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'Teaching After Lockdown' (continued)
The state of constant vigilance and being suspicious of everyone is exhausting. Adrenalin-filled espionage films make it look easy. In reality, the perpetual high alert, fight-or-flight mode saps your life force and morphs you into a sluggish puddle of woe. Where has that person been? Have they been diligently washing their hands for the recommended twenty seconds? Was that a sneeze? Is that a post-nasal drip cough or something more sinister? Oh God! I touched my face! AAARGH! Aaaand I’m done. I am a puddle of woe. Short bursts of essential social interaction – a trip to the supermarket for supplies, a dash to the chemist – these are tiring enough. The slog of a full day in a still-open workplace, especially in a school populated with hundreds of students, each one of them a haven for contagion – it is too much to be borne.
The atmosphere in the staffroom is tense. People dance around each other awkwardly to keep distance (difficult when there are so many darned desks, filing cabinets and bookshelves about), and recoil from one another when they both reach for the fridge door at the same time. ‘No, you go ahead – make yourself a coffee first.’ (Oh God, they’ve picked up the milk bottle. How am I going to sanitise it without offending them? Maybe I’ll just have a black coffee, or none at all. Dang. Retreat while they’re distracted. Fabricate an excuse if they ask why you’re backing away from the fridge. ‘I, um, forgot to pick up my photocopying, mumble…’ DASH!) Simmering underneath the paranoia of spreading infection is a deep dissatisfaction, sense of futility and bitter resentment. The government has shown its true colours regarding the value they place on the work of teachers.
The state of constant vigilance and being suspicious of everyone is exhausting. Adrenalin-filled espionage films make it look easy. In reality, the perpetual high alert, fight-or-flight mode saps your life force and morphs you into a sluggish puddle of woe. Where has that person been? Have they been diligently washing their hands for the recommended twenty seconds? Was that a sneeze? Is that a post-nasal drip cough or something more sinister? Oh God! I touched my face! AAARGH! Aaaand I’m done. I am a puddle of woe. Short bursts of essential social interaction – a trip to the supermarket for supplies, a dash to the chemist – these are tiring enough. The slog of a full day in a still-open workplace, especially in a school populated with hundreds of students, each one of them a haven for contagion – it is too much to be borne.
The atmosphere in the staffroom is tense. People dance around each other awkwardly to keep distance (difficult when there are so many darned desks, filing cabinets and bookshelves about), and recoil from one another when they both reach for the fridge door at the same time. ‘No, you go ahead – make yourself a coffee first.’ (Oh God, they’ve picked up the milk bottle. How am I going to sanitise it without offending them? Maybe I’ll just have a black coffee, or none at all. Dang. Retreat while they’re distracted. Fabricate an excuse if they ask why you’re backing away from the fridge. ‘I, um, forgot to pick up my photocopying, mumble…’ DASH!) Simmering underneath the paranoia of spreading infection is a deep dissatisfaction, sense of futility and bitter resentment. The government has shown its true colours regarding the value they place on the work of teachers.