Stages of Corona

I drove to the grocery store when I left work on Friday the 13th.  I feared it would be like a snow day situation, but decided to try it out anyway.  A man sat out front, playing a saxophone.  I hadn't seen anyone do that at my grocery store before.  The sounds kind of drifted through the parking lot, like some sort of swan song.

I felt accomplished, because I already had a lot of online assignments and had worked hard on Friday, so I really felt like I was set up.  I remember being surprised when the state immediately called for classes to be suspended for two weeks, TWO WEEKS!  Not a day or two like at the county I live in originally did, but two weeks!  I intended to be vigilant and my previous work made this easy.   I guess I thought we would just ride this out and go back in two weeks, or maybe after Spring Break, in the second week in April.

Monday started making me wake up.  I had originally asked for it off as a personal day, but clearly was going to do the telework thing.   The district really had us structured, telling us to answer text messages within minutes, sign-off on spreadsheets that proved we were working, increasingly changing demands that we usually found out about after we hadn't done them.  It stressed me out and sort of pissed me off.  I'm not a slack-ass.  I'll do what I'm supposed to, because I care about it.  No one has to create tasks for me. I assumed I'd be checking email a couple of times a day and grading assignments and entering those who did the assignments in our grade books, since my district really only cares about percentages.  Those who couldn't get on the internet or just didn't for whatever reason, we'd catch up in two weeks.  I was surprised when we were told not to be out in public during work hours.  I didn't want to like, cocktail lunch it out, but I wanted to jog and try to get to the grocery store during non-peek hours, and I work after hours, anyway.  Optics.  Then I felt like an asshole because we were reminded over and over that we are still getting our paychecks and benefits, which most people weren't.

Things became more frightening when they started asking us to aggressively check-in on students that hadn't logged-in on our online platforms.  I guess that's when it dawned on me that we might not being going back to school this year.  And that a lot of my students, I might never see again.  That we would have to end it like this, with no warning.  Not just the fifth graders that will go to middle school even if I don't get to see them at the end of their school year, but the ones that get evicted when their parents can't make rent in a couple of weeks and scatter, to god only knows where.

It was dark out one night, earlier in the week, I don't know which day, when Alec's work called and said to not come back, and that he needed to file for unemployment, and that his health insurance coverage would end on April 30th.

The municipality where my sister and niece work sent home restaurant workers shortly after, but were more ambiguous about unemployment benefits.  My niece continues to work running takeout, though she doesn't have health insurance, but obviously needs the money and apparently, isn't even getting unemployment.

I emailed the parents of my students that hadn't connected on the online platforms, writing the Spanish part myself but using Google translate for Burmese, French, Arabic and Amharic.  I asked them to get their kids online and to take care of themselves.  Some of the languages my kids speak aren't even in Google translate.  I found out later that we weren't supposed to do that but in my opinion, extraordinary times call for extraordinary means.

I sat in the Conservatory, calling individual parents on my phone without guarding my number.  Honestly, they can call me whenever they want, with whatever they need.  I had already been texting them, hoping that the English might be easier that way, but I had a number of good conversations in slow and broken English, or in Spanish and they reassured me the kids were okay.  I asked them to call me with anything they need.

They made us do a Zoom department meeting on Friday.  I tried to be positive, but said little.  I noticed that the new Spanish teacher had really nice crown molding in his house and that some of the other teachers looked a little puffy and worn, like I knew I did.  The coach of course looked amazing, sitting out on his back deck like he'd just completed his workout.  People speculated about when we'd be back and what it would look like.
I finally spoke up.
"I don't know what we are going to be walking back into, whenever we go back.  Our students are low income.  They rent.  We see their stuff piled up in front of the houses every time we drive to work after the first."
"Well no... no, I just don't see that."  a teacher answered, one that usually hates me.
"They can't just put them all out....the government will stop that."
"Landlords can be very unethical."  I responded.
"And, many of our students are undocumented.  The will avoid anything the government might be willing to provide, based on their status.  Because they have to.  And those are some of the kids that have gone radio silent, the ones I haven't been able to get in touch with."
She paused and I watched realization wash over her face.
"Ms. Wagner, anything you hear, anything you hear, please tell me.  I can try to get my church involved.  I'm sorry but if anyone does not object, I know that we are in a public school environment, but I would like to end this with prayer."
"Prayer is what we need!"  the new teacher called out.
"He is the only one that can help!"
"Would you like to lead it?"  she answered.

