This post was written by 起点传媒member Sam McManus.聽
I feel like a caterpillar stuck in stasis, trying to fight my way out of this cocoon, to become the butterfly I鈥檓 meant to be, but the membrane is too thick, my claws too dull, to effect any real change. I am like Schrodinger鈥檚 conundrum鈥攁 butterfly and not a butterfly in the selfsame instant鈥攃hangeable, changed, but this is happening behind closed doors, stuck in this Groundhog Day of a life. I wonder how my students are adjusting and adapting, and I worry that too many aren鈥檛 doing either.
I teach at Mohawk Valley Community College in upstate New York, and when this crisis hit we were on spring break, the oasis in the middle of our semester, but it felt more like the calm before the storm, or like we were waiting for one of two shoes to drop. They both dropped, and I haven鈥檛 been back in a classroom since, forced into an online community that has been the absolute best thing for me, all things notwithstanding, to deal with these times.
Yes, really. I鈥檓 mourning鈥攄on鈥檛 think I鈥檓 not鈥攂ut I鈥檓 also celebrating, mourning the loss of the teacher I was, and celebrating the teacher I鈥檝e had to become. Yet it鈥檚 not about my teaching. It鈥檚 the adjusting and adapting of the students which has always informed my teaching, now so more than ever.聽Since the move off-campus I鈥檝e realized more than ever that the population I serve is largely ill-equipped to handle the pressures of this new reality, so how could I expect them to go along with a 鈥渟chool as normal except we鈥檙e online!鈥� mentality?
So we鈥檝e talked. I鈥檝e talked with students one-on-one, over the phone, over Zoom, over discussion boards where they鈥檝e discussed with each other.
We talk about how we鈥檙e feeling, how we鈥檙e devastated, how we鈥檙e trying to move ahead, but most importantly we are mourning together and reenvisioning the NOW of things, not just for school, but for this tortured life itself.
My students are children and parents. They鈥檙e human beings with responsibilities, some with essential jobs, many of whom are now unemployed and trying to exist. They are adjusting as best they can, and I鈥檓 not hovering over their shoulders, telling them 鈥淎ccept this.鈥�
These are the stages of grief, and I鈥檓 no longer on stage, so I鈥檓 working through this with them. They need that so much more than a lecturer, than trying to pretend things are still normal when they鈥檙e obviously not.
I cry with them as they process, and they cry with me as I do the same. We are living through this together, and I want them to know I鈥檓 a human being first, and everything else second. I want them to know that I am adapting too, that this membrane is holding me in right now, but it鈥檚 not keeping me contained, and it won鈥檛 keep them contained either.
I process through writing; I always have. It鈥檚 been my solace when life has thrown me its curveballs, and it鈥檚 been my salvation when I felt I had nowhere else to turn, but during this time it鈥檚 been even more than that. It鈥檚 been necessary to get my feelings out into the open where they can breathe, this Rorschach of black on white that has different meanings every time I look, because I change from moment to moment as I process this. I process it in part, as a whole, and as a stitching together of those parts so you can still see the seams.
So I write for myself. I write with my students. I feel their sense of loss keenly through their words, and I return the feeling. I keep reading all these 鈥渟ayings鈥� that are meant to make us feel better, but they鈥檙e simply sentiments, not true feelings. People saying things like 鈥淲e鈥檙e not in the same boat, but we鈥檙e in the same storm鈥� make me want to scream into the void. No, we鈥檙e not in the same storm. We鈥檙e in a pandemic, fighting through to try and make sense of it while we hope not to die from it. We are in LIFE, trying to make meaning of what it has presented to us.
And I embrace the opportunities to find a community of people unafraid to admit things are different, that this 鈥渘ew normal鈥� is not so much a normal as a series of complication that have a ripple effect that has changed and will change everything.
So we need to mourn separately, and mourn together, and embrace what we can while appreciating what we cannot change. We need to do it for us, for our students, for this new world we are facing together, so we can finally spread our wings and soar.
Sam McManus was born and raised in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. He attended Temple University, the University of Tennessee, and Utica College. He has been teaching English courses at Mohawk Valley Community College in Utica, New York, for five years. A writer first and foremost, he is the author of five novels, including the recent Me and Ricardo, based on growing up in a devastated community and learning how to grow from concrete. He is married with two children.