I'm thinking about the Halloween blizzard of 1991. I'd been married for seven years. I had three small children and a fourth on the way. The sleet and ice brought down trees and powerlines. We were without electricity for days--which, on a farm with a well, means we were also without water.
At first, it was a little exciting. Storms rush the adrenaline in the Midwest!
But days in, food rotted in the warm refrigerator or froze if we set it outside. Our neighbors a mile over had a wood-burning furnace, so the kids and I hunkered there for a time while our bundled farmer Dan thawed the hog waters with a propane blow torch.
I can still smell sour milk and feel the bone-deep chill. Mostly I remember the waiting--and the waiting--for reprieve.
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Why do I remember that ice storm now?
Because Thursday was the last day of my 2020-21 school year.
And teaching during the COVID pandemic had the feel of enduring a 9-month ice storm: exhausting in the demand to constantly re-think how to do even the simplest task.
In an ice storm, the tiniest motions, like flipping a light switch, running a warm bath, or toasting an English muffin are stopped short. We have to stop and think, then search for a flashlight, put on more deodorant and a sweater, eat some crackers.
Teaching in COVID was the ice storm.
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Before COVID, my classroom furniture was all sofas and upholstered chairs. The soft seating contributed to my room's identity as a place of welcome and comfort.
Then, last fall, all cloth surfaces were replaced with laminated desks, spaced six feet apart, all facing the same direction.
My small-group interactive teaching style was proverbially unplugged. I had to re-think not only the physical aspects of my classroom, but also my teaching philosophy.
This was hard. I normally incorporate movement and dyad conversations into every lesson. I normally sit side-by-side with my students for writing conferences. I normally prioritize students talking to each other instead of to the teacher at the front of the room.
This year, I reverted to survival mode. I was cordoned off at from the class (within the Zoom camera's capture zone), and my students were positioned 6-feet apart and facing the same direction.
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In an ice storm, we don't worry about the nutritional balance of meals. We're just happy if we have enough canned tuna and marshmallows to keep everyone fed.
Same was true for my teaching this year. Were they reading? Writing? I'll call that good enough.
I cut my lessons to the bone. I minimized homework, understanding that my students' home lives were every bit as disrupted as our school life.
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A blizzard cuts frivolity out of the picture. No one can bicker about which show to watch. Boredom gets a whole new definition. Keeping one's hands warm demands attention.
I saw this in my COVID classroom. Our routines were COVID-centric: the first student entering the room grabbed the disinfectant bottle and spritzed all the desks. The subsequent students paper-toweled their desks. Multiple wastebaskets allowed students to toss their wipe-towels while still social-distancing.
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With the fog of COVID worry hovering over all of us, my discipline issues were minimal this year. Maybe no one had the energy to disrupt. Maybe the smaller classes helped. Maybe students saw me (a masked, distanced, 61-year-old teacher) as a vulnerable population and mustered a little sympathy.
Whatever the reason, I was grateful for a low-drama year in terms of student conflict and agitation. It seemed we were all moving through a fog. This isn't what I wish for us, but a survival mode made us all a little tougher--and for the most part lower maintenance.
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The year is over.
It was rough.
The toaster didn't work.
The toilet didn't flush.
The switch did not turn on the light.
But most of us got through it.
Still, I am exhausted by a year of adjusting my every natural teacher move to a COVID-compliant substitute.
Get vaccinated so we can turn the electricity back on.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
