Tag Archives: hybrid education

#388: Poem on April 14, 2021

what students might see during a simulcast

Poem on April 14

I try to imagine how it will go.
Let’s say I’ve got 15 or 20 students
in the classroom with me.
Let’s say I have another 5 to 10
students who are still at home
but who would like to partake
in the classroom happenings.
They call this a simulcast.
What it really means, I imagine,
is that students at home
will be looking at a blank
white board on their computer
screens. Because my voice
might be amplified, they might
hear me, disembodied, addressing
the students they can’t hear
sitting in desks
that they can’t see,
and even if the audio is swell,
what they hear will be decidedly
one-sided. If they work really
hard they might be able to pick
up a full exchange or two.
The students at home, every
once in a while, might see me
move through their screen
across the blank white board
to get from one side of the room
to another. But every now
and then, I will probably stop
in front of this computer
to check in on them, to see
if they have questions, to see
if they would like to contribute
something or share something
with the other students in the room.
And this explains, in large part,
why they don’t want us to
deliver new instruction during
a simulcast. The students
at home would be seriously
disadvantaged, even more so
than they are in this scenario.
I imagine that only the hard core
will stick with it and the truth
is that right now there’s just
no better way outside of hiring
a film crew for every teacher.
Teachers just have to do more
of that miracle stuff they do
and that everyone expects,
you know, super hero teacher
stuff, like being all things to
all people and in two places
at one time.


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#387: Poem on April 13, 2021

My school house.

Some new habits have already fallen away. For example, I think I went three days in a row without a preamble. Either I found it unnecessary (as it actually should be with poetry), or I just ran out of time or energy or both. But I continue with the continuity of titles or the lack thereof–which is an easy habit to keep up as it requires not a single iota of creativity. Each poem is titled with the day the poem was composed. Easy peasy. Today’s poem does not follow a prompt, but has been coming on for some time. As a teacher, the return to my building, to interact with students in person for the first time this school year, has been ever present in my mind. So here’s this:

Poem on April 13

Students will return to school
on April 26 after learning at home
exclusively for a full three quarters
of a school year.
Teachers will return to school
on April 26 after teaching at home
exclusively for a full three quarters
of a school year.
Some teachers will return to school
on April 26 after teaching alone
in their empty classrooms
for a full three quarters
of a school year.
Some students and some teachers
will enter a building this spring
for the first time, literally, a building
they have never stepped foot inside.
Everyone will be masked.
Everyone will keep at least three
feet of distance.
Masked teachers, it appears,
might be wearing microphones
so that the mumbling they do
will be more or less comprehensible
and that their voices will endure
the three hours every afternoon
when they are in the presence
of live students.
In the morning, beginning April 26,
all students and teachers will continue
learning and teaching in empty classrooms
or at home, as they have done
for a full three quarters
of a school year.
Each group of those computer kids
will have a chance to join their teachers
as real live kids–twice for each class
every week in the afternoons
in actual true-to-life classrooms.
Teachers have to decide,
after they have taught their computer kids
and then some of those same students
show up as real kids, what to do now
with the live ones, knowing that they
can’t theoretically give the live students
something that the computer students
didn’t have, in fairness. Although,
we know, don’t we, that they will
end up giving the live students
something that the computer students
didn’t have, by necessity and in actuality.
Time. Opportunities to explain, to clarify,
to demonstrate, to repeat, to unmuddy
the botched computer lesson, to observe,
to supplement, to look into the eyes of
students and to hear their voices
for the very first time. For students,
time and opportunities to question,
to write by hand, to speak, to be heard,
to be helped, to be seen.
Teachers also have to decide
how they will continue to do
the things they were already doing for a full
three quarters of a school year
with the three or four hours they
are now dedicating to the live ones
in the room. They weren’t sitting
on the couch eating bonbons;
they weren’t lounging by the pool
or taking exhaustive afternoon naps
or enjoying early afternoon cocktails.
So the most difficult school year
of their careers gets a little bit more
difficult even as it gets a little more
joyful at the same time. We’re banking
on that last bit. This school year,
almost more than anything else,
needs a shot, maybe even two doses,
of some serious joy, an infusion
of happiness, a strong, exuberant finish.

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A Journal of the Plague Year: #27

Charles Baudelaire: He doesn’t look very happy.

Be Drunk
by Charles Baudelaire
You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

The dry January turned out to be a dry January and February. As of this writing, 3/08/2021, I have been “sober,” or, I have abstained from alcohol use for 65 days. I have needed to find other ways to, as Baudelaire exhorts, be drunk. Oregon just had one of it’s worst winter storms in memory–at least, in my memory. Two days of heavy snow. Two more days of freezing rain. For my family, 6 days without power. For many of my neighbors, up to 10. So we have been drunk, of late, with powerlessness. When it came back on a few weeks ago, I found myself drunk on electricity. I couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

There has been some sad drunkenness–inexpressible, really–about the massive loss of life from COVID 19 in the United States alone: a half a million people. An inconceivable loss–especially difficult in its abstraction. Be it luck or ignorance, I’m not sure which, I have not known a single one of those half a million. I have known people who were ill and then recovered. So, drunk I am with thanksgiving. The universe has been looking out for my people. I am so stupidly lucky.

I have been drunk on my first dose of Pfizer vaccine, drunk with gratitude, and drunk, at least for about 16 hours after, with a really sore arm. I was drunk at the Oregon Convention Center with pure awe at the proceedings, hundreds upon hundreds of masked individuals, while maintaining 6 feet of distance in front and behind them, snaking their way though a labyrinthian series of lines and ropes, through one door and then another, into one big room and then the next, to this check-in station and another, until finally, the line to get a shot in the arm. I was drunk on the realization that I was, in that moment, taking part in a historic event, an event unlike anything in American history, maybe even in human history. Almost certainly.

I have been drunk on the good news that indicates we will see students in the flesh again by the end of the school year; the last quarter in our academic schedule will be, in some significant way, in-person. I will be able to see animated faces of students that are new to me this year for the first time. And while I am apprehensive about what this new hybrid model will look like, I am so much looking forward to working inside the school house once again.

And finally, I have been drunk on creativity of late–in creating things. You would think I would have been writing like a fiend, but no; I have done very little writing. I wrote a Winter poem. It turned out nicely. And I wrote a whole slew of lesson plans, but that’s not really terribly creative–I mean, it is, but not in the same way as a poem or a blog entry or a piece of fiction. No, mostly my creative drunkenness has had to do with music, first, by going through scads of unreleased, unheard, unperformed recordings from my band and deciding that, yes, these pieces need to see the light of day. And so quickly, from the time of conception to this moment, songs were chosen and sequenced, artwork was commissioned, a mastering engineer was employed, and the process began for a new album, new photos, new website, replication, the arrival on my doorstep today of a short run of compact discs. I’ve also been drunk, possessed rather, with hopes to upgrade the studio for the new project.

Generally speaking, I have been drunk with optimism. Things are looking up. They seem to continue in this trend. And this made me think of the Baudelaire poem, a poem I shared I don’t want to say how many years ago now, with my high school classmates at the 30 year reunion. I was actually drinking quite a bit then and continued almost uninterruptedly until January 2 of 2021. I really and truly don’t know how much of my present happiness is the direct result of cutting out alcohol–and I really am not bragging or making any promises to anyone about how much longer I will abstain. I just think that it’s worth noting. So I make a note of that as I move headlong into an impending Spring Season, finding new and exciting ways to “be drunk.”

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