About those lessons we learned growing up

I’m from the generation that grew up on Free to be You and Me, Mr. Rogers Neighborhood, Sesame Street, Captain Kangaroo, After School Specials. 

The lessons and takeaways were clear:

• All people have value.

• People are made to be different and we need to respect each other’s differences.

• Be kind.

• Stand up to bullies.

• Stand up for what’s right.

• Give a hoot…don’t pollute (take care of our planet)

• Protect endangered species

• Abide by the Golden Rule (do unto others as you’d have others do unto you?)

I was In 5th grade the year our country celebrated its Bicentennial, a year long birthday party celebrating 200 years since our nation had declared its independence from British rule. In social studies class with Mr. Pakula, we memorized the Preamble to the Constitution, the Gettysburg Address and did a performance about the Declaration Of Independence.

We learned that our nation was founded on these basic principles: we had inalienable rights and ALL are created equal, there are THREE co-equal branches of federal government holding separate powers, one branch no more powerful than the others, allowing the others to check each others’ powers to make sure they’re balanced. 

Important lessons taught to a generation and handed down to the generations that followed. And yet?

We now live in a time that feels so hopelessly divided that even the most basic lessons of our childhoods have been dismissed as weakness for caring about others, or not wanting to “other” others. Where inclusion and being given a fair shot has been so compromised that the very term DEI is blamed for, well, pretty much anything the current president doesn’t like. We live in a time where we hear about the shuttering of a governmental organization tasked with helping the most destitute around the world and people cheer on the wealthy overlords who will benefit financially with little regard for the human beings it will hurt the most. Where an organization designed to offer basic protections to consumers to help avoid mistakes of the past is shut down. Seems to me the only people who wouldn’t want any kind of regulations and protections that provide those basic safety nets for consumers are the ones who would benefit financially from not having them. We live in a time where they’re eliminating federal programs that help those who have the very least (food, home, quality education, healthcare), as some sort of cost saving measure to afford to give major tax breaks and contracts to the ones who have the most. And people cheer on the dismantling of governmental departments, hurting not only the people helped by these agencies, but by also putting thousands of fellow Americans out of jobs. These people losing their jobs aren't out to bilk taxpayers, contrary to what we’ve been told. These people are our neighbors, the parents of our children’s friends, the people we run into when we run out for a few things at Target. These are people who chose to work for the federal government because the department did something they cared about and was created as a way to help others and do good (the exact lessons we were all taught as children). 

We live in a time where the Legislative branch has all but ceded its powers to the Executive one and the Executive branch has decided that it doesn’t have to listen to the decisions handed down by the Judicial one. We live in a time where an unelected, unvetted person with world domination fantasies has been given carte blanch keys to the kingdom (along with OUR personal data) and I’m shocked and saddened that this isn’t disturbing to everyone. If ever there was an issue we could agree on, it feels like it would be that one.

I know that bad times in society are cyclical. I know that things will likely have to get worse before they get better. I know that too many news organizations are capitulating to the whims of the current administration and are giving up their 4th Estate role as watchdog over the government, meaning people aren’t getting the actual news, but a version of it and if they were, they’d probably not believe it, anyway.

And what I want to know is who will finally stand up and put an end to this nightmare? In 1950, Senator Margaret Chase Smith stood up against Senator Joe McCarthy. It took another four years before her colleagues would join her and censure him, ending the McCarthyism era. In 1972, Woodward and Bernstein began investigating Nixon’s Watergate break in. It was more than a year later before John Dean agreed to testify and another year before Nixon would resign. Who will be the one to stand up against what’s going on now? 

What we really need is a strong reminder for those who need it most of the things we know to be true: That people have value, respect our differences, stand up to bullies, etc. What we could really use is for someone to step in the way our media heroes used to in the past.

I mean...

Where is Toto to pull back the curtain on the weak man who really isn’t a wizard at all?

Where is Charlie Bucket to stand up to Mr. Slugworth as he tries to bribe the golden ticket winners?

Where is Laura Ingalls to let go of Nellie’s wheelchair and let it go careening away so she can get hers once and for all?

Where is Peter Brady to punch that awful Buddy Hinton in the face for making fun of Cindy’s lisp?

And finally, where is the Fonz to snap his finger or smack the juke box and say, “Cool it!”?

Why settle for "Normal?"

Every time we do something….again…the way we used to…going to the symphony or the theater, bringing back traditions we’d set aside or modified in a pandemic at my school; dinner with a group of friends with whom we used to do that semi-regularly…I feel such a mix of feelings. “Ohhh…this feels good“ but I also feel a little sad. Sad for what we’ve lost, maybe? I go through this roller coaster ride of emotions. Each time. Music starts at the beginning of a concert, tears spring into my eyes and I want to cry and feel an outpouring of joy in the exact same moment. But what I won’t let myself say is “it feels so normal.”

