This week marks the end of Winter Term at Carleton. The day this posts is the last day of classes; finals end on the 15th. It’s been a long, tough term, every bit the slog we expected (and then some), and not that there’s much of a break before the start of Spring Term classes on the 29th, but it’s a break nonetheless that we all sorely need.
There’s a lot to be anxious about, to be sure — we’re not out of the woods with COVID just yet, and there’s the fear we’ll ease up too early on restrictions before enough of us can get vaccinated. One kid is back in school full time (and has already had a 2-week all-school shutdown because of COVID spread in the school) and the other goes back in just over a week. The continued violence against Asian-Americans worries me, both as a decent human being and as the mom of an Asian son. The trial of Derek Chauvin looms large over everything around here, too, making an already difficult week even more so for many members of our campus community.
I find myself more hopeful lately, more willing to look ahead to what we might be able to do in the future. I’m looking forward to more things, with fewer qualifiers — more “when”, less “if”. More outright planning, less contingency planning.
Here are some specific things that I’m particularly looking forward to, in no particular order.
In person research with students. While we’ll still have restrictions and a community covenant in place, we received word yesterday giving the go-ahead to host students in our lab spaces this summer! I plan on giving my students the choice of in-person or virtual research this summer so that I can be as flexible as possible — and honestly, I’ll likely give that option to students from now on, pandemic or no. I am positively giddy that I will be able to work side-by-side with students this summer, scribbling on whiteboards together and talking face to face. We’ll finally get to use our brand new research spaces, too!
My Spring Term course. I’m teaching Software Design to what looks to be a big group (40 students, plus or minus a few). I adore teaching Software Design. I’ll still be teaching fully online. I taught this course online last spring, and it went fine. But I’ve learned so much since then, and I’m super eager to pour what I’ve learned into redesigning the course for the upcoming term. Luckily, we’re talking tweaks and not wholesale changes, but I suspect they’ll make a huge difference into the class flow.
Getting vaccinated! Unlike some states, higher ed faculty and staff in MN are not classified as “essential workers” for the sake of vaccination priority, and because of my age and my relatively good health status, I’ll be in the last priority group for vaccination. That said, I am signed up several places for “please call me if you have open vaccine that you need to get in someone’s arm by the end of the day”. And by all accounts, MN’s vaccination rate is accelerating. I’m on track for a summer vaccination, but with any luck, I might even be vaccinated before my research students start their work this summer. Fingers crossed!
Summer gatherings. To be honest, I think it will be a long time before I’m comfortable in someone else’s indoor space mask-free. But the improving weather opens up more opportunities to gather, carefully, outside, with a wider swath of people. I’m excited to see friends “in 3-D” that I’ve only seen on Zoom for months. And maybe this summer we’ll actually be able to use the season passes to a nearby amusement park that I bought in late summer 2019…
As spring arrives and as more possibilities open up, what brings you hope? What things are you looking forward to doing?
This coronavirus pandemic is quite scary. I am wondering if we’ll have a completely virtual spring term. It seems likely at this point.
Personal journal entry, March 10, 2020.
Oh, 2020 me. How naive you were.
I blogged a few weeks back about the exhaustion and grief we’re collectively feeling as we approach the one year “anniversary of the pandemic.” The idea of a pandemic anniversary is interesting in and of itself, but I take it to mean the anniversary of the massive shutdowns in the US, when schools moved online and businesses closed down and events were canceled and you couldn’t find a roll of toilet paper or a container of bleach anywhere. So, early March.
When I wrote the post, I wondered how I would actually feel when the “anniversary” finally arrived. Would it be an emotional experience? Would I experience a wave of grief? Would I feel hopeless, sad, angry, pissed off? Or perhaps numb? And when, exactly, might these emotions hit?
I found some answers this past weekend, when I found myself continually going down the rabbit hole of replies to a simple tweet by NPR’s Lulu Garcia-Navarro:
Reading the replies proved a surreal experience, transporting me right back to early March. Details I’d pushed out of my mind to make way for a survival mindset resurfaced:
The discussions with my partner about whether, and how, to “stock up” for something like this. Did we even own bleach? What about Lysol? How much food do we have in the freezer and pantry?
Thinking back to every sniffle and fever going back to December 2019 — had it already gone through our family? (Answer: no, since I’ve been repeatedly tested and have donated blood and nothing’s shown up.)
The growing sense of unease about being out in public.
Taking extra precautions with the snacks I brought in for the last day of class project showcase, and ransacking my office to find hand sanitizer (March 11).
Wondering if the middle school musical (where elder kiddo had a one-line singing solo!) would go on as scheduled, and/or if the black belt midterm test slated that same weekend would still happen. (Answer: no to the musical, yes to the test.)
The all-faculty meeting on March 12, the day after the last day of Winter Term classes, where we were all crowded together in one room to hear the announcement that we were moving to an online Spring Term. (And feeling increasingly uneasy about all being in the same room, unmasked and not distanced, during what was now clearly a pandemic.)
The last time I ate in a restaurant — Friday, March 13, with the younger kiddo, after finishing the first part of our black belt midterm tests. (Pizza, ginormous homemade soft pretzel sticks, and probably root beer.)
The moment the kids’ schools shut down for “extended spring break” (March 16) — and the realization that my professional and family roles would be tightly intertwined for the foreseeable future.
I certainly didn’t expect that we’d still be at home (largely), still not vaccinated, still with a pandemic raging. And, in some respects (I’m looking at you, Texas, and all the other states without mask mandates), in potentially worse straits. I didn’t know that my mood most days would still swing between numbness, despair, fury, exhaustion, and just a wee bit of hope.
