The Lie of Learning Loss

I know that the news and policy-makers continually talk about "learning loss" as being the concept that seems to be dominating the 20-21 school year (and the second half of the 19-20 year).

And I really wish they would stop.  

Not just because it is condescending and hypercritical, but because it is wrong. Entirely wrong. Yet nobody who has air time seems to care about that. 

Education in America has a tremendous problem with deficit framing. The focus falls on what students lack or how they are behind or what they are missing rather than what they have or skills they use.  

A great example is ELLs (English language learners).  

Rather than focusing on their ability to move within multiple languages (something the average English-as-a-first-language American does not have), talk centers on how their English skills are behind or what they can't do or understand.  

This deficit-centered thought works against helping students build that sense of confidence and self-efficacy that encourages growth and success. It also minimizes, especially for marginalized students, those aspects of their lives that are skills, knowledge, and habits but are outside what the academic world has traditionally valued.  

We see this a lot in the world of Young Adult literature. The people who are writing the best, most well-received, most desired books for young people right now are those who, when they were in school, were told that their lived experiences and background knowledge were not important or relevant. So those books about very real issues (struggles at home or living in a multicultural family or being someone who must babysit siblings) come from writers who know those experiences as their own, value them, and write about them. And students, in turn, relate to them. Because those out-of-school literacies are valuable and relevant, even if they are not strictly academic.   

Then we get to this bananas idea of "learning loss".  

And I specifically want to push back against that concept and suggest we frame it instead as "learning impact."  

Our students haven't experienced learning loss.  

That would mean they know less now than they did when the pandemic began, and even for the most disengaged student, that is just not true. 

What has occurred is a change in learning.  

A change in what is learned and a change in the timeline.  

Yes, we are not as far along as we typically would be. But that isn't a loss. That is not being as far along. 

And what have the kids learned? Holy cow! The amazing things they have learned about technology and communication. 

In my district, virtually every student in grades 1-12 can edit a PDF.  Most adults can barely open a PDF much less annotate one. 

But my kids can. 

And will the IAR or SAT or ACT or MAP assess that? 

No, it won't. 

Those kids have learned about sending, checking, and receiving emails (something many adults still haven't mastered), how to adjust to fluctuating schedules.  

They have learned to track important events on the news (positivity rates, timelines for reopening, why there can't be spectators at sports.) 

They have learned how to find information on important issues and how to talk about big ideas.  

At times they have learned how not to fall prey to disinformation and how to respond when someone else has.  

And all of this is on top of content area material. 

And during a pandemic when the students are also dealing with and coping with their own trauma. 

Far from a loss!  

I am not saying this year has been ideal, not by any measure.  But I do push back against framing that learning, all of that diverse new knowledge as a loss.  

A specific step that anyone who cares about this can take, one I am challenging myself to take, is to reject the deficit mindset and terminology ("learning loss") and pivot to a competency-based mindset--including using the term "learning impact"-- and focusing on the truth that learning has happened.  

At a different pace, and in a different way, certainly. But it has happened. 

So the real questions are how can we continue the learning and continue the timeline, preparing for the next steps of learning that students will take, building on the competencies they have and the new ones they have gained. 

 

Talking Points

There is an episode of The West Wing late in season 5 called "Talking Points" where Josh Lymon is feeling victorious over his negotiating a difficult trade deal. Lots of people could have negotiated it, but he was chosen. Leo (chief of staff) talks about how fierce he was! The President congratulates him!  Everyone says what a great job and what hard work! He did what could not have been done!

Before the deal is even signed, word is leaked that immediately upon signing, a large telecom company is going to cut 17,000 jobs and send them to Asia (something that could only be facilitated because of the trade deal). Josh is horrified that this is happening because of his work and meets with the CEO, asking him to stop or at least delay it because of the horrible effects on the lives of the 17,000 workers.  

The CEO says that it isn't 17,000. It is millions over 10 years. This is just the start. 

Josh, an ally of unions and someone who made a promise to protect union jobs, is aghast. 

Then the CEO tells him that the White House already knew about this. Everyone knew. Except him. 

Angry, Josh confronts Leo, who more or less says you can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs. 

Furious and hurt because of the role he was tricked into playing, Josh confronts the President who is thoughtful and saddened but essentially says that there is nothing they could do. Josh accuses him of breaking his promise to protect the union workers and the President agrees.

