Teaching and Learning

Both of our grandsons (ages 11 and 15) are experiencing distance learning. Our son (who teaches writing at the University of Akron) and our daughter-in-law (who teaches nursing at Kent State) have also been dealing remotely with students.

I can’t imagine it, really—as a student, as a teacher.

When I was a kid, there was a lot I did not like about school. The rigidity of classrooms in the 1950s (I was in rooms in which the rows of student desks were bolted to the floor), the unrelieved boredom of the curriculum (worksheets and answering questions at the ends of chapters), the infrequency and brevity of recess—these were among the things that made me dislike so much of elementary school.

I did have a few teachers who were wonderful, though (Mrs. Rockwell, 4^th grade, I’m thinking of you!), who made the day much more interesting that it otherwise was.

But what I most liked about school? My friends. And girls.

I’m pretty sure friendship and romance are still pretty high on students’ agendas? Although, today, it’s far easier to stay in touch with friends than it was when I was growing up (when a phone call or a note passed in class were about it). I would guess that what kids miss right now (perhaps what they miss the most?) is the face-to-face contact with their friends and with others who attract them in various ways.

I was a teacher for forty-five years (1966-2011). Most of it was in a public middle school (Aurora, Ohio), but I also taught some in private colleges (Lake Forest and Hiram), at a large public university (Kent State), and at a college-prep boarding school (Western Reserve Academy, grades 9-12).

And, as I said earlier, I cannot imagine holding classes online—or via the various apps that allow students and teachers to hear and see one another.

It just ain’t the same. It ain’t even close.

When I think of the great teachers I had—Kindergarten through grad school—I realize that so much of my delight in their classes came from their presence. I don’t, of course, just mean their being present; I meant their power (I can’t think of a better word).

Teachers and professors whom I admired really knew stuff, of course, but that was only a part of it. Also, it was their intelligence and creativity and energy that seemed to sparkle and crackle around them as if they were characters in a Marvel movie. They were the sorts of people you could not not notice in the room.

The energy was different, though, for all of them. For Mrs. Rockwell (4th grade) it was her kindness, her humor, her willingness to try things, to “shake things up.”

For Mr. Brunelle (who taught English, Latin, and German at Hiram High School) it was his humor (oh, did he love puns!), his long experience (as a boy he’d seen Mark Twain—he’d served in Europe during WW I), his multiple talents (he loved photography, directed plays, sponsored an assortment of school activities), his devotion to scholarship. Okay—and his temper!

For Dr. Ravitz (I took seven courses from him at Hiram College in the early 1960s) it was his scholarship, his passion for literature, his tacit insistence that we value—and practice—an intellectual life. One of his techniques—and it could have been accidental (I prefer to think it wasn’t)—was this: In class he would use words that he knew most of us did not know. (Some of my favorites: noetic, transcendental, lycanthropy.) But many of us hurried back to our dictionaries in the dorm, checked them out, started using them ourselves in our papers. (Yes, real dictionaries—no dictionary.com in them thar days.) He held a room in awe—that’s a good way to put it, I guess.

I can’t imagine Mrs. Rockwell, Mr. Brunelle, or Dr. Ravitz on Zoom because, you see, it’s presence that makes such a difference—at least it did with me.

And so, these viral days, I have nothing but extreme admiration for the students--and for the teachers, who are making do the best they can, who are surrendering their presence not only to protect themselves and others but also surrendering so much of their presence.