But I also didn’t expect that I’d become reasonably competent in teaching online, and that I’d embrace certain aspects of that medium. I didn’t know that the pandemic would force me to reckon with almost everything I believed and thought I knew about grading and radically change how I evaluate student work. I didn’t think that our super active family would actually welcome the cessation of extracurriculars and embrace the concept of wide-open evenings and weekends spent together.
The answer to “how will I feel when the anniversary arrives?”, so far, is pretty much “the same way I feel most days during this pandemic”, with perhaps a growing sense of hope over everything else. Mixed, too, with a bit anxiety over what our new, post-pandemic normal will be.
What feelings are you experiencing as we hit the one year mark of the pandemic?
Last week I quote-tweeted something that I haven’t stopped thinking about since:
(As an aside: if you have not read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, please put this immediately on your to-read list. It is a raw and real portrayal of grief, beautifully written.)
In his thread, Joshua Eyler talks about two meanings of “magical thinking”. There’s the “everything will be better/different SOON” aspect — so, for instance, why many colleges and universities chose to kind-of-sort-of open this year. And then there’s the point at which “this state of being is temporary because we remember when things were different last year” turns to “this is our new normal, like it or not”.
We’ve been living with the former version for a better part of a year, now. At my institution, we haven’t learned what the next term will look like until halfway through the present term — including the release of the official course schedule for the next term. So there’s a constant feeling of everything being up in the air, and of scrambling to put things in order once we do officially hear about the next term. (Advising in this environment is a nightmare, as you can imagine. Student: “I need to take this course to graduate. Will it be offered next term?” Me: “… maybe?”) I mean, yes, we can guess, but there’s a comfort in just knowing what to expect that’s been ripped out from under us. It’s also prime season right now for recruiting and hiring student researchers for the summer — and no one knows definitively whether we’ll be able to have students work with us in person at all, or in some limited fashion. Planning in any meaningful way is impossible.
As for the latter version: we’re quickly approaching the year mark of the pandemic in the US. We were lucky at my institution that Winter Term 2020 wound down just as everything shut down, so at least we had the closure of a “normal” term before heading into our first pandemic term, Spring Term 2020. But the adrenaline’s finally wearing off, as we approach this anniversary. It’s been almost a year of pandemic teaching, a year spent on screens and/or with very restrictive, cautious interactions with students. And now that the adrenaline’s wearing off we’re left with the exhaustion, the sadness, the grief, and the anger, and we’re finally forced to confront all of it head on.
Professors and staff members shoulder impossible burdens of care of students, burdens foisted upon us last March and unrelenting since. Of course, many of us are here because we care deeply about students and their growth and development, and want to support them in myriad ways. But support requires more heavy lifting in a pandemic — more checking in with students, more flexibility, more following up, more modes of engagement. Work we all agree is necessary and are committed to doing, and at the same time feels crushing under the weight of everything else we are asked to do. There is no room, but somehow we’re making room — usually at great cost to our physical, emotional, and mental health. Our reserves are shot, and yet we’re still giving and expected to give from an empty well.
This intersection of grieving and depletion means that no one is at their best. We’ve collectively reached our limits, with predictable consequences. Innocuous emails requests yield fraught or panicked responses. Comments we might have shrugged off in the Before Times, we now construe as personal attacks. Conversations end in anger or hurt feelings, or both. We take advantage of any opportunity to unload our frustrations and our despair on someone, or something, else. Or, worse, we hold it all in and seethe internally until we reach a new breaking point.
And this doesn’t even acknowledge that for many of us, home is less of a respite than it ever was. Home confronts us with the ways our communities are failing us, impossible choices about school and child care and elder care, isolation, and family members whose reserves are also shot and are not at their best.
As I mentioned at the start of this post, I’ve been thinking a lot about all of this lately, and what, if anything, I can do about it. I think acknowledging and naming what we’re collectively experiencing is important, and I would love to see campus leaders publicly acknowledge this grief AND this depletion. The all-to-rare “thank you for your hard work” doesn’t cut it anymore — we need our leaders to recognize and name the struggle, and stop pretending it doesn’t exist. That doesn’t remove the burdens, of course, but it would be comforting to know, and hear, that administrators see and understand our struggles.
Personally, I’ve been trying to extend more grace to others — and to myself. If an email rubs me the wrong way, I set it aside until I can go back with a clearer mind and a more helpful response. If an interaction goes south, I try to remind myself that the other person is more likely to be reacting to all the other stressors in their life and not necessarily to the matter at hand. I don’t respond in the moment unless I have to, and then I pick my words carefully. I’ve given myself permission to drop more balls than normal for self-preservation purposes. But to some extent, I have more freedom to do this than many around me — so I’m also finding ways to help other people drop balls and set more realistic expectations for themselves. Do I have a minute to pitch in and take something off of their plate, perhaps because it’s something I can do more easily for whatever reason? Can I help a junior colleague think through what’s truly essential to their teaching and course design so that they can cut through the noise of “here are ALL THE THINGS you NEED to be doing to support students at this time”? (Guidance that, in our eagerness to embrace flexibility and effective modalities in online teaching and be all things to all students and the BEST ONLINE INSTRUCTORS EVER, has been sorely lacking.) In my leadership roles, can I streamline my asks so that we’re still moving towards our goals but in more efficient ways?
To do this, though, I have to be honest about my own limits. About my need to get enough sleep to face the day ahead. Forcing myself to let go of things that are usually non-negotiable — running a certain number of days per week, cooking a “real dinner” every night, aiming for a perfect score on my upcoming black belt test. About what I can and can’t give to my kids right now. About the ways in which my family needs to do more around the house to support all of us. About what I can and can’t worry about (see: imperfect decisions about in-person school for the kiddos). About the ways in which I am grieving and exhausted — and the ways in which others in my life can support me in this time.