Later Josh is talking to Donna (his assistant) and angrily--angry at himself, at  Leo, at the President--says "What I did wrong wasn't breaking my word. It was making a promise I couldn't keep in the first place."

As I watched the episode recently, I realized how much that entire situation feels so much like education in general. 

Teachers, most days, are Josh Lymon in this episode.  We are given high-fives, told what hard work we do, how everyone appreciates it and our dedication is amazing, while all of the decisions that really matter are being made behind the scenes. We don't really have that much power, but the high-fives keep us mollified. 

We are in a pandemic, one year out, and are planning for nationwide high-stakes standardized testing. We are told, "It's fine! The tests don't matter anyway! We just need some data! No, not your classroom data, that doesn't count or isn't good enough! We need this other data that is actually meaningless! But it's fine! You can do them now or even over the summer! It's fine!"  

Smile and high-five while setting fire to a billion dollars for nothing. To add stress to teachers and students for data that is useless in any given year but useless and invalid this year. 

But we gather it anyway.  Because why? Who knows? 

Someone who has already made the deal, with a wink and a nod behind the scenes, and just hasn't leaked word yet. 

 It is the end of the pandemic school year, and we are giving final exams. "How else will kids know we are serious?"  Smile and high-five! Only dedicated teachers could bring such rigor! All while inflicting an unfair assessment on an uneven playing field for a group of students who have had unequal learning experiences. Sure, but you get to fly to Brussels! (in this case, a candy bar in the mailbox!)

Most people in education went into the field out of a genuine desire to help, to educate, to improve lives. It was likely not the entire reason, but it was at least part of the equation.  Who in the world would say, "I am going to work hard for 4 years, take this job, and spend the rest of my life trying to ruin lives through low expectations and poor-quality worksheets!"? 

And it is really really easy to spot the villains when you have a bungling one-percenter like Betsy DeVos at the helm. 

It is much harder to realize that, generally, there are few clear-cut villains, other than the system.  

It is really easy to see education as a binary:

There are good teachers and bad teachers.

There are hard-working teachers and lazy teachers.

There are dynamic teachers and boring teachers.

In reality, any educator can be dynamic in the morning and a snooze-fest in the afternoon. One week we can be on fire and changing the world when the next day being bogged down in paperwork and committees sends us to look up the details of early retirement. 

And at any given moment of any day, each one of us is Josh Lymon, having made a promise we cannot keep.  

We have promised we would bring world-class education to each and every student, and it will be the ticket that brings them out of inequality, the path to a better life! And we make that promise because we believe it. We deeply, fundamentally believe it.

Josh looked the union members in the eye and promised to save their jobs. Not because he wanted their votes but because he wanted to save their jobs. 

But all of the power players in Josh's circle had already made decisions, had discussions, and arranged plans--without his knowledge--that tied his hands. He just didn't know. 

And every teacher you have ever known has had to commit to some aspect of education they deeply despise or outright object to but have absolutely no control over because the power players in their sphere have already had the conversations, made the decisions, and printed the guidebook. They just didn't say anything. 

Sometimes teachers push back.  And they are often the ones ground in the gears of the system. Occasionally they are heralded as visionaries or rock stars.  Every educator who has watched Stand and Deliver or Dead Poet's Society knows deep in their bones that this is not how the system works.  

And it is March.  

February and March are the cold, gray suck vortex of education when every teacher either counts the years left until retirement could theoretically kick in or does incognito Google searches for "non-teaching jobs that can be done with a degree in English education".  That is just reality. February and March are hard in a normal year.

 But this year, they feel like a giant broken promise. One made with absolute conviction and the best of intentions without knowing that those in power had already had the discussions, made the deals, and shook hands.  

They just haven't told anyone yet. 

Masks: Wearing, Growing, Fitting

Years ago, in that way that could mean last week or 1997, I read "Shooting an Elephant" by George Orwell. (Yes, that George Orwell.)  

In the tale, a British man is a police officer stationed in Burma/Myanmar. He knows that he is hated by the people--the face of the colonizer--and it is clear this bothers him.  A situation arises where he has power, the same power he has always had, but now saturated not only with the responsibility to those around him but also their expectation of his behavior.

He needs to make a terrible choice, struggling with who he is: the man who does the right thing or the man who is pressured into something he knows is wrong but might bring him slightly less hatred.  

While examining his own thoughts, the man says, "He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it."

Years ago--both yesterday and 1982--this line struck me.  The ways we wear masks, change who we are depending on the audience, the situation, the time. 

