No Matter How Old I Am I Still Get Excited Everytime I See Tigers Shirt

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No Matter How Old I Am I Still Get Excited Everytime I See Tigers Shirt

Peggy was at the beauty salon not long ago when a hairdresser, fussing about masks, wondered how long it would take for life to be back to normal. “Life is never going to be normal again,” Peggy had said. “Everyone just suffered so much.” Staying on Course Her most diligent AP English students arrive for fifth period, filing into Room 736. In masks and oversized T-shirts, they slump into their seats, joke, dawdle, unzip backpacks. Melissa Alequin paces the classroom in black boots and a black mask, earrings shining against her dark, curly hair. Voice loud — because she is always loud — she tries to rally the students. “If you’re like, ‘You know what, this year’s a wash. I give up. I already failed semester 1, and I’m failing quarter 3, I’m not going to be able to probably fix this.’ WRONG!” she yells. She emphasizes her point with her hands, which clutch worksheets of old AP exam prompts, since today’s lesson includes what can feel like never-ending prep for never-ending tests. She pleads, “It is literally not over until the last day of school. And even then.” It’s almost lunch, almost spring break, almost a year since school emptied out and everything changed.

Melissa, 30, has already contended with a backed-up printer and lesson folders that must be uploaded for e-learners on Schoology. She’s added March birthdays to the classroom display, thought up the day’s required “essential question” and asked students to pocket their phones. She’s wiped down desks with Peroxy, filled out the usual COVID questionnaire. yearlater5 FRONTLINE NOSCRIPT Image There’s more to do once Melissa Alequin gets home from teaching. (John Pendygraft | Tampa Bay Times) It’s allergy season, so now there’s the added complication of kids with tired eyes, raggedy tissues and slipping masks. They bend over their worksheets of short fiction analyses and wait for the lunch bell. Melissa stresses what the College Board is looking for, since it’s her job to shepherd them toward a future that doesn’t seem to be giving anybody a break. “I hate school,” a female student laments. “I know,” Melissa says, softly. “Hang in there.” She remembers how that pressure felt. She picks poetry and books that reflect her students here at Bradenton’s Southeast High School, over half of whom are Black and Hispanic. “Use your voice,” she’s always telling them. But caring attention can’t make up for everything. When COVID-19 sent students home, many didn’t have laptops. Some didn’t know how to open Word.

A handful just disappeared. In the fall, nothing seemed to make a dent in students’ stress as they grieved deaths and worked late to help their families. Kids were caught in the middle as schools tooled around with e-learning and on-campus teaching, as politicians yanked teachers this way and that, as tests went on hold and back again. Early days of leniency gave way to higher expectations, and Melissa watched kids give up before fall midterms. She wishes they could see what she sees, how resilient they’ve been. Sixth period, American literature, tests her. Her students are her babies, their pain her pain, but they arrive distracted and irritable. Today is for chipping away at creative projects about The Crucible , but they make halting progress. “If you’re not going to use this time to do work, stop holding the rest of the class back,” she says. With decisive tests looming, students have been bursting into anxiety attacks. Melissa fields texts at all hours. Hands on hips, she circles. She leans over shoulders. “Yezzir,” she says, answering a student’s raised hand. “I like it,” she says to a boy with his red hood pulled up. “No, don’t sit down, I gotta clean!” Bell to bell, email to email, the day passes fast.

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