of idly chatting through coffee with my parents, yawning into a morning run on the trail, stretching in the sun to read the news, maybe throwing in a load of washing...I have to say my life is now running at a much higher RPM.

In many ways this is good: I feel energized and purposeful. 

But it squeezes out the slow-life COVID activities that had grown dear to me. 
---------------------

I tell my students that poetry is almost always on some level about life's biggest themes: love and death.

Tonight I'm feeling a third major life theme (which might, in fact, be a combination of love + death): How should we spend our finite time?

Mary Oliver asks this question in her infinitely re-readable poem "The Summer Day":

"What is is you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?"

I'm feeling the squeeze.
I can't do it all.
-------------------

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf is at a three-day dog-training 
workshop with his parents. I love 
everything about this picture.

Day #179 Writing Through COVID-19: ZOOM Confessions

Day #179. I am within days of the half-year point on this writing project. 

On Saturday I met with (ZOOMed with) my remote learners to discuss what was working and--more importantly--what wasn't working when they join our class remotely. They gave me suggestions for improving sound quality and visual access to the whiteboard. It was good to have some one-to-two time with these dear students who are trying to make the most of the long days of online learning. 

I followed up by emailing the district teaching coach and principal, relaying the supports I'll need to implement my students' suggestions. My coach answered quickly, assuring me we could make adjustments (different mic-ing, different positioning of the ZOOM camera) to better meet my students' needs.
---------------------

I need to come clean.

My Remote Learners (those who ZOOM in each day) are not yet receiving equal access to my teaching. Some days I've forgotten to open the ZOOM room until 10 minutes into class. Other days I've failed to unmute myself or notice postings in the chatroom.

Teaching face-to-face and online simultaneously is really hard. I want you to know that. If my eyes are on my live students, I'm not watching the ZOOM screen. My remote learners can't hear their classmates in the back. It quite literally feels like I'm teaching in two rooms at once, which I guess I am.

As schools struggle to find ways to both deliver education and keep students safe, politicians and parents and pretty much everyone else wants to know what these new learning-delivery systems look like.

I can only speak for Room #408: It's not pretty.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

My son Max with his son Wolf, 2 mo.

Day #177-178 Writing Through COVID-19: Letting My Guard Down

The COVID numbers in Cass County increased by only four cases this past week. Our positivity in testing is down to 2.5 percent, enviously low. It's tempting to grow lax.

At school, I continue to hibernate in my cave, roped off from my students for most of the day. But in two of my production classes, I often find myself grabbing a quick splash of hand-sanitizer before grabbing a student's computer, then adjusting a camera, or pulling my face shield down over my already masked face to move in to help a student edit her video. 

While I know I am loosening my distancing, I've developed a subliminal awareness of when I've sanitized, of what I've touched. 

I have taught myself to open doors with my elbow to avoid touching shared surfaces. I reflexively turn my face away from unmasked students and colleagues. 
-------------------

Tonight I officiated a wedding for a darling couple who'd originally scheduled June nuptials. Their initial plans were sidelined when gatherings of more than 10 people were prohibited. 

To hold their ceremony tonight, they limited their guest list, held the ceremony and reception outside, distanced the spacing of their tables, and canceled the dance. 

If my parents were still living me, I would not have attended at all. But I felt this gathering was actually safer than my daily school situation.

I debated wearing a mask, weighing factors: I wanted to be heard clearly. I prefer the no-mask visual for this couple's photos. Only the bride and groom would be within six feet of me, and they would be facing each other, not me. 

Ultimately I did not wear a mask and felt comfortable about my decision.

Until this morning: my neighbor and dear friend, which whom I've bemoaned our fellow non-masking SW Iowans, called to say she'd seen photos of the wedding. She is a florist and wanted to comment on the lovely wedding flowers. 

But I suddenly felt a wave of guilt. She and I have bonded in our MASK IT philosophy for six months now. I felt like I got caught, unmasked, at a public gathering. 

My friend was not criticizing me. She, too, has lowered her guard to attend a grandson's football game and visit her daughter in Des Moines. My guilt was self-imposed, as if I'd let myself down.

It is hard to keep my guard up. My arms are tired. I want to rest. 

------------------

The Southern Poverty Law Center has developed a highly respected "Teaching Tolerance" curriculum to help teachers navigate tough issues of racism, sexism, and other systemic forms of inequality.

My friend who is serving as the Critical Consciousness teacher in a large Iowa district this year told me she would begin the year by addressing identity via the Teaching Tolerance curriculum. 

