Henry High staff were state mandated to vacate the school by March 18 due to COVID-19. They were allowed to reenter for 20 minutes on Wednesday, April 8 to gather any materials they may need for distance learning. The following are reactions of three teachers to this experience. Their reactions speak to the caring and supportive relationships each has with students.
Rosa Costain, April 8, 9:48 a.m. What do you bring home from an unfinished school year? What classroom materials are necessary for “teaching” from home? I was given 20 minutes today to go into my classroom and collect anything I might need to teach from home, quite possibly, for the rest of the year. I came home and cried. Honestly, I don’t need much. The box of pencils? Don’t need them. The notebooks and folders? Don’t need them. The books and bookshelves? The lamps and plants and comfy chairs I brought in to make our classroom feel more comfortable and homey? Don’t need them. What I need is my kids. That’s pretty much it. And I guess, in a sense I still have them. But not really. All the creative assignments and Google hangout meetings in the world don’t really bring me the only thing I need, my kids. This is really hard. And today I am sad. I miss my kids, the only thing I actually need to teach.
Brionna Harder, April 8, 5:29 p.m.
I was in my classroom today. For 20 minutes and under very specific mandates to meet in order to be in there to grab anything I might need to continue teaching from a distance for the foreseeable future and quite likely through the end of this school year.
It was hard to be in my classroom. Harder than I expected. It felt like I was in an abandoned building. Moving through the building was much like moving through a lot of common spaces right now. Quiet, sterile, empty. That quiet, sterility, and emptiness doesn’t belong there.
I keep reminding myself that all of this is only temporary. I keep reminding my students the same. The moments of real interaction with students and staff have been welcomed and joyful in a completely different way these days, but I so look forward to the day when we can be together in the same spaces again, being loud, messy, and full of all of the PHamily again.
Paul Compton, April 10
Patrick Henry High School has been my other home for almost 20 years now. I’ve taught kids literature and mythology for a number of those years. I’ve advised the Asian Cultural Club for about 15 of those years. I’ve been amazed at the insights of students on the Northside when they talk about what they are reading. I’ve been simultaneously shocked and overwhelmed with laughter in the way they sometimes express those insights. I’ve been frustrated with the ones I just can’t seem to reach, or get to see the value of their education. I’ve taken great joy in talking about gods, and monsters, and ancient cultures from across planet Earth. I’ve taken great pride in preparing kids to reflect their often overlooked and undervalued Hmong culture in driving the great Henry tradition of the Hmong New Year and May Show events. My soul smiles when I see those kids learn to take pride in who they are, the cultures they come from, and even, once-in-a-while, learn something from me. I love Henry, my other home.
Then came COVID-19. Then came the Governor’s order to shut down the schools. It was a good idea. I didn’t want to be a threat to my kids, nor did I want them to be a threat to me. Then came the realization of what a horrific thought that truly was. That we would ever be a threat to each other. That has never once been my attitude in 20 years of teaching, and here it was, right at the forefront. The building had to be closed. We had to return home, and try to make this work over the Internet. New buzzwords began flying all around, “Distance Learning,” “Remote Learning,” “Google Classroom!” We quickly came to the realization that no one knew what they were doing, or how we were going to make it work for the kids to whom we have dedicated our professional lives. How were my kids with no personal technology but a cell phone with a cracked screen going to do “Distance Learning?”
We received a message that we were going to be given the opportunity to come to the building, masked and gloved, and have 20-minutes to retrieve anything we needed. I didn’t think about what I actually needed to get out of the building, which turned out to really be not much of anything.
So I got to Henry. As per instructions, I washed my hands. Like moving through a fog, I struggled to put on those blue surgical style rubber gloves. It took 5 of my 20 minutes to get on those gloves. It should not be this hard to put on gloves. Following that struggle, I was struck with the question, Why did I come here? There was nothing I really needed out of my classroom. When I got in there, I saw the hanging folders that kids would use to pull out their work every day. No students to pull out the work. The magnetic pencil depository that has held over 6 pounds of pencils this year. No students to take pencils. A set of books on the classroom table, each numbered and assigned to an individual student for each class. No students to take their books. The lava lamp that kids come up to warm their hands on, and have a brief conversation with me between classes, not turned on, not warm. Just cold, and frozen in place. Motionless, devoid of life. A profound little lava lamp, after all.
I left my room. I walked past an auditorium where I should be right now, twice a week after school, drilling kids on making their cues, reviewing MC scripts, bothering traditional dancers about how they need to adjust their formations, get in sync with each other, stop chewing gum on stage, and find the middle of the stage! Teaching singers how to move and emote, so in spite of their amazing voices, they don’t look like pieces of wood with dead arms and terrified faces in front of an audience.
Instead, I am sitting at home. In my basement. Mourning the loss of my daily suffering and joy. Worrying about kids I can’t see in person, and laugh with, and chide about how they can do better, and seeing them do better. This is where we are. It’s not just the Northside, it’s not just me, it’s not just my kids. I get that. It doesn’t hurt any less. I’ve done video chats this week. I’ve sat staring at my own, sad face, on a grainy laptop cam in a Google meet, waiting for a kid, any of my kids, to come on. I’ve come to love the sonar-like sound of the Google meet alert noise when one of my kids logs on. They are other people’s biological children, but they’re my kids too. They drive me crazy sometimes, but I love them dearly. Then, the echoing sound of a sonar ping, and, “I need help with this work.” “I don’t get how to do this.” “I never thought I’d say I miss school!” or “I don’t need help, but I just wanted to say hi.”
I miss them. I need them. I anxiously await until we can all put this behind us, and we can all go back to our home, and scream and yell and laugh and cry with our PHamily. May that day come sooner than later.