The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 77

Road Trip Edition #3: The Reason We're Here

I know a lot of you have been thinking of me and my family as we traveled, and sending good vibes and prayers our way. I know you've also been wondering about my dad --about what's going on, and how he is doing.

So, here is the whole story, posted with permission from my Dad. Almost two months ago, Dad got out of bed in the middle of the night to check on his terror cat (that I talked him into getting...I'm always going to feel a little bit guilty about all of this), and promptly passed out. He hit his head HARD on the door frame when he fell.

He went to the doctor in the morning, and was diagnosed with orthostatic hypotension, a condition that causes a drop in blood pressure when you stand up, resulting in dizziness or even fainting. The doctor checked him and cleared him for a concussion, reduced his blood pressure medication dosage, and sent him home. Dad learned to get up more slowly to allow the dizziness to pass, and although he still felt kind of off, he went on with his life, as much as he could under the Florida lock-down conditions.

But he was really struggling, more and more, with depression and anxiety, both from all of the losses and adjustments he's had to make in the last 10 years, and also from the incredible loneliness and stress of dealing with lock-down and shelter-in-place orders. He just couldn't emotionally feel okay, and he finally went to the doctor to start on some meds to help. But instead of feeling better, he was just feeling worse and worse. He was jittery, shaky, clumsy, and exhausted. He sounded horrible, like he was so tired he could barely speak. He decided to stop taking the meds and go in for an evaluation the day after Memorial Day because he just felt awful.

As soon as he walked into the doctor's office and explained his symptoms, they admitted him with suspicion of a stroke. He was transported to Advent Health in Tampa for testing and surgery. He had a fist-sized subdural hematoma (between the membrane and the brain), caused by the impact of hitting his head back in early April. The impact of the fall had caused a bleed that initially clotted, but then continued to bleed, putting pressure on his brain and causing a shift, which was causing the confusion, clumsiness, a lot of emotional distress, and extreme shakiness. The surgery was successful and a drain continued to drain the buildup of blood.

Unfortunately, because of the vacuum that was caused by the surgery and removal of the initial clot, a secondary bleed started and he had to go in for a second surgery two days later. That surgery found that the second bleed was an extradural hematoma, a bleed above the membrane. His surgeon cleaned out the second clot and said it looked great and there was no need for an additional drain.

Throughout it all, the nursing staff here at Advent Health has been amazing, fielding phone calls from all of us kids, as we checked in on Dad and demanded updates since we couldn't be here in person. My brother Justin drove over from Orlando for the first few horrible days to sit with Dad. My sister-in-law Kayla, a neuro nurse in Oklahoma, kept asking questions so that we could get answers and know what was going on. My sister Stephanie offered to drive down immediately. The nurses and the surgeon were incredibly patient with me as I called every morning and every night, asking for answers and updates and for them to hold the phone so that I could talk to Dad.


Today, I'm sitting here in ICU with my Dad, waiting for his transfer to a regular room to be complete. The surgeon came in and told him that his slight left-side weakness will go away with time and possibly some physical therapy, and that he is going to be back to normal very soon. His sense of humor is back; he insists they had to drill three holes in his skull because they couldn't find his brain the first time. He insists that scotch would be a much better beverage than Ensure, and that if they really want him to pee, they're going to have to bring him a pitcher of Bud Light. All of his lady friends have been texting him like crazy, and he can finally answer back. He kind of looks like Gerald McRaney with his head shaved, all dapper and grinning impishly.

Gerald McRaney

He will be here at the hospital in Tampa for a few more days, as they continue to monitor his progress. But we are going to get him back home very soon, and lecture him about trying to tough it out instead of getting medical help when he feels like crap. And after my brother and Michael and I get Dad settled back in his house, my carload will head back up North. The other siblings will come in from Oklahoma and Kentucky in shifts, to lecture Dad some more, and surround him with all of the love in the world. He is going to be so sick of family, he'll be begging for some alone time when we're all done with him. 
And to all of you who have held us and him in your thoughts, thank you so much for going on this journey with us and keeping us safe. You are loved.

TL;DR: Dad is transferring out of ICU and demanding some scotch. He's gonna be just fine.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 76

The Road Trip Edition #2: There Are Some Crazy-Ass Billboards Down Here, Y'all

As we drove through Georgia and into Florida, we couldn't help but notice that the billboard business is alive and well. It definitely kept our spirits up and the conversations going.

First, this doozy in Georgia reared its ugly head. Clearly, this billboard sponsor missed the parts of the Bible that explain that Jesus was so progressive that he would have been too radical for even the Democrats. And I'm not sure why the Democrats get a pitchfork (thought their symbol was a donkey?) but, based on that iconography...are democrats actually the devil? Or just hangin' with him? I have so many questions.

We definitely appreciated all of the billboards about a fetus' developmental stages, which only proves why education, birth control, and medication abortion are critical and necessary components of health care. We also appreciated this public service announcement in Northern Florida, as it gave us a chance to talk with the kids (homeschool goes on the road!) about the actual science of fertilization, implantation, and medication abortion and how it all works. And no, kids. You can't shove that period back up in there, no matter what a billboard tells you. 

You can, however, go shoot some very big machine guns in very little short shorts for a very reasonable price. I mean, in her defense, it IS hot down here.

But the billboards that got us so good that I almost had to pull over so as not to crash the car in hysterical laughter were the series from www.i-will-be-back.org, a group that is very...graphically talented. When I saw the first in the series, I yelled out, "Hey, look! Jesus bought a billboard!"

