Around this time of year (midterms, advising) students often come to me crying about being overwhelmed or some perceived unfairness. I haven’t quite figured out a technique for how to respond to the “criers.” I’ve tried different responses, including telling the student that it’s okay to cry and offering tissues, pretending that I don’t notice the tears streaming down their face, or, if they are particularly embarrassed, reassuring them that it’s okay to express their emotions in that way. I wonder, though, how others would handle episodes like these years later? Workplace crying oftentimes is treated as excessively emotional and completely inappropriate in professional settings.
In Lean In, Sheryl Sandberg recounted her experience crying in front of a supervisor and offers that it ended up being an important opportunity for connection. However, in a patriarchal culture, many see this as a “female” problem. In my own interactions, it does seem that more young women end up crying in my office than young men. Having said that, female students greatly outnumber their male counterparts in my school, so my impression may be skewed. Given that my school serves a population that largely does not conform to traditional gender roles, it’s surprising to see the crying divide across sexes so clearly.
In my own observations beyond my students, I have seen many female colleagues cry in my office over a workplace or personal issue, but I can think of only one instance witnessing a male colleague cry. I myself have cried on several occasions. Most of the time I was met with empathy, but during one encounter, a colleague responded to my display with disgust. Later, I found out through conversations with others that I was perceived as weak and my crying was inappropriate.
After finding this out, I was embarrassed but also angry. Why should I be expected to project a masculine stance in the workplace? My crying was perceived as vulnerable because my colleague assumed I was sad, when in fact my crying (welling tears, not wailing) was an expression of my anger and frustration. If I instead had raised my voice or taken on a threatening posture, I would have been met with a different reaction (“bitchy,” perhaps; another way to dismiss women who refuse to conform to patriarchal gender roles).
An article in the Huffington Post features women in positions of power who talk about crying at work. Some of the women say they think crying distracts from their power and presence at work, while others acknowledge that, at times, crying can be appropriate. However, is this all socially constructed? Do we see crying simply as weak while other emotions (like anger) are considered more acceptable in a “competitive” environment? When my own children cry, I never tell them to stop. I think they should be allowed to express their emotions and learn how to work through them, but how long will they have until they are judged for crying? How do you treat your crying students, colleagues, or your own tears at work?
On October 9th, between the hours of 6:15-6:45am, I observed Prof. Mom teaching a lesson to her son. Prior to discussing content, I must first point out that, though Prof. Mom obviously has little control over scheduling, this may not be the ideal time to embark on teaching. The child probably was not fully awake, and Prof. Mom had not even had a cup of coffee yet (which most definitely impacted the lesson).
The content of the lesson focused on how to create a Venn Writing Diagram based on a fiction and non-fiction reading passage. Prof. Mom has the background to teach this lesson. She herself has published many non-fiction pieces. However, she approached the lesson as “everything not to do in creating a Venn Writing Diagram.” I would recommend that Prof. Mom reframe her focus to be more positive.
Clearly, Prof. Mom has previously taught a similar lesson to her student as evidenced by frequent attempts to refer to past lessons and review material. However, the student did not seem to have retained much from prior lessons, which seemed to frustrate Prof. Mom throughout this lesson. Perhaps Prof. Mom would like to consider flashcards, extraneous group assignments, or other techniques designed to encourage comprehension. In addition, the faculty member continuously placed blame on the student: throughout the lesson at various points, she implied that said student was lazy, not listening, too vested in video games, and potentially destined for failure if he did not change his ways. Prof. Mom should be reminded that harshly criticizing students does not place them in a proper frame of mind. In addition, though we all value the importance of lessons, they also should be put in proper life perspective.
Throughout the lesson, Prof. Mom seemed overly distracted. At various points, she stepped away from the student to make lunches, break up a (loud) fight between two students not participating in the lesson over a whistle, attempted to locate specific denominations of cash to attach to a class trip form, and was constantly cleaning. These distractions were unhelpful to both professor and student and probably contributed to student’s lack of focus.
Regarding the content of the lesson, Prof. Mom started off with a proper focus on the difference between fiction and non-fiction genres and the need for specificity in writing. However, as the lesson went on, the professor seemed increasingly rushed and, by the end of the lesson, seemed to be offering answers versus soliciting participation from the student.