I’ve been trying to write about what I think is wrong with “back to normal” for at least a year and every time I start, I stop, stuck because I think the concept of “normal” is a myth we tell ourselves.  Early on in this Covid world, I wrote about how “I just wanted to get back to normal,” or maybe even a “new normal.” That was my hope. I felt like if we could just get back to how life was in 2019 or create the perfect "new normal," then everything would be fine. But would it? 

I’m not so sure anymore. During that summer of 2020, as protests and racial unrest took hold throughout the country, I started recognizing that the “normal” I so desperately craved wasn’t so great for a good portion of our country. That one person’s normal is another person’s hard time. For so many people, they probably don’t want to go back to that normal where important discussions don't happen and we stop trying to fix the wrongs of the past. They want a normal where those aren't a thing. 

And as I thought more about it earlier this year, it occurred to me that the quest for "normal" comes at the expense of making needed and important change in so many areas of our lives. How schools operate. What’s important for the greater good. Dealing with hard things, such as poverty, hunger, shootings, race, women’s rights, gender roles, voting rights, a global pandemic. The very things that some people wish were "back to normal" could actually be improved upon in ways that could make things better for more of us than just some of us.

 I feel strongly that it was the urge to just “get back to normal” that’s made coming back from this pandemic so difficult. People who couldn’t see the greater good in distancing or masking or vaccinating and fought each mitigation effort so strongly, creating even bigger divisions. But the thing is…NONE of this was normal and there really is no "normal" to get back to anymore, I don’t think.

And now, as we get so excited about doing the things we used to do, we forget to step back and see if there’s a way we could improve on these things…put new systems in place. A perfect opportunity to reframe and retool is something we’re so quickly squandering before we even try, all at the expense of going “back to normal.” 

None of this is to say that I don’t want the things I (or we) missed so much to come back. Because that’s not what I’m saying, at all. As I sat listening to a live music performance in an intimate setting the other night, I was thinking about what I’ve written here and my feelings about returning to normal. The music washed over me...tears sprang to my eyes. Of course I want the things back. Traditions are important and matter greatly. 

And yet, there are so many traditions that we used to take for granted as “normal.” But we now know they’re so much more than that. They’re treasures to be enjoyed and are fragile reminders of things that can quickly and easily get lost or go away.  Traditions and "normal" aren't the same thing. And for me, I intend to never take any of these beloved traditions for granted again. 

Winston Churchill once said, “Perfection is the enemy of progress.” But if you ask me, I actually  think it’s "normal" that’s the “enemy of progress.” It’s hard to see the many ways we can improve things if all we want is to “get back to normal.” 

On years ending and years beginning

I have a note in my Notes App that I started in March of 2020. I just write on it. Beginnings of blog posts, posts, tweets, songs. Thoughts I want to not forget. Some get posted. Many don’t.

As this year that feels like three entered its last few hours,  my husband was watching a football game. My dog was passed out, wrapped tight in her Thundervest because of revelers’ fireworks. And  I was listening to a rebroadcast of the Avett Brothers’ NYE concert from last year while reading some of the things I've written on my note. In 2020, I wrote and published 12 blog posts on my Jenuine Thoughts blog. In 2021, I did it twice. I’ve started and stopped writing about how we need to stop trying to “get back to normal” and instead start working toward a better future no less than four times. I’m going to write that for real this year..

I don’t really know how to write about this year that’s ending. When a year that’s been marked by a traitorous insurrection, an interminable pandemic, campaigns of disinformation intended to sow hatred, distrust & polarization and bigotry that festers out in the open ends with the death of a national icon, what is there left to say? 2021 ended in much the same way 2020 ended: Spiking Covid numbers. Deniers denying. Believers believing. People fighting online. 

It’s hard to feel excited and hopeful for a new year when things feel sort of hopeless. And yet, New Years is a time to do just that. Reflect on what you may have done in the past year. Feel hopeful for a better future. And so I will. 

In no particular order, I  learned new ways of eating and cooking. Walked  and got back to in-person fitness classes. Read more books. Listened more and reflected more. A new dog entered our lives and quickly made herself at home, bringing with her boundless love and energy.

Some of my apps summed up the year in numbers for me. I met my GoodReads goal of 37 books. That’s almost 12,000 pages. According to Spotify, I listened to almost 12,000 minutes of music. And listened to my “most listened to song” 203 times. Last week, I logged into MyFitnessPal for the 3000th day in a row. My watch says I logged 481 workouts in 2021. 