But Jesus didn't just buy a billboard. He also did some...war stuff? 

And then, you guys, Jesus got weird. Because these are definitely zombies. And although we joke about "Zombie Jesus" on Easter ('cause he rose from the dead), we had not ever envisioned that Jesus was converting the zombies, and making the undead...more undead.

Jesus not only bought himself a whole bunch of billboards, but he also promised to make the undead very clean, and very happy, and very white, with very shiny teeth.

And so, in summary: Jesus, abortion, guns, Jesus. Also, peaches, pecans, and plantations. Kinda makes pasties and mystery spots and seashell city (nowhere near a sea) feel like they're a million miles away.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 75

The Road Trip Edition #1: Observations from the First Four States...

Michigan roads are still the worst. If 23 by Ann Arbor got any narrower, it would just be a bike lane with a really shitty shoulder and too much traffic. It's such a relief to make it to Ohio, until you realize that you are in...Ohio. Not only does Ohio last forever, but Big Butter Jesus is just a disappointment now, ever since the epic meltdown of 2010. And I have realized that no matter the season or time of day, it is ALWAYS driving rain and a full stop traffic jam on 75 in Cincinnati. Every single time I have driven to Florida in my life, Cincinnati has been a shit-show of traffic, construction, and torrential rains. Are 4 lanes going down to 3? Or maybe just 2? Why does that police car have its lights on, when no one is pulled over? Also, Ohio speed limits are the epitome of random. Is it 55? 65? 70? There's no way of knowing. It's just part of the fun of Ohio.

Kentucky was better. Better weather, better traffic, better roads, better scenery. The beauty of the rolling green hills almost made me forget the constant bickering of the kids in the back seat.

The south-er we drove, the fewer masks we saw. The guy at the drive through window at McDonald's was wearing a mask...under his chin. We were definitely in the minority, as mask-wearers, and the kids were embarrassed to use the rest-rooms at a truck stop because they didn't want to look stupid. I felt it, too. Even after wearing a mask in public for several weeks now (and caving on one occasion because I felt so awkward), I still feel conspicuous. It's even harder when you're the only one in the room and you are 13. (Of course, everything is harder then.)

Once we crossed into Tennessee, we realized that the rules of the road as we knew them no longer applied. I am a "10 over the speed limit IS the speed limit" girl, but cars were flying by me. Turn signals mean nothing, and people are not afraid to change lanes randomly in front of you and cut you off on a whim. Now, if you accidentally cut someone off, they will lay on the horn, and then race up next to you and make all sorts of gestures...and the cars after them will join in, like a shame parade. Apparently everyone in Tennessee has an opinion and no one can stay in a lane.

We're now at a hotel in Chattanooga for the night. The indoor fitness center and the outdoor chlorinated pool are closed for safety precautions during this pandemic, but the restaurants are open. It all makes perfect sense to someone, somewhere.

Tomorrow we head through all of Georgia and half of Florida. Stay safe out there friends. Wear your masks and wash your hands, and remember that turn signals are an amazing invention, the benefits of which should never be squandered in haste.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 74

To Go or Not to Go...That is the Question

After 74 days of blogging about the this pandemic, about how my family and I have been dealing with it all, and throwing shade on protesters and party-goers and hair-cutters and vacationers, my family and I have suddenly been faced with a tough decision to make: do we drive to Florida to help my dad?

It hasn't been an easy decision. We've debated the safety of the trip, the necessity of the trip, and even the legality of the trip. But here is what we know: taking care of a family member trumps the inherent dangers of the trip. We are healthy, we have been following quarantine instructions fairly closely, and we know what precautions to take, to protect ourselves and others. We have masks, we have hand sanitizer, we have Lysol and Clorox wipes (for wiping down surfaces, not for injections), we have a bag of food and water in the car, and travel bans have been lifted. And we need to go down and take care of a man we love deeply; we need to be there for him and for us; we need to do this.

We won't be visiting Disney, or Dollywood, or a beach. We won't be eating in restaurants along the way. We won't stop at a Hard Rock Cafe; we won't check out the state parks. We will do our very best to keep ourselves safe, and to protect those we come in contact with.

https://unsplash.com/@_blahblake

I don't know if this makes me a hypocrite or not, after I've spend a decent portion of the last 74 days mocking the protesters who can't handle it when a woman says no. But I do know the difference between a pleasure trip and a necessary trip, and I firmly believe this falls into the latter category. At the same time, I also have to admit that getting the hell out of dodge, even if it means we've just transferred that claustrophobic hell to the 4 walls of my Jeep for a 40-hour drive, is kind of enticing. Seeing something --anything-- other than the tree in my front yard sounds amazing right about now.

So, tomorrow, it's road trip time. I'll keep writing over the next few days, as we drive through several states, and I will continue to think about and process what we are doing, what other states are doing, and what it means to take care of ourselves, our communities, complete strangers, and the people we love the most.

To go or not to go? In my mind, there is no question.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 73

A Waiting Game

Today was pick-up day at school. No, not the big trucks with the flags in the back (thankfully), but rather the day that the high school kids came and picked up all of the stuff they had left behind. (There was so much stuff, all of it in clear trash bags, labeled in Sharpie. One student had three --three- winter coats in her locker. I saw more pairs of underwear in those bags than I really ever wanted or needed to see. I have so many questions.) Although I wasn't assigned a duty, I showed up anyway, and I'm glad I did: not only because I got to see so many students, but because I ran my butt off and was clearly needed. I was a sweaty mess by the end, and my mask was grossly moist from my open-mouth panting into it for two hot hours, but it was a good day. I got to see some of my students, talk to several of them, connect with two I have been really worried about, and make dorky heart hands to as many as possible. And, based on the piles of books I saw in the hallway, at least 50 of my 150 missing books were returned.