All in all, it seems that Prof. Mom had good intentions with the class. Clearly she was trying to impart important information. She also had a clearly stated learning goal with an observable outcome. However, she had a strong tendency to be overly critical, distracted, and seemed to “give up” by the end of the lesson. The outcome (the student creating a Venn Writing Diagram) was not clearly achieved. I strongly recommend that the professor seek additional support if she insists on continuing with these types of lessons.
Please sign below to indicate that you have received this letter. If you have additional comments to add, please include below.
I have been rethinking my policy towards participation in class. My policy has always stated that students need to find some way to add to the class discussion. I tell them that they should plan to speak at least once during class. When I observe other faculty teaching, I look for the level and quality of participation in their classes. However, as in many other cases, my own experience as a parent has led me to question my long-held beliefs about my approach to participation.
Last year during parent-teacher conferences, my daughter’s teacher told me that I had a bright child who has a lot to offer the other students in the class, but she rarely raises her hand and, when called on, talks only in a soft, barely audible voice. At home, I would never describe my middle daughter as shy, but I know her public persona is reserved. Later, I asked her about why she does not like to raise her hand in class. She responded with, “I just don’t.”
I began to seek ways to encourage her to participate more. I took the teacher’s wonderful suggestion to bring her to art museums so she could see imperfections in the paintings. I explained that it is okay to be wrong sometimes, and that in many instances there isn’t even a “correct” answer. The artists took a chance, tried something new, and the risk of participating paid off.
That was my project for last year. It’s now fall again, and her new teacher already has taken me aside to tell me that my daughter should really make an effort to participate more. I have begun to read Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World that Can’t Stop Talking. In this book, Susan Cain discusses the outsized value we place on extroverts. I am not finished with the book, but she’s already has introduced me to powerful introverts and promises techniques to teach children to act as “pretend extroverts” in order to function better within an extroverted culture.
Am I part of the problem in helping our society devalue the qualities of introverts? This semester, I introduced a new line to my syllabus. I indicated that, if students do not feel comfortable participating in class, they should speak to me about other ways they can contribute. I’ve already had some students send me links before class on related topics that I can use in class. I have also noticed that, though some students will not raise their hands, they are more willing to talk when I call on them. I have started calling on students more often, though I was a bit uncomfortable doing this before my policy change. In small groups, I now encourage some of the quieter students to lead.
I think my acknowledgement that not everyone is eager to speak up has allowed me to connect with students that previously may have been overlooked. I’ve also stopped pushing my daughter to participate in class. Her writing, it turns out, allows her voice to come through. Maybe, at this point in her life, it is a more meaningful way for her to communicate. How should we, as educators, define meaningful participation in our classes?
Last week was Fashion Week in NYC. Other than the fashion intern students who were absent from my classes, the week did not impact me in any significant way. I did notice some people who were even more glamorously dressed than usual, a difficult feat on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. This led me to think about how my daughters are growing up in a different era than I did. With awareness on the importance of good body image, the connection between weight disorders and media representations, and the focus on promoting a positive self-esteem in women, my daughters are supposedly in an environment where being yourself is in.
Because I am raising two daughters and I study media and gender, I have tried to be very careful about exposing my children to media representations of women and the body. I work to teach my daughters not to focus on looks but on inner beauty. And in case I ever forget, there are plenty of reminders across media. The Dove Campaign for Real Beauty reminds me that you can be beautiful, no matter what type of body you have (though I should buy all the Dove products to be even more beautiful). The Spark Organization organizes activism against the mediated sexualization of girls, and Adios, Barbie builds awareness of and a defense against disempowering negative body image. Even the National Organization of Women (NOW) sponsors a Love Your Body Day.
A while back, I remember seeing news coverage of 14-year old Julia Bluhm, who petitioned Seventeen magazine to include more truthful portrayals of girls. So, I’m well informed here, and I’ve been careful. I do not obsess over food choices or body image, I never make unflattering body comments about anyone’s body, and I’ve discussed inner beauty with my children. I limit their media consumption. I let them pick out their own clothes while discouraging sexualized clothing. Aside from my middle daughter’s obsession with shoes, I have avoided preoccupations with fashion.
Something has gone horrible wrong, though. I think my daughters are making me self-conscious about my body.
