Snow flurried down, through the classroom window. But inside the room was well lit, recently redecorated, with a pretty, patterned wallpaper on one wall and duck egg paint on the others. The fire roared in the wood burner, filling the space with welcome and warmth. Today the lesson resources were working well, enabling the class to respond eagerly to questions, engage in competition and feel proud of their work, as they heard the teacher’s praise. They knew their teacher cared about this lesson and it mattered that they give of their best so that she would be proud of them. As she always was. The tasks were challenging, going in and out of French and English: decoding; encoding; translating; comprehending; then joyously producing utterances of their own in this foreign tongue.
And yet, the students could not feel the warmth of the fire. They could not appreciate the smell of fresh paint. They did not see the teacher’s mug of hot coffee. Nor the blanket over her knees. They could not even see each other. Not really. The teacher sat alone, at her laptop, talking into the void, sharing her resources via smart technology tools she barely understood and had only just learnt to use.
Upstairs, in three bedrooms, three other lessons were taking place. Four schools under one Victorian terraced roof.
This is our 2021 reality; not some kind of fastastical novel or futuristic film. Us. The Harrisons. In a little city in North Yorkshire. In the middle of a very cold winter, that feels even colder because we have been away for five years, in warmer climes.
You might think that this new reality would feel daunting and unwelcoming – full of technological challenge – online classrooms, virtual parents evenings, meetings where attendees are sitting in a dozen different places. You would expect that this extreme extrovert would be missing the interaction with students and colleagues – the banter, the jokes, the buzz of a school full of teenagers – there is nothing like it. Normally. Normally, my caffeine-fuelled, ‘not quite sure how I got here this morning’ self comes alive as the sea of expectant faces in front of me responds to that day’s lesson offerings.
Yet here I am, sitting all alone at a computer, unable to see my classes, but still delivering fast-paced, varied lessons. Online. Do I feel low energy, four days before half term? Am I wrung out or shattered? Do I feel claustrophobic inside these four walls? Am I desperate to get back into a real classroom, with real children in it?
The answer is no. No. No. And no again. I feel trepidatious about going back.
And I surprise myself by my response to this bizarre, ‘not what we expected’ transition year back in the UK. The truth is (between you and me), I am loving my virtual school. I love that I can choose the room temperature. And the clothes. I can sleep later and be with MY kids earlier. I can have a cuppa with my husband at ‘break’ and I can drink as much tea and coffee as I jolly well like, because, guess what? There is a TOILET right there and I am not risking the safety of any small people each time I use it! Which I do. A lot.
I really like that I can sit at my dining room table with a genuine, actual, comfort blanket around me (my sister’s) and with my enormous fleece to keep me warm (my father’s fleece hugging me as I work).
Because, do you know what I realise about my job, my vocation, my profession? It is EXHAUSTING: emotionally, physically and mentally. Last term was physically more draining than any other I can remember, because it is the teachers who are moving from building to building, in my case between 11 rooms in 6 buildings multiple times per day. Mentally it is tiring – someone calculated how many thousands of questions we respond to in a day – it is a lot. But emotionally…we pour ourselves out each and every day, so that our pupils get as much out of every lesson as they can. This means throwing our all into each slot of 40, 50, 60, 70 minutes (I have tried them all)…responding to every child’s needs, knowing that their enjoyment and success in our subject depends, to some extent, on us.
And so, I realise, that this extrovert is becoming a little more introvert each day. I am happier with my own company now than I’ve ever been (I used to fear time alone). Being here, now, in this space, is enough. I am not seeking thrills or hunting for opportunities to meet new people or make friends in our new city. I’m sure that will come. But for now, this is a unique window of calm and self-preservation, as I watch the snow tumble down the classroom window.
Out of Africa: Yorkshire adventure 