No more heroes

La campana di chi fronteggia ogni cambio di procedura, ogni nuova regola (magari cambiata svariate volte prima di entrare in vigore, o dopo), ogni “evenienza non prevista”. Pensando che, da “domani”, inizia l’attività anche da noi, e le cose non saranno molto più facili di così.

  1. “By the end of the first day of training, I had collapsed in a puddle of my own hopelessness. It wasn’t any one thing. (...) Death by a thousand cuts” is a phrase I’ve heard tossed about from time to time in my life, and which has never had any significance to me. It refers to an ancient form of torture, lyngchi, where the victim is literally cut a thousand or more times and they slowly bleed out over a long, excruciating period (it is also the title of a Taylor Swift song, and I’ll just let that sit there1). I’m certain I’ll be okay, but I’m not sure public education will be able to survive this particular collection of setbacks”.Britt Searles – Salida, Colorado
  2. “My district offered parents a choice between hybrid learning (week on/week off) and remote learning at home. Teachers will be teaching both groups simultaneously — in school, wearing masks and face shields — using laptop cameras to teach the remote kids via Zoom. I have yet to meet anyone who enjoys Zoom. Doing so in a mask sounds even less effective and way more humiliating. (...) I cannot relive what I endured last spring, when I taught full-time, parented full-time, homeschooled part-time, and prepared every single meal for four people for three months. Somehow my children solemnly observed my husband’s work zone but constantly barged in on mine”.Anonymous – Lexington, Massachusetts
  3. “I keep hearing these commonly uttered phrases, swirling in my brain. “It can’t be like it was this spring.”(...) You see, some students have parents out of work, so they’re working during normal schooling time. Your lessons must be available asynchronously. Some have faulty internet connections. Some have to help their younger siblings to understand their school work. (...) It won’t be like it was this spring. But will it really be better? I just don’t see how”.Patrick Van Dyke- Maple Valley, Washington
  4. “In June, we were given a two-hour window to come to the school building and get what we needed from our classrooms. I tried to pick out the things that I would be really sorry to lose if I could never come back again. Forty lab aprons hung on hooks by the door.They were standard school aprons (...) And yet they were magical. With a pair of goggles, a lab apron transformed any middle-school student into a scientist. (...) With asynchronous learning and student-pacing, many of those things can be better online than face to face. But when we’re online, I can’t give them the nod that means that their pre-lab work is done and they can go suit up. I can’t watch them hurry across the room and tie their aprons on and become scientists”.Jennifer Belt – Greenbelt, Maryland
  5. “My school year hinges upon certainty. The first bell rings at 7:55 am and the final one at 2:40 pm. Lunch lasts 27 minutes. (...) Certainty now is as dead as a Shakespearean tragic hero, and the memory of it haunts me. The uncertainty is making me anxious. (...) A new worry is how I will connect with students I may get to know only online or through a mask and goggles. A greater worry is whether we will be safe in any sort of physical classroom, and how much trauma each of us individually will bring to the school year”. Lori Ayotte – Sharon, Massachusetts
  6. “Countless times throughout my career as a public educator, I’ve been called a hero. Unless it’s coming from a student, it’s almost always cringe-worthy. I’ve been called a hero for teaching high school instead of college. I’ve been called a hero for suffering through budget cuts and low pay. I’ve been called a hero for teaching “those” kids. I’ve been called a hero each of the eight times I lost a student to gun violence. Usually, it’s in casual conversation or on social media, always from someone outside of education. (...) I worked from home March-June. I taught seven classes. I was alone with my two-year-old son. His preschool closed. It was just the two of us — and my job. I texted, emailed, called, and video chatted with my students seven days a week, sometimes in the middle of the night. My students cared for younger siblings, sick grandparents, took new jobs at grocery stores and fast-food restaurants, all while maintaining their educations, sometimes despite impossible hurdles. In awe of their resilience, I read their poems and short stories, essays about Dickinson and Clifton and Cummings. I missed them terribly, and they missed me. But we all agreed on one thing: We were doing what we had to do to stay safe. The sacrifices were brutal, possibly heroic.(...) Around mid-July, when the school-reopening debates began in earnest, the tone changed. Teachers became the problem. Now we’re lazy. We don’t care about kids. We don’t want to do our jobs. We’re responsible for reigniting the American economy. We’re babysitters. We should find new jobs if we fear the return to in-person learning. We should be quiet and do what we’re told. Our love for our families is selfish. We certainlyaren’t heroes.Maybe it’s us who need the heroes. My students, all students, need heroes. Millions of American teachers need heroes. Our families need heroes”. Jessica Ratigan -Hampton, Virginia