As I look at my "Second a Day" video for the year, it might be missing some of the people of past years, but it still tells the story of a life well-lived. A year that brought me my dog, time at home with my husband that I wouldn’t trade for anything, introduced me to Ted Lasso, a vaccine that made the future seem a bit brighter and saw countless stories of people helping people isn’t a total wash. It’s really just life.  I mean, even on Little House, during tough times, Pa still played his fiddle at night, right?

And so here’s what I look forward to in ’22. An end to the pandemic (or at least its becoming endemic and something we learn to coexist with), connection with friends, back deck bonfires, workouts, and so many more books. Puzzles and Legos to build, time with my family and music to play, sing and listen to.

Writing about 2021 and what to look forward to in 2022 has been tough, something I’ve been playing with in my head for a couple of days. At the same time, I’ve been stumped trying to think of my “One Word” for 2022. Last year, it was “enough,” the year before that, “strength.” What “one word” is the one that can help guide me as I move into this new year? And after a day of thinking about this, I’ve decided it’s simply this: Be.

A year ago I didn't know...

Pandemics. Throughout history, they’ve tried to level full societies. And yet, in my 55 years, I've been privileged and insulated enough that it never really occurred to me that it was something that could happen in our time. How did we become so complacent that this happened? When this all started a year ago, there was so much I didn’t know.

A year ago I didn’t know...

• I didn’t know that it would take more than putting fever ridden people on a bed of ice to end a pandemic (After all, it worked for Doc Baker and Ma & Pa). In fact, I didn’t know that society crippling pandemics could be anything other than a thing of distant history or of far off places. And honestly? Everything I knew about pandemics before this year, I learned from LHOTP;

• I didn’t know that I could feel isolated, connected, lonely, happy, angry, bitter, joyful, unlikeable, sad,  loved, perfectly fine all in the span of an hour (or even less);

• I didn’t know that, for better or for worse, most every single thing that we could do in our culture could be moved to a virtual, online environment;

• I didn’t know that I could teach online and that, while online school will NEVER hold a torch to in-person, I was actually pretty okay at it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I’ll keep recording my lessons and mini lessons going forward. Lessons that took 30-40 or more minutes with interruptions, can be delivered in 10. The way I see it, in a 45 minute class, or better, a double blocked 90 minute one, kids will have more time to work on projects...more time to communicate and collaborate...be productive. I've learned so many new ways to freshen up and improve on my classes and that’s a good outcome of this year;

• I didn’t know I could cook dinner almost every night of every week, with planned menus, and not only enjoy it, but not really want to go back to the routine we had before, which included lots of eating out and not terribly healthy ways of eating. That's also a good outcome of this year;

• I didn’t know that the “normal” I thought I missed so much was probably something that doesn't really exist outside of our memories or imagination and maybe even something I don’t think we should be striving for. I think we can do better than "back to normal." It really wasn't that great for many and we have an awful lot of work to do to make "normal" good for others outside of just ourselves. And I didn’t know that I could ever have such a visceral reaction to the expression, “the new normal.” Maybe what we mean when we say “a return to normalcy” is really a more ordered, calm, predictable, less chaotic life? Who wouldn't want that? (More on this in follow-up upcoming blog post. Maybe. If I get it out of my head and write it);

• I didn’t know that creativity and love and relationships and connection are so vital to a healthy society that they could actually help save it from collapse under the weight of all the heaviness (actually, I did know this...but now it’s more clear than ever before), or that art and creation are so needed to keep us healthy. I don't think stimulus money was wasted on the arts. Aside from the really small percentage that was allotted there, their industry was hit incredibly hard by all this. AND, content creators and artists stepped up in such a big way when this all began a year ago...how many of us watched free live-streamed concerts from performers' living rooms, or how many of our kids had stories read to them by celebrities or took online drawing lessons from them?;

• I didn’t know that a simple piece of cloth could be such a symbolic reminder of the many things that divide us;

• I didn’t know that public health concerns could be so politicized that entire groups of humans could make choices that could ultimately not just bring themselves and their own families down, but entire communities worth of people, all in the name of “not living in fear” or "giving up freedom" while at the same time being okay with others not having the same freedom;

• I didn’t know that I, an extrovert, could actually enjoy, and maybe even prefer, the quiet life of being at home with the people I love most in the world. The greatest gift of this year (for me) was time with my family and the months that my adult children have been/were home with us (something I'd never expected to have again);

• I didn’t know that, at the same time, I could miss time with friends so deeply that it legit hurts, but not really know how to fix it;

• I didn't know "Pandemic pets" were really a thing. Until I got one, and that's another good outcome of this year;

