Today we held our second class on Zoom so we could do some peer conferencing in small writing groups. I spent hours over the weekend researching the best way for students to share their work. While I really wanted to use Google Drive, our campus uses OneDrive, so after several back-and-forth emails with tech folks on campus, I set up shared folders for each small group. Receiving feedback can be scary for new writers (and old writers, too!), so I always take care to establish comfortable norms and procedures for peer conferencing. While the sense of community isn’t quite the same in a world of masks and Zoom meetings, I felt confident that students were ready to interact in this way. Because I’m teaching at a Christian university, I have the freedom to incorporate some faith perspective during each class. Today I encouraged students to use the chat box to share a one sentence prayer. “God can read your chats. Are you convicted” I joked with them. “Lord, thanks for waking us up and keeping us healthy,” one student wrote. Another added, “I pray we not take for granted the opportunity to learn, even though our circumstances are different.” Nearly every student added something. Sometimes tech is better. Our use of breakout rooms went fairly well. I gave students instructions to read and comment before moving to a verbal conversation about each piece of writing. I modeled how to use the commenting feature in OneDrive shared documents, and then I sent them to their groups. Normally at this time, I would be walking around the room to monitor each group’s progress. Instead, I have to magically pop in to check on each group individually. It quickly became clear that the entire process was going to take way longer than I had anticipated because of the technology issues different groups had at the beginning of their breakout room time. Despite some tech glitches, though, the entire process seemed to work well. I went back through students’ essays after class to see rich, worthwhile discussions about their writing. Most writers made a list of action points at the end of their essay as they start their next phase of revision. Hearing from their peers was helpful; we don’t learn in isolation. During my second class, I shared my screen and modeled the norms and procedures for several minutes before one student commented in the chat: “I don’t think we can see the screen you’re trying to show us.” Sometimes tech is not better. Ugh. I was so embarrassed and still have no idea what they were looking at that whole time. I’m working with a dual monitor system that feels clunky and awkward for me. Am I Luddite? Probably. (Today I had to look up how to switch audio so I could still hear my music from my laptop when I plugged in the extra monitor.) I got them sent off to the rooms when one student reentered our meeting to ask me some questions about the feedback she should be providing. Then we both struggled to figure out how she could put herself back in her breakout room. “Technology is not my thing,” she confessed. I laughed and pointed at myself. “Well, clearly it’s not mine,” I said as she was whisked back to her breakout room. At least we are learning together.
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Learning new things feels awkward. And then it gets easier. That happened this spring when I started making face masks. I looked at several patterns, measured, messed up, took out stitches, remeasured, tried again. It took forever! Now I can whip one together in minutes. I reminded my students that learning can be frustrating today when we tried to write three-story thesis statements during our Zoom session. We were meeting on Zoom because most of our class today consisted of small group work, much easier and safer online than in our classroom. Most of their experience from high school classes focused on five-paragraph essays, and now we move beyond that to a more organic style. Starting with this kind of thesis feels strange. I answered several questions during our sessions: Am I doing this right? Is this working? Can this be improved? I also needed that reminder today. It was my first day using Zoom breakout rooms, and several times I had to ask my students for feedback because I felt uncomfortable and clunky. Is this working? Are you seeing the screen I want you to see? Is it strange when I join up with your group? By my second class of the day, my tech use felt more fluid. I remembered to have them introduce themselves and do some informal sharing in small groups before digging into coursework. It got better with time. I'm hopeful that will be true with each additional Zoom class. This was also the first day of Distance Learning 2.0 for my sons. They are both in high school now, and today was hard. They were tired when I woke them at 8 after months of staying up late and starting their mornings leisurely. We had forgotten to connect one new iPad to the WiFi, and one son had to continually be reminded that he needed to have lights on in his workspace, that it wasn't nap time. The schedule was new; the setup was different. Am I doing this right? Is this working? Will I ever figure this out? I'm giving my students, myself, and my children some extra grace today. This is a new educational world we are venturing in, and the learning will feel different. It might be painful. We will mess up. But we will be make it through. Because I don't know what the alternative is. I’m an Enneagram 2, a Helper through and through, but today I saw how the self-sacrificing and people-pleasing components to my type 2 might be detrimental to in-person teaching during the Times of COVID. As I was walking to