As we stepped out of our building on March 12, 2020, my students and I had a clear plan. We were all looking forward to a three-day weekend, with the teachers returning on Monday to assist with cleanup. Then, on Tuesday, we’d dive into the final act of Romeo and Juliet. Little did we know, our school—an essential haven for many—would close its doors for the rest of the year.
I’m the kind of teacher who knows which students need the granola bars stocked in my drawer. I often pack extra yogurt and fruit that I can do without so they can have something nutritious when my supply of chewy bars runs low. What are those kids eating now?
Yesterday, I tried an exercise with my ninth graders on Google Classroom, posing one simple question. Given that we’re in a densely populated urban area and aware of the poverty affecting many of our students, it struck me that they might be in survival mode. In our county, three of the six hardest-hit zip codes fall within our district—an alarming statistic as everyone wrestles with the impact of COVID-19.
So, I asked myself: if these kids are preoccupied with their next meal or immediate safety, why would they engage with my Newsela or Common Lit assignments? I reached out with a straightforward question: How are you? If you’re not up for writing much, just send me an emoji. Please respond.
Suddenly, my once-quiet Google Classroom buzzed with activity. I recorded a video message expressing how much I miss them and how often I worry about their well-being. One of the first replies was, “miss you making me cry.” And honestly? Me too. This so-called “new normal” will never truly feel normal.
I kept telling myself that this would be my next blog topic, but the reality is, I struggled to find the motivation to write—until now. I always encourage my students to express themselves, even in tough times, and I promise to never ask more of them than I would of myself.
So here it goes: I wasn’t meant to teach through a screen.
I miss our banter. Like my nearly six-foot-tall student, a sweet and hilarious girl who pretends she can’t see me, at 5’9”, in a crowd by holding her “hand visor” to her forehead. “Have you seen Miss? Oh! There you are!”
I miss the smiles—the joy of seeing their faces light up when they saw me, and vice versa. After my daughter’s tonsillectomy, I returned to class, and their warm welcomes filled my heart.
How can I say goodbye to students I should have had for three more months? It’s hard to sleep knowing I won’t have the chance to teach this group again. My heart aches for my school kids, who are always on my mind, and for my own children, who miss their teachers and the familiar routines of life.
This current routine, if you can even call it that, serves no one well.
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In summary, this experience has highlighted the emotional toll of remote teaching, and it’s clear that the connections we forge in person are irreplaceable.
Keyphrase: teaching through a screen
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