I woke up today with the song “Sleigh Ride” in my head--specifically, with the opening riff of sleigh bells that this city kid associates more with Salvation Army Santas on the street than with pastoral rides through snowy fields. But whatever. It’s December, and I was hearing the bells and singing-jingling-ring-ting-tingling in my head, when I opened my eyes this morning. That song sounds like colorful lights to me, like snow, like hot chocolate... like, yeah, a long vacation from school! I cranked up the Ronettes’ version on my computer, and sang along.
 
I’m Jewish by birth, with deep cultural roots and shoots, atheist in my brain—or maybe shifting to agnostic as I age, and beginning to lean Buddhist in my body and soul. But I love December and Christmas in New York. I also feel like an outsider, a tourist in someone else’s country at this time of year. This week, I will walk 

Dear Dr. Krislov,

I’ve always taught in school communities that were beautifully diverse—in race, identity, class, learning profile, politics and more. Pace is no exception. What an honor and satisfaction it is to teach first gen students at a university ranked number one for intergenerational economic mobility; to teach students poised to high jump over trenchant, systemic hurdles; to teach young people coming to our city to fulfill dreams of filmmaking and business and, really? You want to be a divorce lawyer?? You gotta love them, and I do.

I am an Oberlin alum (1980) and xxxxxx and xxxx’s cousin. [Krislov is a former president of Oberlin and good friend of my ex-hubby's cousins.] You and I had the pleasure of meeting at a luncheon in 2011, when my son was an incoming Oberlin student. I’m also a new adjunct in the English department at Pace.

I’ll forgo sending along my lengthy CV, but in a nutshell, I have taught reading and writing to students from 8 to 80, in public schools, independent schools, and out-of-school time programs. I founded and direct an organization that runs writing retreats and workshops for educators. I am a Pushcart Prize-winning writer, the author of thirty novels for young people, and numerous short stories, essays and articles for adult readers. I have two masters degrees and am working on a doctorate. And… I earn $6,050 for a four-credit course at Pace. The university affords me no health benefits, though I am teaching in person during a pandemic, in a small, poorly ventilated room. Some of my big adjunct paycheck is held back for taxes, social security and adjunct union dues, that currently seem to be going toward bitter infighting over small amounts of money and power, rather than toward an effort for living wages—or even wages in line with, say, CUNY’s. Hence my appeal directly to you, and my shameless name drop of your friends, my cousins, in hopes that you will read my plea.

I know I don’t have to school you about your adjuncts who shuttle between multiple jobs, and qualify for food stamps. We are academia’s dirty not-so-secret, your essential workers, eating in the kitchen when company comes, and wiping our mouths with our degrees from Harvard and your alma mater, Yale.

Why would anyone in their right mind do this job? Well, I’m loving my work at Pace. First, last, and everything in between, there are the students. It’s great to be back in person. To be able to have students move around the room, brainstorming literacy narratives on chart paper, doing guided visualizations while lying on yoga mats, comparing annotation techniques in small groups,  and to watch them—all of them, and not just their heads in squares on a computer—scribbling ferociously in notebooks about a complex, peer-reviewed journal article, while wearing a Tweety-bird mask or a pair of shorts and fishnets, engaged in ways that they just aren’t, after the hundredth class on Zoom.

And what I’m teaching—the power of language and stories and rhetoric—well, it can change lives.

I promised myself that since teaching this course and this age group is new for me, I would allow myself to do it full out, best practice, as if I were being compensated for it. And that once I had it under my belt, I would look at where I could cut corners to make it sustainable. I spent the month of July reading and creating a syllabus (OER and other free resources, only). I’ve attended a couple of department meetings. I’m not required to because, well, I’m not being paid for it. I’ve created thoughtful lessons and materials. I’ve arrived early to move furniture around in my classroom, for a more student-centered discussion. I’ve retaught a class on Zoom for a kid who had to take his pet to get stitches and another who was waiting for PCR results. I’ve stayed after class to support a student whose work is sometimes late because she pays her own tuition and expenses with four part-time jobs in three different boroughs. (Good training for the life of an adjunct, though.) And I teach writing. So there are forests of papers to read and comment on, day and night.

