At the time I am writing this, the one-year anniversary of March 13, 2020, is looming large upon me like this dark unknown specter. It’s almost like an unseen barrier that we are all holding our breath until we get across, because who knows what is on the other side? To say I don’t recognize the world I live or teach in since that fateful date last year is an understatement. First, we were told that schools are not safe and we need to go home and stay home, then many of us were being told we were selfish and lazy for not wanting to go back and teach without being assured proper protocols were in place. Then some of us did go back and now teach both in front of a screen and a group of masked kids spaced far apart in our rooms. And sometimes, we flip-flop between some of the kids being with us to all of them being behind a screen. Normalcy and routines are something we cling to now more than ever, accepting this new reality we live in with numb reluctance.

Photo by Javier Martínez on Unsplash
One of the reasons I became an English teacher was because I loved to read. I’m not picky either. I’ll read just about anything as long as it allows me to escape the world for a bit, teaches me to look at the world differently, makes me experience some cognitive dissonance, or because I simply like the cover of the book (yes, I judge books by covers).
I had no trouble keeping up with my reading during the pandemic. It was about the only thing that made sense to me at the time. Though I know many other book lovers and educators struggled to read anything serious during this time because of just how difficult these last 12 months have been, I was determined when I went back in August to share my love of books with my students again. I’ve shared this love of books with my students every year I’ve been in the classroom, and COVID wasn’t going to change that about my teaching. Continue reading