my classroom today, I saw a student looking lost outside the door. A perfect opportunity to help! She asked me if she was in the right classroom for Spiritual Formations. In order to help her, though, I needed to look at her schedule on her phone. That required being much closer than six feet. Thankfully we were both masked. I felt the healthy “buzz” I get from helping someone, but it came with a side of discomfort from the physical proximity. Another Enneagram 2 weakness of mine is an inability to set healthy boundaries. You can see how this might be a problem as we cram 23 adult-sized bodies in a classroom space. That also means, though, that my desire to be liked makes it hard for me to assert myself. Again today I had to remind a student to make sure his bandanna was covering his nose. This feels like the old days of monitoring cell phone use; now I monitor proper face covering use. And while this might not be Enneagram related, I’ve always made it one of my first priorities as a teacher to build a sense of community. I didn’t feel like that really happened on day one this year. I didn’t let my students introduce themselves or discuss our freewriting activity. Their seats face the front of the room, so I am on display in front of them and on the screen. This is not my teaching style at all. As I read through their introduction letters in Moodle, I noticed that many students mentioned that they were happy to be together on campus, that they missed community through discussion. So today we ventured into discussion. Using quotes about critical thinking and revision, we engaged in some freewriting before discussing. And nearly every single student in both of my classes had thoughts to share. I heard so many voices! They are hungry for community, ravenous for connection, starving to hear their own voices -- even behind the masks. At times I found myself moving around the front of the room like I did in days past, getting closer than I should have to students in the front. And then I forgot the student joining us on Zoom, having to check a couple of times to make sure she was still with us and wanted to add to the discussion. It was better, but not perfect. And all of the talking feels dangerous. Too many aerosols? Too much time with shared air? I’m trying to remember that keeping students safe and healthy is ultimately the most helpful choice I can make. That requires a cognitive shift for me...and way more time spent planning than in previous semesters. I forgot to ask Julia if she listened to her song yet. I’ll check on Thursday. During my first class today, I complimented a student who was wearing Stan Smith sneakers like mine. Then after the fact I realized that he might be embarrassed to have the same footwear as his middle-aged professor. If it makes him feel better, President Obama has them, too! Today my youngest son and I ran an errand for my brother in Iowa: We went to IKEA. (I brought him along for his muscles. Don't worry. I rewarded him with a coffee stop on the way home.) I hadn't been to IKEA since pre-COVID, so I didn't know what to expect. I did know, however, that the desk my niece wanted kept selling out, so when I saw there were still 12 in stock, we went for it. When we arrived, we saw a shockingly long line full of (mostly) masked shoppers waiting for entry. The line moved quickly, though, as IKEA monitored those in and out of the store. Inside the store, we knew right where to go, and the check-out line was quick. The hardest part was steering the unwieldy cart of boxes. Inside the store, masks were required, but some waiting in line didn't have them on. I noticed one group of middle-aged white women who chose not to wear masks as they waited in line. They stood and chatted as if it was a normal shopping trip to IKEA, as if we weren't currently in a global pandemic. One woman was wearing a shirt that stated "Faith Over Fear." It made me pause. Was she sending a sign? (I thought the same thing yesterday when the student who had to be asked to cover his nose was wearing an American flag bandanna. Am I paranoid and reading too much into everything now? Maybe.) Maybe it was just the shirt she chose to wear today. Or maybe she thinks choosing to stand in line without a mask is an act of faith. For me, choosing to stand in line with a mask in line is an act of faith, an act of love for my neighbor. I'm back in the classroom now, so I have no idea if I've been exposed to the virus. I can have faith and a healthy fear of a deadly virus. Both/and, not either/or. Today was my first day back on campus with students since we adjourned for spring break in March. My classroom is in the athletic building. Ah, the irony! I'm teaching in a building full of athletes and coaches. Usually I like to get to class with plenty of time to get coffee, start my music, situate the technology I need, etc. Today I didn't want to arrive too early because of the shared air, but I still needed to make sure Zoom was working. When I arrived at my classroom, a group of coaches was holding a meeting. So I waited in the hallway. And waited. And waited some more. With just 15 minutes before class, I finally entered with a small apology. While most of the coaches were masked, a couple were not. I miss having my own classroom. Masks, for my students, weren't an issue. Our campus and state require them, so everyone had some kind of face covering. I did have to remind a couple of students during my first class that they needed to make sure their noses were covered, but they complied without arguing. While I was able to keep myself a safe distance from my students, their seats don't allow for a full