Are online classes the fast food of higher ed?

Famous quotes remind us that education is an almost sacred endeavor meant to transform individuals and society, and not merely to reproduce the status quo. When we teachers sit in classrooms generating sparks and watching fires take hold, it’s easy enough to believe in education’s awesome power. Maybe we also get to overhear a student’s conversation about their internship at the youth center, or see “end campus rape” buttons on their tattered backpack. In person, there may be lots of signs demonstrating a student’s commitment to the life, culture and values associated with higher education. Is it possible that online classes are inherently less transformative precisely because of how neatly they fit into students’ lives?

I’m sure that college redrew the lines of my own life largely because of how it disrupted me, intellectually, psychologically, and physically. When my eighteenth summer ended, I packed up my underwear, tennis racket, and paperback thesaurus, and headed off to a new life. The ostensible locus of the move was, of course, books and classes, and many of my courses were excellent, but it was being uprooted and tenuously replanted that rocked my world. If, instead, I had taken Intermediate French at my hometown community college, would I have become friends with a biracial Algerian? And what if I’d taken the class online instead, from the privacy of my suburban Midwestern home? Though I did not, as it happened, study French for long, my love of language and my cultural curiosity took deep root in my college years.

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Of course, online classes are so wildly popular precisely because they fit within students’ existing lives and habits. And this creates access for critical populations, employed parents, those charged with elder care, hungry minds in prisons or on military bases. On the other hand, this seamless fit into students’ lives softens education’s potential to shake things up, to provide students not merely with credits or certificates, but to crack open their very worldview. In this respect, then, online ed skews conservative, which is, perhaps why so many political conservatives are enamored of it. After all, how often does an online class result in Junior hanging out with her new hippie friends on the quad? Instead, she may well remain plugged into a full-time job, tapping out online discussion posts in hermetic isolation. She “makes time” for the class as best she can, squeezing it into the few remaining nooks and crannies of an already structured life.

Obviously, the right online course at the right time can point a student in a new direction. But I think online classes are more likely to really matter if we actively cultivate their disruptive potential in some ways even as we dutifully supply convenience in others. For example, why not foreground the advantages and disadvantages of online ed in our syllabi, early lectures, discussions, or other material? What if we help students ponder the price they may be paying for convenient learning? This will be anathema in institutions that are defensive about the legitimacy of online ed, but if we are confident in its value, as I am, then we can be forthright about its weaknesses.

And what if we also refuse to make classes too convenient? One of my new students shared her decision to take all online classes this term because she knew she would be on the road for several weeks. I explained that, while my class is asynchronous, it is not self-paced. It is, rather, “a loosely choreographed group experience,” not so very different from a face-to-face class in terms of its requirement for consistent “attendance.” In short, I resisted her assumption that online education is meant to be squeezed into one’s schedule as an elective afterthought.

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Like many contemporary college students — especially those with demanding work lives — she saw education as a discrete experience to be molded around her existing life rather than as a journey meant to upend it. For lots of good and bad reasons, college classes are often seen as a mere credential, or as a luxury, to be pursued in one’s leisure. My student’s pushback helped me articulate how and why I value shared group learning. For example, in discussions, students must grapple with the same issues at a similar place in their developing intellectual arc. And my many communications with students as a single group reinforces the notion that we are connected and accountable to real others.

In a way, then, though I appreciate online ed’s convenience, I also aim to cultivate reasonable inconvenience. We often come to value something, after all, by carving out an honored spot for it in our lives. This is a premise of spiritual practice, of course, and helps explain why there are temples and mosques and churches. And it’s why I keep a tidy writing desk and work regular hours even when I am directly accountable to no one. The value work has in my life, then, is established and maintained partly through the space and time I create for it. It is like the difference between thoughtfully cooking dinner at home or grabbing fast food at the last minute and gobbling it down in the car. Can we, I wonder, acknowledge and respect our students’ need for convenience without becoming McTeachers?

“Just be thankful you’ve got a faculty position”: the abuse of gratitude in the academy

We know we’re supposed to be grateful. It’s a year-round pressure that culminates on Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve: to count our blessings, look on the positive side, and remember how very fortunate we are. It’s even become a sort of medical prescription, with mental health professionals claiming that gratitude is the key to happiness, long life, and success. I don’t doubt it, but I also recall Karl Marx’s warnings about apparently anodyne feel-good ideologies that function like opium to help keep workers, including professors, cowed and complacent.

