Sphinx

Well, that happened quickly. On Friday, the latest coronavirus update from the university offered the first indication that they were considering switching teaching delivery from face-to-face to online, from 23rd March, with a decision to be made on Monday. On Sunday afternoon, the decision was confirmed. On Sunday evening, the 23rd March switchover was a minimum, with colleagues in humanities encouraged to change their approach as soon as practicable; I’d been thinking about how to do this for a while, seeing other universities in the UK and US making the change, so was all set to record short audio files, set up discussion boards, contact students etc. Then Monday evening all classes for this week were cancelled so students can, where practical, make arrangements to go home.

Sadly I’d already recorded the introductory chat for my Thucydides class about the ending of the work, so missed the chance to offer some metacommentary on the equally abrupt, unsatisfying truncation of the module; perhaps when I record some concluding remarks at the end of the week, reviewing what I have every confidence [says he defiantly] will be an active online discussion over the next few days. I am struck, however, by how flat and dispirited I feel at this cancellation – much more than I did about the cancellation of face-to-face teaching. No, it’s not that I’m awkward and antisocial and so would rather keep students at the other end of the broadband cables…

Online classes were only ever going to be a weak, inadequate substitute for the genuine thrill, even at 08:30, of interaction and discussion, and the challenge of getting more than three people to say something. But the need to move online was itself a challenge, forcing me to think through the key aims of the class and how best to meet student needs, and I could record lecture clips with specific faces in mind, rather than producing podcasts for an unknown audience – and if nothing else it kept me busy. I was all primed to take student questions and set up Skype conversations and make myself available, and now… nothing.

I’m reminded of Nicholas Craig’s hilarious I, An Actor (while noting that, having worked with some actual actors, I can see why someone might find this deeply insulting…): specifically, where he discusses the pains of unemployment, and the fact that, while an unemployed bricklayer could still build a wall in his back garden or an unemployed accountant do a spot of leisure book-keeping, an actor needs an audience. At least while I’m still in teaching mode, I need that thrill: the performance, the improvisation, the interaction – it doesn’t work very well in front of the mirror, as I already know how I’m going to react…

It’s the same issue with industrial action – on reflection, actually, it’s rather better in some ways, as it’s imposed by external events, though with commensurate loss of agency… It isn’t just a job; it isn’t just about the salary. Academics going on strike is like a child refusing to eat a delicious slice of chocolate cake to show how upset it is. It’s the women’s sex strike in Lysistrata, but with fewer artificial alternatives. We want, indeed need, to teach; yes, lots of time now for research and writing, yadda yadda, but that’s too much delayed pleasure – I need my instant endorphin rush! Listen to me! Write things down when I say something especially interesting! GIVE ME LOVE!

Thankfully there is social media, and blogging. Let’s do the show right here!