When You Suddenly Need to Teach Online and You’ve Never Done That Before — Presenting, For Your Consideration: The Switch, A Fable
By Leslie Doyle
It was coming and there was nothing they could do about it. They had been warned, but everyone thought they had time. Time to prepare, time to take enough Webinars and professional development classes. Time to understand what the difference between asynchronous and synchronous meant. But no, the time was over. All instruction was moving online as soon as Spring Break ended. And there was nothing they could do about it. The Switch was coming.
At first, no one took it seriously. They had heard the rumors, of course. Universities in the worst hit areas shutting down. Harvard sending everyone home without a plan for international or lower income students. But they were just rumors. Someone else, someplace else.
But then it hit their communities. Well, maybe not their actual community, but their state’s higher education system. One after another, like dominoes, the announcements were made. There was no escaping The Switch. Soon, it came for them.
And immediately, the panic set in.
Of course, some of them were ready, had stocked up on Webinars and IT appointments, knew how to light an educational fire with Zoom and flip decks and Google Classroom. Some had Switched years before to totally online classes, and now could sit back, maybe glib, maybe concerned for others. But immune from the panic.
As usual, the severity of the outbreak was decided by economic class. A few (not all, or even most, to be fair) of the older tenured professors, who’d never even put grades on Blackboard or Canvas, who’d presented the same lecture to three hundred students for thirty years, assumed they’d be cushioned by the efforts of their teaching assistants and those exasperated IT folk who had sent out years of friendly suggestions to at least “learn how to get online” — folks now in the firing zone who’d be expected to stay on campus and help the least-prepared survive the Switch. Or at least, fake it through till the semester ended.
And then there were those who were in the middle class, teaching full time but without tenure, some hoping to get it eventually, and some who were permanently contingent, with titles like Instructional Specialist or Lecturer, each wanting to make it through to the next performance review or contract, knowing they had to learn every new program that came through, but teaching eighty students a semester, or sitting on five committees, or both, and wondering how they were ever going to find time. The tools were in their hands. Or at least, uploaded to their Course Management System for when they had time to watch some instructional YouTube for The Big Blue Button or Perusall or Best Practices for remembering to have clothes on when video-chatting. But who’d made time? Who had known this was coming? Who was still catching up on grading Essay One?
Finally, there was the lowest class — the adjuncts. Trying to figure this all out in the spare time between all the gig work they did “on the side” while simultaneously watching those jobs fade away — no one needed a ride-share anywhere (everyone was practicing social distancing) and no one wanted to buy their handmade scented candles on Etsy (everyone was too busy with the search for the elusive N95 masks). They were probably okay — those people were just naturally tougher than people with actual jobs, right? They’re resourceful. They’d be fine. But who knew, really, anything about them at all?
And so alarm spread, to epidemic proportions. People reported in from colleges which had just switched to multi-factor authentication where no one could get online. Concerns multiplied for students with no home wireless or headsets or laptops. Or who were still on Spring Break and hadn’t checked their email in a week. Or maybe were sick or taking care of sick family members. Or were worrying how to get home when everyone said that no one should be flying but going to school in California had seemed such a good idea when they made their choice last April, back home in Pennsylvania. Or didn’t really have a home to go back to. The questions piled up; fears and self-doubts took a toll on a community that was, let’s face it, beset with anxiety and paranoia even at the best of times. And these were not the best of times. Much wine was purchased. Many viral virus playlists were shared.
For a while, things look bad. Scenes of terror were everywhere as instructors stared at their laptops in horror, sure that The Switch had won, and they would never, ever reach their students, adrift out there in the world somewhere.
But then, it happened. Listserv and Facebook pages sprang up, seemingly out of nowhere. Department heads and program administrators sent out soothing emails promising support and understanding to rally the troops. Tips were offered to deal with anxiety and social isolation. Writing communities began lists of free resources and advice. Tutorials were passed around. Low tech solutions were touted. Letters of reassurance were sent out to students. And everyone stopped and took a deep breath and remembered — we’re all in this together, we can conquer The Switch with care and grace and kindness to ourselves, our students, and each other. The horror subsided, and we all got to work.
And then the President made another speech, and everyone panicked again.
Don’t panic! We can do this! List of online resources for help with The Switch:
Education Companies Offering Free Subscriptions due to School Closings
The Chronicle of Higher Education
Assay Journal: Rapid Response Pedagogy Resources
Personal, Accessible, Responsive, Strategic: Resources and Strategies for Online Writing Instruction
Please do a Bad Job of Putting Your Courses Online
Advice for First-Time Online Teachers
Stay safe, everyone! And be kind to your students and yourselves!
