There is a great debate about what to do in the fall. I keep waiting for a definitive plan from my school district, but I have yet to see it. My oldest son works as a janitor in a school, and he disinfects and cleans and I keep asking him, “Do you know what’s going to happen?” And he keeps answering, “No.”
How will schools protect our children? Would they be safer at home? What do you do when you don’t know what to do?
My family is obsessed with “Hamilton” on Disney+ right now, so if you’re like me, you write a Hamilton-style poem about the coronavirus. (I know, most of you are not like me.) This is only what it feels like for this mom as she waits.
Why does a nation, divided, faced with a pandemic,
Go on and on trying to reinvent academics?
How do we balance the safety of children with plastic sheets, sterile rooms, and lunchrooms and germ seats?
Yo, we have a feisty secret weapon,
He might be short but he is tall on answering a beckon,
He’s constantly confounding and confusing the nation’s leaders,
Everyone give it up for America’s favorite fighting… um, epidemiologist.
He didn’t really say anything back, because what he says is slow and measured, and he is never concerned about rhyming. So, we just listen, when he has the chance to talk.
But then we think of the children, and what we have arguably considered to be the most important thing for the future of our country: their education.
So in this challenge, it’s time for:
The Ten School Commandments. It’s the Ten School Commandments.
No. 1: The challenge demands satisfaction. The districts try their best to take distinctive action.
No. 2: If they don’t, grab a poll, that’s your guidance. Except that the polls so often divide us.
No. 3: Split up the student population. Negotiate a rotation, or negotiate further vacation.
No. 4: If they don’t reach a peace, that’s all right. Time to get some pencils and Fauci onsite.
You pay him in advance. You treat him with civility. Some gasp as we ask about masks and flasks and casks of hand sanitizers and question his ability.
No. 5: Sterilize the schools so the germs aren’t vexatious. Pick a place to learn where it’s gracious and spacious.
No. 6: Pack a lunch for your next of kin. Ask him where he’s been. Tell him he better not be within… 6 feet.
Seven: Confess that none of us knows what we’re doing as we keep pursuing the renewing of our schooling.
No. 8: It’s almost August, your last chance to renegotiate. Send in your emails, see if someone sets the record straight.
No. 9: Look your kids in the eye, aim no higher, summon all the courage you require, then count.
One two three four five six seven eight nine number 10, to send or not to send.
I was hoping that by the end of this poem, I would know what to do. But I don’t. Because I don’t happen to be in the room where it happens.
Brodi Ashton is a New York Times best-selling author who lives in the Salt Lake City area. She’s also an occasional columnist for The Salt Lake Tribune.
