Dear Porro, my diary of school chaos



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Dear Porro, I am sending you a timely report that explains well what it means to be a teacher in times of Covid.

September 13, year that I publish Covid

School starts tomorrow. Four classes, we return, but not all. There are those that the school will spend it on a laptop. We will do the Did, also known as integrated digital teaching.
The did, not the dad: it means that the teachers in the classroom will have to connect with the half of the class that is left at home and have a synchronous lesson on two channels, the real and the virtual one. Protagonists, first actors and directors must orchestrate lessons usable by present and distant glances. How to do?
3pm: impromptu g-suite workout (but many used the zoom pad and jumping is not at all intuitive).
I try to follow him but the teacher, very good, very available, of the digital team is agitated by the anxiety of transferring his technical skills to a little digitized audience; and then it is a procedural knowledge, we cannot just look, we must try, enter the site, go to the virtual classroom, accredit ourselves, open more windows, make presentations, share. A disaster! I curl up on the table, my head in my arms, I can’t stand it anymore, I’m saturated, it will be multitasking (which doesn’t exist, if not at the price of a progressive stupor) it will be the months of dad, it will be that I have already overwhelmed myself with those wazzappari of my students who have not understood anything (like me anyway) and are already apnea in shifts, connections etc. Perhaps digital is putting the brain into a chronic state of hyperstimulation. But I can not. I can not do it.

September 14 of the year I publish Covid

Mineral 8.30
Here they come, in drops and monotonous, and smiles bloom. Also covered by the More expensive It is nice to see them again, to rediscover them as they have grown, always their own but different, they are embellished, finally flesh and blood boys that is something completely different. I want to hug them but it is not allowed, I have to content myself with putting a hand on my heart with wet eyes.
Ok, let’s go to class. The temperature is around 45 degrees, fifty that is perceived. Sweat begins to drip under the protective gag, we wave because there is no shovel, no fan here: a joker suggests we cook two eggs on the windowsill.
They try to lower the mask to speak. Stop everyone: An abyss of uncertainty opens up for me, a Kierkegaardian anguish aut master terrorist, rigid, orthodox, the kind that prevents a moment of relief, aut prof more elastic, human, at the risk of being accused of guilt in caring. To solve the dilemma comes the DS, which drops a pass from above: 15 students, if we stay still, nailed to the chair, we can lower the anticovid barrier for a moment. To the relief of those already rolling, panting from the heat and shortness of breath.
Oh God, I had forgotten, in this muggy fog: there are those at home, whose messages continue to go crazy on WhatsApp.

The madness of distance lessons

Okay, I connect the internet cable to the PC. It separates. I put it on again. Takes off. The plug is broken, loose, I have to firmly hold the cable with one hand while with the other I open, I enter the site, I enter the virtual classroom, there they are, hooray, hooray, they are there too, I greet you all happily.
Good morning guys, how are you? Nothing. I go back. Muti.

I start to wave in front of the camera, wave “goodbye”, I spell my lips as if speaking to a hearing impaired person. But are they doing it on purpose? I adopt language for the deaf and dumb, I shake the screen, I stir it, I search, I click. Finally, remote, unidentifiable, a voice is raised:
“Professor, you don’t hear anything!” My God no, after so much effort my voice must reach him somehow. I sweat, I click, I try, I try. The technician’s face appears on the screen.
Go to that icon, write into the microphone. But nothing damn. Meanwhile, the internet has disconnected, I must have done too many contortions.
I have to start over and in about 4 minutes I’ll put them all back on the screen. But nothing, damn it, the mic is not working. Meanwhile, those present began to talk among themselves, the buzz degenerating, the risk of losing them. Hey, well, I have to handle them too. To be rediscovered, to embrace again if not physically at least with the soul; what should I do? The assistant, when I am about to start talking to the assistants, reappears and suggests that I close everything and restart.




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