six feet between chairs. During my first class today, I was stilted and nervous. I wasn't sure how much chit-chat to engage in before class (my usual method to help students feel at ease on the first day), so I tried to smile behind my mask as students shuffled in and cleaned their workplaces with sanitizer. The time went quickly. I'm supposed to dismiss students by section at the end of class so they aren't all jumbled up in the doorway. Of course I forgot, so they looked at me awkwardly until I remembered. Hopefully we stay on campus long enough for these actions to become habits for me. When my second group of students came in, I engaged with them a bit more. Julia was sitting in the front row. "Oh," I said as I noticed her name card. "I don't have daughters, but if I did, one would be named Julia because of the song by the Beatles." She stared at me blankly. "You don't know that song?" She said no, but she had heard of the Beatles. I started that class feeling like a dinosaur. I gave her an extra assignment of going home and listening to that beautiful song. I hope she likes it. I felt like a dinosaur even more when I had a couple of technology glitches that I didn't have in the first class. First, one student who was joining remotely got stuck in the Zoom waiting room, even though I had disabled it when I started our session. Luckily I saw an email from her and was able to resend the link. Then the Padlet link I had set up for some online discussion wasn't working. I blundered my way through and punted for a solid Plan B. In the meantime, we all laughed. I can't tell you how good it felt to be laughing in a classroom with students again. I also thoroughly enjoyed the quiet moments we spent writing together as we explored this question: What makes writing powerful? This summer I worked on my LinkedIn profile. Do I want to be an adjunct forever? Probably not. Was I super nervous to come back to campus in COVID Times? Absolutely! But today in between classes I received an email from LinkedIn that I promptly deleted. For today, I felt like I was right where I needed to be! About a year ago, Chris and I took up running for exercise. We haven’t entered any races, and if you’re my friend on any social media platform, this is the first you’re hearing of our new hobby because I don’t post regular updates of my distances or times. Running, for us, became a way to burn a few calories while spending some much-needed time outside -- beneficial to mental and physical health. Surprisingly, we began to enjoy it.
Pre-COVID 19, we ran most mornings after our boys got on the bus for school and before our work day kicked into gear. We live just a few blocks from Como Park, home to a lake, a zoo, and plenty of paths to run on. Strangely, we found a community on our morning runs. We gave the other regulars nicknames -- “Young Grandpa Forest” for the hat-wearing man who reminded me of my late grandfather (albeit this grandpa usually carried an energy drink, something I couldn’t picture MY Grandpa Forest enjoying on a morning walk); “Older Dad” for the man who reminded us of my dad in another ten years -- gray beard and all; “Dog Grandpa” for the man who, you guessed it, walked with his sweet little Scottie dog. Not everyone was 70+ on our route, but many were. We exchanged pleasantries and smiles when our paths crossed, no matter the weather. We could always count on seeing our “friends” as I had taken to calling them. One morning “Young Grandpa Forest” called out to us as we ran past. “Come to the orchid show at the conservatory this weekend!” We didn’t make it to the orchid show, but the next Monday, we did stop to talk when he asked if we had made it. It turns out his name is George, not Forest. (I decided not to hold it against him.) He lived on our side of the lake. While I don’t think we shook hands, we definitely stood closer than six feet. After that morning, we always greeted George by name. “Hi Chris and Kim!” he would shout with a smile as we met on our path. And then the virus came, disrupting all of our plans and procedures, even our running. While we have still been running, our route has changed. The path around the lake looks too populated most days to keep proper distance, and because we don’t want to run with masks if we don’t have to, we’ve opted for less populated routes. We also are running later in the day, usually during a lunch break. For these reasons, we no longer see our friends, and of course, if we did, we wouldn't feel comfortable standing and talking too close. On a couple of occasions, we’ve seen Dog Grandpa and Older Dad from a distance, but for months now, we’ve missed George. Every time we’ve driven by the lake, my neck craned, searching for him. I can’t explain why. Maybe it was a symbol of “normal times.” Maybe I was worried about him. After all, he’s in the more vulnerable age group. Maybe I missed that steady routine, that well-worn route where we could watch the ice creep over the lake and then months later recede, where I could run across the bridge near the pavilion without worrying about keeping distance if someone was coming the other direction, where I could gasp in delight at the crunch of leaves beneath my feet and laugh as our eyelashes accumulated snowflakes. Maybe seeing George nearly every day meant that my biggest parenting worry was remembering to sign the form for basketball and finding out what time practice ended that day. It meant that the virus lexicon of antibodies and social distancing and contact tracing was as unfamiliar as my newfound worries for my son’s social health as they miss friends and long-term academic concerns as I attempt