My hourly pay rate is running about what it would have been if I’d taken that job at Trader Joe’s, which I applied to at the same time as Pace. TJ’s would have given me medical benefits, which I need for another year, until I turn 65. I would have accrued vacation pay. And been able to get a raise. Employees at TJ’s are largely happy. They get a discount on the delicious vegetarian chorizo and other products. It’s closer to home than Pace. And I wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night worrying, because the guy in aisle six can’t read or write.

Dr. Krislov, didn’t it feel great to be the number one college in the Equality of Opportunity Project’s study on student economic mobility? To be up at the top of the list published by the Chronicle of Higher Ed? Do you remember what you said? “This list reaffirms Pace’s commitment to successful outcomes for our students and that education is the path forward.” Thank you for taking care of our students. It’s why you and I are in this business. Please don’t forget the people who teach and care for our students. 63% of the teachers at Pace are part-time, non-tenure track faculty. Dedicated, overeducated and experts in our fields. And we aren’t earning a living wage.

Cordially,
Eve Becker​

And his reply. To his credit, he wrote back, politely, within 12 hours. This and a metro ticket will get me on the subway:

Subject line: Thanks for writing/Glad you're here

I'm glad to know this.  (Hope your son had a good experience at Oberlin!).  I am also glad to know you're enjoying your experience at Pace.  

Salaries for adjuncts are part of a collective bargaining process, so can't really discuss that.  But am copying Matt Renna, head of HR, if he can be helpful.  

Happy to say hello sometime.  Best, Marvin

2020, be gone! Disease, othering, civil unrest—uncivil in the extreme—ill will between neighbors... Some say the world will end in fire, some say in ice.
 
My pandemic burden: unemployment, just when I thought I was going to be embarking on an awesome, late life Act IV of my career. I feel suddenly old, my sense of purpose and identity and passion all tied up in work that I’m no longer doing. My city is bruised, edgy like it used to be when I was young. Yesterday, I walked by two men fighting bitterly over an especially large cache of empties, each claiming rights to their picking turf. It broke my heart.
 
But. The merry-go-round that was making me dizzy and exhausted and stressed has ground to a halt, and I’m not unhappy about that. Nowhere to go. No one to answer to. Didn’t I dream this? Nor am I unhappy about pairing down. If I never buy anything but groceries again, my life will be just fine. Social anxiety? Gone. With my social life, but oh, well.
 
My pandemic life is a dystopic be-careful-what-you-wish-for. Changing from foul to fantastic and back again, like a traffic light.
 
I feel for my friends working overtime in front of a screen, and for my former colleagues teaching their students under dysfunctional conditions while simultaneously managing their own kids’ pandemic schooling. I also envy them their jobs, their focus, their success in making the unworkable work—and, well, just their success, period. I want to work again. But not at a breakneck pace. Been there, done that.
 
Every day, I’m grateful for the roof over my head, the food in my belly, the health of my loved ones... and the pandemic lull I’ve been lucky enough to enjoy. I want this annus horribilis to be over for all of us, but the pressure to perform is off, and I like how it feels. I'm scared of the return to full-throttle life, post-pandemic.

Image: Picasso "Femme Couchée Lisant"

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​Here in the Epicenter, I could bitch. And I could cry. And I do. But there’s something else going on, and I want to name it.
 
Back in March (long ago, in another galaxy), I got called out by an editor for using the phrase ‘silver linings’ when discussing what we might learn from our virtual schooling experiment. “You can’t say that when people are dying,” she messaged me.
 
Really? I kinda think a crisis like this is when those silver linings are most important.
 
Here are some of mine:
 
I love hearing birds and wind and a dog barking over on the next block, without the NYC traffic, the horns, the choppers overhead, the many voices, the street drills, the building construction. The soundtrack is peaceful (okay, absent the ambulance sirens). With the windows wide open and my eyes closed, there’s a peculiar kind of tranquility that I’ve never heard in six decades in my beloved home town.
 
In a funny way, I’m in better touch with my family, though I miss their offline faces keenly. We talk every day. I feel their support, and know they feel mine. In the middle of a pandemic, there’s something unconditional about it.
 
