As I wrote on Facebook earlier, today is tentative. Today, I was supposed to start my (much-needed) two-week spring break. My goal was to sit in my home office and work on my book. I spent the weekend relaxing and reading, hanging out on the couch while my son played Minecraft. Any time I thought, “oh, maybe I should go get started on some book edits?” I paused and told myself it was okay to do that later.
Then my son’s school district announced at 6:30 last night that there is no more school for 3 weeks.
We’re very fortunate: with my two-week break, we don’t have to worry about childcare. My reality may look different than I planned, but it’s okay. (Or it will be: in all honesty, I’m struggling to wrap my head around everything and feel more than a bit panicked at times.) Even when my “break” ends, my school will also transition to online learning, which will also alleviate childcare concerns for the most part, but synchronous learning will present its own new challenges.
For the time being, I’m going to try to settle in. I was homeschooled for most of my own education before college, and helped raise several of my (much-younger) siblings. I’m a teacher, although admittedly I don’t usually teach first grade. On the plus side, I’ve been paying close attention to the Singapore Math they’ve been doing, and I think I can get my son more practice on his reading and math, with a few more side adventures, in the next couple of weeks.
Today is tentative; my self-care focused on breathing and not setting expectations too high. I’m hoping for fun and cuddles with my kiddo, laughs, and – probably the highlight of his day – my first-ever Minecraft tutorial, which will turn the teacher into the student.
As Tanya stated above, I feel that my own success during this ordeal will be achieved by keeping realistic expectations and having appropriate responses. As a newly immunocompromised person (only 3 weeks of chemotherapy to go!) I oscillate between concerns that I’m too worried and not worried enough, feeling prepared and then panicked.
So far, I feel that I’ve been rolling with the punches fairly well. When colleges and universities started moving online I was ready with my web based courses. When local schools closed I was prepared to work from home so I didn’t have to stress about childcare. However, with both I’ve had to make adjustments with my expectations. Due dates for students have to be more fluid as we all work together to continue despite new challenges that none of us have ever faced and I can tell in our electronic communications that students are stressed so I’ve tried to keep that in mind in my responses. I’m trying my best to focus on compassion and kindness. I’ve been trying to do the same in my own home as I’ve quickly discovered that my attempts at home-schooling a 1st grader will have its own unique challenges, as well.
I’m doing my best to take it easy on myself and those around me. That’s all I can do, and hope that everyone can come out of this safe and with a renewed appreciation for teachers, nurses, those stocking shelves, delivering supplies, and everyone keeping us all on track as best they possibly can.
What a month. Less than two weeks ago, Nashville was hit with a tornado that barely missed my campus and ravaged our neighbors. Now, my students have to be out of their dorms by tomorrow at 5pm because of covid-19. The original date for move-out was Saturday evening, but administration has hastened the deadline in anticipation of increasing governmental restrictions.
I’ve mostly been in states of shock and stasis, frankly. I sit down to get started on work only to get distracted by an article on travel bans, an email that another of my conferences has been cancelled (and now I have to attempt the reimbursement circus), or a text from a connection in France with updates on the total lockdown or who is suffering from decreased access to medical services. Today, I was finally able to type out a plan for the rest of the semester. My motto? Simplify. I’m taking a step back, reconsidering my course objectives, and cutting out material that doesn’t directly meet them. I don’t have the emotional or mental ability to do otherwise, and I also want to be compassionate toward my students who have widely varying priorities and access to technology. So, we’re going to keep it simple. In an uncanny turn of events, the adjunct professor of another French course at my university passed away, so I’m also absorbing that (now online) class. Today, I created and sent a video message introducing myself to those students in hopes of striking up a human connection. To give some semblance of stability, I also shared a plan for moving forward––which I instructed them not to even think about until next week, because they needed to focus their time and emotions on getting themselves home and attending to loved ones.
For now, I’m totally operating from home. I’m trying to act out of compassion by self-isolating (with my spouse/housemate) to flatten the curve and attempt to care for those who are most vulnerable. I’m not worried about catching the virus, but I do not want to spread the virus as an asymptomatic carrier. I’m really lucky to be able to work from my apartment, as so many I know do not have this luxury.