We’re all frayed, grieving, and more imperfect than ever right now. Let’s remember this, and extend ourselves and those around us the grace we all so desperately need in this moment.
Winter Term is underway (more on that next week)! Yet I still find myself processing and attempting to make sense of Fall Term. To be honest, I find myself dealing with what I can only describe as lingering and persistent trauma — not just over Fall Term, but over the state of the world more generally. It’s hard to process and analyze when everything feels so uncertain and impossibly hard.
On balance, Fall Term went…surprisingly well, given the circumstances. I had a small, engaged class of 15 students. No one unexpectedly disappeared, and everyone passed the course. My course revisions mostly worked, save for a project that went off the rails due to undocumented conflicts in different minor versions of Python. And I managed to make some forward progress on research and various other projects.
In thinking about the term, I found myself returning to five lessons I learned, or re-learned, over the course of the term.
Lesson 1: Everyone is struggling. And it’s ok to acknowledge that publicly.
Fall Term was hard for lots of us, for a variety of reasons. Time zone differences. Health, including mental health, issues. Worries over the election. Concern over the risk-taking behavior of other students. Racial trauma. Isolation and loneliness. Caregiving responsibilities. And while Carleton was not fully online, many of its courses were at least partially online, which meant everyone (students, faculty, and staff) spent much of their days interacting online — difficult even in the best of circumstances. In short, no one’s at their best.
I made checking in with my students a priority. I borrowed an idea from a staff colleague and started each synchronous class meeting with the same anonymous poll, asking them how they were doing. Originally I just summarized the responses, but as the term went on I started displaying the results as a percentage of respondents. I commented briefly, adding (truthfully) where I fell among the options, acknowledging the mindspace we collectively occupied that day, and reminded those who were struggling of various ways to reach out and seek help. Students indicated that they found this helpful — both to see that they were not alone wherever they fell on the continuum that week, and that I was honest about my own struggles. This is definitely something I will continue, including whenever we return to in-person instruction.
Lesson 2: Teaching online is easier the second time around
Don’t get me wrong: Teaching online still feels unnatural, weird, and hard. But it felt way less so than it did in the spring. I was able to tap into the lessons I learned about organizing a week, a lesson, a class meeting, an explanation, and apply them to a very different course. Everything seemed to flow much better — even the project that went off the rails. It also helped that students had a term of online learning under their belts, and knew what to expect — from the modality, from each other, and from me.
I also appreciated even more all of the pedagogical work I put in this summer, and the pedagogical workshops I attended. It was time very much well spent and definitely made a huge difference in how the class ran, and worked.
I found this new-to-me style of grading freeing. Rather than agonizing over “is this exam answer worth 4 points or 5 points?”, I only had to ask “does this answer meet the expectations for the learning objective or concept?” Turns out, in most cases that’s a much easier question to answer. And knowing that students could revise and resubmit any summative work, I found it easier to make these judgment calls. Weirdly, I actually kind of enjoyed grading!
Most students took advantage of the revision opportunities — some multiple times. I found that a subset of the students were really invested in improving their learning through the revision process — and that this freed up some of them to take risks they might not have normally taken. Which, of course, is exactly what I want to happen in my courses! That said, from a grading management perspective, in the future I will likely limit the number of revisions, probably through some kind of token system, to prevent my workload from spiraling out of control.
I never quite figured out how to get Moodle to play nicely with this grading system. I ended up converting the expectations scale to a 4.0 scale and averaging things within categories to calculate the course grades. It was hard for students to figure out their own course grades because the averaging was somewhat opaque and was done outside of Moodle. In the future, I will invest the time to bake this into Moodle so that students have a better sense of how they’re doing in the course.
Lesson 4: Online pedagogy allows for some new collaborative learning opportunities
Computer Networks (the course I taught this fall) is conceptually tricky and often dense. In an in-person class, I make heavy use of office hours and class time to help students extract the important points of a concept, technique, protocol specification, or algorithm from the seemingly overwhelming details. After some success using Hypothes.is, an online annotation tool, in the spring, I experimented with Hypothes.is for some of the denser readings in the course. For a few of the daily targeted readings, I had students answer the reading questions in their small groups by annotating the reading with their answers. For a few others, I pre-annotated the reading to focus their attention on the main points, and had students comment on the annotations and/or add their own. I really liked how this worked out overall, and I think the students got more out of those readings. I plan to continue this practice in the spring and likely beyond. I could see it working really effectively for Intro CS and for Data Structures (our CS 2), where it’s really easy for students to get lost in the details of a reading.
Moving things online wasn’t always neat and contained, but sometimes that’s ok. I usually run an in-class simulation of Internet routing, where students act as autonomous systems in small teams: creating routing tables, entering into peering agreements with each other, and ultimately attempting to “route” data. What normally takes one class period in person spread over several days online. It was messy, and chaotic — and probably taught students about the messiness of real-world Internet routing more effectively and deeply than anything else I have attempted in my 17 years of teaching this topic.
Lesson 5: It’s really, really hard to troubleshoot virtually
When I can’t figure something out, I need to sit down and play around with it. When teaching in person, I spend a lot of time running to the computer lab so that I can see what the students see, in their coding environment, with the same tools and version of Python and all that good stuff.