The seniors also picked up the caps and gowns and diplomas, and oddly, a cookie.  They'll have to wait for Pomp and Circumstance until August, when we plan to hold an in-person graduation for them. But they were smiling. And surprisingly tan. They waved and settled for dorky hand hearts and cookies today.

Late last night I recorded and posted the assignment for the last two weeks of English for my juniors. Tonight, after I finish this blog post, I will post the last assignment for public speaking. And then all that's left is grading and giving feedback and checking survey responses. That's it. The school year is done. It ended with a sigh. There isn't even a summer reading project for my next group of AP Lit kids, because I don't have a solid way to ensure that I could include them all and get resources to all of them, or even know exactly who will be taking the class for sure in the fall. Everything feels so unfinished --so in limbo-- even though the school year is, in essence, done.

Photo by Dan Magatti on Unsplash

Looking forward, it's a wide-open summer, with no summer camps or travel plans. Just one family camping week that I am desperately hoping will still occur.  I've never looked into a summer with so much unknown, not for years...probably not for decades. I applied to be an AP Lit reader (waiting to hear back); I applied to be an MEA canvasser (waiting to hear back); I'm on the planning team for the CRWP summer institute; I applied to be on the Governor's Return to Learning Advisory Council (waiting to hear back); I will be participating in the New York Times Teaching Project; and I applied to be a lighthouse keeper (sadly, not selected). There are a lot of possibilities ahead of me, but also a lot of questions. What will my routine look like, once school is done? What will my kids be like as human beings, when this routine fades and the next one begins? How long will we be living in this weird, disconnected limbo, sitting behind screens and keyboards, substituting real experiences with virtual ones?

For now, it's a waiting game, a game of probabilities, possibilities, and unknowns. For a planner and a doer like me, it's a strange space to sit in, this lack of solid ground. But with so much unknown, so much wide-open space, it's also a huge opportunity --a chance to tackle something on the list. A chance to try something new. A chance to regain some of what I've lost in the last decade, as I pushed through a divorce, and a doctorate, and a remodel, and a broken ankle, and 1,000 other things. A chance to get back in touch with some of the rest of my life, some of the things I've been letting slide. A chance to try to (re)connect with my kids and my partner.

Maybe, even, a chance to clean my desk.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 72

No Visitors Allowed

Since this pandemic hit, I've watched, through the protective distance of social media, as a friend dealt with the loss of her father. No visits with family, no funeral, no chance to celebrate a life. I've watched another family that I've taught for decades reel from the loss of both a patriarch and a matriarch. No visits with family, no funeral, no chance to celebrate those lives well lived.

I've also watched the birth announcements hit, as women I know gave birth alone, surrounded by medical staff but no loved ones. A laptop with a live feed is no replacement for sitting with the woman you love, as she brings a life into this world. From the safety behind my own computer screen, I have wondered what it must feel like, to bring a helpless and vulnerable child into this world right now, when we all feel a little bit helpless and vulnerable ourselves.

Photo credit: ABC13 WLOS staff

Today, someone I hold very dear is suddenly hospitalized, states away. Do I hop on a flight and take my chances? And if so, to do what, exactly? To sit in a hotel room in the same city as the hospital? There are no visitors allowed.

In times like these, we should be together, not miles and miles apart. This keyboard and this computer screen are no replacement for human contact. We knew this. We've always known this. We've just pretended to ourselves that, somehow, virtual was just as good as actual. 

But it's not, and we can't pretend that it is. I can't hold a hand through this screen. I can't sit with someone in their physical or emotional pain when I can't be near them. This no contact, virtual world is a lousy substitution for sitting with the people we love when they feel a little bit helpless and vulnerable.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 71

Closing the Doors on the School Year

I finally checked out of my classroom today. The deadline was last Friday, but since it was a holiday weekend, I knew that no one would be in until tomorrow and I could put it off, this thing I was dreading, until today.

It is sad, to check out of my classroom. After the godawful situation of teaching our of the hell-hole LGI a year ago, this year was amazing, to have an actual classroom, one that I designed and decorated with multi-level tables and fairy lights and lamps. Students loved the room, even though it is the smallest room in the high school. They said it was calming and cozy, and they actually looked forward to coming to class, at least for the ambiance. Students were often in my room during their independent study classes and online classes, preferring the "coffee shop" atmosphere to the florescent lights of the library. A lunch crew adopted my room as their own, and an eclectic group of acquaintances became a tight group of friends by the end of the year.

And then, suddenly and with very little warning, it was over.

I miss my students. About a third of them are still participating in school work, and I get to see their faces in Flipgrid assignments and interact via Remind, Google Forms, and email. But two thirds of them have disappeared, taking about 150 of my textbooks with them.

The student pick-up for their belongings is this Wednesday. Although I eagerly volunteered to be a part of that day, once again I was not invited. I'll still be there, though, at the end of the driveway, awkwardly waving to students as they come and get their things, and hoping desperately that they will return some of my textbooks.