This week I adapted the TT curriculum to fit my students and goals. First, my students wrote analyses of their names. Next, we watched a short TED talk by a woman balancing her individual identity with her social identities as a woman with Asian race and Australian ethnicity.  

My students then journaled about their various social identities: race, age, gender, religion, etc. I encouraged them to explore which of their social identities they were most comfortable sharing and which identities they felt most judged by.

After journaling, I offered students a chance to share if they wanted to. 

I was surprised at how many hands went up. Students at first talked about the confidence with which they shared their religious identities within like-minded religious communities. Then one student talked about the difficulty of expressing religious/non-religious views with people who do NOT share the same beliefs.

Next, a girl told her personal story of being denied participation in FFA because her grandma said "farming isn't for girls." As she told her story, she teared up, and then began to cry outright. 

We passed the Kleenex, and several students offered support for her fight and empathy for her struggle. 

Two more told stories of limitations they've felt by their social identities. 

When the bell rang, none of us was ready for class to end.

---------------------

There is still so much work to be done.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Our smiling Wolf.
I love the wee dimples on his hand.

Day #176 Writing Through COVID-19: Dad on the Internet

My sister Adrienne called. She's worried about our dad. 

He (again) clicked on a scam email, this one offering a "free" watch. When he punched in his credit card info for "shipping," he got a message saying his card was invalid. At that point, he called my sister.

It turns out his credit card is fine. He had merely (thankfully!) entered the card number incorrectly. Adrienne reminded him that nothing is free, he doesn't need another watch, and he is not to click on tempting offers in his email.

"You might have to remind me of that every six months," he said.

More like every six days, she thought. 
----------------------------

Then Facebook.

My dad never fully understood Facebook when he joined several years ago. He tended to post personal messages on his main feed. Luckily he is a kind and civil person, so his mistakes were odd but benign. He hasn't logged on for months. In July when he and my mother had birthdays, I pulled up his page to read them the many loving comments left by well-wishers. It was Facebook at its best. 

Recently the descendants of Iva Orr and Wayne Berryhill have opened a private page for sharing photos and memories. Adrienne thought my dad would enjoy it, so she logged him back on. 

Soon he was typing comments, but he struggled to post them. 

When he asked for assistance, Adrienne read what he'd written. "I don't understand what you're trying to say," she said. 

He repeated an odd analogy, comparing his relationship to his nephew John to his brother Gerry's relationship to my brother Stafford. (Sorry, it's hard to relay a nonsensical comment in a way that makes sense.)

In his attempt to post his thoughts, he'd written "Lee John Berryhill."

Adrienne suggested they shut the computer down and restart it.
----------------------

Then she called me, distressed.

For several years we've considered our dad to be the brains of our parents' combined capacity as an aging couple. Our mother is strong physically; our dad can still think clearly.

COULD think clearly.
-----------------------

As a psychiatrist, my dad once told me that if he could cure any disease, it would be schizophrenia. The illness disproportionately strikes brilliant people, in their 20s, on the cusp of adulthood. It contorts what might have been our world's brightest potential into debilitating struggles for survival.

I thought of that tonight. 

My dad was always fit and athletic. It's been sad to see him lose his physical abilities. 

But the core of who he is has lain in his keen and nimble mind. 

Watching that go is hard.

Enough for tonight.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #175 Writing Through COVID-19: A Day in the Life

6:45 a.m. 
I've cut my fingernails down to nothing. I wear a little mascara. No jewelry. No perfume. Part of this is for COVID hygienics, but part is the new simpler me, nurtured during five months of no-fuss living. I like it.  

7:15 a.m.
I grab a clean mask from the dozen dangling from the cupboard knob in the laundry room. But when I get to school and put it over my face, it smells musty. 

The sofas that used to line my room were hauled away last month to make room for hard-surfaced desks, but I still have a bottle of the Febreeze I used to use on the stinky couches. Today I spritz it on my mask. 

10:15 a.m.
I poke my head into the Chemistry room to ask a question. A boy sees my masked face and my blue scrubs: "Whoa! I thought you were my doctor!"

11:30 a.m.
It's raining, so I don't use my lawn chair for lunch in the sun as I have for the past two weeks.  Shortly thereafter, a student asks for a place alone to de-stress. I'm glad to offer her my happy COVID lawn chair in the vestibule. 

