I am currently teaching six classes, three in online programs and three that started out as on-campus classes and have moved to the weird jerry-rigged sort-of online hybrid-ish format that many colleges and universities have implemented in recent weeks. I just want to write a quick post in praise of my students. I am so proud of the resilience they are all showing, from the online student I talked with on the phone yesterday who’s behind in her work because she’s been working ten days straight in a healthcare facility, to the on-campus students who had to quickly move out of their dorms this past weekend. They are all still writing thoughtful, thorough, intellectually curious discussion board posts. They are taking the time to encourage each other and me. I should probably be telling them this instead of writing it in a blog post–perhaps I’ll send this to them tomorrow. But for now, I would like to encourage you to join me in telling someone that you’ve noticed how wonderful they are. If you want, shout those people out in the comments below!
I’m taking an online class about how to teach online (it’s a totally understandable standard requirement for first-time online instructors at my new school, even those of us who have taught online elsewhere), and I have to write a paper about my teaching philosophy! With sources! What? I didn’t sign up for this! And now I feel exactly like my students feel in every single one of my classes. It seems the course designers were trying to teach us a lesson in empathy (ya think?). I think I have a teaching philosophy somewhere that I wrote for a previous purpose, but I thought it might be self-plagiarism if I turned it in for this class (again, this is the kind of stuff my students worry about). So I thought I’d try out some ideas in this post.
The first aspect of my teaching philosophy [Comment: This is kind of a clunky transition. Can you think of a way to introduce your topic without announcing?] is that teachers should model their expectations. If I want my students to get into the habit of consulting a manual for APA format, I should show them how to look up information in the manual, not pretend I know all the APA answers from memory because I’m the teacher. If I want my students to be able to perform a close reading of a story, it’s okay if I spend most of the class period retelling Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado” (which I’m not sure if my students read in the first place even though I told them to) with an open textbook in front of me, pausing to ask questions (and admit that I don’t know all the answers and explain that some questions have many possible answers) and point out the kinds of literary elements I want my students to be looking for. If I don’t want my students to be on their phones during class, maybe I shouldn’t always be playing on mine while they’re taking quizzes (yikes, that’s a hard one!). [I don’t have a source for this. Can we use personal experience in this paper?]
Teachers should also make themselves available to their students, but with boundaries. [Comment: There, that’s a better transition!] During the workday, I try to respond to emails as quickly and as thoroughly as possible; I keep my office hours even though students rarely come by (and I keep my door open during office hours, which seems obvious to me but apparently isn’t universal practice), and I will always pause during class to answer a student’s question (but that’s mainly because I’m pretty sure I have adult-onset ADD and can’t ignore a raised hand). I see myself as an approachable helper, not an elusive oracle who speaks only in enigmatic proverbs. But I also set boundaries (e.g., I usually don’t check email in the evenings and on Sundays) not only for my own mental health, but also because I want my students to develop problem-solving skills and patience and learn not to panic when they don’t receive an immediate response from me. [Still no sources. Maybe I can throw in a gratuitous reference to Boundaries by Cloud and Townsend?]
Finally, I believe [Comment: No need to say “I believe”; I know you are the author.] that teachers should show the mercy and grace they have been shown. For example, the necessary flip side of my being unavailable on Sundays is that I’m usually a little lenient with Monday deadlines (shh…don’t tell my students)–i.e. if a student is waiting for a response to a question he/she emailed me over the weekend, I will usually allow that student to turn in the assignment a little late and/or resubmit it if it was submitted incorrectly. (Unless the question was stupid. Wait, there are no stupid questions! Don’t we all tell our students that? It’s mostly true.) I know some professors who approach students with skepticism (at least claim that they do so), muttering comments like “I bet his grandmother really didn’t die; he just doesn’t want to come to class.” I have to admit that I’ve had similar uncharitable thoughts before, especially about online students, whose faces I don’t see and voices I don’t hear, so it becomes far too easy to think of them as machines rather than people. That’s why I believe that it’s imperative, especially with online students, to assume positive intent and give students the benefit of the doubt. I’d rather be defrauded by one student (even though I HATE the thought of being lied to) than take a disbelieving stance toward every student. Like Albus Dumbledore, I want to believe the best about people, and it’s usually a good policy, except when hiring Defense against the Dark Arts teachers (Rowling, Books 1-7). [There! I got a citation in.]
Well, hopefully I can copy and paste some of this into my paper and just add some big words make it sound a little more academic. But would that be self-plagiarism?
This week’s Hufflepuff leadership topic is what to do when you need to get away from people–either because you need to work on stuff or because you’re an introvert and being around people (even though you love them) exhausts you. When asked how they create alone time and space, my two contacts at Hogwarts* had similar answers. Muggle studies teacher and Hufflepuff alumna Becky Weasley said, “Well, it helps that I’m married to the Hogwarts gamekeeper. Charlie and I have our own cabin a little ways away from the castle. When I have a lot of grading to do, I work on it at home instead of in my office. But when I really need to get away, I pack a picnic and conveniently get lost in the Forbidden Forest. Charlie will always come find me eventually.” Her nephew, Patrick, a seventh-year student and Hufflepuff prefect, said, “I like to be available to the first- and second-years when they have questions about school or are just homesick, but sometimes I have to get my own work done, you know? So a lot of times, I’ll go next door to the kitchens and ask the house-elves not to tell anyone I’m there. They usually give me some of whatever they’re cooking. And in return, I help them clean up. Or I’ll go visit my Aunt Becky and Uncle Charlie. They usually feed me too.” So, common themes seem to be 1) food and 2) hiding (like a badger in a burrow?).
But Muggle/No-Maj society presents an additional challenge that our Hogwarts friends don’t have to face: technology. You can hide if you want, but if you have a phone, people can still find you. (Unless you’re in the Forbidden Forest, where I hear that reception is really bad.) Much ink (which here is a metaphor for digital text) has been spilled over the effects that smartphones have had on the American and European work week. Now, our bosses, colleagues, and employees can find us anytime. Some people, like me, avoid using their phones for email, but there’s still texting. One curious consequence of this constant connectivity is a comparison game over who’s the busiest. I’ve heard people in my organization brag about how many emails they get over the weekend. “My boss starts emailing me Sunday night around sundown, and I can’t wait until Monday morning to respond to them [implied: because I’m too important to the company].” I’m not saying this is any one person’s fault. What we have not only in my organization but in our society at large is a culture of busyness. And it’s not healthy.
Some Hufflepuff leaders (okay, I just made an assumption there) at an organization called Reboot have started an annual event called National Day of Unplugging. I participated last year, and I’ve been looking forward to the 2018 event for months. It’s simple: From sundown this Friday to sundown this Saturday, you keep your phone and other digital devices off. (The resemblance to Sabbath is not an accident–Reboot is a Jewish organization.) Of course, that’s if you want to be extreme (which I do). Maybe for you, unplugging simply means you don’t check email or Instagram for that 24-hour period. But in any case, you’re engaging in an act of radical freedom and humility–declaring that the digital world (which is not the whole world) can survive without you for 24 hours.
What does this have to do with leadership? First, obviously, leaders themselves need a break. But secondly, unplugging has a trickle-down effect. When I step away from work for a day, I’m letting my employees and students know that it’s okay for them to do the same.
Will you be participating in the National Day of Unplugging? Do you have other suggestions on this topic? Let me know in the comments!
*These characters are both my own creations–see last week’s post.