This Year is Better, Why Aren’t I?

The 8th graders in front of me, the names I’m trying desperately to attach to a few inches of visible face, have not opened lockers since the winter of their 6th grade year.

On day one, I looked out at those faces, not knowing them at all, not knowing what they’d need from me this year, not knowing if I’d be able to do this. We all felt new here.

It was the memory of teaching that brought me back this year, the hope that we could recapture even most of what made it so wonderful before, even when it was already too hard.

I spent the summer building up some shielding against the despair and disappointment of last year. So far, it’s holding, but I don’t know how sturdy it really is.

I’m not even sure, not really, why it’s so hard. In every way that matters to me, this year is better than last. In most ways that matter, I’m not better.

Maybe the dissonance is tearing us slowly and roughly in half. Maybe.

We’ve begun building a post-covid school and almost 2,000 people died yesterday.

George Floyd’s birthday is October 14th and half the country thinks that talking about race is the real racism.

We’re told to stay home if we’re sick and we know there are no subs.