2:10 p.m.
I am learning to observe my students' writing via our district's laptop-monitoring system. In normal years, I'd walk the room, asking questions, offering encouragement. Today I sit at my desk and creep surreptitiously on students' computers.  I feel like a lazy Big Brother. Is it a good thing that I'm getting better at this sit-down form of surveillance/teaching?

RDH Jill and I send a photo to a mutual friend.

3:30 p.m.
So this is the pandemic way we now do dental appointments. I park in the lot and call the front desk to alert them to my arrival. The hygenist comes out to take my temperature before letting me inside, where I then answer the screening questions we're all growing accustomed to. 
--------------

"Have you always worn a mask," I asked her, "or is this new for COVID?" 

"I always wear a mask, but now I also wear a face shield, and I like it! It keeps splatter off my face!"

5:42 p.m. 

A student texts me to say she'll be out 14 days for quarantine. I hope she does not get sick. Her access to WiFi is sketchy. I mentally revisit my interactions with her today and am confident we were on opposite sides of the plexiglass shield that separates my desk from students with questions. 

5:55 p.m.
As host, I open the ZOOM room for the NCTE Committee I chair. Because the board members live in four different time zones, we've met via ZOOM for three years now. 

But tonight we need to spend our first minutes together describing our teaching setups. Some are teaching online. Some hybrid. I'm the only one who meets my students face-to-maskless-face each day. Iowa.

7 p.m. 
It's cold out, so I make a pot of chili. Harrison joins us for supper. I did not let him do this when my parents were living in the basement. But my boundaries have blurred. I tell myself that working on the farm, he comes in contact with far fewer people in a day than I do in an hour. "Telling myself..." is justifying the loosening of parameters I once held firm.

7:45 p.m.
Dan tells me the woman who cleans our house (and who at last returned today after a 5-month coronavirus hiatus) said she is angered by Facebook posts that belittle mask-wearing. Her mother-in-law is one of two people in Cass County who have died of COVID this year. She was 75. 

8 p.m. 
I open my blog but realize my day has been blessedly boring. I have nothing to say. Maybe I'll just try to capture moments of Sept. 8 that were impacted by this relentless pandemic. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Look who's laughing now!

Day #174 Writing Through COVID-19: A Picture Worth a Thousand Words

My dad, the last of 11 Berryhill children still living,
spreads his sister Edith's ashes on the farm where they grew up. Sept. 5, 2020.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison 

Days #172-173 Writing Through COVID-19: Haikus and Tractors

This weekend has been lovely. I've read, run, written, and rested. 

On Saturday my sister took our parents to my dad's childhood farm, where his sister Edith's ashes were spread. He was able to traverse his childhood home with his electric wheelchair.

When Adrienne asked him if the day had met his expectations, he said, "Oh my, yes, yes."
-----------------------

My friend and fellow English teacher Lauren and I met (phoned) yesterday as co-chairs of the Iowa Council of Teachers of English Publications Committee. It's our job to help English teachers to engage in the craft they teach: writing. 

At the beginning of the COVID lockdown, we had a number of teachers heading to the page to reflect on the virus's upheaval of their lives. The uncertainty and disruption of routines released adrenaline. And our days were suddenly open and empty. Writing poured out. 

But as COVID went on--and on, and on--we grew numb. Days mushed together--or were lost altogether. Our lives hit near stand-still ennui. Was anything even worth writing about?
-------------------

Research shows that teachers who write are more attuned to the struggles of their student-writers. They are more likely to provide authentic, supportive feedback because they understand that above all the English-teacher-y stuff like subject-verb agreement and semicolons, writers need to be heard if they are to continue to see value in expressing their thought via writing. 

So Lauren and I discussed ways to bring our teacher community back to writing. 

As teachers ourselves, we're keenly aware that teachers don't need one more "have-to" on their plates.

Still, we know both calm and an energy surge can come from working one's thoughts into words, sentences, even (treacherous!) stanzas or quasi-paragraphs. 

With this in mind, we've invited Iowa's English teachers to write Haikus (come on, just 17 syllables!) that focus on a moment of joy. If any of you reading (English teacher or not!) would like to participate, here's the link: 

https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSeiCfYPbXwuie42fHucmWGA6M7Zn0SuLfLV1TQFtTRCpnKEIA/viewform

This is a low-stakes invitation to pause, think about joy, play with words in 17 syllables, and perhaps lift up fellow teachers a bit. Please try it!
------------------

This afternoon Dan and I road-tripped 20 miles west to the Farmall Land museum in Avoca, an amazing collection of restored tractors. We've visited the museum several times with our kids when they were young. Dan stops in on his own once a year or so. 

