Shoes

Here is a reflection and excellent question by a superb teacher (and friend of mine), Joe Johnson:

The school where I teach re-opened last weekend in a ghostly way. We came in masks, a few at a time, to pick up anything we needed to keep working online. We had not been there for seven weeks. My room looked just the same; our last lesson was still on the whiteboard, arrows and circles urgently making a forgotten point to no one. I collected some things, hurried out, and drove home again, feeling haunted. I’d seen almost nobody. 

I had walked through the aftermath of a disaster. We’ve all seen too many such images: Empty streets or schools, where some horror has stopped everything, and those who could still run have done so. Their possessions are strewn everywhere, a themed collection of the things we abandon as we flee. Sunglasses, hats, gloves; coffee mugs, water bottles. All became disposable in the rush to get away. 

The cast-off shoes in such photos always surprise me. When people suddenly run, why do so many lose the one thing that might still be of use? Some, like high heels, make sense: slowing their owners down, many would be kicked away, a life-saving choice. Loafers and flip-flops, never designed to hang on, lie everywhere. When shoes mattered most, they had been useless. 

There had been no such objects lying about at my school. We felt no panic when we fled; the students were dismissed calmly, at the usual time. The only difference was an announcement, informing us all that we wouldn’t be back for weeks. Teachers took whatever we might need in order to keep working during the separation. Laptops, textbooks, uncorrected work. 

We had to quickly decide what to drop and what to keep - but the decisions were about our curriculum. There would be no grades; all classes had become “pass / fail.” No ranking, no rating - an honest effort would be enough, given the circumstances. We would assign thirty minutes of work per day for each class, no more. We would deepen and broaden large concepts - covering ground no longer mattered. Above all, we knew we had to maintain engagement with the school community. Face-to-face contact would be replicated online, as best we could. No one questioned the need for it. Whether students learned “enough” no longer mattered. We would assess where they are when we next see them, and go on from there - no judgement, no blame. 

I look out now from a home office, and I wonder about this collection of cast-off strategies and priorities, dropped in the face of an unfolding horror. Some are like sunglasses: when push came to shove, we didn’t think twice. But others, like lost shoes, should surprise us. What did we toss aside because it was, had always been, frivolous, unimportant, ill-fitting? 

Which of the things we abandoned are worth picking back up again?