When the rogue project went off the rails, I found myself flying blind. What version of Python were the students using? Were they all using the same version of Python? Is it the same as mine? Why does the code sometimes work when we ssh in to one of the servers, but not consistently? How do I help Windows users — most of my students — when I have a Mac? Ultimately, I was limited in how much troubleshooting I could do. I’m still not sure what I could have done better, other than perhaps requiring the students to run and develop the code within a virtual machine of some sort. But it’s something I continue to reflect upon how to improve — and particularly, how to better support Windows users in my courses.
I have a lighter teaching load this term — just our capstone, to make room for the heavier workload of my administrative role this term. But I’m already thinking ahead to how I can capture, consolidate, and integrate these lessons into my spring term course — the same course I taught last spring. I look forward to seeing how much better and more effective I can make that course based on what I learned this term.
Fall term classes don’t start for another week and a half, and I’m already at the stage where I’m semi-catatonic by the end of the work day. (Yesterday I gave up and took a nap. At 4:30pm.)
This time of year is usually full to the brim anyway — the mad rush to finalize the syllabi, helping advisees navigate changes in their schedules, setting priorities for the year for STEM at Carleton, meetings meetings meetings (and, hey, more meetings!), … the list goes on. This year, it’s that … times a thousand.
Yesterday as I navigated through various windows and apps on my laptop, I marveled at the juxtaposition between my “normal” workflow of preparing for the term and the additional preparations for a pandemic term. At the end of the day, I took some screenshots of some of the apps and sites I used throughout the day, to put together a mini photo-essay highlighting a “day in the life” of a professor preparing for the upcoming COVID-influenced term.
(I did, however, spare you the screenshots of the multiple Zoom meetings I’ve participated in over the past few days. And of the firehose of emails. And of the various ways my family interrupted me mid-meetings. You’re welcome.)
Looking at these pictures, it strikes me that even though everything seems completely out of whack, the basic things I do to prepare for a term — wrangle with Moodle, finalize my learning outcomes, assemble my teaching toolkit — remain largely unchanged. The details may look different, but the broader strokes resemble what used to pass for normal. And that provides me with a teeny bit of comfort as I head into what promises to be a strange and stressful term.
How does preparing for the upcoming term/semester look for you? What new things are juxtaposed into your normal workflow?
Last week, I participated in two simultaneous online workshops around the same topic: resilient course design. One workshop was part of an ongoing series of online workshops around rethinking course design put on by the Associated Colleges of the Midwest (ACM, of which Carleton is a member). The other was a Carleton-specific “design challenge” sponsored by our Perlman Learning and Teaching Center (LTC).
The ACM workshop followed the same format as the others in the series: a Monday webinar, with content presentation and a bit of small group discussion in breakout rooms; and Friday smaller group discussions around a more specific subtopic. For instance, the discussion groups last week focused on lecture courses, discussion courses, lab courses, research seminars, and arts/performance courses. (I participated in the lecture group since that seemed to be the closest fit. Turns out, most people in the group shared similar inclinations to lecture/activity split as I do, so it was indeed a good fit.) Sometimes, there is homework assigned Monday for the Friday discussions, as there was this week. Last week, we designed a typical week in our course as homework, paying attention to a set of guiding questions about student participation in various modes.
The LTC challenge included participation in the ACM workshop, or at least viewing the Monday webinar/recording, and asked us to do the same homework as in the ACM workshop. In addition, the challenge included discussion forum postings (some in the larger group, many in smaller assigned teams), a couple of synchronous discussions, an entire day of drop-in sessions with various staff and faculty on specific aspects of course design (Moodle, Panopto, thinking through learning goals and activities, etc.), and a final reflection. The challenge setup mimicked a mini-course setup, allowing us to experience aspects of an online course from a student’s perspective.
I took a LOT away from this experience, but I want to highlight a few areas in particular: rethinking engagement; weekly structure and flow; and the student experience.
(Note: The worksheets in the images in this post all come from the two challenges, and were used across both challenges.)
One of our first activities had us remap our “typical”, in-person course activities to activities more amenable to multiple modes of participation — fully or partially online, across time zones, taking into account student illness/quarantine/family circumstances, etc. My matrix, for the elective I’m teaching this fall, is pictured below. Entries in purple indicate what I traditionally do in this course; green entries show changes for Fall Term. The entries with purple text in green boxes indicate things I did pre-Fall 2020 that I plan to continue in the fall.
The x-axis moves (left to right) from content delivery to content application/practice; the y-axis moves (top to bottom) from face-to-face engagement to online engagement. Thus, the matrix gives us the opportunity to think through where course activities fall on each of these continuums. The red box includes activities that must be completed in person, the yellow box indicates online synchronous activities, and the white space at the bottom indicates asynchronous online activities.
Since Carleton students don’t register until August, I literally don’t know where in the world my students will be this fall. In designing my matrix, I assumed that students occupied a wide range of time zones, thus the prevalence of activities in the asynchronous zone. For the team activities, I plan to group students roughly by time zone and preferred time of day to work, as I did in the spring. This should help a bit with the time zone issues.
I still have a couple of thorny problems to work through. I’m still not sure how to replace the in-class, physical simulations of network phenomenon (routing, protocol specifications, access control, etc) that I rely heavily on in this course, although I now have some ideas to pursue. And I’m still playing around with course projects, so I can’t decide on the development platform until I finalize the projects. Otherwise, I found it easier than I expected to map my activities to their online counterparts.
Structure and flow
Later in the week, we thought through “a week in the life” of our course, using two different formats: a week-at-a-glance, and a more detailed accounting of the work itself.
Here’s my week-at-a-glance:
To be honest, I was worried about how well I’d be able to complete this set of activities, since I’m still trying to revise the learning goals for the course. I found instead that these exercises really clarified my thinking about the course as a whole. Specifically, it helped me think through how to spend our scheduled class time — and figuring that out helped other pieces, like asynchronous work, fall into place. In particular, I’m thinking of Wednesdays as the main days for synchronous engagement, with Fridays reserved for drilling down a bit more on applications of the content and Mondays for open-ended Q&A, on either the previous week’s content or the current week’s content.