• I didn’t know that, while relief and thankful to scientists were the things I would most feel upon getting vaccinated against this virus, I would also feel pretty uncomfortable even just thinking about what it looks like to move into this next phase of pandemic life. What to keep, what to ditch, what matters;

• 
  I didn't know what happens next. I still don't. I mean, this all seemingly came from out of nowhere to begin with: One day on the news, there was a strange virus that appeared on our shores. The next, we were stocking up on toilet paper and staying home. "I don't understand what's going on," I thought at the time. "What do you mean we're closing schools and everything is stopping? It doesn't even make sense." Now, just over a year later, it's not really ending, but it sort of kind of is? But it isn't? And while so many of us are getting vaccinated, we're being warned to not let our guards down and of fourth waves and mutating variants and countries in Europe going back into lockdown. Past pandemics lasted 2 or more years. We've been doing this for a year. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but in some ways, I envisioned it being like when bears and other animals come out of hibernation in animal documentaries: Like a great scene change...Spring flowers blossom, beautiful music plays and critters start to appear in the sunshine. But that's not really what this is like. This is more like this "in between" world where it's hard to know what the "right" or "safe" thing to do is and it maybe feels more comfortable to just stay put for now.
  
  

A year ago, when we went into our lockdown mode, in the beginning, it seemed like a break from life as we knew it. There was a sense of “we’re all in this together.” That didn’t really last. I guess it really wasn’t sustainable. Trauma and pain bring out different things in different people. And each hurt that feels so terrible and personal to me feels just as terrible and personal to the next person and so on.

I wonder what sociologists and historians will conclude about this time as they study us in future years. Will they talk about the parts that brought us together? The parts that drove us apart? What broke us? Will they talk about how the people who complained most vocally about “not living in fear” or “giving up their freedoms” were the ones who never really gave up that much, anyway? Will the time coming out of this feel hopeful, joyful, free? 20 years from now, how will we talk about this time? What will the kids who did school the way they've done it this year say? 

I keep coming back to that poem by Kitty O'Meara that went around this time last year and its closing stanza: "And when the danger passed, and the people joined together again, they grieved their losses, and made new choices, and dreamed new images, and created new ways to live and heal the earth fully, as they had been healed." This is my wish and hope, too.

So many feelings on an historic day

So many feelings. Like this dark cloud that’s been hanging over our heads and maybe that cloud budged just a little bit today. My heart’s been so heavy with worry lately: for friends, for our country, just an incessant, nagging worry for so long, and has felt even heavier the past few weeks. I woke up this morning and one of my first thoughts after, "It's my husband's birthday!" was, "Oh! A woman is going to be sworn in as Vice President today!" Not just a woman, but a woman of color!

How amazing that this truly historic milestone has almost largely been overshadowed by all the other…stuff. But OMG, a woman is now VP! From passage of the 15th Amendment in 1870, to women jailed for demanding the right to vote just over a hundred years ago, to the Voting Rights Act in 1965, the year I was born. And today, a woman, whose ancestors would not have been permitted to vote, has become Vice President of the US. Chills as she was sworn in. Tears as J-Lo sang “This Land is Your Land.”

And tonight, for me, maybe things feel a little bit more hopeful. We’re still in a pandemic. People are still dying. People are still hurting. People are still sick. People are still angry at others. It would be naive and probably misguided to think things will magically get better right away. Not when so many believe the lies they’ve been fed, that this isn’t legitimate and will fight against change and progress that’s coming.

But if you listened to the words of President Biden, you heard the call for unity. “And together, we shall write an American story of hope, not fear. Of unity, not division. Of light, not darkness. An American story of decency and dignity. Of love and of healing. Of greatness and of goodness,” he said. 

 

Or the beautiful, wise words of 22-year-old Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman, with her call for healing. “We’ve learned that quiet isn’t always peace, and the norms and notions of what “just” is isn’t always justice.

And yet the dawn is ours before we knew it.

Somehow we do it.

Somehow we weathered and witnessed a nation that isn’t broken, but simply unfinished,” she said., “For there is always light, if only we’re brave enough to see it.

If only we’re brave enough to be it.” (full speech and text here)

These ideals are what I want to hang my hat on for now. That there is light, that the dark cloud will start to get smaller, that the glass ceiling for women shattered and that it’s even okay to feel a little bit hopeful.

Dear 2020...don't let the door hit you...

Dear 2020, 

Well. What a difference a year makes, eh?

• A year ago, I was all about “the end of a decade and the beginning of a decade” jokes.

• A year ago, I was worried about the state of the world, but felt distant and safe from where I sat.

• A year ago, I felt at peace with myself in a way I hadn’t before and felt so fortunate to feel that way.

• A year ago, I was working out with others in a space that I loved and doing things with my body that I could hardly imagine doing.

