Mourning and Dancing: A Reflection on Student Teaching

It was a dismal drive down State Road 32 following the phone call that uprooted my hopes and dreams for the semester. Washington Township Schools, where I had been placed for my first student  teaching experience, has just made the decision to go fully virtual due to COVID-19. Thought not altogether shocking, they were the first in the state to do so and I was devastated. I pictured myself sitting alone in a cold cement basement (not sure whose) desperately trying to scribble on the concrete-wall-turned-whiteboard while my joints grew stiff with Zoom-laden arthritis. All I wanted was to connect with  students and now, my relationships would be resigned to blank stares and black screens. Mourning.

I cried a lot of tears in Pastor Terry's office, then my dad's office, then Pastor Jeff's office... (perks of an internship surrounded by trained Biblical counselors) (thanks guys) and felt so angry that God would allow such big dreams to be so suddenly dashed. I hated Zoom. I thought there was no possible way I could glean anything from student teaching over a screen. Mourning.

And then I got to school, and the first day quickly turned into the first week. I watched students battle WiFi, connection issues, low executive functioning capabilities which inhibited their access to different computer programs, loud families, babysitting siblings, links that wouldn't load, and growing mentally unwell with the perpetual isolation that came as a result  of virtual school. Similarly, I watched teachers like myself fight to get students  to turn on their screens, sit up in bed, submit assignments, participate in class, and show up  on time. The rhythms of school as they knew it were now completely off-beat, still left with no choice but to keep marching. Marching and mourning.

Burnout was real. Zoom fatigue hit hard. I was constantly angry and bitter. I showed up at my man's house and, without warning, wept. Several times. I had hardly any conversations with students outside of "please turn your camera on." I couldn't wait to be done.

Then, no surprise, our good and gracious God showed up in that turning-mourning-to-dancing way that only He can do. The drudgery  became eagerness. Students  began opening up. A narrative writing assignment  had me in dozens of breakout rooms, listening to the stories of students overcoming obstacles and coming of age and finding out that the world is bigger than just them. Stories of last minute touchdowns, broken legs, going on dates, nights spent in jail, traveling the country and learning about themselves began to flood the Zoom room. Cue the dancing. 

And as I got to hear their stories, I got to know their hearts. The student who refused to talk started bringing her baby sister to class and everyone got to see the precious infant.  The student who could barely read or write instead made a gripping speech about what it looks like to treat people well. The child who had been in jail started off class, using his leadership skills to rally the team and foster excitement about classroom community.

We laughed together. We shared inside jokes. We got creative with Google slides. We had debates. We  read stories, took risks, told our fears and frustrations,  and grew together in ways I never imagined. Dancing. Not  to say it  all became easy, but there was joy in the journey. I looked forward to firing up the Zoom call. The off-beat rhythm that  we mournfully marched to slowly started to shape itself into a song and even  though we couldn't sing it together, we were learning to dance to its tune. 

I am so thankful for the way my mourning was transformed. I still grieve the loss of never getting to meet my powerhouse students in  person, but I celebrate the relationships that overcame all odds and taught me so much about what it means to be a teacher.