My apartment is comfortable and full of light, and perhaps I’m inventing this, but I could swear that just a few months ago, I was looking at my bookshelves and fantasizing out loud to the boyfriend about some catastrophe where I was stuck inside rereading all those greatest hits. And if that’s not enough, there are the abundant digital stacks at the New York Public Library that I’m getting acquainted with. (Yeah, there’s the little inconvenience of not being able to concentrate on anything but the deluge of bleak medical and political news, but hey, we’re in for awhile, and I feel the reading bug coming back.)
 
I haven’t bought anything in seven weeks, except groceries and some quality booze. And man does this feel good.
 
I’ve barely looked in the mirror, either. Released! Age does this to a gal, but social distancing frosts that cake nicely.
 
And then... there are the hours of unconstructed, unhurried time. It’s possible that I’ve dreamed of this every day of my adult life. My deteriorated cooking skills are returning. I’m writing this and that in my notebook--not with any goal or imperative, but just because. I slalomed my way through the crowds in Central Park on this lovely Saturday, keeping my distance, until I found my own slab of rock in a copse of trees, where I could take off my mask and do... nothing. Lining? Let’s call it a whole, shiny silver cloud.
 
What are your silver linings?

​​This awning of blossoming cherry trees in Central Park is a few blocks from my apartment. We don’t have back yards or hiking trails here in the Epicenter, but the park is stunning at this time of year. There are carpets of tiny blue and white flowers edging mossy rocks, trees hung with huge magenta blooms, like tropical fruit, buttery yellow daffodils, tulips--tiny orange ones with petals gathered tightly, generous purple-black globes, ruffled ones, striped ones. There are waterfalls and lakes and winding dirt paths. There are wooded areas and brightly colored birds.
 
There are also lots of people.
 
This has kept me away, during the pandemic. There are plenty of grassy fields where it’s easy to have space. But if you want to take a long walk (I do), there are also lots of fences, where access to clearings is impossible, and unavoidable stretches of road or path, shared with others. And every time I’ve tried to circle the park, during the Time of Distancing, some of those others have gotten too close. The ones with the most entitlement are the runners without masks; there are lots of them, huffing and puffing and sometimes spitting on the ground. Some of the cyclists are maskless, too. These are the folks who need masks the most. They’re breathing hard; their breath travels farthest. Yeah, it sucks to exercise in a mask. It also sucks to kill your neighbors.
 
Today, it was pouring. So, I figured maybe it was a good time to try to get in a cherry tree viewing, before the blossoms were gone. Maybe the rain would keep folks inside. It did. And the park was glorious. There were people with their dogs, a few other walkers, and some runners and cyclists--but not many. Guess which group was largely unmasked?
 
I wasn’t rude. I said please. And besides, it’s mandated in New York State now, dude. Your exercise is not more important than our health. “Fuck you, bitch?” Really??
 
To you, I say, “Go back to whatever state you came from, where you can join the Open America people, and get a haircut and eat a burger in a restaurant and run without a mask.” Because you’re not one of us. We may be in bad shape here, right now, but we’re doing our best to take care of each other. To thank our essential workers adequately. To demand protection for them. To stay the fuck away from each other physically, and to reach out virtually. To ask, what can I do? What do you need? How are you doing? Maskless man, you probably also order delivery every night, and give a non-pandemic tip to the guy who is risking his life to bring you those Thai fried wings. That’s not who we are, in New York. Andrew Cuomo says we’re New York tough. We are. But we’re also New York caring. Get with the plan, or get lost.

Dear Outer Cape friends (and the rest of yooz who live where city folk have country homes),
 
I’m a New Yorker, who has spent part of every summer in Wellfleet since 1965, and lived there for an all too brief year in the early 90s. It’s my favorite spot on the planet (and I’ve traveled far and wide). When I’m sad or anxious and need to picture my happy place, I’m swimming across Slough Pond. I’m a teacher, so a house of my own in your lovely town has always been out of my range; I’m a perpetual renter. But Wellfleet is as close as it gets to a home away from home, for me.
 
I’ve been following the charge by full-time residents that non-resident homeowners stay away during this pandemic. I've been following the angry comments on social media. And I understand. NYers escaping to their second homes are spreading the virus. Buying up precious food and supplies. And soon, taking hospital beds and ventilators from locals who have nowhere else to go. I get it. But. Hear me out.
 
