In Memory of Cherished Snow Days

c. 3000 B.C. (?) – 2020

Today, we gather in solemn reflection to mourn the passing of a cherished institution: the snow day.

I’m Victor, and I have benefited from the snow day for the entirety of my elementary and middle school career. The snow day was a cherished friend, a treasured companion, and even a brave guardian for some at times, students and educators alike. I’d like to start by expressing the sentiment that so many of us share: life just doesn’t feel the same without them. 

The snow day was never loud in its presence; it was understated, even. It never had anything to prove. Throughout the years, it presented itself in the humblest of ways, whether it be by means of word of mouth, through radio and television channels, or through the internet and social media. Yet, its effect was always the same: elation, jubilation, and even a state of ecstasy amongst students. The snow day had a way of protecting all of us, whether it be from the slippery streets or other times from that one assignment due the next day that we just didn’t want to do. It worked tirelessly for the entirety of its lifetime, allowing children to pelt each other with snowballs and squeal with joy, serving as a form of sustenance for the curious child. It protected us from ice that could make us slip harder than Joe Biden on Air Force One, as well as saving us from essays that could cause midnight crises. It drew the cruel, authoritarian world of schoolwork and deadlines to a standstill, if only just for a brief moment. 

We will always cherish the timeless memories that the snow day created: the throwing of snowballs so hard at a sibling that they cried, the shocked expression created by shoving snow down the jacket of a friend, giving them a nasty surprise when they put their hood back on. It gave us opportunities to delight in the frosty wonders of nature, to sled in our local park with neighbors, to champion snowball fights with our frenemies, or even to just lie down and form snow angels with our loved ones. It created moments that we thought would never be taken away. The best articulation of this lesson was probably given by Anna from the critically acclaimed Frozen: “Do you want to build a snowman?”

Yet, the best moments of our lives should not be taken for granted. In the post-COVID era, a significant winter storm came through the city that normally would have put a snow day into effect. Instead of what we expected, the moment of panic and sorrow that came with the passing of our dearest savior shall not be forgotten. The dreadful message that arrived in the form of a Google Classroom message announcing, “Asynchronous learning will be administered starting at 9:00 a.m. today. Check your school emails for a Zoom link.” 

The realization hit slowly: these snow days we treasured as children, now face-to-face with the bureaucratic system of spreadsheets and remote conferencing, were slowly melting away. The chaos of whirling snow and frosty jackets was now replaced by the slow, monotonous drone of a teacher’s voice over video learning. Attendance mandates, instructional day requirements from the city, and Zoom meetings established that nothing, not even the fiercest of storms, could ever disrupt the machinery of school again.

The impact of this tremendous loss has never been so apparent. Instead of gleefully rising out of bed at noon in our pajamas, we are now dragged out of bed at the ungodly hour of 7:00 a.m., still blinking away the fragments of a dream. Forced to prepare ourselves for the goliath of a day that lies ahead of us, by 8:00 a.m., we are in front of the screen of a glaring laptop, weary-eyed and sleepy, while barely listening to our equally exhausted teachers drone on and on about sciences and humanities, doomscrolling social media on our other screens. In the worst cases, we go to school despite the frigid temperatures and icy sidewalks, coping with unpredictable MTA delays and, for some, having to shovel snow at the early hours of the morning. After sitting through seven treacherous hours of the education system, we go outside, excited to play in the snow with our friends… only to realize that most of it has melted into a slush texture or completely disappeared. What was once a great white blanket across the streets becomes a slightly damp sidewalk with a few frozen patches of yellow snow here and there; the snowball dreamt of in the morning is nothing more than a ball of dirt and slush, with the appearance of a ball of barfed-up dog food. The anticipation slowly leads to depression and flashbacks of house arrest during remote learning upon understanding that the great opportunity of playing in the snow had been taken away.

We need to stay firm as a community, ice-hard if you will. Despite the chilling snow day policies of the New York City government, we shall not flake apart, as that is not what the snow day would have wanted. Its memory shall not melt away in vain, left as a mere imprint on the culture that defined our generation as kids. And it is to this message that I say, may the snow day live on in our hearts, and rest well, though we secretly hope it can come back down upon us in a future season, to remind us of the wintery fun that snowstorms can bring.