The second part of this assignment asked us to define the set of activities in a particular week. I picked a random week in the middle of the course and came up with this plan:
(Of course, after I completed this worksheet, we moved the scheduled course time, so now I have to revamp the due dates. Readings will now be due the night before class, instead of the day of class.)
This was perhaps the most eye-opening activity of the week. It’s one thing to say “yeah, I’ll have them watch some videos and take a reading quiz and maybe do a worksheet or two” and another to sit down and figure out how much time everything will take and why we want students to do these things in the first place. I settled on a rough pattern of preparing for class with targeted readings, reading quizzes to ensure comprehension, and mini-lecture videos. (Since the challenge, I’ve rethought this a bit — I may give students more flexibility in allowing them to read and watch content videos before attempting the reading quizzes.) Class and class-adjacent activities include engaging with the content formally (Wednesdays) and informally (Fridays), a team asynchronous activity (which might be the same one we tackle in class, expanding on the in-class work), and project work. I still need to figure out the appropriate mix, here.
In our small and larger group challenge discussions, we agreed that students may find these charts useful, too. I’m thinking of ways I can incorporate these views (a week in the life and the detailed accounting) into my course Moodle page. (This was a question I’d hoped to ask during the Moodle drop-in hours, but I had to leave before I could ask my question. More on this below.)
The student experience
Experiencing the design challenge as a student made me more sympathetic to the student experience, and I’m rethinking aspects of my course design as a result.
The first challenge: figuring out the challenge structure. What was happening each day? How do I submit my homework? What is the homework for today? How do I post/respond to just my small group? What is my small group? Why is this activity not marked complete if my teammate handed it in? Where’s the Zoom link for today’s discussion? If I, a seasoned educator and self-proclaimed Moodle power user, had trouble figuring some of these things out, then surely some subset of our students will, too! Lesson learned: I need to be even clearer than I think I need to be, when conveying the hows and whats to my students.
The second challenge: getting help! “Yay, drop-in hours!” I thought, as I skimmed the schedule at the start of the week. Come Thursday morning, I found myself in an internal dialog, which I tried to capture in this Twitter thread:
Today I found myself waffling over whether to attend virtual drop-in hours on fall term course design. Was my question “worthy” of stopping by to ask it? When should I show up — at the start, towards the middle, at the end? Am I wasting everyone’s time? 1/2
And I realized OH MY GOD my students were likely having the SAME conversations about attending virtual office hours this spring! Now, the low attendance makes complete sense — and I need to think how to make attending office hours less scary/fraught.
I finally got over myself and hopped onto my first drop-in session, and had a lovely conversation with our outgoing LTC director on in-class simulations in an online environment. And commiserated with the faculty member who jumped on as we were finishing up, who, it turns out, conducted a similar internal dialog before joining the call. I need to make seeking help, and participating in office hours, less scary and more natural this fall.
Emboldened by my new-found confidence, I jumped onto a second drop-in session, on Moodle. There were already several people on the call, asking questions about assessment. I listened in and learned a few things that I made a note to try. But I had to jump off of the call to head to another meeting before the facilitator could answer my question on reproducing the spirit of the weekly plan (discussed in the previous section) on my course Moodle page. And it was not clear how I could seek out help on my question after the drop-in hours and/or after the challenge. I need to think through how to accommodate multiple student questions during drop-in hours, and how to direct students to seek help outside of these hours too.
The challenge might be over, but planning for resilience continues. I find myself thinking through the intersection of resilient design with things like anti-racist pedagogy, time management (my students’ and my own), assessment/grading, and maintaining boundaries while providing emotional support for students. I still need to do the hard work of translating my “week in the life of the course” for each week in my course, while I’m still wrestling with learning goals and the like. This challenge laid a strong foundation for this continued work.
Participating in this challenge, and in the other online ACM workshops this summer, brought an unexpected benefit, too: Confidence. I feel a lot more confident, and capable, of pulling off a strong and worthwhile online course this fall — and beyond, if it comes to that. Things I’ve learned directly translate into in-person offerings, too — the importance of clarity and structure, the value of providing choices to students to direct their own learning, the compassion of flexibility to accommodate student circumstances and acknowledge their struggles. The deep and prolonged reflection on my pedagogy is making me a more effective and more present educator.
The parameters of the plan are what I expected. Our calendar works in our favor here (start in mid-September, end by Thanksgiving), so I wasn’t surprised to see that hadn’t changed. I’d expected we’d move to a hybrid model, with a mix of in person and partially to fully online courses. I was pleased to see that neither students nor faculty would be required to be physically on campus if they chose to stay home/teach online. Though, of course, some faculty (in the arts, lab sciences, teaching first year seminars), and staff who support faculty, may find themselves weighing their preferences against other factors and pressures. The decision to bring back 85% of the student body to campus surprised me, as I’d read that as an upper bound, if-everything-goes-perfectly threshold. But, here we are.
So, we have answers. But the plan, as extensive as it is, still leaves many questions unanswered.
The big question left unanswered, of course, is what happens if I get sick? (The cynical part of me wants to phrase that as “what happens WHEN I get sick?”, but I’ll try to be optimistic here.) The faculty FAQ is vague on this point. The policy outlined in the link no doubt works well enough during “normal” times, when a faculty member falling seriously ill during the term is an exceptional circumstance. But in a pandemic? When it’s likely that a nontrivial number of faculty are out for an extended period, either due to quarantine, their own illness, or care for a loved one? (Or extended child care WHEN schools close down again, assuming they open at all?) We should PLAN on faculty stepping down from their courses as NORMAL this term, not hope fervently that it doesn’t happen.
