Waiting For Superman: CV Stories, 17 March 2020
Teachers should be paid a billion dollars an hour.
Throughout what is looking like is going to be an extended period of isolation for Americans, this newsletter will be a daily look at what it is like to actually live through this moment until this moment is over. It will feature brief opening remarks from me every day, but will mostly be stories from you about how this is affecting you, your family, your friends … your daily life. (The regular weekly newsletter will continue uninterrupted.) It doesn’t work without you: Email me at williamfleitch@yahoo.com. We are all in this together.
The boys finished their first day of “school” today. They were on Spring Break last week and through Monday, so technically today was their first day back. The teachers at their wonderful school are putting together lesson plans for the parents to administer for however long they are gone, as well as daily schedules to simulate, the best they can, what a typical school day looks like.
This is the rough daily calendar:
We didn’t get the actual lesson plans until this afternoon, so today was more loose than we’ll have to be later. (Or tomorrow.) So today, my wife had them write stories about historical figures—my older son wrote a news story about Tom Brady leaving the Patriots—and worked with them on some word problems, and I went through a bunch of flash cards with them. It wasn’t much. I was patient with them and helpful and calmly instructive and when we were done I wanted to jump out a window. I have no idea how teachers do this with 20 of these kids—kids who aren’t even theirs!—all day.
Tomorrow has more formal lessons, and they’re important. William is in second grade, and Wynn is in kindergarten, and there are things they need to learn at this age to stay on track. Missing a full two months of the school year, something that feels like a legitimate possibility at this point, is no joke. This is about to get more complicated than flash cards. We actually are going to have to teach things. Egads.
I’ve been working out of home for more than 15 years. But this is without question the hardest job I’ve ever had. Already.
The boys are getting the biggest kick out of it, though. It’s funny the way they look at us when we pretend to be teachers, like we have that sort of authority, like they have to listen to us like the way have to listen to them. Wait until there’s actually stuff they are required to learn, stuff taught to them by a writer and an interior designer, both of whom are distracted by, you know, their actual jobs that they get paid for and that keep the lights on in this place. It’s gonna be a long quarantine folks. Every teacher on the planet deserves a billion dollars.
Here are today’s stories. Send me yours at williamfleitch@yahoo.com.
The first story today comes from Matthew Butler:
2020 is going to be a really weird year for me and mine.
My fiancee and I moved up to NY for a job that feels like it's about to come to an end, before I finished what I started. My fiancee became my fiancee this year. We realized that we we're pregnant about two weeks later. We started planning our wedding for July, thinking that we'd get through my job, and her school, and we'd join together and start facing the world together. We'd have our daughter in September. And then, in November, I'd probably try to help whoever is the Democratic Nominee get elected president, or help a down ballot race.
Coronavirus just upended every part of my life. Being pregnant isn't insanely dangerous, as far as they know (for now). But my fiancee has had asthma in the past, and that's a huge no-no. My grandmother got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer last year, and after fighting the good fight, she decided to go off it last week. We were told that we had at least a month to go down and see her. We don't have a month anymore, because we can't risk infecting her. My job depends on face to face contact with people. Nope, says coronavirus.
I'm glad you're collecting these. It's important for us to know these small personal stories. I'm not an expert in health, public safety, or anything really, but everyone out there needs to do their part to help all of us. This is a serious time, and taking it seriously is the only way we're going to be able to go forward. Pay attention to the practical advice that is being given. Save my girlfriend, my grandmother, my baby, and all those you care about. You can help.
Our second story today comes from Lucia from California.
Here’s our sadly typical story.
We opened our little sit-down ice cream shop in August 2019 in what is proudly coined America’s Last Small Town—Pacific Grove, California. Most people recognize our little town for its location a mile north of the Monterey Aquarium. More recently, we have become better known for the Princess Cruise passengers who are being quarantined at Asilomar, down the road.
After a surprisingly busy opening, we adjusted to the slower pace of life post-Labor Day. Then came rainy season, our version of winter. We scaled down staffing and reduced hours. Luckily, all but one of our 12 employees are local high school students and could weather the loss of income. We were delighted that after the doldrums of January, business finally began to pick up. Until a few weeks ago.
At first we all made light of coronavirus, but then it grew frightfully serious. Last weekend, a sweet couple on their honeymoon told us about their recent world travels around Asia, and the servers stepped away. On Saturday, a child with a runny nose caused an entire room to clear. And then, the unthinkable happened: Someone stole $80 and toilet paper.
Unable to meet the social distancing requirements, we sadly decided to lock our front door and update our website that we would be closed through the end of March. If only.
As a result, our kitchen manager, who turns 28 in a week, lost three jobs in a couple days. And with shelter-at-home requirements imminent, we are now building legos and coloring instead of going to playgrounds and churning Madagascar vanilla. Not easy for energetic 4-year old twin boys. Or anyone really.
We gave everyone two weeks’ severance pay, because it was the right thing to do. But to our kitchen manager and thousands like him in our tourist-driven county, it will not be enough. We made cookies for the people under quarantine, which were given to park rangers out of “an abundance of caution.” Fair enough.
We have no clue when our ice cream shop will re-open, when our kids will return to school, whether our three high school seniors will get the graduation they’ve worked towards, and the savings for college they expected. For now, we count ourselves fortunate for having a home, lots of canned goods, a whole lot of jigsaw puzzles and home exercise equipment.
Send me your stories of this moment in history at williamfleitch@yahoo.com.
And please: Be safe.
Best,
Will