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.
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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 Several years ago I wrote an essay on a different blog about my struggle with anxiety and depression after my boys joined our family. The writing was shared a lot on the internet, and I received so much support and positive feedback as a result. I was brutally honest in a way that I didn’t allow myself to be in public. Here’s an excerpt: My chest often feels tight. My hands often shake. My thoughts are less coherent than usual. My inexplicable tears come more frequently. My hope feels lost when it should be "built on nothing less." Last night I asked Chris if he had noticed a change in my moods and emotions lately. "Don't be mad," he answered, "but yes." I wasn't mad. He was just confirming what I already knew. I went on to share that I was starting medication for situational anxiety, and it was scary to put those words in writing for the world to see because mental illness comes with a side of stigma in this country. But I wrote the words, and I shared the story because I didn’t want others to feel like they had to suffer in silence. Since then I was able to stop taking the medication, but you can bet that I would take it again in a hot second if I felt myself falling into that pit of despair again. It was difficult to walk into my trusted doctor’s office and tell him how I was struggling, but I would do it again because I know that depression and anxiety are real, and they aren’t my fault. Somedays still I feel myself in a place of darkness. Really I’ve always been prone to moments of deep melancholy. I remember in high school sitting in my room and listening to “Fake Plastic Trees” by Radiohead on repeat and deeply feeling my feelings. I was actually just in the same space yesterday. When those days come, I don’t find joy in things that usually bring me joy. I can’t find something to look forward to. On those days I want to walk out of my house and never come back. The things that normally cheer me up -- my favorite music, a good cup of tea, a walk with my dog -- don’t make a difference. I feel despondent and inexplicably gloomy. It’s hard to admit this because I still like to wear the mask of the perpetually optimistic girl. I hold on during those days, though, because I know it’s a short season. Last night I went for a walk and prayed and looked for joy in small places. I crawled back out and see more light today. I’m grateful for that. But sometimes we can’t crawl back out. I remember what that felt like, when the joy didn’t come in the morning. When the place of darkness didn’t just stay under the bed and or in the closet but came out and made its home in my heart, stealing my joy and tinting my view of the world with a perpetual gray filter. Today I’m writing and crying and listening to music and shaking my fist at the sky because just this week we lost two bright stars, Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain, to suicide. I’m crying because suicide rates in this industrialized, modern country have gone up 25% since 1999, and I can put names with some of those statistics, names of those I knew, shared meals with, taught. I’m also crying because all of the evidence points to a higher risk of suicide for adoptees. Right now I’m looking at the photo of my sweet children on their last day of school. I sent them off to the bus for a fun day of adventure with friends, but nagging in the back of my mind is the thought that as much as I try, I can’t always protect them from the demons that hide in their closets. This isn’t a place to tell their story, but I can just say that trauma has left a deep thumbprint on their brains. I’m writing this because maybe someone in my circle is struggling and needs to know that people care (National Suicide Hotline: 1-800-273-8255). Maybe someone reading needs the nudge to seek medication to help with the very real struggles of mental illness. Maybe someone is reading who doesn’t struggle with depression but needs the reminder to be intentional about sharing love and showing care. Yesterday on my walk I turned a corner down a road I normally don’t walk on, and I was greeted with a front yard full of peonies of every shade of pink imaginable. Peonies are my favorite flower ever, and that sight felt like a gift. So many moments are a gift. NPR had a beautiful tribute about Anthony Bourdain today. I would love for these words to someday be said about me: ...he treated the world as if he had not given up on it. He treated it as if, at any moment, it might open itself wider, reveal a crack into which he hadn't ever slipped, with pen and paper, with a flashlight and a fork. And he might be able to help other people understand what was inside. Last week marked the end of my first full year as an adjunct English professor. Per my usual, I pause to reflect and lean into my ever-present, mid-life, existential crisis. My new job this year has come with perks perfectly balanced with aching desires for more. College students are awesome. Really, truly. Some of my best memories of my life occurred during my college years, and engaging with these young people at this time of their life is a treasure. We've had conversations about my own faith as a college student, about life as a minority student on a predominantly white campus, and about why Black Panther completely lived up to the hype. The future is bright because of young people like these. Like college students, college campuses also fill me with joy. There is something sacred about the hallowed halls of academia. I swear I can hear the whispers of generations past when I enter Nazareth Hall. This spring I have purposely parked farther away so I can enjoy a few extra steps on campus. