Jane Costlow struggles to find words to convey how she鈥檚 feeling. 鈥淚n a way,鈥� she says, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know how I鈥檓 feeling.鈥�
In her 34th and final year in the 乐播传媒 classroom, Costlow, the college鈥檚 Griffith Professor of Environmental Studies, has seen her in-person teaching career end in a way neither she, nor anyone else for that matter, could have ever imagined.
On Friday, March 13, 乐播传媒 suspended in-person classes, asking all 1,700 students 鈥� except those granted waivers through petition 鈥� to move off campus in preparation for remote learning, which began on March 23.
Costlow is no stranger to catastrophic scenarios. A day before the announcement, she led a discussion in her course 鈥淐atastrophes and Hope,鈥� which explores disaster narratives that may serve as 鈥渄ire warnings, offer glimpses of hope, spur us to change our lives, or scare us into denial.鈥�
During that Thursday class, Costlow led a discussion of author Svetlana Alexievich鈥檚 collection of oral histories of the Chernobyl disaster, Voices from Chernobyl. She asked the students to imagine that Alexievich was interviewing them, because that’s what the author does, she explains.
鈥淪he interviews ordinary people who have lived through extraordinary circumstances. And so I asked them to write a piece as though Alexievich had asked them, 鈥榃hat was it like to be at 乐播传媒 in March of 2020?鈥欌��
The idea for the writing prompt comes from experience. 鈥淥ne of the wonderful and frustrating things about teaching is that you’re always being confronted with new situations and new configurations of students. You have to learn to think on your feet.鈥�
That last day in class, Costlow gave her students another, optional, writing assignment. Instead of a traditional paper, they could pretend to be a character in Doctor Zhivago offering written advice to the paper writer.
The novel鈥檚 fictional characters had 鈥渓ived through profound psychological disruptions of revolution, civil war, displacement, separation from families, famine, and epidemic,鈥� says Costlow, 鈥減eople who have had the rug pulled out from under them really big time.鈥�
Yet Costlow believes that the novel offers 鈥減rofound examples of resilience and people鈥檚 will to live and continue.鈥� That鈥檚 why she thought it would be interesting to see if some of the students would be willing to choose this alternative to a traditional paper.
The class accomplished, yet again, what Costlow has devoted her career to doing: giving her students insight, context, and understanding. She enjoyed the session immensely despite the circumstances.
But at home later that evening, knowing an announcement to close was imminent, Costlow finally reacted. 鈥淚 felt really, really sad, because it hit me: 鈥極h, I鈥檓 never going to be in a classroom with students again.鈥� And I was just kind of overcome. It was the unexpectedness of it that made it really intense.鈥�
Costlow has always known that humor can help calm roiled water; she reminds her students that 鈥渨hat makes human beings resilient in the long run is being able to tell jokes and share some kind of morbid humor with each other.鈥� It鈥檚 part of what gets us through difficult situations, she says.
Although she kept the humor in mind on Friday after the closing announcement, Costlow found herself challenged in unprecedented ways, as students, some quite distraught, dropped by for goodbyes and reassurances.
At top, Costlow struggles with her emotions in her office with a student on the last day of classes. Above left and right, Costlow meets with Tommy Novick ’22 of New Canaan, Conn., and Ava Gulino ’20 of Wilmington, Del. (Phyllis Graber Jensen/乐播传媒 College)
鈥淚t was excruciatingly difficult,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 just really wanted to go into my 鈥� I鈥檒l call it a 鈥榤aternal mode.鈥� I wanted to comfort them and hug them, but it was already kind of a situation where we weren’t supposed to do that. I felt powerless to care for them in a way I might normally have tried to care for them.鈥�
But then a helpful realization kicked in.
Above left, Michelle Desjarlais ’22 of Albuquerque, N.M., also stopped by and received a social distancing鈥揳ppropriate elbow bump from Costlow instead of a hug. Above right, Dianna Georges ’22 of Clifton, N.J., received Costlow’s reassurances that they would see each other again next year. (Phyllis Graber Jensen/乐播传媒 College) .
鈥淭here鈥檚 a continuity in my relationships with them as their adviser or their teacher.鈥� In that role, she was able to calm and reassure them. 鈥淲e’re not going to sit here and talk about your thesis, but we’re going to pick up and continue doing it online. The situation won鈥檛 be that different.鈥�
And for those who weren鈥檛 seniors, she offered the consolation that although she won鈥檛 be teaching or advising them next fall, she will still be around to connect with them. 鈥淚’m not moving to the wilds of Russia. You will see me again.鈥�
Those goodbyes remind her of a favorite Russian proverb: 鈥淟ong, long goodbyes lead to too many tears.鈥� It鈥檚 time to move on.
As her last campus semester evaporated in front of her, Costlow suddenly realized that she might lose the chance to engage in a traditional rite of faculty retirement: giving books from her office collection to students as gifts.
On that final Friday, one student left with two volumes about Siberia. Another received Lydia Zinovieva-Annibal鈥檚 The Tragic Menagerie, a book of Russian stories translated by Costlow herself. A third received a copy of Tolstoy鈥檚 Anna Karenina, inscribed by Costlow. 鈥淚t鈥檚 a great time to dip into a fictional world that鈥檚 completely different,鈥� Costlow said.