This was not how I wanted the school year to end. This was the year that I planned to rebuild my room, rebuild my curriculum, rebuild my mental health, and rebuild my relationships with students. Instead, it became the year where I broke my ankle, was publicly embarrassed by some well-meaning but misinformed individuals, was ghosted by people I cared about, and then dealt with the whiplash of a sudden closure of schools.

But it was also the year that I rebuilt my room, and my curriculum, and my mental health, and my relationship with students. And that last part --that relationship with students-- can't be diminished by the rest of the things completely out of my control. Although half of my eclectic lunch crew has graduated, the other half will be back in the fall. And those relationships with students --that's the part that I need to remember and need to focus on, as I wave to students at the end of the driveway on Wednesday. It's because of them that I remember why I became a teacher in the first place and why I will continue to teach, long after this pandemic is over.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 70

It's a Holiday Weekend! Let's Party!

It's Memorial Day weekend, y'all! A weekend to celebrate going up North and to commemorate all of the sacrifices our boats have made for us. A weekend where we remember what's really important in our great nation: hot dogs and beer and our cottages in tiny towns in Northern Michigan without hospitals.

No one's really at risk up there, because the virus isn't really up there very much. So we will definitely be safe to go to the gas station and the boat launch and the local dive bar and the party store. We won't be exposed at all. In fact, it's safer up there than it is down here.

We have been cooped up for so long without access to massive garden centers and aisles of paint that we have earned a ride on our Sea-Doo. It's the only way to save our mental health. And it is unhealthy --dangerous even-- to go for too long without draft beer. Just in the last 70 days, we have sacrificed so much --our very way of life-- that we absolutely must gather with large crowds in public spaces before we go insane. And the beaches are open!

Just don't head to Midland or Sanford. I've heard it's pretty messy around there. I mean, there isn't even a lake anymore. What fun is that? That beach sucks.

Thankfully, even though the death toll from Coronavirus is rising nationwide, Northern Michigan is doing just fine. There are a few counties in the UP that don't have any cases at all! But that's way too far to drive. We'll stay under the bridge. There are several counties where no one has died yet. Thank goodness our cottage is in one of those counties. Nothing to worry about! We'll be perfectly safe!

Happy Memorial Day weekend, y'all. Drive safe, and don't forget the sunscreen. Also, don't forget to take your mask off. Those masks leave some ugly tan lines.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 69

She said 69. Heh heh heh.

Masks suck. They really do. and I don't even wear glasses. Honestly, I really can't complain. But whenever I wear a mask, I feel conspicuous. I look stupid. I feel awkward. I can see the edge of the mask in my peripheral vision and it is disconcerting. It's hot. It's a bit claustrophobic. My eyes dry out and start to burn.

Photo by Irene Strong on Unsplash

I have also realized that masks have made me face blind. When I am at the store, I am never quite sure if I recognize someone or not. I think I saw a student at Aldi last week, but I'm not exactly sure. She ducked, as if she was avoiding me. She laughed in the next aisle, as if she was mocking me. I caught myself looking at what she was wearing, at her shoes, at the length of her hair, at her body shape. Was that her? If so, was she avoiding me? Or was she just mocking me? Or was it just a complete stranger, morphing into some strange projection of my own insecurities? When I can't see the faces of those around me, when I am left with only their eyes, I lose the inability to identify others, to identify intent, to read a situation, to read a room.

Yesterday, I was at Rite Aid, picking up a prescription. Since I was there, I figured I might as well refill my own prescription of bourbon and beer. As I was checking out, there were two clerks on duty; the 60ish white woman at the register was clearly training the 50ish Black man. As she rang up the bourbon, she told her coworker that she'd show him how to get it off quickly.

I snickered.

Then, she handed him the bottle that was security capped. She told him that the key was how you moved it. You had to ease it in, and then wiggle it around.

I snorted.

He caught on quickly. "It's not about strength, but about direction and skill," he mused.

I couldn't help myself.

"That's what she said," I said under my breath.

But I was wearing a mask. If they heard me, they didn't react. And I was stuck, laughing at my own bad joke, stuck behind a mask, my smile covered, my intent at connection completely thwarted.

Happy day 69, my friends.

Wear a mask when you are out in public. Please. Because we need this virus to go away sooner rather than later. We need to get to the point to when masks are no longer necessary. We need to get to the place where my bad jokes are once again heard, acknowledged, shared. We need to get to the point where I can once again read a room.

Day 69. This is so hard.

That's what she said.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 68

It's Okay to Just Be Okay for Today

It's okay to feel the way you do, to feel down even when the sun is shining. Some days feel
warm and glowing and light, even when it's raining; other days feel a little bit empty, even when the clouds break and the sun streams through.

We are so conditioned to try to push down our own emotions if we just aren't feeling it today, because others have it worse. We are so conditioned to feel guilty when we can't seem to muster up perpetual happiness.

It's okay to acknowledge the beauty around us and simultaneously see the devastation. It's okay to stand in the center of destruction and be awed by the gorgeous power of it all. And it's okay to wish we were anywhere but here, even though here is actually not that bad of a place to be.

It's okay to just be okay for today.

Take a walk. Take stock of where you are. Take stock of who you are. Take stock of where you wish you were. Take stock of who you wish you could be.

Then take a breath.

You're okay.

That's good enough for today.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 67

Reaching for the Stars (or Going Down the Rabbit Hole?)

Apparently, I will do anything to avoid cleaning off my desk. Since I already built a kayak rack, this week I decided to start a business.