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend for a brief minute that I'm 19 again. The logistics of this gig were perfect, too. With the age of my sons (13 and 14), working part-time was spectacular. I didn't have to miss a single sporting event this year, and I didn't feel like laundry would get the best of me. With time to run errands and take care of things at home during the day, I was able to be present with my kids and husband in the evenings and on the weekends. Sure, we're not spectacularly rich, but rediscovering balance has been delightful. However, I am in my late 30s, and I'm still not 100% sure I know what I want to be when I grow up. I'm kind of tired of teaching writing. Okay, maybe I'm not tired of teaching writing. Maybe I don't love teaching academic writing. Maybe I want to help students craft a particularly delightful personal narrative or work out their passion for creative nonfiction. I don't really care to read another proposal or evaluation essay for a few months at least. And while I love working in a Christian environment, I'm discovering more and more each day how unwelcoming various spaces are for people of color. This last semester I was particularly mindful of what our campus is like for the students of color, and because the student body and faculty are predominantly white, I heard several stories from the minority students about their disappointment in college life. They have felt unwelcome and othered. It makes me discouraged and feel utterly helpless. I want to effect change on campus, but I'm not sure where to even begin. Yesterday at church the ministry call at the end of the service was for women who felt like they had a calling on their life that wasn't being fulfilled, possibly because they had been belittled because they were women. Maybe they had been passed up for opportunities because of their gender. Maybe they just felt "less than." With a bit of discomfort, I stepped into the aisle and joined my sisters up front. I hugged the woman next to me who said, "Might as well be all women, right?" And she was right. I stood in the front of church and cried because I'm in my 30s and I don't know what I want to be when I grow up. I graduated from high school thinking I could be a teacher, a nurse, or a social worker. And that wasn't because my parents belittled me or my teachers didn't feed into me. That happened because I was a product of culture and environment. I have moments where I love teaching, where I feel like I'm doing what God created me to do when I am interacting with students. But I also have this itch, you know? Like there's more. This spring I attended a House committee meeting at the Minnesota capitol, and I dreamed of being a legislator or lawyer. I want to own a bookstore and work at a greenhouse. I dream of writing a book. I'm always aching for more. And maybe that's just the More that we're all craving on this side of eternity as we yearn and ache for the Kingdom to come. Maybe it's not an ache that would be fulfilled with a change in career but more like a life-pulse that will always be here, that I must push into and through and allow it to make me become a better me. Maybe vocation isn't so much about where my paycheck comes from but more about learning how to live in this skin that I'm wearing for now. Maybe. “The good outweighs the bad.” That was my youngest son’s response as we discussed our family’s move from Northwest Iowa to St. Paul over the weekend. In many ways, the move was most difficult on him. He had a fantastic group of sweet friends who shared his interests and innocent sense of humor. This boy is not interested in being the most popular boy in school; he is concerned with having a good friend or two, ones who truly know him. Of course friendships take time, even for 6th grade boys, but he is getting there. It’s brought great joy to watch him emerge from his shell during these past few months and find his place in this new world. We’ve been living in St. Paul for ten months now, and after two months of silence on my blog, it feels like a good time to pause and reflect on what this move has done for our family. After several years of running his own business, Chris initially took a job for a medium-sized corporation here. It wasn’t the best fit, but like he always does, Chris stuck it out with a genuine smile on his face. After several months there, he took a job with the banking software company he used to work for back in our Missouri days. In an ironic twist, he now works from home, meaning that we could live nearly anywhere. But we’re here now, and St. Paul feels like home. It’s a very snowy home right now, but home nevertheless. In really practical ways, our world is filled with more diversity. During the boys’ basketball season this winter, they have never been the only Black kids on the court. We went to the theater on opening weekend of Black Panther, and my children were far from the only kids of color in the theater. Their church youth group is a sea of color. This week my youngest will attend The Wiz with this theater class, and in two weeks both boys will attend the Timberwolves-Warriors game with friends from church. Life is rich with culture and experience. Now we are in an era of nuance and identity, of providing them the opportunities to figure out this crazy “who am I?” thing. Figuring out who you are is hard for any middle school