Dear Remote Teacher,
My sister and I love the scene in the movie, The Wedding Singer, where Adam Sandler teaches the old woman piano lessons and is paid in meatballs. At one point, he tells the lady he has to get a real job because he can't keep getting paid in meatballs. For years, my sister and I have said teaching is very much like getting paid in meatballs. Let's face it. None of us are here for the pay. We are here for the meatballs...a.k.a. stories, so if you would indulge me for a moment, I have a savory meatball for you on this rainy, hurricane Sally Tuesday.
Thursday an elementary school teacher felt defeated. Last year was her first year teaching. Teaching first grade was good, really good- that was until the novel Corona virus's gale winds ripped through classrooms all over the world with a force that made hurricane Sally look like Sally Field. Distributing chrome books through a car rider line and packing up broken crayons while waving goodbye to children she had grown to love like her own somehow never materialized in her childhood fantasies of "playing school." At times, the sadness was more than she could take. Over the summer, she considered other options for employment but reminded herself that next year would be different, more normal. Besides, she really, really wanted to see those faces again, which is why she asked to be moved up to second grade. What she did not anticipate in her request was that those faces would be at home, and she would only see them through a screen. No more pats on the back for a job well done or cheers for mastering the art of properly tying a shoe. No more morning hugs or high fives before boarding the bus. No more gathering up remnants of cut up pieces of paper or peeling back the seal on a pizza lunch-able for a kid who literally ate the same dang thing each day. All those things seemed small (maybe even annoying) until they weren't there anymore.
On top of it, she felt like a failure at remote learning. She couldn't see some of the kids, couldn't hear the others. She worried about the little girl with a 14 year old sister at home for supervision . Plus, her share screen was always timing out, her eyes were blurry from staring at a monitor all day, and even after three weeks, she still hadn't figured out the best way to have students submit work through Google Classroom. Completely at a loss, she let her eyes trail over to the cute, little centers she had decorated in July. They remained untouched. She was untouched too.
Thankfully, it was almost time for the last bell of the day. Before signing off, she mustered up the strength to ask if anyone had any questions. "Please God, don't let there be any questions." And then, as if by magic, a single mic was unmuted, a girl who had not said a word since school started released a soft whisper. "Umm...yes.. I don't have a question. I just wanted to say, you're a really good teacher."
She let the whisper wash over her like summer rain and knew in that moment that, in spite of it all, a tiny voice was a loud enough sign to know she would be back tomorrow holding out a plate for another meatball. And if she was being honest with herself, she would probably be back for a lot of tomorrow's because a feeling like that isn't one you easily forget. Someone should tell her, and it might as well be me. "Sweetie. It's why we all keep coming back."
But for the record, it wouldn't hurt our feelings in the least if some of those meatballs were turned into a wad of green cash. This is a hard job. More money would help just a little, wouldn't it?
-CDB