Working through the brutal reality

This post is adapted from an email originally shared on August 20, 2021. If you would like to receive future emails, you can sign up here.

These last few weeks have been gutting. My team at Instruction Partners lost a beloved colleague, Donna Rossi, after a fierce battle with cancer; we grieve for her family and for our friend. News reports bring no shortage of heartache from every corner of the globe as loved ones try to locate family in Haiti, process events in Afghanistan, make sense of their farming future in the southwest, and mourn victims of gun violence. Too many people are sick or caring for sick loved ones. And as case counts rise and political battles over masks embroil communities, stir-crazy children, beleaguered parents, and exhausted educators mourn the lost dream of a “normal” school year that felt so possible a month ago.

Amid the grief, in the way that life does, I also had a parenting and educator high last week: my son started kindergarten. We got the supplies, memorized our lunch number, made sure his mask covered his nose, gave him a big kiss, and hid our tears as he marched into school without looking back. When I asked about his first day, he said, “well, I have not learned to read yet.”

So far, the structure and routines are a big hit. He has memorized the schedule and seems impatient with me that I can’t track his specials. He loves his teacher; he can’t remember his classmates’ names; he delighted in, and then melted down over, his first homework assignment; he is so excited when he wakes up in the morning to put on his uniform. He is in love with school. I understand his feelings completely.

On day three, we got our first school COVID-case notice. Five people at the school tested positive. On Monday, we got a robocall letting us know the district mask mandate was still in effect, even though the governor signed an executive order to create a parent opt-out. As my son came home from school full of stories and excitement, I said a prayer of gratitude for that day and a hope it would last. This morning we got our first “close contact” alert; we are in quarantine for the next two weeks.

Amid these events, and especially this morning while getting instructions from the school nurse, I have drawn strength and focus from the story about Admiral Jim Stockdale, the prisoner of war in the Vietnam War. (I wrote about this last spring; his example feels relevant again.) When asked how he survived years of imprisonment and torture, Admiral Stockdale said, “I never doubted not only that I would get out, but also that I would prevail in the end and turn the experience into the defining event of my life.” When he was asked who didn’t make it out, he said, “That’s easy. The optimists. They were the ones who said, ‘We’re going to be out by Christmas.’ And Christmas would come, and Christmas would go. . . . And they died of a broken heart.” His lesson was: You must never confuse faith that you will prevail in the end — which you can never afford to lose — with the discipline to confront the most brutal facts of your current reality, whatever they might be.

The events of the past few weeks have felt like a dose of cold, brutal reality as we yet again pull out the scenario plans, process the fact that everything is going to be harder than we want it to be, and feel the heavy coat of emotional weight as the prayer lists grow longer and fears grow stronger. There is no road through process that does not involve feeling all the things — the denial, the anger, the heartbreak, and the intense wish for it not to be so. But as the chill of it all washes over me, it leaves in its wake feelings of determination, a drive to be of service in any way I can, and even some new creativity.

Our kids (and us grownups) have a lot of needs. Those needs will only grow if we just keep hoping this is about to be over. A parent advocate recently asked me what call to action she could make of her district if schools end up virtual again. I was so depressed by the context of the question that I could barely offer an answer. But, of course, there are always things we can do, if we keep trying to find a way.

Pandemics end. Battles subside. Not yet, and maybe not for a long time, this chapter will one day be in the rearview mirror and we will all likely view it as a defining chapter in our lives. The question I will measure myself by is, “How well did I show up for the people in my life in that time of need?”

As we launch into another complex school year, I commit to doubling down — in service, in relationship, and in learning — to help those leading systems and schools as they work to support teachers, communities, and each and every student, particularly those with the greatest needs. Questions about how to support more effective and equitable instruction, which we have always been working to answer, are more relevant than ever. This week I will channel my energy into helping some state and district leaders get clear on their priorities and scenario plans for the year, launching new research partnerships to answer hard questions about professional learning, and helping my own team process, grieve, and find the actions they can take.

Confronting the brutal reality, we can see that this year will be harder than last year. But we can also see that we know more than we knew a year ago, and we will know even more a year from now. If we all keep seeking the next thing we can do to be of service to each other, it is not hard to imagine that, one day, we will look back on this chapter as a defining moment in learning how to support our children and each other in powerful new ways.

Here are some of the resources I have been learning from recently:

• Our blog post on effective leadership practices for improving PLCs includes an example of the practices in action with Principal Layne Talbott in Bedford County Schools.
• I appreciated EdWeek’s 7 Decisionmaking Tips for Principals.
• There are great resources from colleague orgs on the choice board challenge.