I first walked into a class room in the summer of 1996 at the age of 25, as an adjunct professor of Psychology at Kirtland Community College. I had the text book and a limited knowledge base, but what I had that set me apart -- in ways both good and bad -- was years of standing in front of drunks and introducing comedians or playing music. When you're in the middle of stumbling through a shitty joke, and an intoxicated strapping Native American dude stands up and tells you to shut the fuck up without breaking eye contact, talking about psychology in front of strangers for hours in a beige class room is quite simple in comparison.
For many years, the classroom was my stage, a place where a failed performer with meager presentation skills and a mediocre knowledge base could find some measure of success. But about 15 years ago, a greater push towards a newer domain of education -- online (OL) courses -- took place, where face-to-face (F2F) interaction took a back seat to content curation and delivery, where a student could vacation in China and still complete her weekly requirements. As usual, North Central Michigan College -- where I became a full-time professor in the fall of 1998 -- was late to the party, but we still jumped in as best we could, with a bushel of courses of varying quality, much like many institutions of higher learning. And I joined the OL party early and often.
Over the past few years, I've started to have more OL courses and less F2F courses. In most cases, it's a pragmatic motivation; OL courses have a better chance of running for our overscheduled and underslept student population, as OL courses often allow for greater time flexibility. So if I want a course in Contemporary Film to meet our enrollment threshold, I have to create an OL section rather than a F2F section. And that's fine, so long as I don't listen to the voice of the performer inside me, a voice that's getting softer and weaker by the year as his skill set (such as it ever was) seems to be no longer needed or welcome.
This semester -- Winter 2019, my 21st year at NCMC -- I'm teaching eight classes, with six of those classes delivered online. In other words, I could meet my contractual threshold (and exceed it) with OL classes only, a virtual professor everywhere and nowhere, reduced to clicks and clacks on a keyboard not tethered to any particular geography, which at a community college might be considered a perversion -- if not downright antithetical -- to the mission. When I'm in my office at the Petoskey campus, halls and classrooms that once bustled with life are cooler and quieter than any time I can remember. Not one person has complained about my loud music for years, for heaven's sake, and if I can't generate complaints, am I really alive?
Every week, in the general grading comments I post that a minority of OL students actually read (which I know because I have the data), I ask for questions and comments in an attempt to start a conversation in regards to what the students are reading and learning. A few times a month, I'll post announcements about things I find applicable to course content, from a new four-part documentary on punk in History of the Rock & Roll Era to a video documenting the shitty editing in Bohemian Rhapsody for my Contemporary Film students. And unless there's a clear point value attached to a student effort, most students do not engage and will not respond. It's like I'm sending out radio signals into the universe, hoping for some sort of first contact, but knowing that it's an academic exercise at best and a waste of time at worst.
While this may sound like I'm the the stereotypical old man yelling at cloud, I can't blame the students, as my current NCMC student body is different than it was at the beginning of what has now become my career. Today's NCMC student is younger, more anxious, sleep deprived, cash strapped, and beginning to understand that a nation founded on genocide and slavery while promoting meritocracy and democracy might be lying to it. In that context, who gives a fuck about movies or music or a more valid and reliable personality test? In the face of a thousand cuts, how can I hope to convince you that my band-aid is essential to your life?
And yet, I can't help but be frustrated that my students are denied the pleasures of education that I had as a college student at their age. One of my first college classes was Contemporary Social Problems, where as a 17-year-old immature adolescent, I learned about the world around me and the worlds inside me. A few years later, I had courses like Genetics and Witchcraft (two different courses, it should be noted) while I worked at a record store by day and DJ'ed by night. Even at that age, I knew that the classroom was both a job and a respite from work, a chance to play around in the sandbox of ideas, a chance that would be over all too soon.
I just wish I had more students that were as lucky and privileged as I was, students that I could gather together face-to-face and eye-to-eye and go on an emotional and academic journey with. Instead, I wear red glasses that reduce screen strain and send out the same unread online comments again and again, wishing it could be different but not seeing a path to fruition. I feel like I was forced to retire from a job I didn't want to leave just yet, and now I'm playing out the string. And much like I'm asking my hypothetical students to do, I wish I would have stopped to enjoy the journey a bit more. But there was always another email to answer, wasn't there?
