Even while I worked from the comfort of home I found myself falling into despair. I rarely slept from many late nights scouring the news for understanding. I let my health go. I stopped running after the marathon I had trained for months to race was canceled. I worried about the safety of my family and friends, but also lost track of them. My island was dark and I didn’t want company.

I’m thinking of spaces—distanced and farther. I’m thinking of NASA’s rover, Perseverance. In the midst of the pandemic, it launched in July 2020 and landed in February 2021. It, too, was in limbo or perhaps on a predisposed trajectory over seven months. So much can happen in so short a time. From Minnesota to Mars, I’ve felt like I’m rooted beneath an umbrella in Bradbury’s science-fiction story, “There Will Come Soft Rains,” because I’m teaching through a screen in a universe indifferent to life. I believe even summer and winter may not have remembered passing through.

What does it mean to be present to the unknowing, the uncomfortable, and the painful experiences of teaching that we may want to quickly push aside? How can we, through connecting with this side of our teaching, increase not only our students' capacity to care about their learning, but their emotive connections to their peers, communities and those that guide their learning? If there is one thing that the pandemic gave me and my students, it was the understanding that all of us, myself included, are flawed and human, and that this mutual care work of knowing and valuing each other is integral to our survival. 

It’s August. We are six months into the pandemic at this point, and fears are still high. I have just accepted my first job as a public school teacher in the city. I’m feeling every emotion under the sun. I’m excited to finally “make it”, finally graduate and land my dream job. I’ve known I landed the job since July so I’ve had about a month of anticipation, and lots of time to make my Pinterest perfect classroom. I took many trips to Lakeshore Learning center to gather plant borders, birthday wall stickers, and sight word world walls. Charlotte Mecklenburg Schools finally makes the call…

On March 13th, 2020, I told my third-grade students to clear out their desks and pack anything essential because we would have to stay home, for what we thought would be two weeks, to help prevent the spread of COVID-19. It was a Friday, the end of a particularly hectic week with a full moon, time change due to daylight savings, and change of the season. As we packed our belongings, the fear of uncertainty filled the room like a nimbus cloud, bigger than the ones we studied in our science unit. Two weeks became fifty-two, and we are still in the middle of the storm. 

Just look up  “hot take” on twitter’s search bar and see what happens. The hotter the take, the more inflammatory the replies. Sometimes that irritates me. Perhaps it shouldn’t. But, as someone who is passionate about all art (particularly music), I find myself irritated that so many people reduce music to an opinion that they shall defend to the death. It’s almost like vile political conversation.

Consent is necessary, but also sexy! It doesn’t have to be awkward. It might feel awkward at first, but think of it like a muscle: the more you use it, the easier and stronger that muscle becomes until you get to a point where not checking in and asking consent will feel awkward. Check in to see if they are okay, and if they don’t seem to want to talk about it that’s okay too. If it’s not a “hell yes!” it should be a “hell no!”