Of Teachers and Lemon Bars

Last school year, we took lemon bars to school. Again and again we made lemon bars and packed them up, as my first grader caught wind Mrs. C liked them. It might as well have been the only food she ate, so determined was Luke to supply her with an unending stream of goodies.
When we were missing her last summer, we mailed her the recipe for lemon bars just in case, as Luke noted in his letter, she might have to make them herself.

In a couple of weeks, she mailed us a thank you package. Luke couldn’t believe it. Kids like you are once in a lifetime, she said. But we knew it was the other way around.

It is only the beginning of summer, but I’m already missing teachers. I’m sad with how the year ended, how we had to return our books with masks covering our faces and gloves on our hands. We did not hug teachers goodbye or thank them with one last tupperware of lemon bars. We didn’t get to assemble “summer starter packs” –magazines and gift cards to Chipotle, a fancy insulated cup, Fanta in a bottle. Our plan for one last fun surprise was turned on its head because we were all trumped on a boring Thursday in March by the surprise ending of our school year.

I recently had an interesting conversation with a person I love, one who does not share my affinity for public school. He was adamant, he repeated over and over that public school is nothing more than a daycare for kids whose parents ought to know better. That learning and loving is better–best!–at home, not something that can be replicated away from the family home. There’s no magic in public school, he said, just like there’s no magic in any type of schooling. He argued that parents who care make all the difference, that no “canned curriculum” would ever be a recipe for academic success.

I didn’t disagree with him. I have to admit, this year wasn’t the smoothest sailing for us even before the novel ‘rona sidelined us. We had our misunderstandings and grievances. There was a phone call from the principal, an email from a teacher. We transferred a kid to a whole new school. But it still hurt to hear him discredit and dishonor the establishment that feels more like family to me than I can express.

I remember every teacher who has ever loved me. I say that with the most sincerity I can muster–it is as true as the sky is blue.

My first grade teacher marched down the hallway belting out, You’re a grand old flag, you’re a high flying flag! And she expected us all to sing along as if the cavalry was returning. She packed me and twelve other kids into a passenger van every Wednesday so we could go to church and practice our Christmas musical. One time she picked me up in her convertible and we drove an hour to the Lake to play bumper boats in the pouring rain with her granddaughter. I never knew a grown up could be so charismatic and fun. When she laughed, she tossed her head back, salt and pepper curls bouncing, like Heaven itself ought to be let in on the secret. She was music. She didn’t have to love me, but she did.

My kindergarten teacher read to us while we sat on the lettered carpet, practicing untying and tying her shoes. She let my family move into her house for a week after our house got flooded. She was out of town, and she called my mother to offer the place as a temporary living arrangement. We thought we were on vacation–we sat in her air conditioned den and watched old Superman movies and took showers in softened water for the first time in my life. There was even a tiny TV in the kitchen, the impressive things nine year olds dream about. Even at nine, I couldn’t believe she let us actually live in her house. She still writes me a Christmas card every year. She didn’t have to love me, but she did.

Those are just the first two teachers I ever had. The next eleven years were no different, filled with faces who loved me. A red-nosed grandfatherly P.E. teacher who called me Sugar. Art teachers who encouraged messes and creativity, then tacked our projects up in the hallway, proud as peacocks. I had an eighth grade social studies teacher who wore the Starburst candy wrapper rings I made him. An English teacher who talked me into Speech club, the best surprise hobby I never knew existed. My music teacher, who bought a card for my birthday and had the whole class sign it–she didn’t know how difficult it was for me to show up to high school every day. In her loopy handwriting, she assured me my voice was just right to sing Alma del Core as a solo, even though I didn’t have a stitch of self-confidence or vibrato to my name. One assistant coach called me an “athlete”–laughable to every ninth grade teammate who knew me, but kind, generous promise to my late-blooming, uncoordinated body.

Teachers are people. They are the best kind of people. They notice what parents don’t. They are sometimes the first and only people who tell kids they are worth believing in, that here and now isn’t all there is to life. They encourage and discipline, they establish routine, accountability, and reliability–and many kids have none of this at home. Teachers witness growing and maturation, and somehow they know just the right words to set off small avalanches of hope.

I will concede–not every teacher is patient and exceedingly kind. As our world revs up its social distancing, as tensions rise and personal lives become political statements, there are potentially more teachers in the pot who are there to make a point. Their manners of educating kids are flavored with unpalatable social views or immoral behavior. Not every teacher has my best interest in mind, nor do they share my worldview. I’m aware of tension and I am tuned in to potential problems. I can still say, as a parent (and up till now), it is worth the weeds to hit gold.

It isn’t realistic to say every teacher will change your life. But it’s likely that one might.  This is the chance I’m willing to take on public school.

This is why I’m so sad for the future of public school with masks and minimal contact. Our district’s tentative outline for the fall includes staggered starting times, daily temperature reads, disinfecting between classes, limited class numbers, bagged cold lunches in the classroom instead of hot cafeteria meals. Music, art, library, P.E.–all will be modified, limited, or eliminated for fear of spreading germs and sickness.
Last night, we practiced some homeschooling (because nothing learned at home can ever account for anything but homeschooling, j/k) and did the math: As of now, coronavirus is attributed to 111,367 deaths in the US, .03% of the population. One-third of those were elderly folk who died in nursing homes. Thankfully we know this is not a kids’ disease.
I’m not sure what this means, exactly. It was good to stay home for awhile and keep our germs to ourselves. But I’m afraid the ripple effect will be devastating to the public school landscape.

Returning only partially to school is not enough for teachers and students to build rapport, let alone beef up or revisit the academics lost due to Covid remote learning. Surely there are a thousand other considerations, too, but I am saddest to lose teachers. I’m sad to lose the hope of what teachers do and how they enrich the lives of children in little and big ways, everyday. Like letting kindergartners scoot close enough to the shoes of the teacher to practice tying and untying. Or singing silly songs and marching down the hallway. Day in, day out building safe relationships, teaching kids by example how to be awesome adults.

I love teachers. I don’t know what life will look like without them. I don’t want to know. But it’s very likely we will face this scenario, because I will not force my kids to wear masks to school or sentence them to a socially distanced life.

I’m curious to know what other parents are thinking. What are your school options for the fall? What are some wonderful experiences you have had with teachers? How has public education been a lesson in love? To teachers, I ask: How will new guidelines impact your success as a teacher? What can parents do to speak up in support of teachers and staff in a time like this?
We see you, we love you, you have changed our lives. Send me your address and I’ll mail you a summer starter pack.
And here’s a recipe for lemon bars. For now, you might have to make them yourself.

Lemon Bars
Crust:
1/2 pound salted, softened butter
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 cups flour

Mix together, press into 13×9 pan. Bake in preheated 350 degree oven until lightly browned, 15-20 minutes. Let cool while making filling.

Filling:
5-6 large eggs at room temperature
2 1/2 cups granulated sugar
2 tablespoons grated lemon zest (4 to 6 lemons)
1 cup freshly squeezed lemon juice
1 cup flour

Beat together well, pour slowly onto crust. Bake 30-35 minutes, until bars are set. Let cool, cut into squares and dust with powdered sugar.

Adapted from Smitten Kitchen.