• A year ago, I felt safe and happy around my bustling school and loved that feeling of belonging that came with being part of a community.

• A year ago, there were gross inequities in education across our country, lack of technology that was a given for others, but only a few really talked about it.

• A year ago, people could pretend that civil rights battles were a thing of the past, even though deep down they probably knew better.

• A year ago, a global pandemic was the stuff of horror movies.

• A year ago, it would have been laughable to think that the idea of protecting fellow citizens in the name of public health was something that could be politicized in such a way that people would deny there was anything wrong, or worse, use a laughing emoji as a reaction to a post about a fellow countryman’s death.

How was I to know what you had in store for us all?  In my world, as excited as I was to welcome you, by the end of the very first day, I was ready to send you back. Fear and trauma in my own family gave way to grief and sadness for friends, big losses in my community, and finally so much loss, anger and anxiety in the world. I’m honestly not sure rehashing the year is the direction I want to take, since just about every other person who has something to say today is already doing that. Instead, more and more lately, I can’t help but think there’s a reason we all (collectively) have experienced this hard year together. 

Brene Brown refers to the big events that people experience together as “collective effervescence,” an “experience of connection, communal emotion, and a ‘sensation of sacredness’ that happens when we are a part of something bigger than us.” She writes that she got the term from a Dutch social scientist and ever since I read it a few years ago, it’s stayed with me and I come back to it. A lot. Usually thinking of big, happy events. A great rock concert attended as a teen and finding out that a current friend was there that night, too. The day it snowed in Miami. The day your team won the big championship (looking at you, '72 Dolphins). But sad ones, too. 9/11. The Challenger explosion. The day John Lennon died. And now, 2020. 

There has to be a reason, or a lesson, or even a moral to this crazy story. So many times this year, I’ve thought, “No. Seriously…this isn’t really happening. Right?” And then, of course, “Oh. Yes. It is.” Maybe it was the message to slow down. Maybe it was that we need to take a time-out and figure out what our priorities are, as individuals, as communities, as a country, as a world. Maybe we’re supposed to fix the things that are wrong. Maybe we’ll never really know because we’re too busy fighting. With each other. With the messenger. With the message.

2020, when I look back at you, I know that part of your lasting mark will be the memory of loss, tears shed and anxiety. The year we said goodbye to our beloved dog, the year of "virtual" graduations and everything else. The year of curbside pickup and words we'd all probably prefer never to hear again (looking at you, Unprecedented, pod, pivot and hoax). 

But I don't think that tells the whole story. I think your legacy will also be the beauty noticed in everyday things. A gorgeous sunrise on an early morning walk, or an equally as gorgeous sunset on a different day’s later walk. Cooking dinner at home, night, after night, after night. People met in my neighborhood during daily walks; different “regulars” depending on time of day, most ready with a wave and "Hello." And when you stop seeing someone, having a little tug of concern, even if you don’t know them well enough to check on them. A global explosion of creative expression and compassion in a world that so often feels less than kind.

I’ll look back on you as the year you almost took my love from me, but then didn't, and we found new ways to live and be grateful for what we have; the year you brought my immediate family together, under one roof, for a time. At a time when, while getting used to and sort of digging the empty nest, having us all together felt safe and right and like a gift that was most unexpected. Realizing, as an extrovert, that I might actually just prefer being at home with my people and that might not be a terrible thing. And really, maybe the biggest take away for me is how much the things I need the most, the things that sustain me the most, have been right in front of me all along. And I didn’t have to get stuck in a twister and go on a journey to a strange land with a scarecrow, tin man and lion to figure it out.

I don’t know what your successor has on tap for us. I certainly don’t harbor any illusion that 2021 will magically put us in a happy place where we’re all singing “Kumbaya” together. I’ve spent enough time deep in thought over  the past 10 months, trying to imagine how others in past eras responded to their own hard times. They pushed through, they found the strength and courage to do the tough things. And that’s what I hope we can do, too. 

Happy New Year, 2020...don't let the door hit you on the way out!

Love,

Jen

Random thoughts six months in and about RBG...

Six months ago, this felt temporary. “Honestly? If it means being holed up for a couple of weeks while this blows over in order to stem the spread of this virus and protect the more vulnerable among us, then yes,"  I wrote in a blog post on March 12th. "Isn't one of the things that makes us so great as Americans the ability for us to pull together in hard times to do the right thing? Even if it makes us uncomfortable? Is disruption to daily routine annoying and a pain? Sure. But wouldn’t losing loved ones because we didn’t do everything we could to slow this down be a lot worse?” On March 12th, when I wrote that, 38 people in the United States had died. Today, six months later, that number is just under 200,000.

