Time flies when you're having whatever you call this thing we're having

It's the kind of day when people burst into the building shaking out their umbrellas and smoothing down their hair. High winds blew me all over the road this morning and I saw signs that tree limbs had already been removed from the road. The briefest foray out-of-doors results in rambunctious hair, so staying inside and grading seems like a good plan.

Students have papers due in the American Lit Survey this morning so naturally I'm fielding requests for extensions. I'm happy to give students until the end of the day if they think it will help, but I can't give longer extensions without a persuasive excuse because I need to grade these papers before midterm grades are due, which raises the question: how did we get to midterm so quickly?

They say time seems to speed up as we age and I can attest that it's true. Has it really been 20 years since we bought our house, 15 since our daughter got married, 10 since the birth of our first grandchild? Impossible! Two more years feels like a long time but when I look at how swiftly this semester is passing and how much I want to squeeze into the next four semesters of teaching, I fear that retirement will arrive before I'm ready.

And of course the recent campus cuts have resulted in frantic revisions to the General Education curriculum and the English major, which will affect what I'm able to do in these next two years. The Gen Ed revision means I'll never again teach two courses I took great care to design, losses that don't exactly break my heart. But I'm only slowly coming to learn what the changes to the English major will mean, and I wonder how many of my beloved courses I've taught for the last time without realizing it.

Next fall looks good, though, and my approaching retirement gives me an excuse to opt out of some heavy lifting. Yes, we'll need to appoint a task force to do a full overhaul of our General Education curriculum, but I don't intend to help design a curriculum that I won't be present to teach. Besides, I've already reached my career quota of new General Education curricula, and anyway, in ten years all our students will be Online Influencing majors taking courses taught by Artificial Intelligence, areas in which my expertise is hardly relevant.

And so I plod on, shaking out my umbrella and smoothing down my hair and responding to student emails demanding extensions. I'd like to request an extension on life, please, and make it ASAP. There's no time like the present to grapple with a diminishing future.

Peddling influence

I've been haunted by a disturbing article in the New York Times about parents who post their children's photos online and then attract sexual predators, which is appalling enough, but the detail I can't get out of my head is the claim that one-third of preteen girls want to pursue careers as online influencers.

I have questions! Most of them, though, place me firmly in the Old Fuddy-Duddy category, like "How do preteen girls even know what an online influencer is? Aren't their parents monitoring their internet usage?" But no, the article points out that at least some parents encourage their children's online presence, seeking to open doors to careers in modeling or acting or influencing.

But how can so many kids think online influencer is a viable career goal? It's like a pyramid scheme: the more influencers, the fewer people available to be influenced. And why don't the children aspire to be astronauts or doctors or writers or scientists or teachers?

All those careers can lead to immense influence. I mean, how many of us can point to a particular book that changed the way we think about the world, or a particular teacher who encouraged us to pursue a field of study? How many people my age watched the moon landing and were inspired to pursue careers in math or science? Maybe they didn't all become astronauts, but they may have learned a thing or two along the way and developed the skills to contribute something meaningful to society.

What will a child learn by pursuing a dream of being an online influencer? Maybe some marketing skills or effective camera angles? Help me out here! Is there really a crying need in our culture for even more young people excelling at the fine art of self-promotion?

I confess that I would like to have more influence than I do. If I could encourage more students to care deeply about the power of storytelling or the cultural value of poetry or even the effective use of the semicolon, I would feel that I've contributed something that might bear fruit long after I'm gone. But if online influencers keep influencing young girls to pursue careers as online influencers, we'll soon be so up to our eyeballs in influencers that we'll have no one left to be astronauts or doctors or writers or scientists or teachers.

But then I am an Old Fuddy-Duddy. Maybe someone can explain to me how to solve this problem, because I don't think I'm the right person to influence the influencers.

Leaving my ducks in the dust

So I'm sitting on the sofa in my pajamas, drinking a leisurely cup of tea and reading the morning news, when my husband says, "It's almost 7. Don't you need to be on the road?"