As department Comps Czar this year (i.e., the person in charge of all capstone projects), I’m drafting a plan for how to step in if/when a Comps advisor falls ill or needs to step away for part or all of a term. For my own course, I’m aiming to get as much of the course up and posted by Day 1, so that it’s easier for someone else to step in if need be. This is especially important since I’m teaching an elective course, meaning there are only 1-2 others in my department with the expertise to step in and take over. But it shouldn’t fall to individuals, and individual departments, to decide that making contingency plans is necessary. And, it’s important to note that this extensive advanced planning happens at a cost — I can’t afford to take much time off this summer for a break, and I’ll be spending less time on my research projects.
(We have not held a department-wide conversation about “who takes over which class”, but I’m already thinking ahead to what I could take on if need be.)
Similarly, what happens if a student gets sick? The student FAQ contains some guidance about testing, contact tracing, and isolation. But what about academically? Is the Dean of Students’ office planning for mass student absences, streamlining processes for extensions and leaves, ??? I would love to know this info so that I can more effectively advise students and plan my course to be as flexible as possible. And I’m particularly thinking about my own Comps project groups — Comps is a graduation requirement, so what happens if a student can’t finish out a project? We can’t handle these as exceptional cases, because they WILL be the norm.
As a parent of a teen and a special needs tween (thoughts and prayers, please), the big unknown is how will the school district’s plans impact my family’s day-to-day? That’s right, our school district has yet to announce its plans for the fall. If they’re partially or fully online, how do we supervise their schooling while doing our own jobs? What will an online school day look like? Will all 4 of us be on Zoom at the same time? If they’re back to in-person…well, does our family want to take that exposure risk? (Particularly since cases are on the rise in my county.) Should we be looking at school alternatives this year? My head hurts just thinking about all of the planning and decision making ahead of us.
Finally: what plans are in place if (when) we need to pivot back to online-only? Do we have plans? If so, will these be shared at any point with faculty, staff, and students? Similarly, how are we planning for Winter and Spring 2021? And when will these plans be communicated?
There are, of course, a zillion smaller questions as well, enough questions to feed my insomnia for weeks. And a trillion things to do, big and small, to prepare for the term ahead, as I wait and hope for those larger questions to be answered.
What big questions haunt you about the fall….and beyond? How are you coping with the uncertainty?
With all non-senior grades due yesterday morning (senior grades were due last week), spring term is finally and officially in the books!
Given that my research students started this week, and looking ahead to my schedule for the week (so! many! meetings!), I completed and submitted all of my grades at the senior grade deadline. I’ve now had a week to regroup and reflect on the term, and figure out what lessons I’ll take away from it.
In this post I’ll talk a bit about what went (surprisingly) well, what fell flat, and what I’d do differently next time, whether we’re in person, online, or some combination of the two.
What went well
Specificity. I tend to be very specific in my assignment prompts and in my assignment rubrics. Over time I’ve recognized that this is good and inclusive pedagogical practice, but honestly it was born out of necessity — as junior faculty in a male-dominated department, it was a defensive mechanism against students who questioned my pedagogy and right to be in the classroom, and/or felt I wasn’t qualified to “appropriately” assess their work. Specificity, it turns out, really helps students focus on what’s expected of them, particularly when they’re already feeling overwhelmed in an unfamiliar learning environment.
Organization. When most of your course delivery is asynchronous, Moodle gets unwieldy quickly. Even in non-virtual terms, Moodle gets unwieldy quickly. I’ve developed a template of sorts over the years for organizing my course weeks on Moodle with judicious use of labels and the assignment module, and I modified that to fit the flow of our virtual class. I also discovered that Google Calendar, when you embed it in Moodle, provides a much easier interface for students to figure out what’s due when than the built-in Moodle calendar, so I relied on that quite heavily. Finally, I’d never used Activity Completion before, but I leaned heavily on that to both control access to material (“complete this to unlock that”) and to give the students a way to keep track of what they’d completed and what they had left to do.
Consistent, stable teams. I decided early on to make the term-long project teams “collaboration teams” for the entire term. While a few teams struggled to connect with each other, the majority of teams connected effectively and formed mini-communities within the course, and these teams worked pretty much how I intended them to work. I suspect this “saved” a few students who might otherwise have gotten lost from completely falling off the wagon. (Unfortunately, it did not save all of these students.) For the most part, teams provided much-needed community within the larger course, and helped replicate some of the “table culture” that emerges in the face-to-face version of this course.
Team meetings. Boy, I wish I had done this earlier in the term! I met with each team over Zoom in the second-to-last week of the term, after peer and self evals came in and around the time the penultimate deliverable was due. I spend about half a class period doing this during in-person terms, and use it as a way to help teams figure out what to focus on for the final version of their project (are there features to jettison? are they focusing on user goals? what will get them closest to the vision they had at the start of the term?). This also provides a way for me to talk with students about team dynamics that emerged in the peer and self evaluations. I think the students were relieved to get some one-on-one focused time with me, something more personal than the weekly Zoom class meetings. And I made sure to do a quick non-course check-in with the students during this time, to focus on their well-being. This was a huge success.