At top, Costlow’s sense of humor kicks in on March 13, 2020, as she suggests some reading, Roy Scranton’s We’re Doomed. Now What? Essays on War and Climate Change, for thesis advisee Ava Gulino ’20 of Wilmington, Del. Above left and right, Costlow pulled these volumes off her bookshelves and inscribed them for students as they dropped by her Hedge Hall office. (Phyllis Graber Jensen/乐播传媒 College)
Now working from home in Auburn, Costlow has created a backdrop for Zoom meetings with students in her two winter-semester courses. Not a digital one, but a real one. There鈥檚 an antique pie safe 鈥� a tin bureau punctured with holes to keep the pastry aerated and bug-free, and a framed black-and-white drawing of a man with a hat, sketched 19 years ago by her son, Dinesh, then 12.
The 乐播传媒 faculty had about 10 days to prepare 鈥� many for the first time in their academic careers 鈥� for remote teaching and learning. Costlow spent much of that week determining how to rearrange her syllabi, in part, by polling her students, 28 in one class, 35 in another, to get a sense of what their situations were.
Given 乐播传媒鈥� international student body, Costlow knew that 鈥渟ynchronous classes wouldn鈥檛 work because people are really all over the place.” She arrived at her approach through 鈥渁 little bit of trial and error,” along with robust support from the college鈥檚 Information and Library Services.
Slowly, she felt less unsettled. She created short PowerPoint presentations to offer introductions and context for material. She鈥檚 divided the classes, including her course 鈥淟ives in Place,鈥� into discussion groups of five and six students who discuss reading topics and then write blogs that are both responses to the readings and reports about their day-to-day experiences.
The blogs have been unexpectedly wonderful, she says, because there are some students who have opened up on the blogs, some of those who have been very quiet in class. 鈥淭here’s an interesting way in which having a different medium of communication opens things up for certain students.鈥�
In the midst of the second week of online teaching, she鈥檚 aware of what鈥檚 changed and what hasn鈥檛. 鈥淚 still have a stack of papers I have to grade. Right? I do need to sit here and read through them.鈥� Yet reading their papers 鈥渋s where I feel like I’ll encounter each student, personally.鈥�
During a Zoom conversation, Jane Costlow describes how she felt when she realized she had just taught her last class in a 乐播传媒 classroom. (Phyllis Graber Jensen/乐播传媒 College)
An unexpected benefit of remote teaching, says Costlow, is the opportunity 鈥渢o get a little bit of a peek into their home lives.鈥� To re-launch her classes, she asked students to create one-minute 鈥渞e-introduction鈥� videos about where they were and how they were feeling, and what they were experiencing.
鈥淚t was really great to see their faces and see where they are,鈥� to be able to see their pets and their loved ones moving in the background. 鈥淭hat’s kind of cool. I think that you learn a little bit more about your students when you get a sense of them in the context of their family lives.鈥�
But it’s also been clear that this new reality is, above all, stressful. Whatever their family鈥檚 circumstances, part of the stress results from 鈥渉aving gone off to college and become an independent adult. And then, suddenly, you’re back in high school mode, where you’re living in the house with the rest of your family.鈥�
Remote teaching has presented entirely new challenges. A student asked her during a Zoom conference: 鈥淚n your experience, has there been anything like this? Was it like 9/11?鈥�
No, she told him. The pandemic feels very different to her 鈥渂ecause of the time frame.鈥� Sept. 11 was a series of events followed by shock and a subsequent 鈥渦nfolding sequence of political disruptions and consequences.鈥�
There was uncertainty after 9/11, but not interminable uncertainty of the kind we鈥檙e feeling now. We don鈥檛 have a sense of time.
As her students studied the Chernobyl disaster, they read an essay by the sociologist Kai Erikson, who describes what he calls a 鈥渘ew species of trouble鈥� in the form of radioactivity and 鈥渢oxic disasters.鈥� Such events 鈥渄on’t follow the law of plot,鈥� Costlow says.
With most disasters, such as floods or fires or hurricanes 鈥� the disasters that she lived through growing up on the coast of North Carolina 鈥� there鈥檚 a beginning, a middle, and an end. 鈥淵ou know something’s coming. There’s confusion and complexity of whatever happens. Then the thing passes, followed by the aftermath.鈥� Erikson鈥檚 conclusion, that toxic disasters don鈥檛 provide any sense of closure, resonated with Costlow鈥檚 students as they tried to make sense of COVID-19.
鈥淭here鈥檚 an amorphous sense of uncertainty about exactly what the disaster is and when, if ever, it was.鈥� It certainly applied to Chernobyl, she says, but it also gave them language to consider for today鈥檚 pandemic. 鈥淲ithout the law of plot, there isn鈥檛 anything we can look forward to. I really can’t think of anything analogous to this in my own life,鈥� she says.
People have been asking each other how they are doing, she concludes, and 鈥渨e all kind of look at each other and say, 鈥業 have no idea.鈥� I mean, it’s kind of numbing. The structure of trying to do this semester is in some ways comforting, but I just can’t get over how strange and unsettling it is.鈥�
She worries about her students, the college, and her colleagues. 鈥淚t鈥檚 been very gratifying to see the extent to which faculty have reached out to each other online to try to provide advice, but also support for each other.鈥�
But in the end, she says, 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know. It just feels unreal.鈥�
