Good Mourning

On March 12, our governor announced a six-week school closure to reduce the spread of the coronavirus. On April 6, he extended it for the remainder of the year. Though reeling from shock and disappointment, we dove in to deliver instruction in ways that were brand new to all of us.

Our last official day of school was June 19. Later that evening our staff gathered via Zoom for a web-version end-of-year celebration. The tone was upbeat. I am fortunate to work in a building with exceptional professionals who are highly collaborative, build strong relationships with students, and delight in every glimpse of growth. We had a lot to celebrate.

The PowerPoint of moments from September through mid-March was a definite highlight: students clustered in book clubs, sprawled on the floor playing math games, sat side by side sharing books, crowded together for special assemblies, and much more, providing evidence of many joyful, at-school memories.

As the beautiful, unmasked faces flashed on the screen, joy and loss converged, and I choked up. Next year will look vastly different. We won’t be shaking hands or high-fiving students as they come and go. We’ll have to make sure to smile with our eyes, because we’ll be required to wear masks throughout the day. The sadness feels profound. All those things we didn’t even realize we were taking for granted will be temporarily stripped away.

Our principal’s exhortation: “I invite you to dig down deep for patience. Many questions will go unanswered until the very last minute. Let’s remember, we can’t do perfect right now. Let’s be safe, let’s assume everyone is smiling behind our masks, and let’s do what we do best.”

We can’t do perfect right now. Doesn’t that alone make you feel like you can breathe a little more deeply?

Perfect has been shattered by all the can’ts. It is the can’ts that thrust my teacher’s heart into mourning: mourning the loss of a gathering space, of reading with someone, of brain and body breaks that involve physical contact, and of the flexible seating we value and love. It is a good and worthy grief. But after we give ourselves space to mourn, we can get up and look at the loss through a lens of optimism.

The day before school let out, we met in the parking lot to hand back student supplies. For a brief moment, a beautiful rainbow cloud hovered above us, like a hopeful promise. I snapped a picture, reminding myself that there may be a lot of can’ts, but there are just as many cans. We can begin to shift to a future that, though different, can be no less meaningful. I have every faith that we can rise to this challenge with professionalism, humor, and grit. We just need to plan for a school year with all the cans in mind.

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