A week ago, I was sitting in the front yard with my daughter from another mother and a mutual friend, safely social-distancing, while we talked about graduates and graduation. It sucks that high school grads may not get their open houses, at least not at that sweet spot in the year when everyone is still in town and still thinking about school. And a lot of high school grads really count on that money to subsidize their first year at college. But going ahead with open houses isn't the right thing to do: needlessly endangering friends and family is no way to celebrate. I mused that someone should start a business, some sort of virtual open house business, so that the Class of 2020 could set up an open house online, maybe even a registry, and provide a way for their friends and family to celebrate them, maybe send them gifts, without having to leave their homes.

Photo by Marleena Garris on Unsplash

So, that's what we did. My daughter and I set up a website, complete with a store. I registered as an LLC, researched tax and sales tax laws; we spent way too many hours troubleshooting a coding glitch, and then went live with our idea: My Graduation Open House. At My Graduation Open House, graduates can set up a profile, post pictures, and write about their accomplishments and plans, all for free. They can share their profile link, and friends and family can visit their virtual open house, leave them notes of congratulations, and --if they so choose-- purchase gift cards that we will then directly mail to the graduates, along with personal notes from the gift giver.

We're not sure if this business will actually turn a profit; that will take some time. We're not even sure if this idea will catch on. But it seems like something that the Class of 2020 needs: a way to be celebrated, a way to connect with friends and family, a way to create that photo collage and talk about their future plans. And if it doesn't turn a profit, or even catch on, it was still time and money well spent. We believe in the concept; and for those kids who do sign up for it, we want to support them during this strange time of loss and celebration. We have learned so much in the last few days, both on the technical side and on the business side. We've set up a Facebook page, a Google ad campaign, an email campaign, and a pretty sweet-looking website. And we did it all in less than a week.

So if you are a grad or know a grad, come visit us at My Graduation Open House. Set up an account, set up a profile, and celebrate the Class of 2020.

Meanwhile, I'ma go take a nap.

Maybe tomorrow I will clean my desk.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 66

Our True Colors

Everybody needs a haircut up in here. We've grown to a whole new level of shaggy. I caved and bought clippers and attempted to groom our muppet dog, but now he looks like a furry muppet goat with a beard. 

Sam has been planning to donate his hair, and this would be the ideal time to cut it. He's easily got a foot to donate. He looks like Janice Joplin. But I'm not going to risk marring his incredible gift by hacking at it with the kitchen shears. We'll wait. He'll wait.

I did get out the sharpest scissors I had and found a fine-toothed comb, nicked from picture day at the school, and attempted to trim both daughters' hair. Thankfully, they both have long, relatively straight hair. I didn't really have to create a "style." And, I mean, my handiwork doesn't look absolutely horrible. The girls don't look like goats. But I am definitely not a professional, and I will definitely be allowing the professionals --begging the professionals-- to take over once we are out of safer-at-home.

I just keep dying my own hair various shades of purple and randomly cutting an inch off of my ponytail when it isn't cooperating. And Michael is growing his first ever shaggy beard, turning into an absent-minded middle-aged hipster.

I grin as I sit in Zoom staff meetings and again as I watch the Flipgrid videos my students recorded for their project, at all of the emerging mullets and carrot tops and unintentional skater looks. Safer-at-home has become the great equalizer; our true colors are showing and we all look a bit unkempt.

Photo by David Anderson on Unsplash

Meanwhile, a gaggle of barbers met at the capitol, and 300+ people lined up for haircuts (or to carry their guns around, it's never quite clear). I'm not sure why barbers and hairdressers, protesting their own business closures, would then risk their lives and the lives of their clients, risk keeping the state locked down even longer, risk $1000 citations, risk jail time, and even risk losing their licenses, in order to make this point.  But "she's not my mom" was once again a common unifying theme, highlighting the maturity of this ongoing temper tantrum. In a true sign of patriotism, "One hairdresser draped patrons in an American flag cape," and in a true sign of racism, Owosso martyr Karl Manke compared complying with the executive orders designed to keep us from dying as similar to Jews in Germany, "willingly [getting] into those cattle cars." He's no gullible Jew, that feisty Karl. 

Of course, the governor wasn't even in Lansing today, because dams broke in Midland and 11,000 people had to evacuate. Their homes, their businesses, their cars: they actually lost those. They are underwater. Not in a metaphorical sense. Not in a "owe more on my mortgage than it's worth" sense. Not even in a "things are really tight right now and I'm afraid I might lose my business and I hate this and I want to go back to work" sense. Their homes, their cars, their businesses, their roads, everything they own: literally under water. 

87.5 miles away from the haircut party, people trudged through feet of water, carrying their dogs and their children and a backpack, desperately trying to get to higher ground. Flood waters flooded Dow chemical's containment ponds. Flood waters took out sections of US-10. Flood waters poured into five wastewater treatment sanitary stations. Flood waters wiped out the power for thousands. Instead of staying safer-at-home, 11,000 people are having to sleep on a friend's couch, crash at grandma's, sleep in a school gymnasium, find shelter, and figure out how to rebuild, now that they've literally lost everything.

But, by all means, let's get a fucking haircut.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 65

The Episode Where She Screamed FUCK.

FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK.

via GIPHY

I feel better now.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 64

The Day It Never Stopped Raining (It's a Party Up in Here)

-also-

Quarantine: A Paradox.

Photo by Kevin Delvecchio on Unsplash

Weeks ago, my daughter from another mother suggested that we have a Powerpoint party. At the time, it sounded hilarious, but also intimidating. I wasn't sure I had an idea good enough to really be entertaining. I definitely wasn't sure the kids and the partner would go for it. 

