Tiny tiles: Reflections on teaching remotely

Dear Teacher Kate,

Hello again! It is your first day of school. You are wearing a special dress, donning your lanyard with your school ID and smiling way too much. Pulling into the parking lot, you see a few other cars, the sight of which pings your heart. The magnetic energy of the family that is your school colleagues is unmistakable. After five months, it feels like reconnecting with an old friend, like you haven’t missed a beat. There is no awkward silence. You know you are where you belong.

You pull into your usual parking spot. Grab your teacher bag, lunch bag and travel mug of coffee. The morning is bright. You walk up to the entrance and scan your ID as you have done so many other first days. The door opens slowly. “Welcome to being a teacher in 2020,” it seems to groan. “Don’t worry, you’ve got this,” it seems to whisper.

Teacher Kate strides into the building, ready for your first day with students. You have invited all students to your Google Classroom. You have been reading about potential glitches all summer on teacher blogs, and you have everything set up to avoid them — multiple devices, backup plans, a magic force field to protect against all mishaps. You may or may not have recorded many renditions of your goodbye song. You want to make sure it is perfect! There is the American Idol audition version, the folk version, the hiphop version, yet none of them are quite right. Making a perfect recording is on your to do list for later today.

In the meantime, Teacher Kate has to engage a class of students. Virtually. A tiny tile of your face, your vibe, your energy, has to get your new students to love and be interested in you enough to actually give a hoot about distance learning. In the past, you knew you had an amazing first day when you heard the combined noises of learning, laughter and joy. When faces glistened with excitement. But today, kids will be on mute, their faces tiny tiles.

As you turn the corner, the hallway gleams silently before you. “Our Class Rocks!” is the first sign you see on a classroom door. The lockers are closed, no backpack straps hanging out, no coat sleeves dangling. There is not a single glob of food, crumpled tissue, broken pencil or forgotten sweatshirt on the floor. There is a joyless hum hanging in the air. Brightly decorated classrooms have chairs up on desks. Sunlight ricochets across the waxed floors and becomes a kaleidoscope of light through your tears. You told yourself you wouldn’t cry, and you did. You are doing your best. You will have to tell yourself that a lot this year.

You open your classroom door. The furniture in dramatic play area is pushed together in a heap as if to say “no one may smile here.” Sensory tables are empty, covered and tucked away.

The bookshelves in your library are empty. You walk past all of that to the space that you have set up for 2020 Teacher Kate. You have made it cheerful and welcoming. Cute background. Clifford the Big Red Dog book and stuffed animal on display. You log into your live meeting with students, with all of the tools laying await in your kit, all of the love laying boundless in your heart. Your virtual classroom is a hug, ready to comfort, uplift and transform. Teacher Kate, you’ve got this.