From the issue dated December 21, 2001
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My Students Don't Know What They're MissingBy FRANK W. CONNOLLYCollege teaching is not what it used to be. In many ways that's good, but for all the improvements and innovations of recent years, I find that this wonderful profession is not nearly as satisfying as it once was. At first I attributed my frustration to advancing age. But upon reflection I realized that while I was indeed getting older, the real reason for my disappointment is that I miss the students. I still have lots of students; there are times when I have too many of them. What I miss is interacting with them directly and informally. For me, direct contact with students counterbalanced the isolation of teaching. My colleagues and I work for the same institution and teach the same students, but we have different schedules and different interests. Property is expensive around my urban university, so most of us live miles from the campus and miles from each other. I've always enjoyed chatting with my peers, but our contact is limited. The joy and satisfaction of teaching, for me, has come from students, not other faculty members. But outside the classroom, my interactions with students have mostly evaporated. Students used to drop by my office all the time, and I miss that. They used to come by during office hours to ask a question about a point raised in class or to clarify the requirements for an assignment. After the business part of our conversation was over, we'd chat. Students were rarely comfortable enough to initiate a conversation with me, a professor, so I'd start one by asking a question: "How's your semester going?" "What's it like being on your own for the first time?" "What did you think of the game last night?" "How'd you decide to come to this college?" I had no particular objective in mind; it was just conversation, just a way to say that I enjoyed their company. Students must have found some value in it, because they'd drop by regularly, sometimes with questions, sometimes just to visit. I got to know them, and they got to know me. If they looked troubled or worried or tired, I could ask about what was bothering them. I knew them well enough so that we could stop and chat if our paths crossed on campus or in town. We never became buddies, but we had a pleasant and comfortable relationship. So what happened to change that? E-mail. We wired the campus and everyone went online. When students had questions or wanted to clarify assignments, they'd send me e-mail messages. The messages were usually pleasant, but never personal. I responded with e-mail -- also usually pleasant. I'd end my answer with a thought or question about how the student's semester was going, but I never got a reply, and I never followed up with a further inquiry. A demand for a response to a casual inquiry, it seemed to me, would be interpreted as parental prying, not friendly adult interest. E-mail has forced me to post my "virtual" office hours in addition to the real hours I spend in my real office -- usually in solitude. Students are so accustomed to quick e-mail responses that it is not uncommon to receive a message timed at midnight or 3 a.m., asking for an answer before our 8 a.m. class. Since I never maintain office hours at 3 a.m., e-mail does make me more accessible. And e-mail means that I can answer questions from dozens of students instead of the four or five who used to drop by my office in a typical day. Indeed, using electronic bulletin boards and mass mailings, I can communicate with all my students at one time, something that isn't possible during office hours. But 24/7 accessibility doesn't mean satisfaction. Students are missing the richness of a traditional college career, but they don't know it. Today's students don't even know that faculty members and students once had the relationships that I miss. Since today's students arrived on campus, e-mail has been the norm for dealing with their professors outside class. It is a painless and guilt-free means of communication. To these students, dropping by my office with a problem is a last resort. It would never occur to them to drop by for a personal chat. Even more disturbing is the realization that young faculty members don't know that they, too, are missing something special. Thanks to e-mail, they may never know the true joy of teaching. My fondest memories of my own college days are of people -- friends and classmates, of course, but also teachers. The teachers asked questions. They offered suggestions. They knew people in their fields and would suggest contacts for summer jobs, internships, full-time employment. We knew -- and they knew -- that we were students, but they spoke to us as adults. When it came time to apply for graduate schools or jobs, they were wonderful references who could reflect on far more than our classroom progress. It doesn't work that way these days. When students send e-mail requests for references now, I must dig out old grade sheets before I can start writing. Our connections are based only on classes -- and e-mail, of course. All of this is more than predictably unsettling. In the late 1980s, I was the director of academic computing for my college. I was instrumental in the wiring of our campus: I helped plan it, I helped justify the funding, I was central to its design -- every residence room, every office, every classroom connected to our campus network. Everyone in touch with everyone else on the campus and, through the Internet, everyone else in the world. It was a great vision, and we achieved it. But now I'm experiencing some unintended results of my enthusiasm. I should have been more vigilant and seen the consequences. I should have spent more time and energy thinking about how this technical advance would change our campus culture. I anticipated that it would change the way many of us teach and do research, but I failed to think about the subtler consequences. There are three lessons to be learned here. First, teaching is still an isolating profession. While technology has enhanced the quantity of my interactions with students and enabled some to connect who would otherwise have no contact with me outside class, it has reduced the quality of our conversations. I worry that tomorrow's students will have a stronger affiliation with SysAdmin@ ourschool.edu than with any individual faculty member. To combat that trend, I've incorporated some things into my classes that establish a minimal level of personal interaction with students. The most successful has been having every student write me a brief note at the end of every class. I tell them they can write about anything, and their notes have ranged from "I was here" to musings on ethical issues to commentary on how the Redskins are doing. I return a written response to each student the following class. Second, today's students and young faculty members don't know what they're missing. They have the power and resources of a world that moves at blinding speed, but they have neither the time nor the inclination to understand the richness that sits untapped in faculty offices all over every American campus. I wish I had a solution. Third, faculty members and administrators have to do a better job of seeing the future. I'm not in favor of going back, of giving up our wonderful technological advances, but I do see a need to spend more time reflecting on their unintended consequences. The culture of any campus is a delicate balance of mission, tradition, and people that has taken years to develop. Technology has now become an integral part of the culture. Before we undertake any more initiatives -- especially major ones like wiring a campus -- we need to take the time to look ahead, to push all members of our communities to answer such questions as: What do we gain? What do we lose? How will this initiative change what we do? Are those changes worth the price? These are tough questions. But tough questions are what colleges are intended to address. I wish a few students would drop by so we could chat about the matter. Frank W. Connolly is a professor of computer science and information systems at American University. http://chronicle.com Section: The Chronicle Review Page: B5
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Copyright © 2001 by The Chronicle of Higher Education