It was the first day of the fifth week that the sirens rang to signal
soft lockdown.
Through the pallid haze outside my front windows, the sidewalks
and motorways were as barren as the air itself. I watched veins of
smog whip in the wind like streaks of gray oil, racing through
alleys and twirling skywards. It could have been beautiful.
Unabashedly in the nude, I crunched through litter crystals to my
bedroom, which faced an old folks’ home and a smattering of windows
above a dingy alley. Why should anyone care, I thought. Our common
future leveled us all; what were an uneven pair going to do but
induce a few geriatric heart attacks and expedite our looming end?
I tapped my smart watch. Class started in three minutes.
I chucked on a button-up and a blazer with some sweatpants,
shaking the litter from them. Mind, I kept up my 500 square feet,
but also shared it with three tomcats, each a trash goblin that I had
spirited away from the alley between us and the nursing home.
More than one cat would have caused the condo association to try to
cast me into that same dank alley, but they never checked. I did
enjoy my stinky little feline domain.
Cracking open my Macbook with my left hand, I opened
Google Classroom and started first period’s meet while dashing on a
bit of mascara with my right, my mouth hanging open stupidly on
camera. I always felt a bit better with makeup on, I guess. Not that
anybody wore any right now; maybe it gave me a sense of separation
from the bedheaded teenagers that began populating the meet,
cameras black and mics silenced. Something had to come between
us: some of my students were only six years younger than I was.
I swatted away Ched, a fat orange cat that always tried to cut in
on my classes and flaunt his asshole to everyone.
“I’m going to ask that people please turn on their cameras;
class has started,” my voice chimed into the microphone. I glanced
at my smiling reflection in the camera, wishing I wasn’t such a softie.
Some of the older teachers used to gossip that I wouldn’t last three
months teaching in this city–I could overhear it bouncing through
the hallways with peals of laughter when they left my classroom.
After classes end, empty schools share a betraying echo. I kept
mostly to myself at work as a result, my own island of happiness.
As much happiness I could work up to share with my
students.
Three cameras flashed on as nine or ten students rolled in late.
This was typical of online school. I blocked one camera that
broadcasted a kid blowing thick vape clouds and flashing a peace
sign with long, coated tongue sticking out. We didn’t even write
referrals for this kind of thing anymore–the parents were home
and they could rat their own kids out, for all the school cared.
Honestly, I just wanted to teach the kids who paid attention
about proper semicolon usage and then go about the evening
ripping my own giant vape clouds with my students unawares.
We probably frequented the same head shops, which did
really sicken me.
I shepherded the few kids who were awake and listening
to the assigned interactive notebook that I proudly created myself.
When not grading or sweeping up cat litter, I had been teaching myself
to code using free books and playgrounds. I wasn’t really good
on the back end: I mostly worked with Python and Ruby on Rails, and
tried my hand at Java Script to conjure up some very basic albeit
crash-laden animations. It was a lot to learn, but I ate it up fast.
I wanted to design materials that would keep these mofos
engaged; I loved them so, in spite of their mischief.
Clicking through their individual assignments, I was pleased
to see ten students had actually finished their vocabulary bell-ringers.
Really, the whole class should have finished by now: it was
rudimentary busywork.
“Okay everyone! Now we’re gonna–”
One of the class’s troublemakers–Genaro’s–mic turned on,
and a familiar illicit drum lick blasted purposely through everyone’s
speakers. My fingers flew to mute him. Then the chat sprung to life:
haha
ahhh genaro
lol
hahha cause its [explicit site]
I could have pretended nothing happened. “You don’t think all
of us know what that is? Seriously, Genaro. Now, let’s figure out
semicolons and read some of The Tempest. Once we read one of
the acts in my notebook, there’s a link to the movie with Helen
Mirren.”
Nobody’s going to do this, I thought to myself. The script
and the movie are both archaic and confusing to them. Why did
the district assign this to us? Was it some dumb joke they were
playing on us teachers?
At the end of the hour, I kicked out each student who remained
unresponsive on the meet. Back when I had the energy at the
beginning of enviro lockdowns, I would sing loudly to the students
who were presumedly asleep on the other side of the blacked-out
camera. Often it would be songs with the student's name in it:
SWEEET CAROLIIIINE...
Today on my last student to kick out, I felt playful (this
student, Kwan, was a sweetheart in person) and asked where
he was in a deep voice, saying I was the principal, Mr. Plant.
Eventually he responded, whining that I had disturbed his slumber.
His classwork was done beautifully, so I let that one slide, too.
Keep 'em sliding, I whispered to myself.
By the end of sixth period, my voice had gravelled. Seventh
period was my prep, and the internet really took its time, shifting
toes and frothing at the mouth like an overworked carthorse.
I messed around in Codespace on Github, unsure what to make
of the lack of parent emails. That was when Izzy Franke,
the new Chem teacher, texted me that half the city's wifi
was down. Searching the news, I found it to be true. What
were half the kids at school going to do now that the internet
was kaput? What about their parents and their work? It made
me uneasy.