Then COVID hit and it took on all new meaning. 

The one-year mark is fast approaching, and it is humbling to see how the science world has mobilized in the face of great suffering and criticism to accomplish astonishing feats. 

And it is hard, so very hard, to look at humanity and see that so many care so little for others. 

How little do we value the elderly? 

How little do we care for the marginalized?

How little do we care for the poor?

And then the schools. 

The world seems only to care for teachers went they are martyrs and sacrifices. Not Arthur Dimmesdale with his bloody scourge kept closeted away; no, nothing less than a public flailing will do. 

But those teachers! If only the world could see what they have been able to accomplish.  What they have tried, what they have learned, what they have created. And all in the midst of their own grief, their own struggle. 

I wonder if we will ever look back and collectively grasp just how much educators tried, failed, and tried again during this time? 

It has been hard to see how harsh we all are with each other.  

It is hard to see how little grace we are willing to distribute. 

This morning, getting out of my car, I put my mask on.  Four days ago, I got my second vaccination. The flooding relief was real.  The fear that I could still transmit to the as-yet-unvaccinated is just as real. 

So on goes the mask. 

I hope that this mask, this real, tangible thing, is a reminder of that metaphorical mask we always wear.  I wish that it worked the same way. 

We wear a mask, and our face grows to fit it. 

We grow to care more. Be more compassionate. Have more concern. Give more grace. 

We listen to science more and hear those who are struggling. 

I can't change what anyone else does or how they react, but I hope that this terrible time, this time that now finally seems to at least be finite, immeasurable but still finite, will have softened my heart and strengthened my compassion.  

Long after this mask is put away, I will have to live with the choices I have made, the ways I have treated people, those unkindnesses I have allowed to creep into my grieving heart. 

Long after this mask is put away, I will still be the person I was while I wore it. 

This mask says that I care about those around me. That I listen to science and trust experts. That my community is important to me. 

Years from now, I hope my face will have grown to fit this mask.

Books on a Shelf

I spend most of my life with books on shelves.  I am surrounded by them at work and think about them all the time. 

How to organize, how to shift books and shelves to make them more accessible, whether to group all of the Star Wars books together or by the author (together). 

A couple of weeks ago, a dear friend was talking about getting built-in bookshelves made and showed me a photo of her assortment of shelves that would be cleared out through the projects. There were books everywhere. Piled, stacked, nested. 

Clearly adored. 

The thing that may surprise people is that I do not have many books of my own in my home. 

I used to. I had a lot, and when we moved they were a huge pain.  But I loved them, the feel the look, the friendship. 

Once I became a librarian, perhaps it is a natural outgrowth of the process, I really stopped buying many physical books. Why would I when I work in a library and can order virtually any book I choose? 

My children know that if there is a book they want, I will order it. 

If it is beloved, I will buy the digital version so they can have it on a Kindle (I know, I know. But they are living in a different time). 

For my personal independent reading, honestly, the only books I purchase are audiobooks that I believe I will listen to again or my husband or children will listen to (being worthy of a precious Audible credit is the highest compliment).

In spite of this very deliberate, very conscious decision, I do feel envy when I see someone with amazing shelves filled with books.  I really do in a visceral way love books. 

So, this morning, I was shelving a few of the books I do have (alpha by author). And I sat for a moment, thinking about the books. 

I am in the 4th year of a doctoral program, taking my last semester of classes before my comps and (if all goes well) starting my dissertation. When this started, I never ever thought I would get to this point. It was so far away. 

But with that first class, I purchased the books.  New if possible. Used-Like New if they were prohibitively expensive.  (Don't get me started on the cost of academic books). With a doctoral program, these weren't textbooks, per see, but books dedicated to aspects of literacy, research in curriculum, texts on reading, essays on theory. 

Each semester, I bought the books and set them on a shelf.  I was so proud each time I added a book. It was like watching a child grow.  But it was my knowledge that was growing. Or, truly, my awareness of my lack of knowledge.  

As the process continued, I started buying books that were of interest to my area of focus or by an author I felt especially challenged by.  

This morning, I realized I had the 6th edition of the APA handbook, plucked it off the shelf, and tossed it in the recycle pile.  It didn't bother me in the least. (I have a really great spiral-bound version of the 7th edition, and the 6th edition, let's face it was a disaster, filled with errors and lacking a lot of useful information). That space was valuable.

