1981/2020

In 2020, it's Friday. The day when teachers usually say, "Phew, we made it through the week!" We celebrate what went well, bemoan what didn't, and start to gear up for the next week. So, when I walked out of my classroom today, I had a minor meltdown. I paused with my bin, filled with what I might need for the next 6 weeks, and just stared with my breath caught in my chest.  This classroom is my sanctuary, my energy, my home, and my work. My students are my why everyday.  My team, my family at work, is filled with the most dependable, innovative, and intelligent people. The administrators I work with? So dedicated, so passionate, so driven, and so good to work with. And, so, when I left today, there was no celebration. There was no relief. There was really only sorrow.

In 1981, in southwestern Minnesota where I grew up, money was tight, especially for a small, rural school district. Just four years before, the district had ended the year in the red - to the tune of over $100,000. And in 1980, by the narrowest of margins, only 30 votes, the school district approved a referendum to build a new athletic complex. Following that approval, between local and state budget shortfalls, the district had to cut almost $200,000. This led to staff layoffs and cuts to programs like language arts, home economics (now called Family and Consumer Sciences), and Physical Education.

In October 1981, in my small town, the teachers' union voted to strike. On Wednesday, October 14th, to coincide with fall break, classes were cancelled indefinitely. My mom was an instructor at the technical college at that time. This meant my mom was on strike, too. I honestly don't remember a lot about that time except the tension. At first, we just had a few days off. And then, a few days more. And then, a few days more. I do recall that this was very polarizing for the community. My friends whose parents weren't teachers, were parrotting their parents in saying, "I don't know why the teachers on on strike. It's greedy, don't they care about the kids?!"

That fall, I was a 10 year old fourth grader. My teacher was a strict, 90 pound, 5 foot tall fearless woman I was scared of. Mostly because once she called me in from recess to talk about a signature I had forged, but that's another story.  My sisters were in 8th and 9th grade respectively.  After 3 weeks, the negotiations were at a standstill. It was getting colder and the strike headquarters, a former gas station at the corner of Prentice and Ninth Avenue, was hopping with teachers unable to teach. And still, teachers were walking the picket line every day.  As supporters (because my mom was on strike as a teacher), we brought coffee, hot chocolate, and cookies to the striking teachers.

It was also cross country season, and my 9th grade oldest sister was a dominant runner who had qualified for the state meet.  On October 31st, she ran in the State Class A race. Our family brought her, our family supported her and cheered her 3rd place finish, and then we brought her home. She could have no contact, or receive any coaching from her coach. But, at that point, we were just so grateful that she would be allowed to compete.

In mid-November, with no settlement in sight, the district made the decision to re-open school with substitute teachers.  The polite word for them was substitute, the impolite word was scab. The substitutes who chose to cross the picket line and teach had a variety of reasons I'm sure.  It could have been money, experience, survival, who knows? I remember my mom telling us that school was starting up again, and for one brief moment, my heart surged. Yes! (I loved school.) I could be back with my friends and going to school which I loved. But, she went on to explain that, because she was a teacher, the three of us could not cross the picket line either. I hung my head and said, yes, I understood. It was solidarity. But, it didn't stop my sadness at not being able to return to school with my friends.

On that first day of school, I stood in our entryway and watched bus #10 turn the corner and head to school without me. That memory is crystallized in my brain. Backing away, I retreated to my room and allowed myself to lose my emotions in a book. The teachers who had school age children decided at that time to start their own school. Card tables were set up in my living room and my teachers and my friends came to my house. I know we had math because we had some worksheets to do. Where they got them, I have no idea. We also visited the planetarium as a "field trip." We had school, but it obviously wasn't the same. In the afternoon, my neighborhood friends would come over and were bursting with how much fun it was with the new teachers. My sister remembers that one of her classmates said, "These teachers are soooo much better than our regular teachers."

These were trying times for the community. Finally, In late November, the school district and the teachers' union reached an agreement. Our district was one of 35 in the state that lived through and learned through a strike that year. 

These last few weeks have been crazy, to say the least. At the same time, it's provided the opportunity for me to reflect on other times in my life where circumstances have been beyond my control. I've seen parallels between myself as a 10 year old student and my own 12 year old students. They have had unknowns, too. They went from spring break to another unexpected week off, while my fellow teachers and I planned for how we would teach them in a way we've never done before. Tonight, I'm sure they are uncertain, but anxious to try whatever we can offer them.

In this story, there are also perpendiculars. I'm sure that when my teachers left their classrooms on October 14th, they expected the negotiations to be over quickly. They didn't pack everything as a finality. They expected to be back quickly, doing what they loved to do. But, because negotiations went poorly, and neither side could come to an agreement, they were not able to return to their classrooms until almost six weeks later.

For myself as a teacher, there's rarely been a year where I haven't either been in school as a student or as a teacher. As it was when I stood in my entryway as a ten year old, tonight I'm faced with what I know and love - school - looking so very, very different. Tomorrow, I start teaching my students in ways I never have. My strengths as a teacher are connections, relationships, stupid jokes, small touches,  and personal interactions. Those things will be hard for me to do through a webcam, headset, and audio in an online forum while I sit in my dining room with a map of Minnesota taped to my china cabinet. But, just as I did in 1981, and my students will do in 2020, we will persevere and be educated by our circumstances and experiences. While my experience as a ten year old was of a polarized community, this definitely is not. We all understand the importance of staying home and making the sacrifices for the greater good. Our community understands that we love our students and that all of us will make it through this time stronger together.