Oh.em.gee. I can’t believe I’m in what looks to be my final semester of the PhD. You guys…I’m writing a dissertation! I know, you can’t believe it either. Or maybe you can. Personally, I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around how to write a dissertation, which might be the reason why it is not going very smoothly at all (*insert nomination for understatement of the year*).
I’m so thankful that the Lord has gotten me this far, but wow– there’s still a long way to go before I defend my dissertation in December (I hope and pray and hope and pray)!
It’s after midnight, and I came to my desk three hours ago to get to work. Instead of work, I found procraductivity. The first hour was spent organizing my files (how am I supposed to write about research that is digitally strewn all over my laptop?!). The second hour was spent on Facebook and Instagram, chatting with friends over text, and reading another person’s blog (which is basically how I feel like I spend most of my life lately). In the third hour, I finally decided that if I’m not going to get any actual work done, I want to at least do some writing (I set a goal this week to write 4-5 pages per day…let’s all laugh together). That’s when I remembered my own blog.
I started this blog four years ago as a new PhD student for the purpose of writing practice (and to complete a final project requirement during my first semester). People in the PhD world always say that the best way to make progress on writing is to write…ANYTHING. I guess the theory is that it is like Drano for the pipe that goes from your brain to your fingers: cleaning out the bits of your life that get stuck inside of you, flushing it out so that those beautiful-but-sticky academic thoughts can make their way down stream.
So, here I am…trying to get the pipes working again.
Four years ago me, on this blog, sounds so different than what I hear my narrative voice sounding like today. She was stressed out but determined; a little rambling yet to the point; kind of funny, and even “sunny” (a way my friend and PhD colleague describes my academic writing). Optimistic, some might say. She always had a lesson to learn or a poignant take-away for her reader. Aww. She was so cute, clueless, and had no idea what was about to hit her.
She knew something was coming, but she could have never guessed what…
I hate failing. I know it’s a part of life, and I know it builds character. It’s not that I’ve never failed; it’s just that I avoid it as much as possible. During my senior year of high school, I wanted to keep straight A’s, so I dropped Physics class for fear of getting a B. I played violin for one year when I was 12 years old, but quit because I realized I wasn’t very good at it. I’m not afraid of failing, but I definitely don’t like it. I take risks, but it might be true that they are more calculated risks than I’d like to admit. I don’t need my life to be full of sunshines and cotton candy, but I do like to succeed, and avoid failure when possible. That’s probably normal human behavior, but as I reflect on my recent disappointment, it has been something that has crossed my mind.
Today I’m thinking about failure and disappointment because I had two conference proposals get denied this afternoon. Back in May, I worked with a few other people and submitted proposals for the annual TESOL Convention (Teaching English to Speakers of Other Languages). It is the biggest conference in the field of TESOL, and my first time attending was last year. As I sat through several sessions over the full four-day conference, I realized that I actually had some ideas that would be valuable to some of the people that attend. As soon as I returned home from the conference, one of the people I met there emailed and asked if I wanted to submit a joint proposal for next year’s TESOL Convention. One month later, I had written two proposals that I thought were brilliant and started making plans (in my head) for how I was going to logistically make it to Houston to present said brilliant ideas next year.
The first proposal was submitted to the Intensive English Program (IEP) and Administration section of the conference. There were three of us on this panel proposal, each having different administrative roles at our IEPs dealing with activities and cultural engagement, and we had a beautiful plan to share our wealth of knowledge on this important topic to other IEP teachers and administrators. Apparently the committee that reviewed our proposal didn’t agree. We got all positive comments (there’s a website to view your specific feedback); however, there were two contradictory comments from two different reviewers. One comment said that this panel would be for a very broad audience and would have high interest, while another comment said that the audience would be too specific and we should make it more general. Not helpful, reviewers…not helpful. Discouraging, but mostly I just feel misunderstood. Poor us. Failing sometimes makes me feel like that– like the world has just misunderstood and completely missed how brilliant I actually am! Usually though, it just makes me feel like…well, a failure.
The second proposal is something similar to a presentation that I’ll be giving at a conference here on campus later this month. A co-worker and I proposed a presentation on the development of a new program geared towards incoming international freshmen students. Given that international student enrollment is such a hot topic right now in many education fields, especially in TESOL/TESL, we really were confident that the committee would see how valuable and interesting this presentation would be. Obviously, they thought differently. We got only two short feedback comments for this proposal which were completely contradictory. The first said “Interesting topic to be presented, very well presented and organized, clear abstract, congratulations.” Encouraging, right? The second said, and I quote, “Topic not knew. Very general not researched based.” I feel like if you cannot distinguish between “new” and “knew”, you shouldn’t be reviewing conference proposals for the largest convention in our professional field. I also feel like if you don’t know what is considered “new” and relevant in our field, you should not be reviewing conference proposals. Also, I feel like if you think that all 30,000 presentations at TESOL are and should be research-based, or if you don’t understand the meaning of “general”, (a presentation on the specific development of a single pilot course at one university is not my idea of “general”), …I could go on, but I won’t. I feel like failing sometimes makes me feel too many feelings.
While I am of the opinion that my conference proposals were obviously fantastic, I am also aware that the acceptance rate for proposals for large conferences can be quite low. I think the main reason for my disappointment is that I just didn’t expect the rejection. I am keenly aware of the fact that one cannot always succeed (or have every conference proposal accepted), but are we supposed to prepare ourselves for failure every time, just in case? I’m not sure it’s very healthy to live like that, but maybe it makes the pending disappointments go down a bit easier.
