By Beth Petitjean, Ph.D., Digital Learning Specialist, Reinert Center
Last month, I had the good fortune to attend and present a paper at The Teaching Professor Conference in New Orleans. I had never been to the conference nor the city before, and, honestly, I wasn’t sure what to expect from them either. A recent bout with Covid had me focused on my recovery so I could attend in the first place, which meant that I completely overlooked the timing of the conference that happened to coincide with Pride Month and the 80th anniversary of the D-Day invasions in World War II. These two coincidences became relevant quickly for me once I arrived in New Orleans. Now that I’ve had some time to process, I’d like to share with you, gentle reader, some of my reflections. If you’ll indulge me, grab a refreshing beverage, sit back, and read on.
My overwhelming feeling from this trip to New Orleans was one of authenticity, unapologetic authenticity. The three-day Teaching Professor Conference was a collection of teachers, instructional designers, and administrators all coming together to talk about the art of teaching. Sessions ranged from workshops on pedagogy, mentor sessions with practical examples and suggestions for classroom activities, and plenary sessions designed to inspire and motivate teachers who do an increasingly difficult job. College teachers of every rank, from every size institution, took a few days out of their precious summer break to learn more about their craft. Everyone I met was unapologetically authentic in expressing their passion for teaching and their desire to continue improving so that their students would be the true beneficiaries of this professional development. But they were also authentic in expressing the challenges of teaching. I could hear frustration seep in as one person shared their experiences on a lengthy committee assignment where they juggled the demands of multiple stakeholders while slogging through a bureaucratic labyrinth. Exhaustion and near burnout crept into another person’s presentation on active learning; they were tired of being what they called a “grading robot,” yet there they were, sharing what they’ve done to make their classes better for students despite the burden it placed on them. Concern and worry about AI permeated sessions, breakfast conversations, and Q&As. At The Teaching Professor Conference, it was clear to me that the stresses of teaching were welcomed just as much as the successes, and no one shied away from authentically expressing either.
While in the coffee line Saturday morning of the conference, I overheard chit-chat about the Pride celebrations scheduled in the city for that evening. With so many of my friends and loved ones being members of the LGBTQIA+ community, I wanted to honor and support them by going to the Pride Parade, even though I was going by myself and in a city I didn’t know. I was also motivated by the fact that New Orleans is famous for its parades (i.e. Mardi Gras comes to mind), so I wanted to check out what all the fuss was about. Well, clearly the city knows how to throw a party! Over twenty floats and just as many groups stretched the miles-long parade route through the French Quarter on a balmy June afternoon. For over two hours, people of all shapes, sizes, colors, genders, orientations, and faiths walked, sang, danced, laughed, and smiled as participants and spectators. Charities, organizations, big businesses, dance troupes, and even a few church groups authentically and happily expressed their support and threw beads and other trinkets to the cheering crowds. Hate, discord, and incivility stopped for those two hours, and everyone there authentically said “Hello, I’m glad you’re here” to stranger and friend alike regardless of difference. We were humans simply sharing a Saturday evening together. It was glorious to witness.
On my last day in New Orleans, I squeezed in a couple of hours at the National World War II Museum before my evening flight. I’ve been to many (MANY) museums in the U.S. and Europe, and this was, by far, one of the best! The six-building campus, which originated as a small museum dedicated to D-Day, offered a plethora of stories about every aspect of the war era. Most of it was immersive, from the “train ride” replicating the first journey of a soldier, to the full-size military planes hanging from the rafters in the largest of the buildings. The exhibits leaned into the immersive technique, with scenic sets depicting the forests of Europe or the jungles of Asia, videos projected onto canvas army tents, and lighting and sound effects (and a full, authentic apartment) to replicate the atmosphere a young Anne Frank would have heard while in hiding. Oral histories—authentic stories told by survivors, witnesses, and service personnel in text, video, and audio—were spread throughout the campus on monitors, placards, and theater screens. The complexity of the storytelling was overwhelming, and it was impressive that the museum curators told balanced, authentic stories regardless of the horrors that such authenticity revealed.
With limited time, I started in the “Road to Tokyo” exhibit to learn about my grandfather, Pap as I called him. PFC Roy C. Bell, Jr. was 18 years old when he enlisted in the Marine Corps. He shipped out to the Pacific as a member of the Third Marine Division a month after he turned 19 in early 1943; his service didn’t end until December 1945. In my teenage years, my budding interest in history meant that I pestered him endlessly to tell me stories about “the war.” He never did. And now I know why. The fighting in the Pacific was brutal; the environment and living conditions harsh and unyielding. I can’t imagine what Pap witnessed during nearly three years in the Pacific, especially when he walked into Nagasaki in September 1945, a month after the second atomic bomb changed the world forever. I learned a great deal at that museum, and one thing that became evident is that the expression “once a Marine, always a Marine” is true. Pap didn’t stop serving his country upon his discharge, but remained a Marine, protecting his young granddaughter from learning the truths of the world before she was ready for them.
By now, dear reader, your iced beverage has grown warm in the sweltering heat of a summer’s day, and you may be wondering why I’m sharing all of this with you. Well, my experiences in New Orleans reminded me how privileged we are to teach during a time of (relative) peace in our country and at an institution that values diversity and inclusion and authenticity. It didn’t escape my awareness that my grandfather was around the same age as our undergraduate students during his entire war experience. He never went to college and dropped out of high school in the 9th grade so he could work and provide for his eight brothers and sisters in Depression-era Pennsylvania, and then had an entirely different form of higher education during the war. Today, our students get the opportunity to learn about the world through books, videos, and lectures, not through bombs and fighting. Our students get to walk to class amidst beautifully landscaped grasses, trees, and flower beds, not a war-torn city or a seemingly insurmountable beachhead on enemy territory. Our students ride around campus on scooters and bicycles, instead of being transported hither and yon in ships, tanks, or cattle cars. We encourage our students to be authentic, to be proud of who they are in all their wonderful diversity. As teachers, we continue to prepare lectures, assessments, Canvas pages, and activities, hold office hours, serve on committees, write student letters of recommendation, read papers and dissertations, and everything else that comes along with academic life because we care about future generations. It’s easy to lose sight of our “why” under the frustration, the exhaustion, and, yes, the endless grading, that come with teaching. But it’s there, deep down. May you spend the rest of the summer break remembering your “why” and focusing on your self-care so that you have the strength and fortitude to bring your authentic self to campus when classes start for the Fall semester.
The Notebook 