Classes are over and grades are in and now it's time to relax for, oh, say, 45 seconds before I have to read yet another email asking for my feedback about online teaching or asking me to share my newfound "expertise" in a teaching workshop, not to mention reminders that fall is still in limbo so we'd better get to work on developing multiple versions of each class, like, right now.
No. Just no.
This semester has wrung me dry; I'm running on empty, with nothing left to share. You want handy tips on using technology for remote teaching? Here's a handy tip: if you ever expect me to do this again, you'd better provide frequent access to online mental health services. And teaching assistants for online writing-intensive classes, or else smaller class sizes, which is unlikely given the budget crunch we're bound to face in the future. Or how about a buyout for early retirement?
I've been trying to assess whether this has been my most awful teaching experience of all time, but it's up against a few heavy contenders. I remember that semester when I was the inside candidate for my current position, caught in the middle of some ugly departmental politics and badly isolated, which was emotionally wrenching every single day, and I was still too new to risk knowing my students very well and therefore didn't get as much joy from teaching as I do today. That was pretty awful--but I got the job.
And then there was the semester when I was teaching while undergoing chemotherapy and radiation, which was difficult on a purely physical level--I mean, the body can only take so much abuse before it breaks down--and also emotionally draining because of that whole awareness-of-mortality thing, but then I was surrounded by helpful people and my students were a source of pure and profound joy. I don't ever want to teach through that kind of health problem again, but if I hadn't been surrounded by an entourage of people carrying me when I couldn't carry myself, it would have been unbearable.
But what if the entire campus had been undergoing chemo at the same time? When everyone's suffering, who's left to do the carrying? That's what has made this semester so difficult: we're all so broken down from carrying our own burdens that we haven't had much ability to help each other. I've received tremendous support from our IT people and my department and a small group of colleagues, but most of the time all we can do is encourage each other from a distance and then get back to our enforced isolation where we have to muddle through on our own.
But once again my students have come through for me. Interacting with them has been the highlight of my days of isolation, and watching them learn from and support each other has been tremendously encouraging. Now, though, they're gone and my inbox is full of depressing emails wondering whether I've learned anything worth sharing with my colleagues.
Here's one thing: we need each other, but it's hard to help each other when we can't see each other, and it's hard to see each other when the sight of my own face on a Zoom screen makes me want to vomit. Can someone train me on how to avoid Zoom-induced self-loathing?
And here's another thing: we need each other, but it's hard to help each other when we can't be together in the same space, and it's hard to be together in the same space when the prospect of entering a public rest room makes me feel as if I've been kicked in the gut. Can someone train me on overcoming extreme rest-room phobia?
Give me some time and I can figure out the technology, but show me a workshop that can equip us to deal with the mental health issues caused by isolation and I'll attend--from the safety of my own home, where I can use my own rest room and mute my face on the Zoom screen. Otherwise, leave me alone for a few weeks at least so I can lick my wounds before I have to start thinking about how to cope with whatever's awaiting us up ahead.
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