Ana Silva sits in her office—the principal’s office—at St. Pius X School in El Paso, Texas. Artwork hangs on the white walls in the small room at the front of the school where she spends most of her days.
The tall woman has short, dark-brown hair, and an array of colorful eyeglasses that mirror the vibrant, artistic look of her office. Today, Silva’s glasses are bright blue to match her outfit.
About 20 feet from her office are the school’s front doors. Before the pandemic, hundreds of uniformed children passed daily through the two sets of glass doors into the entryway. The 65-year-old school, which educates students from pre-K through eighth grade, is nearly empty. Only 45 children came to campus today.
The principal walks through the school’s three hallways like she does every morning, greeting the students and teachers from a safe, social distance. Everyone wears masks, but she still knows everyone’s names. First, she strolls down the pink hallway with the younger children, then the white and maroon one with the older children, and then the green hallway with the middle school students.
“It's very quick when I see them, and it's just very detached, unfortunately, not because I want to be that way.”
St. Pius X has been operating with only 158 students since August—a 61% decrease from the 2019-2020 school year—as a result of the COVID-19 pandemic, which has had an unparalleled effect on schools nationwide. Changes are apparent in schools of all sorts, but the impact has been more profound on Catholic schools, which rely on tuition to stay open.
This is Silva’s fifth year as principal, but she has faced increased challenges this year.
As if declining enrollments, a reduction in teachers and scarce resources weren't enough of an existential threat to the school, the pandemic has forced her to negotiate between a hybrid teaching model that leaves students unengaged and an increase in COVID cases that has teachers terrified. Catholic schools across the country are facing similar issues. According to the National Catholic Educational Association (NCEA), 98 Catholic schools have consolidated or closed in the last school year nationwide. The NCEA reported that 209 Catholic schools closed in 2020.
With dwindling enrollment, the principal spends the better part of each day trying to make certain that St. Pius doesn't suffer the same fate.
The prolonged pandemic has forced Silva to wear multiple hats.
For the first part of the day, Silva does her work as principal.
Much like her pre-COVID ritual, she makes the announcements and says morning prayers—only now over Zoom. Contact with those students who came to school today is scarce.
Silva prepares to teach her sixth grade English class, part of the double duty she does to keep the school running.
She knew she wanted to be a teacher as a young child. Growing up in El Paso, she changed schools often, finally ending up at Loretto Academy, a Catholic girls school, during her freshman year of high school.
What she did not know was that she would enter the classroom again in an effort to save money for her struggling school.
When the sixth grade English teacher quit in September due to his COVID concerns, she had to begin teaching again for the first time in over 20 years. Those students at school today attend her class via Google Meet in their homeroom separate from Silva who teaches from her office.
Despite the distance, she enjoys being back in the classroom. “It's the highlight of my day that actually allows me to get closer to the students for a prolonged period of time. I see them every other day. Even though obviously, it's through the computer, through their writing, I get to know more about them.”
She is calm and pleasant as she teaches sixth grade English, beginning class by having students write about climate change. Even though she is the principal, she still has trouble keeping students engaged. Many are at home and she can see the light from the screen changing on the faces of some of the children. They obviously are not typing in their Google Docs.
She quickly digresses on mute, turning away from her computer. “I think it's more important for them to do [the writing assignment] than just to listen to me, right? They're daydreaming and, they're getting bored. They can only listen so much.”
St. Pius X’s middle school math teacher, Erica Puertas, also has trouble connecting with her students. The former St. Pius student and veteran teacher has seen decades worth of changes. “We have now had to go to remote learning using Google Classroom making double the work of teaching a lesson without really being able to connect with the students on a truly one-on-one basis,” she says.
Even still, Puertas, who has three children who attend the school, has seen some benefits. “I have seen my [own] children's learning styles change and adjust and even flourish, helping them to tap into specific strengths and a development of self-reliance when they hit an obstacle. They have learned to think on their feet and problem solve in everyday situations that arise.”
Puertas’s oldest child is in Silva’s English class. He is one of the few who remains attentive and engaged.
“I think it's easier when you have the teacher right there so that they can ask you questions while they're working,” Silva remarks after class. “Instead of saying, ‘I don't know what I'm doing. I'm just going to sit here and stare and be lost.’”
English class isn't the only time Silva has had to become a teacher.
A few teachers have contracted the virus, and because of the extra difficulty finding substitutes who use Google Meet, Silva has become her own substitute teacher on a few occasions.
