Post by Nadica (She/Her) on Aug 24, 2024 1:53:11 GMT
I loved my teaching career. COVID normalization stole it from me - Published Aug 23, 2024
Link to free version (let me know if it breaks)
Jacob Scheier is an essayist, freelance journalist and Governor-General’s Literary Award-winning poet whose books include Is This Scary?
It might not have been the most favourable, but one of the most memorable comments I ever received on a student evaluation was that I could be “a bit hard to follow, but that was more an example of [my] passion for this subject over anything.” That subject was creative writing. And yes, sometimes, I had difficulty tempering my excitement throughout a teaching career that has now been cut short.
I have – or had – been teaching as a contract or “sessional” creative-writing instructor. Given the competitiveness of the academic job market and my age (I was nearly 40 when I earned the requisite degree, though I had already published four books), I had come to accept that it was unlikely that I would ever have a faculty position. But I could live with that because I still had the rare privilege of making a (barely) livable wage doing something I was very passionate about.
The COVID-19 pandemic took that from me. Actually, that’s not quite right. It was the perceived “end” of the pandemic that really ruined my teaching career.
I am immunocompromised and rely on medication to manage an autoimmune disease. This means vaccine protection from the virus is probably less effective for me than for most people. Also, my particular illness – Crohn’s, an inflammatory bowel disease – has been shown to put me at significantly greater risk than most for long COVID: a potentially chronic condition that can be very debilitating. And despite how it may seem, COVID circulates widely much of the year: We are still in a pandemic.
When universities returned to in-person learning in early 2022, a brief letter from my specialist was all I needed – because of my medical condition – to continue teaching online. But all that changed about a year ago.
Ironically, it is now harder for me to receive accommodation to teach online even though there is less protection in the classroom against COVID. I cannot require masking, which is perhaps our best tool against transmission (particularly respirator-style masks such as N95s), in the classroom. Nor does one-way masking offer as much protection as universal masking. Also, current air filtration in classrooms is generally insufficient. In other words, classrooms are not safe and accessible workplaces for medically vulnerable people. But that’s certainly not how university administrators, and even those who were supposed to represent employees’ interests, perceive things these days.
Last year, trying to discourage me from requesting to teach online, a union rep told me that he “believed in in-person learning.” The most frustrating thing about this comment, and the widely held opinion it represents, is that I too very much miss teaching in person and would, if it were safe to do so. (That said, I believe I am every bit as effective a teacher online.)
On another occasion, a university administrator, after I had submitted my medical documentation, thought “the solution” was for me to co-teach the class so it could include an in-person component and, consequently, less pay for me. After a struggle that went on for months, I taught the class entirely online, but the accommodation agreement I had to sign stated I had “a medical condition that needs limited exposure to as many people as possible.” I nearly refused to put my name to this bizarre description of what is a prevalent disease, but it was too late to apply elsewhere.
It is clear it will only become increasingly difficult for me to teach online as time goes on. The back-and-forth with administrators, department heads and union reps, waiting to find out if I will or won’t be accommodated, and/or what new obstacles will be thrown at me – it has all caused me significant anxiety, which in turn has made it more difficult, ironically, to manage the symptoms of my illness.
I know that the people I have been sparring with are, for the most part, decent folks: They are just ill informed. But I can’t keep trying to do the job of a public-health official to ensure my own health. It’s quite literally making me sick. I’m done. I quit. I have to.
Disability activists have fought long and hard for workplace accessibility to be a right. But the culture has not caught up to understanding the particular accessibility needs of the immunocompromised.
I do not know how to go forward from here. Online courses, especially creative writing, are few and far between. I am looking for online work that utilizes my skills and education and/or that pays more than minimum wage. I have yet to find even an opening for anything like that. For now, I’m grieving: In many ways, it’s a full-time job.
The last time I taught in person was the year I graduated from my MFA program – just months before the pandemic began. After the semester had ended, a student asked if we could have a coffee together so that I could offer further guidance on revising a piece of writing that I had told him was of near-publishable quality. And I only say that to students when it’s true. He also, to my surprise, wanted to share a bit of his own constructive criticism for me – about how I could facilitate workshop discussion a little better. I chuckled at his audacity, though later, upon reflection, took his suggestion. But mostly we focused on his creative work.
As we were getting ready to go our separate ways, he mentioned, in passing, that he had a long drive home: 2½ hours. It has always stayed with me that a student was willing to spend five hours driving for a relatively brief chat over a coffee. Clearly, he thought I was a good teacher, but with more practice and experience, I could become – like a talented, but novice, student writer – an excellent one. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I will get that chance.