And the teacher launched in to a prayer, a long prayer in his beautiful accent.  It was impassioned, begging God specifically for the undocumented kids, asking him to fix this.  It was very surreal, looking at my colleagues with their eyes closed and faces bowed in prayer, over Zoom.  I'm not into that kind of thing, but I definitely wasn't going to speak against it.

I stared straight ahead, as Mr. Bakwamba try to heal my world, heal us and save my students.  I wasn't ungrateful.

The Crown of Viruses

She sneezed, and green phlegm flew everywhere.
Soe looked startled, grabbed her nose, and ran for the tissues.  She locked eyes with me for a minute, scared, even though she is only in kindergarten, and we both knew why.

I heard several more deep coughs from my kindergartners and first graders, mere inches from my face.   The thing was, I was already sick.  I've been worn down, itchy eyes, congested and coughing since last Sunday.  Monday morning coughing in my face was more of the same.

I walked by the sinks that exist outside of the bathrooms and students stood in lines, scrubbing their arms like they were preparing for surgery on Grey's Anatomy.  A lot of the sinks no longer had soap and I don't know about the kids, but I only use cold water when I wash at school because lead absorption increases through the skin when the water is heated.

A child coughed, stood up, and was sent to the nurse.  Her teacher randomly picked up a can of Lysol and sprayed her area.  Then, he sprayed himself, on the neck.
"She coughed on me.  It doesn't work unless it burns."

A video circulated of a child being released from school and a parent spraying them down with Lysol before letting them in the car.

I walked up to baby Gustavo and he held out a little tube of hand sanitizer, squirting it on both of mine before he would let me anywhere closer to him to help him with his work.

My uncontrollable coughing took over during a fifth grade class.  I looked around and there wasn't any hand sanitizer left.  I sprayed my cough-covered arm with Lysol, then sort of sprayed it in the air like perfume and swooshed through it.

Thursday was the day that the kids that had read the most received prizes.  It's been a big endeavor.  I bought them sketch books, colored pencils and everyone got to check out new books from our new classroom library.  I walked up the hill and through the neighborhood with them, telling them to enjoy their three day weekend.

I was at the Housing Authority when we found out that metro-Atlanta was locking down.  I told my kids not to be scared, but to be scared.  There was a nervous energy in the air, an uncertainty.
"Um, I'll see you guys when school is back in session...." I announced, trying to sound cheery.  Then I drove slowly through the apartments on my way out, watching them walk home.

I went to a school without children today.  I posted a number of online assignments, though the  online platform was crashing as every teacher in the state's third largest district tried to do the same thing.  I went to weird meetings and cleaned my room with something that says it kills 99.9% of every fucking weird thing.  I brought Steve home on Monday, so she was already safe.  Then, I looked around, turned off the lights and locked the trailer.

I drove Alec's car across the grass that serves as our recess field and left, with the trunk full of anything of value, not really certain when we'd be back again.

Dream Like Martin

Mondays suck.  This rainy, gray, not enough hours of sunlight Monday in late February started with an extended conversation about farting.
"Y'all, it's nasty!"  the kindergarten class was informed.
"Go to the bathroom 'cuz I DO NOT WANT TO SMELL THAT."
The convo lasted a long time.  It seemed appropriate for a shitty Monday.

February is Black History month.  In the bougie schools I worked in, Black History month had been sort of pushed aside, because the idea was to have a diverse curriculum that was inclusive all twelve months of the year.  I've always agreed with that and for that reason, thought "history" months were cheesy, no matter if it was Hispanic, Woman or otherwise.  Though I work in a Black school now, I've noticed a resurgence in Black History month celebrations even in bougie areas or basically, my former employment district, which I still frequent three times a week to work at the Housing Authority.  It's funny, Black History month doesn't seem like simple recognition or education of Black achievement because it is ordinarily not included in curriculums or life like I thought it was, but more a celebration of the culture of the varied and un-monolithic contributions of Black people.  The Housing Authority opened my eyes to it and my school really celebrates it as well.  It feels like Christmas week, with theme days and encouragement to dress as different things or wear certain colors, each different, every day of the week.