student. You have to navigate friendships and relationships while juggling homework and extracurriculars. Now we throw social media and technology into the mix along with the struggle to figure out what it means to be Black in America and how that differs from Ethiopian culture. We are trying to help the boys find their ways in all of those worlds while also helping them figure out what it means to be raised by white parents. They practice new words and experiment with different worlds. Of course we still push them to be themselves and find their identity in Christ. Their heads must be swimming. My boys are crazy resilient with wicked senses of humor, and I couldn’t be prouder to be their mom. I pray each day for wisdom and abounding grace for all of us, and He is faithful. I've never been one to make New Year's Resolutions, and not because I think it's a terrible idea. Mostly because self-control is hard, and I have a severe fear of failure. This year, though, I've felt the nudge to do something different. I will be choosing a word for 2018: LISTEN. Lately I've found myself living inside of strange echo chamber. My kids do something annoying, and I start to think about how to post about it in a hilarious way on Facebook. I see my dog do something cute, and I immediately snap a photo for the world to see. What kind of blog post can I write that will garner the most attention? What status update and adorable photo will gain the most "likes" and "comments"? What kind of witty, self-deprecating comment can I add to a Facebook conversation that will make me appear charming and genuine? This mindset isn't reserved just for social media either. For as long as I can remember, I have enjoyed making people laugh with silly one-liners and storytelling techniques. Even though I truly am an introvert, I also enjoy affirmation. Is that true for all of us? I don't think any of that is bad in and of itself, but I've been noticing a side effect of these behaviors: I forget to listen. I forget to listen to those around me, the friends and family members and students that I encounter in my everyday life. And more importantly, I forget to listen to the gentle whisper of the Holy Spirit. Instead of praying for my sometimes-annoying children, I write status updates in my head. Instead of truly listening to my student share about the decision-making process in selecting a major, I think about the perfect story from my own life that somehow relates to her situation. Rather than truly focusing on what my husband tells me about his day, I scroll through a newsfeed or think about a recipe or remember a story I wanted to tell him. Instead of turning to Jesus, my best friend and confidant, as I try to make sense of the world around me, I think about how to compose the best-ever blog. And I don't want to do that in 2018. I'm not 100% sure what this will look like, but I know it will sound quieter. It will include less social media presence and more time of quiet reflection. And I'm excited to see what the Holy Spirit does. I'm not signing off of my blog or Facebook for the entire year because sometimes writing can be an essential part of my personal listening process and some of my best friends are found on social media, but I will probably post less often and more intentionally. When my mind starts racing with what I could say or what I should write, I will silently think to myself, "Listen." Here's another recycled post from a dusty, long-forgotten blog. It's a message that still needs to be heard - by me and by all of the other brave, beautiful women around me. -------------- I'm not going to say anything new here. My thoughts won't be neatly organized and perfectly coherent. I'm just putting these thoughts in words, hoping that perhaps I can tattoo them in my own mind and heart. It started with a blog from a friend, and I was thinking about how so many women face battles with food. So very many precious women that I love have trudged through bulimia and anorexia, overeating and overexercising. And if it's not food, it's something else. It's when I look in front of the mirror, dripping from the shower and think, "Teeth aren't white enough from drinking too much coffee. And yes, my upper lip is still too thin. Look at those damn wrinkles under my eyes. Like the dark circles weren't bad enough. And that's just great. More acne. Why won't my body remember that I haven't been a teenager for over a decade? Yep, extra weight around my middle. Perfect. " It's when I'm at the grocery store berating myself because I don't have the time or energy to purchase only all-organic, all-natural foods and cook gourmet and also budget-conscious meals for our families. It's when I look at other people's boards on Crackterest Pinterest and think, "Wow, do they really make all those recipes, wear all those outfits, create all those crafts, perform all those exercises??" Not enough wrinkle cream. Not enough Bible study. Not enough treadmill time. Not enough healthy food. Not enough reading with the boys. