The Daze of Digital Learning
David Stern
In March 2020, as New York City realized it was becoming the epicenter of a global pandemic that showed no signs of slowing its incessant spread, over 1,700 public schools plus hundreds of more private and charter schools across the five boroughs were ordered to shut their doors. And so began a bold new experiment; one in which over a million students and tens of thousands of teachers would act as guinea pigs. The aim was simple: provide a quality education through digital learning. The reality was anything but. Here is the story of my experience as a teacher during these unprecedented times.
Note: All names have been changed to protect anonymity.
Please review the following teacher expectations for remote learning:
● Tech support: That’s right! Now you work in IT! Isn’t that exciting! Teachers will be expected to troubleshoot all technology-related issues with students and their families during remote learning. This is including but not limited to: issues with Wifi and internet connection, broken and malfunctioning tablets, students unable to get onto video calls, students unable to complete work because they “can’t find it,” students unable to use their email, students unable to access or navigate educational websites and/or resources — plus a whole lot more!
● Attendance: Teachers will be expected to hold students and families accountable by constantly calling, texting, and pestering them if they are not attending your video calls — they’re gonna love ya!
● Progress reports: At the end of each week you will have to manually input every single grade that every single student received on every single assignment and then send that information in a personalized email to their parents or guardians. Good luck finding those email addresses in our tangled web of documents, databases, and spreadsheets!
● Adapting every facet of the curriculum so that we can have a seamless transition to digital learning while maintaining the highest standard of academic rigor — if you start now you just might get everything done in time for your next lesson!
● Managing student behavior — good thing Zoom has a “mute all” button!
● Monitoring student activity online — make sure you keep them off YouTube!
● Creating and grading a robust and rigorous digital homework packet that students are expected to complete every week — give them a stern talking to and deny them free-time with their friends if they don’t complete their homework!
● Creating and grading daily assignments while providing individualized feedback to every single student in your class — this must be done before the end of each school day, which is great because it’s not like you have anything else to do!
● Administering assessments while ensuring integrity in a world where Google has all the answers — sweet!
● Emotionally supporting students who are extremely bored, anxious, and confused by the current state of the world — piece of cake!
● Maintaining the attention of 30-plus students while they lie on their beds in their pajamas and stare at a screen for close to seven hours a day.
● Oh, and don’t forget to do some teaching — you got this!
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The news came on March 13th — a Friday. It started with a message on our staff Slack channel: “MANDATORY all-staff meeting at end of day in room 403.”
The all-caps was a subtle way of saying they meant business. The word “mandatory” (apparently) has a loose definition. But those big blaring capital letters also induced a series of anxiety-related reactions that had become all-too familiar. First came the tingling, which shot up my spine and reverberated through my nervous system. This was immediately followed by a tightening of the stomach, a shortening of breath, and a quickening of the heart, sprinkled with a few intermittent palpitations. It was nothing unusual, really. Just another day in the life of a confused, sleep-deprived, and utterly overwhelmed first-year teacher.
As another hectic day came to a close, we all tiredly shuffled into room 403, silent with nervous anticipation. As is typical of any school, rumors had propagated in no time. There were whispers of an impending crisis, of a global pandemic worse than the world had seen in over 100 years, of the schools being forced to shut down indefinitely. But I was skeptical. I resisted the urge to hope. I had given into that urge before and knew where it led.
We stuffed our adult-sized bodies into kid-sized chairs and waited for our principal to arrive. The room was sweating with nerves by the time she burst in. At least she didn’t waste any time.
“Due to the spread of the coronavirus we will be shutting down the school and transitioning to a remote learning model,” she announced without hesitation. Clearly she had been working herself up for this moment. “This is effective immediately. You need to gather all your personal belongings and leave the building by 5 p.m.”
“So it’s true,” I told myself. The giant knot in my stomach slowly untangled. My heart now fluttered with joy rather than dread. Visions of sitting at home doing absolutely nothing flashed before me.
Excited murmuring filled the room. My eyes darted from one brightened face to the next until I locked eyes with my coworker Chris. But his face wasn’t like the rest; it didn’t exude the same glowing enthusiasm. With a raise of the eyebrow and a telepathic gaze he seemed to ask me: “Is that all?”