But the owners have decided to close up and auction off their hundreds of tractors. Today was one of the last days the museum will be open. I decided to join Dan on his final visit to the place.
--------------------------

When we walked past the opening display of Cub Cadets, Dan pointed to an early version and said it was the model he drove on his trapline: back in the '70s, a mower served as a 4-wheeler. He said he ran the machine out of oil and ruined the engine. I insisted he stand next to it for a photo.

As we moved through the museum, he commented on various models: the first tractor he bought (used) himself.  The model he was driving when he got too far to the right and took the bridge guard off. The first tractor his dad bought new. The model his grandfather bought in the 1920s, right before the Great Depression, when he lost the farm--which ultimately led to his suicide when Dan's dad was 19. 

At each tractor and memory, I took a photo. Each time Dan, masked, looks like he always does in photos: like he wishes this was over already.

But I'm glad I went with him today, to take the photos, and mostly to hear the stories.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

A couple more shots of Dan by "his" tractors.

Day #171 Writing Through COVID-19: More School, and Funerals

My daughter is in her sixth year of teaching high-school math in Colorado. She's in a new district this year, which is an adjustment in itself. Plus COVID.

Her school is using a hybrid approach. She sees students only once a week face-to-face, for 90-minute sessions, and their assignments are posted online on the other days. 

Today she had the equivalent of my Bad Monday. She called me over the noon hour to say that in the middle of a class she suddenly thought: I hate this. I don't want to teach anymore.

She's an awesome teacher. She is creative and empathetic and smart and kind. 

But at the end of her third week of teaching in a new district, she's struggling. She's anxious. In a normal year, she would have met with her students 15 times by now. Instead, she's seen them thrice.

Teaching is grounded in relationships. Learning demands vulnerability and struggle. No one wants to exhibit these traits to a teacher they don't know and trust. 

While I commend my daughter's district for prioritizing community health and safety, the challenge for her to build relationships with students in these surreal COVID teaching times is real.
---------------------

My own Friday was fine--if we can just keep lowering the bar for "fine."

My broadcasting team published their first news show of the year. Our attempt to use individual phones for filming (rather than share a communal camera) was a failure. Even with balancing the phones on tripods, the footage was wiggly; the anchors looked like they were floating. Our sound was terrible.

But hey, we got a show out. 

Late. 

Producing a video news show during a pandemic--just like shopping, or checking out a book from the library, or meeting up with friends--is now complicated with layers of precaution and inconvenience. 

Earlier this week I said I felt like I was teaching with a near-empty toolbox. My students are learning/producing under conditions that essentially tie one hand behind their backs. 

Everything is harder. 
-------------------------------

Writing about it reminds me that a tenant of our journalism program is to celebrate good tries, even when we fail. 

Let's celebrate that.
--------------------

Today my dad's sister Frances was buried in Buffalo Center. She died in April, eight days shy of 100 years. A few years ago, she moved to Friendship Haven, where she could be near my dad, her brother. 

Tomorrow, my dad's sister Edith will have her ashes spread across the farm where the 11 siblings grew up during the Great Depression, in painful poverty, but with joy and banter and loyalty that gave them all lifelong sibling sustenance. She was 104 when she died on July 4. 

My siblings and I had explained to my dad that he could not attend the services. We tsk-tsked the relatives who promoted the two-day reunion/funeral event despite Iowa's highest-yet COVID numbers. 

We arranged for him to ZOOM in to the ceremonies. 

But a few days ago my dad made a plea to attend at least Saturday's spreading of Edith's ashes. He practically begged for the chance to "crawl all over the farm" in his motorized wheelchair. 

This is my dad's last opportunity to revisit his childhood home, send his sisters to rest. As someone who raised children on a farm, I feel the tug of family and place.

So my sister in Newton volunteered to take them, and Adrienne offered her vehicle to accommodate the scooter. We decided that by arriving late and skipping the meal, our parents could avoid high exposure. They could then spread ashes and survey the farm in the safety of the out-of-doors.

Then. 
Friday morning.
My dad called Adrienne at 8 a.m. and asked her to drive him to Buffalo Center today for Frances's funeral.

We had already stretched our COVID comfort zone to allow for Saturday's plan. And as Adrienne reiterated the plan, Dad acquiesced. 

But then she heard the catch in his voice and realized he was crying.
----------------------

"I had to take him," Adrienne said when she called late in the afternoon to relay the day's unfolding.