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. And I know where it comes from, too. It's the nature of our beast, right, ladies? Our own insecurities produce overcompensation, masking our own true and beautiful selves. So we use social media to project this image of perfection in the form of romantic date nights, sweet moments with children, the Best Workout Ever, unending satisfaction at the workplace. Or we hide behind comical self-deprecation or the extra glass of wine or the careless flirtation with a coworker. We learn from our female role models, too, because that's just the way this female game works. I see it in my female students, too, as they put on their false selves. Oh, I wore mine so well at 16 and 17. It was a false self of a pious and self-righteous Christian who was too good to go to parties with my peers. For other teenage girls it might be the need to wear every hair in its place with a perfectly coordinated outfit and accessories. It might be a carefree/careless attitude that results in purposely unkempt hair and multiple days in the same pair of yoga pants. It all comes from the same root, though -- the mask put on because she doesn't feel like she is good enough. This message of not enough comes from too many broken hearts and broken homes and nights spent crying and unrequited love. It comes from The Curse and the fear that we're not supposed to be like this. It's from jealousy and inadequacy. So today I want to scream, "YOU ARE ENOUGH! I AM ENOUGH!" You in the grocery store putting frozen pizzas in your cart because you don't have the energy to cook dinner after working more than 40 hours this week? Enough. You on your couch looking at the perfect workout photos posted on Pinterest and wishing you had time to make it to the gym today? Or even walk around the block for that matter? Enough. You who cried again in the shower because you get teased at school because you have a crush on a boy who doesn't even know your name? Enough. You who lost your temper with your overtired children at bedtime after a week of too-little sleep and too much running? Enough. You with the laundry spilling out onto the floor and the dust bunnies under the bed and the dishes piled up in the sink? Enough. Too fat, too skinny, too boring, too tired, too nerdy, too bland, too wrinkly, too disorganized, too, too, too. Enough, enough, enough. "When I look around, I think this, this is good enough, and I try to laugh at whatever life brings. 'Cause when I look down, I just miss all the good stuff. When I look up, I just trip over things." -Ani DiFranco, "As Is" And that "good enough" doesn't have to be a depressing admittance of resignation. It can be an acceptance of dreams and looking forward along with contentment and appreciation, a presence in the now. Living like surely these women do. Or this woman. Or this girl. And I'll forget again tomorrow as I look at the Facebook photos of half-marathons, gorgeously staged family portraits, and photo-worthy desserts, but I have this written now. Published. Tattooed. Enough. Today on my Facebook newsfeed a post from my former blog popped up. It was written four years ago today, in the fall, often a time of deep reflection and introspection for me. I'm posting it here today because the words still ring true. --- Sometimes I encounter a song that simultaneously leaves me breathless with desire and lying in a puddle of grief on the floor. Lately this song has been “Blood” by The Middle East. It randomly played on my Pandora, and there was no turning back. It has been an obsession not unlike my days of Pearl Jam and Lisa Loeb, and later Fiona Apple and Tori Amos, an obsession requiring plays on repeat and memorization of lyrics about blame and death and family. It is a song with poetic words scrawled across a canvas of percussion and voices and the suffering that is life. It’s the kind of song with a melody that sticks around, a rhythm that beats existential thoughts from my brain moving to my heart. Lately I’ve been thinking of my childhood. Fall and harvest do that to me. I remember trips to the field to deliver sandwiches and chips to my dad and Uncle Gary. I can feel the hum of the combine as I rode a round or two with them, breathing in the dust and the death. It was fall when my Uncle Gary left this earth. I can picture his frail body on my wedding day, just months before cancer stole him from us. During fall, especially, I miss him. During fall I miss my high school days when Friday nights included sleepovers after the big football game. I miss my college days when the reflected leaves painted the Cedar River with rust and golden brown. I miss our early married life when $2.14 bought us hot fudge sundaes from the McDonalds across the street. Of course hindsight is blurry at the edges, so in my memories I am perpetually beautiful and happy. I’ve also been pondering the impact that we leave on the lives of those around us. I think of the boy I loved when I was fifteen, the girl whose words wounded when I was seventeen, the young man who stole so much when I was nineteen, the college professor who spoke the words that pushed me to teach writing, the wandering soul who saw beauty in me in my early twenties. I remember Uncle Gary and his limitless kindness, Mrs. Lott who gave me Oreos at recess in 2nd grade, two grandmas who loved unconditionally, and now a husband who still holds my hand when we drive in the car. Simple moments and words that many of them may not even remember. But here I am, carrying those words and moments around, sometimes as unnecessary weight, trying to make sense of it all. The puzzle pieces don’t fit perfectly, but as I grow older, I see more of the picture. Now I’m raising a son with the soul of an artist, who sighs with passion in sync with me when we see trees sketched black against the sky of a sunset. And his old soul feels the pain, too, like his mother. So much beauty, so much suffering right here on this earth, wearing skin to hide our beating hearts. Life simultaneously inspires and erodes me…..a messy mixture of paradoxes to discern and diagnose. And that is life. That is blood. I am no longer a teenager or twenty-something.
