This year, I taught fifth grade English. I loved the magic of reading wonderful books with my students and watching stories come to life in the classroom. We laughed, cried, and celebrated together as we read. We wrote our own stories and essays and shared them like real writers do. And then the pandemic happened.
It has been eight weeks. We had to read our final novel online, and I’m afraid it lost some of its significance, which really comes from reading it aloud in person. I taught grammar and writing lessons as best as I could with a screen between us.
Today was our last day of distance learning. Instead of celebrating the start of summer with popsicles and hugs, we are apart. Instead of joyfully cleaning up the classroom together, I did it myself one lonely afternoon.
One of the most difficult parts of this transition is that I am not returning to my same school next year, but will be teaching at a new one. It’s hard not to close out the year as I would in former circumstances. I wish I could stand before my students and fellow teachers to say goodbye.
I am so excited about my new school, though, because it’s not really new at all. I attended the school myself from kindergarten through eighth grade. I also did my student teaching and worked part time there during graduate school. It will be like coming home.
I am simply grieving the lack of real closure this year, and I am already mentally preparing myself for the challenges that may arise with beginning a new year in the fall. We are creatures that celebrate transitions in life, and it is frustrating not being able to do so properly.
Once things do go back to normal – which I’m counting on happening, eventually – I hope I will never again take for granted the sweet simplicity of gathering in a circle for a lesson, or seeing classmates holding hands as we walk to music class. I would like to savor each dear little moment that happens during the school day, knowing that being together is a gift in itself.