Black History month school celebrations also provide ripe opportunities for white teachers to Rachel Dolezal it up, and I certainly am not going to end up like that. Most of the dress up days could be addressed tastefully, but it is easy to overlook things.  I just try to imagine myself pumping gas somewhere and what a random onlooker might think of what I'm wearing, obviously outside of the school context of the celebration, and usually decide to not engage in the dress ups.

"We going to have to get you a little dashiki..."  Ms. Snyder said coyly, while she waited for her students to use the bathroom.
"Wash your hands!"  she called, as one of the kindergartners exited.
Her dashiki was quite festive.
"No way."  I responded.
"I am not going to end up on the news as the crazy white teacher, culturally appropriating everything." I responded, laughing.
"What do you mean," she responded slyly, literally looking at me from the side of her eyes with a little smile.
"I wear myself a little 'ol Rolling Stones t-shirt, what's the difference?"
"It's different."  I responded.
She nodded affirmatively and continued her bathroom routine, and I felt like I might have passed a test.

"She was the first African American southeastern Congresswoman."
"Barbara Jordan."  Aazim answered.
"He founded Jet and Ebony magazines."
"John H. Johnson."  he continued.

I've quizzed him so many times for the Black History bowl the Housing Authority conducts that I know the answers myself.  Shit I never knew before.  I can recite them in my sleep.

Maybe I should have been able to a long time ago.

Lift

Alejandro was shaking and crying uncontrollably.  He had just finished his graded rendition of Lift Every Voice and Sing.
"Alejandro, oh my god, Alejandro, I'm sorry....I'm so sorry, I didn't realize you were upset....I was laughing and joking around with them and I swear I didn't know...."  I explained, grabbing his shoulder while he shielded his face from the rest of the students at the table.
"It's just a stupid song, stupid crap."  I whispered furiously into his ear, shocking myself by referring to Lift Every Voice and Sing as stupid crap.
"It's not your fault," he typed into the browser window of his Chromebook, without clicking enter.
"Sometimes when I see people laughing I just freak out and cry."
"It's weird, I don't know why."

"I took my first Spanish class!"  Prem announced, his eyes dancing with excitement.
"What does puto mean?"
My mouth fell open.  So did Veronica's.
"Did you learn that in class today?"  I asked.
"NO!" he screamed, then ran off toward the trailer.

"You know what!"  the second meanest teacher in the school yelled at the class.
"This isn't just going to count for one grade, it's going to count for four!  One of them will be a quiz grade!"
Adriana shifted uncomfortably in her seat, still waiting her turn to sing Lift Every Voice and Sing in the hallway to her teacher, for four grades.

I sat with Prem and Veronica in their Reading class, trying to help them while keeping track of Faba and Juan who were seated in separate groups.  The teacher passed out a blurry, small print worksheet of "The Cat that Walked by Himself".
I felt my eyes glaze over.
"I'm not reading all that." Prem said dismissively, when I tried to get him to put his eyes on it.
The teacher started getting kids to read out loud, while a second Special Ed teacher alternated between berating their performance and asking comprehension questions.
"Where'd the baby come from?!"  she yell-asked.
I knew what she meant but tensed up for a minute because it could easily bring a host of nuanced responses.
"From the woods?" one kid ventured.
"The dog had it?"  another tried.
"From the butt." Prem whispered to me definitively, shoving his worksheet in the cubby-thing under someone else's desk.

I stood with the walkers, ready to go go go.  Adriana walked up, her report card in an envelope.
"Let's see it!"  I said, while she carefully opened the envelope.
"Oh god," she gasped.
I looked down the report.  All Fs.  Every single grade, except for a B in ESOL.  My grade.
"She been doing a lot of that crap lately, given out them Fs for no reason...."  a girl that we normally don't like muttered sympathetically. 
We smiled weakly and started the hike out of the school and through the neighborhood, twenty-odd kids behind us.

