Zooming in and out

Here is a good illustration of why I choose to not participate in Zoom instruction** (and why I am no longer a middle school teacher).

Picture this:

Jack, sitting at his desk, hits the "join meeting" button on his iPad.

We are immediately face-to-face with a grid of 10 squirmy 6th graders and their patient teacher. We'll call her Ms. Frizzle. She tries to talk to the class, but it's hard to focus since one student keeps changing his background from space to Hogwarts and back to space, no Hogwarts. One kid is spinning in his office chair. Another keeps zooming in on what looks like a guinea pig?  In one square you can only see the top of a kid's head. All are fidgeting, and the mic is picking-up all of the sounds.

The patient Ms. Frizzle decides she would like the kids to... and she's frozen.

The kids all start saying "Ms. Frizzle? Ms. Frizzle?" They all say, "She's frozen!" And therein begins the cacophony of "Where did she go?" "She's not the host anymore, I am!" "Ms. Frizzle ?" "What do we do?"

Ms. Frizzle's  image returns to the screen. Her audio is muted as is her mic.

The children start trying to tell Ms. Frizzle they can't hear her by yelling practical things like, "You're muted!" "We can't hear you!" "Turn-on your audio!" as they make unusual gestures with their hands. Finally, the message is received.

Ms. Frizzle , audio back on, tells the students they will one-by-one, share what they've learned this week as they continued their research on the independent projects they've been working on for at least a month. She tells the students they will each have two minutes to share. She says, "Tommy, you go first."

There is a moment of silence, and then the class erupts with questions like, "Wait. What are supposed to do?" "When?" "Why?" "But I wasn't in class on Tuesday."  "Ms. Frizzle what's the point of this?" "Can you explain it again?"

She regains control and again, very patiently explains.

Finally, the students begin sharing, one at a time, each receiving feedback and praise. After all of the students have shared, she, obviously weary from this 20 minute interaction, tells them that it's about time to sign-off. Abruptly,  one girl interrupts and shouts, "Wait! I need to show you a magic trick!"

Before Ms. Frizzle  can object, the girl performs the trick. Ms. Frizzle  says, "Good one.  Ok, well that's.." and then another student yells, "I didn't see it! Do it again!!"

This, my friends, was actually a highly successful lesson.


**We've just finished our first week of virtual teaching, and it has been a steep learning curve for many of us. We've had to completely change the ways in which we organise information. We've had to sift through the complexities of topics to get to the rudiments, and we've had to figure out a way to present information in an accessible way - something that we took for granted when we had the luxury of asking direct questions, interpreting what a kid is trying to say, and reading body language to determine how to follow-up. In a good way, this is actually a decent challenge for teachers. We should 'up' our technology game. We should be reflective about what is accessible and what isn't.  In a not so good way, we're having to jump through hoops we've never encountered before. One of those hoops involves Zoom, our safeguarding approved, face-to-face meeting platform. Teachers can't just jump onto any on-line platform. It has to be monitored by administrators; paperwork for each meeting has to be completed, nothing can be recorded, and if only one kid shows-up, you have to end the meeting immediately. All of this is important, but it doesn't acknowledge other things, like actually understanding how the meeting platform works: figuring out how to access, navigate through, mute, un-mute, host, enhance, etc.. the platform.

I've decided not to do face-to face interactions because of the complexities involved and instead have focused on creating micro-podcasts and step-by step, condensed instruction sheets for assignments. I've focused more on the roadmap and independent learning and less on the direct teacher guidance. I have that luxury in a more literature and research based class. (I feel sad for all of the math and language teachers out there.)

Virtually Indignant

I admit it. I was indignant.  I looked around the room at my colleagues and took note of their posture - mostly arms crossed and slouched shoulders, eyes shifting from the speaker to their colleagues. Every time someone exhaled a little too loudly or coughed, be it a little raspy one or a deep throaty one, the reaction was wide eyes and then pursed lips. As I considered the germs in the room, I lauded myself for sitting away from others. We were having a faculty meeting just as governments were closing borders and and people were self-isolating because of Covid-19.

To be fair, the UK was lax to react. As borders were closing and staples were disappearing off of shelves, the leadership here was confident in their decision of inaction, and, as opposed to the 50 alarmist articles I had read on-line about the actions of other countries, the UK was happy to participate in something called "herd immunity". I read that as, "We hope you get sick, even if it means your loved ones will die. Because they will. But some will be OK." That's not a direct quote from BoJo, but it sounded like that, as the rest of the world went into duck and cover. The UK would ride that nuke into the great goodnight, cowboy hat in hand, yelling "Yee Haw!" Except they wouldn't yell, "Yee Haw!", they would rationally say, "Right."

In any case, I was testy.

