A slice ended abruptly by a needy toddler, inspired by a routine photo memory scroll.
On a day like today, six years ago, I grabbed my mask, school badge, and a bag large enough for the items I’d be bringing home.
I remember the loud quiet as I stepped onto Road 200. A street typically busy with honking drivers, unruly children who should have been at school, and barking dogs perched on abandoned vehicles was now a reminder of a scary, atypical present.
Our school went remote a few days before the pandemic was officially declared, initially thinking it’d be a temporary transition. We were told we would try our remote teaching protocol until in-person learning was possible again. Right.
When I approached the school’s front gate, I put on my mask and greeted the security guards, whom I missed seeing after only a few days. I walked along the admin building, took a few seconds to look at the middle school lawn where students would hang out during breaks, and remembered my first day on this campus back in 2014, reading a large banner that welcomed all newbies.
I then turned toward the elementary building, again greeted by emptiness. A campus always vibrating with people. I remembered how fast this felt like home.
I walked up the stairs to the second floor and went straight to my classroom. It looked like we had just been there the day before. I saw book bags forgotten on the couch, overflowing return bins, an uncapped pen on the floor, and most of their math workbooks in the homework tray. For a moment, I saw us all in there, writing, completing work, reading, chatting.
Entering that room hurt. The mask on my face felt heavier, and I had the sudden need to take a deep breath. No one was around, so I took it off. It’s weird trying to relive that feeling as I write this. Sorrow? Frustration? Longing? I realized that I might never hug them again.
I shoved my feelings aside and got to work. I needed several things for our online lessons, and I also had a feeling that packing early would be a good idea. Not only did this pandemic abruptly end our school year, but it also left me no time to properly close my chapter at this school, as I would be moving to the US that summer. Or so I thought.
On a day like today, six years ago, I stood in front of our schedule and told myself, “Take the photo, because this was the last normal school day we had. There are no more to come.”
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What a strange time it was. I also remember returning to a quiet school to pack up for an uncertain future.
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Your description of walking back into the classroom, painted both the images and feelings of the uncertainty of how long that would be the new normal.
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Ana, your slice has me teary eyed and remembering how no one could have ever predicted even though some like you, imagined the possibility that this “thing” was more like an iceberg than and blip. Your memory of the school frozen in time is something many of us can remember. The unnatural quiet of the playground and the weird feeling of masking and unmasking….I’m back with your memory and sad.
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Wow, this took me right back to those first eerie days of lockdown. Something that stands out for me that could almost serve as a tag line for so many educators at that time: “I shoved my feelings aside and got to work.” The way in which we gathered our materials and tried to get on with the work of caring for our students, while placing our own feelings out of immediate view, you capture that immediacy so well here.
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Ana, this slice tugged at my heart! It was six years ago, when everything stopped. You’ve captured the sadness, the worry and how surreal it was to walk back into the classroom environment — everything was frozen in time and your description brings back all of the feelings for me, as well. I love the photo of the last schedule you shared with that class pre-lockdown. That’s a memory with a bit of silver lining — I’m so grateful to be back with our students in-person again, hopeful that we will not have to experience another lockdown anytime in the future!
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