The provost and I had just had our nasal cavities probed as part of our campus's coronavirus testing program, and yes, the test was just as horrible as I'd heard if not worse--a colleague said, "They stuck that Q-tip in so far it scraped against my brain." No fun at all, in other words, but the provost and I fell into conversation about how much this entire semester feels like no fun at all. She said an unprecedented number of employees have admitted that they've come close to walking away for good, and it was good to know that I'm not the only one. The work we do is always challenging, but the extra challenges of teaching during a pandemic have been compounded by the absence of those meaningful moments that can make teaching such a joy.
Then we talked about my first-year students, who are working on a project that requires them to write a memo to the provost arguing for a particular change in the curriculum. She had met with the class on Zoom first thing this morning and was impressed by their questions and responses, and it's true that my students had been on their best behavior for their special guest but I also pointed out that one of them insists on spelling provost as probus, as if the provost were in the business of sticking Q-tips up our noses.
It's the pandemic, really, that's probing all of us, prodding to find our weak spots and pressing on us until we're off-balance and in danger of toppling. Which is one reason I gave my upper-level film class a break, cancelling this Friday's online discussion so they can focus on a larger assignment due next week. I've probed their brains enough to know that they have nothing to prove on this week's discussion topic, so let's lighten the load a little before we all fall down.
So we're still standing, for the moment. We may feel probed, picked-over, and pulverized, but as long as we're still standing, we can carry on.
Probably.
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