Teaching Disconnected

I read an article in the Journal of Higher Education today (Pettit, "A Side Effect of the Covid-19 Pandemic? Reading Got a Lot Harder", 2020) and realized that I’m not alone in my distracted procrastination.   A professor of history from University of Connecticut was interviewed about his experience and he aptly called this the “Nailed It semester”!  Of course this is a reference to the Netflix show where people try to replicate a baking masterpiece and ultimately fail (Pettit, 2020).  I, for one, love scrolling through the “fails” and belly laughing at disastrous creations that began with such hope and confidence while smugly thinking to myself that I would never do anything that bad.

Scroll ahead to March, 2020.  On March 13^th (seriously, Friday the 13^th?) faculty learned our students would not be returning after Spring Break and we would move our classes online.  Being someone that smugly relies on my confidence in certain matters, I didn’t fret.  “I’ve taught online classes before” I told myself; “I’ve built online courses in Blackboard” I thought reassuringly; and “I’m fairly proficient in Zoom and other technology” I reminded myself.   Bottom line, this is all true, and as it turned out none of that really challenged me.  But something else did.

Myers Briggs tells me I’m an ENFP – Extraverted, Intuitive, Feeling, Perceiving.   While I’m not one to totally buy into personality tests, in this environment of isolation and social distancing I’ve learned that the “E” I’ve always thought was the weakest part of my Myers Brigg designation has turned out to be more accurate than previously thought.   I thrive and re-energize when I’m around people!  Spending up to 5 hours a day on Zoom just doesn’t do it.  It’s like tuning into a really bad episode of The Office where the off-colored jokes of Michael Scott are no longer bumbled at inopportune times, and Pam and Jim have forgotten how to play pranks on Dwight.  I just sit at my desk, all alone, watching the faces of my colleagues and/or students in a box mute and unmute themselves while I critically examine the paleness of my wrinkled skin and the frizz of my hair that surely wasn’t there when I looked in the mirror earlier that day.  

All of this is exhausting and is taking a toll on how fully engaged I can be in teaching, making learning fun, finding creative solutions, and being a supportive teacher.  Like other faculty interviewed in the Journal of Higher Education article, I have found it hard to read and process content (Pettit, 2020).  Yesterday I was reviewing a chapter in a text book as preparation for class and in doing so the phrase “is this font smaller than it used to be?” circled and re-circled in my mind.  It was so distracting, not to mention annoying!  After checking that my glasses didn’t need to be cleaned, I closed the book and decided the best thing to do is wing it and rely on my intuition (thank you Myers Briggs for the “intuitive” designation) and past experience teaching this section.  After all, I told myself, if I’m feeling this way what are the chances that the students are feeling the same thing?  If I were a betting person, I’d bank on that!

Truthfully, there have been some amazing classes where students were fully engaged, conversations flowed, learning occurred, and I got my extravert energy restored.  There have also been moments, and dare I say whole classes, that the Netflix producers would have some great content for the special higher education Nailed It episode. 

Maybe I’m being too hard on myself and this is grief rearing its head as I long for the for in-person connection of my students and colleagues.  The spontaneous visits from students that keep me afloat, the classroom energy of “aha” moments, and brainstorming that results in amazing projects are what I miss the most.  I’d much rather be nailing it in the true sense of the phrase than anticipating when I will need a nap.

Outsmarting the Dementors

What do you do?  I really mean it.  What do you do when you have become numb to the violence, hatred, loss, and sadness?

I wrote that sentence two days ago.  The day that the deadliest mass shooting in American history took place. Upon hearing about it I couldn’t muster up what can only be described as appropriate emotions.  You know, sadness, rage, fear and the like.  Instead I felt a deadness, like a dementor from Harry Potter took my soul.   This worries me because I’m sane enough to know that I don’t live at Hogwarts and Azkaban and it’s dementors are not anywhere near Maine.  I hope.  Kidding aside, I am worried and not just for myself.  The incessant violence and the aftermath that has become the norm is stripping me of reality and the inability to experience the depth of pain that surrounds me.   Let me explain. 

Grieving does not occur in media clips.  It is a process that is messy, long, winding, and unique to each individual.  It is not just those first hours of shock and grief.  That is only the beginning of a complex story that is impossible to encapsulate in a time limited interview, Facebook post, or news article.  It doesn’t end once the fascination of the observers has lapsed.  But here’s the thing, we don’t have to wait long for the next fascination to appear since traumatic events seem to be coming at us with increasing regularity.  Its almost like we have permission to file the last one away and move onto the next series of news clips, posts, and stories.  It is the movie reel of our lives, the soundtrack, and what is predictably around the corner.  This assures that the true story of grief and the impact of violence is never really told, and for me felt.

Excuse my bluntness, but gone are the days of the Oklahoma City Bombing and Columbine, those horrific events that stopped us in our tracks and made us weep. I ask you, how can I be writing these words?  What could make someone, anyone, especially me, long for a day that senseless acts would evoke the “appropriate” emotions.  I recall the deep contemplation and hope that the lives lost were not in vain.  There are photos embedded in my memory of heroic acts and humanity.  I recall thinking that the brain trust of this nation could figure out what needed to be done, to back track through the web of personal and societal constructs that lead to these losses and answer the question of why, and then plot out a plan to make sure it wouldn’t happen again.  Naïve, maybe.  Hopeful, yes.  

That didn’t happen.  I’m not a scientist, but I do think that the neurotransmitters of our brains have been irreparably harmed with each violent event that has occurred; 9/11, Sandy Hook, Virgina Tech, Boston Marathon, Paris, London, Orlando, San Bernadino, Vegas, shootings that resurfaced longstanding racism that we thought was dormant, shootings steeped in sexism and heterosexism, shootings, shootings, shootings.   And then you layer on top of that natural disasters that uncover even more social, racial, and economic injustice.   It. Is. All. Too. Much. When I’m honest with myself, which is often, I know deep down that I’ve gone from connection to disconnection.  How else could I make my coffee and pick out what to wear while listening to a news story about the rising death toll at a country music concert?

What I am writing isn’t new or groundbreaking.  I’m certainly not alone in my distress and I’m 100% positive that each of you reading this blog has experienced some of what I have just described.  So, back to my initial question: “what do you do when you have become numb to the violence, hatred, loss, and sadness?”  I’m not really sure, but what I can tell you is that in the past two days I have searched for a piece of myself that I feel has been lost, or better yet taken away.  I could share what I think have become clichés and say I’ve counted my blessings, reminded myself that even though it seems like our world is unsafe and the likelihood of this happening to me or my loved ones is minimal, or I’ve committed to take action by calling my legislators.  There was a day I thought those were not clichés and would make a difference, but now the hope of these strategies has worn thin and I’m up against finding ways to preserve the soul of my humanity.

I think what I need right now is to embrace the small piece of introversion I possess and counter-intuitively disconnect to reconnect.  I plan on nesting in my new home, laying my head up against my puppy’s chest, admiring the softness of my cat’s tummy, peering into the sparkling eyes of my husband, and watching the leaves fall against the bright blue Maine sky.   As much as this evokes guilt that I’m not doing enough, I believe this is the only way to keep the dementors at bay.