When people say, "Oh, you must own so many books!", I always feel a twinge of guilt that I really don't.  I give the librarian elevator pitch about using your local library. But if I am honest, really honest, I am both proud of my little shelf of academic books and humbled by them.  There are so many things I don't know, so many things I want to learn, so many ideas I have never explored. 

I think of the Library of Congress as a kind of holy place. A repository of knowledge, one of the greatest in the world. But even it has holes and gaps, unintentional, as yet undiscovered, or intentional, created by sinister histories of silencing and oppression. 

Maybe that is why my shelf is so humbling to me. It is a physical manifestation of what I know, what I have read, but it also shows in stark clarity that there is always so much more to know. 

Neither a Mover nor a Shaker

Warning: This is going to sound like a pouting/pity party but it isn't. It is the stuff on my heart at the moment, and that is what this space has always been for.  

This time of year can be rough.  It can be amazing with graduations and celebrations and pools and parties, but it can also be rough.  In May of this year (though for years it was always March. May is a new timeline.) Library Journal (LJ)  releases a host of awards.  It honors libraries, administrators, and librarians. Things like Librarian of the Year, Library of the Year, Para of the Year.  

There is an award category called the Movers and Shakers.  These always celebrate some of the most amazing people in the library community. "Innovators", "emerging leaders", and those who are "providing inspiration and model programs for others."

There are categories like Change Agents, Digital Developers, Educators, Innovators, Advocates, and Community Builders.

These are legitimately amazing people.  They are giants on social media and people who are making a huge impact in their community, region, or even nation.  I celebrate them and their work. It is always inspirational to read through the list and all they have accomplished. 

And it is humbling  

And sometimes it really stings.  

There is absolutely zero chance I will ever be on LJ's Movers and Shakers list.  

It is never going to happen.  
That awareness hurts.

It isn't supposed to.  I know that LJ is celebrating them and bringing attention to their powerful work.  But the knowledge that my work is just not even in the same league can make it seem.....less. 

Then a few weeks later, graduation happens, and seniors recognize those who had an impact on their life, their academic career, their education.  When I was in the classroom, I got the occasional shout out. 

Now?  I can't even imagine that I am even for a moment considered.  

Which kind of stings.  

And it shouldn't.  

I am not in a position like a classroom teacher. My work is almost entirely behind the scenes.  

I read in classrooms K-5, but once middle school hits, students rarely know about the things my work involves.  

I know my work is important to the running of a school.  

I help teachers know how to use tech. 
I help the tech work. 
I make sure the library is filled with a current, diverse collection that meets the needs of the students.
I hunt for resources for teachers and administrators. 
I advocate for students.
I ensure that student voice and choice are honored in the library collection. 

The library in my 6-12 campus is, essentially, an entirely different library from the one that was there when I took over 5 years ago.  That space has comfortable seating. I have implemented positive circulation policies including getting rid of fines and increasing check-out limits.  The collection is far far more representative of current student reading habits. The change in the collection is almost impossible to describe.  

Any student who checks out a book that has been purchased in the past 5 years has benefitted from the small, slow, progressive changes.  

The seniors who graduated this year have no idea what was there before. 

And I love that. 

I love that they will never be burdened by a library that was not student-centered.  I am happy that their high school memories involve a library that was welcoming, responsive, and friendly. 

But that isn't Mover.
It certainly isn't Shaker. 

But it is important.  And I know that.  I am definitely not criticizing the Movers and Shakers award.  Not even a little.  

I suppose this is a lament for a world where all of those small, necessary, daily tasks of educators --not just librarians--are not really seen.

That is just part of the education gig, though.  Planting a seed that you desperately hope will be a tree at some point in your lifetime.  

This is much more of a long game.'

Not Mover and Shaker.  
Planter, nurturer, waiter, tender, trimer, pruner, waterer, feeder, comforter. 
And hoper. (One who hopes?)

So today I will enjoy some Cherry Garcia and grumble about not being a Mover and Shaker, then tomorrow I'll get back to the work that helps my students. 

Achtung Baby?

I can see it in my mind's eye as if it happened earlier today. 

I am 17, sitting on the floor of my room.  I am holding a prized item: the cassette tape I just received from Columbia House.  

It is U2's new release, Achtung Baby.  


I had listened to The Joshua Tree until the thing darned near fell apart.  Over the summer, I had paid a $75 deposit (borrowed from my aunt) to rent from the record store a VHS tape (I know) of the live performance of Rattle and Hum, the album that followed The Joshua Tree. 