to teach algebra and geometry. Months passed and no George, until Saturday. On a whim, we decided to add an extra mile, looping back around an extra block before rounding the final stretch home. As we prepared to turn east from the lake, I saw him across the street, wearing his signature trilby hat. He was too far away for me to call out, but I nearly did. I suspect it was pure joy, not running endorphins, that plastered the smile on my face as we finished our last few blocks. “We saw George!” I told our kids later. Even they knew I had been looking for him. They were surprisingly happy for me, perhaps recognizing this meant something more than just some strange man on the path around the lake. This isn’t my symbol that life is back to normal, far from it. But it is a reminder of a life we once knew, a life we will live again, someday. And you can be sure my eyes are going to be scanning the path around the lake when we head out on our run again tomorrow, hoping to see some of our familiar friends. As my semester winds down for the classes I would have been teaching on campus, I put together an anonymous survey to ask some specific questions about our transition to a virtual learning environment. The responses were....confusing.
As we moved to a virtual learning environment, what aspects of this class became more challenging? Student A: Not getting personal feedback was a bit irritating because there is only so much information that can be conveyed digitally. Student B: I think that not much became challenging because we were still able to get feedback from the professor and the students. If virtual learning were to continue, what advice do you think professors need to have? Student A: Maybe be more clear for due dates. It was hard for me right away Student B: Also having a weekly agenda and due dates was very beneficial. What other feedback would you like me to have at this time? Student A: I loved how your ZOOM meetings weren't really focused on learning material or instruction as it was more like getting a coffee and sitting down and having a conversation. Student B: Zoom should have been used a lot more for group activities and class session to teach in. Being able to be with the others students and have more teacher/student interaction would make it better to complete activities. Because I know myself (Enneagram 2), I will spend the summer thinking about the negative responses and how I can make necessary changes in the fall if we continue in an online environment, but I also realize that like all teaching, there is no one-size-fits-all approach that will work for every student. Just as some students dread peer review while others find it incredibly helpful, some students will want regular required meetups and others will prefer to work through assignments on their own. I don't know the answers. I don't like not knowing the answers, not being able to grasp what the future holds. This state of uncertainty is maddening, as are all of the conflicting reports I see of how distance learning is going in other houses around the world. I see Twitter threads about how teachers aren't doing enough followed by a thread on how teachers are asking too much of students. On Facebook I see conversations of parents who are ready for the school year to just be over already followed by comments of parents who are considering homeschooling indefinitely because their kids are thriving in the setting. I see it in my own house where one son wakes early and diligently completes all schoolwork for the day while his brother sleeps late and pushes off all schoolwork until the very last possible minute each week. But I know teachers. Most (not all, I will admit, but most) will work tirelessly this summer, assessing and reassessing, learning new tools and reading about new strategies. I will be with them. I will grade finals this week and then spend some time in the garden before I roll up my sleeves and do the necessary work to be ready for a new semester -- whatever that semester might looks like. Polio at five,
Months in a hospital bed You’re a survivor Head tilted over The trashcan in the kitchen You’re trimming my bangs Giggles with Vicki Racing your wine to the fridge “Grandma D is here!” Standing tall on the Chair pulled next to the counter: Where I learned to bake The best medicine: On the couch with soaps, saltines You made me feel safe Your perfume lingers Lovely lipstick, mascara It must be date night! In the dressing room Helping me try on mountains Of clothes: Shopping trips Angsty teen moments Words I could never erase You always forgave Busy high school years Contests all around the state You didn’t miss one Quilts cut, sewn with care Favorite cakes, breads, apple pies You love through action Still in love with Dad And now the perfect grandma Teaching me always “You look like your mom!” I used to shrug my shoulders Now I nod with pride As we've watched the rapid spread of COVID-19 these past several weeks, I've grown increasingly concerned for some of my students -- the incarcerated individuals I teach through the Second Chance Pell program. For over a year and a half, I've guided small groups of students as they study writing and literature. Through online discussion forums and multiple essays, these men -- old and young -- have inspired me as they squeeze an opportunity for all it's worth. They read extra pages, ask probing questions, push for extra feedback. Their lightbulb moments are frequent and focused as they look towards their future outside of the walls of a prison. While the pay isn't great (is any adjunct work?), I would do this job for free. (Please don't tell my supervisor.)