Class discussions. It took me a while to figure out how to conduct these in a more authentic and engaged way. I used stable breakout rooms so that students were always paired up with the same students (their project teams), with some minor shuffling if only one student on a team showed up to class. I quickly realized that me jumping from room to room to check in did not work at all — it was clunky and immediately halted conversation. I started using Google Docs, placing all of the discussion prompts and spaces for notes there. (Sometimes I used a single document for the whole class; other times, each team had their own Google Doc.) Instead of room-hopping, I monitored the Google Doc(s), jumping in with comments in the Doc to redirect discussion or elevate a point, and popping into breakout rooms when it appeared a group was heading off-track or clearly lost. As an added bonus, the Google Docs provide a record of the discussion, so that students who could not participate in real time could still reference the notes and take-away points — and even students who participated could go back and review the take-away points. I definitely plan to use this strategy much more in the future, even in face-to-face courses! (And this might be the only effective way to conduct discussion in a socially-distanced, mask-wearing classroom.)
What fell flat
Building community. I had modest hopes at the start of the term that Slack could provide an acceptable way to build community asynchronously. I seriously underestimated the amount of work that building community online takes. Despite my bestefforts (which were pretty lousy, I’ll admit!), interactions on Slack were pretty much one way between the students and me. My attempt to wrangle together a virtual project demonstration/feedback session (as several smaller combination showcase/office hours during Reading Days and Finals) failed to yield a single participant. I delve a little more deeply into the issues (and how I attempted to use badges to salvage the community) in this post on Carleton’s Learning and Teaching Center blog.
Office hours. Try as I might, I could not get students to utilize office hours on any sort of regular basis. I had both drop-in hours (no advance appointment necessary) and office hours by appointment, and both went over like lead balloons. I am not sure why students did not utilize these — fear? lack of a pre-existing relationship? (although even students I knew before this course failed to take advantage of office hours.) branding? I wonder if requiring students to make an office hours appointment with me in the first couple of weeks in the term would help fix this. At least it would remove the barrier to setting up the meeting and then showing up to the meeting.
Timing of deliverables. There was a mismatch in my head, over how I thought each week would flow, and how this matched up with when I had readings and reading activities due. Often this meant that our Wednesday synchronous class meetings hit on things that technically weren’t due until Friday. Luckily, this is easily fixable moving forward, particularly since now I have a slightly better sense of how to manage flexibility with keeping everyone roughly on the same track.
Flexibility in deadlines. Let me preface this by saying that flexibility was absolutely the right call, given all of the things students faced this spring and continue to face. For many, this flexibility allowed them to successfully complete and pass my course. Every major deliverable in the course had a de-facto 48 hour no-fault extension built in. Once students realized this, however, many of them treated that 48 hour buffer as the actual deadline. This made it more difficult for my grader and me to keep up with assessments, and to manage deliverables that built upon other deliverables. When most work revolves around team deliverables, there’s also the tricky balancing act of handling a student who needs some flexibility with the needs of the other students on the team — how does everyone navigate this minefield while meeting everyone’s individual learning goals and needs? I don’t have any great answers, but I did learn a lot this term and will use those lessons to craft better ways of handling this in the future.
Concrete takeaways and homework for the summer
I realized as I compiled my thoughts for this section that all of the takeaways revolve around one theme: providing students more autonomy and independence over their learning. Moving online forced us more into that mode, but continuing this mode offline is a good idea pedagogically anyway. So, what can I do to help students become more independent learners?
First, I want to explore the ideas of specifications and/or contract grading. I sort of did specifications grading-light this past term, with my rubrics following a “does not meet expectations”/”meets expectations”/”exceeds expectations” format, but I want to expand this idea out further. I also want to look into working with students on what they want to get out of a course and how to structure the pieces of the course to help them craft that for themselves.
Second, I want to continue integrating activity completion into my courses, to help students keep better track of expectations and due dates, and to control the release of information better (“do this before you can unlock that”). Ideally, this will also help students connect the dots of how all of the pieces relate and inter-relate.
Third, I suspect we’ll be in pandemic mode for quite some time, and that things may never quite get back to “normal”. Students may continue to engage in courses in multiple ways: in person, completely virtually, some fluid combination of these. How accessible are my courses, really? I learned a lot this term about the barriers to learning in my own materials — unclear labs, dense readings, opaque tool documentation, etc. I want students to grapple with the course concepts, not the how-tos.
Finally, I want to empower students to seek help and form connections with me and others in the course. How can I be more explicit in how I connect students to each other, and ensure that all students feel like they belong and are valued? How can I foster more back-and-forth interactions in both face-to-face and asynchronous conversations?
While this was not at all the term I was supposed to have, the struggles, the constant adjusting and readjusting on the fly, the dealing with students’ (and my own) trauma, have all made me a more reflective, more compassionate, and more effective educator. I am eager to apply these lessons moving forward, in making my courses more inclusive and accessible to all.
I had a different post planned. But that post will have to wait.
I had different plans this week. I don’t even remember what they were, now.
I planned on relief and closure.
Instead, I mourn. I rage. I despair.
I worry. For my Black students, grieving and raging and (once again) doing the emotional heavy lifting and educating and wondering if, not when, they will ever see justice and equity in our institutions in their lifetimes. For my friends, students, and colleagues living in the Twin Cities, with front row seats to the protests, the destruction of neighborhoods, the police violence, the National Guard marching down their streets. For my friends, family, and students living in other cities, with their own front row seats to their cities’ protests and police violence. For what’s going to happen as our president threatens more violence and military action, rather than calling for reflection and mourning and reform.
I flail at what I should be doing. How do I put into words what can’t be put into words? How do I let my students know that honestly, at this point coursework does not matter? It just does not matter. But in a way that doesn’t put the burden on them to advocate for themselves to me, at a time when their emotional and physical energy is already overdrawn? What about a statement of solidarity? How can you draft a coherent statement of solidarity when all you want to say is “We’re furious. We despair. It’s all a mess. We don’t know how to fix it. But we owe it to you to try, and to not make you do any more heavy lifting. It’s our turn now. You need to rest.”