This is a good growing moment for me, and an experience that will toughen up my “disappointment muscles”, so to speak. I have a sneaky suspicion that this will, in fact, NOT be the only time that failure will disappoint me during my PhD student experience.
Bring it on, failure—bring it on.
“This is nice. I get to relax on my fluffy couch, be in comfy clothes, light a few scented candles, and have a snack while I participate in my online class. I think I’m going to like this online learning thing!” say I to myself as the first online class starts for the evening. It’s strange that I’m in an on-campus program and two out of three classes that I’m taking are online, but if this is where modern education is headed, I should get used to it. After all, I get to learn from the comfort of my own home. However, one hour into my first class, I wake-up to my classmates introducing themselves, and my professor never calls my name. Uh-oh. I must have slept through my turn for the introductions! I hear her call out a few other students’ names, and when they didn’t respond, there was a comment about “technical difficulties”. Whew. Looks like I got by with it this time, but this is not going to be easy.
Fast-forward to the second online class for the week, the next day. This time I am more awake, had a Diet Coke (for the caffeine), and am ready to pay attention. The class was starting late because of technical difficulties, so I decide to pop some popcorn as a snack. “This is great,” I think. “I can even eat popcorn during class! Maybe online learning is really going to be for me!” However, just as soon as the class starts up again, I race to the microwave because I realized that instead of smelling popcorn, I’m breathing in popcorn smoke! Smoke alarms going off and the whole house now having that lovely burnt popcorn smell, I try to air out the house while paying attention to what my professor is saying. Strike two for me and online learning.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one having a hard time adjusting to online learning. Later on in the class, we divided up into groups to discuss the readings that were assigned for our very first session. There were four people in my group, but only two of us were able to discuss the article. One guy types in the chat box that he can’t hear anything, so he’ll just post something on Moodle later. Another guy never responded to our inquiries at all, so we had no idea what happened to him. As myself and the only other person able to use the software correctly try to discuss the article, there are lots of awkward pauses due to the fact that only one person can talk at a time without getting major echoes and feedback. After an entire twenty minutes, we only managed to discuss the article for about five of those minutes. Maybe my group members didn’t accidentally fall asleep on their couch or distract themselves with burnt snacks, but we all were finding it difficult to engage fully in the class.
During week two of my online courses, I knew I had to approach them differently. No snacks, no reclining on the couch with soft pillows and stretchy pants. Instead, I sat at my desk with a pen and notebook in hand, headphones in to drown out other noise going on in the house, and ready to engage my mind. I was listening intently, taking notes, nodding and “hmmm”-ing when something interested me. Then, it hit me—my professor had no idea that I was actively engaged in the lecture, just like she had no idea that I had fallen asleep the previous week. When I had a question or wanted her to expand a little more on an idea, it felt strange to interrupt the lecture that I was listening to. Because I couldn’t see her face, I didn’t have any visual cues as to when she was going to take a breath or break in the lecture so that I could insert an opinion or remark. I also realized that staring at a blank screen, or a PowerPoint slide with words on it, was not keeping my attention. I was not only learning online—I was learning blindly.
I continue to struggle as I learn how to learn online. My identity as a student, as I’ve discovered, has a lot to do with my physical reactions: verbal feedback, nodding, facial expressions, etc. When I have a question or want to discuss an idea, I don’t think in well-thought-out phrases or use a high level of academic vocabulary; when I’m learning, I think and speak in short phrases, and depend on interaction with others in order to verbally process those thoughts, questions, and ideas. Online learning is totally different. My professors mainly gauge my interest and activity in class through written posts later on in the week. My posts need to be well written, well articulated, and use a certain rhetoric that is far from conversational (at least, that is the caliber of posts that have been happening in these two courses). I feel that they do not get a sense of who I am, which, I’ve discovered recently, is important to me as a student.
Interestingly, this is not my first online class experience: I teach an online class a few times per year. The biggest difference for me, apart from being in the learner’s seat, is that when I teach, I meet with my students on Skype at least once per week. The course content I teach is different, and requires brief face-to-face meetings (involving advising the language learning process and teaching different phonetic sounds). There’s no doubt that having those video Skype sessions with my students gives a more personal feel to the course. However, I do have more sympathy for my students who, for the majority of the course, have to listen to pre-recorded lectures and do other online activities. While we have seen many benefits to moving this course online versus teaching it in person, I do now understand more of the disadvantages to online learning from a student perspective.
As it’s only one month into my online courses, I might change my opinion. I’m applying new strategies, including meeting in person with the few on-campus classmates in my courses to discuss assignments and readings. As time goes by, I’m re-learning how to be engaged in courses like these, and learning how to make my posts more “me”, including more personal stories, etc. While it may not end up being my favorite form of education, it certainly is inevitable, and I’m glad to be involved in these courses not only for the content (I do LOVE what we’re learning), but also for the shared experience of online classes in a more globalized and digital age of learning.
- Started because of a final project in an “intro to grad school” course
- Continuing because I have to practice writing
- Content: Old posts, new posts, funny posts, academic posts, guest posts, contemplative posts, etc.
- Goal: Blog once a week until I deposit my dissertation