I'm preparing to teach a synchronous class this summer. It will have an appointed Zoom meeting time twice per week for 6 weeks. The class is scheduled to meet 6pm-9:30pm on Monday and Wednesday nights, but I won't be able to hold their--or my--attention for three and a half hours. I'm imagining alternative ways to conduct the class. It's an interesting challenge for this brief moment in time. I'm planning to have their writing assignments relate to their recent experiences during Coronavirus. Whereas this semester's students I had already known personally for 8 weeks before we went virtual, my summer students will be completely online. I won't be able to engage in small talk with them in the same informal, trust-building way. That's a little frustrating, but I can shrug that off. I'll find ways to manage for this snapshot of time. Ultimately, it will probably make me a more creative teacher.
I've been idly wondering what fall would look like for me and my students. One day, I was startled to realize that I would likely have to wear a mask while standing in front of the classroom. I imagined having to make sweeping pantomime arm movements to get my point across since I couldn't rely on facial expressions. It is hard enough on Zoom when students' cameras are blank; picturing a room full of assorted masks with eyeballs above them staring at me seemed uncomfortable.
But it turns out that masks are not going to be my problem. I was shocked to learn yesterday that there is very little likelihood that I'll be teaching in a classroom at all for the rest of this calendar year. Over the past few weeks, I had mused that maybe we would not return to campus in the fall, but I still felt unprepared to hear it from our college president in an open meeting yesterday in which she explained that barring some great scientific advance, those of us who teach subjects, such as writing, that don't require a hands-on experience, will not be starting the semester on campus.
That was jarring. Planning a 6 week summer class to meet entirely online seemed novel, but the idea of continuing to stay in my apartment through the end of December? That is a lot to take in. It's overwhelming to imagine being by myself for that length of time. If Day 46 feels long, imagine what day 146 will feel like? Or 246? Will I self-quarantine until January?
I feel grateful that I have the opportunity to stay home and take care of myself and my family. But wow. Just wow.
I've been idly wondering what fall would look like for me and my students. One day, I was startled to realize that I would likely have to wear a mask while standing in front of the classroom. I imagined having to make sweeping pantomime arm movements to get my point across since I couldn't rely on facial expressions. It is hard enough on Zoom when students' cameras are blank; picturing a room full of assorted masks with eyeballs above them staring at me seemed uncomfortable.
But it turns out that masks are not going to be my problem. I was shocked to learn yesterday that there is very little likelihood that I'll be teaching in a classroom at all for the rest of this calendar year. Over the past few weeks, I had mused that maybe we would not return to campus in the fall, but I still felt unprepared to hear it from our college president in an open meeting yesterday in which she explained that barring some great scientific advance, those of us who teach subjects, such as writing, that don't require a hands-on experience, will not be starting the semester on campus.
That was jarring. Planning a 6 week summer class to meet entirely online seemed novel, but the idea of continuing to stay in my apartment through the end of December? That is a lot to take in. It's overwhelming to imagine being by myself for that length of time. If Day 46 feels long, imagine what day 146 will feel like? Or 246? Will I self-quarantine until January?
I feel grateful that I have the opportunity to stay home and take care of myself and my family. But wow. Just wow.
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