As the speaker went through protocol and patiently addressed concerns, I was already drafting the email in my head. I would be happy to point out the irony of having a face-to-face meeting about the importance of virtual learning during a time of contagion. I think I tempered it a bit, after I wiped off the smugness of the idea. In any case, my boss said she would look into it, and she did. Not only that, she set it up.

And I panicked when I received the link to the next meeting.

I'm not new to virtual meetings. In fact, I got my current job after having had several meetings on Skype. In those cases, I dressed in my best professional attire. I put on layers of foundation. I stacked English 12 textbooks on top of my counter so that the computer camera would project the exact, most flattering angle. I played with lighting and backdrops. Should I be in front of the bookshelf or the fireplace? One said "intellectual bookworm, 'I sometimes wear glasses because I'm smart!'", the other, "comfortable, casual, "it doesn't matter where I am, because I'm cool, but look at my home while you're here". I practiced what I would say. I wrote cue cards. I practiced not looking at the cue cards. And after the stress of it all, I vowed to never interview virtually again.

Next, I had the opportunity to try a new trend: flipping the classroom. I, again, went for the endearing, "I'm not so good with technology" teacher approach, "but you love me because I'm trying." Bless.

Only two kids out of 20 watched the lesson. It was too much work for a meagre return.

Of course, I have Face-timed, video messaged, and Skyped family, but often I tried to be as far away from the camera as possible. "Look at Jack!" I deflect. "Isn't he cute!"

It was with trepidation that I clicked on the meeting link that I had to attend... because I made it happen. I decided I would not allow my camera to film me, and I turned off my microphone, so I wouldn't be heard. I would be incognito, I thought. I would be a little fly on the wall. Still, as the image of the meeting popped-up - my colleagues all looking at me and smiling - I immediately fled, not trusting the measures I had taken to turn off the camera. It would've been an unflattering angle, after all, and I hadn't put on any make-up, much less checked the lighting. I closed my iPad, heart racing, and it took a moment for me to compose myself. Why had I allowed myself to age so much? I mean, really, would it hurt to wear a pore minimising mask occasionally? I could also maybe have done some sit-ups or lunges or something. When I calmed myself, I decided I had to go back. That was the professional thing to do. I told myself to look directly at the camera so my eyes wouldn't do that weird float around thing that happens when people don't know where to look. I took a deep breath.

I, again, joined the meeting..

only to see a room full of people laughing in my direction.

What. the actual. hell!??

I fled again. This time, I actually got up and hopped around the room in that irritated, just got jump-scared way people do when they are annoyed but also amused but mostly annoyed.  I would NOT go back. No way. In fact, I would burn my iPad. Immediately.

I needed wine.

In conclusion: Friends, this social distancing, virtual interaction will be an interesting road to navigate for some of us.  Let's hope there's enough wine.

Mole River Path

Our campus is beautiful. There's no doubt about it. England in Spring is beautiful and the sun was shining today which is why there was such an intense, apparent division between the glory of the day and my irritated mood. To describe me as grumpy or sulky would've been kind compared to the intense loathing of the universe clearly obvious to those sitting with me in the car.  I didn't feel well and was impatient; I hadn't slept well, and the very second we drove onto campus, the word "fuck" slithered out of my mouth - and not in the way one might say it, like a quick flick of a rubber band around one's wrist. It was more like a sigh "fuck" and was immediately pointed out as condemnation of my motherly persona, my son's accusation as sharp as the little finger he used against me.

I reluctantly made my way to my office where I checked the morning emails, sighed another "fuck" and decided I would try to find solace in nature. I put on my walking shoes and made my way down a new path, one that was created by an Eagle Scout and therefore one that had been cleared for walking, big yellow warning signs planted among the foliage warning any unsuspecting ambler that water exists sometimes and can be deep or dangerous. I imagined myself falling into water and floating down stream to anywhere but here, but then the practical side of me kicked in and I saw the reality of dragging myself out of the river, making my way to the sports centre on campus, and standing under a hand dryer. I didn't have that kind of time.

At the end of the path was a small opening. Spring bluebells bloomed so big it looked like the ocean. Sunlight that speckled through the trees en route now beamed on the open clearing next to the water. I found a tree stump and sat. I soaked in as much as I could, eyes shut, and let myself breathe.  I allowed myself to listen to the water, the occasional breeze through the trees, a bunny hopping in brush, the birds singing. I opened my eyes and looked at the scenery, broadly at first, and the more narrowly. Butterflies flittered around me, as did small dragon flies and floating pollen. Ants carried on with their work, moving up and down, single file, on the branch closest to me. And I breathed. And then cried - not because I was so angry at the world, though that probably did have something to do with it - but because I realized in sitting there, I hadn't actually scene the world in this minute detail in months. I cried because of how stupid that is and how unfair. I cried because I don't allow myself to sit and be and all I wanted to do was to sit there and be for as long as I could.  I set an alarm to remind myself about when to return to the reality of today. The walk softened me a bit. A colleague even said I looked like I was treading more lightly than usual.

