We are, in many ways, living through the unprecedented. There is never just one way to teach and learn something, let alone during the a global pandemic — and I think you’ll find that this class and my approach recognize this uncertainty.

But before I talk more about that, I want to share a story from my time at the University of Minnesota, where I did my undergraduate degree.

I grew up in a rural town in Minnesota — about 40 miles from where Little House on the Prairie was set, if that gives you any idea of how remote the town was — and I was so excited to move to “the big city”— which was, for me at the time, Minneapolis.

I was ready for my entire world to change — to learn, to grow, to transform my life away from what felt like a suffocating and confining existence in my hometown.

Then, during the first week of my first semester of my first year of college — my first week living in Minneapolis — two airplanes flew into the World Trade Center, ultimately collapsing them and forever changing the landscape of New York City, the United States, and much of the world.

I remember where I was when I first heard the news — I was eating breakfast in my dorm’s dining hall, just about to leave for my 8 AM Latin class (don’t ask me why I was taking Latin, I don’t even know anymore). I caught some bits of the news on the public radio station that was playing on the PA.

When I got to class, a student had a small radio on — this was 2001, before we had laptops and cell phones on us at all times— and the whole class was talking about some “accident” in New York, a plane hitting a skyscraper or something? No one was sure. We were confused and, it turns out, wouldn’t really know what was going on until much later that day and beyond.

It was at that point, our professor walked in. He was your stereotypical old white dude professor, a world renowned expert in the pronunciation of classical Latin. And, it turns out, completely inept when it came to dealing with a room full of confused and scared Freshman just trying to make sense of this terrifying and uncertain world in which we suddenly found ourselves.

He proceeded with class as normal, as if what was happening in the world was somehow less important than conjugating verbs in a dead language.

Now, as a professor nearly 20 years later, I think about that day often. About the opportunity we had to create something new — to learn, to grow, to transform, not necessarily the world, but at the very least our classroom.

We had the chance to come together in our collective vulnerability, to recognize and hold space for one another as we worked through fear, anxiety, anger, and uncertainty. But that professor wasn’t having it. He prioritized his imagined importance over our really real lives.

When I think about that, my next thought is, always: whatever I am as a professor, I want to be the opposite of that.

I want to recognize and hold space for you — my students — no matter what you are going through. There are more important things in the world than grades, than degrees, than hasty online lectures or buggy teleconferencing software.

And right now, more than ever, we ought to recognize that. We need to recognize that some of you are going to be affected by this pandemic on a personal level — maybe you’ve been infected, maybe you will be. Or maybe it’s a friend or loved one.

Maybe it’ll be mild; maybe it’ll be critical. Or, god forbid, fatal.

Even more of us will be affected politically and economically. Some of you may face, or may have already faced, unfair and — frankly — disgusting racial or ethnic prejudice as a result, whether on the street or from the highest political office in the United States.

Maybe some of you have lost your jobs and are struggling to support yourself or others. Maybe you’ve been displaced and are having to suddenly access this class from a different city, state, time zone, or country.

Finally, all of us will — if we haven’t already — be affected emotionally. There’s no escaping the fact that we are living, learning, and teaching against a historical moment — and that eventually (hopefully) we will be forever living in a “post-corona” world.

So, in view of that, here are my principles for INFO 102: Pandemic Edition.

1. Maximum flexibility: Many of us are, in some way, displaced — in our routines, in our physical location, or — more likely — both. Thrust into uncertain conditions, we need to be able to work on our time, in our own ways. And we need to be able to put work away and take care of ourselves and those around us — sometimes quite suddenly.
2. Downgraded workload, but not downgraded expectations: As a part of my commitment to flexibility, I’ve made some major changes to the assignments I usually require this term, shifting them to focus more squarely on course engagement and less on external writing or projects. I do this in recognition of our compromised attention spans. But it’s important to note that this doesn’t mean I’m compromising quality or content — far from it. In fact, in my renewed focus and despite the circumstances, this might the best, most succinct iteration of 102 yet.
3. Open communication: the only way we are going to get through this is together. And, for us, together means maintaining regular and open lines of contact. Me and the TAs will be real with you about our constraints. We should do all we can to accommodate one another this quarter.

From you, I only ask one thing: good faith effort. Please give us what you have to give — sometimes, that might be a lot, other times, it might be a little — but as long as you are engaging earnestly, keeping in touch, and paying attention whenever you are able, we’ll make sure you succeed in this course.

And with that, I’d like to leave off — fittingly, I think — with a couple of lines from a famous bit of Roman poetry.

I’ve practiced reading this aloud and I’m certain my old professor would fail me for my pronunciation. So be it; it wouldn’t be his first time failing me.

Anyway, here’s this, from Horace’s Odes:

Diffugere nives, redeunt iam gramina campis
arboribusque comae;

mutat terra vices et decrescentia ripas
flumina praetereunt

(The snows are fled away, leaves on the shaws
And grasses in the mead renew their birth,

The river to the river-bed withdraws,
And altered is the fashion of the earth.)

Thanks, and I am so looking forward to spending time with you this term — whatever of it you can spare.