When they arrived at Buffalo Center, the extended family rushed to greet them. Adrienne stepped into the role of hardass one-woman secret-service patrol. She enforced distancing, slapped hand-sanitizer, mandated masking, and STILL felt that boundaries of safety were breached at least a few times.
---------------------

You know? I believe my dad would have accepted the virus and a death sentence in return for attending his last siblings' funerals. 

How crazy is it that we have to think in these terms?

So yes, when my parents went to Frances's funeral today, they broke the COVID protections I'd maintained for them from March until August. 

I'm okay with that. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Naptime for Wolf. 

 

Day #170 Writing Through COVID-19: Small Wins

My bar for success is limbo-low. But as I look back on today, I find reasons to celebrate:

1) The Broadcasting team filmed their first show (distanced) using personal phones instead of our usual shared cameras, sanitizing between teleprompter runs, masking in tight quarters.

2) My yearbookers continued to plug on with the completion of the 2020 yearbook that was abandoned in March.

3) My freshmen shared epistolary poems, and their classmates provided generous appreciation of their classmates' words.

4) My Journalism Intro students moved outside and maintained distance to co-write inverted-pyramid stories. 
------------------------

The current 14-day rolling average of positivity in COVID testing in Cass County is under 4%. This is considered to be a safe number. Yay!

But tomorrow night our football team will travel to Carroll to play their second game of the season.

Carroll County is posting a positivity rate of over 18 percent.

Let's mix it up, folks.

That's all for now.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Photo from today's local paper, taken last
Thursday when Senator Grassley visited
Atlantic. No masks. No distancing. 
Let's all pretend there is no pandemic.

Day #169 Writing Through COVID-19: Better (and worse)

Today was better.

After a rough Monday, I reached out to our instructional coach and asked her to observe my classes and look for ways to keep kids engaged with so many of my go-to teaching strategies COVID off-limits.

On Tuesday I brought out my accordion because it related the epistolary poems we were reading and writing. I then played it between all my classes (after spraying down desks), and I think it lifted my spirits--and maybe the spirits of my students. My classes felt lighter.
------------------

Today I incorporated Kahoot games to review concepts in both my English and journalism classes. The competitions were intense and joyful, and we shared explosive clapping when a question was answered correctly by the entire class.

I then paired students for a writing activity using a randomizing wheel. Good energy reigned. 

Today we had more laughter than tears. More smiles than resting-bored-face. 

I'll call that COVID success.
-----------------------

In any year, teachers hit bad days, question their effectiveness, doubt their ability, and their purpose. 

In normal circumstances, we use every tool in our toolboxes to reach students and teach our content. Experienced teachers (I'm on year 23--or 24--who's counting?) can read a room, react in an instant, switch gears or approaches. 

But for the past eight days, I've been trying to do this with an empty toolbox. I'm left with a hammer, a screwdriver, and a face shield.

I am a carpenter. I do know how to build. But I am trying to relearn my trade with minimal tools.
------------------------

Meanwhile...

I am distressed for Friendship Haven, the multi-level care facility my parents have lived in these past ten years. At first, they lived in a condo. They were spry octogenarians who led Memoir Writing Club and read aloud to residents who had lost eyesight on the primary campus. They organized the weekly Trivia and duplicate Bridge competitions. 

But (who would have guessed?) my parents aged. Last winter they both fell on the ice within a week of each other. That's when my siblings agreed to move them into River Ridge.

My parents didn't like the tighter quarters and the higher price, but they were relatively content. 

Then: COVID.
-----------------------

Can we just say all hell broke loose? Friendship Haven needed to isolate residents in their rooms to prevent the deadly outbreaks seen across the country in care facilities. 

I respect that. But I also know how hard isolation is on residents, which is why I was relieved to be able to house my parents in my home for at least the first months of this "other" reality.
_______________

Then, just as school started, necessitating my parents' return to Friendship Haven, the facility experienced a major sprinkler-system malfunction, destroying two levels of apartments in an independent-living wing.

The process of re-homing residents necessitated loosening COVID safety measures.
---------------------

Today the CEO shared another level of woe: New guidelines require care centers to test their staff for COVID. While the machines to do this have been provided by the government, the testing supplies have not. The testing (needed, important) will cost Friendship Haven tens of thousands of dollars. 
---------------------

I see this U.S. COVID situation as a trickle-down disaster caused by our country's unwillingness, inability, and failure to manage a pandemic. 

This post feels dense and depressing.

It didn't start out that way.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Celebrating first smiles and leg rolls! Fattening up!