A week later, a friend on Facebook posted her family's topics for the Powerpoint party they were having, and I realized that this was something we needed in our lives.

It took some time to get everyone on board, and for everyone to get their presentation finished. But tonight was the night. I had nicked the clicker from my classroom, we hooked up the laptop to the tv, and we were ready to roll. 

In case you wondered what a Powerpoint party is, it's exactly what you think it is. Everyone picks a topic, a niche, something they feel strongly about. It can be serious, it can be funny, it can be obscure, it can be common knowledge. You can hold them face-to-face if you are lucky enough to shelter-in-place with friends and family, or you can hold them via zoom if you are sheltering from afar. Either way, the specificity of the topics is key. It's gotta be your niche of knowledge, your passion project on the random.

After dinner, it was time. I put our names into a random order generator. I was up first.

My topic? "Why Rush Sucks." I proceeded to educate my family on the horrors of Sorority rush, Rush Limbaugh, and Rush the band. Rush, no matter the model, has terrible fashion sense, is pompous and ridiculous, and just simply sucks.

Michael followed with "Delaware: First State? Or Worst State?" and by the end of it we all agreed that any state that smelled like swamps and chicken farms and had more corporations than actual people was kind of its own level of dreadful; we gladly watched the last minute of Fight Club (minus the penis splice) as Wilmington crashed to the ground.

Second daughter was next with "Fictional Characters Who Definitely Voted Republican." Some, like American Dad and Mr. Krabs, are obvious. But we also realized that Hank Hill would be first in line for a protest haircut, that Willy Wonka had serious OSHA violations, that Elmer Fudd was a yee yee, and that Shrek loved to kick foreigners off his land. (Joe Dirt, although definitely a sharer of "Whitler" memes, probably wouldn't actually bother to vote IRL.)

Sam then thoughtfully explained why "Marvel is Better than DC" and his criteria were faultless. After considering the Chris count and the quality of spandex in the universes, we had to agree.

Finally, Helena ended the show with her scientific system of rating "Peeled Fruits." Surprisingly, the peeled lemons scored higher than the peeled pomegranates. Not surprisingly, peeled blueberries should never exist. Ever.

It maybe lasted 30 minutes, but this was one of those nights we will remember long after. I haven't laughed that much with the people I love since our State shut down. We didn't argue or snipe even once, and we all agreed that this had to happen again; it had to become a recurring thing. 

In our "normal" lives, back when we "had a life," this night never would have happened. BC (Before Corona) I never would have known how awful Delaware is, how Republican Sue Sylvester really was, how important the Chris count is, and now uncomfortable a peeled blueberry makes me feel. And I never would have stopped moving for long enough to do something silly and ridiculous and pointless and forever memorable with the people I love.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 63

The One Where Ross and Rachel Take a Break

It's episode 63, friends. 63 days of so much togetherness. 63 days of pause and repeat.

Talking with a friend today, we were pondering whether we'd fall right back into our hectic lives once all this is over, or if we would shift slightly, a tangent path to the one we were on. It's impossible to know what we will keep and what we will lose, just as it's impossible right now to quantify our current gains and losses. I hope that we will have learned something, but I also know inherently how...human we all are.

In episode 63, Ross was upset because Rachel was working all the time. She never had time for him. And Rachel was pissed because she was just trying to get shit done, and Ross was in her space. Spoiler from the 90's: that episode --and that season-- didn't end well for either one of them.

Even in quarantine, I am working constantly. It's Sunday. The day of rest or some such archaic silliness. Today, I graded papers for several hours, built a presentation for a webinar I am leading this week with a CRWP colleague, built a website for a side hustle, fell over several times whilst attempting yoga [side-eye at you, half moon pose], and researched State of Michigan tax code, how to become an LLC, and how to file a dog's nails. I always take on more than I should, and am always striving for more, much to the detriment of my house-cleaning regimen and personal relationships.

Although I never really liked Rachel --and definitely never understood why she was "America's Sweetheart," I totally get why she was so damn frustrated with Ross. It's hard to stop moving, to lean into the conversations, to truly engage when I am doing eleventy-three things at once and have fourteen more on my mind. And, much like Ross, my family only wants to have a conversation when I am in the middle of writing something, the middle of a project, the middle of researching something technical, the middle of concentration. Seriously, kid. Pour your own Cheerios.

I don't want to take a forever break from my people, no matter how many times they interrupt my train of thought and I sigh in exasperation. They are my people and I plan to hold on to them tightly for as long as they will let me. But I'd like to take a break from this house, from the rain, from the hissing cats, from the helpless phone calls, from the uninformed ridiculousness online, from the mediocrity of student work, from the constant barrage of emails, from seventeen interruptions every time I start to accomplish something, from the mundane day-to-day of 63 days of pause and repeat.

I'd like to take a break, for just an episode or two.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 62

Standing on my Head

I started doing yoga years ago, as an addition to running. I will openly admit it, I didn't begin a yoga practice in order to find my zen and balance my chakras (or open my chakras, or even understand what my chakras were) or to become more in-tune with the mind/body/soul connection; I started yoga because I wanted arms like Madonna. (Do it: Google "Madonna arms" right now, and click "images.")

I continued yoga through both pregnancies, and then continued on my own in my living room for several more years after the kids were born. But over the last 5 years, as the pounds crept on and as I took on more and more responsibilities (see: girl scout leader, conference presenter, book writer, doctorate getter), I did less and less yoga. In the last year leading up to the broken ankle incident, I did...none. No yoga.

