January 5, 2024

6:44am. Driving. My phone dings. I have been awake since 5:25, waiting for the daily update of schedule and personnel changes; the chaotic shuffleboard game forced upon us every morning.

Most days, I see the first bit of motion around 5:55 or 6:00 at the latest. This morning as I drank strong coffee and read quietly to settle my mind, not a sound. Thursday, January silence. Prickling anxiety. It’s going to be a day.

6:44. On the road, this post is late. Experience tells me one person is out of the building, for certain because one administrator posts early and the other posts much later. There is a small nagging strand of anxiety stretching at the back of my neck. I shift in my car seat and watch the blackened bend in the road ahead of me veer slightly to the right, coaxing the car around the river’s curve, past the gorgeous butter cream yellow barn with the large bright red ‘Merry Christmas’ wreath with thick, heavily bright shiny bulbs and baubles wound around greenery and radiating out hope in the pitch black. It is the only light around, save for smallish hints in the sky; soon there will be a sleepy grey sun rising over the fields and river. To wander off the road into one of the tar black fields, would be to invite disorientation.

The phone glows. There are 19 people on the list. Astonishing. Teachers, administrators, assistants, a librarian, persons who will be pulled out of their schedule to provide breaks for people required to attend other meetings where people will be missing. I shift again in my seat.

6:45. Ding. The changes, adjustments and shifts begin. A therapist who handles angry, truculent, upset and disruptive kids…is on the list. No help there today.

Almost as if telepathically, I imagine, can feel the tension of the other staff members, even though we are separated by miles. We know what each other is thinking; can picture the shaking of heads and the wistful looks at watches as disorder is anticipated.

6:55. Ding. Another teacher is out. Three additional persons from the third floor have their days turned inside out. Whatever they planned for their students, for their mandated classes, the use of their skill sets and training…is now set aside before students arrive. The chaotic ripple effect in the pond widens.

6:57. Ding. An academic coach is on the list; called up to provide coverage for four teachers (one of whom is absent) with mandated annual reviews. Required meetings grind on, despite the shortage.

7:10. Ding. I enter the parking lot. What now? Am I on the list? My wonderful first graders expect to see me every day. The exceptional teachers with whom I work, may be forced to scramble and reinvent their morning if I am snatched up. They’re very good. They handle it masterfully and the teaching continues. But people burn out and our lives are written on our faces. The collective face of our building is worn, tired and discouraged. It is January 4.

7:14. Ding. This is new. One of the administrators has to move up to the third floor and teach a class. Every day is a new adventure, it seems. I swipe my badge against the box on the wall and enter the heated building. Instead of walking directly up the stairs to the right, I decide that if I am going to be called, I will take my time getting there. I walk all the way around the first floor and enter the elevator on the other side. Desperate times…I sense the exhaustion on the first floor.

7:51. Ding. There’s another switch in the annual meeting schedule. Nothing shifts too much in the widening pond but it’s another change to note. Someone has to pay attention, because someone, somewhere is moving to another spot.

7:54. Ding. All grade level meetings scheduled for the day are officially cancelled. There is no one left to run the meetings. No one has any energy to attend anyway, I think to myself. Or maybe I say it out loud. I proceed to my first class.

8:32. Ding. There’s another switch and more movement on the third floor. I have been on the third floor 3 times this year. Up there is a world not to my liking and the energy shifts palpably between floors. I joke with my little ones that when I leave them, I am going off to hide. They think it is funny. There is raw truth in humor and I am glad they do not feel my anxiousness; do not absorb the rising frustration from confused staff.

8:45. Ding. Thus far, I have been spared. Another shift on the third floor. The dust settles and whatever can be taught within the chaos continues quietly until 11:04.

11:04. The final ding. An ESOL teacher is pulled to run a classroom in the pre-k unit; a unit which sometimes requires diapering and childcare for three year old students. The teacher struggles between rage, laughter and concern. ‘Connect with the other assistants and teachers in that wing of the building’, I suggest. I understand the concern about protocol, angry parents, litigation, preparedness…the list extends. ‘There has to be another paraprofessional who can assist you,’ I offer. ‘Both were absent before’ the teacher responds. I sit back and think about a room of three year old students with two substitutes.

It’s been a very long day.

Days end tally: twenty one people out. Countless staff members moved around. Eight or more updates throughout the day. Anxiety level: high. Anger level: high. Sarcastic commentary: rampant. Education accomplished: unknown.