"No problem," I say. "I can go in a little later this morning because I'm staying late this afternoon and my first meeting isn't until 10."

Then, just to be sure, I check the calendar on my phone. Friends, my first meeting of the day was at 8. 

This morning I proved that if I put my mind to it, I can get from pajamas-on-the-sofa to fully-clothed-in-the-classroom in under an hour, as long as no one looks at me too closely. No makeup, no earrings, no frost to scrape off my windshield, no slow-moving school buses stopping to pick up students every 30 feet--made it in the nick of time, but one tiny delay would have been a disaster.

As it is, I feel as if I've been running to catch up with myself all morning long, cramming in my caffeine quota while rushing into meetings clutching handouts still warm from the printer. This is not the way I prefer to operate. I'm a planner, the first one to show up for a meeting with all my ducks in a row. This morning all my ducks are scattered in my wake in a chaotic cluster of panic.

Now my morning meetings are over so I can relax a bit. I have some papers to grade, emails to send, classes to prep, and two more meetings this afternoon, but for the first time since 7 a.m., I can sit and breathe for a few minutes and wait for the ducks to catch up.

On driving and surviving

Nearly two weeks after getting pulled over and ridiculed by a police officer who didn't like my car's headlights, I still tense up every time I drive through that little river town, which is right smack in the middle of my shortest route to campus. I have adjusted my schedule so I can leave the house after the sun comes up, which means I encounter more traffic and more school buses loading and unloading, but I still get nervous every time I get close to the tiny town where the police officer promised that he'd be watching me. 

This morning I saw a police car taking radar at the edge of town, where the speed limit switches from 55 to 35. Just seeing the police car made me tense up--even though I've always been careful about slowing down there. I'll bet the impatient pickup-truck drivers who ride my bumper itching for a passing zone don't get tense when they drive through that dinky little town. Will I ever again drive through there without fear?

If the aftereffects of a minor chewing-out can linger so stubbornly, you can just imagine the lingering impacts of our recent campus bloodletting. Here we are in Inside Higher Ed, where our campus cuts are placed in the context of a bunch of other colleges facing similar problems. We're in pretty good company, but that doesn't do much to diminish the local impacts. Departments are scrambling to construct fall course schedules, proposing changes to majors to reduce dependence on classes we can no longer offer, and searching for adjuncts to teach courses formerly taught by full-time faculty members whose positions were cut.

This kind of struggle makes me even more tense than my encounter with a condescending traffic cop. It feels unjust to cut a position and then try to replace the instructor with a contingent faculty member who will be paid poorly, won't have access to benefits, and is unlikely to be invested in the future of the College or the education of students beyond the classroom.

In addition, it's not easy to find adjunct instructors qualified to teach in certain fields in the Appalachian part of the state. A few hours away in Columbus or Cleveland we could find a deeper talent pool, but who's going to drive two or three hours to teach here for the piddly amount we pay for adjunct labor? All we can offer is a decent office--because so many positions have been cut that we'll have empty offices on every floor of my building.

Emotions are raw and anger bubbles up everywhere. Worst of all, though, is the fear: If that position can be cut, why can't mine? Faculty members have confided that they are afraid their actions are being monitored, that some malign force is watching their every move in search of some excuse to pounce.

I've adjusted my daily commute in response to paranoia about one solitary traffic cop who promises he's watching me, but what happens when that kind of paranoia infests an entire campus? Trust is a fragile vessel and easily broken; how can those of us who remain put the pieces back together when so many have been lost?

Caught on the trailcam

How many photos of my coffee table do I really need? The answer is none, but this morning I had to delete a bunch of them while downloading photos from the trailcam we got for Christmas. No, my coffee table has not been hitting the trail; it just happened to be in the frame while we were trying out different settings on the trailcam and getting it ready to go out to the woods. Apparently we hadn't yet figured out how to delete.

After a month in the woods, the trailcam this morning offered up many many photos of the same plot of ground from which a woodland creature had just departed, or maybe the motion sensor was set off by a gust of wind. It got plenty of photos of squirrels, which is not surprising given the abundant nut trees in that part of the woods. It also caught raccoons, a possum, several deer, and a mystery critter that looks like the back end of a beaver, except it's in a spot where beavers generally aren't.