So, this attempting to regain a yoga practice (See The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 6, written 7 years ago when we were such babies) has been an interesting challenge. I am much less flexible than I once was, much heavier, much more uncoordinated. And so far, I have learned that there are a lot of yoga poses that I simply cannot do. Yet.

But after several weeks of 3-times-a-week beginner yoga, you know what I CAN do?

I can almost do a chaturanga with the correct-ish form. Almost.

I can topple over onto my face, laughing, from trying to do the splits and getting stuck as my feet slide farther and farther apart.

I can modify almost any pose to one that I can successfully do.

I can breathe, mostly, throughout.

I can yoga with a friend, remotely, with Zoom.

I can yoga with my daughters next to me. ❤

I can laugh hysterically with the girls I love, loudly and often, as we try to contort our bodies to match whatever the instructor is doing, and inevitably fail.

I can encourage a daughter to do a headstand, and watch, with amazement, as she briefly pulls it off.

I can be brave enough to try one of my own.

I can trust in myself that --even if I can't do a headstand now --even if I've never been able to do a headstand in the 15 years that I've been practicing yoga on-and-off --even if I am never able to do a headstand in this lifetime --I will always be brave enough to try.

And if I can't stand on my head someday? That's okay, too. Because it is amazing, the things I can do.

Photo by Nine Köpfer on Unsplash

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 61

Short Fuses

The sun came out today. It was humid and warm and felt exactly like May should feel. It was a Friday, the last day of a long week. The Mayfair was open for take-out again, and I repeat-dialed like a 12 year old fangirl until I got through, and ordered the best dinner we've had in weeks. I brainstormed with a daughter and we began building a website for our pipedream business. One of the students I've been incredibly worried about contacted me for help, told me "I'd become a teacher she could trust," and asked me to help her get back on track. All-in-all, it should have been a great day.

And yet, when I thought I'd lost an hour's worth of work when an application I attempted to submit returned a blank screen, I almost lost my shit on everyone in the room. Instead, I snapped my computer closed, and silently stalked out of the house. After a (slightly painful) barefoot walk around the block, I felt like I could possibly interact with others without causing them to spontaneously burst into flames from the look in my eyes.

An hour before my almost-lost-my-shit moment, another member of the household snapped, a combination of frustration and annoyance that led to a hostile comment. The snappee stalked (less silently) out of the house and angry-skated back and forth in front of the house for an hour, before coming back inside and slamming into their bedroom.

An hour before that, a different child snapped, reacting much more powerfully than the moment warranted, a raging crescendo of teen injustice.

And when I saw a Facebook post earlier from an entitled, disgruntled community member throwing shade, it was all I could do to not pound out a rage-reply. Instead, I kicked the dog off my armrest in frustration.

Today should have been a great day. And mostly, it was. And yet, our fuses are so short; we are snapping and overreacting and taking it out on each other, on the only people we know who will take it, on the people who don't deserve it, on the ones within striking distance.

Happy 61st birthday, Coronacation. Please end soon, before we all explode.

"It's A Bomb!" by thealmightyprophetgitboy is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 60

Your Mom Is Tired

Kids, please gently encourage your mom to be sensible and to go to bed tonight. She is up way too late every night, watching just one more episode, reading just one more chapter, pouring just one more glass of wine. She is reveling in the silence, in the fact that the only people arguing in the room can be muted with a simple click, in the comfort that the dog won't complain about the food, in the knowledge that the cat won't slam the door.

Photo by Yuris Alhumaydy on Unsplash

She is tired, your mom, but it's more of a weariness than a physical exhaustion. Sure, she only got four hours of sleep last night, but that's nothing next to the energy leech of the constant work emails and remind messages and late work. She is drained from trying to connect with students and get them to engage. She is wiped out by trying to keep everyone from arguing and trying to keep everyone fed and trying to tiptoe around everyone's emotions and trying to find a space for everyone in the house. She is tired of trying to simultaneously be unseen whilst juggling four plates, three kids, two adults working from home, and emceeing one 3-ring circus.

Your mom needs a day off, kids, but what would that look like? Where would she go? And who would pour your Honey Nut Cheerios into the bowl? Who would find the clean socks for you? Who would set up your Zoom meeting with your friends? Who would nag you to do your school work? Who would remind you to wash your hair at some point this week?

Your mom hates the claustrophobia of wearing a mask, of smelling her own moist breath, of not being able to see unimpeded by cloth climbing into her eyes. But someone has to buy more groceries. Someone has to fill your allergy prescription, someone has to get more dog food, someone has to buy her more wine. That someone is your mom, trying to remember to get all the things so that she doesn't have to expose you day after day to the risks out there.

Your mom is drained from arguing with people on social media who insist that this is just the flu, that Sweden did it right, that the kids in ICU are there because they've been kept in the house too long, not because of  exposure COVID-19. Your mom is broken from reading the horrible things said about our Governor, from seeing the ridiculous displays of toxic masculinity parading around the capitol, showing off their giant knock-off Armalite phalli.

Your mom is trying not to think about the things that might not happen this summer, the elderly relatives we might not get to visit, the campground reservations we might have to cancel, the concerts that won't happen, the summer camps that have already disappeared.

