Closing the Year That Broke by Christine Vaccaro

Image by Christine Vaccaro

Like stepping inside an old photograph, I returned to my classroom yesterday. Its vibrancy was disorienting.  The still-proud colors of the bulletin boards; the freshly waxed sheen on the linoleum; the treetop view of lavishly foliaged oaks  --  absolutely none of it aligned with how the space had aged in my mind these past interminable months. Somehow, the room had maintained its energy, as if on standby for students that never came.

Its power blew me back. Between these walls, 150 of us gathered every single day. What was that like?  How did I forget our business used to be conducted with paper and pencils, desks and chairs? Faces. There used to be so many faces, blithely criss-crossing and bouncing through this room, as if it was not a completely amazing event. 150 of us gathered every single day in this vessel of potential transformation, where ideas and connections could be birthed at any moment -- and it was almost entirely taken for granted. It is no wonder life as a remote teacher feels like an untethered astronaut.  Without this concrete container, we have been completely adrift. 

I was there for the annual ritual of closing the year. But like everything now, this ordinary piece of life has been transformed into a spectacularly bizarre version of its former self. The NYC Department of Education allotted a carefully scripted two-and-a-half hour window for this purpose, so time was of the essence. But when I opened a random desk drawer, it stopped. It was as if I’d discovered a forgotten childhood box in my parents’ attic. Each item of mine I touched was foreign and familiar, triggering a vague recollection of the person to whom they used to belong.  

My red stapler. Dry erase markers. Thumbtacks. Paper clips: silver for regular use, striped for special occasions. A rainbow trove of Post-Its and Sharpies. All thoughtfully obtained and organized, patiently waiting in a dark drawer to show off their utility. These were the indispensable tools to ply this trade until just a few months ago. Now they are relics, each a talisman of a former self and profession.  It felt good to remember.  But it proved how much has changed forever.  Inside and out.  This school year didn’t finish in this place where it began, and neither did we. 

We were not mandated to go back into our buildings -- and in fact I would not have, except for two lurking tasks.  First, taking home my collection of National Park magnets. These are the only truly personal effects in my room, meaningful to me not just as badges honoring mountains climbed, but as mental placeholders of limitless expanse; nature’s reminder of impossible challenges surmounted. Here in New York City, we overcame our first Covid wave thanks to smart leadership and individual decisions, and plans are in motion to be back in our buildings. However, a second wave is all but inevitable, and the fact is no truly feasible way exists yet to physically return to our school buildings. So, I wanted my magnets back home. Just in case. 

But the real prompt to return to school was to say a proper goodbye to my students, from our classroom. One last video lesson in the form of a concluding ceremony; a feeble attempt to close the broken circle of this unfathomable year. An ending without closure never takes up comfortable residence in memory,  like a door always left just slightly ajar. Ghosted jobs, relationships, milestones… these become the lingering fragments of a haunted mind. To heal and integrate, a passage requires commemoration. The year felt endless, because it was in fact without an end. After everything we and our students have been through, we were left without a clear finish; a boundary that proclaims we have crossed the threshold into a new time. 

I set up my camera, admitting this farewell was as much for me as it was them. In my mind, the real year stopped short in March. And every day since has passed with the feeling that I let down my students by not rising higher to this occasion; by not more precisely echoing our classroom life into a remote version. I tried my best. But it never felt I got my arms around something that did not exist. If virtual teaching is the future of education, I am not yet certain how I fit. 

I greeted my students and said goodbye, on camera -- a place, I’ve discovered, that reflects a much dimmer rendering of my real life Teacher Self.  I told them to remember that we kicked off their historical freshman year in this room,  where both high school and a year of unforseen growth began.  I showed them those robust oaks out the window, the ones I pointed out on barren winter days, promising they would bud in the spring and become a  glorious canopy before the year’s end. I needed to keep my word on that, and the trees obliged -- effortlessly proving in every end there is a new beginning. 

Between an unreckoned past year and an incomprehensibly murky future, we stand in this present moment. Robbed of a tidy conclusion, summer is nonetheless upon us, and our imperative recuperation phase begins.  We close this year unable to conceive of the next. There are life and death decisions before us, and we not only have little say or control in making them, but for the most part little confidence in those who will. Relaxing will take some hard work this break. 

Remote learning turned our beloved profession upside down and shook out the invisible truths, proving once and for all that education is relational, not transactional. The intractable problem is clear: classrooms are where teaching needs to happen, but no truly safe or viable way exists to be back in them. A hybrid model combining remote and split-scheduled, in person learning could be a compromise, but will still be a logistical nightmare for families and educators -- not to mention a set-up for contractual violations. There are simply no good answers. For now, all we can do is attempt an enjoyable summer, and this pause in crisis teaching. In our quiet moments, we can let our minds wander to the real reimagining of education: how can we better translate the integrity and essence of our personal craft into the ersatz, virtual adaptation. Because we face no choice.  

Back in my room, I remembered what I forgot. This job used to feel good. Even on its very worst days, it still felt significant. On its best, it offered a sense of personal anchoring and authentic purpose. From this familiar space, I reviewed these past few fractured months. Always our own harshest administrators, we are trigger-quick to evaluate our work with a hypercritical eye. Yes, as a remote teacher, I struggled each day with feeling ineffective. But the fact is in the midst of a crisis, we learned to teach real-time in not only a brand new language, but one with a different alphabet.  Yanked from our comfortable routines, we were forced into doing the exact things we implore our students to do: try something new, learn from what you get wrong and do better next time. It may not have been perfect, but this moment demanded we grow into more pliable, tech-savvy and creative educators. We do not know anything about what lies ahead. But that is okay for now. As we begin summer, all we need to know is simply that we did it. We got to the end, and we learned along the way. We made it down the other side of what felt like an unconquerable mountain.  

Back in my room, numbed instincts came alive once again. I felt stirrings of the passion for being in that space every single day, gathering with 150 souls and sifting through mundane moments while on alert for a little magic. I sensed that familiar groove of closing down yet another year, the necessary precedent for the chance to begin again. 

I left the magnets there.