Taking Care of My Students With Love
Read Time: 5 Minutes
Words by Heidi Simpson
Teachers do not operate within the unknown regarding time – for us, every moment of each day counts. Even the extra minute in the mornings at 6:00 a.m. counts; that extra moment that gives you that extra minute before that extra task that you forgot you added to the extra tasks of yesterday.
I’d heard whispers in the previous months, but the whispers did not indicate a shift. It was more like waking up in the morning before you realize your alarm hasn’t gone off – still asleep, thinking you have time before you fully awaken.
The eyes of others have been a source of wonder for me in this past year, as they have often been all that I could connect to above the sterile canvasses.
I rarely remember dates, but this one – March 13, 2020 – is like most difficult instances in my life -- unclear. You don’t forget the days you are alone and confused, especially not the days that they begin.
It was a Friday, and we were told to use the afternoon to prepare our lessons digitally for the next two weeks and to get what we needed out of our classrooms. At that point, there was no timeline for our return. All that any of us knew was that we didn’t know.
Our boss told us that all he could tell us was exactly what he had just told us, and I noticed the eyes of my colleagues glancing around the room nervously. I could see that they were searching the eyes of others for answers. Only, none of us had them.
Five years ago, I had been fortunate to find myself working amongst the group of humans that are my colleagues, each of whom creates a collective of love for every child in our school. When I finally arrived at this school permanently, they all welcomed me with open arms. On the days that I felt undeserving – their eyes told me otherwise. They made me believe that I deserved the space, that I could bring something to the students that no one else could. Questioning myself became unquestionable, and my colleagues often looked to me for support as much as I looked to them. My feeling of being an imposter dissipated quickly – I was and am able to shake any sense of inadequacy.
On that Friday, I too searched the eyes of others in the room – but I quickly recognized the lack of certainty permeating the room. I knew there would be no answers that day, and so I slid out of the shared space and shuffled to my classroom. I really had no idea what I would need that was here. It felt like I was leaving a toxic relationship; I had to go but I loved so many things that were inside of it.
All that I remember in the months that followed last year was a long period of what felt like winter but was the spring. For months, there was complete silence. A silence like I have never heard in my life -- I swear I couldn't even hear the birds outside. My compass was broken.
Image by Heidi Simpson
But the kids were still there, and they needed me. I needed them, too. Shutting down and throwing my hands up in the air seemed to be as infectious as the mysterious virus itself, except I knew it was my job – no – my duty to resist the infection in every sense.
I attended school board meetings throughout the summer online, and I listened to the concerns about whether or not to bring students and teachers back to the classroom in the Fall of 2020. My heart longed to be in my classroom, but my mind told me it wasn’t safe. We all knew it wasn’t safe, but what about the students in our district that were not able to access their education at home, online? Both answers seemed impossible, but infection and death weighed more heavily on the hearts of the School board. We would stay online for the first quarter, and then reassess.
I decided that I would do what I had always done – adapt and try to take care of my students as best as I could. I had to guide myself through love. Content is only accessible through the person delivering it, and so it was my job to find a way to do that through a computer screen.
I didn’t know what that meant at the beginning of this school year, but I showed up every single day with my camera on, surrounded by my animals in my Zen room that had become my pseudo-classroom.
At first, many of my students turned their cameras on. Until they didn’t. At all. I began to do an almost stand-up routine each day – answering my own questions when no one else did, or reading responses from students on the warm-ups out loud and adding my own commentary as I did.
It felt ridiculous, until one day I was telling my wife about this very experience and it was like I heard myself say it for the first time – I was reading responses.
My students were responding.
I was so caught up in the science fiction world that I’d been living in, I didn’t allow myself to acknowledge the significance of the fact that they were responding. They were also actively talking to me in the chat option of Microsoft Teams, and although few of them spoke verbally, there was always a handful in each class that did. They were all responding in their own ways, and they were writing. So many of them were writing their stories, telling me their stories, asking me for grace when they couldn’t do an assignment at a specific time. Asking for grace was something I was familiar with – life is always throwing hell at us, and we are always hoping someone can give us what we need. We approach people that hold us to standards with that hope, in the rare instance that we see these people as a source of love.
I almost missed the bizarre magic happening in the educational digital world because I was nearly swept up in the “throw your hands up” infection.
Last week, I went into the school physically to help collect materials at the end of the school year. I had just finished gathering my bags and empty coffee cup to head home, and a student approached me.
“Are you Mrs. Simpson?” she asked. I recognized her because she was one of the few that turned her camera on early in the year – I’d only had her for one quarter in my Creative Writing class.
“I am!” I said excitedly. My student threw her arms around my neck and hugged me harder than anyone else had in the entire year. Maybe even my whole life. The kind of hug you hope someone gives you when you get off the plane and appear at the end of the gate. It’s the kind of love that you hope you are lucky to ever be on the other end of receiving even once in your life.
I get to feel that kind of love with my students all the time. They are these darlings that come into my learning community, the collective of love, and I have the honor of earning their trust.
This is why I didn’t give up, why I won’t give up, no matter how hard the storms come. If we can survive the storms, be open to new waves of surviving and thriving, we’ll find ourselves getting the hardest hug that we never knew we needed.
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About the Author:
Heidi Simpson is an English Teacher in the Pittsburgh Public Schools, and a passionate writer. Heidi strives to get her students excited about reading and writing, while also providing a safe space for them as the advisor to the Gender & Sexuality Alliance. She lives with her wife, four lionesses, and two baby dogs.
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