Salvation Show

I sat at my morning duty post, watching one of the more troubled members of our student population enter the Media Center.  He walked stiffly, with his eyes darting from side to side to see if anyone was looking at him.
He was carrying two trays of Valentine's cupcakes and wearing a sports coat.
"Hey, Jeremy, let me put your cupcakes on the table so they don't get crushed...."  I said, trying to make him more comfortable.  He handed me the cupcakes and walked over to a friend, while fumbling with the buttons on his sports coat.
"Help me get this shit off....." he mumbled, while his friend struggled with the buttons.

I drove to the Housing Authority, already feeling a little relief that I had finished conducting three weeks of testing and the last day of school before a four day break.  I only had two hours of preparation and then two hours of the Black History performance to go before the break began.

"Hallelujah!" the radio screamed.
"And when your heart is troubled...."  Neil Diamond continued, when I suddenly had a weird vision of my principal singing the song on the stage of the school.
"You gotta reach out your other hand...." she belted into the microphone.
"Hallelujah!"  the teachers of the school sang, all while lined up behind our singing principal.  The meanest teacher in the school stood in the middle of the line, singing loudly.
"Reach it out to the man up there!"  my principal continued.
"Hallelujah!"  the teachers sang, now kicking their legs up like Rockettes as they sang back up.
"'Cause that's what he's there for!'' she sang, eyes closed and arm in the air.
"Take my hand in yours..." our assistant principal sang earnestly, after grabbing the mic.  Her big eyes stared straight ahead in a reassuring manner.
"Walk with me this day..."
"In my heart I know..."
"I will never stray..."
"Halle, halle, halle, halle, halle, halle, halle, halle!!!" the back up singing teachers screamed, legs kicking high in the air with each word.

I glanced at Steve, riding shotgun on a branch in her new, ten gallon terrarium and continued driving toward the apartments. 


*Lyrics, Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show, Neil Diamond

Musketeers

"You guys have to understand that when it gets warm outside, Steve is going to want to leave.  He'll want to be with his people, maybe meet the ladies....I've been leaving the top of his terrarium open and so far, he's been choosing to stay with us....but we have to be ready for that to change...."
I looked at the small brown and sometimes green lizard that had taken up residence in the trailer's recycling bin.  He had remained so long that I decided to buy him a small "bedroom" so that he might be more comfortable, and safely enclosed so that he could be hidden from the custodians and not free roam when it wasn't safe.  Forty-five dollars worth of moss, hollowed-out log, feeding dishes and freeze-dried crickets.
"Maybe the ladies will come to him...." Juan mentioned absent-mindedly, eyes glued to the little lizard inside his terrarium in the middle of the table.
"I think Steve will be a gentleman."  Faba seconded, never removing his eyes from the lizard.

"Um, we may have made a mistake when selecting Xavier as our HBCU."  I informed my after-school group.
"What do you mean?!"  Habiba asked, "I researched it myself!"
"I know, I am totally confused.  Miss Evelyn says that there is more than one Xavier and that we picked the...um, you guys, I think we may have picked the white school."  I responded, whispering the end.
"WHAT????"  the group exclaimed, mouths open.
"And their mascot, it's got um, a weird name.  It's like...,"  I lowered my voice, "gold digger, or something like that."
Habiba's eyes widened.
"I am not calling myself that."
"Yeah, I feel you.  Let's stick with Musketeers."  I answered.

I stood in the front office of the school, waiting to check-out my testing materials.  I heard a scuffle in the hall and looked left just in time to see a student in the hall punch an administrator in the arm as two adults struggled to subdue him.
"Bitch!"  he yelled, as parents and children looked on.

