Not with a bang, but a whimper
By Jeanne Albanese
I had to go to Cherry Road School this morning to pick something up.
I pulled into one of the parking spots in front, sat in the car and looked at the school. The familiar red bricks, the clock set in between rows of windows, the sun shining on the great big empty lawn.
And then I cried as I let it wash over me that this could be my last trip into this beloved school building as a parent.
I pictured that great big lawn teeming with kids decked out in red, white and blue on Flag Day, with parents ignoring the yellow tape to get closer for a photo. I heard the chorus of voices that would lift up as one singing “ God Bless America and “This Land is Your Land.”
And for the first time I admitted to myself, that even if school somehow reopens this year in New York, an event like Flag Day simply can’t and won’t happen.
As much as I am up on the news and have educated myself about COVID-19, and I understand the challenges and complexities of schools and businesses opening, and the risks posed when that all happens, the optimist in me has a little reservoir of hope deep inside that our children can rescue some of their school year. And that hope pushes down everything I know logically. It’s not about being in denial or being reckless, it’s about survival. It’s about getting out of bed every morning and greeting my children with a smile so that they don’t lose hope. It’s about thinking about all those milestones we are all missing no matter what grade our children are in and still having the mental energy to cook, clean, teach, scold, smile, laugh and live.
It’s about watching my middle son practice lacrosse drills on the lawn every day for his freshman JV season that will never be.
It’s about watching my daughter do three video classes a week for a dance recital that could maybe happen at some point, in some way I can’t yet picture.
It’s about watching my oldest son do his soccer workout for his senior season I pray to God happens this fall.
Every time my kids kick, shoot, dribble, twirl, twist, jump, run, shoot, dodge and bounce, they’re doing it from a place of hope. A place down deep inside them innocuous to the virus, to the shut down, to the gloomy reality of the current state of their respective childhoods. It’s something I am sure they can’t even articulate. As their mother, I have to grab onto that hope, too.
It’s about wanting these things so much for them, but balancing that with the reality that once we start moving around again, any one of us can get infected, get sick and die. While June seems so far away, as I listen to the daily press conferences from New York Gov. Andrew Cuomo, I know there is so much we don’t know, and I know how very much has to happen before he can even think about opening schools. He said so today, that opening schools will be such a massive undertaking with safety precautions and new protocol, his staff isn’t anywhere near figuring out that piece when there are so many other pieces to wrangle. (But every day I remain impressed at how much they’ve figured out from the day before, and on a local level, I am encouraged to know our schools are talking about somehow trying salvage some of these milestones.)
So this is the essay I don’t want to write. The one that has been rattling around in my brain for days, but I keep stuffing down because it’s a reality I don’t want to face. But as the tears flowed while I sat in that car, I realized it was time. And as I sit here and type, my hands are shaky and I’m crying.
This pandemic brings with it a lot to mourn, obviously for those who are sick and those who have died. It’s also okay to mourn the loss of our daily routine, our connections with friends and family and our ability to gather as church, school, civic and neighborhood communities.
As a parent, most of my mourning is on behalf of my kids. Pretty sure my teenagers are aware of what they are missing and the likelihood some is gone for good. My freshman was looking forward to his first JV lacrosse season, to getting inducted in to the music honor society and running for class officer.
My junior has to study for an SAT that may never be administered, apply for colleges he probably won’t get to visit, and think about a prom that, even if it can be rescheduled, how can you socially distance at a dance?
But my 10-year-old does not understand. She says she’s not upset, and that not being upset upsets her, but she also admits she simply can’t take it all in. She compares it to her thoughts on global warming, a topic that angers and terrifies her, but one she says just can’t fully grasp. She’s pretty sharp. She can grasp it; she just doesn’t let herself. (Smart kid.)
She doesn’t know she likely won’t be her last Flag Day, her last Water Carnival or her fourth grade moving up ceremony. She doesn’t know that she likely won’t sit at her desk next to her best friend again, won’t visit the school library to take out yet another book, won’t hug her wonderful, loving teacher while she’s still actually her teacher. She doesn’t know that her last year in elementary school is about to end not with a bang but a whimper.
But I know. And as important as all those milestones are to her, they’re important to me too, to all of us. My heart aches for the high school seniors — aches, aches, aches — but it aches too for what my fourth grader is missing, for what my freshman is missing and for what my junior is missing. And it’s okay if your heart aches for your toddler, pre-schooler, kindergartener, middle schooler— any age — and for anything they are missing. We can be sad for our seniors and sad for our own kids and ourselves, too.
Sad for the kindergarteners whose first year in school was so rudely interrupted.
Sad for the first graders missing their last Field Day.
Sad for the third graders who will miss going to Gillie Lake.
Sad for the middle-schoolers who practiced every day for months for a musical that never was.
Sad for the 8th graders missing Moving Up Night.
Sad of course, for the seniors missing ball, senior breakfast, senior skip day and possibly graduation.
Every child in every grade in every school in every city and every town in every country is mourning. Something.
This Flag Day would have been my 12th and final. For those of you who don’t know about Flag Day, in our school district, it’s not just a thing. It’s THE thing. A treasured June tradition adored by all. Angelina has worn her cousin’s hand me down flag dress for four years and we were looking forward to seeing if it would fit one last time. Angelina wore it to her brothers’ Flag Days until it was her turn and then to every one of hers since, as the dress crept ever so slightly up from her ankles and toward her knees each year.
For me, that last Flag Day would have closed the book on my children’s elementary years, on my many years of involvement at those schools, both in my kids’ classrooms and at the schools as a whole. Closed the book on me having little kids, and put me that much closer to sending a kid to college. There are five years between my middle child and my youngest, and as my friends mourned as their kids aged out of Flag Day, every year someone would say to me, “ At least you still have Angelina.” Yup, I would say with gratitude, because I know how hard the last one will be.
Little did I know it would be infinitely harder not to have that last one.
Maybe all this sounds silly to someone else, maybe, but not to me. And I’m okay with that.
So, back to me sitting in the car crying this morning. I composed myself, wiped my tears and donned my mask, grateful that it comes up so high that my bloodshot eyes were barely visible unless you could get close enough to look. But I knew no one could.
When I rang the bell and stood in front of the camera, like always, they asked who it was. They couldn’t recognize the face behind the mask, the face that has rung that bell hundreds of times.
I took a deep breath and stepped inside, knowing the transaction would be quick and I could likely escape without any more waterworks. But then I saw the sign, the one that tells visitors they aren’t allowed past the floor just inside the front door and my heart sank. Not up those five stairs to the office door, or to the corridor normally lined with art projects and filled with children streaming to lunch or library or gym.
And then I saw the secretary, the one who has greeted me for all those 12 years, and I lost it. As she ran back up those five stairs and ducked into the office to grab a piece of paper, I stood in the corner, taking deep gulping breaths underneath my mask and hoping she wouldn’t notice. But I couldn’t form words to greet her, and when my eyes met hers, she knew. So I signed the paper, attempted a smile beneath my mask, waved at her and left.
As I pushed open the door, I didn’t let myself consider that it could be my last time leaving. I’m just not ready for that ending yet.