Achtung Baby was the first album U2 had released in three years.  This was the late 80s and early 90s. Waiting three years for an album felt like an eternity.  

And now I owned Achtung Baby. 

I gingerly unwrapped the plastic, and my heart skipped a beat when I noticed the liner notes contained complete lyrics listings.  

I put the cassette into the player, closed my eyes, and pressed play.  After a second or so of silence, there was a garbled screech of distortion.  I jumped, pressed stop, and opened the cassette door with dread, imagining the spaghetti of tape I would have to wind back in with a pencil.  But no.  Nothing was wrong. The tape was not being eaten.  I took it out, looked at it, flipped it over, looked carefully again, then gingerly put it back in.  I pressed play but left my finger hovering over the stop button. 

There is was again: the jarring screeches. I stopped it again, certain my cassette was mangled. Again, it was nothing.  A third time, I put it in and let it play.  Soon, the fullness of "Zoo Station", the first track on the A-side came through.   

And I listened.  

This was no Joshua Tree.  
This wasn't even Rattle and Hum.  

This was something entirely different. 

The sound. 
The instruments. 
The cacophony. 
The style.

The lyrics don't even start until a minute into the song.  

Bono's voice was muffled 

"I'm ready for the laughing gas
I'm ready
I'm ready for what's next
I'm ready to duck
I'm ready to dive
I'm ready to say
I'm glad to be alive"

This was definitely no Joshua Tree. 

And I kept listening. The entire album was so different. 

"Zoo Station" was weird and broken and jarring. 
"Mysterious Ways" was energetic and wild, filled with enthusiasm. 
I cried when I listened to "One."
"Love is Blindness" was so beautiful, I thought my heart might crack open. 

This album was wonderful. 

I have said many times that I think The Joshua Tree, for me, is one of the most nearly perfect albums. I can listen to the entire thing, skipping no songs, then do it again.  I can't say that about many albums. 

Achtung Baby comes pretty close.  

But they are so different.  

At that time (and toady), I loved Rod Stewart. (The use of "love" here is no exaggeration).  But I came to him mostly in retrospect.  I was born in 1974, three years after the release of Every Picture Tells a Story. By the time Out of Order was released in 1988, Stewart's disco phase that had caused such outright anger his fans had already passed. 

The same with Bob Dylan.  I was a loyal Dylan fan. I wrote my senior honors English portfolio entirely on Dylan, so I knew about the absolute horror of his fans when Dylan went electric.  But I only knew that in hindsight; I didn't live through any of the transitions. The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan came out 11 years before I was born; Blonde on Blonde the final album of his electric controversy was released in 1966. I was three months old when the groundbreaking Blood on the Tracks was released. 

After their genre-jarring changes, I knew that both Rod Stewart and Bob Dylan would continue to have prolific careers.  This was the early 90's.  Rod Stweart was something of an MTV darling. Just 2 years later he would release Unplugged...and Seated and sell 3 million copies, the third-best MTV Unplugged live album behind Nirvana and Eric Clapton.  

Bob Dylan had been churning out albums for almost 40 years, and Oh, Mercy had gone platinum two years earlier.  These beloved fixtures in my life would be fine. 

But U2?  

What in the world were they thinking?  
This album, this sound was so new. So different. 
Would they survive? 
Would everything be OK? 

(Spoiler alert: Of course, it would be OK.  
U2 has sold 18 million copies of Achtung Baby.)

But in my living room heart racing after fearing my cassette had been eaten only to discover that this album was nothing at all like the ones I had known and loved so much?  It was very very hard to see that bright future.   

Full disclosure: I have never liked change. Ever.  

That doesn't mean I don't like new things. I am almost always an early adopter of technology.  And I like knowing about trends. I love learning new things.

But I do not like change. Especially abrupt change.  
It makes me uncomfortable because I am deeply distressed by the unknown. Like I said, I like knowing things. 

Today, while cooking dinner and cleaning up, the normal landmarks of life-in-quarantine, in the background, I was streaming The Joshua Tree followed immediately by Achtung Baby.  But as I heard those opening seconds of the second album, I stood there startled. 

I was rattled. 

I realized how I felt: 

The past two months have felt like every single day, the soundtrack is the first 45 seconds of "Zoo Station" on a loop. Not the rest. Just the first 45 seconds.

Jumbled. 
Jarring.
Discordant.
Uncomfortable. 
Wrong somehow. 
Broken. 