Then it dawned on me: This whole affair seemed far too easy and far too logical. After all, there was in fact a deadly and highly contagious virus spreading like wildfire around the globe. Shuttering the schools and transitioning to remote learning was the obvious choice. But nothing is obvious, nothing is easy — at least not when you work in education. It didn’t fit the pattern that I had come to rely on.
“We’re still waiting on more details to come in,” our principal continued. “We’ll communicate with everyone once we have more information.”
Chris and I exchanged another glance: “What’s the catch?”
As we found out later, our instincts were right: there certainly was a catch. But we could never have imagined we would be the hook, sinker, bait, and fish.
While the nascent seeds of spring sprouted and bloomed, the icy clutches of quarantine tightened its grip on the city, silencing the bustling streets and confining its inhabitants to the suffocating walls of our over-priced apartments. Many fled. We stayed — ordered by administration not to leave the tri-state area. They claimed with fierce indignation that we could be summoned back to school at any moment, adding with textbook aplomb that our jobs would be in jeopardy if we did not promptly attend the speculative summons. We were like ex-cons out on parole. Well, maybe that’s a stretch. Within the cell-like walls of my studio apartment, I felt much more akin to a prisoner than a parolee. I reluctantly realized that I had merely been transferred from one facility to another.
It all began with an abundance of confusion. Minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, everything was subject to change. As the true nature of the virus became ever-more apparent, so too did the reality of our situation as educators. Though our administration originally held the conviction that everything would be resolved in a matter of weeks and we would go right back to school, the rapidly rising death toll suggested otherwise. When Cuomo shut down the entire city, the narrative took a major turn.
That’s when the list took form. And what a list it was. No longer were we just teachers (though truthfully that was never the case). Now we were more — so much more. Teachers have always had more on their plates than merely following a curriculum. In fact, actual teaching has always been the tip of the iceberg. From managing behavior to inputting data to fostering relationships with the kids and their families, there’s so much more happening underneath the surface — that’s just part of the job. But like the helpless ship-hands of the Titanic, we were naively unaware of the truly treacherous immensity of the ice below, for we were entering uncharted waters. The last time we traveled this far out to sea, there was no other option but to hop in a lifeboat (if you could find one) and jump ship. But not this time — no! This time we would right the ship, we would use every tool at our disposal to stay afloat and stay on course. Yes! — this time we would make it through. Technology would save us, just look how far we’ve come (the Internet, computers, cell phones). It will be a grand new experiment — a heroic expedition. And who would be our navigators? That’s right, you guessed it: teachers.
Fast forward to the fall. We’re still floating — just barely. The clock approaches 8 a.m. when I stumble out of my bed, throw on a flannel and sweatpants, and fall into my chair, where I will remain seated (almost entirely uninterrupted) for the next eight hours. First I log onto a planning meeting with the other teachers on my grade team. We quietly discuss our lesson plans for the day ahead. By the time we iron out what exactly it is we’re doing, a tidal wave of children are silently banging on the door of our Zoom “waiting room.” I sit at my cheap wooden desk (ordered from Amazon) and watch the tired little faces pop onto the screen. Every little frame is a window into their lives. Some are buttoned up in their nicest school clothes, others are snug in their cotton pajamas; some are already bouncing up and down in their seats, others are still holding onto the last quiet moments of peaceful sleep. In the background are parents (some still in their pajamas as well), siblings young and old, cats, dogs, an occasional fish, grandma, grandpa, wooden balusters, exposed brick, and chipping plaster. Some are at a table, a few are at a desk, but most are still in bed. “Alright,” I think to myself with waning resolve. “Let’s teach these kids how to multiply.”
I try bringing the call to order before diving into the math lesson. “Good morning everyone!” I’m silently shocked that I can still muster this much enthusiasm. There’s something about their innocent eyes that brings it out of me. No matter how tired and irritated I might get, I still don’t want to let them down. “Please take a seat if you haven’t already, make sure your mics are off and your cameras are on. Darren, you need to turn your camera on.” Damnit Darren. “Reminder that if your cameras aren’t working or if you’re having a technology issue, you need to message me in the chat.” Right on cue a message pops up from Darren: “My camera is not working.” That’s code for: “I’m going to take a nap.” I don’t even reply; it’s not worth it. Instead I send a text to my co-teacher Sandra and ask her to call Darren’s mom. It’s her problem now.
