Something Beautiful

 

I am now entering 14 weeks of online teaching and that is just since August. My school, being in Asia, is still completely online for the safety of the students and teachers. 

I often start my days doing a very difficult thing: walking into an empty classroom. A classroom void of students is an irony that I never hoped to encounter in life. I didn't think it would be so difficult to go to my empty classroom each day, after all, I am still teaching in there, right?

But when I open the door and switch on the lights at 6:02 a.m. I often find myself pausing to stare. To stare at the floors, clean and shiny as they never were during the rainy season. To stare at the desks, in rows that never need adjusting as they did several times a day last year. To stare at the empty cubbies where students were supposed to leave books but often left lunch boxes and water bottles. 

To stare at the great big room and know I will sit in it alone all day. 

And that may not sound difficult, but it makes me pause and feel at least a small bit of melancholy each and every morning. 

But what makes it so, so much worse, is knowing many of my students are doing the same thing: they are starting the school day alone. 

I know we are doing all we can as educators and as a school to keep everyone safe, but it still breaks my heart because the whole idea of school, of learning, is that it shouldn't be done in isolation. 

I find it more difficult than usual to find joy in my teaching. I find it hard to stay upbeat and smile at my students, even though I am overjoyed to see them because I know what they are going through. Many don't get to spend time with friends except through a computer screen. For some, online school is the only social interaction they get in a day outside of their immediate family. 

This year has, by far, been one of the hardest I have taught. Yes, first-year teaching is a hot mess, but I expected that. I expected the steep learning curve, the piles of things I would get confused over, the failure over and over again.

But year three teaching was supposed to be better. This was the year I was to find my stride. The year I was to find balance with classroom strategies and build better relationships with my new students. This was the year I was supposed to finally figure it out. And as long as we are being honest, this was supposed to be the year I didn't cry so much. 

Spoiler alert: none of those things are happening. I don't see that changing any time soon.

And yet, every now and again the storm clouds will break, and for just a moment I will glimpse a bit of something beautiful. 

Students who got endlessly distracted in class now actually turn in quality work that shows they can pay attention and read directions.

One student will ask a question on a class page and before I can get to answering it, another student will answer or point them to the answer.

Teachers are reaching out to each other in support, not just in the school, but from around the world.

Students who almost never talked to me before are now messaging me dozens of clarifying questions to produce better work. 

Parents are going out of their way to let me know they appreciate my working with their child and to offer encouragement. 

That last one is actually where the title of this post comes from. I had a parent tell me at parent-teacher conferences that they knew this must be difficult, but not to give up because "something beautiful" was still happening in my classroom. I wrote that down on a sticky note and placed it on my planner so I could see it every morning. 

The idea that something beautiful can come from something so broken makes me feel incredibly humbled. That what I consider to be the struggle of my life doesn't just come across to my students as learning but beautiful learning leaves me breathless. 

I have learned that expectations for this school year need to be managed. I can't expect what I got last year because this year is so different. Everything we do is different and the learning curve is steep for everyone. This year is the start of something different. Something beautiful even. 

And though it isn't ideal, and I would choose safe, in-person learning over online learning in a heartbeat, I need to remind myself that there is still learning happening. That I am still a teacher even if my teaching looks very different now. 

Something beautiful can still happen in an empty classroom. 

-Rachael