Today in my primary music classes we talked about music as a force for peace. In broad, simplified strokes we talked about The Singing Revolution in Estonia and the Prayer of the Mothers associated with the Women Wage Peace movement in the Middle East. We talked about how war is sometimes a function of greed, where one country wants what another country has. And I saw before me a sea of confused and inquisitive faces, posing the most innocent, most poignant questions:
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There is something fragile about the first days of school. There are butterflies everywhere. Butterflies in backpacks, butterflies in lunch boxes, butterflies in the feet of displaced newcomers, butterflies in the eyes of those scanning the schoolyard for familiar faces on that very first fresh morning in the uncharted terrain of new teachers, new classrooms, and new aspirations.
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Shame on us. Shame.
We consider ourselves superior to our neighbours because we did not elect the madman to the south, but we are no better. We have our own Trump Lite here in Ontario, and he just “cruised” to his third straight majority government. He has decimated the school system and the health care system, choosing instead to fund expensive projects that put money in the hands of his cronies. He says that he will defend Ontario from the threat of tariffs, but the reality is that not too long ago he was extolling the virtues of the man he now claims to be a danger to us. He takes from the poor to give to the rich, and the poor and rich alike have chimed in, saying, “Give us more Doug Ford!”
Work. All my life, I have allowed it to define me.
As a student (even as a very young student), my work was to try to be the smartest kid in class. Let’s face it. I was a clumsy, homely child with thick glasses and a lazy eye. But school, I could do. And I did it well. It became my “thing” — so much so, that I decided never to leave.
And so now, decades later, I get in my car every morning and drive 45 minutes to another school, where I pour all my energy into the young lives and minds before me. I just want them to learn, so badly. To light up with new words, new ideas, new ways of thinking.
But today, I went too far. Snow had been falling all night. It was due to continue for hours. School buses were cancelled. Other teachers headed onto the streets and turned back because of the weather. And I kept going.
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Twice this year, classes in my school have had to quarantine for the holidays due to positive COVID test results in the building. I wrote this little ditty over the Christmas break, and added a special Easter update today. Feel free to sing along.
I wore my goggles and my mask:
Somebody sneezed on me!
I sanitized my withered hands:
Somebody sneezed on me!
I don't have plexiglass
In my cramped, crowded class:
I stepped sideways, but alas!
Somebody sneezed on me.
Now we're getting COVID for Christmas,
Students and teachers are mad.
We're getting COVID for Christmas,
'Cause Dougie's been nothing but bad.
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Not long ago I spent my lunch hour sobbing in a closet at school.
I can’t get into the specifics of my morning, but I can give you a composite view.
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