I love this SO much. Super so much!

Breaking Barriers

My journey to international teaching was much more complex than it seems on the outside. Without going into specifics of how I got to this moment, suffice it to say I have a heart for internationalism, diversity and humanitarianism, and the International Baccalaureate Diploma Programme which celebrates these in its learner profile was the catalyst through which I joined the international teaching community.   After twelve years of teaching high school English in Texas, I sold just about everything I owned, left a fantastic job at an incredible school, and moved my family to the UK, thus becoming a full fledged, work-visa-carrying immigrant.

Learning how to navigate through nuances and expectations of culture here and the consequential misinterpretations have, on more than one occasion, left me sheepishly side-stepping away from awkward situations. Perhaps my transition from the safe and familiar to a situation that, by far, was more foreign than I anticipated is part of why Breaking Barriers interested me, especially since it involves refugees who didn’t choose for their lives to turn out this way, uprooted and unrecognizable.

I had just finished teaching a creative writing class here in the high school at ACS Cobham International School and was gearing up to meet with the Disaster Relief Fund Charity, one of our school's leading, robust charity groups. They were interested in speaking to the CEO of  Breaking Barriers, a British organization committed to helping refugees find their ways into jobs within their skill areas. I felt lucky to be invited and was impressed with the Breaking Barriers website, their motto declaring, "Refugees Lived Once, Help Them Live Again".

It is, first of all, vital to recognize the current refugee displacement as the largest humanitarian crisis since World War II. We must attempt to grasp the scope of this: Over 50 million people have fled their homes, the majority fleeing from Syria, Central Africa and South Sudan, war ravaged countries that offer little chance of survival, much less any kind of livelihood.  This crisis was quite literally flung on our British doorstep in the form of the “Calais Jungle” as it’s been coined, an incredibly impoverished refugee camp located at the immigration border of France and England where families sit and wait while European governments try to figure out what to do with them. They want to come to England, and as the hubris of political posturing and propagated fear prevent intervention, people are going hungry and getting sick, children have lost hope, and pleas for help have become familiar and normalized and are no longer making headlines. Considering this, the DRF charity committee determined to look at how and in what capacity our school could possibly help aid and support them, thus the meeting.

Matthew Powell is the CEO of Breaking Barriers. After introductions, the DRF student president, in a confident, business-like tone, asked, "So, what exactly do you do at Breaking Barriers?" Powell began detailing what they do. We learned other than helping people with language skills and literacy, Breaking Barriers pairs refugees with corporations that offer work experience and/or opportunities to shadow/work with lawyers, doctors, teachers, etc, so they get an idea of how the UK system works while building their CVs and livelihoods.

He reiterated the widely held, misguided belief that refugees are unskilled people, that they are poor or trying to take advantage of a system. We see these types of images on the news, "poverty porn" they call them - desperate people in dire circumstances: forms clinging to sinking rafts, frantic and terrified faces, a child lying dead on a beach. And in the moment of crisis they are desperate people in dire circumstances. However, that is not the full story. They are also people who have lived their lives, who went to school and to work, who built businesses from the ground up, who fed their kids dinner at night and tucked them in, annoyed when they got out of bed for a glass of water after an hour of reading stories and singing lullabies. This is the type of very recognizable, human life these people left at the mercy of complete and utter destruction. They traded survival for displacement.

Matthew conveyed part of the story of Eiad, a refugee he works with who had to flee his war torn country because he was drafted into the military and decided he didn't want to fight a hopeless, meaningless war. He said, "I traded my profession as a well established dentist to risk my life to come here, to work on the weekends at Starbucks and pick up a few hours a week working with what placements I can find. No. This is not my paradise."

He said Breaking Barriers also helps folks apply for leave to remain in the UK and (perhaps, eventually) citizenship. I laughed and told him, actually, we, as immigrants here, are going through some of the same processes with visa paperwork and when/how to apply to stay in this country, how to file taxes while we study things like what day the Queen was born or the name of Churchill's dogs, questions we may be asked if we apply for dual citizenship someday. It occurred to me what an advantage I have in having a job, knowing the language, and having the means to make it work. It's super hard even then, so I can't imagine how much harder it would be to have none of this support while also carrying the judgment and condemnation of folks who don't welcome nor want me here, the constant reminders in my face at all times.

I look forward to working with Breaking Barriers at school, and I imagine we will all come away better educated about the circumstances of refugees, or at least learn the truths that media is not conveying.