I know that you are also exhausted, kids. You're frustrated and bored and have too much on your plate and not enough social activities to keep you sane. I know you are tired of the food and of each other and of the worksheets and of the same thing day after day after day. I know that you are tired of all of this. But just remember, kids--

So's your mom.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 59

I Hope It Was Enough 

Photo by Aleksandr Ledogorov on Unsplash

The AP Lit exam was today. After 150+ school days of trying to lead seniors to a greater understanding of author's craft, of social and cultural literacy, and of thoughtful and concise writing --all whilst combating senioritis and that profound combination of anxiety and ennui that only seniors in high school can concoct-- today is the day when it is all tested.

Normally, the AP Lit exam is a 3-hour ordeal: 45-55 impossible multiple choice questions (where you choose the least wrong answer out of the four choices given); two literary analysis essays on obscure pieces of writing that you'd rarely choose to read on purpose; and finally a thematic essay in which you try to force a text from a list of books of literary merit to conform to a convoluted theme.

But this year, the test was just one essay, a Q2 (prose) analysis piece, done online. Around the world at exactly the same time (no matter whether you are New York City or Sydney), the questions were released and students had 45 minutes --just one chance-- to try to write a coherent essay on a piece they'd never seen before. This is also the year with a new 6-point rubric and new stable prompt wording that no longer suggested literary devices worth exploring. And, to the great surprise of every AP Lit teacher out there, there was not just one prompt release at 2 p.m. EST today, but many.

After the exam, I held a debrief Zoom for any of my students who wanted to talk. Surprisingly, eight of them came to the meeting, more than had come to a class since mid-March. And all eight students had received different prompts. There's no way to truly know how any of them did, at least not until I can track down all of the prompts and read them myself. And there's no joy in the memes this year. No great inside jokes. No international camraderie about the terrors of plants and the awfulness of Zenobia.

when the #aplit memes aren’t even funny bc we all got different passages pic.twitter.com/BIumQIeOpm

— isabel meade (@meade_isabel) May 13, 2020

I hope my kids did well. But it's terrifying, even more so this year than previous years, because so many of them hadn't engaged in any class activities in the last two months. The few that were reading and working and practicing all along: in them, I have complete confidence. With them, I've had so many 1-on-1 Zoom conferences and feedback discussions; I have seen them grow immensely in a very short period of time.

But the others? I have no idea.

2020 is truly a year of unknowns. It is a year of loss for all of us --but it is especially painful for our high school seniors. All of those rites of passage that they'd waited 12 years to earn...they didn't get those moments, frozen in time.

And it is a year of loss for their teachers, for those of us who didn't really get to finish our jobs with any feeling of success. We didn't get the closure with our seniors, that point of being so damn sick of them by their last day of school that we are ready to shoo them out the door. We didn't get the chance to make sure they were ready, that we'd taught them everything they needed to know (or were willing to listen to) before that door slammed behind them. We didn't get to see who they really were as human beings, once they quit giving a damn in those last few days and burned their bridges down.

We didn't get to hug them, tell them we were proud of them, and give them those silly awards. We didn't get to take that deep breath, knowing that we'd done out best and it was up to them now.

I hope the time we did spend with them was enough. I hope they still heard our truncated lessons and our words of advice.

I hope they still learned to write their way into their thesis. I hope they still learned that it's the journey seeking truth that truly matters.

I hope it was enough.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 58

The Teachers Are Not Alright

In my weekly check-ins with my students, I always ask them to ask me a question. Without fail, every week (even though I have already answered this question in the videos I record), several of them ask me if I like teaching this way and if it is easier.

Photo by Hennie Stander on Unsplash

No.

Good god, no.

1000 times NO.

This sucks. It doesn't matter how hard I try to engage students, to create activities that are thoughtful, to record personal videos, to give extensive feedback --none of this feels like it's working. With only 2/3 of students turning anything in (and much of that is clearly done in the last 5 minutes before the midnight deadline) it is clear that, no matter what I create, I am not going to be able to really get them to engage.

Teaching is built on relationships. And even though I have never been known as a warm, fuzzy, hugger of a teacher, I have always worked really hard to build relationships, to connect with students, to interact with them individually, to meet them where they are and then try to push them farther than they'd probably like. Teaching English is all about critical thinking, about provoking students to ask hard questions and seek out answers. And it is nearly impossible to do any of this when kids just don't --can't-- won't show up.

And if they don't --can't-- won't write anything thoughtful, then I can't give them thoughtful feedback. I can't push them to go deeper, to write harder, if they haven't even really tried. If they don't show up to office hours (only two students ever have), then I can't ask them if they are okay. If they don't respond to my emails and text messages and Facebook messages, then they definitely won't respond to my attempts to get them to write.

Let me be clear: this is not on them. This is not a "kids these days" rant, because kids these days are dealing with a ridiculous situation the best way they know how. And this is not a "if only the parents" rant, because the parents are just trying to keep their families' heads above water. This is not a "the system is broken" rant, because there was no system in place to handle a shut-down of schools because of a pandemic. This is not on any of us. This just is.

This is not what our students have signed up for. This is not what their parents have signed up for. This is definitely not what we signed up for. And although there are ways to provide thoughtful and thought-provoking education in online settings, it only works if everyone is on board, not if everyone is just treading water in the near vicinity.

I don't know what teaching in the fall will look like; I'm afraid to think too much about it. With rumors of funding cuts in education upwards of 25%, I can't even fathom how we would do more with even less. But I do know that we would continue to show up, just like we are right now, and continue to bang our heads on the brick wall of this situation, hoping that --if we just hit our heads a little bit harder-- sunlight might begin to show through the cracks.