Link to free version (let me know if it breaks)
Jacob Scheier is an essayist, freelance journalist and Governor-General’s Literary Award-winning poet whose books include Is This Scary?
It might not have been the most favourable, but one of the most memorable comments I ever received on a student evaluation was that I could be “a bit hard to follow, but that was more an example of [my] passion for this subject over anything.” That subject was creative writing. And yes, sometimes, I had difficulty tempering my excitement throughout a teaching career that has now been cut short.
I have – or had – been teaching as a contract or “sessional” creative-writing instructor. Given the competitiveness of the academic job market and my age (I was nearly 40 when I earned the requisite degree, though I had already published four books), I had come to accept that it was unlikely that I would ever have a faculty position. But I could live with that because I still had the rare privilege of making a (barely) livable wage doing something I was very passionate about.
The COVID-19 pandemic took that from me. Actually, that’s not quite right. It was the perceived “end” of the pandemic that really ruined my teaching career.
I am immunocompromised and rely on medication to manage an autoimmune disease. This means vaccine protection from the virus is probably less effective for me than for most people. Also, my particular illness – Crohn’s, an inflammatory bowel disease – has been shown to put me at significantly greater risk than most for long COVID: a potentially chronic condition that can be very debilitating. And despite how it may seem, COVID circulates widely much of the year: We are still in a pandemic.
When universities returned to in-person learning in early 2022, a brief letter from my specialist was all I needed – because of my medical condition – to continue teaching online. But all that changed about a year ago.
Ironically, it is now harder for me to receive accommodation to teach online even though there is less protection in the classroom against COVID. I cannot require masking, which is perhaps our best tool against transmission (particularly respirator-style masks such as N95s), in the classroom. Nor does one-way masking offer as much protection as universal masking. Also, current air filtration in classrooms is generally insufficient. In other words, classrooms are not safe and accessible workplaces for medically vulnerable people. But that’s certainly not how university administrators, and even those who were supposed to represent employees’ interests, perceive things these days.
Last year, trying to discourage me from requesting to teach online, a union rep told me that he “believed in in-person learning.” The most frustrating thing about this comment, and the widely held opinion it represents, is that I too very much miss teaching in person and would, if it were safe to do so. (That said, I believe I am every bit as effective a teacher online.)
On another occasion, a university administrator, after I had submitted my medical documentation, thought “the solution” was for me to co-teach the class so it could include an in-person component and, consequently, less pay for me. After a struggle that went on for months, I taught the class entirely online, but the accommodation agreement I had to sign stated I had “a medical condition that needs limited exposure to as many people as possible.” I nearly refused to put my name to this bizarre description of what is a prevalent disease, but it was too late to apply elsewhere.
It is clear it will only become increasingly difficult for me to teach online as time goes on. The back-and-forth with administrators, department heads and union reps, waiting to find out if I will or won’t be accommodated, and/or what new obstacles will be thrown at me – it has all caused me significant anxiety, which in turn has made it more difficult, ironically, to manage the symptoms of my illness.
I know that the people I have been sparring with are, for the most part, decent folks: They are just ill informed. But I can’t keep trying to do the job of a public-health official to ensure my own health. It’s quite literally making me sick. I’m done. I quit. I have to.
Disability activists have fought long and hard for workplace accessibility to be a right. But the culture has not caught up to understanding the particular accessibility needs of the immunocompromised.
I do not know how to go forward from here. Online courses, especially creative writing, are few and far between. I am looking for online work that utilizes my skills and education and/or that pays more than minimum wage. I have yet to find even an opening for anything like that. For now, I’m grieving: In many ways, it’s a full-time job.
The last time I taught in person was the year I graduated from my MFA program – just months before the pandemic began. After the semester had ended, a student asked if we could have a coffee together so that I could offer further guidance on revising a piece of writing that I had told him was of near-publishable quality. And I only say that to students when it’s true. He also, to my surprise, wanted to share a bit of his own constructive criticism for me – about how I could facilitate workshop discussion a little better. I chuckled at his audacity, though later, upon reflection, took his suggestion. But mostly we focused on his creative work.
As we were getting ready to go our separate ways, he mentioned, in passing, that he had a long drive home: 2½ hours. It has always stayed with me that a student was willing to spend five hours driving for a relatively brief chat over a coffee. Clearly, he thought I was a good teacher, but with more practice and experience, I could become – like a talented, but novice, student writer – an excellent one. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like I will get that chance.