I teach college, and recently had an overwhelming sense of sadness.
It was the last class of the semester. When I said goodbye to my students, I sat alone in my office with the door closed. I took a deep breath and sighed, mentally worn out and emotionally uncertain.
Can we ever be the same?
We have all experienced our own doubts and worries during the pandemic, questioning what we need and want, contemplating what’s truly important, searching for hope. But after 15 weeks of classes, I am unsure if we can.
Humanity has shown we can persevere — world wars, holocausts, famine. But despite our ability to overcome, we are left scarred.
I have been teaching college for more than 20 years and have had every kind of student in my classes. For the most part, every class has had its unique level of engagement. But always engagement of some degree — college students who are ready to stretch toward their dreams, willing to challenge, to question, to absorb themselves in healthy, vigorous debate and the pursuit of creative work.
This semester, however, has been markedly different.
Was it me? Have I not been trying hard enough? The pandemic has forced me to rethink my teaching. My interaction with students through Zoom and email has forced me to find new and sometimes, admittedly exciting ways to educate. Online classes for college can work. But what is missing now? What has changed this semester?
My philosophy in the classroom has always been to give students room to find their way. I ask them to meet me halfway at the very least. If they do, I will always support their efforts. If I were not forced to do so, I would never give a grade. But it has become an unchangeable and unyielding foundation of our so-called civilized system. We must give grades to create GPAs, which are linked to grants, scholarships and more postgraduate degrees. Grades are not markers of knowledge, and they are not about true education. They are about maintaining an archaic system of labels — honor students, valedictorians and so on.
Without getting into the weeds about educational philosophies, my belief is one of progressivism and existentialism. Progressivism focuses on the whole student rather than the content of the teacher; it is learning by doing. The existentialist method emphasizes the individual. Learning includes a great deal of contact with the teacher and not necessarily in a traditional classroom. In my experience, however, elements of these philosophies work only when the student stays curious, which most of the time is a natural part of human growth. And this might be the core of what has broken my spirit.
I have thought through these ideas over my life as an educator. But never in the middle of a pandemic.
We have reached the pandemic pause, the era of the stunted student.
Isolation and the absence of natural face-to-face socialization have shrouded student growth, depriving it of the sun it needs. For more than a year, no one engaged unless it was virtual. And, sadly, we became strangely used to it. And when some collective interaction returned, many students, like many of us, found it easier to be disengaged than engaged in the world. We had learned a new behavior. And even if we have remained curious — essential to the pursuit of knowledge — we have learned to hold it within. We have stunted our growth, and we have unwittingly accepted it.
This is what disheartened me.
An end to the pandemic restrictions would help change things, but we must and should keep those in place for as long as is necessary. Frankly, the damage to growth has been done. So, how do we find water and sun again, and watch students and all of us grow again?
I looked across my office from my desk. On the far wall is a large print of the great Edward Hopper painting “Nighthawks,” which depicts the harsh loneliness of American life, the solitude of strangers inside a late-night diner who are physically close, but psychologically miles apart. Not unlike our current world. Yet, as those in the painting are isolated, those viewing it are not. We viewers remain curious about it. What is their story? Why are they there in that lonely place? What has brought them to this disconnectedness? Curiosity remains, no matter what.
Stunted, we may be. But humans can’t help being inquisitive. It is hardwired, even if for some it is currently on pause.
I stood to push in my chair and turned out the light.
The spring semester will begin soon enough.
David W. Berner is an associate professor at Columbia College Chicago.