Also lots of photos of the resident woodsman carrying a ladder or chainsaw up the hill to prune fruit trees or pulling fallen trees down the hill with the tractor. Probably we ought to move the trail-cam to a less tractor-friendly location. I'd like to put it down by the creek to see what critters visit, but it would probably take a shot of every passing car as well.

Photo quality is uneven, which is not surprising since the trailcam has no sense of composition. Night photos look like something out of a horror movie, with glowing eyes atop blurry shapes that could be mistaken for space aliens or hoofed fiends though they're probably just raccoons.

We've been hearing a lot of coyotes in the night but apparently they're not visiting the vicinity of the trailcam. No sign of foxes or turkeys either. I keep hearing that bobcats are getting more common in Ohio and I'd really love to see one, but dream on. In 20 years living in these woods, we've seen a bobcat exactly once, and it had disappeared before we could get the word "bobcat!" out of our mouths.

But still we hope. Whatever passes by, the trailcam will be ready.

Morale-boosting on a budget

I've been tasked with coming up with some activities to boost faculty morale, but I do not intend to pursue the suggestion that we offer a hatchet-tossing event. In times of stress and change, it's probably not a great  idea for faculty members to be armed--one errant toss could shift our campus bloodletting out of the metaphorical realm.

But what can we do? A case of Xanax might make a dent in our current stress levels, but nobody's going to approve the expense. The HR office brought in massage chairs, but appointments are limited and the massages don't last long enough to loosen up the deep-seated sources of our pain. Yesterday at an all-campus event we were urged to stand and sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" (because the academic year has reached the seventh-inning stretch). Participation was spotty and enthusiasm was low, and it seems that some of my colleagues didn't know the words. We need to get out more!

Okay, baseball season is coming up soon so let's get out there! Last year I attended a bunch of home games but never saw more than two other faculty members in attendance. Apparently we're not big baseball fans?

How about a guided wildflower hike? A long walk along the river trail? What will it take to help people relax: a fleet of kayaks, a pen of puppies, a coloring sheet and a big ol' box o' crayons?

Everything I come up with feels lame when juxtaposed with the losses we've been suffering, but on the other hand, maybe some small but meaningful activity could help distract us from those losses and think about the future more effectively. 

When I moped around the house as a kid, my mom would open the door, point toward the yard, and command, "Go out and play!" Sometimes a change of venue provokes a change of perspective. The problem, though, is that wherever we go out to play, we can't seem to escape the problems that had us moping around the house to begin with.

So I don't know what to do. What are some effective methods for improving morale on a budget when everywhere we go we see signs of the very problems that depress morale? 

I'm happy to open the door and point the way--but I don't intend to hand out any hatchets.

Bending to the breaking point

Old buzzwords never die; they just get repurposed to meet new challenges. I give you nimble, agile, flexible, and resilient, the buzzwords trotted out in 2020 to inspire the heroic efforts required to shift quickly from face-to-face teaching to pandemic mode. We nimbly flexed and demonstrated resilient agility, and if the effort wore us out, at least we knew that when push comes to shove, we can be as nimble as the next guy.

Now the same old buzzwords are pushing and shoving their way into meetings called to respond to staffing issues caused by cuts in positions. Departments, I've been told, will need to be nimble, agile, flexible, and resilient to find creative ways to staff essential courses, and that might require some of us to teach outside our areas of expertise.

Which, sure, is a nice idea. My primary area of expertise is post-Civil-War American Literature, but when I first started teaching here, I spent a significant amount of time developing new expertise in postcolonial literature because we felt our students needed exposure--but this was feasible only because I was building on a foundation of study and research from grad school. And I suppose that if it were necessary I could teach an introductory-level survey of early American literature, but I haven't taught or thought about most of those texts for 30 years! And forget about upper-level courses outside my area. I always include a Shakespeare play in my Comedy class, but only a fool would expect me to teach an upper-level Shakespeare seminar. May as well ask me to teach organic chemistry.

