March 11, 2020, a date which will live in infamy, the world of education, the world of medicine, the world of every other industry, and basically the world of human existence, was suddenly and not-so-deliberately attacked and debilitated by air particles of the COVID-19 virus. The World Health Organization officially declared that COVID-19 can be characterized as a pandemic. It was the last day I went to work. It was, for all intents and purposes, the Last Normal Day.
In the district where I was employed, there had been confirmation of a positive case, so we closed down two days before most surrounding districts. It was a Wednesday, a middle-of-the-week closure, students’ lockers still filled with their belongings, classrooms fully equipped for learning that would not resurface for the remainder of the year. Weeks later, after we realized that we’d be home for a lot longer than anyone had anticipated, we walked through the building to gather and distribute student belongings. The date on everyone’s white boards, written in the faded shade of blue expo marker than only a teacher halfway through the worst month of the year can envision, read March 11, 2020. But it wasn’t March. It was May. We had endured two months of quarantine with no end in sight. We had redesigned education in the best ways we could think of, using the terms synchronous and asynchronous more than I had ever imagined possible. We interviewed new staff members through virtual meetings, we created screencasts to explain complex scheduling, and we ordered more yoga pants from Amazon. In a strange turn of events, I too interviewed via Zoom and took a leap of faith to return to the district I’ve always known as home, without ever meeting any of my new colleagues in person.
When we turned on the news, we were horrified. “Flatten the curve” became a household term as those of us who wear glasses all sought to find any mask that decreased the dreaded fog. Journalists from New York spoke of vehicles filled with body bags lining the streets. Photographers captured images of the elderly being robbed of human connection aside from through window panes. Nurses spoke through tears and bruised faces as they described their patients’ last goodbyes being captured via FaceTime. The weeks dragged on as pediatricians stopped asking how much screen time kids are getting and rephrased it to “how much non-educational screen time” because everyone knew kids were stuck on computers for at least five hours each day. People developed unique coping mechanisms; some, like myself, resorted to building puzzles. Peloton bike and Cricut machine sales skyrocketed and it’s safe to say that nearly everyone in my life now owns a fire pit. Friends who were expecting for the first time were robbed of their baby showers, newly engaged couples settled with a wedding guest list of ten. Each day, for three-hundred-and-sixty-five days, we have rolled out of bed, facing the same fears, the same grief, the same everything. Until, for me at least, today.
This morning, I drove 22 minutes and parked my car next to my mother’s car. I waited for her to come out, proudly supporting her I Got My COVID-19 Vaccine sticker; she beat me by just a half hour, so we were able to snap a celebratory selfie in the parking lot!
Then, I proudly walked over the threshold of a university gymnasium. I gave my ID and insurance information, and I was handed my first (and hopefully last) ever vaccination record card. A sweet young nurse named Emily sanitized my arm and allowed me to take a picture of the most memorable event since the birth of my children. She smiled and empathized when I told her, I could cry! March 11, 2021, a date which will live in reverence, my world as an educator, a mother, a friend, a daughter and a human, was suddenly and very deliberately, impacted by one of the best kinds of hope: the kind that comes in a vial. That hope now courses through my body, giving me optimism, strength, and the belief that we will soon overcome the tragedies that have befallen us. The fact that K-12 educators in Massachusetts became eligible to receive the vaccine exactly one year after my life changed forever is incredibly poetic to me and I’m so thrilled I was able to book an appointment to commemorate the day.
I now exist in a community of heroes. I’ve watched doctors and nurses risk their lives to save those of others in ways that they never thought they would have to, but still greeted the opportunity with open arms and masked faces. First responders continue to respond to anyone in need despite the added risk of their own lives. I’ve watched parents work and teach simultaneously from their own kitchens, fighting daily battles with their frightened and weary children day after day when they’re frightened and weary themselves. I’ve watched cashiers and delivery drivers grow into essential workers, stocking our homes with everything we need (other than toilet paper) for 365 whole days. I’ve watched communities come together in aid of one another, offering whatever services or supports that are at their disposal, and doing it without having been asked. And then there’s the most prevalent group of heroes who I see everyday: the teachers. I’ve watched them teach from their homes, welcoming not just their students, but also their students’ dogs, cats, fish, siblings, and parents, into their classrooms. I’ve watched them deliver materials and birthday cards to their students’ homes on their own time and their own dime. I see them change everything they’ve ever known, measuring and taping off squares in their classrooms for mask breaks. They’re avoiding collaborative learning, not because it’s what is best for student learning (actually, quite the opposite…) but because it’s what will guarantee the fact that children can remain inside the schools. I’ve seen more out-of-the-box thinking in one year than I had seen in a lifetime before this. We never asked to be put in these situations, but we have all made the best of what we’ve been dealt, and for the most part, I’m pretty proud to be a human these days.
