The last time I was in a classroom was March 12, 2020. Seventeen months ago. The quantity of elapsed time seems almost impossible to fathom.
For years I’ve taught 5, 6, or 7 classes a semester. I’m what they call a freeway flier. I teach at 3 institutions. In 5 different departments. In person and online. Synchronous and Asynchronous.
I got an email from a student last week asking me what it meant that her class was online synchronous. I laughed. She said she didn’t know what synchronous meant. I laughed. I told her I didn’t either, that is until March 12, 2020. The day that everything changed.
Last Wednesday I showered and dressed. In professional clothes. Not sweat pants or shorts, but clothes that have been hanging untouched in my closet for 17 months. I fished out some eyeliner and mascara and applied a thin line to my lids. I packed my book bag, filled my water bottle, grabbed a colorful mask and drove down the road.
The campus was quiet. The parking lots relatively empty. We’re at 30% at one place. Small classes only at another. I went to police services to get my key card.
“Sorry,” the officer said. She looked up at me across a sea of key cards spread out on the counter. “We don’t have one for you. Try facilities.”
I’m sure you already know that there was no key at facilities either. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was. I always expect that people will do what they say they’re going to do. To make matters worse, the kind man at facilities didn’t even know anyone was teaching in the classroom I needed the key for.
“We’ll need to put in 2 air scrubbers and open your windows,” he said as if everyone knows what an air scrubber is by now.
I nodded and wandered off to find my classroom.
There were a dozen or more students in the room when I arrived. A box of paper masks and a bottle of hand sanitizer sat on a desk by the door. The new normal, I thought to myself. It was a good sized room, a large classroom with rows of desks set not nearly six feet apart. I walked in and stared out at the hollow space.
“Hi,” I said to the masked people. “Welcome back.” I propped open the doors and as many windows as I could reach and waited for the man with the “air scrubbers” to arrive. Students filled the vacant seats.
About 10 minutes into class a man walked in with a large boxy air conditioner type of thing. “Is that the air scrubber?” I asked.
He nodded.
"I thought I was getting two?”
He flipped on the switch and cranked it up to the second highest speed. The box coughed. It shook. It ground to a loud whir. It made the sound my dog Pupperdoo does when someone tries to take his bone. “They’ll never be able to hear you with two,” he said.
There was a fan in the corner. “Turn that on too,” he said.
I turned the switch. Nothing. A complete shit show, I thought.
“Well that’s not very helpful,” I said.
A few minutes later he slunk out, the broken fan under his arm, and I began class. I gave them my COVID safety spiel and reminded the students that their masks have to cover their noses AND their mouths. “I’m hoping most of you are vaccinated,” I said, wanting to believe that they all were. “If you haven’t done so yet, please do. It’s important, not just for you and your loved ones, but for all of us.”I looked out at their faces, locking eyes with them in search of connection. “I want us to get through this semester safely,” I said.
I gave a brief introduction to the class and pulled the syllabus up on the overhead screen. “Let me know if you have any questions,” I said after I’d finished.
It was only then that I discovered that it’s difficult to tell who’s talking when their mouths are covered with masks.