No one would be foolish enough to ask me to flex that far outside my field, but recently I heard a suggestion that we could offer a little training to equip faculty members from other departments to teach first-year composition. No one would suggest that a little training would equip an English professor to teach chemistry, but apparently teaching first-year composition is so simple that a little training could equip anyone to do it. I'll bet my colleagues with degrees in Rhetoric and Composition are just kicking themselves for wasting all that time and money on grad school.

Like many of my colleagues, I am willing to flex--but flex too far and something's bound to break. Then we'll need nimble people agile enough to pick up the pieces. 

Blinded by the blights

Yesterday's events included an encounter with an annoying police officer and a severe case of carrot cake deprivation, both of which felt at the time like immense injustices except when considered alongside the long line of faculty members getting pulled into the Provost's office to learn that their services were not longer required. I thought that carrot cake would be the highlight of a very long, horrific day, but when I arrived at the department office, I found  nothing but a smear of buttercream. On the other hand, I still have a job! So no complaints.

And I will have to keep driving to that job right past the annoying police officer who told me, "I'll be watching you." What horrific crime did I commit to merit getting pulled over in the tiny river town along my route?

My headlights were too bright.

The first thing the officer said when he walked up to my window was, "Don't you know where the dimmer switch is?" Yes, officer, I know where the dimmer switch is, and my only complaint about my wonderful car is that when I drive at night, people are constantly flashing their brights at me to indicate I have my brights on when I don't. He scoffed and went to the front of my car and told me to flip the brights on and off, which I did. "Something's wrong with these lights," he said. 

I explained that I'd already mentioned the problem to my mechanic, who told me my lights were just fine. "Well they're too bright," said the officer, and I said okay, yes, maybe they are, but what am I supposed to do about it? "When someone flashes their brights at you," he said, "Be sure to flash them back." And then he told me he'd been watching me go by with my lights too bright every morning but never had a chance to pull me over until now--"But I'll be watching you," he said, which felt like a threat. 

So this morning my early meeting was cancelled (because people who are losing their jobs aren't in the mood for an 8 a.m. meeting) so I thought I'd solve the problem by leaving home a little later, when headlights were still required but barely necessary. But when I got to that tiny river town, there he was, that surly police officer, waiting for me. When he flashed his brights at me, I flashed back, a move I will have to make every morning as I drive to work because there is really no better route. 

Don't you know where your dimmer switch is? What I really want right now is a dimmer switch to turn down the intensity of all the negative feelings swirling around campus. Whoever invents that will make a killing.

Feeling the ground shift once again

I'm so sorry about what you're going through. If you want to list me as a reference, I'd be happy to tell anyone what a great teacher you are.

This was my repeated refrain yesterday as word trickled out about the latest round of faculty cuts. My words felt lame and useless, but what else could I say? 

For the past three years we've gone through a repeating painful cycle: rumors of impending cuts, anguish among non-tenured faculty members in vulnerable positions, relief for those whose lines survive combined with distress over those who don't, and scrambling within departments to cover classes without sufficient staffing. Those who have gone through multiple cycles probably deserve combat pay to compensate for the emotional anguish they've endured.

But then this brutal cycle is piled on top of a whole host of lesser insults, from draconian budget cuts to Kafkaesque procedures for purchasing essential supplies to the loss of funding for faculty awards and prizes. I'd like to express my profound gratitude to the people who so generously provided letters supporting my nomination for the research prize this year, but I regret to inform you that no prizes will be distributed.

But it's petty to complain about a measly prize when I still have a job. My job will inevitably change going forward as cuts to faculty lines require us to shift the burden for certain classes, but I'm still gainfully employed doing something I usually love. Meanwhile, today a bunch of my colleagues are stumbling around looking stunned, suddenly feeling the ground slip from under their feet and wondering where they'll land. I want more than anything to lend some support, but frankly, I'm feeling a little wobbly myself. 