But in my kitchen, the music continued.  

Soon Bono's muffled voice came through and sang about "being ready for what's next".  

Then "Zoo Station" ended, and "Even Better than the Real Thing" came on, upbeat, zigzagging, and enthusiastic.  

Then "One" started up. 

Bono's voice, now clear,

"Is it getting better

Or do you feel the same?
Will it make it easier on you now?
You got someone to blame
You say one love, one life 
It's one need in the night
One love, get to share it

Leaves you darling, if you don't care for it...
Well it's too late, tonight
To drag the past out into the light
We're one, but we're not the same
We get to carry each other

Carry each other"

But that comfort is immediately followed by "Until the End of the world," a song now for me synonymous with grief.  

In 1992, U2 performed a live version of it at the Freddie Mercury tribute concert.  Freddie Mercury, the frontman for Queen, had died just a few months earlier at the end of 1991, and the whole world was a mess. Mercury had died of pneumonia that was complicated by AIDS.  
So many people were sick.  
So many people were dying.  

I grew up in east-central Indiana, just an hour away from Ryan White, the boy who had contracted AIDS via blood transfusion and been treated horrifically by his school and community. Students, parents, and teachers had signed petitions to keep him out of school.  He was no danger to anyone. When he was allowed to return to school, kids stayed home. He was a paperboy, and people on his route canceled their subscriptions.  

He was only 14. I was 11.  

The treatment of Ryan White brought nationwide attention to the worst of people, how people behave when they are scared and uninformed. 

It highlighted that grown adults, powered by misinformation and fear, would willingly terrorize an innocent kid.  

That experience had been very very real to me. 

As someone who, even as a middle school student, followed the news, I knew about AIDS and the horrors it brought. I also knew there was no vaccine.  

But I had seen Princess Diana walk into AIDS wards, pick up babies, and cradle them in her gentle embrace.     

The science was there. HIV was a bloodborne pathogen.  There were ways to protect yourself.  Ryan White was no danger to anyone. 

But people were terrified and they terrorized him. 

Ryan White died in 1990.  He was only 18 at the time, but I was only 16.  That was too close.  To real.  

Then, just a year later, Freddie Mercury died.  

Ryan White was a kid.  Freddie Mercury was a god.  How could this happen?  Freddie Mercury was not supposed to die. 

The grief was just too much. 

Then there was the tribute concert.  The remaining members of Queen. Metallica. Def Leppard. Bob Geldof (sans Pink Floyd) Guns N' Roses. Elizabeth Taylor came out and spoke.  

The concert was broadcast live and I watched the entire thing.  

The only part I truly remember is U2.  

Bono stepped out and they performed "Until the End of the World" from Achtung Baby. 

"Haven't seen you in quite a while
I was down the hold just passing time
Last time we met was a low-lit room
We were as close together as a bride and groom
We ate the food, we drank the wine
Everybody having a good time
Except you
You were talking about the end of the world
...
In my dream, I was drowning my sorrows
But my sorrows, they learned to swim
Surrounding me, going down on me
Spilling over the brim
Waves of regret and waves of joy
I reached out for the one I tried to destroy
You, you said you'd wait
'Til the end of the world"

This was 1992. Or was it yesterday?

Sometimes it is hard to tell. 

I am protected in my home.  My kids are (mostly) doing remote learning. My husband and I both continue to work and get paid. Our home is safe. We have access to health care. And electricity. And wifi.  

But turn on the TV, and the world is a bit of a mess.  
The economic toll. 
The suffering. 
The terror.
The terrorizing. 

This Is the first 45 seconds of "Zoo Station" on a loop. 

But then I see reports that Taiwan has had no community transmission in a month. 
New Zealand is moving to phase 2. 
And those bring some much-needed hope.

Schools and education leaders are talking about how to reopen in the fall, and it is a scary jumbled mess.
How do we keep kids safe? 
How do we keep staff safe?
How do we educate in this ecosystem of activity and trauma and hope and expectation?

I don't know. 
I am not sure anyone knows. 
I want very much to believe that people are trying to figure it out. 
I really want to believe that those people in charge of "the plan" are consulting experts and listening to science.  

That is my hope, but I don't know for certain. 

So, for right now, I am stuck in those first 45 seconds of "Zoo Station."  But I really have hope that at some point, things will progress. We will go outside again. We will meet with people again. 

