Tag Archives: teaching nightmares

#399: Poem on April 26, 2021

Remember that nightmare I had about distance learning? Poem #398 for easy reference. Well, that nightmare, or some version of it, was a lived experience for me on my first day back to school for hybrid learning. So here’s a poem on that occasion, unfortunately this time, not a dream but a reality. The kids are alright, by the way.

Poem on April 26

Mistakes were made.
For one, on the eve of our
return to the school house
for the first in-person
educational experience
in more than 365 days,
I fell on my face,
cracked my nose open
good and proper,
scraped and chaffed
myself all up one side
of my hip, and cut the
inside of my wrist.
It was stupid–I was
wrestling with a stuck
dresser drawer, my feet
somehow came out
from underneath, I
lost balance, and
the dresser and its drawer
got the best of me.
Finally able to stop
the bleeding and calm
myself down enough
to relax and sleep,
I end up with a solid
five hours of rest.
Bandaged and masked,
I travel this morning
to the school house
to “teach ’em up,”
as we say, one synchronous
class online, a prep,
and then two in-person
hybrid groups of students
who have not yet
had a full on-line class.
And yes, too many tabs
were open: the meet,
multiple versions of
the slides, the role sheet,
my email inbox, who knows
what else; I had a meet
going on for kids
who were watching from
home and I struggled
not to neglect them,
and in the process,
I neglected them.
The lesson, mostly goofy
fun stuff some colleagues
created and which I agonized over,
required lots of teacher speech,
and with a banged up
nose, some hip pain, and
a mask, I was losing
my voice and my breath fast.
My head spun with all the
logistical issues of the day:
Can I touch these post-it notes
or not? Can I call our tech
guy to get extra laptops?
Are those two sitting too close
together? How do I project
this video again? Why
does it feel like I’ve
been on my feet for four
hours? Do I have time
to sanitize these desks
for the next group to come in?
No, I don’t. Can I get to the
restroom? No, I can’t.
Why was I asked to show
a video to students about how
the schedule works during
the last class at the end
of their first full schedule?
The school day and the
work day are over at the same
time. Can I be ready to
go home as soon as the students
leave my room? No, I can’t.
First of all, that’s mentally an
impossible task; secondly, it’s
physically impossible until
the busses exit along with the
ensuing traffic jam behind
them. Yes, mistakes were made,
and not all of them were mine.
But I’ve never felt so unprepared
and tentative about
a first school day, rarely
have I ever been as nervous,
and never, at the end of it,
have I felt so beaten.
A colleague of mine texted me that
for a moment today she had herself
thinking it was Friday.
That captures it. It kind
of felt like a whole week went
by in a day, like this last year
has felt like two, like the last
four years have felt like eight.
I think I’d like for time
to start flying again.

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Filed under Education, Poetry, Teaching

#398: Poem on April 25, 2021

Here’s an occasional poem, of sorts: on the occasion of having a teaching nightmare on the eve of returning to the school building for hybrid learning, April, 2021. I actually composed the following before I knew today’s suggested prompt, and I do think I would like to compose a poem more directly or seriously for the occasion. Teaching nightmares are not uncommon among my brothers and sisters in the profession, while this, all of this, this whole year, and in particular this last quarter of the year, is a singular moment, historic, truly “unprecedented.” I’m getting kind of tired of things being so unprecedented. So, anyway, all of this is just to say, not that I have eaten the plums in the icebox, but that I might have another poem in me on the occasion of returning to the school house tomorrow to meet with actual students once again.

Poem on April 25

Last night I have
what can only be described
as a Comprehensive Distance Learning Nightmare:

I begin 4th Quarter by
teaching a lesson
so far out of sequence
that none of my students
have a clue about what’s happening.
It takes me half the lesson to realize
that something’s wrong:
with their mics muted
and their video feeds disabled,
no one says anything,
not even in the chat,
where I keep looking for feedback.
I imagine that each of them
thinks they’re the problem,
so, out of decorum or embarrassment,
they allow me to flounder.
And I flounder astonishingly.
I’ve got so many tabs open
I can’t find the meet.
Suddenly I’m looking at still another
incorrect slideshow.
Audio kicks in from some video
on another buried tab.
I can’t turn it off.
I start to lose my temper,
slamming my fist on the desktop,
cursing in the most vile possible way
into a live mic in front of thirty horrified students,
when my son, as a five year old,
comes into the room and dumps his
peanut butter and jelly toast
face down on the seat cushion
of the newly reupholstered wingback chair.

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