I knelt beside Prem's desk, watching him do Math work.  Something caught my attention and I made myself still, willing my ears to rotate like satellites.
"Wa chee ho hon...hee ho hon...."
I looked to my left.  A student was making what appeared to be "Chinese" sounds, derogatory imitations of what he thought any old east Asian language would sound like, while staring at Prem.  He locked eyes with me.  I looked down at his paper and noticed his name, one of the students that had been identified as violent and aggressive and to be avoided at all costs.
"What are you doing?"  I asked firmly, not giving a shit who he was.
"Nothing." he responded.
I looked at Prem.  He was hunched over his work, assuming a submissive, beaten-down posture I had never seen him use before.  His eyes stared straight at his paper.
Prem is a superstar.  He is wildly intelligent, funny and subversive.  He can literally jump three feet in the air whenever he feels like it.  I had never seen him that way.
The intercom cut-in.
"TEACHERS, WE ARE IN A CODE THREE LOCKDOWN."
We slammed the lights off, closed the door and locked it and herded the children behind desks, attempting to make them invisible to anyone peering through windows.  I put my arm around Prem's shoulder and pulled him to a safe place, slamming glowing Chromebooks as I pushed my back to the wall with Prem crouched at my feet, my body between him and the door.
Code three is the highest level and I knew it was real.  No one would call a code three, lock down drill fifteen minutes before dismissal for the day.
We remained that way, until the lock down was dismissed.
Prem looked at me.
"Can we go see the lizard?"
"Yes, let's go see Steve."  I answered.
We walked on the wooded path behind the school.  A school-system police car was parked in front of my trailer.  Another, real police car sat in front of the school.  We walked past and entered the trailer, where Prem sat and stared at Steve, his eyes alight with joy.

I drove to the Housing Authority, weary from days of conducting ACCESS testing and basically, everything else.
"When Justice Roberts refused to read Rand Paul's question exposing the whistleblower's name, he left the Senate chamber during the hearing and conducted his own news conference, reading the whistleblower's name to reporters."
Cunt-faced piece of shit, I found myself muttering, suddenly enraged.  Fuck it all, right?  If you don't get what you want, just do what you want to do, who the fuck cares?  Nothing really matters anyway, right?

I drove home on Friday, Steve riding shotgun in his terrarium.
"Take good care of Steve this weekend!" Adriana had called, waving over her shoulder as she jumped into her mom's car that afternoon.
I looked in at Steve.  He was inside his hollowed-out log, his head nestled next to the wall, eyes closed in a way that made him look like a cat or a puppy, not a reptile.  He didn't move for a really long time, not when I picked up the terrarium, not when I carried it to the car, not when I started the car.  He looked kind of yellow.

I listened to the final arguments, or basically pleading from Democrats for witnesses, of the Senate impeachment trial on the radio.
I over looked at Steve's motionless body and started to cry.

Camino de Belén

"Did you know that cannibalism is when people eat each other?"  Faba asked me.
"Yeah...." I answered.
"Can we try it?"  Prem asked excitedly.
"Flesh...." he whispered under his breath.

I laid on my stomach, ready to roll into the MRI machine.
"I don't think they gave you enough Valium, you're not showing it at all....I think it's going to wear off while you're in there."
I started holding my breath.
"I can't do this.  You have to stop." I finally answered. 
"We are going to get through this together." the technician answered.
I laid there a few minutes, trying to get myself together.
"Okay.  Roll me in."
I lowered my face, gripped a plastic rail and started counting.

"Please set a goal with your grade level about how you can help with our CCRPI score." an administrator stated during a faculty meeting on our first day back from the end of the year break. 
A teacher, who has told me countless times that she wants my job, rose and turned toward me, calling out across the entire room.
"I've done your job and you need to move those kids on the ACCESS tiers!"
"You're setting my goal for me....?"  I mumbled, shocked. 
Those weren't even my scores; I had worked there a week before administering the test.  And who the fuck calls out another teacher about standardized test scores in front of the whole school?   How the hell were her scores?  We are an F school.  My students shouldn't have to balance out everyone else's shitty scores.  Why doesn't she try to teach her own fucking students and bring up our CCRPI? 
But the bottom line was, she was trying to discredit me, in front of everyone, because she wants my job.  My stomach churned. 

"Mr. Pulchic has problem with his legs." Yami announced randomly during after school tutoring.
"Well you see,"  Aazim began, authoritatively, "his middle is quite large and his legs are very small.  It is difficult for them to hold everything up." he explained, fingers on his chin and eyes fixed on Yami.
"Ms. Swort has the same problem."
I found myself snickering, even though I knew it was awful. 

Soberuary has arrived again.  I haven't plied myself with as much yoga and herbal tea as I have in previous years, but I still have that George Constanza feeling in the episode when he gave up sex and became really smart.  I'm not really smart yet, but I am on a steady, manic path of self improvement.  Sans alcohol.