Six months ago, the president of the United States was recorded telling a Pulitzer Prize winning author that this virus was deadly. More deadly than terrible flus. Yet in public press briefings, he downplayed it, saying it was no worse than the flu. I just watched a news story from somewhere in the US where people protesting mandated mask wearing parroted those words, “It’s no worse than the flu,” said a little boy. 

Six months ago, the pandemic poem by Catherine O’Meara, In the Time of Pandemic, was passed around as a relic from a past pandemic, but was actually written at the beginning of this one. The sentiment was lovely, evoking images of pioneer women slowing down, meditating and enjoying the beauty of a slowed down world. It was lovely in March, as the Internet pulled together and people shared and families enjoyed time together and life slowed down for a little while. But now, six months later, for some, that idyllic moment has passed. People want their travel ball back. They want to go to bars. This odd politicization happened and it’s hard to imagine us all finding something in common to pull us together again. But I sure wish we could.

Is it normal to still be in a state of disbelief about where we are right now? I see a commercial on tv for face shields and I have two thoughts: 1) smart, the opening is at the top and not the bottom, and 2) how is it that we’re living in a time where the reality is that there are commercials on tv for devices to protect us from each other? (and I guess 3) how is it that that IS the reality, but roughly 40% of our country doesn’t believe any of this is necessary and refuses to take even the most basic measures to protect anyone?

I don’t like feeling “not okay.” I prefer happy go lucky me. I know now, what I didn’t know six months ago: there isn’t going to be a "new normal." We shouldn’t even want a new normal. Wanting a new normal would be settling. Because the old normal really wasn’t so great for everyone either. In fact, it wasn’t great for many. Systemic problems that were right there always are still there. Wouldn’t it be something if we could actually learn from this period we’re in and really tried to fix things? 

Friday. Friday was a good day at work. Parents had lunch brought in for teachers as a teacher appreciation gift. As I grabbed my boxed lunch to take back to my room to go eat alone, I realized many of my colleagues were out on our patio, safely distanced, eating and chatting with each other, so I went and joined them. People! My extroverted side felt gleeful! Later, we celebrated our seniors as they drove by in a car parade. Again…more people. It felt right, it felt good and I felt happy for a little while.

Until that evening, when news of Ruth Bader Ginsberg’s death broke just as I sat down to watch live-streamed Rosh Hashana services. Utterly devastating. The Rabbi, seeing the news in the Facebook Live chat, didn’t miss a beat, changed the course of his service and talked about her, her legacy, what a hero she was and reminded us all that in our own grief to remember her family was grieving, too. 

As the weekend has unfolded and the battle lines drawn regarding this sudden gift to the president and his supporters and the potential loss and fear for those on the left, I’ve thought a lot about this. How much we have to be thankful to RBG for. Her fierce tenacity. Her fight for equality for women. Her five time fight against cancer. What an unfair burden we placed on her as the one thing that could protect us all by staying alive and holding onto her lifetime seat on the SCOTUS. Yet, of course she couldn't do that. So what happens now? We have an obligation to step up and not let her legacy or fighting spirit go to to waste. Most often, goodness prevails. Will it now? It has to.

I’m not a big fan of suspense novels. I didn’t really like Gone Girl, the Couple Next Door, or the Dinner.  Those kind of stories make me tense and I need to know how it’s going to turn out. And, true confession, if it’s in a book and my chest is tightening too much from the story, then I’ll cheat and read a bit of the last page or so, just to be sure the person I need to know is okay is going to be okay. I feel like we’re living the pages of the most intense suspense novel right now. Only I’m not able to flip to the back of the book or  scroll to the last page to reassure myself that things will be all right.

Donning and Doffing My Mask as a New School Year Begins

This week, like teachers all over, I headed back into school, after leaving at the end of a teacher workday on March 13th and never going back to finish out our year in person. Though I’ve been back in my room a few times since, walking in for the first time this week was a bit of a gut punch. 

The Vienna wall calendar my son gave me as a gift, still turned to its March page. Words on my white board, never erased: “Once upon a time…suddenly…fortunately…” (a reminder to use them in my never given next day’s planned lesson on storytelling through video). The bulletin board on the wall above my desk with trinkets and drawings from kids over the years, pictures of past advisory groups, all exactly as I’d left them. Tears may have fallen as the heaviness of this year came rushing back as it so often does.

I worked a bit on my room, moving furniture out of the way and putting tables into place so that it adheres to the new lower capacity of the space in preparation for that time in the future when we may have kids back in our building. I donned my mask and left my room and waved to old friends from a distance. I had my temperature checked, worried when it measured high, sighed with relief when the next try didn’t and answered the health questions with "no's." I took part in Zoom meetings, had Zoom conferences with parents. 

