Let me start by saying how much I love thecounty. My son has had a wonderful experience at our local , where he’s been able to attend over the past three years. Over those same three years, I’ve worked for our district as the Spanish-language liaison. Let how much my heart is broken. Those three years have been years marked by COVID-19. My son’s kindergarten year was cut short. His first-grade year, with three different teachers, a period of virtual school, six months of homeschooling, and two months in person. Second grade, now, defies description.
I haven’t said much to anyone about what I’m witnessing. I have to connect with people on all sides of the spectrum without putting them off to get the necessary information. I flow like water through beliefs, terrors, confusions, and desperations. With each, I close my eyes and try to make myself a blank slate until I can read where this person is and respond as compassionately, firmly, helpfully, urgently, and effectively as possible.
In the high country of Appalachia, with fewer than 18,000 residents in our county, it took COVID a while to reach us. But it’s here now. Since 7:30 this morning, I’ve done nothing but make. In standard times, my job involves various things: tutoring newly arrived students, interpreting Programs, refereeing meetings with counselors and principals, translating documents, relaying messages about soccer practice, the school play, and a forgotten trumpet. But now it’s just COVID. All day and , COVID.
I foolishly didn’t look at my email for a few hours yesterday. It turned out I’d missed an entire class going into quarantine ― a dozen students I failed to call, who showed up tothis morning only to be sent home again. “But my child was wearing his mask,” one , bewildered when I finally call. “Why does he have to quarantine?” Because the other child, the positive case, was not , I explained.
Against the advice of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, the state Health and Human Services toolkit, our local health department, and our. As a result, roughly 10% of our school community is in quarantine. Based on our district’s , most children would not be in quarantine if their classmates wore masks. An estimate of the incidence rate within our school system is 1175/100k, almost six times the CDC’s threshold for “highest risk of transmission in schools.”
I make call after call. “I’m so sorry. Your child has been exposed. You need to come to pick her up.” “I’m sorry, yes, I know you had to ask off work yesterday too. Yes, I know he just had a test last week.” “I’m so sorry. I know that she just got well on Friday.” “Yes, if he has a cough, you should take him for a test.” “The fever still isn’t better? Ay, and the little ones? Yes, you’d better call your doctor.” “Yes, señora, I understand that you would feel safer keeping them all home this week, but if you do, they’ll be counted absent.”
It starts before I’ve had breakfast. A mother calls: She cannot take another. A father laments: I don’t have a car to come to pick up my child. Another dad: I’m the only one who can drive. I have the car at work from 7 a.m. to 7 p.m. Where can I get him tested before or after those hours? A mom thought a quarantine was supposed to last 40 days because the word for “quarantine” (cuarentena) is so similar to the word for “forty” (cuarenta).
A mom whoand is genuinely afraid to get it, although both her children have been in quarantine longer than they’ve been in school and are now home with fevers as they await the results of their second tests of the school year. A parent calls me anxiously, asking, “Is it safe for the children to be at school?” “Not really,” I say. Three days later, she called to tell me her two oldest were homesick. Before I can hang up, another mom beeps in four sick children with fevers and coughs, the second one coughing so hard she can’t catch her breath. They’re heading to pick up a nebulizer.
Between calls, I find myself resting my forehead on the desk. At the end of, a student and I talked about her transition to a new school this fall. Her family fled from a conflict-filled country to the south; her sister was just freed from months in . Another transition for her felt ominous. “Will you still come to see me?” she asked nervously. “What if I don’t know where to go?” “I’ll be there,” I promised. “I’ll find you. We’ll figure it out together.”
Well. I haven’t been there. I haven’t found her. She’s been in quarantine already. She’s currently homesick. I’m home with my son. Even if I could see her, should I? Would it be safe? What will her test results be this time? What would have happened if I’d gone? I wonder if she feels afraid and lonely in the new school. I wonder if she feels like I’ve let her down. I feel like I’ve let her down.
I think about all the kids being let down right now. Missing their English lessons, speech therapy, football practice, and dance classes. Fail their tests, a lump in their throats, and Una cannot get packets of worksheets don’t speak the language. Our local health that 79% of the kids in quarantine right now are there because of school contacts, not household contacts. If everyone wore a mask, how much of this could not happen? Honestly, it breaks my heart.. Anxious parents hover, encouraging, scolding, unable to help them because they
As for our family, we kept our son home for the first two days of school to see how things would go. On days 3-5, the school was closed due to flooding. By the following Monday, his class was in quarantine for week two. The third week, they went for one day, and then there wasof closure due to another storm. After that, we withdrew him. We’re so privileged to be able to do so. And it, too, breaks my heart.