Math. Right. Let’s do this.
“Okay, everyone, I’m going to share my screen,” I warn the class, as if this is some groundbreaking moment that we all must be prepared for. “Cassie, can you please read the first problem for us?”
Cassie unmutes her microphone and begins to read — terrible demonic static from deepest pits of Zoom hell.
“Oh, Cassie, wait a second,” I quickly interject. I hear my voice echoing in the hellish void, transformed into frequencies previously unimagined. Now their vibrations haunt me. “Sorry Cassie, please mute yourself, there seems to be some issue with your microphone.”
Every student was sent a tablet shortly after we launched remote learning. What we found out later was that, in an attempt to save a few pennies, the devices the students received were what some call “refurbished.” In actuality, they are half-broken. Issues like Cassie’s microphone or Darren’s camera (real or fake) are an everyday occurrence. Darren is perhaps the smartest of all; he’s the only one who’s figured out how to turn these technology blunders to his advantage.
“Eric…” We love Eric — not because he’s the brightest student or the cutest kid, but because his tablet works and he has dependable Wifi. “Eric can you please read the problem for us?”
Finally, we start diving into the lesson. And besides a whole lot of fumbling with the Zoom annotations on my end, things actually go pretty well. Eric reads out the problem, Jordan gets a bit confused, and Madison guides us back on track. I send the kids off to finish their math work on Google Classroom and give my microphone a much needed break. It’s nice to breathe. But I’ve barely exhaled before Chelsea calls.
“Hi Chelsea.”
“I don’t see the math work.”
“It’s on Google Classroom. Did you refresh the page?”
“How do I do that?”
“Click the circle with an arrow. It’s on the top left of your screen.”
“I don’t see it.”
“It’s there.”
“Oh, I got it.”
“Do you see the math work now?”
“Yea.”
After we hang up the phone I log onto GoGuardian to spy on the kids. It’s a program that allows us to see everything they’re doing on their tablets. We use it to make sure they’re actually completing their work rather than watching Fortnite videos on YouTube (I can even close tabs and lock their screens if I so choose). Other teachers rave about how great it is, but the implications of such a program still make me hesitate.
Sure enough, there goes Samuel watching YouTube again. I close the tab and message him to get to work. Then I go into Google Classroom and start looking at the assignments that were completed suspiciously fast. Unsurprisingly, I send each one back with the same comment: “Stop rushing and show your work.” Regardless of whether they’re sitting in the classroom or sitting at home, some kids will always try to cut corners. The only difference now is they can easily ignore me when I call them out — oh, the wonders of technology.
And so, the day drags on. We discuss the math work, I mute a few more possessed microphones, and I hand out a few consequences to those who are off task (this is done in the form of subtracting digital Dojo points — a fickle currency whose value is based solely on the perceptions of each student). Finally lunch rolls around, but instead of cooking a nutritious meal in the comfort of my own home, I pop some leftovers in the microwave and finish grading all the work I didn’t get to before.
After lunch, we start in on the literacy lesson and the cycle repeats. More work for them, more work for me, and never enough time for any of us to really get anything done. Each morning is more tiresome, each day ends later than the last. With all the meetings, the lessons, the grading, the muting, the phone calls, the emails, the broken tablets, the shoddy connections, the disgruntled parents, the disgruntled kids, the disgruntled administrators laying waste to the disgruntled teachers it’s a miracle that we teach them anything at all. But nonetheless, in spite of a global pandemic and the countless issues that already plagued the education system, in spite of the long hours and lack of pay, in spite of the constant pressure from parents, leaders, and politicians, in spite of it all, we teach. And in those golden moments, like when you’re about to end the day’s last call and little Tyler says he doesn’t want to leave, you remember why you’re sitting in that chair.
David Stern
David Stern is an elementary school teacher living in Brooklyn, New York. He attended Ithaca College, where he studied journalism, and he worked professionally as a journalist before transitioning into his career as a teacher. In his article "The Daze of Digital Learning," Stern hopes to shed light on what the pandemic experience has been like for teachers, as well as the strain it continues to put on the education system. He continues to teach remotely and write in his freetime.