Working in Sales

A woman I know is out of work. She was laid off in February. "I kept telling them they didn't need my position. I told them they should cut it. Promote me to do something bigger." She laughs. "They listened to the first part and not the second."

She doesn't know what she'll do, once she's on the market—when her unemployment runs out, she'll look again. "I was in sales for thirty years, but finally put myself out to pasture. I can't sell anymore." Then, as is her way, she corrected herself immediately. "But that's not true, because I will have to sell. All of us have to sell. All jobs are sales jobs. Right?"

It struck me because it's so true. Principals, teachers, baristas, writers, roofers, crossing guards, lawn care workers, lawyers, tree trimmers. They all have a thing they want to be valuable—and valued—by others. Naturally, I thought about being a principal in the midst of online learning. There's not a soul on earth who asked for COVID-19 and the ongoing aftermath; as such, there's not a soul who wants the product—and in my world, the product is online school. Selling something no one wants to buy is an uphill battle, friends. No one could stand the thought of a shuttered school. No one liked online learning, no one thought it was a legit replacement for face-to-face instruction, no one trusted it, and no one will miss it when it's gone.  But still we had to sell it as a product because it was the only product on the market, and we had to convince people that its value surpassed that of no product at all.

I've been overcome by the product my district and school put out there, by the way. It was on-point. It was precise, sharp and clean and fluid, matched to every family's home environment as best as we could.

But some people were mad about it— justifiably so—because direct instruction looked really different than they'd thought it should; it seemed spotty and confusing; posted assignments felt like busy work; and, worst of all, differentiation was hard to get right. Some kids needed a lot more and some kids needed a lot less and some kids, honestly, didn't "need" anything. Home doesn't feel like home when it is a domestic battleground, the uncomfortable host of ongoing fights about homework, sibling disagreements, and screen addiction.

Beyond the people who were mad, a lot were grateful. And said so.

Most were really quiet. I suspect they were simply... enduring.

I Tweeted and Facebooked and made videos and phone calls. I was the principal of the school and I was by-God selling this thing, because I believed in it and it would do, for now. But I'll be so glad when I can go back to selling other things:

Early literacy intervention.
Hugs.
Canvas book pouches.
The endless parent pickup line.
Fire drills.
The postman's cheerful wave, every day precisely at 11:14.
Social studies.
Reader's Theatre.
Cafeteria chicken nuggets.
Crayons worn down to bits.
Dried-up glue sticks.
Ice pops on Field Day.
Math.
IEPs.
Belly laughs with Jaclyn, my fun, smart, sassy assistant principal.
Bags of ice for playground scrapes.
All the Post-its.
Library books.
Staff potlucks.
The walkie-talkie.
Recess. Indoor or outdoor? When is the rain coming?
Bus exhaust.
Science kits with beakers and sand domes and virtual worm dissections.
Carpet stains from Godknowswhat, covered by a circle rug of butterflies and honeybees.
The turtle aquarium.
Social stories.
Did I say hugs?
Lost and found, ridiculously overflowing with 45 gloves with no match.
The lounge microwave smelling like lunches of fifteen people before me.
Choir risers.
Bathroom breaks.
Gogurts and Lunchables.
Numeracy games.

Those things. They are the things I'm interested in selling.