Pandemic Narrative Part 13: Stability Threats and Opening Schools

I had my first education course in my junior year — Intro to Elementary Education, predictably enough. Starting it was a big transition, signaling that I had dispensed of all my generals and was finally starting to work on my major. I don’t remember a lot of specifics about the class, but I do remember one point our professor made early on — the generalization that a lot of people went into education because they wanted a life of security. 

His point, essentially: “Your jobs will be more secure than most, because society will always need schools. You’ll have unions to protect you. You likely won’t be rich beyond your wildest dreams, but you probably won’t have to live paycheck to paycheck, either. Your work schedules will closely align with the schedules your children will have. All of these things will provide you with a fairly reliable sense of security that will enhance your quality of life.” At first it seemed like he might have been taking a shot at us for following a safe and easy route with the directions we were choosing for our young lives, but it was really more of a read on what he assumed we valued, and even a compliment for picking a career that could likely provide us with the kind of life we hoped to have. (Of course at twenty years old, we still had no idea how infrequently “easy” was ever going to figure into our professional responsibilities.)

Our education system is an absolute bedrock of social order. The amount of time, thought, capital, energy, and emotion invested into just its peripheries says a great deal about our collective priorities. Football games played on autumn Friday nights are such dominant community events that the results merit coverage on more than one local television station. Video cameras seem to spontaneously generate whenever a few dozen second graders climb up on risers in a gymnasium to sing about the United States while playing rudimentary percussion instruments. Which high school people attended sometimes becomes so ingrained with their identity that they’ll wear it as a badge of honor throughout adulthood. Several aspects of our economy are arranged around, if not defined by, the school schedule. How many families organize their lives by the school year instead of the calendar year?

We crave stability. We want to know our vehicles will get us where we want to go, and get us back home afterward. We want to know our loved ones are alive and healthy and happy and safe. We want to trust our paychecks will show up in time for us to pay our bills. We want to be able to rely on knowing Fridays are something to look forward to while Mondays are test of endurance. When fundamental stability is threatened or diminished, people have a hard time accepting it. 

So what happens when a previously unknown and potentially lethal virus becomes a variable in the equation? Where does it leave us when the stability we’ve come to appreciate and base our lives around is torn to shreds? Which of our priorities are revealed to be more luxury than necessity?

Well, the virus is here, so things are going to be different now. Being able to rely on the stability schools have provided throughout our lives is, in the best case scenario, temporarily on hold. Institutions we once felt we could rely on when situations became dire might end up losing some of our trust. Sometimes that’s fair, sometimes it’s scapegoating. Sometimes the truth will be on a spectrum somewhere between those two points. 

Speaking of truth, there aren’t many truths greater than the facts, so here’s what we’re looking at as far as our worldwide pandemic goes. As of the day I’m writing this: 

*More than 18.6 million people worldwide have been infected by Covid-19. The United States has 4.9 million, or more than one fourth, of those cases. 

*Over 702,000 people have died from the virus. The United States has seen 160,420 of those deaths. That number was closer to a still horrifying 36,000 less than four months ago.

*The state where I live has seen 1,670 deaths. Of those, 938 of them have occurred in the two counties where the schools of the district in which I teach call home.

*The most recent testing positivity rate in my state is 5.1%. Anything higher than 5% is an “indicator of concern.” That rate has been trending upward in recent weeks. 

This is what our world is now. 

The school district where I teach recently announced they’ve decided to open the year in a hybrid model, meaning the kids will be learning at school for part of the week, and at home for the rest. I can’t be much more specific than that, because there’s still a lot about what this model will look like that we, the staff, don’t know yet. If this hybrid plan actually comes to fruition, a degree of risk for students, staff, and families undoubtably comes with it. I’m personally hoping that while our district leadership engages in this thankless and nearly impossible decision-making process, they still might change their minds and give distance learning a hard second look.

This pandemic has made me acutely aware of the privilege I carry. My life is far from perfect, but compared to so many others I have to admit how unbelievably fortunate I am. I have that secure job I was able to pursue in college, and it’s given me a nice and stable life I try not to take for granted.

Acknowledging that, as I think about exactly what it will look like when the new school year begins, I can’t say I’m feeling particularly secure. I’ve said this before, and it’s still true so I’m going to say it again: I have already figuratively given my life to education. I’d prefer not do it literally as well.