An unexpected goodbye

On the beautiful Wednesday morning of March 11, 2020, the day before our school dismissed for a four-day weekend, a hard-working, well-respected veteran teacher named Beth (a pseudonym) came rushing toward me with a worried look on her face. With no greeting or smile, she launched into her concern. “I know you’re not behind this decision, but I have to let you know that I am really upset about the email we received this morning.”

Honestly, it took me a moment to realize what Beth was talking about. Then I remembered. That morning an email had come out from the central office to let us know that while we were home for the scheduled four-day weekend, our building would be thoroughly cleaned as a preventative measure against the COVID-19 virus we had been hearing so much about in the news.

It was only my second year as Beth’s principal, but it would also be my last. Due to a planned consolidation, we were scheduled to close at the end of the school year, and staff and students would be dispersed among the district’s three remaining elementary schools.

Wanting to be supportive, I said, “I’m so sorry, Beth. Was there something specific you wanted to come in to do over the weekend? Can I help?”

She responded, “I have 27 years of teaching to pack up in the next three months and I was planning to start this weekend.”

Overhearing our conversation, teachers from neighboring classrooms came over to express their frustration and disappointment. Although I had no control over this issue, I listened, hoping that just allowing the teachers to vent their irritation would help them feel a bit better.

Processing loss

We were all upset to be closing our school. Many of the teachers, like Beth, had spent decades of their careers in this building. The friends they taught with were more than friends. When you watch your colleagues get married, have children, send those children off to college, and see those children get married, you aren’t just teachers working in the same building anymore — you’re family. Closing the building to teachers over the weekend was intended to keep students and staff safe, which is unarguably a noble goal; the concern that Beth and others expressed that morning spoke to the grieving process teachers and community members feel when a school closes.

In her 2018 book, Ghosts in the Schoolyard: Racism and School Closings on Chicago’s South Side, author Eve Ewing describes the institutional mourning process that teachers, students, and staff experience when closing a school. Ewing’s research informs us that teachers, staff, and students may experience a sense of loss, shame, fear, futility, voicelessness, grief, and anger. Mourning the loss of a school can parallel mourning the death of a loved one. Ewing writes: “A school closure can thus be a devastating event that leaves an indelible emotional aftermath.” It’s vital to take the time to thoughtfully consider each step of the transition process from the perspective of staff emotions, not just logistics.

A school is more than a building. It’s a symbol of safety and nurturing and love, a place that may hold decades of memories for an entire community. Much as a location can serve as a character in a novel, a school can serve as one of the oldest and strongest characters in a community.

I knew from leaving other schools that taking small moments to pack up their belongings as the year came to an end would allow teachers to slowly grieve, ultimately making the transition out of our school and into their next assignment much easier when the time came.

Our last days

At 3:30 p.m. on March 11, exhausted from another day in education and looking forward to an extra two days to rest and recharge, I helped our students onto the bus, sending each child off with a smile, and telling them, many by name, to have a good weekend.

Little did we know, as we sent our students home that afternoon, that we may not ever see their little faces again. On Friday, March 13, we received the news that all schools in Illinois would be closed for two weeks. As you well know, and as we would come to learn, our school was never to meet in person again. Beth and her colleagues were able to come in and pack their materials, and there were many tears. If it weren’t for social distancing, there would have been many, many hugs as well.

Like other educators around the country, our teachers gracefully pivoted from on-site to remote learning. Our faculty and staff drove a parade around our school neighborhoods, read books to our students online, continued to have morning announcements, and regularly reached out to families.

Ironically, our theme for the school that year was Oh, the Places You’ll Go! However, we never got to say goodbye and send our students off to their new schools as we had planned, by reading the famous Dr. Seuss book in an assembly and doing a final walk-through of the building together.

There is a lingering heartache from closing a school in this way. While some of us will see our former students in our new positions, others will not. As I write this, our district is considering remote learning for the fall. Will we ever see our students again? Will we ever come together as educators again?

I want to tell our students how much we miss them. I want to tell them they will be just fine in their new schools, even if, like some of us, they are nervous. I want to tell them that no matter what, if they ever need advice or encouragement, we will be there for them. I want the same for our teachers — for them to know that they made our school special. I was honored to work alongside them and learn with them. I know they will be successful in their new schools and with their new students, even if, like me, they continue to grieve.

Our story is unique in that we will never set foot in our former school, but we have something in common with educators all around the world. We worry about our students, their safety, and their education. And, like them, we have questions that no one can answer.

I am trying to keep in mind the words attributed to the Greek stoic philosopher Epictetus: “It’s not what happens to you, but how you react to it that matters.” I know that despite our many worries and questions, each of us has opportunities to support one another in our schools and in our communities. And we can remember to value every interaction with our students and with colleagues because we simply don’t know if it will be the last time we see them.

Reference

Ewing, E.L. (2018). Ghosts in the schoolyard: Racism and school closings on Chicago’s South Side. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press.