I was getting dressed for work the other day when my eight-year old told me that she didn’t find my skirt flattering. A few days later, my six-year old said I shouldn’t really wear jean skirts; they don’t look all that good on me, she confided. Each morning as I get dressed, I feel like I’m heading down a catwalk: get rid of the stripes, that shirt is too tight, those shoes don’t go, you fit into that outfit better last month.
Of course, I’ve reiterated how looks aren’t important, how it’s what is inside that counts. However, I must admit that now when I look in the mirror (something I didn’t do often before), I’m suddenly faced with a level of discomfort (maybe these polka dots weren’t a good idea, after all).
My friend is having the same issue with her four-year old, who told her she might be getting a little chubby. Clearly, the girls are still getting these ideas from somewhere, and our efforts to inoculate them are not going well. Does peer pressure overcome all else? Does fashionista ideology just ooze out? Are there any support groups for moms with critical daughters?
In the past I have complained when I see students (and their parents) treating college attendance as a consumer commodity. It sometimes seems that what they want out of the experience compares to ordering fast food from a restaurant drive-through window. My colleagues have put forward to students alternative models to frame their experience. One of the most interesting I’ve heard compares the collegiate professor/student relationship to a professional doctor/patient interaction. In this example, a patient can choose a doctor and expect a certain level of customer service from the office staff, but no one would presume to tell the doctor how to treat a patient. Of course, I’m not sure this analogy still holds true today, as I know of many friends who walk into their doctor’s office already self-diagnosed with the help of websites like WebMD and a proposed prescription as suggested by televised big pharma ads.
I’ve always felt that the line between faculty and students must be made clear. At the end of the day, the faculty member must assess each student’s work and assign a grade. These days, though, it seems a new age of collegiate customer service is obfuscating this line. Private liberal arts colleges increasingly struggle to stay solvent (though this concern may be misguided). Colleges seek ever more creative ways to recruit new students, and retention has become a mantra for just about every school. In other words, the implicit message is that students need to be happy in order to come to your college and stay.
Nate Kreuter has persuasively argued that the customer service model leads to confusion over whether a student’s education or the college itself is the product, yet faculty are increasingly called upon to offer students a more “customer friendly” atmosphere. We are increasing our advising load, making ourselves available for more events, answering parents’ email messages (with proper FERPA waivers in place), and listening to students tell us about their work/life challenges.
On the one hand, a more customer-friendly approach can lead to positive outcomes. I think students who are spending a significant amount of money to attend schools should have a right to not be closed out of classes, experience a smooth registration process, and have access to excellent teaching. Yet, I am not interested in catering to a millennial generation used to clicking a button to get what they want. What happens when their every request cannot be accommodated? The reality is that, while all students should have access to the classes they need, everyone cannot enroll into the most coveted time slots. While students should be able to discuss with faculty their concerns about a class, they shouldn’t feel entitled to demand that a faculty member change their teaching method or syllabus. While faculty should be in touch with students, they should not feel pressured to answer emails at all times of the day and night (as I’ve explored in my previous post).
On the first day of class, I tell my students that they may call me Dr. Tropp, Professor Tropp, or Laura. I explain that I prefer not to be referred to as Mrs., Miss, or Ms. Tropp, because if they insist on using a title within our context, they should use my academic title. Plus, I do not like the marital status question defined by the first two. Now, though, I’m wondering if the use of Laura implies a familiar relationship that we do not have. After all, I’m not their friend, but their professor or chairperson.
Do you find that the boundaries between faculty and students have burred too much? How do you serve students’ needs while preserving a professional relationship? What is unique about this generation of students, and what are perennial conflicts?
I had an interesting conversation with another academic over the weekend about the challenges of being available all the time for our students/administrators/fellow faculty while trying to not let it take over our lives. Although I often think about work-life technology balance, I do not think I have attained the right balance. A few years ago, at a Labor Day picnic, I checked my email on my phone and then spent the rest of the party obsessed about my overdue assessment reports.
Later, I realized that that was a tipping point: why was I checking my email during a picnic, on a national holiday no less? I had to admit that the reason was not because I was afraid of being unavailable (no one would expect me to answer questions at this time) but because I was afraid of missing something. Email had become my addiction.
