More anxiety dreams. This time it was a back-to-school night in a building I didn’t recognize and Marcus Foster’s dad was here to see me and I didn’t teach a Marcus Foster but I wasn’t sure that I didn’t teach a Marcus Foster so I was walking with this officious Dad (think short, white, obnoxious, glasses, he reminded me of a dentist, didn’t recognize him) racking my brain trying to figure out if his son was one of my students and he didn’t have a mask on and neither did I because I had a pen in my mouth and then I took the pen out and couldn’t find my mask and we were walking through crowds of parents and they didn’t have masks on either. We got to my room — old room 113 at West Philly High but somehow now within a downtown office building — and I woke up.
(Note: Marcus Foster had been principal at Gratz (where I student taught) and then became the superintendent of Oakland Schools. Sad coda: he was a victim of SLA, no, not that SLA, the Symbionese Liberation Army. Why that name bubbled up in my subconscious, I don’t know.)