Even before the puddle of cranberry sauce dries on my plate, then, I think about how injunctions to be grateful, including those that come from oneself, can become fodder for quietism and bland self-satisfaction. When I consider, for example, the salary hit I will take as the result of huge increases to my insurance, I vacillate between relief — my situation is still much better than that of most people in the U.S. — and anger. How long am I supposed to suck it up and smile as my standard of living is eroded so that fat cats can get even fatter? Am I to compare myself only to those worse off than I am to avoid feeling, and being perceived as, elitist?

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This gratitude double-bind is familiar, including to those of us in higher ed. On the one hand, we are aware enough of how tough times are to be grateful for full time faculty jobs. After all, this is an environment in which endangered faculty positions are being hunted down and casually ground into cheap instructor labor. And we mid-career professors watch with horror and sadness as newly minted PhDs continue to roll off the academic assembly line with little prospect of finding jobs half as secure as those we enjoy. We watch as the dignity of our profession is stripped away and, unless we are utterly obtuse, we can’t help but feel gratitude for our own good fortune.

But we are rightfully critical too, and aware of the distance between where public higher education is and where, in a prosperous, enlightened society, it might be. We wince and gnash our teeth at polls reporting that Republicans blame higher ed for the nation’s woes, and we see the writing on the wall. Whatever the future of public higher education holds in store, it is hard to believe it will survive in a form most academics would recognize or prefer.

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Gratitude, then, like so many spiritually tinged notions, is double-edged. On the one hand, it is a vitally necessary and beautifully human impulse. Surely there is no one more miserable or pathetic than one who constantly complains, the perennial victim who is unable to access any sense of appreciation or agency. But in the quest to be that optimistic, spiritual person, it can be tempting to settle permanently into the narcotizing arms of gratitude, especially when others are urging us to “lighten up” and “count your blessings.” We desperately need, though, the sort of vigorous social protest that often emerges from visceral, contagious dissatisfaction.

If I am to be grateful, then, let me be fiercely, and not complacently, so. Let my gratitude for my own good fortune galvanize me into fighting for the same benefits for others that I now enjoy. Let me freely express my discontent and desire for a better world, impelled by appreciation for what is beautiful and good in my life, and not to be shamed into silence by fear that I will be seen as just another whining, overindulged academic.

Selling the university to student customers: The elusive fantasy of bespoke education

At lots of struggling universities these days, part of the new game plan for attracting students revolves around the values of flexibility, choice, and individual preference. The notion that each student is unique, with gifts, challenges, and whims that ought to be accommodated is consistent with what a contemporary, consumer oriented social ethos seem to require. And I will not raise my voice against such a noble ideal.

Too often, and for far too long, young people have been slotted into institutions, majors, jobs, and even sexual identities, in ways that discourage exploration and experimentation, and ultimately stifle growth. Reshaping the university so that it encourages greater individual variation, including self-designed majors and flexible graduation goals, seems all to the good. And if students and their families arrive with fistfuls of tuition dollars to purchase the newly promised freedom and individual attention, fine.

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Except, of course, that this bargain isn’t entirely on the up-and-up. The student-centered, personalized education model remains elusive at large, bureaucratic institutions. Student advising and counseling offices are understaffed. Online classes may accommodate students’ pajamas and busy work schedules, but most have assignment deadlines more or less like their face-to-face counterparts. Further, at universities like mine, core education requirements continue to push students along fairly scripted paths. The Titanic simply wasn’t built to allow a few passengers to take side trips to explore uncharted coves or deep sea chasms.

University marketing materials may feed the fantasy of one-on-one student engagement with research-active faculty, but students are more likely to encounter overtaxed adjunct instructors. Many of these folks barely have time to floss their teeth let alone lie around on the quad debating Plato’s Republic. Fully employed tenure-track or tenured faculty too face increasing demands as our numbers dwindle and bureaucratic service demands increase. The pressure to respond to the endless, growing stream of students’ accommodation requests, mental health crises, and the proliferation of academic progress reporting alone can become overwhelming. In short, campus “look books” sell the image of unharried, student-centered professors even as long term disinvestment in the professoriate guarantees that we exist as an increasingly endangered species.

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Students quickly discover that much of the individual treatment and focused attention they were promised by the campus sales team doesn’t mean that their instructor will know their name or find time to meet with them after their shift ends at Target. The slick promises don’t save students from form letters, inscrutable across-the-board fees and charges, waiting in lines like “everyone else,” or being accountable to all sorts of deadlines. Small liberal arts colleges may be able to pull off the boutique educational experience, but larger institutions seem to have conformity and batch processing steeped into their bones. And, evidently, many universities simply have no intention of putting their money where their mouths are when it comes to making good on those feel-good promises.