Jennifer Senior’s book All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood explores the addictive nature of email and other social media and how it negatively influences our ability to live the moment when it comes to parenting. That very day I removed the email app from my phone, and I survived. Though I do not remember any negative fall-out from that period, one day, at an out-of-town conference, I put the email back on the phone, and my addiction had started right up again.
My friend and I talked about email boundaries. She pointed out that some of her colleagues do not like when others send emails on the weekend because they think it implies that they should reply to those emails over the weekend. And what about texting? Another colleague said that texting someone about work related issues, unless something urgent has come up that needs an immediate answer, is simply rude. I admit that I am guilty of sending weekend emails, though I try to keep texting colleagues at all to a minimum.
Students are another concern. As a policy, I tell those I hire that they should simply indicate to students their availability during the first days of the semester. If they do not check email on evenings and weekends, then they should just give students a heads-up. The challenge is that my students keep very different hours from me. They tend to start working just as I’m heading to bed, and they always consider themselves in urgent need of a response. They sometimes even check off those red “urgent” flags, which I always find funny because I never prioritize flagged messages. In fact, those little red flags annoy me so much that, if I read your red-flagged message and I didn’t think it was an actual emergency, I might passive aggressively punish you by putting you in the bottom of my email priority. Of course, with my present constantly checking email addiction, that only delays my response by about 15 minutes.
However, pulling the plug on my email addiction scares me. What are the consequences of losing my “always available” status? I like those student evaluation responses that say, “She was always available for me.” I enjoy knowing that I can be counted on for a quick response as an administrator. In fact, I think that’s an expectation for a department chairperson. Yet, there must be a happy medium, no? What limitations do you put on your availability?
I am always thinking about my work-life balance. Typically, I frame it in terms of how to manage my busy academic life with my family life. Recently, however, I have been wondering more often about how to manage friendships.
I was talking with one of my closest friends the other day and realized that, though we do not live that far from each other, I hadn’t seen her in person for months. It occurred to me that she was not the only friend for which this is true. The friends I have unintentionally prioritized are other moms who live nearby and have children that are similar ages as mine. The boredom of a long summer day with lots of kids to entertain unites us in a different kind of friendship. While they may not have the depth and closeness of my long-time friends, these friends can share with me the everyday experiences related to the daily challenges of parenthood. We debate camps and tantrums. We trade discipline and bicycle training tricks (tip: take off the petals of the bike to train them to balance).
Yet, I miss my other friends: friends from childhood who know me inside and out, friends from my first jobs who know the more youthful version of me. I realize that with Facebook, you can still drop in on your friends, but it’s not quite the same. Someone described it to me as knowing what your friends are doing but rarely knowing how they really are feeling. It’s no substitute for physically laughing with them in person.
The problem is, when I think about my daily schedule, I can’t seem to squeeze friendship back in my life any more than I have already. I confided this to another friend, who made the wise observation that I should see friends as coming into, and out of, and back into my life during different periods of time. I like this way of thinking about it. I’m hoping that, when my kids are teenagers and no longer want to hang out with me, my friends might be willing to take me back.
I have had some unexpected free time to watch television these last few weeks, so here are some reflections on TV parenting that I have observed. On Tuesday, I was flipping through the channels and landed on the Bachelorette. I watched a woman have an ultrasound on live TV to reveal to the couple, the studio audience, and the viewers at home the sex of her baby (spoiler alert: it was a boy). I’ve been interested in public moments during pregnancy for years (in fact, it was the subject of my book), but it still amazes me to see a fetus have such a public audience for its image.
Since I wrote my book, gender reveal parties have become even more popular for parents. The purpose of this type of party is to invite loved ones and find out the sex of the baby together in a group. This interests me not only because it takes what used to be a private moment and makes it public, but also because there is so much discussion about encouraging more equality between boys and girls and making gender matter less, but here the sex of the baby still attains such a significant moments in people’s lives.
Pregnancy is also taking center state in the new CBS program Extant, in which Halle Berry plays an astronaut who returns to earth after a solo mission and finds that she is pregnant. I tuned in to see how pregnancy would be portrayed on this show, but I actually am more interested in the character of her son. It turns out the son is revealed to be not a human, but an android that mimics human behavior. The son tries to act human but apparently lacks the ability to respond emotionally. I’m curious how the son will be developed as a character. So many parents and educators are working with children referred to as “on the spectrum.” These children sometimes also have difficulty gauging, mimicking, and responding to emotion.
