Emotional Incontinence

This stretch of the pandemic has been a lot it seems.  I have given up social media in an attempt to approach life with intention and minimize time squandered, however it still seems that the days end with no real sense of accomplishment or achievement.  This was the first week that high school teachers returned to our school buildings, which has also been a source of complex feelings and overwhelm.  It seems as if the little things that I could count on to prove that I’ve accomplished something; reading a chapter in a book, writing in a journal, getting in a good workout; have also vaporized leaving me feeling like I’m failing.  My days are spent alone in a freakishly cold, sterile room, zooming with the very same students I was seeing from the warmth and comfort of my home office.  I have felt stuck.

The Thursday before last was Thanksgiving.  We modified our normal practice of having a big family dinner by dividing up the cooking as we normally would, but bypassing dinner in exchange for a food swap instead.  At least one representative from each household came to our house, hung out masked up and socially distanced in the backyard, while others unpacked, divvied, swapped and repacked food for the others.  Considering how we normally spend the holidays, this visit was relatively short.  Later, our family text group bustled with pictures of food, congratulations to the respective chefs and reports of full bellies.  

The next day, we received word that my uncle, my mother’s oldest brother had passed away.  He had recently been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer, and although we knew death was inevitable, we were hoping for more time. My family and I were understandably sad.  My siblings and I felt sadness for our cousins, our aunts and uncles and our extended family as a whole.  This sadness was compounded by the awkwardness imposed upon us by COVID-19.  The option of supporting  my mother in person with hugs and tears just wasn’t a feasible reality.  The distance felt like it placed a hiccup in my grieving process. 

Mom decided she would like to go to say her final goodbyes to her brother and we were met with a whole new set of challenges. The challenge was how to get our mother safely to and from Alabama to witness her brother’s service.  The biggest compounding factor was that my neither my brother nor myself were able to secure COVID-19 testing in time to take her.  As it turns out, the wait for testing had increased substantially, and we found that the 5 days window between that time and the funeral would not afford us enough time to get tested.  My brother and I both work outside the home and as I pondered making the 7 ½ hour drive with my mother, preemptive guilt over a theoretical infection with COVID-19 overtook me.  I felt hopelessly torn between my call to service as a daughter and as a sister, and my fear of causing sickness or death in my parents by inadvertently infecting them. 

My siblings and I had a series of somber “meetings,” trying to weigh everyone’s best interests as well as their options.  Anyone who has siblings knows that siblings are the people that can incite you into an anger you’ve never felt before.  They can drag you into the past and elicit emotions that are deep and strong. Conversations can become blame sessions and tempers can flare.  What happened when my siblings and I discussed our options in aiding my mother was quite the opposite.  There was no shame nor blame.  We held generous space for each other’s feelings and perspectives.  Opinions of what to do shifted, sometimes minute to minute, but we never reacted negatively. The way we showed up for and with each other was one of the highlights of the situation for me. 

The next day, I went to school to teach virtually (as we are currently required to report to the school building each day to teach the students virtually.)  The entire situation has been less than ideal.  I work far from home, so I’m back to commuting 40 minutes or so to work.  Our teaching staff is large and so the risk for exposure feels great since we have already had staff who have tested positive for COVID-19 this school year.  This feeling of instability was compounded by a lack of sound self-care practices.  When I began teaching on zoom Wednesday morning, I shared with my students that my uncle had passed away.  One student dropped a comment of condolence… then another.  And then it happened.  I had a moment of what I call complete “emotional incontinence.”

I fell to pieces.. On zoom.  As I felt the tears begin to fall, I had a moment where I literally wanted to run. The fight or flight impulse kicked in and I had the urge to turn off my camera.  I realized at that point that even if I turned my camera off, my students already had a clear picture of what was happening.  In that moment, stories I’ve told myself for ages bubbled up to the surface of my being.  I worried that students would view me as weak because I, “couldn’t keep my emotions in check.”  I worried that students would view me as unstable or somehow unfit for feeling so deeply.  I worried that my tears proved I wasn’t Black enough because I had failed to be a superhero in that moment. I couldn’t compartmentalize. Every tool I had used before to stop or delay the flow of tears failed me.  Because of my work in yoga, I know that the things we resist the most are often the things we need to surrender to. 

It brought to mind a story my childhood friend, Anna, had told me about walking home from the bus stop one day.  When we were kids, Anna shared that when the bus dropped her off, she had to use the bathroom super bad.  At some point on her walk home, she realized she wouldn’t make it.  So she stopped, peed herself and then made the rest of the walk home. On that zoom call, I felt like Anna on her walk home.  There was no way I would be able to hold my tears until I got home.  They were so, so heavy.  So instead, I leaned in. 

Even more surprising than my tears was the response from my students.  They held me that day.  Students shared words of encouragement and held space for me and my grief.  No chemistry was taught that day, but I did talk to the students about self-care, grief, life and death.  And at the end of our synchronous time together, one student stayed behind to ask one question. “Do you need somebody to talk to?” Before I could provide her a proper answer, the tears began again.  I felt so fortunate to be asked that question.  She and I talked until it was time for me to teach another class.  

My homeroom is composed of 9th graders whom I’ve never really met in person.  I saw them briefly when they drove up to get their beginning of the year supplies, but the only bits I know of them, I have learned from hanging out with them on zoom. Just as I was about to start class, I received a text asking if I was okay, and the tears started again.  I waited an extra 4 minutes to start class, hoping that my failed toolkit would somehow afford me some space from my emotions to no avail.  I resisted for a shorter amount of time this round, and started my zoom with tears.  I was in danger of being ravaged by full on sobs and I publicly let the wave of grief roll over me.  I could feel my belly start to tremble as my breath got shallow.  During this very public fight, something amazing happened.  Cameras came on and students connected with me.  These 9th graders who don’t know me (not very well anyway) allowed me to ground by seeing their faces.  I don’t know that they knew how much of a difference it made.  They supported me with their words during the homeroom time, and several emailed or messaged me on Remind later just to check on me.  It was truly remarkable. 

Here’s what I make of it.  Many people worry about this younger generation.  I have been guilty of it myself.  We worry they are self-centered and too self-absorbed to see outside of themselves.  We worry they lack the emotional capacity to connect with others.  And we worry that they don’t possess the skills that will make them marketable and personable.  We worry that they lack experience, empathy and soft skills.  But what I saw in my moment of emotional incontinence was something quite different.  I saw students that went out of their way to make sure that I was okay.  I saw students who dove head first into awkward conversations with the goal of providing comfort and support.  I saw students who shared their own stories as well as their perspectives on loss, grief and mental health.  I saw kids who stepped up as leaders.  


The day left me truly questioning whether students are lacking, or if it is the ways we assess them that stink.  I’m more confident than ever that the kids are alright.