Dystopian Vision of Fall Education

As part of the response to my idea of lessening curriculum expectations to allow a mental health focus this year, it was suggested I write to the Globe. I read their requirements and decided I needed to present the information differently. Here is what I sent. This is my dystopian vision of what this fall might look like. I sincerely hope we can find some way to avoid what I see as the inevitable mental health disaster I see looming if we try to return to ‘normal’ school in any of the possible plans I’ve heard.

I arrive to school ready to start my day. As I walk from my car, I fasten my mask and wave to a small group of children, reminding them to keep two meters apart. Quickly they each take two steps back, looking mildly frightened. I feel guilty for starting their day that way. I walk through the front door, stopping to sanitize my already dry, cracking hands, and continue to my classroom, not stopping at the office or staffroom to say hello to colleagues and friends. The bell rings and I make my way to the doors, where children are lining up to enter. Each class has a place on the tarmac to line up, with two-meter spacings – the children fill most of the yard and it takes about 15 minutes to get them safely into the building. Instead of the usual chatter, they are quiet and sullen – they don’t seem particularly happy to be here. I greet each one cheerfully, trying desperately to boost their spirits as they come through the doors, a shot of enthusiasm with each squirt of hand sanitizer.

The announcements come on, and it is clear the principal has worked hard to make them fun, using funny voices and telling jokes. The anthem plays but singing is not allowed. Instead of reminders about social clubs and sports activities, there are reminders about physical distancing and personal hygiene. By the end of the announcements, two children are in tears. I ask what is wrong. The first child tells me she is scared she will get COVID. Her eyes are big and round, and the tears spill out of her eyes to dampen the top of her brightly coloured mask. I long to wrap her in a hug and tell her everything will be okay, but I am limited to saying, “I know this is scary, but we are being careful, and it will all be okay.” The other child stands mutely, sniffling quietly. I wait briefly, then promise to get back to him when he’s ready.

The children sit expectantly at their desks, spaced around the classroom for safety. I can’t tell whether they are happy to see me, frightened to be here, or just bored, but there is a lot to cover, so I begin my lesson. It has to be simple and straight-forward – I know their frustration tolerance is low right now, and I won’t be able to help them individually. I watch for signs of understanding, frustration, or engagement, but it is hard to measure when the children sit quietly at desks, with their faces mostly covered. I hope I’ve made the work clear. I hand out pre-made buckets of materials – one to each child so as to reduce contamination.

Once the children get to work, I crouch down in the vicinity of my earlier crier and ask if he wants to tell me what happened. His big eyes look at me warily, and I see the tears begin to form again. He mumbles something quietly, but from this distance I can’t hear him through his mask. I ask him to speak a bit louder, but he turns away in frustration and returns to his work, refusing to engage further. I feel tears sting my own eyes as I walk away, making a mental note to figure out how to communicate better with my quietest students.

A few minutes before recess, I remind students to tidy and line up for sanitizer before going out to play. One child asks me for the 30^th time, “Can we please take the basketball today? Our hands are clean. We promise not to touch our faces. Please?” My heart is heavy as I remind him of the rule – no shared equipment. I briefly watch the children wander around the playground, some talking, a few running distanced races, but many unsure of how to interact in this new normal. Sadly, I turn away and wander down to check absences. The office administrator tells me two of my students are home with coughs. No fever, likely just colds, but they will get tested to be sure, or quarantine for two weeks. My anxiety ratchets up a notch, thinking of the swabs and waiting time before their parents can relax. I wonder if we’ve all been exposed, but decide not to worry. The anxiety settles quietly into the pit of my stomach.

The day continues this way, with children barely focused and rarely joyful or enthusiastic. There are frequent tears over small things. Sometimes the children cry and don’t even know why. As crazy as it sounds, I miss the squabbles and chatter that used to drive me nuts in class. Mid-afternoon, one of the children calls me over to tell me she is afraid her mother, an emergency room doctor, will die. Another tells me he can’t go to daycare tomorrow – it is closed because one of his classmates tested positive. Both are scared, and vulnerable, and alone. I stand two meters away, smile behind my mask, and do my best to validate their concerns while reassuring them of a safety I don’t feel.

By late afternoon, students are tired and irritable. They fidget in their seats and with their masks. I stay focused on curriculum, and wonder again why academics are taking precedence over mental health, despite our assertion that mental health is our top priority. I wonder what to do about the two children who will likely miss most of this unit while they wait for results, or while they quarantine, and I wonder what will happen later in the year, when many students are out with the usual round of colds and flus. How will I cover the curriculum content?

I shake my head at this untenable, inhumane, and age-inappropriate situation.

What’s a better solution, you ask? Forget curriculum. Make school five days a week, with traceable classes (preferably small), so that children don’t hop between different cohorts at school and daycare. Combine school and daycare where possible. Practise physical distancing and mask-wearing in public spaces like hallways, but treat classrooms as bubbles, allowing students to interact comfortably, sharing materials and engaging in collaborative projects (with enhanced cleaning protocols). Teach the basics of literacy and math, with learning happening organically and naturally. Focus instead on mental health, allowing children space to process their big feelings, re-integrate into the school setting, and engage meaningfully with others. Build resilience. Allow parents to keep children home, choose outdoor options, and quarantine sick students without worrying they’ll fall behind. This is the time to break from the status quo and demonstrate bold leadership. Be innovative and use this year to experiment with what works. Re-imagine, rather than returning to a system that was already struggling to work. Put the physical and mental health of children and families at the top, so that we’re all more ready to engage when this is over.