I used the writing tool to draw a pixelated slash across the activities we normally do on a Friday afternoon. While looking at the shared screen Juan, a 5th grader says “what doing?” I look at my second monitor and his camera is off. I say, “writing and speech are canceled today.” I draw an X on my left hand with my right index finger, the sign for cancel.
David gasps over the schedule change. He has autism, this schedule change is huge news just like it was when I told them yesterday, and the day before.
“I’m getting my second shot”, I say and sign. “To protect me from Covid”. The fingers spread on my right hand while I push and rotate it on the inside of my left fist. It is the sign that represents the shape of the virus. That orange spikey ball that is the backdrop to maps, infection rates and death tolls. I notice that I haven’t signed the word “Covid” for a long time. I signed it more in the early days of distance learning when I was trying to explain to my 7 Deaf and Hard of Hearing students why we were signing and talking to moving images of each other instead of together in our classroom.
Kianu excitedly signs “Class finished” with his eyebrows raised, he is already reaching for his ipad. Ella’s voice screeches through a distorted signal, I can only see one of her eyes so her mouth must be on the mic, “Menaly, shot hurt?” I answer in ASL and English “Yes, it will hurt a little, but it’s important so we can be together again.”
I tell my students “I love you, see you Monday” and one by one their images disappear. I log off and head to Memorial Hospital.
It is a year from the day I called these small faces to the carpet to look at our classroom calendar. I told them, “Many people are getting sick, we have to stay home to protect each other.” With a dry erase marker I crossed out Monday, March 16 on the calendar. I clapped my palms together and drew an x on my left palm “school canceled” I continued until an X was across every day for the rest of March.
“When back?” One of them signs, a huge question mark on her face.
“I don’t know” Their eyes widened. They looked at me like a toddler looks at his mother after a fall “Am I ok?”
I try to project security and calmness, counter to my own feelings. Alex, the oldest of my students silently raised his eyebrows in a question and signs “scared” spreading all of his fingers in front of his chest. He didn’t use his voice because he didn’t want the kids to turn or hear his question. I respond so they all understand, “Yes, I am scared because I don’t know what is going to happen. But, you are safe, we are safe”
Today, March 12, 2021 I will receive my second dose of the vaccine.
I check in and wait for the staff to call my group into the large space where we will receive our second dose. There is a lightness in the air that I don’t recognize or trust. I am surprised at my own eagerness to get a shot. Just like I did for the first injection I look around the group and try to guess what kind of educator each person is. Coaches and Art teachers being this easiest to pick out. Today people are chatting, leaning in towards each other. It makes me a little uncomfortable to watch having been trained to keep my distance.
I am impressed at how compliant this group of people are. All of us double masked, following the tape on the ground through a socially distanced maze. Checking the same boxes and answering the same questions over and over again. No one seems to mind.
Adult children and caregivers walk slowly and patiently beside elderly people with walkers. Their eyes give away concealed smiles. When it is time my group gets into a line, then another. “Look at us” I think “All of the people in this room are taking this step together.” My eyes fog and I pinch my nose through my mask so it doesn’t drip.
“Maybe we’re gonna be ok. I think we’re going to be ok.”
As I stand in the final line with my ID and paperwork, ready to release my clipboard so it can be disinfected, an older couple walks out after receiving their shots. Eyes turned up in a smile, hey thank everyone in view, even me.
I recognize the lightness now, it’s hope.