And so the mad rush to attract an ostensibly shrinking body of students threatens to devolve into a bait and switch scheme worthy of fly by night used car lots. When students actually arrive on campus with demands for accommodations and special consideration they have been promised, overtaxed professors, advisors, counselors, staff, and adjunct instructors will be left to tell them the truth: This mid-tier directional university you have selected is far less like a bespoke tailor shop than a Nordstrom Rack or TJ Maxx. There is quality to be found, to be sure, but don’t expect it to be hand selected, gift wrapped, and placed lovingly in your lap.

Goodbye, 2019. The endings that define a professor’s life

The cyclical rhythm of the academic year is one of the greatest perks of being a professor. Many of us still know the buzz of possibility when summer ends and the campus parking lots begin filling up again. The winter break, too, brief as it is, can be as restorative as a deep, purifying breath. The poignancy of the fall semester’s ending is enhanced for me, no doubt, by the darkening days leading to and from the solstice and into uncharted seas. I suspect that even the most cynical among us can hear the whispered promises each new year brings.

As a unit of time, the semester has great power even though its parameters are arbitrary. Whatever rationale the academic calendar may once have had means nothing to most of us now. And, of course, despite our fealty to semesters, we routinely violate their boundaries by working with students on long-term projects, as well as our own ongoing service commitments and scholarly work. Summer teaching too, especially when done online, disrupts the familiar stop-and-start school year rhythm. Most of us are not, it is clear, rigidly wedded to traditional academic rhythms and could not flourish in our jobs if we were.

And it’s also not true that we are on break in any normal sense. I gently bit the head off the last person who asked me if I had big plans for my winter “vacation.” The truth is, that though last semester’s grades have been submitted, I’m busily retooling my courses for next term, revising a paper to submit early in the new year, and fielding questions and requests from previous and upcoming students. There are all sorts of deadlines and due dates that have no respect for the fact that I am on “break.” But even so, there is this peaceful sense of closure, of a chapter ending in my professional life, that most workers never enjoy.

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I suspect that this stop-and-start rhythm may also help account for the effective teacher-student relationships many of us form. I can give my students fifteen weeks of more or less steady energy, and expect them to pony up some in return, partly because our time together is well-bounded and brief. For better and worse, it is often easiest to lend one’s best self to a new acquaintance with whom one is merely taking a short journey than to, say, a life partner. The pressure that the semester’s looming, inevitable ending places on the participants, an ending that is always visible on the horizon, can nourish the productive intensity of the classroom experience.

A school term can perform this framing function, I think, whether it’s a “good” semester, full of energetic and capable students, or a “bad” one in which things never fully click. Surely there’s some broader lesson in impermanence and detachment here? How, I wonder, can we move into each new term, with hands more fully open, embracing the knowledge that, whatever else these upcoming months bring, it will all end? Whether we and our students love and respect one another or are mutually repelled, soon it will be over. Surely, in light of this benevolent, merciless constraint of time, I can offer my full presence and attention, right? And, besides, isn’t the school term just a microcosm of the structure of time that bounds and gives shape to our very lives?

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It is no wonder, then, that, for fortunate professors like me, these thrumming beginnings and solemn denouements form the basic architecture of our professional identities. It’s a rhythm that mirrors the habitual relief of falling into bed each night and the hopeful possibility that can nudge one out of bed each morning. This drip-drip-drip of time is almost comforting in its honesty, and the response it invites from me is just as straightforward: I am to accept the weight of yet another snowy Midwestern winter as I clear my desktop and my driveway in these waning days of 2019. As I move forward, my left foot finds the oblique, diffuse light of the future while, for a long moment, my right one remains in the shadowy past.

I wish I were fool enough to believe that this unwritten, upcoming calendar year might magically wash away the grinding horror of our national circumstances, not to mention the stains of a remarkably difficult year for me personally. But though 2019 brought difficulty and disruption, I do not want to rush through its ending. Instead, I choose to bask in this caesura, this animated liminality, like a hibernating frog on a muddy pond bottom. And I dare anyone to repeat the tired accusation that professors are eternal schoolchildren, never having matured enough to enter the “real world.” What could be more real, more elemental and momentous, than letting go and starting over again and again and again?

Those dazzling students who affirm our professorial egos

Like lots of academics who, for one reason or another, operate at the margins of professorial respectability, I have long been suspicious of flash in the pan brilliance. You know, the supernova variety of intelligence that bursts forth and then disappears, bored by the prospect of showing up every day like a regular, reliable old sun. We are, of course, trained by popular culture to adore and admire the hot dogging hero — so often a young white man —the one for whom it all seems to come so easily, and to eschew quiet competence.