After this month, I’m just grateful to be alive and grateful for the human connections that I have, both beautiful and terrifying. My students and I had no idea that we would be sitting in the same room with each other for probably the last time last Wednesday. I’ll be excited to reconvene virtually with them next week–synchronously and asynchronously–and imagine that I’ll hesitate to take such relationships for granted in the future and will learn a whole lot about my teaching (and about myself) during this phase.
Just two weeks ago, on March 4, 2020, an EF3 Tornado ripped through my neighborhood of North Nashville, taking out homes, churches, businesses, and power lines. It happened early in the morning, and there was no warning. I woke up, ran to the bathroom, and crouched next to the bathtub as my house shook and the sound of a roaring freight train drowned out the clanging of debris battering the roof. I was unbelievably fortunate that the damage to my home was minimal, but the house 8 doors down the street from mine saw utter devastation. Trees older than this nation had been ripped out of the crumbling sidewalks and dragged through houses. Nearly all of the neighborhood was rendered uninhabitable.
For over a week the entire area was left without power, and people slept under tarps or in cars in front of their ruined homes, trying to figure out what to salvage and how to navigate the complicated and emotional web of disaster response and relief.
We were already aware of Covid-19, but back then (I say, as if this was long ago, because these past two weeks have been the longest year of my life), few Americans feared it, or understood its potential for spread. We couldn’t think about a virus when people’s most basic needs weren’t being met. Dozens of families struck by the tornado with no immediate shelter travelled by foot over wrecked houses and downed trees and powerlines in order to join the survivors at the Farmer’s Market makeshift overnight shelter. When damage was discovered to the sanitary facilities there, the shelter was moved to the Sportsplex. Their beds were just a few feet apart: certainly not far enough to meet social distancing recommendations. Meals came from generous donors everywhere, and were served by countless volunteers. There was so much touching, and so much in the air.
In the aftermath of the tornado, competing concerns drowned out awareness of the virus. You see, people in North Nashville live in one of the most rapidly gentrifying communities in the country. The historically black, mostly working-class neighborhood with three HBCUs in its area code, is just a mile from downtown, and so it became inundated with opportunistic developers who posed as tornado relief volunteers. These predators knocked on doors of ruined homes with offerings of canned food and bottled water in one hand, and a business card in the other.
Every time I leave my home (which is getting rarer and rarer these days), I pass a sea of blue tarps waving in the wind, barely concealing the fragmented remains of my neighbors’ homes beneath. Yet I’ve stopped seeing news about one of the biggest natural disasters of the decade, because Covid-19 has taken over all media. Many articles are chiding people for not being cautious enough (which is true), but how can we be?
In a way, the story of this virus reads almost like a fairy tale: billionaires in bunkers notwithstanding, no one person can securely protect themselves against the virus, but each person can protect everyone else from it. Self-isolation and obsessive hand-washing and disinfecting isn’t so that I don’t get sick- it’s to stop me from giving the virus to someone who can’t survive it in case I’m already infected. This virus is showing us how tightly we are bound together- if I don’t take care, I could hurt others. Those who aren’t taking care are endangering me, and everyone else.
But when a tornado has taken your home and/or your job (many of the businesses here hire from within the community), and supermarket shelves are bare, and you were living hand-to-mouth to begin with because gentrification has raised property taxes and rents in the area, there’s no space to think about sanitation and self-isolation, even if those things were affordable and available to all. Which they are not, at all.
These are the thoughts that consume me during my Covid-19 self-isolation in North Nashville. I’ve read the Imperial College Report. I know what’s coming, and I know how North Nashville will once again bear more than its fair share of the brunt of the awfulness. I know that we are nowhere near prepared to deal with any of it: the racism and classicism and ageism endemic in the private healthcare industry, or the vast number of deaths this nation will sustain.
We are all going to lose someone that we love.
That someone is going to be older, and hold a wealth of experiences and knowledge vital to the community.
Many of us are going to lose more than one someone. Especially up here.
When this is over, nothing is ever going to be the same.
If you are in a position to help, please do. Gideon’s Army has my strongest vote of confidence to always make the right decisions for people affected by the tornado and by the virus as they help rebuild North Nashville.