The Day the Masks Came Off

It was the last weekend of winter. The baby breath sprouted from their tired limbs. The grey cleared to a sky blue. I said my goodbye—told my students to protect themselves, to not turn away from the human injustices in the world, the last topic I taught them. Little did we know it would be the last time we would ever see each other again. “I did what I had to do,” I told myself. “They learned what they needed to learn.”

Two years later, and I’m searching through my drawer beneath bottomless supplies— old dry erase markers, note paper, a stapler I had not seen since March 2020– for a paper clip to turn off the lights in my classroom (we have special keys for the light switch and I had lost mine when we were home for a year). Paper clips were scattered among more paper clips in the corner of the drawer. So, this is where they all were… I was surprised they were still there. Everything at the end of the 2020 school year has been cleaned out. My posters were taken off walls, binder of student work I had been collecting for years, thrown away. I did not have much else. We start anew.

I turn off the lights. Quiet the class to a silence with a soft, ambient music. Set the timer: sixty minutes. Begin.

This was the first time I had assigned a timed essay this year. NJSLA will be in eight weeks. These kids are tired, drained— who isn’t?

I remember those first few weeks—two years ago—the week we went home. Since then, I had seen family friends struggle with Covid-19, adapt their lives to the daily disruption we called “normal,” seen a friend take his own life. But it was good things, too— I reached out to my friends to make sure they were okay, met a man, and was asked to marry him.

So through the thickening of Covid lockdowns, mask mandates and now inflation and on the brink of nuclear disaster—we are here. I stand before my students. They quickly type the letters on their keyboards, manifesting words about human rights, voicing whether or not the author of an essay we read is persuasive enough to grab the attention of the American people to make a difference. Democracy, tyranny, capitalism, monopoly, supply chains, rhetoric: these are some tough words for middle schoolers. Economics and political science in an eighth grade language arts class. They were ready.

We are here. This is where we left off two years ago. Except, all of the students are now seated in rows; no more groups, at least for the time being. But, there was something different about today— something expected, but still, unacclimated. The masks mandates have been lifted. Comfortably, I had taken mine off, although, many of the students kept theirs on. For two years, a student has not seen me smile, the approval that they were being recognized and appreciated as human.

A ray of sunlight bleeds onto the canvas of our classroom. This weekend was the first weekend of Spring. We start again. Arise. These kids are not left behind— no. They are right where they belong—within the chaos. They are not in the margins. They are frontliners, just like I am. Every ideology, reality composed from thought to a computer screen in my classroom will one day evolve into leadership.

The timer ends. A beeping sound brings their assignment to its close. I remind them to submit their essays. They breathe, sweat perspiring as if having run a marathon. The challenge intrigues.

Then, relief. As they left the classroom, a student grabbed my attention with the confirmation, “Hey! That was easy! I didn’t think I could do it— but I did!”

“It’s a lot easier when you organize your information beforehand,” I suggested, referring to the concept maps we created.

I smiled. The student looked at me strangely. “You look different without a mask.” It was the first time. The first of many, many smiles, recognitions. The human element.

They tell me I should run for mayor. In my mind I think, “no— that’s you.” We are here, stronger than ever, driving a ferocity that will have no choice but lead to peace. One day, I tell myself, just one day, we will be at peace— with ourselves, in our world— and it will be in the hands of these kids. “Normal” redefined, yet, we persist. Begin again.

Gabriella Petrillo