It wouldn’t matter as much if it were only students who fell prey to such tropes, but we professors sometimes do too, leaning in toward the students and colleagues who are charismatic, clever, and dramatically incisive like sunflowers toward daylight. Almost everyone is attracted to the glitzy show pony, it seems, the flashy lead singer, the dramatic outlier. We shouldn’t wonder, then, that so many of us internalize the message that it is better to be divinely gifted and prone to sporadic displays of brilliance than a responsible team player, ever prepared and willing to do the work, and make space for others to do theirs.

I suspect that most of us know at least one professor who is susceptible to the rakish senior, the young man who breezes in to class, only sometimes having actually done the reading, but so glibly literate that his insights shine like the lights on a Ferris wheel. And maybe we can’t entirely help it, especially at universities that attract so many students who are underprepared, undermotivated, and exhausted from full time jobs at Target or Chili’s. It would actually make sense if we professors were even more likely to fall for the charms of the carelessly agile intellectual acrobat than anyone else.

After all, don’t many professors imagine themselves to have been so casually brilliant and precocious? The trope of the effortlessly talented intellectual superstar may fit into the personal mythology of some professors even better than it does for students. And don’t these same professors often delight in vaguely claiming credit for such amazing students even if they arrived at the door already poised, confident, and capable, even if they were unwilling to approach one’s class with anything beyond low-level diligence? At the same time, of course, professors may be just as likely to blame the university for the disappointments and failures of other, far less impressive, students.

It probably goes without saying that an ongoing attachment to the raced and gendered Hollywood trope of the lone genius ultimately serves no one, especially if we remain the slightest bit ignorant of our own susceptibility to it. We probably consciously know that we’re supposed to prize the workaday heroes, the invisible majority who show up with no expectation of applause or adulation. We are mature and enlightened enough to have figured out that most productively creative productive people in any field really are not those who burst forth like an occasional geyser when the mood strikes them.

But like crows, we can still be distracted by shiny objects, especially when they might serve to decorate our own egos. That is, to reassure us that, despite appearances, we really are making a dramatic intellectual and pedagogical impact and not merely treading mediocre water at a second-tier directional state university. We may even fall in love with the superstars, OUR superstars, at least a little bit, not because of the contributions we imagine they will make to the world but because of the affirmation they provide to our own identities. At universities where professors mostly complain about underprepared and under committed students, what better proof can I offer of my own exceptionalism than a dazzling acolyte?

Avoiding those two-star reviews: Teaching in the age of empowered consumer critics

Universities have evaluation forms for everything. The student evaluation process has taken on a life of its own and, at many campus events, we’re handed an evaluation form along with our program. Just the thing to set the mood to openly embrace the experience we’re about to have, isn’t it? It’s ironic that, even as the serious study of effective evaluation techniques has come into its own, we should be choking on a glut of superficial critique.

It’s not just the sheer quantity of evaluations that’s so noxious, but that the results are increasingly indistinguishable from cursory Amazon customer reviews. Whether we are students, moviegoers, product evaluators, voters, or disgruntled workers, more and more, we are framed and treated as consumers whose primary power resides in our, often petty, judgments. It used to be that whole sitcom episodes — our comedy standards were lower back then — could be built around the trope of the ruthlessly picky restaurant critic. The restaurant staff would scramble to prepare for his visit, triggering a slew of zany mishaps.

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But now most of us have endless opportunities to play the bit part of that unforgiving critic. A single consumer can now upend things for a seller, such that the most vulnerable businesses will, like Jack Tripper from Three’s Company, twist themselves into pretzels to appease. This was confirmed for me when a seller I’d purchased from called me ten minutes after I’d submitted my complaint, and then emailed me to follow up, and then emailed me yet again the following day just in case. His vulnerability to the whims of my keyboard resulted in customer service gyrations that were a caricature of “responsiveness.” Something analogous happens in the classroom, of course, in that instructors, especially the most vulnerable ones, but, these days, really, any of us, can be derailed by the tenacious complaints of a single student, however vague or superficial. We are constantly managing our reputations, desperate to avoid those one-star reviews.

Such consumer power is obviously to be celebrated, and some of those Amazon reviews are amazingly thoughtful and informative. In a nation (and world) largely at the mercy of big corporations, individuals need to embrace and use this power for good. But it has a real downside too. “Everyone’s a critic,” is another (not-very-funny) 20th century comedic trope, and it is true. We have been habituated to approach our experiences and other people through a myopic tunnel of petty judgement. Do I like her clothes? Her voice? Is there enough extra toilet paper in the bathroom of this restaurant? Did the museum attendant smile at me and make me feel welcome? Was the corner of my UPS box dented?

