Obsolete

When I looked at the clock, it read 2:45. In bright red block numerals. This was the school's clock, and the bell was sounding. It was reminding the boys and girls that it was time to go home. Except there were no boys and girls. Just a bunch of teachers and staff, scurrying about in attempts to make the distribution of Chromebooks possible. The fact that I was not opening the gate to let the nonexistent children out was underscored by the fact that I ended up opening the gate anyway. Not to let anyone out. Or in. I was marking off six foot gaps that I marked with sidewalk chalk. Not hopscotch or any sort of science experiment. Except maybe it was. I was hoping to see the effects of three weeks of shelter in place and a strict diet of social distancing. More of a social experiment than a science experiment.
Which is how teaching feels currently. To me, anyway. When I rode up to school, the sun was already up. That was unusual. I saw a second grader walking down the sidewalk with his father. He recognized me with even with my newly instituted salt and pepper goatee. We waved. I pulled over, but not too close. I asked them how they were doing. Alright came the reply. Dad asked me and I said about the same. "Well," I said as I started to pedal away, "See you soon."
And those words were hopeful and a little desperate. I expected to see the two of them, or at least Dad when the time came to pick up the packets of work that teachers had prepared for their students. The packets that were somehow supposed to take the place of nearly three months of instruction. Inside each of these envelopes was the report card, nominally the second of three but this year the last. No last trimester to try and sort things out or capture the magic of long division. This year we were necessarily casting them adrift in a world of xeroxed pages and online learning. The best and the brightest of us were making regular connections with the kids in their classes along with their families. A colleague of mine wondered aloud if some of our students might actually learn better in a distraction-free environment. I suggested that maybe we found a way to deal with our bullying problem.
Or maybe this was the final referendum on the value of classroom teachers. Here I was, the computer teacher, getting ready to hand out a hundred laptop devices to help ward off the notion that we had somehow abandoned our mission in favor of the once upon a time science fiction notion of kids logging into their classes from the comfort and safety of their homes to interact with an artificial intelligence that would patiently guide them through the standards and requirements for a well-rounded education.
By the time I had done all I could to prepare for this teacher-less existence, it was well after four. I knew I would have to be there early the next day to explain and herd and explain some more. I wasn't obsolete.
Not yet, anyway.