One would be forgiven for not wanting to look back on the 2020-21 academic year. Having had to endure so much and acclimate to so many new and often cumbersome ways of doing things does not readily inspire a nostalgic desire to pause and reflect. Keeping our eyes fixed firmly on what is coming next might seem more prudent, as we warily anticipate the next challenge to befall higher education and the university community. There may be, indeed, no overwhelming temptation to glance backwards; our situation is not that of the mythical Orpheus, who could not resist turning back to look at Eurydice.
Unlike the case with Orpheus, though, no pronouncement or order keeps us from casting a backwards glance and perhaps the only sure way of meeting whatever difficulties lie in store for academia is to review our actions, evaluate choices made under trying circumstances, and embrace the adaptations and strategies that carried us through what felt—at times and even frequently—catastrophic. We can also gain strength from reflecting on what made us persevere or by appreciating the courage and resilience that our students repeatedly demonstrated.
To find the resolve necessary to reflect on all that has transpired, we might turn to poetry as a means of clarifying purpose and inspiring brave responses. I am thinking of Robert Frost’s “Directive,” which advises us not to look away but, instead, to comprehend our present through a consideration of the past, as we travel “Back out of all this now too much for us, / Back in a time made simple by the loss / of detail, burned, dissolved, and broken off.” Frost’s first three lines of “Directive” do not flinch from the compromised conditions he faces, and there is a benefit, he infers, to seeing things starkly and as they are. Later in the poem, Frost announces another directive that is fitting for our task, the reappraisal of our labor under demanding and ever-shifting circumstances: “Make yourself up a cheering song of how / Someone’s road home from work this once was.”
Cheerful songs, admittedly, seem a bit premature for the immediate moment, especially when occupational conditions during the pandemic have often meant, confusingly and exhaustingly, that there was no distinction between work and home for many people. Nevertheless, there is ample evidence that many individuals found positive, workable—if not cheerily successful—means of accomplishing the objectives of the university. With classes moving to remote settings via video conferencing and Canvas, much attention was placed on the adaptation of teaching, leading to a reconsideration of course design, content, and delivery. The Center for Teaching & Learning featured some of these innovative approaches in its programming this past year, showcasing how various faculty facilitated field work in a remote geology course, developed new models of grading, and enhanced project-based learning activities with digitized texts. Technology was also an aid in enriching learning experiences, with software aimed at assisting with textual analysis (e.g., Perusall) and improving student engagement (e.g., Flipgrid).
Changes in the way that students experienced instruction, logging into “class” from their dorm rooms, apartments, and homes, led as never before to sharper realizations of the lived experiences of our students. Zoom etiquette became, in positive and negative ways, a new element of classroom management. One anecdote is telling in this regard: in the fall semester, I conducted a class observation that took place via video conferencing. Each member of the class was present, and all of them took turns participating in discussion and presenting their projects. One student sat in a darkened room, a state I found curious compared to the other brightly lit rooms. When that person’s turn came to speak, however, he politely explained that his roommate was sleeping, and he did not want to disturb him by illuminating his room more. What might have seemed at first glance to be discourteous behavior was instead an appreciably polite act, which his explanation had made clear. It was a lesson for me, once more, in the consideration and courtesy that undergraduates can often have for one another.
Looking back on this year and last would be incomplete without thinking through the implications that the deaths of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and too many others, and the corresponding Black Lives Matter protests had on society. Renewed calls to create social change and address racial inequality made their way into the university setting. The historical moment was instructive to the CU Boulder community, leading many to rethink how curricula could be constructed, students could be made to feel that they belong, and higher education could contribute to a more just society. Any reflection upon this past year pointedly suggests, though, that so much more can and needs to be done.
The fraught and anguished nature of working in a pandemic and coming to terms with racial injustice illuminates the necessity for basic human imperatives: that we should approach each other and attend to ourselves with grace, kindness, and compassion. A recognition of one another’s fundamental dignity seems, paradoxically, both a very tall order and a simple one. For those of us who survived this year and last, we might ask how it was possible. Perhaps the words from a poem by Lucille Clifton can provide a salve for what has been broken or has seemed insurmountable this past year. In the poem, Clifton meditates upon time, the past, and renewal, speaking of the Mississippi River as if it didn’t divide America but, instead, replenishes and unites the country, over time: “the Mississippi river empties into the gulf / and the gulf enters the sea and so forth, / none of them emptying anything, all of them carrying yesterday…it is the great circulation / of the earth’s body…this river in which the past / is always flowing….”