Reflection at the End of the 14th Year

This year started out with a woman from Admin calling me to say that, if possible, I needed to return to school two weeks early.  They had decided that now was an ideal time to switch learning platforms from Google Classroom to Canvas and the entire curriculum would need to be reformatted and uploaded for the 18,000 students about to return to classrooms. Apparently, battling a raging pandemic and enforcing mask-wearing were not enough of a challenge for us.

I threw myself into manipulating html code, which was no small feat since I barely know how to convert a Word file to a Google Doc. With the clock ticking down and the administrative decision not to close buildings for face-to-face learners, I was placed on a virtual “team” -- this because my face and abdomen had started erupting in massive red welts of inexplicable origin. After many specialists, Urgent Care visits, and rounds of Prednisone, it was determined simply that I was suffering from “stress.” The constant steroids made me so angry and unpredictable that I once started punching my own face to avoid punching someone else’s. The pressure was unimaginable.

Teaching on the virtual team did not lessen my stress, as it was supposed to. It turns out that teaching virtually is only less stress-inducing if you have decent broadband and tech support. The first days of virtual class were a complete disaster -- first, the students couldn’t hear me; then I couldn’t hear them; then their screens froze. In the end, I had to screen share, then type out instructions on how to update their software because none of them could hear the explanations I was giving.

The first assignment I gave was likewise a disaster: 1st hour turned it in fine; 2nd hour had 2 or 3 students with glitches; only half of 4th hour could even see the assignment; the link posted for only a few students by 5th hour; and 6th hour just gave up and played Hangman. I drank a lot of wine that night.

To counteract the dearth of tech support, I began getting to school earlier and earlier to pre-record lessons, starting my days at 3:30 a.m.  I developed insomnia because of the stress. I counted 150 emails in my inbox one morning when I started responding to them at 4 from bed. By 6 a.m. I was at my desk. I left at 6 p.m. covered in more hives and carrying epi-pens in case I went into anaphylaxis. 

I had to completely overhaul the way I taught and evaluated: rather than giving a single grade on a whole week’s worth of class work, I now had to grade one mini-assignment per day (for example, a thesis statement) for accountability, and so that I could verify my virtual students were on the right track before they turned in an entire essay incorrectly. When the amount of late work stretched nearly all the way across my classroom, I had to set a 48-hour cut-off. This was met with great displeasure but it was necessary for my survival (and that of the other teachers on the virtual team). There was simply no way to stay on top of the daily classwork assignments if we also had hundreds of late mini-assignments to grade. Performance grades remained open indefinitely.

As if this weren’t challenging enough, my 6th hour virtual class was also Zoom-bombed. A student streamed p0rn and racial slurs, also giving the class code out to many people none of us knew. No one was ever held accountable or punished, causing the intolerance and harassment to continue throughout the school year. Poetic justice is real, I think, and sometimes kids take matters into their own hands. That’s all I can really say about that.

Thirty-one students failed my English class this year, the same number to fail science and social studies, too. I threatened 4th hour face-to-face students: none of them would leave Room 517 until they turned in an essay so I could pass them. They acquiesced, grudgingly. But there was no way to force virtual students to turn in work. There are students on my roster, this final day of school, whose faces I’ve never seen, who never logged in for class or turned in a single sentence. The Department of Family Services was completely overwhelmed and could not follow through on any but the direst cases of child neglect. Educational neglect was at the bottom of the list.

As the school year wore on, I started to find a flow. Monthly Xolair injections took the place of steroids and rage. Virtual lessons flowed more smoothly as the students and I settled into a routine. We never did get the tech support we needed in order for students and teachers to communicate adequately over Zoom. From the first day of school to the last day, the students had to type out all of their questions, comments, and concerns in the platform’s chat feature because I couldn’t hear them. I still don’t know what some of them sound like, much less look like. I got to know their personalities through Zoom-chat. JD was the smart-alek who showed up late every day and then typed out, “I have arrived.” ES was the sweetheart who always asked how our weekend was and if we did anything fun. JF was the genius whose fingers couldn’t type as fast as his thoughts, so he was always pantomiming and mouthing answers. LC liked to distract the class by typing the word “poop” 47 times in an hour, apropos of nothing. I couldn’t stop him, either, because that would stop the chat feature for everyone, and it was the only way they had to communicate with me.

In the end, it was a shitshow of a year, to quote one of my yoga instructors. But it was also a good opportunity to break up the monotony. I’ve been wanting to try something different forever.

This was my 14th year in 8th grade English. The learning standards are the same in every district, which means a lot of them use the same anchor texts. If I cannot find a job teaching high school English, if I am forced to continue along this path for the next 13 years until retirement, I will have taught The Diary of Anne Frank 135 times. That’s too many times to teach anything… it stops being interesting and starts being rote. Then you get frustrated and bored, and the kids suffer. That's not fair to them. They've never heard of the Holocaust when the enter 8th grade.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I have been interviewed and passed over for a high school position 7 times now. I know I could do that job, and my bosses here know I could do it, too. But for some reason, I can’t get the appointment. I wish I had known, back when I first came here, how notoriously difficult it is to get a transfer and beat out external candidates. I loathe the thought of switching districts AGAIN, but I also know I can’t teach 8th grade English for the next 13 years...I'm not sure what to do.

Teachers believe in a human's capacity for growth and change. It's why we do what we do. It only stands to reason, then, that we ourselves need new vistas to explore and new mountains to tackle. This pandemic year provided a not-wholly-unwelcome challenge, but I know it's not a permanent fix for the ennui and curmudgeonliness that I'm starting to detect in strong doses.

Something's gotta' give.