I am a high school French teacher, and back in the fall I wrote a letter to my students, which I never sent or posted, but I am posting it now for a little perspective.  

Oct 29, 2020

To My Dear Students, 

I keep telling you that it’s one day at a time this year, that hopefully in the spring things will be better and we will finish the year together, that I hope you will be able to go to your Prom and have more than a drive-by graduation as last year’s Seniors did.

As we teetered from full on-line to crazy hybrid, I kept encouraging you, with a feeling of grief in my heart as I watched your pale masked selves silently drift into the classroom, somber shades of your previous exuberance–three, four, five instead of the normal twenty. 

I kept trying to teach you students as I worried incessantly about my own pregnant daughter and then stole some joy as our first pandemic baby was born safely, but who was swabbed and quarantined a week later amidst Covid fears: welcome to the world, sweet Finley Rosalia! It’s a hellish place right now, but things will surely get better, and maybe if you’re lucky, you will leave the worst times behind with your infancy. You won’t even remember The Pandemic. Also, you are loved, and that is most important. 

And so, my students, I, your teacher, a Google Educator Failure (yes, there is an on-line course to become a certified Google teacher, and yes, I failed the test–I should probably be fired), I fought with wires and lap-tops and desktops, and cursed (under my breath) our Internet as I tried to take attendance in-person and on-line at the same time and tried to project my screen onto the big screen and capture the image via a camera on a desk of my Google Doc agenda for you to sort-of-see what I was trying to teach you through my mask. 

 Thank you for your patience and good humor. 

I’ll let you in on a secret–every single day of this school year I have said to myself: I can’t do this one more day! And myself has replied quietly: Oh, yes you can!

And now we’ve tottered back to on-line during an upswing to significant spread in our county. And as I worry to the max about my Covid-positive soldier son and his Covid-positive pregnant wife in Colorado, I draw strength from your support and your kind words, your willingness to try to remember how to conjugate verbs in the midst of these chaotic times. 

You know that favorite quote that I have posted near the classroom door, the one by cowboy poet Texas Bix Binder: “Don’t holler whoa in a mudhole!”  I must heed those words. 

 Besides, teaching diverts my mind from the dark Covid-cloud of despair. 

You students give me hope. 

So it’s one day at a time, mes amis. We’re in this together. 

Mrs. Castro

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Jan 31, 2021

Here we are on the cusp of Groundhog’s Day, and Spring is coming…sometime after this next 12-18 inch snowstorm predicted to start this afternoon. On this white/grey Sunday, as the first snowflakes start to fall, I’m reflecting on the dark end of October and how we’ve reached a brighter  February. 

One day at a time we have inched along the continuum of 2020 and into 2021. One day at a time we have persevered, cried, prayed, rejoiced, feared, lived. 

One lesson at a time we teachers have taught: on-line, hybrid, on-line, hybrid, on-line, hybrid, on…

What schedule are we on today? How many Covid cases have been announced this week? Are they at the high school or elementary? How many who are supposed to be in-person are actually on-line today? How many free snacks do we need? How many mics are not working right? Who will be brave and unmute their camera? How many people in a household on-line at the same time can their Internet support? Which student keeps getting dropped? Who is barking in the background?

 “Yes, of course you can go to the bathroom. In these times, you don’t even have to ask. Just go. But come back soon.” 

Through what chaos are you trying to learn today? Do you have enough to eat? Did you even get out of bed today? 

“Please get up and move around. Look, I’m dancing to the music of Soprano during this two minute break. Do some Yoga. Run in place. Il faut bouger!”

This has been a really hard time to be a teacher; in fact, it’s been a really hard time to be anybody. 

Hope-it’s everyone and everything that keeps us moving forward.

As Emily said, “Hope is the thing with feathers,” right?

Right! 

My chickens give me hope. Six months after they arrived, they are delivering! 

What else is hope? 

Hope is also the small voice that whispers you can do this; it’s the person who calls and asks you to go hiking; it’s the hair stylist who doesn’t give up on you even though you’ve haven’t darkened that door in months; it’s Thank God for Facetime; it’s holding hands in the dark; it’s an elderly man who climbs out of the car to do a shaky dance on an icy driveway during a drive-by 60^th birthday party; it’s precious babies, precious children; it’s teaching; it’s sharing books; it’s a dog that never tires of chasing sticks;

it’s beautiful places with beautiful people;

It’s a shoulder rub; it’s a meal cooked; it’s waking up in the peaceful early-morning darkness to give thanks that you are still here; it’s the too-infrequent sound of laughter, even when it comes after an anonymous, in-person 8^th grader has farted.

It’s everyone who has said a kind word and given you a fist bump and worn their damn mask correctly. 

That’s just a start. 

Hope.

One step at a time we’re getting there.

Thank you for reading this!