Teacher Appreciation in May 2020
In Teacher Appreciation Weeks gone by, I’ve enjoyed cupcakes in the staff lounge, forced thank you notes from moderately grateful pre-teens, and once, a fancy latte with an extra shot of vanilla produced from a coffee cart parked near the security desk. I remember setting that drink on the ground outside the faculty bathroom and hoping none of my cherubs would spit in it while I slipped inside. They wouldn’t tamper with my drink because they didn’t like me, but rather because it’s middle school. Impulsivity is the name of the game, and plus, it’s May.
I’m not teaching this year, but I have for the previous twenty. I’ve worked in elementary, middle, and high schools. Teacher Appreciation Week is always nice, for sure, but it comes at a time of year when teachers are underwater. We’ve got report cards, assessments, and spring student behavior. Everyone’s on edge, and the sharpness of the drop depends on when the first 70-degree day hits the calendar.
Regardless of the high temps, though, by May 1st, teachers are beginning to crumple. They’ve graded and planned lessons on most nights and weekends since August. They’ve diffused three or four dicey parent-fury situations that they’ll replay in their memories for decades. There have been thousands of untrue and uncreative reasons why students haven’t completed their homework. Plus, the teachers have attended endless faculty and department and grade-level team meetings. There might have been Chex Mix at these meetings, but never enough for everyone.
A mentor in my second job passed along this mantra: “Never make any decisions in May.” I extended that by adding, “Never talk to anyone in May.” Normally well-adjusted and perfectly regulated colleagues say things they don’t mean. Students are tired, too. They’ve given all they have, and we still want another month of effort. In my happiest years, I implemented independent projects for the final weeks of school that didn’t require whole-class attention and instruction. I nurtured the love I invariably felt for my students by adjusting my expectations to account for the pull of summer. God knows, I felt the gravity shift, too.
But this May is different, isn’t it? The fatigue is heavier and the fear and panic are barely contained. Parents feel it, too. I miss my children’s teachers nearly as much as they do. I can’t take their places, and Zooming isn’t the same as sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Teachers in a pandemic can’t add fractions with a kid and then part with a stupid joke and high five. They can’t jump into pick-up recess games of basketball or lose on purpose in four-square to a kid who just needs a tiny extra boost. The little moments that endear teachers and students to one another, even and especially in May, are harder to come by because they usually manifest in unstructured times. A third-grader will randomly hug you so tightly around your waist that the whole day seemed worth it, even though three kids couldn’t stop farting during silent reading. None of that--not the gas and giggles, and not the lovely connection-- is happening now.
Still, I see my kids’ teachers are trying so hard. They’ve learned new technologies. They’re reading scholarly articles about how to teach online when it’s something they’ve never aspired to do. They’re calling parents and begging kids to meet them one-on-one in Zoom. They’re playing games and devising contests. They’re sitting in front of their computers for ten hours at a time when they’re used to taking thousands of steps around their classrooms and sitting in circles on the floor, singing or rolling dice or reading poetry together. Nothing is the same, and yet, I guarantee they love and care as much or more than ever before.
This Teacher Appreciation Week, I think I’ll write a few emails to the teachers explaining what they’ve meant to our family in this bizarre and scary time. I’ll be specific about what I see them trying to do. I’ll offer my solidarity and my thanks. I don’t really care if they’re imparting any knowledge or specific curriculum. They’re doing something much more important than that: they’re showing up with smiles on their faces and making stupid jokes and, even though they’re exhausted, they’re connecting. The effort really matters. And I hope they’ll treat themselves to a fancy take-out latte, if they want one. At the very least, that coffee should be free from the threat of impulsive spit.