As I write this, a couple hundred seniors are preparing for their graduation ceremony at Washougal High School. Reflecting back on working at the school through the pandemic, I’m struck by how positive my memories are of those chaotic early days, and how difficult it all became as the first year led to the second, and finally to the third — this last difficult year that can’t end a moment too soon.
Ever since the COVID pandemic landed at the front doors of WHS on March 13, 2020, those of us who work and teach there have experienced wild extremes in teaching conditions and up-and-down emotions that resemble a dizzy, nauseating carnival ride. Picture the Scrambler at Oaks Park, but with your feelings, attitudes and stamina.
After being sent home that Friday in March, there was about a three-week period of uncertainty and speculation about how the remainder of the school year would play out. It was disconcerting to be suddenly and almost completely disconnected from our school community. I remember thinking at the time that it would all be temporary, a brief setback in our regular way of teaching and learning. Society and the government would soon take measures to address the situation and move us quickly back to the norm. We’d be ready to pick up again when we returned from our spring break, which had been scheduled for the first week of April.
I remember thinking at the time that it would all be temporary, a brief setback in our regular way of teaching and learning. As we all know, it didn’t turn out that way.
As we all know, it didn’t turn out that way. Instead, we needed to make the sudden switch to working remotely, teaching remotely, and communicating as a staff remotely. Some staff members already had the computer skills to learn the new platforms and use technology to problem-solve. Others were at a huge disadvantage. Several teachers and many students live out in the rural areas of Washougal and Skamania County, where internet connectivity is practically nonexistent and cell phones can’t catch a signal. How were they supposed to log onto Zoom and host classes of 25 students when they couldn’t even download their emails?
As a paraeducator supporting students who receive services through the special education department, I found myself online in Zoom classes, learning to navigate the many new apps and electronic lessons that had replaced in-person teaching. I took over the desk in my son’s old bedroom, surrounded by his abandoned college textbooks and shelves filled with mementos he’d collected in the forest (antlers, old bottles, and so many creepy animal skulls). I rolled out of bed every morning and logged onto my laptop, following the same schedule I’d be using if I were actually in the building. It was a surreal experience. One science teacher lived in an area without internet connection, so she couldn’t host a Zoom class; once, I offered to invite her entire class to my “Zoom room” and she called in on her landline to teach.
The situation was even harder for many of the students. Some had no internet in their homes, or lacked the expertise to troubleshoot connectivity issues. Older students became the household’s caregivers and babysitters while the adults in the house continued to work. Some students couldn’t interact with teachers during online class because they refused to turn on their cameras or microphones — they were simply unwilling to suddenly open a portal into their personal home life to 25 or 30 fellow students who were near-strangers to them.
For students with learning or social challenges, the lessons that school teaches about how to interact with peers and adults are just as important as the ones it teaches about algebra and physics. Even during a typical school year, many students I work with struggle to navigate schedules and relationships. For some of them, the shutdown was devastating. Many had parents who had to leave for work every morning, pandemic or no, and the students were left to their own devices, without the guidance they needed to adjust to the change.
For students with learning or social challenges, the lessons that school teaches about how to interact with peers and adults are just as important as the ones it teaches about algebra and physics.
Here’s an example. One of the students I supported wasn’t allowed to access the internet when home alone. How were they supposed to go to classes and get the homework help they needed? More importantly, how were they supposed to cope with having all their school-related social and support ties suddenly cut? My department decided that I would call the student through the school’s Google phone app every day at 10 a.m. to touch base, give some guidance regarding the assignments, and chat. Where before our exchange would have been formal and rule-oriented, now I was chatting on the phone with a student who might be playing a video game or making a sandwich for lunch. I remember trying to discuss fractions while this student was peeling and eating an orange. The daily chats were a small act of support in the overall scheme of things, but truly the best we could do to keep the student engaged until in-person classes could resume.
Clint was a bright kid with an unstable personal routine and erratic sleep habits, and he had difficulty making friends and maintaining relationships with peers.
Another case involved a student I’ll call Clint. I had worked quite a bit with him when he was in the 10th and 11th grades, so I knew him well. He was a bright kid with an unstable personal routine and erratic sleep habits, and he had difficulty making friends and maintaining relationships with peers. Teachers frequently complained about how disengaged he was, even to the point of falling asleep in class. Whenever I could catch him in a receptive mood, I’d try to nudge him toward his schoolwork. One time, we made an arrangement with his social studies teacher: instead of writing summaries of the current events he’d read about, as assigned, he could discuss them with me and still receive credit. When he was assigned an essay about what it means to be an American, he blew it off. But when I sat down with him and said, “Okay, you say what you think and I’ll type it up,” he reflected, and began to put his thoughts together. He was proud of what he’d written, and submitted a voice memo, reading his essay with a tone rivaling an NPR announcer.
Clint kept mostly to himself at school, so when school as we knew it suddenly ended on March 13, I was worried about him. How can you expect a student who comes to school only a fraction of the time to have the motivation and self-management skills to actually get out of bed in the morning and log onto a class, especially when he doesn’t know how to find the links to the various Zoom rooms and homework assignments? Needless to say, several weeks passed. No word from Clint. I guessed that he was staying up all night and sleeping all day. After so many unanswered emails — to a student who never logs in and checks his inbox — his teacher/case manager gave me the go-ahead to start phoning him.
