Graphic by Trinity Kendrick ‘21
By Tishya Khana ’23
Features Editor
I’m writing this week’s edition with a bit of caution — it may be too emotional, too nostalgic. If, like me, you perform better in structures and routines, online classes aren’t ideal. Joining Zoom meetings or Discord channels for office hours just doesn’t cut it for the conversations that happen in professors’ actual offices flooded with books.
Now classes begin and end with the opening and closing of your laptop’s lid and suddenly, there’s an unbearable silence on both ends. Before class, many of us need to find the right headspace to pay attention, even to simply listen. Got your notebooks? Done your homework? Checked the forums? All right, let’s do this. You click the meeting link and it begins.
It’s stressful to think about all this, let alone write about it. Ironically, that stress is somehow alleviated when I think of how we used to walk to our classes. (Remember walking to classes?) What a privilege. I like to think of how some days when I had plenty of time before class, I used to enjoy looking at the leaves and trees and everything on the way with extra attention. Have they changed colors? Are they rustling a little more? The weather is colder now, another way to tell the semester is coming to a close. Should you have worn another layer?
I like to think of the enclosure of buildings when you’re walking to your class — when you’re tracing the map of the campus. You walk out of SuperBlanch after a good meal. The class is in Shattuck. You walk toward beautiful Porter Hall and climb up to see Mary Lyon’s grave. The leaves are all over — the grass, the pavement, the puddles. You keep walking and on your left are the Williston Library and the Abbey Chapel. You’re in awe of the beautiful Gothic architecture. On your right is the old Clapp Laboratory, full of all things mathematics, geology and biology. You pass Clapp and see the new and modern Kendade Hall — standing in contrast with the buildings around it — and then right there in front of you is Shattuck, your final destination. You open the door — you are engulfed by the warmth of the building, a pleasant change from the wind outside — and you go to your classroom.
This is the part I miss the most: simply sitting in the classroom. On days when you lack the energy to engage, being in the presence of other people with a similar goal centers you. It’s also easier to simply ask the people sitting next to you, “Uh, so what are we doing here?” Now, it’s more difficult to handle being confused on your own. Asking for help requires greater effort. You cannot discuss the topics before or after class — you cannot check what’s due and when in casual conversation. Now, we have to keep track of everything by ourselves, make even more extensive to-do lists and keep track of our schedules when time is an illusory concept.
Yet there’s also something homey about seeing a mosaic of everyone’s faces and surroundings everyday. Sometimes the image changes, sometimes it doesn’t even appear, sometimes puppies and kittens show up and sometimes the people simply don’t show up. It’s nice to be part of each other’s lives in this oddly intimate way.
My room at home, full of drawings on the walls that I usually keep private, is now a familiar image to people I’d never spoken to a few weeks back. Logging into Zoom is preparing myself to welcome others into this private space.
We’re burnt out, and it’s only natural to feel this way. We’ve done so much on our own (even the things we shouldn’t have to do alone). And we have come so far. Although asking for help outside of class is now more of an effort, this is a reminder that when you reach your hand out, someone will pull you up. We have one more month left in the semester and we have almost made it. Think of South Hadley skies, in-person conversations during office hours, and the huge blackboards and whiteboards. Remember that we will soon have that again.