Just can't see it

I'm picking through a stack of exams from my American Lit Survey class, trying to find some handwriting I can read without straining. Large print, dark ink, neat handwriting--it's like a treasure more valued for its rarity. It's a mistake to read the more legible exams ones first because then I'll end up struggling through a sea of scrawls, but maybe I can tackle the difficult ones in the morning after I give my eyes a rest. 

In my morning class I struggled to decipher students' handwriting; in my afternoon class today I struggled to see my students. Waves of cooties are sweeping through campus, causing multiple cases of Covid and flu and bad colds and something a student called "fuzzy throat." When five out of nine students in a literature class stay home sick, it's time to make an executive decision to meet on Zoom. The problem, though, is that sick people don't want to be seen on video, and I guess healthy people don't either because I ended up trying to converse with a whole bunch of blank, silent squares. One student had bandwidth issues and kept having to reconnect. Another student had audio issues and had to share his insights in the chat. I don't know how to make eye contact with blank silent squares--it's like talking to a wall.

I keep thinking about the department chair who first hired me here, who decided to retire when his eye problems made it virtually impossible to read students' handwriting. If my vision gets any worse I can switch to online exams so students can type in their responses, which will require use of anti-cheating software but at least I'll be able to read the answer. But if we ever get to the point that I can't see my students' faces, I'm outta here. I don't mind meeting on Zoom occasionally while the place is overrun with germs, but I don't intend to conclude my career by talking to a wall.

Puzzling over meal madness

We really know how to live it up on a Friday night, I thought as I looked at our dining table, one end covered with jigsaw puzzle pieces and the other with crackers, cheese, and spreadables. Neither of us wanted to cook so we treated ourselves to Snack Supper: a bunch of little things to nibble on while working on a puzzle.

It's a relaxing way to spend a Friday evening but I realized, even as I sat there chomping on crab dip and crackers, that if my father had come home at the end of the work week to find anything other than a meat, a starch, a vegetable, and a salad on the table, there would have been yelling. Mom worked nights as an RN but she was expected to make a full hot meal every day of the week. I remember once when she was too exhausted to cook and so decided, without conferring with Dad first, that just this once we could go out to eat at a local low-cost family restaurant; we were all dressed up and ready to go when Dad walked in the door and declared the plan unacceptable, and then he yelled and stormed until Mom produced a home-cooked meal that met his expectations.

And those expectations were firm and specific: it wasn't a meal unless Dad was sitting at a table and being served a plate heaped with meat and several side dishes. Self-serve buffets were completely unacceptable. One time Dad ordered from the menu at a restaurant with a buffet and then complained about how long he had to wait for his order to arrive. "Don't they know I'm starving to death?" he asked, even though we were sitting so close to the buffet that he could have reached out and grabbed a yeast roll at any time.

Once we were on a short road trip together, me and my husband and our small children and my parents for four hours in our van, and we practiced normal road-trip behavior--passing around yogurt and granola bars at lunchtime so we wouldn't have to make an extra stop. But this was not a table at a restaurant with someone serving hot food, so Dad never stopped complaining about being starved, even though he took full advantage of the available food. It clearly wasn't about the calories; he had some deep need to experience the performative aspects of a meal and if the experience lacked a table, a server, and a plate of hot food, then he didn't feel fed.

We felt fully fed last night even though the puzzle took up more space than the food. Our meal wasn't particularly elegant or well balanced or even hot, but the experience was more than satisfying. I've spent a lot of time over the years trying to piece together the details of my father's peculiar upbringing, to understand what led him to develop such specific and limiting rules about food and so many other aspects of human behavior, and I'll never put together the full picture now that he's gone.

And I honestly don't know how my mother put up with Dad's demands for so long. Of course it was a different time with different expectations about gender roles and division of labor in the household. Today my husband and I share the cooking duties and if we don't feel like cooking, we raid the pantry and make do with what we find there, even if it doesn't look like Dad's idea of a meal. If he were here he would look at our table with its unfinished puzzle and scattered snacks and let us know very clearly what's wrong with this picture, but to us, it looks just right.