I sat down and looked at my MacBook to start putting all the ideas I’ve had swirling in my head the past two months into actual lessons for next week’s first week of remote virtual school, using the different apps we’ve had professional development for and training on all summer. I stalled a little and then stalled a little more and then finally got to work. For real. Creating lessons, activities and assignments for students to work through on their own in their own homes. Asking myself, “Is this engaging enough? Is it too much work? Not enough?” Recording screencasts, stuttering and stumbling through words for an embarrassing too many seconds, hitting stop, delete and starting over wondering, “Am I too energetic? Not energetic enough? Will they get my personality or humor over video? Talking too fast?” (more than likely yes to that last one!). Thinking about how to best use synchronous Zoom sessions to build relationships and start creating awesome content this year.

I’m pretty sure some version of that scenario played out in classrooms not just on my campus, but in campuses across the country this week. And you know what I think people need to know? Particularly the ones who don’t teach children for a living? Or the ones who think teachers are lazy and don’t want to work because they expressed concern about scary rates of transmission and percent positive Covid numbers and worry for their lives and those of their family members? Or the ones who feel the need to protest impossible decisions forced upon school administrators in a country plagued by an unrelenting pandemic, yet don’t want to do the hard work to help make it go away because of a misguided political agenda? Or the ones who call themselves “pro life” but at the same time publicly express, “Well, some live and some die, that’s how life goes?” The ones who hold elected office and are insisting schools open for in-person instruction, even while their own children will be attending school virtually this fall? 

They need to know that virtual school is absolutely real school. And it is an incredible amount of work to pull off and do well. They need to know that teachers everywhere would give anything to be with their full classes and do things the way they used to. That the safety protocols, while important and necessary, aren’t fun and will make school feel less like the “real school” some politicians are demanding when kids do finally come back. That they’re also all coming off a summer that wasn’t really a summer, where they’ve worked and learned and opened their minds to new ways of doing things, all in the service of doing what’s best for children and their learning, while also being aware that they need to be there to help with their social emotional needs, too. 

If they’re like me, they’re scared and excited all at the same time. Scared of the unknown, scared of the uncertainty. Excited for new opportunities and learning and growth. When I recorded one of my course introduction videos, I told my students what a college professor I had in a summer course a few years ago said: “If we always do things the way we’ve always done them, then we always do things the way we’ve always done them.” What a weird but necessary gift we’ve been handed to try something new and see if this can bring education into a more modern era. That instead of technology for technology's sake in the name of "21st Century Skills," using technology purposefully and gaining true skills 20 years into the 21st Century.

Doffing my mask as I got in my car after finishing a week of work at school for the first time in five months, I got home feeling that Friday night exhaustion that used to feel so familiar. I scrolled through my Facebook page, reading post after post from teacher friends (at my school, across the state, around the country), all mirroring what I was feeling. That prepping for in-person school is easier than prepping for virtual. That they’re doing what teachers do. They’re thinking about how to make learning fun and engaging for children. Different this year, to be sure, but finding ways to give them the best of themselves that they can. 

And so, here’s to the beginning of Year 17 for me, which is so different from how I started any of the previous 16.

Halftime for 2020

December 31, 2019. I was all about celebrating the “lasts” of the decade, reminiscing about the tremendous amount of change we’d undergone through the 2010’s and looking forward to 2020 and the “firsts” that a new decade had in store. Little could I have imagined. 

Today, we are six months into 2020 and if someone had given me a hint of what was to come, I’d have laughed at the sheer audacity one would have to make some of this stuff up. It wasn’t like there was a gradual…let’s make this year a test of the average person’s strength and meddle…thing that happened. No. We jumped right in and everything changed on the first night of the year as we were thrust into a new world of scary medical stuff. And before I go any further, I am incredibly thankful for the emergency medical people at our local hospital, as well as the cardiac care staff at the big city hospital where we went. Things could have taken  a drastically different turn that night and I will forever be grateful that they didn’t. I know too many who have undergone extreme pain and loss and sorrow in the past six months and I think about them every single day.

But as the news ramped up in those first few weeks of this year, stories of raging brush fires in Australia, insect infestations, blizzards and then tornadoes were only part of it. Because when that new virus showed up on the news, it didn’t really register as a real threat for most of us. Until it did. And by then, it was pretty much too late. 

March 13, 2020, a Friday the 13th, by the way, if you’re a superstitious type. To me, this is the day that will live on as the one where everything changed. When I left work that day knowing that school was going to be shut down for the next few weeks, I never would have imagined that “the next few weeks” would last until the end of the school year and into the summer and in some way into the next year. 