I have no idea when, but at some point, I will walk into a classroom full of children and, I hope, not feel fear. 

I am not afraid of them. I am afraid for them. 

I have to believe that at some point, we can step back into the rest of our lives.  

The album will keep playing. 

Which is good news.  
Achtung Baby is an album full of fear, uncertainty, and grief. 

But it is also beautiful. 

And it was new. 

It tried original sounds and evolving ideas and delicious combinations of instruments and vocals, talents of so many people brought together to try something different. 

So, I guess I need to let the album keep playing. 

Because eventually, "Zoo Station" ends, and in a little bit, you get to "One".

"We're one, but we're not the same
We get to carry each other
Carry each other"

I think that is pretty much the only way we move forward.  

So I don't Forget

Yesterday, we all were a bit stressed.  So as a family we watched a couple of episodes of Lost (the show we are watching as a family right now).  

Afterward, when it was time to go to sleep, both of the kids (16 and 13) climbed into bed with me for about half an hour and we watched funny and sweet pet videos.  Dogs doing adorable things. Hedgehogs running agility courses.  Cats sitting in the piano while their human played.  We laughed. We "awwwwww"ed. We just sat there and felt a sweet peace. 

I know quarantining is a privilege. 
I also know this is stressful.

However.

Lest I lose sight of it, this time is a gift. 

Anne Frank's Mom's Diary

I hesitate to write this because I do not in any way want to be disrespectful, so if I seem to choose my words carefully, that is why. 

A friend of mine was talking about how she is struggling during this time. She is a mom and a wife and a teacher. Her struggles were very similar to those I have heard many times. I worry a lot about my students. A lot.  But do you know who else I worry about?  The teachers. 

The pressure is so much.
It is so hard to parent and teach at the same time. 

Teaching online is hard. Really hard. I have taken classes either entirely or partially online both synchronously and asynchronously for the better part of 8 years.  There is a steep learning curve because of the nature of the online ecosystem.  It isn't just putting all your stuff in Google Drive.  Online learning is tough. Online teaching is also tough.

The emails.  Holy cats, the emails!  They. Never. Stop.

And then there is the constant barrage of advice from people about how your house should be spotless since you are home all day and Gwenyth Paltrow thinks this is the perfect time to learn a language and Shakespeare wrote King Leer during quarantine and Isaac Newton realized the principles of calculus in quarantine and Anne Frank was in the attic for 25 months AND YOU HAVE WIFI, WHY ARE YOU STRESSED, YOU UNGRATEFUL GIT?! 

When I hear this, while I am glad for Anne's diary and that she found beauty and joy in the horror of that experience, I often wonder about what her mom's diary would have said. 

Anne had the ability to experience some level of joy in the midst of unimaginable horror at least in part because the adults in her life took on the brunt of that horror. We don't talk about that because it feels ungrateful or disrespectful to Anne Frank's memory, but it is the case. 

My children will have very different memories of this time from those that I have. That is the case for every family.  

And I recognize that I write this from a place of privilege, where my children don't have the added trauma of food insecurity or homelessness or the myriad layers of stress and trauma that permeate the lives of many families in America. 

But I do everything imaginable to help them both protected and informed. I watch the White House press briefings every day as well as J.B. Pritzker's Illinois briefings.  My children are welcome to watch them with me.  Knowledge is power.  Information is power. 

And yesterday I turned off the press briefing when I recognized it was more than I could handle.  My cup was empty. I told them that was why I was turning it off, trying to model both information seeking and also recognizing our own limits. 

I work every day to be an educator, a parent, a spouse, a student, and a citizen in the best, most responsible way I can.  And that is exhausting. 

I know that others are more exhausted than me, and I would not even think to compare my exhaustion or stress to that of a health care worker. That isn't the point; this is not the suffering Olympics. 

Teachers, as a group, want to help. They want to teach, and shepherd, and lead, and help.  They will spend their own money, time, energy, life to make that happen.  And right now, the pressure is on. 

Anne Frank's mom tugs at my heart.  On the Anne Frank House's website, they say this: 

"Reading the diary of Anne Frank, we get to know her mother Edith Frank only superficially....In the hiding place, Edith and her daughter Anne often clashed. In her diary, Anne did not spare Edith. At the same time, Anne realised that their quarrels were exacerbated by their difficult circumstances.... According to Otto [Edith's husband], Edith suffered more from their arguments than Anne did....Edith had a hard time in the Secret Annex. According to Miep Gies, one of the helpers, she suffered from feelings of despair. ‘Although the others were counting the days until the Allies came, making games of what they would do when it was all over, Mrs. Frank confessed that she was deeply ashamed of the fact that she felt the end would never come.’"