I need to backtrack for a second. New York City is like a giant a cruise ship. We live on top of one another, and we can’t get away from each other. Buying groceries or descending to the communal laundry room requires pushing elevator buttons or working door handles touched by many. It’s abnormally quiet, here, without honking horns or the cacophony of voices that normally drifts up to our windows. But the silence is constantly punctured by ambulance sirens. We're indoors, in small apartments with no outdoor space. (A fire escape puts you in the one percent, these days.) We're allowed to go out for a little air and exercise, but the parks are often too crowded to practice safe social distancing. Those asshats on fancy bikes in spandex shorts who race up and down the back route from Wellfleet to Truro in August? Their exercise is more important than staying six feet away from you in Central Park. And our essential workers--the supermarket clerks and handymen and other heros--are riding public transportation to work. We’re infecting each other. We’re getting sick. And there are long lines outside every hospital to get into the ER. Once inside, there are no beds or life-saving equipment left. Our doctors and nurses have no protective gear. I’m scared to dea--well, maybe that’s not the best turn of phrase to use, right now.
 
So, I can also understand why second home owners are leaving town. I might do the same, in their pretty shoes.
 
What about making some new rules that work for everyone?

1. If coming from ‘away,’ you bring enough supplies for 14 days, go straight to your house, and quarantine. Religiously. Lucky you, you’ve got a huge yard and stars and wind in the trees. (Oh, wait, your governor just made this law.)
2. After 14 days, if you don’t fall ill, you can go to the supermarket once a week. Whatever you buy, you buy two of. One for you, and one for a full-time resident who isn’t in your second homeowner tax bracket. Share the wealth. And canned beans.
3. If triage becomes necessary at the Cape hospitals, as it is in NY, full-time residents always get priority. No exceptions. Perhaps this rule sounds Draconian. But our medical resources are running out in NY, and someone like me--I’m 62--isn’t going to get that last ventilator, anyway.

 
Full-timers and summer people working together (social distancing style) to keep everyone fed, sheltered and healthy, might even help shake off some of the town-gown tension that simmers beneath the surface of those gorgeous summer days.
 
And yes, I know this is simplistic. And idealistic. Downright dumb. Irresponsible. And it wouldn't work. (Even in Wellfleet, where I’ve watched the community model how to take care of its own.) I know any movement spreads the disease. And in the real world, we all need to stay the fuck home.
 
So. Maybe I wouldn’t decamp to my second house, after all. Maybe I’d be an upstander and stay put. Close the bridges, if you must. But please understand that we're terrified, and do it without rancor.
 
Stay well, friends in my little Paradise. I hope we’ll see each other this summer, if it’s safe enough to cross the bridge.

March 18th, 2020 (week two, here in NYC)
​
A week ago (which of course feels like a month ago), I interviewed an American tech integrator at a K-12 international school in China, where they have been teaching virtually for more than six weeks. As I listened to her experiences and suggestions, I was struck by how her school’s experiment amplifies the most critical issues in education today: equity, teacher agency, student voice, parent involvement, social-emotional wellbeing, accountability and authentic assessment. I started writing up our conversation, one part how-to, one part editorial, a weird piece for a weird time. (Rough draft linked here, if you care to read it.)
 
But a peculiar thing happened as I was writing. Passionate educator though I am, I started to feel that perhaps it isn't critical, in the larger scheme of things, to teach online for the next few months.  I teach because I fully believe in the power of education to build community, grow thoughtful, active citizens, and promote solutions to the profound issues of our time. I love my work. But if we close our schools down entirely during these difficult months—offline and on—for the greater good, or because online options aren’t working for everyone, it will be alright. Students will learn, as will we, from Italians singing on their balconies. From a parent helping an elderly neighbor. From the ways, both positive and negative, that we respond to this crisis. Some of the learning will be heartbreaking. Some of it will be a light coming through a crack.

And then again... maybe the connections we are facilitating, and the tiny semblance of normalcy are our contribution during this time. Maybe they're consequential. I keep vacillating.
 
Are you teaching online? Please weigh in.