Over the weekend, however, I received word that the current group of students would be the last for a while. These students have faced a myriad of complications over the past several months: reduced hours in the computer lab, lack of access when the facility goes on lockdown, loss of research privileges because someone else abused the opportunity. Still, they pushed through, using the time and tools they were given to cobble together an education, many of them taking classes for the first time in decades. They learned to manage an online learning platform and textbooks; they shared insights about Walt Whitman and Flannery O'Connor; they wrote profiles about their mothers and baby sisters and their own struggles with addiction. They overcame. Of all of the obstacles they faced, however, this virus has proven to be their most formidable foe. As their institutions took necessary precautions, locking down anytime someone had a fever, my students lost access to our classes because they couldn't reach the computer labs. While I know that shutting classes down for now is the right thing, it didn't stop my tears as I graded their final reflections and essays today. These students are always humble and thankful, and this last group was no exception. Here are a couple of favorite lines I read this week: "Writing again has reawakened my thirst for knowledge and hunger for understanding, and I am famished." "Thank you, Ms. Witt, for your help during this tough time for our country and world . . . You have little idea what it means to me that I can attend college." "With what I learned in the 7 weeks of this composition class will stick with me forever and the time and effort I put in to this class has paved a way of good feelings and pride for actually stepping up and doing college classes." "I’m positive that this course has helped me and others get what we needed to continue forward, and strive towards our goal of being a college graduate." Read those words and think of those men, making choices to transform their lives and seize new opportunities. Then think of them in facilities where the virus is already spreading. If you'd like more information, here's a starting place: NPR article about the spread of COVID-19 behind bars The Daily podcast episode about one man's attempt to get released from Rikers Island as the virus spread Ear Hustle podcast - start from the beginning and learn about life in San Quentin The New Jim Crow - a necessary read about mass incarceration in our country A wise friend recently told me that we don’t have good days contrasted with bad days. Every day has good and bad moments. I’m trying to reframe my thinking in that way. Yesterday I sat cocooned in the backyard sun for hours, indulging in the comfort of divine prose. The laughter of my youngest son as he played driveway basketball with my husband interrupted the constant birdsong. That was a good moment. For lunch I slathered butter on a thick chunk of homemade French bread. With dinner last night I indulged in summer in a glass: a gin and tonic with a fresh squeeze of lime. Those were good moments. Today the sadness fogged around me as soon as I woke, unwelcome. Just out of my peripheral view, it’s there, a version of the truth of this new life. Eventually I escaped to the backyard to cry. That was a bad moment. I lost my patience as I tried to help with Spanish homework, eventually slamming the fridge door shut in frustration. That was a bad moment. Last night we tumbled onto the sectional for the new basketball documentary on ESPN. During commercial breaks we shared favorite scenes and munched on monster cookies. That was a good moment. When I walked into the dining room this morning, I noticed my spindly tomato plants, growing from seeds, stretching towards the sun. That was a good moment. As I scrolled through social media, I saw images of protests bookended by first-person accounts of medical professionals fighting the virus. Simultaneously I felt anger and fear and sadness. That was a bad moment. Yesterday during online worship, I studied the faces of the worship band, singing one of my favorite songs. Tears sprung at the corners of my eyes, and I looked away. At once my heart ached to put my arms around my friends and also swelled with a deep love for Jesus and his followers. That was a bad/good moment. Do you have any good or bad moments you care to share? |
AboutTeach. Archives
September 2020
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