In the shifts of this year, I wonder if my students are still having the sort of meaningful conversations with teachers and peers that are helping them to figure out who they are now, and who they want to be. 

At a local art supply store recently, after I raided the post-holiday discounts for some brushes and paper, the cashier studied my face slowly, closely. After a second, he said, “Hey. Hi. Ms. P., that’s you, right?”

The circumstances of this year make this hard, even when the person you’re trying to place is wearing his first name on a tag. I smiled with my eyes. “You’re going to have to give me a little more than that in 2020,” I said, and then my former student re-introduced himself, and then we were both grinning behind masks.

He told me he was on break from grad school, that he just completed his first semester with a 4.0 ever. He’d started out as an architecture major—I remember wondering if he really had a passion for architecture or if it was just a practical way to convince his family that art school was the right direction. “But my professors almost failed me out,” he said. “I wanted to do things my way.” 

So now, he’s in graduate school for art therapy and loving it.

He mentioned a conversation we had once, maybe in the ceramics studio, maybe in the journalism classroom, and the details of this conversation are hazy on my end, so I simply nod. “You know, that was one of the reasons I started on this road,” he said, still smiling.

There it was again. That crazy, heavy feeling that usually leads to needing a few deep breaths once I’m alone in my car. We never know the impact that we have.

When I taught this young man, I was a lot more present with my students—meaning, physically present, in the same room, not constantly connected to a screen, not even (if I remember correctly) bound to take online attendance or stay attuned to incoming emails during class time. And even though our shared presence with each other was acute, I cannot remember the conversation he referenced.

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Edu-experts theorize that teachers make 1500+ decisions each day, and an awful lot of those decisions relate to how we interact with our students. Alumni often overwhelm me with stories about how my decisions and our interactions impacted them. I’ve reflected on this before and often, but it never really gets easier to process.

What does it mean that a conversation I barely remember had a life-steering impact on a student? When we encounter each other years later, the stories they share are usually about positive impact. But I’m sure there are just as many interactions that were more challenging, or even negative. I know that I never intend to discourage a student; that’s not why I’m in this gig.  But what if my resistance to a grade change made a student feel less than capable? Or if my feedback on a story left a student who, say, wanted to do it his way, feeling restricted or unmotivated? 

Add to my worries all the uncertainties of rhetoric since the pandemic first shifted learning last March. We rarely get to have spontaneous conversations after class, or to drop the day’s scripted agenda to chase an idea. In nearly six months, it’s gotten only microscopically easier to talk between boxes on a screen, We have to carefully schedule any opportunities for individual conversations, while each day’s stilted full-class conversations over Zoom feel the opposite of memorable. 

Think about the last time you received (or sent) a text message that felt dismissive. Then imagine having to manage a Zoom chat box with 20+ students while a handful of in-person students wait for you to make eye contact with them instead of the webcam. It is impossible to teach this way with full presence and intention. I know that I’ve been unintentionally brusque this year, both online and in-person. I haven’t meant to be, but I’m in survival mode. I hope that I haven’t hurt anyone. I hope. 

I can usually talk myself out of this, reminding myself that my impact is small, just a tiny percentage of what any student will experience, and, my god, you just teach electives, chill out.  Then I run into an alum at the store, or on LinkedIn, or on a hike. We share a story or two, and later the weight of necessary intentions feels so heavy.

I’m trying to frame my chance encounter with a former student as a reminder. We all might be in various modes of survival as we teach this year, but our conversations and interactions with our students still matter. In fact, they might matter more intensely than ever, now that relationships are strewn awkwardly around a hybrid space.

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What can we do to keep connections front-and-center while the footing of our learning spaces keeps shifting?