Time to go home

Today, the staff at the high school where I teach met to discuss strategies for online learning.

And then we packed up everything we needed from our classrooms. I boxed up all of the plants I keep on the windowsill, grabbed all of the ungraded papers, took copies of books I hope to teach later this year. I put down the blinds, unplugged the electronics, turned off the lights, and left.

I headed home, where I will be camped out for the next six weeks.

Governor Inslee has closed all K-12 schools in Washington State until April 14, returning on the 27th. This is a reasonable response to the global pandemic; we need to practice social distancing in order to keep this disease from ravaging fragile groups. It is the right thing to do.

But leaving the classroom felt lonely. I can not predict the future, but I do not know when the end is in sight(and I fear that it will be much later than the end of April). I had barely adjusted to the idea of two weeks off in the middle of the school year when two weeks became six weeks, and I do not trust that things will go back to normal in six weeks: I can barely see a few days ahead with the fast pace of things. Things are happening fast and furious: restaurants are closing, sports have shut down, theaters are closing. THE LIBRARY is closed. The library! Community centers, farmer's markets, sports centers, and all kinds of businesses have closed.

Two weeks ago, I stocked up on a few extra bags of groceries and felt ridiculous for doing so. It doesn't seem ridiculous now, except that it seems really inadequate. Now stores are selling out their wares, and toilet paper is impossible to find; the only thing harder to find is hand sanitizer.

Which leads back to today, and turning off the lights in my classroom, and being very unsure of when I would be able to return with my students. It felt lonely. I thought of every kid who has confided their troubles to me, and how school can be a place to get support, to feel connected to community, and I worried for those kids. I thought of my wonderful colleagues, and how their intelligence and kindness and humor keeps me going on my bad days. I thought of the rhythm of my days, and how strange it will be to run that rhythm from inside my home all the time.

I thought about being at home with my daughter, alone, while the world outside shuts down. It felt lonely, sad, and surprisingly frightening.

***

I am one of the lucky ones. I know that.

I have that fridge full of food, and a pantry overflowing.

I have my warm house, filled with things like extra blankets and music and candles and books and board games and a TV with Netflix and Hulu.

I have an office to work in.

I have a funny dog who demands attention and exercise.

I have good health (hallelujah: after the cancer years, I do not take this for granted).

I have a 17 year old who is the light in my life: she's pretty self sufficient, helpful, and while she can be surly with the best of them, generally she's just an awesome person and fun to be around.

I have a continuing contract (the equivalent, I think, would be tenure) in a district that takes good care of me, and has excellent resources. My job is unlikely to disappear even in a global pandemic.

I know how lucky I am. But today, just this afternoon, I'm letting myself feel sad anyway, because these are sad times. People are going to die in numbers I can't quite imagine. People are going to lose their homes, their jobs, their food security. People who are living close to the edge will fall off; others will inch closer to the cliff's edge. This has barely started - remember, two weeks ago I looked like a fool for buying so much food - and yet it is happening left and right already.

This weekend, I'll set up my office to be ready as my new classroom. I'll move the plants from my classroom in, I'll tidy my papers, and I'll sit in the cozy chair in the corner grading, planning, and emailing.

It will be okay for me. I'll call my friends, send lots of texts back and forth. I'll go for long walks along the ocean. I'll see if I can lose even more weight (15 down, 15 to go!). I'll do yoga. I'll read for fun. Tessa and I will play board games. I'll watch Netflix and Hulu. I'll cook, and do house projects.

But not today.

Today, the weeks stretch out in front of me in a long question filled with fear and danger. Today, I'm sad, worrying about the state of my world and my students and how on earth I will be a good teacher through that computer screen.

Tomorrow is a new day.