I do my best. I put something into words for my students, giving them an out if they need an out from the end of the term obligations. I check in on people (but not as often as I should). I put something into words for our department, to get us started on a statement of solidarity. Others will finish it, because I’m out of words. I do the same for the STEM Board. It’s clunky. I hope others will help me make it less so. I make sure to be present, more so than I have been. I give myself permission to just keep up, just for a few days until I regain some footing.
I read. I recommend books I’ve already read to others. We all should have done this years ago. But now is better than never.
I take a good, hard look at what I’m doing. What am I doing? What concrete actions am I taking, can I take, will I take? How will I ensure this drive and commitment doesn’t fade away with the news cycle? How can I lead others in taking concrete actions, too?
I meet my class synchronously for the last time later today. I’m still not sure how I’m going to spend that time with them. I’d planned on having them reflect on the course learning goals in the context of their coursework this term. I may still do that, but instead with an eye towards how we can apply the learning goals they achieved to practicing software development in an ethical and just way. I may just listen, and let them lead.
I listen. I observe the conversations of the students and activists. I learn. I read. I catch up to where I should have been years ago. I take action, baby steps, not enough steps.
We’re heading swiftly toward the end of the term: next Wednesday is the last day of classes, and June 8 is the last day of finals. While at many times this term seemed like a colossal slog, now that we’re finishing up it seems to be moving at warp speed.
At this point in a normal term, I tend to ease up a bit. I know my students are stressed and tired (heck, I’m stressed and tired), so I refrain from assigning new, heavy things. The key focus now in Software Design is on finishing their term-long website projects, which keeps them plenty busy anyway. Integration is hard, so I want to give them the space and time to grapple with those tricky integration issues and annoying well-this-worked-before-why-is-it-crashing-now? bugs.
I’ve eased up this term, too, and perhaps it’s even more important now, as we’re all worn down by the fatigue of uncertainty, the struggles of learning in community online, and too much Zoom.
There are two course activities I typically do in the last couple of weeks in the term: a code review, and project presentations. Both, it turns out, are challenging to rework in a fully virtual environment. I still haven’t figured out how to pull off the project presentation piece, to be honest, although I really need to figure out something ASAP! But I did find a way to pull off the code review, and I’m eager to see how it goes.
Code review should be easy to pull off if you do it the way it’s normally done — as a way to review/test/try to break code for which you’ve submitted a pull request. This assumes access to a common repository and that you’re all working on the same codebase, which is not true here. My version of code review in Software Design resembles peer writing workshops. I divide students into “feedback groups” (usually two development teams per group), have them exchange code (usually a specific class and any helper classes necessary to understand that class), and have them review code more like you’d review writing. Groups project code onto one of the many monitors in the classroom and gather around tables to discuss it.
I considered several different ways to do this virtually and asynchronously, and weighed using various tools. In the end, I decided the costs of throwing yet another unfamiliar tool at my students outweighed any small benefits they’d derive from learning that tool. So students will use Google Docs, copying and pasting the relevant code into a Google Doc, and optionally applying syntax highlighting with one of the myriad tools out there. (I suggested Code Blocks, and I just found an online highlighter that actually connects to a website, unlike the others I tried.) Students will use the commenting feature to highlight and provide feedback on specific aspects of the code, and set up Slack channels in our course workspace for longer discussions about the code under review. This way, I can dip in and monitor the level, type, and content of feedback that teams exchange with each other. Which is actually a net benefit, because I’ll get much more information on how students review each others’ code than I do normally when I’m flitting around the room trying to listen in on each group’s feedback! (And I can provide a better post-mortem after the fact, using specific comments and examples.) In our synchronous class meeting today, before they start code review in earnest, I’ll have them work in teams to review a short snippet of code, so that they can practice the workflow and get feedback from me on how they’re reviewing code. I’m really eager to see how this goes.
The hard stuff, as I alluded to in the title of this post, leveled up this week, not just in my course, but in pretty much every aspect of my job:
I received unexpectedly bad news about my planned research project with students for the summer, and scrambled to work up a replacement project (after panicking, swearing, and throwing things, of course).
In a similar vein, I’m working with others on how to create a community of student researchers when they are all isolated from each other and remote. It’s not impossible, but it’s new to us and tricky to do well.
Students who struggled all term continue to struggle, meaning I’ve had some difficult conversations about what it will take to pass the course (even with our version of pass-fail grading, which is basically “pass with a C- or above”, “pass with a D”, and “fail”).
Discussions about next year continue, maybe not as fruitfully as I’d like and maybe with fewer answer and many more questions/unknowns than I’d like. It leads me to question whether the right conversations are not happening at all behind closed doors, or whether the right conversations are happening behind closed doors and the failure is in communicating this information to faculty and staff. Regardless, the end result is the same — more angst, more uncertainty, more anxiety about the future.
I have some big tasks on my plate — make sure research students get paid this summer (no small feat when it seems like everyone’s projects keep changing), assigning Comps (capstone) groups for next year, conducting oral exams for this year’s Comps students — that take plenty of time and mental/emotional energy, both of which are in short supply lately.
The best I can do is to do my best in managing my time and my energy levels, doing what I can when I can, and taking the time for self-care so that I can be present, mentally and emotionally, for all of the hard stuff on my plate. And to remember that now, especially, good enough is good enough. This will let me get to the end of the term in one piece, and leave me with enough emotional and mental space once the term concludes to reflect on the term and apply what I’ve learned to….whatever fall term and beyond look like.