In the weeks and months that’ve followed, the thing I wonder most is, “What would I have done differently if I’d known I wouldn’t see my students or the majority of my friends and coworkers in person again?” I’m not a terribly “huggy” person, but I would have hugged my friends goodbye. Tightly, like the kind of hug where you might hold on for just an awkward second too long. I would have looked them in the eyes as they spoke to me in those last few days and listened. Hard. And been more present. I was working on a big deadline that week, and was in my head a lot of the time. Knowing what I know right now, I’d have gotten out of my head and enjoyed the exact moments that I was running around trying to document to meet that deadline.

Back then, I wrote in a post that if Ma Ingalls could manage life on a prairie and tend to people with yellow fever and still manage her farm chores, then I could certainly handle what was to come in my suburban town. And I can. And I have, but it sure hasn’t been easy. Don’t get me wrong…there are parts of this that I’ve actually loved. The slowed down lifestyle, the time with my immediate family. In what other recent time has empty nester parents suddenly been given back their kids for a little while? This time with our kids has been a great gift. But I also know that it’s hard on them and they want…they need…to move on and into their actual adult lives.The emotional ups and downs have been hard on everyone.  

The world has changed in so many unimaginable ways in this new decade. In April, I wrote about how I hoped we could take the good parts of our quarantine lives and leave behind the bad as part of our “new normal.” But that was before the term “new normal” was hijacked and turned into something ugly and weaponized. We’ve moved from the quiet, peaceful part of quarantine to the restless, angry part of it. We’ve watched in horror as 126,000 of our fellow Americans have died from this virus, and yet some of us haven’t been willing to do the simple things needed to help slow the spread. Wear a mask, stay home when possible, keep our distance from others. The Internet is filled with awful pictures and video of people behaving horribly in the name of “their rights” while at the same time disregarding the rights of others. Stop looking for conspiracies where there are none and just do the right thing.

But here’s the other thing. In the midst of this pandemic and all that has gone with it, we’ve finally been forced to take a long, hard look at our racial past and the awful mistakes that were made along the way that today still impact the lives of fellow human beings and Americans. And when I say things like, “I just wish we could get back to the way things used to be,” I recognize the privilege that lies behind a statement like that. My “the way things used to be” is another person’s time of fear, anger or sadness over a lifetime of mistreatment or a history told wrong. And we have so much work to do to find a way to come together and make things right.

20, 30, or even 50 years from now. What will they say about this period in history? What will today’s kids tell their own kids or grandkids about the “Year of the Pandemic?” Will they look at us and marvel at our strength and courage during a really scary time? Will they look at us with scorn because half of us refused to do even the bare minimum to help make things better as part of a political game of wills? Will they change the story to make us look better or worse than we do right now? The first half of the first year of the decade of the 20’s is over. But the second half starts today and that story hasn’t been written yet. We all have the power to control and write the story that should be written. Let’s get to it.

My Heart Aches Tonight

This evening, as I was coming back from a walk, I stopped to say hi to a neighbor and we talked about what was going on in our country right now. She pointed down to her 5-year-old daughter and said that she’s asking questions and how do you explain this to a young child? As I walked away, I said, “I have to go home and cry now,” and we both gave a small, sad laugh.

And my heart aches tonight. 

It aches for the families of George Floyd and Ahmaud Arbery and Breonna Taylor and so many that came before them.

It aches for people of color who have been held down for too long by systems designed to hold them down and beyond which they have no real power.

It aches for Black parents who live in a sort of fear I’ve never really known that their kids might be the next story on the news.

It aches for the Black community for their pain and anger and for feeling so unheard and unhelped for so long.

It aches for the almost 107,000 dead from Covid-19, which though it’s not gone, it is all but currently sort of, but not really, forgotten.

My heart aches tonight. 

It aches for our country, which feels like it’s falling apart as we stand by wringing our hands in horror because no one in Washington has the courage (or maybe desire) to throw water on the Wicked Witch of the West by standing up to the man who could have chosen to lead our country with compassion and strength and worked to unite us, but instead chose the exact opposite, using loaded, incendiary language designed to hurt and divide.

It aches for the US Constitution, particularly the First Amendment, which protects people’s right to protest peacefully, while some were fired on by tear gas as the President called himself the “ally of peaceful protestors.” 

I don’t know how a parent explains 400 years of systemic racism that ends in terrifying images on a TV screen to young children. I don’t know how to reassure my own adult children that we will see better days. Honestly? Right now, I don’t know how to reassure myself the same thing. 

What I do know is this: We have so much work to do. We have to do more than post memes and platitudes and hashtags. We have to read and learn and figure out what it means to be anti-racist. We have to speak up and help out when we see injustice happen. We have to have compassion. We have to be kind.