For many years, the classroom was my stage, a place where a failed performer with meager presentation skills and a mediocre knowledge base could find some measure of success. But about 15 years ago, a greater push towards a newer domain of education -- online (OL) courses -- took place, where face-to-face (F2F) interaction took a back seat to content curation and delivery, where a student could vacation in China and still complete her weekly requirements. As usual, North Central Michigan College -- where I became a full-time professor in the fall of 1998 -- was late to the party, but we still jumped in as best we could, with a bushel of courses of varying quality, much like many institutions of higher learning. And I joined the OL party early and often.
Over the past few years, I've started to have more OL courses and less F2F courses. In most cases, it's a pragmatic motivation; OL courses have a better chance of running for our overscheduled and underslept student population, as OL courses often allow for greater time flexibility. So if I want a course in Contemporary Film to meet our enrollment threshold, I have to create an OL section rather than a F2F section. And that's fine, so long as I don't listen to the voice of the performer inside me, a voice that's getting softer and weaker by the year as his skill set (such as it ever was) seems to be no longer needed or welcome.
This semester -- Winter 2019, my 21st year at NCMC -- I'm teaching eight classes, with six of those classes delivered online. In other words, I could meet my contractual threshold (and exceed it) with OL classes only, a virtual professor everywhere and nowhere, reduced to clicks and clacks on a keyboard not tethered to any particular geography, which at a community college might be considered a perversion -- if not downright antithetical -- to the mission. When I'm in my office at the Petoskey campus, halls and classrooms that once bustled with life are cooler and quieter than any time I can remember. Not one person has complained about my loud music for years, for heaven's sake, and if I can't generate complaints, am I really alive?
Every week, in the general grading comments I post that a minority of OL students actually read (which I know because I have the data), I ask for questions and comments in an attempt to start a conversation in regards to what the students are reading and learning. A few times a month, I'll post announcements about things I find applicable to course content, from a new four-part documentary on punk in History of the Rock & Roll Era to a video documenting the shitty editing in Bohemian Rhapsody for my Contemporary Film students. And unless there's a clear point value attached to a student effort, most students do not engage and will not respond. It's like I'm sending out radio signals into the universe, hoping for some sort of first contact, but knowing that it's an academic exercise at best and a waste of time at worst.
While this may sound like I'm the the stereotypical old man yelling at cloud, I can't blame the students, as my current NCMC student body is different than it was at the beginning of what has now become my career. Today's NCMC student is younger, more anxious, sleep deprived, cash strapped, and beginning to understand that a nation founded on genocide and slavery while promoting meritocracy and democracy might be lying to it. In that context, who gives a fuck about movies or music or a more valid and reliable personality test? In the face of a thousand cuts, how can I hope to convince you that my band-aid is essential to your life?
And yet, I can't help but be frustrated that my students are denied the pleasures of education that I had as a college student at their age. One of my first college classes was Contemporary Social Problems, where as a 17-year-old immature adolescent, I learned about the world around me and the worlds inside me. A few years later, I had courses like Genetics and Witchcraft (two different courses, it should be noted) while I worked at a record store by day and DJ'ed by night. Even at that age, I knew that the classroom was both a job and a respite from work, a chance to play around in the sandbox of ideas, a chance that would be over all too soon.
I just wish I had more students that were as lucky and privileged as I was, students that I could gather together face-to-face and eye-to-eye and go on an emotional and academic journey with. Instead, I wear red glasses that reduce screen strain and send out the same unread online comments again and again, wishing it could be different but not seeing a path to fruition. I feel like I was forced to retire from a job I didn't want to leave just yet, and now I'm playing out the string. And much like I'm asking my hypothetical students to do, I wish I would have stopped to enjoy the journey a bit more. But there was always another email to answer, wasn't there?
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