I haven't been for awhile now. As a matter of fact, I'm closer to a forty-something at this point. Sometimes, though, I forget. Does that happen to you? Yesterday I took the boys to the beach to hide from the humidity for a few hours. We drove down the highway blaring hip hop, and for a few miles, they were quiet, allowing me to slip silently into my own memories. When I was a teenager, I had this pink paisley bandeau bikini. I was all skin and bones and gangly limbs, but still. I wore that bikini with cut-off denim shorts and spent hours at the lake with friends. We were teenagers; we owned the summer. I kissed a boy I thought I loved and floated on my back under a sea of stars. I would be sixteen forever. When I was a few years older, I wore a different bikini at a different beach. It was the Fourth of July, and I made some ridiculously foolish choices that sill make me blush. Still, I worked on my tan and maybe kissed that same boy again and owned more summer. I would be nineteen forever. But then time marched on. I guess you would say my experiences at the beach have changed a bit. I wasn't sixteen or nineteen forever, and I won't stay in my 30s. I'm working hard to embrace this new season. I worry more about slathering on sunscreen than lip gloss, and I play frisbee with my kids rather than flirt with an innocent crush. And when I get home, I study the earned roadmap of wrinkles around my eyes, make peace with my age, and turn on the Lumineers or Alt-J as a dinner-making soundtrack. Now I kiss a different man; I make wiser choices. I am no longer a teenager or twenty-something. And that is just fine with me. That contentment takes work, though. In a world with picture-perfect magazine covers and plastic surgery, sometimes feeling my age feels more like inadequacy. When I walk through the grocery store aisles, I'm not turning heads; I'm trying to remember where to find artichoke hearts. When I study my reflection in the mirror, I'm not taking note of a tantalizing tan; I'm cursing the heredity that gifted me with varicose veins and too-small ears. But still. I think of my grandmothers, each with beautiful white or gray hair and wrinkled hands that were soft to hold. So I will try to study my face with a dose of grace and imagine my future with grandchildren holding my wrinkled hands. Maybe we'll be on a beach somewhere. Here I am in the city. My children are 12 and 13 and (I'm knocking on wood as I write this) mostly self-sufficient. This week they have spent their afternoons at basketball camp, and my afternoons have been free to fill as I please. This process feels a bit like getting to know myself again. In our previous small town life I would've filled my time with busyness or noise. Nothing to do? Turn on some HGTV. Not sure how to fill an hour? Might as well fold laundry and scroll through Facebook. This past month has forced me into more quietness. For one thing, we didn't have internet at the new house for a couple of weeks. That means I had to wean myself from the meaningless Facebook scrolling. I couldn't waste my precious data. Pandora couldn't even be streamed, taking away the background music that defines my world. Adding to this dynamic is the knowledge I will not be a full-time teacher in the fall. I am teaching one college course at a small private school, but in ways I feel like I've been stripped of my identity: high school English teacher. That's not to say I won't return to that profession, but it does mean that obsessive planning and reformulating of units doesn't eat my time. So here, in no particular order (and for the five people who might read this blog), are some things I've been learning/rediscovering about myself:
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AboutTeach. Archives
September 2020
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