In October, she taught second grade for three weeks when the teacher contracted a severe case of COVID-19.
Although many teachers are at least partially vaccinated, Yolanda Guevara, the middle school religion teacher, says, “We are still on edge.”
By the late morning, Silva is principal again, taking care of administrative duties. Her office door is closed. Like everyone else in the school, she has had to create her own COVID bubble to protect herself and others from contracting and spreading the virus. She remains cautious in spite of being fully vaccinated.
She opens her emails and returns calls for an hour, and then emerges from her office once again.
She walks around the school in the morning to see what is happening in each of the classes. On occasion, she goes to the classes remotely “to see what the students are learning on the screen as a group,” she says. Only not today. She lost track of time working.
Before lunch, however, Silva has trouble with a set of twins. Their parents think that they are paying attention in class, but Silva says they are “goofing around and talking to each other.” “That’s why I encourage them to come to school—less distractions.”
By noon, the entire school is on its lunch break. Students and teachers remain in their homerooms. With few students at school, it is easy to social distance.
Still, Carol Muñoz, one of Silva’s right hands and the school’s registrar, remains in her tidy office working. It is obvious that she is quite busy. “It’s a whole new world,” Muñoz says. “I think [Silva's] biggest challenge has been dealing with the fear of this whole pandemic and keeping her faculty open to moving forward with instruction in person and daily changes to CDC guidelines.”
Silva remains properly distanced from Muñoz, but the two speak to each other face-to-face, each double-masked. She agrees with Munoz that in-person instruction is essential to learning but feels that some students will remain at home even after the pandemic subsides. “I don’t ever see the hybrid model going away, especially if we’re going to survive as a school, because there will be parents who feel like their children are going to be safer at home. If we don’t offer that option, we’re going to lose those students. We’re going to lose those tuitions.”
She sounds optimistic. Still, she refuses to admit the school is in trouble.
From the time it opened in 1955 until the mid-2000s, the school was one of the larger, more popular schools in the Diocese of El Paso. Twenty years ago, the school was bursting with students and in bad need of more space. Even then, money was tight. Today, St. Pius is nearly a ghost town. Those teachers who have left have not been replaced. There is no need and no money.
Mary Aranda has been at the school for more than 20 years, teaching the lower grades. As a result of low enrollment, she was “assigned to a multi-grade setting with very little time to plan for the changes.” Aranda now teaches pre-K and kindergarten simultaneously in one room on Google Meet and in person.
Privately, a few wonder if the school will be open much longer. Silva will not make any commitments about the school’s future. Her optimistic tone seems like a camouflage.
She is spending much of her afternoon doing paperwork to get funds from local school districts, which the school is entitled to as a private, nonprofit organization.
She also spends a great deal of time looking at the budget. She remains quiet as she concentrates on the outstanding balances many families have on their children’s tuition. Silva understands that some families have had a difficult year but also recognizes, “We have, you know, bills to be paid.”
By two o’clock, she is opening mail. She goes through the papers—most of which are bills, which she sets aside.
Silva comes from a long line of educators. Her grandfather was a principal, and her grandmother was a teacher in Cuba. Her daughter is a public-school teacher. Her husband Homero is the middle and high school principal at Loretto Academy, the city's Catholic girls school.
Her grandfather, a stern man, formed her early ideas of what a principal should be. But she is the opposite now. She is friendly and drawn mainly to the younger children as they exit the school building.
Dismissal is staggered due to the pandemic. Parents are not allowed out of their cars. They pick up their children in the parking lot in a drive-through.
Silva strolls outside to watch the children leave while two teachers call the names of the children whose parents have arrived. A handful of little voices call out Silva’s name to say goodbye as they get in their cars.
Soon, all the students are gone. It doesn’t take long. After all, there were only 45 today.
Silva returns to her office to finish a few tasks and gather her things to take home. In spite of all the work she has done, her desk has somehow managed to stay tidy.
She leaves at 3:30 this afternoon. She plans to do a bit more work once she gets home.
Her husband says this is not uncommon. He realizes how hard she works at home and at school but sees a silver lining. His wife “has embraced creativity and innovation,” he says. “The intensity and joy are still there as she finds new ways to reach out.”
Tomorrow, Silva will be back bright and early to face the same challenges. Her work never seems to stop. How can it? She is in charge of a school fighting for its life.
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