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We often seem to feel, not just entitled, but even required, to actually share our petty opinions with the teacher, the purveyor, the world! We are, after all, first and foremost, consumers, and isn’t this what consumers do? Don’t we, in the U.S at any rate, expect a kind of deference and subservience from those we are paying to provide goods and services? And hasn’t higher education largely become just another consumer purchase? When I first noticed that students were functioning as critics with readings they were asked to discuss — “It was dry and boring; I liked the other one better.” — I was thrown off. While it has always been a challenge to get students to engage substantively with texts, these students, in offering their “critic’s” opinion, thought that they were engaging critically.

And the worst consequence may well be that we cheat ourselves of rich experiences, the stuff that makes up our lives. When we approach the movie, the instructor, the restaurant server, or the coworker, primarily in consumer critic mode, we are primed to notice and pounce on flaws and mistakes, errors or quirks that need not have been seen as impacting the quality of the performance, or the work. It’s obnoxious, to be sure, and it also drains these experiences of their mutuality, their depth, and their integrity. Constantly in Amazon reviewer mode, we fail to meet people or experiences on their own terms, open to what they might mean and become to us, or to how we might be changed by them. We become, like the student who, when asked to provide feedback to his professor says, “I hate how she wears her hair.”

Making students cry: being honest about substandard work

I was speaking with a friend recently, an instructor of Spanish from Argentina, as she bemoaned an American educational culture that she believes makes it difficult to correct students. “We are not supposed to tell them they’re wrong,” she said, “or to call really bad work ‘really bad.’” I shared that I too feel the pressure to “soften” that seems endemic to higher education. Instructors, perhaps people of color and white women in particular, feel they must be hyper vigilant about hurting students’ feelings.

I am, myself, from the U.S., from a childhood home that included, um…., direct and unequivocal feedback about my behavior and projects. My parents never soft-pedaled their assessments of my work when they noticed it, be it my performance at a softball game or an article for the school paper. They might have remained utterly silent about it, or cheered it on occasion, but I do not ever recall either my mother or father trying to make me feel better about what they saw as poor or unremarkable work. Due to some combination of nature and nurture, then, I’m deeply habituated to be non effusive and direct with others, a tendency that has served me poorly on many occasions, especially with students.

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My directness led to experiences with students that weren’t just memorably unpleasant, but also shocking; I have, on occasion, been unable to fully comprehend a students’s forceful reactions to my acknowledgement of what I have seen as quite obvious facts. For example, years ago I was speaking with an advanced undergraduate student about an essay she submitted that was just barely on the north side of literate. Having learned something about softening over the years, I began cautiously. “To what extent does this essay represent your best work?,” I asked. “Oh, I’m very proud of it,” she said. “Are you able to see that it contains lots of grammatical and proofreading errors?,” I continued. “Well, I guess there are a few,” she replied, and I could hear her flag of defensiveness begin to unfurl.

As our conversation continued, the student shared her plans to apply to a graduate program in English, shortly after which I euphemistically said that this essay did not, from my point of view, “fully qualify as college-level writing.” Before I could proceed to discuss strategies for developing this critical skill, the student erupted with the equivalent of “How dare you!” and, in a flood of tearful rage assured me that she knew damn well she was an excellent writer, that “no other professor has ever had any problem with my work.” I replied gently that if this was the quality of work she had been submitting without receiving critical feedback, she had been poorly served by her previous instructors.

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Of course, I didn’t really believe that no other instructor had ever pointed out her writing weakness, but I do believe that none had expressed it to her quite so directly. And looking at her transcript, I could see that she had earned satisfactory grades all along, including in some writing heavy disciplines. In other words, it was probably as reasonable for her to believe that she was talented and skilled as it is for those shriekingly off key talent show singers whose feelings have been spared by “supportive” others.

Obviously we shouldn’t aim to make students cry. Perhaps most of our energy should be put into overtly building the confidence of insecure students with sincere, warranted praise. But we shouldn’t be freaked out by the prospect of tears either. We are pressured to keep students happy, to soft pedal our feedback so that we won’t piss them off or “damage their self-esteem.” And I won’t lie. I kind of wish my parents had been a little gentler and more forthcoming with their praise of my childhood work. Maybe I would have gone on to become a virtuoso trumpet player or a great mathematician. But I’m also glad they didn’t overstate my brilliance. I don’t much enjoy critical feedback, but nor does it send me into a tailspin of denial, self-loathing and self-justification.