“What is grief, if not love persevering?” Marvel, why you up in my feelings?
One year ago, on my birthday, Dallas published its first confirmed case of Covid 19. We had watched as other countries quickly lost control, had empathized with New York City as they dealt with spiraling death numbers… and now, we held our breaths, wondering what would happen. My family took me out to eat at Goodfriend- our last normal restaurant meal.
At school, students were asking more questions and the feeling on campus got more intense as the week progressed. We were called into an emergency faculty meeting on Thursday, March 12 after school. We had to prepare our kids- who were going on spring break the following afternoon- for what to do if we didn’t come back.
“If we didn’t come back.” I couldn’t even wrap my mind around what that would mean.
Friday, March 13 a cold front came through Dallas. Between the tension and the damp, clammy weather, it did not feel like the beginning of a break. I spent my day cleaning the classroom, packing things up, sanitizing everything, making sure my students knew where and how to reach me, handing out hastily made supply packets, and stifling panic. There was an odd, nervous vibration in the air.
I used my lunch break to run to Walmart. The parking lot was full. Inside the store was crowded, but the shelves were empty. And even though the aisles were packed with people, it was eerily silent. Nobody spoke to one another. There was no in-store music. People kept their eyes down and hurried carefully about their business. The air between us felt fragile, as though a sharp word or gesture would shatter our social contracts.
Today is the Friday before Spring Break. Again. Time has slowed down this year, in spite of the daily tasks and stresses that make the weeks pass quickly. I’m trying to reconcile this weird duality of time in my mind- how it can be at once so massive and unmoving, yet feel like it is running breathlessly away. I’ve lived this year a dozen times, but the moments contained within it are fleeting and undependable, somehow.
The weight of our love is also the weight of our grief. Some among us bear more than their share of the burden. At times, grief crowds the near-empty halls at school- a sorrow of absence and of so much loss. Our children have been through the unfathomable this year. When we diagnose our kids’ problems, or analyze their experiences, we should remember that we do so from the relative safety of our own adult worldliness and self determination.
This mess is much different for a high school student whose knowledge and coping abilities are limited by youth and sphere of influence. A year for an adult mind is painfully quick, but for a child this has been a long time. And yet, through all of this, my students surprise me with astonishingly beautiful artwork submissions, heart-rending honesty, sweet messages, and even joyful news. They keep going, and so must I.
Dostoevsky writes that grief is a path to wisdom. I have to hope this will be the case for all of us. Pain hardens us, at least outwardly; but it also forges strength.
As difficult as this has been, I am so grateful for my own children, and for my students. Although I miss my bubbling classroom community, I feel like I know my students as individuals much better this year than I ever have in the past. I hope they feel like they know me, too. I wonder if I can really convey, through Zoom chats and Remind messages, how much I care about them. Their warm messages give me hope and help me muster the strength to continue slogging along, through days of grey Zoom squares and Nearpod lessons.
It will get better. And, hopefully, so will we, when we emerge on the other side of this trial. I’ve created very little art this year, but I’ve learned that it is ok. There will be time, there will be time. Our communities have been strained, but they are not broken. And what has had to retreat will grow again, with deeper roots and renewed vitality.