I also have heard about a new show on Lifetime called The Lottery. In the show, women can no longer become pregnant, and the human species faces extinction. After one hundred embryos are fertilized in a lab, women compete in a lottery to see if they can become a surrogate for one of the embryos. I have not seen the show yet, but I imagine it will showcase the anxiety of impending parenthood.
These programs all seem to reflect a notion of parenting as precious, not completely in our control, and in some cases, just out of our reach. I wonder what cultural, historic, and economic conditions may be contributing to this view of parenting? Have you seen shows lately with similar themes?
On our way home from traveling this week, I overheard a conversation among the children in the backseat of the car. They were talking about the occupations they would want to be when they grew up. My son discussed his desire to work at Google and my daughter talked about wanting to work at a restaurant during the day and on weekends at a zoo. My third child wanted to be a doctor. Quickly, the conversation took a turn. My son asked my daughter how she was going to spend time with her children while working two jobs. My daughter responded that she would only work until 4 p.m. during the week and on weekends her kids could come to the zoo. My son said that he decided that his work would keep him too busy to have children and pointed out that a doctor gets very busy.
This conversation made me think about how the children perceive the challenges of the work-life balance at such an early age. My parents both worked full-time when I was growing up but I can’t remember ever spending any time thinking about how they juggled these jobs. They were always just around and when they weren’t, we watched ourselves. Today, though, work-life balance is an everyday conversation and encompasses more than just balancing family. I wonder that with children so over-scheduled in activities that a side benefit may be that children are learning at a young age that they have to make choices to fit all their components of their life together. I hear parents complaining about the problem of too much homework but I’m wondering whether this also gives children a chance to figure out the complexity of choosing how to balance their time.
Children have always had a different understanding of time than adults but I’m wondering whether that is changing as well. The other day my youngest child spent the day playing with her dolls. When I was putting her to sleep, I asked her if she had a great day. She turned to me and sighed, “Yes, but all I did all day long was just play babies. That’s all I did the WHOLE day.” All I could think of was that the luxury of doing one thing all day is wasted on and no longer appreciated by the youth.
Yesterday, I was commuting to work on an express bus when my phone vibrated. The number of my children’s school appeared on the screen. I worriedly answered and was surprised to hear my son on the phone.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello?” I asked.
“Mom, it’s Ethan.”
“I know who it is. The question is, why are you calling?”
Then, I heard the dreaded words: “It’s my ‘un-birthday’ today, and I need the munchkins here by 11:00am.”
It took awhile for me to decipher this, especially as I was whispering to hide the fact that I was breaking the social commuting rule of talking on a cell phone on an express bus before 8:00am. Apparently, children who do not have birthdays during the school year get to celebrate them during the last week of school.
I’m getting concerned about this generation. I mean, it’s one thing to have everyone win a trophy, but everyone gets to celebrate their birthday, even when it’s not their birthday? It just doesn’t even make any sense to me; it contradicts the entire morphology of the word birthday.
Outrage aside, it wasn’t really the time to explain all this to my nine-year old (although, I guess, today we are pretending he’s ten). Anyway, I tried to explain work-life balance and how his father is on jury duty and I am on my way to work and these kinds of requests need at least 24-hours notice. At this moment, none of these issues matter. He just wants his munchkins.
Is 9 (10?) years old the time when kids need to learn responsibility through disappointment? Have I failed already? In previous generations, he’d probably be responsible for a whole section of the family farm. My son can’t even remember to brig his clarinet (a phone call my husband received a couple of months ago--does the school let all kids have this kind of access to the office phone, or is my child particularly persuasive?).
The millennial generation seems to be the customer service generation, treated as important and getting what they ask for. Why should I be the bad cop here? Despite his lack of advanced planning that led to this call, I saw this little sign of independence. It was the first time he had ever called me.
After I got off the phone, the other commuters around me waited for my decision. Would I teach him a tough lesson, or would I contribute to the catered generation?
I called his nana, who agreed to take on this project. My fellow bus riders smiled and went back to sleep. This generation may grow up thinking each one of them is special and people will serve their needs, but there’s something to be said for knowing how to get what you want.