Teaching on Zoom feels like one of those weird dreams where bizarre combinations happen. Our homeschool at the dining table morphs into a classroom. Qatar sunlight behind a bouncing blue Skype icon warps into Zoom grids and a Pacific Northwest breeze through the porch door. My students remind me of my own kids on a homeschool morning, just with a lot more of them. Some are in pajamas rubbing sleep from their eyes. Others are leaping off their beds. The baby is crying in the background, mom is scolding, and someone is finishing breakfast. The siblings are at times arguing and at times giving the answers. At the mere mention of bird watching, one student disappears for half an hour intent on finding a bird book to show me while another immediately dumps all the contents out of a nearby shopping bag to rummage for binoculars she was convinced resided down there.
Online teaching feels at once like too much real life and not at all.
In a futile attempt to resist my virtual-ness, I peer into the screen at odd angles as if I could see my students’ off screen drawings that way. I long to reach over and tap the unmute button for a child clearly trying to speak, or step across and separate squabbling siblings sharing an iPad.
Yet I also receive the gift of unexpected hospitality.
I am introduced to well-loved stuffed animals and presented with Lego creations. I meet the pet ant that lives in someone’s bedroom. I am carried to the window to see the bus that drops off lunch. I admire pretzels, tamales, and ice cream cones. We watch each other eat, climb under beds, and peek into closets. I am introduced to random family friends and baby brothers. My own backyard chickens set off in a chorus of victorious egg announcement squawking and would not stop.
We invite each other in.
This leaning into a device, these little boxes on a screen—this way is real too.
In this virtual space, my lessons don’t go the way I want them to. The kids don’t respond the way I want them to. It all feels like a mess.
Yet daily, real surprises. A moment of connection—and I am awed. A word a child chooses to share—and I am honored.
With a click of a blue rectangle, it would all be over.