My heart grieves for Edith Frank. For the load she had to bear. For the loss of her relationship with Anne. 

And I see in it a warning.

We need to be compassionate not only with our struggling children but with our teachers, our administrators, our support staff, and ourselves. 

We aren't waiting for the Allies to show up, but we are hoping the scientists can identify treatments, effective rapid tests,  cures, and vaccines.  That uncertain timeline is stressful. And it is easy to get lost in that despair, thinking that things will never return to normal.  

This is especially true for those who are inclined to be helpers: educators (all of them: paras, admin, bus drivers, all of them), health care workers, those in service fields. 

It is also true of parents.   

It would be hard to imagine someone blaming Edith Frank.  Anyone looking back can see the monumental task she had before her, managing a family in the secret annex for two years of hiding.  And what was at stake was their very lives.  How could anyone possibly blame her for being depressed and stressed and anxious?  How, too, can anyone not see that Edith suffered so that, to some extent, Anne's suffering was lessened?

I wonder if, in the current crisis--which pales in comparison to the Holocaust--we can learn from Edith and Anne?

I wonder if we can all cut each other some slack in an effort to survive this crisis with our psyches intact as well as our lives? 

I wonder if administrators can be compassionate with their staff and students, knowing that at the end of this, education will continue, and it will be far more successful if we don't drive ourselves to destruction during this time? 

I wonder if parents can see that, yes, kids need to learn, but they also need to feel safe, something that is hard when there is trouble all around? 

And I really wonder if we can see that we need to be compassionate and understanding and forgiving of ourselves? What good is it to come out on the other end of this crisis without or dignity and sense of self? 

That doesn't mean I am not going to try to accomplish things.  I am up to date on the laundry for the first time in pretty much ever.  I am reading the things I need for class. I am also spending time with my family and taking time to rest. 

Just don't expect me to learn a language or expand on our understanding of calculus. That isn't my goal.  I am going to honor Edith Frank. I am going to show myself, my family, and my colleagues some compassion. 

Thoughts in the Time of Quarantine

I have a lot of thoughts on education in quarantine.  My typical outlet thus far has been yammering on Facebook, saving articles, and talking to my captive audience (Husband and two kids.  Believe me, they are very excited about my thought-sharing). 

For the sake of posterity, primary sources, and whatnot, I thought I would jot down some of my thoughts here.  They may not be terribly thorough, but at least they will be somewhere other than my brain. 

First, I am a smart, educated, tech-savvy person. I (now) have access to high-speed internet; we have a dozen devices to access the internet in my home.  I have a laser printer sitting on my desk. I have a 32-inch wall-mounted TV that serves as a second monitor.  I am an early adopter of most tech.  Prior to all of this, I have used Google Classroom, Google Meet, Zoom, and Blackboard Collaborate. I am very comfortable taking classes in a digital format.

And I am feeling overwhelmed.  

I can only imagine people who have slow internet. Or a dodgy connection. Or tech that is insufficient. Or those who don't use the internet for anything other than Netflix. 

I can't imagine doing this as a parent who has to work outside the home and also care for kids at home. 

I can't imagine being the kid who has to figure all this out without a helpful parent. Or a knowledgeable parent. Or a parent. 

And my kids are stressed.  They have two educators in the home, access to tech, access to the internet. Yesterday, my youngest accidentally did an online form incorrectly and had a total meltdown. The stress is a lot. 

I fear that we are missing that in all of this. I don't mean "we" as my district but\ all of us.  How are we meeting the needs of our kids who are struggling? Or those who are unsafe at home? Or lonely? Or without support. 

I value education as one of the most important aspects of life. I have always told my children and students that education is something you achieve and nobody can ever take from you. I think it is a solid key to getting out of difficult situations (though I recognize that this is imperfect because of institutional racism and cyclical poverty). 

But I wonder if we are focussing too much on education and not enough on the hearts and souls of our kids.  And our teachers. And our admins.  

Are we focusing on classwork and computers and lessons and meetings because that is something we can control?  Perhaps. 

I am a big picture person.  I see ten miles down the road and often trip over what is in front of me.  So, for me, a lot of this is thinking long term and being overwhelmed but the nuance of now.