Re-Suscitation

It was bright and warm out, even though it was still early Spring, and we had been spontaneously wandering through the city, aimless and happy.  Dubrovnik is a gorgeous place with tons of winding alleys and hidden nooks. One minute you can be climbing steps and dodging laundry in a tiny residential place which might open into an incredibly beautiful vista of the sea, sunlight glimmering off of breaking waves and glittering cliffs.  We were in this exact situation - small residential area to eye-popping vista - when we stumbled into a cliff-side bar.

It was an odd establishment. To visit one had to carefully climb down steps onto the side of the cliff where a few ledges connect to make what the proprietors market as a bar. The bar itself was small and tiki, like one you might find in a college kid's backyard. One ledge down, was another that held a few chairs, divided by small coffee tables. Around these stood strategically placed umbrellas, their shade attempting to make-up for their crowding inconvenience. Also, for safety, were horizontal bars that served as a safety barrier, the only protection from a person loosing her balance, for example, and plunging head-first into the sea.

We settled into seats in a natural nook and with lagers in hand, marvelled at the incredibly stunning natural beauty. I breathed deeply and felt grateful that I was lucky enough to enjoy that exact moment in that place. It wouldn't be totally accurate if I didn't also say that I felt a cautious exhilaration. We were so high up, and the ridges were so narrow, and we were drinking, but we were also brave and free and fate had brought us to this place.

A little while later, three people - two men and a woman - climbed down the ridge onto rocks jutting out over the sea. "How weird!" I thought, as I put my feet up on one of the sturdy, horizontal bars. As they peeled off layers of their clothing, it dawned on me what they were about to do, and my heart leaped into my throat. Were they seriously going to dive into the sea? From that high up?

Yes, is the short answer. They were.

The men went first. It seemed easy for them, as they confidently stood on the edge of the rock and elegantly dove in. The woman was unsure. I gathered that it was her first time, and I wondered if this was a first date or a dare - something that began with a sly, "Have you ever wanted to" and ended with a defiant but flirty, "I would totally be into that." I also wondered why she would choose to do this particular activity in a white string bikini in front of a, albeit small, crowd. I knew nothing about this woman, but body language is universal. She was afraid, and vacillated between looking over the edge, hands on hips, and backing away, laughing, shaking her head and flipping her hair. She was being encouraged(?) coerced(?) by one of the men who was also laughing and filming her with a cell phone.

I am not sure how much time passed but it seemed like a long, long time of this sort of "I will"/"I won't" divertissement.

Finally we watched the woman steel her resolve and jump into the sea. As her head popped out of the water, everyone at the bar cheered. She waved and climbed back onto the rock. I was amazed. "How is it that people choose to do that?" I thought.  "How are they brave enough? In front of a crowd! And what if something had gone wrong?" And just like that I felt an overwhelming combination of jealousy mixed with anxiety and crushing despair. I let the emotion pass and told myself I was tired. After all, we had been out in the sun all day and drinking. Our party gathered our belongings and climbed back up the cliff into the grey alleyway that led us there.

It wasn't until after I returned home that I managed to think through my sudden mood change. Why was I jealous? Was it because I knew I would never be young again? That I didn't have the beautiful body, fit and perfect, in a white bikini? Society does say I'm past my prime, with it's constant reminders that saturate the media.  Maybe I've become overly sensible and would never take on a challenge of this sort, something I am currently way too cautious and maternal to do. Or perhaps I was jealous of the cliff diving itself; jumping off of a tall rock into the glimmering sea is a  a behaviour that requires abolishing fear while embracing confidence. Did I ever have that in me? Have I always been this cautious?

The thing is, I'm forty. And all of the "dares" I challenged myself with in my twenties and thirties - moving abroad, bearing a son, travelling, actually calling myself a writer.. hell, even keeping fit - have denigrated into this: me - an unfit, Netflix binging couch potato who drinks too much, is unsatisfied with her job, and is completely terrified to walk out the front door because she feels unfit to be seen, much less heard or valued. It's a bad place to be, caught in this negative anxiety spiral, and I've been reeling here too long.

I'm trying to patch things back together, to resuscitate my life, I suppose. I am forcing myself to go outside more, and maybe even speak to my neighbours.  I am trying to look in the mirror and not think hateful thoughts while ironically accusing myself of being vain for looking. I'm brainstorming volunteer options and am going to join a local health club.  I even changed jobs, moving from 17 years of teaching high school English to leading a Theory of Knowledge team of teachers and writing a new curriculum for Global Studies. I'm trying to remember to breathe and to think good thoughts about being in this place, right now. I am trying to find my voice again - here.

So, it's not exactly cliff diving, and I am still looking over the edge, hands on hips, and shyly backing away, but maybe it's a step forward.

Maybe it's is a little bit brave.