Lost Connection
Mourning the Loss of Classroom Connections during the COVID-19 Crisis
A fabulous friend and mentor of mine, Julie, opened a session of a writing workshop a few years ago with a gadget purchased from Amazon: an energy ball. It’s used to demonstrate energy circuits, but it also speaks to human connection. When a group of people gather in a circle and hold hands — the energy ball wedged between the palms of two people — the ball lights up and buzzes. Any gap in the circle, any hands dropped, and the energy circuit is broken. No buzz, no lights, no energy. The point of the exercise, of course, is to illustrate how vital each individual is to the community in the room. The energy fizzles without them.
I’m a teacher. I’m in the energy business. But a circuit’s been flipped. A big one.
I don’t connect with every student, but I try. An almost circadian rhythm develops in the lifespan of a class period. I begin its dawn in the hallway greeting students. More than anything else, this is the most critical point in the instruction of the day. We don’t head out into the world each morning donned in whatever attire we choose. We make informed decisions. The same is true in the classroom. Greeting students at the door is the weather check. Just as we scan the sky for clues, I scan students — their faces, their stride, their posture, their responsiveness or reticence to my welcome.
As Julie’s energy ball demonstrates, it only takes two to create an energy circuit. In the dawn of the class period, if the connection isn’t there, part of my job is to get the energy buzzing again. The student may be have having a bad day for any number of reasons: a fight with a friend, a failed a math test, a break-up, a mental health issue, a conflict at home. Sometimes it’s me.
The dawn determines the day. If a student can’t connect, can’t focus, can’t feel heard and seen, they likely won’t learn.
Each class period has a natural and prescribed closing, a sunset by which we can set our watches, a closing bell (literally). Over the years, I’ve adopted parting words for this break in our circuit: I hope you have a wonderful day! Read. Write. Be kind. Be safe. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow!
There is a natural rhythm to which we are accustomed. And it’s gone.
Sure, there’s Zoom and Google Hangout and email and Learning Management Systems. But there is no dawn, no sunset. I can offer resources and extensions. I can offer reassessments and group discussions. But it’s all optional. Up to this point, most students didn’t pull themselves out of bed (or find themselves dragged, as plenty did) because of a natural, teenaged circadian rhythm. Even if they won’t admit it, they came for the connection — for the energy buzz that happens with it.
In this “distance learning” reality, the meaningful connection — despite the digital one — simply isn’t there. Because there is no replacement for the handshake, the hug, the nod, the off-the-cuff joke, the pat on the back, the nuanced reading of nonverbal cues. There is only distanced substitute.
I’m a mother of four young children. My children’s teachers paraded through our neighborhoods. They decorated cars with balloons and posters; they waved emphatically from sunroofs as they shouted hello to each child by name. Driveways were chalked with art and positive phrases and school pride in anticipation of their arrival. Children boasted signs they’d dutifully colored the night before, a clear indication of the connection between student and teacher. It was beautiful.
But there are no parades for high school teachers.
I cried as those teachers drove through the neighborhood. I want to drive through the neighborhoods, too. I want to see the faces of my students, to experience that dawn (however briefly) that told me so much about them, to feel that energy again. I want to be assured that they are okay and to offer help if I can — a hug, encouragement, a joke, advice. I want to grin and wave like a maniac and tear up and call out to them by name. I want them to see how much they mean to me, to all of their teachers.
My social media feeds are full of parents whose emotions vacillate by the day, by the hour: overwhelm, anger, sadness, exhaustion, joy. I think many of us have moved through a host of the stages of grief, desperate for stasis in the hallowed stage of acceptance.
The same is true for teachers. We’re worried and fretting over what this pandemic means not only for our own children’s health, education, and future, but for those students who are just out of reach.
As connected as the world is (and the pandemic has assured us it is) there is no substitute for holding space — the same space — together. I am grieving the loss of our rhythm — my students’ and mine.
A few emails trickle in each day. A few students show up to virtual office hours. The connections we created aren’t gone, but they don’t hold the charge they did a few weeks ago.
As time goes on, we’ll discover new rhythms, new normals. All is not lost, only altered.
I don’t know when I’ll be able to return to the classroom, camaraderie, and connections I know and love. But when I do, there will be plenty of dawns ahead. Now I know to cherish the energy better.
