Midway through our three months of online teaching in Vietnam, which began on Feb. 3, I landed upon two distinct images that describe the experience of distance education: the struggle bus and bandwidth.

The struggle bus is a fairly new term for me and I’ve heard moms describe it when referring to their children: “Oh, Jackson was on the struggle bus with algebra last night”, or “Both of us on the struggle bus as we tried to teach Knox how to tie his shoes this morning.” My struggle bus looks a lot like those busses from 40 years ago –long, yellow, familiar;  hard green bench seats, big door opening and cranky  driver at the wheel. It lumbers through quiet neighborhoods, picking up and discharging little humans carrying backpacks and leftover wrappers from lunch. 

But I’m the driver of this bus. And I’m lost much of the time and frustrated with the constant movement, but barely contained lethargy.  The students get out of their seats and move around, they get off at weird stops on the way and I don’t know where they go or how to find them again. On this bus I’m in charge, but I forget my mask, and I wake to terrible dreams of tigers and home invasions of  11 men who make me sleep in the room at the top of the metal twisting staircase and I worry about getting to the bathroom but I’m afraid to tell them for fear they will throw a bucket at me and then I will be truly trapped. I try my best to get out of  the room and the dream and know that technology is the key — if I could only text someone for help, or post something on FB, or send an email– but it turns out that it isn’t.  I finally claw myself into the real world  and the day is grey and gloomy and it doesn’t rain until the afternoon, and by that time I’m already too blue to appreciate the thunder. 

Dropping sourdough bread starter all over the floor: Struggle bus. Teachers on FB complaining about how the same kids who are disengaged in the classroom are disengaged in online learning? Struggle bus. Students not handing in work? Struggle bus. 

Bandwidth is a modern phenomenon for me as well.  I just started using it. Unlike “s#@t show,” which seems available to the general public as an expression of chaos and turmoil,  bandwidth seems to be a technical term that now, in week 10 of remote learning, I can claim. Put my students in a group gmail? Too much bandwidth. Open up a Google Meeting, only to discover it doesn’t work and then to go to my Hangouts to see that it’s not working either?  Too much bandwidth. Attach a document that I think is blank only to discover a DAY LATER that it is actually a student’s work: Too much bandwidth. Online study hall? Nine students so tangled in their learning that some haven’t done ONE ASSIGNMENT FOR 10 weeks. Meeting, giving them work and then encouragement; asking to see their screens as they work. Watching them look at the same screen over and over again for 50 minutes. Too much bandwidth 

Yoga every day: struggle bus.  Reading something heavy and hard: Bandwidth. Make dinner? Struggle bus. Creating lesson plans that are thoughtful, meaningful and move students forward: Bandwidth. Write every day? Bandwidth. Worry about daughters in the USA? Struggle Bus. Parents alone but safe? Both, depending on the time of day. 

Maybe it’s because I’m an English/ESL teacher, but I’ve found great pleasure in categorizing these small moments as either or. But what about the moments that are neither? For me, there is the 3rd category: gratitude. An open heart. The emoji — those small blue hands pressed together in a prayer-like gesture, common to so many religions. Mindfulness  with my students, hands over our hearts, sending loving-kindness out into the world. Gratitude. A note from a student in response to my note about how hard she’s working, “You worked hard today too, Miss.” Gratitude. My husband hands me eggs in a small white bowl, yellow against the waxy white, sprinkled with black pepper as I am fielding three open screens and reading email. Gratitude. Daughters  waking me with 45 WhatsApp notifications. Gratitude. Funny memes my students share? Gratitude. Aha moments made visible through the miracle of screens?  Gratitude. 

Richard Nordquist writes, “Metaphors are also ways of thinking, offering readers (and listeners) fresh ways of examining ideas and viewing the world.” What are the metaphors you return to that describe your current experience during COVID-19? Or really, at any point in your life?