This is a contributor-submitted Voices piece by Lynn Stokes – a teacher who loves teaching and people. Want to join the conversation? We invite you to write for us. Learn how to share your voice here.
March 13, 2020. That’s what the board’s date read when I walked into my classroom today for the first time in 2 months. We all thought we would be back that following Monday, or at the most, the Monday after Spring Break. But no.
I started thinking about the details I could recall from those last hours in that room. As a high school teacher in Polk County, I have over 160 students. That’s 160+ souls who I can’t remember if I’d told them that they mattered to me that day, or if I’d shouted my usual goodbye at the bell (“Goodbye! I love you guys! Make good choices! I’ll miss you! Do something nice for somebody!”), because sometimes, in the rush of things, I forget. No matter, I always assure myself. I’ll tell them tomorrow. But this time, tomorrow never came.
There were books still on desks, the weekly agenda scribbled across the far board. I had sticky notes reminding me to call so-and-so’s parents, and several late homework assignments piled up by a jar of colorful pens I use for grading. I had student drawings hanging behind my chair because, yes, we still draw in high school. I have an envelope of notes and quotes from some students tucked in my desk that always make me laugh, but this time just the thought of it brought tears to my eyes and I couldn’t bear to open it. Instead, I started throwing away every bit of paper in sight. In my head, I whispered silent goodbyes to kids I may never see again.
COVID-19 stole my students from me. My desks are empty. The chairs are dusty. The books are unopened and unexplored. I used to cook cultural recipes for my students when we read books from other nations, and we’d study history amongst our literature. I would challenge them to look at the world from other perspectives, but now I just call home to ask why they haven’t logged in. I assign work that feels meaningless without the colorful presentation I would have paired it with. The stories remain black words on a white page. I can’t make them come to life, and I can’t help the kid who can no longer reach me.
The shift to virtual teaching has been hard, but not because of the technology. I am young, and I have always used virtual classroom platforms within my own brick and mortar walls. I’ve even taken online classes and learned a great deal from them! That’s not the problem. The problem is that I teach because I love teenagers, and I love to be with them all day, every day.
I didn’t love high school when I was in it, partially because I felt invisible and most of my teachers couldn’t even pronounce my last name by the end of the year. They didn’t know that I was absent and tardy a lot because of my severely handicapped mom who I had to care for some days when her nurses were late or sick or overbooked, or that my dad was a soldier and while he wasn’t deployed, he was still gone a lot.
I became a teacher to help students who need to be seen by someone the way I needed to. I became a teacher to love kids who no one else loves, or who don’t think they can become more because they’ve never been told that they can. Sure, I love books and writing, and learning. I really do. But that’s not why I teach. I teach so I can love the most people possible, and to maybe make their world a little less lonely, even if it’s only for 50 minutes a day.
This feeling of disappointment in myself, in feeling like I’ve failed my students, is not melodramatic. It’s my reflection on the personal, temporary loss of my calling and the fear of the permanent repercussions this is going to have on the young lives I was entrusted with this year. How many will move? How many will fail? How many will drop out? How many will, sadly enough, just seem to disappear? Sure I’ll get a visit from a few next year, but not from the ones who I worry most for.
I feel pointless. As teachers, we are never really appreciated fully. I tell people what I do and I get funny looks asked “Why would you want to do that? You make no money!” I can’t explain to people that I get a rush when a kid loves a book I give them. I can’t explain that I, too, feel a sense of accomplishment when a student gets accepted into their dream college or training program. If you’re not a teacher who loves teaching, you will never understand that feeling. And now, for the first time ever since I started tutoring in college, I am frustrated with my job because it’s not my calling anymore.
I miss my students. I miss teaching them and both challenging them and being challenged by them in return. I miss seeing their faces every day and their complaints about homework. I miss going to their concerts and sporting events and art shows. I miss reading their poetry that they write for fun, or having them bring in their instrument to perform a song they’ve been practicing for months. Most of all, I miss providing a space for them to feel safe and heard.
I know a lot of them are struggling, and sadly it’s not all as light as the loneliness most of us are facing at the moment. I know some of them are in abusive homes or they don’t have enough food. Some of them were homeless when this all started, and I can’t imagine where they are now. There have been nights that I cannot sleep at night because I am worrying about them. When I call them now, I don’t always ask about their school work. I ask about how they are feeling. Are they anxious? Is there anything I can do? I almost always get a “No, Ma’am,” but it doesn’t feel like enough. I never feel like I’m doing enough anymore. Then, I sit down and create another assignment that feels redundant because I have to, and the kids need me to.
Really, the point here is that teachers are struggling, but not in the way the public thinks. Those of us who have teaching as a calling on our lives miss the education, yes. But we miss “our kids” more. We love your children. It’s so much more than worksheets and calculators. We look at our students and see the future, and we are in awe and thrilled at the role we get to play in it. We may be calling home a lot, but it’s because we care, not because we are trying to stress you out. Trust me –– we are stressed, too.
I also want this whole quarantine to be a lesson to Florida and beyond about your teachers. What you are doing right now is not teaching, it’s tutoring at best. You are not spending years studying child psychology or curriculum or educational practices and law. You are not spending hours a day coming up with instructional materials that both fit state standards, but are also engaging and meaningful. You are not grading the assignments with an understanding of each child’s’ needs or circumstances. You are not doing paperwork and attending meetings and professional development events to further your craft. Teachers are still doing all that. Yes, tutoring your child is difficult. I’m not saying it’s not –– I do it for 160 students every day, every school year. But hopefully, this little bit of tutoring work is letting you peek into a minuscule bit of what we do every day for your children. And we love it.
Let this be a lesson for you that you first see a teacher’s heart, and then a teacher’s work ethic. It is not an easy job, but I love what I do. I love how demanding it is because it matters. And for now, it’s gone. Hopefully, we will be back in the fall, but if we are not, just know that we will be here, behind our screens in our homes, loving your child and praying we get a chance to teach them to the fullest extent again someday. And when we get back to normal, remember what you realized about what we do, and why we do it. Teaching is not for the faint of heart, but for those who love kids with the entirety of their soul.
Sincerely,
A teacher who misses teaching