No answers in the mornings. No answers in the early afternoon. But one day when I tried a little later in the day, after school hours, he finally picked up. It seemed that he wanted to stay connected with school, but hadn’t known how. Although he had his own cell phone, he wasn’t sure how to clear the memory so he could receive voice mail, or set up his email, or get connected so that he could log onto the Zoom apps. He hadn’t been ignoring me; he simply hadn’t understood how to stay connected.
Although he had his own cell phone, he wasn’t sure how to clear the memory so he could receive voice mail, or set up his email, or get connected so that he could log onto the Zoom apps. He hadn’t been ignoring me; he simply hadn’t understood how to stay connected.
I suggested that he meet me and his case manager in person, outside and socially distanced, at a school in his neighborhood. There, we helped him troubleshoot his technical issues. We set up a line of communication through an app called Remind, which is public and moderated by the school district. Slowly, Clint and I began to connect and work on the final project for his English class, one he needed to complete in order to graduate. We were also able to finish another important assignment — a page he was laying out for the school yearbook. We worked in fits and starts, always struggling to stay on track given Clint’s chaotic personal schedule. But we kept trying. Clint needed to complete the work to cover his graduation credits, but he also needed consistent human connection.
One afternoon, I reached him through the school’s phone app. Clint told me his dog had died. Clearly, he needed to talk to someone about it, to process his feelings and work through his emotions. I felt honored to hear him describe the first time he saw this fat little dachshund — this little dog who used to rummage through the garbage but who had been very sick for quite some time. The conversation was long and reflective, and Clint ended by thanking me for the help I’d given him in school. And I could tell him truthfully that it had been my pleasure.
The memories of those early pandemic days are so different from the experience of this last school year. The carnival ride continued and ironically, even as we learned more about how to manage the pandemic, some things just got harder.
The Washington Office of Superintendent of Public Instruction, along with the state Department of Health and the Governor’s Office, announced their expectation that all K–12 students should have the opportunity to attend school in-person and full-time in the 2021–22 school year. The high school opened with a full student body, a regular schedule, and a rule that everyone wear a mask.
We were reopening, yes, but our country was still in the grip of COVID. We were riding a second significant wave of cases, this time with a somewhat mysterious and scary new variant. At the time, little was known about whether the Delta strain’s effects on the body were more severe than the original version of the coronavirus. But we did know it was about twice as contagious. Yet we were now working in the building with twice as many students and no practical way of maintaining social distance. That’s why it felt so important to wear the masks. Yes, wearing them was uncomfortable and inconvenient, but they were an important part of the strategy to hold off spread of the disease, since rapid tests weren’t yet readily available and vaccination rates were still relatively low.
A classroom of 25 students can feel crowded in the best of conditions. My usual inclination is to pull up right next to a student and look at their work with them. I often get close, whispering back and forth with the student to check that they’re on track. But during the fall of 2021, I wanted to stand in the doorway or sit as far removed as possible in order to keep my distance. Passing time between classes in halls full of people was stressful. While the majority of students complied with the mask rule, some didn’t and simply wouldn’t. As I passed these students in the halls and asked them to pull their masks up over their noses, I got obstinance and attitude. They would pull their masks up for a few seconds, but as soon as they passed, they’d pull them right back down. This became a routine, with me recognizing the uncooperative students from afar and having to make a decision whether it was worth spending my energy in that moment to call them out.
My usual inclination is to pull up right next to a student and look at their work with them. I often get close, whispering back and forth with the student to check that they’re on track. But during the fall of 2021, I wanted to stand in the doorway or sit as far removed as possible in order to keep my distance.
For those of us who worried about the possibility of contracting COVID, or spreading it to other vulnerable members of our families, this behavior was beyond frustrating. Coming to school became an exhausting grind, hardly the job I had signed up for. Finally, sometime around November, I realized the mask issue was damaging my relationships with the students. Since our work depends on trusting and cooperative connections, I began making a conscious choice to overlook mask violations and simply focus on working with the particular students I was there to support.
When the mask mandate was finally lifted in March 2022, it was a relief, obviously. Some students kept wearing them, of course, and do to this day. Some staff do as well. But most of us welcomed the return to normal.
A few weeks after the mandate was lifted, I sat in the library working on my computer. A boy who’d never been willing to wear his mask consistently walked past. He must have done a double-take when he saw my bare face, because he chuckled and said, “Wow, I still can’t get used to people not wearing their masks.”
I said, “I know! I’m so happy. I was so tired of nagging all you guys all the time. It was exhausting, and I finally had to just stop or I’d go crazy.”
He told me he’d often consciously hidden from me; he’d figured out my schedule and would go the other way so I wouldn’t catch him. We both laughed. Our exchange was so warm and friendly, such a welcome change from the tense interactions so common earlier in the year. So to those days, I say good riddance; the 2021-2022 school year will be one for the history books.
Barb Seaman worked as a paraeducator at Washougal High School for eight years. This spring she began working as a library assistant at the school. She lives in Washougal with her husband.
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