GR occasionally asks me why I insist on running on treadmills, cooped inside our inoffensively gray gym, when I could (like him) jog on the serpentine sidewalks of Boston. Why be an indoor cat when you can roam the glorious outdoors? The biggest reason -- the one that would earn you the most points on Family Feud -- is that I prefer listening to music while I run, and I also prefer not getting pancaked by Civics in crosswalks. I think these desires are incompatible. The second-biggest reason is a little weirder and less objectively justifiable: I don't like people looking at me. When running on city streets, you open yourself up to being seen by, easily, hundreds of people. Coworkers. Students. Construction workers. Local Orthodox Jews. Whole Foods employees. People waiting for the T. Uber drivers. Running is strenuous enough without feeling excessively self-conscious while you're doing it. At the gym, at least, everyone else is also sweaty and in shorts.
In fact, "I don't like people looking at me" is a core Linda truism. I've talked before about my "Will to Unobtrusiveness": when I attract attention to my physical person, I feel like something is going awry. As I discovered when taking photos for my engagement and wedding, I'm constitutionally incapable of acting natural when a camera is pointed at me. It's easy to psychoanalyze and speculate about what led to this state of affairs (e.g., my former life as a chubby, buck-toothed dork; my current existence as a woman with standard-issue #metoo-related Stranger Danger), but the origin story is at this point moot: when people focus on my appearance, I get twitchy and self-conscious.
That said, I do like being heard.
There's a reason I've maintained a personal blog for 10+ years past the heyday of personal blogging. I obviously think I have something to say. I'm not shy about expressing my opinions or engaging my next-door neighbor in conversation. (As such, I occasionally struggle with that old introvert/extrovert dichotomy. Can I really claim to be an introvert if I enjoy approaching random people at a party and learning as much as possible about their lives?) Some of my friends -- even those who know me reasonably well -- have been surprised to learn that I'm thrilled by public speaking. I'll decline a stage and a spotlight, but I'm thoroughly comfortable with a platform and a microphone.
---
In my Intro to Literature class this semester, I've been standing at the front of the room while I teach,
facing the class, using a rather official-looking podium to prop up my lesson notes. Each session, I shepherd students through the day's
discussion questions and key topics, sometimes breaking the class into group work, often writing salient points on the
chalkboard as we go along.
This isn't how I've always run my classrooms. Some of my previous classes were small (twenty students or fewer), teeny enough for the entire class to circle up our desks like a kindergarten
game of duck-duck-goose. I'd sit in the circle, too, and lead class like King Arthur from
a position of camaraderie.
The round-table setup is ideal for discussion-based literature classes: it cultivates an atmosphere of inclusion and encourages
students to respond to each other, to take active ownership over class
conversations earlier and more organically. This year, though, with 35 students in my classes, circling up just hasn't been feasible. So,
instead of King Arthur, I'm like... Napoleon, I guess? or George Washington? Genghis
Khan? Point being, it's a more traditional setup, with me at the front, addressing a
phalanx of young adults.
Students don't realize this, but from my Napoleonic vantage point, I see everything.
I see the students who take notes and nod at appropriate moments. I see the ones who just
kind of passively stare back at me. I see the ones who look confused. I see the kid zoning out, looking out the window. It's all standard student behavior. But then, I see a student who smirks and chuckles, seemingly at something I've said, though I don't know what. In the midst of my lecture, he whispers to a friend, who also snickers. A few minutes later, the same pair of students giggle simultaneously, and then exchange a knowing look. They assume I don't notice.
These students are maddening. They never fail to send me into a spiral of silent self-analysis, right there, as I'm conducting class: What are they laughing at? Did I just pronounce a word wrong? Is anyone else reacting? Did I make a weird face? Do I have a verbal tic? Is my bra showing? I DON'T LIKE PEOPLE LOOKING AT ME. Despite my obvious position of authority, I feel exposed. I also feel silly for allowing their snickers to make me so self-conscious and distract me from the task at hand.
(My
saving grace is remembering what it was like when I was a college
student. I was a hard-working goodie two-shoes who loved school with
Lisa Simpson-esque fervor, and even I would still pass notes and whisper jokes in
class. It never once occurred to me that my actions could affect my
professors, who were, in my mind, impervious dispensers of wit and wisdom.)
Teaching college is the ideal job for me, in that it gives me an ongoing platform to be heard, to share my enthusiasm for the topics I know about and interest me most with a group of people contractually obliged to listen. Teaching college is also agonizing, in that it constantly entails young adults (who may regard me with equanimity, or suspicion, or hostility, or indifference) looking at me. One of the most unexpected skills I've had to develop is figuring out how to care deeply about my students while also not caring about them in ways that affect my self esteem.
So, for me, teaching means continually managing the privilege of being heard with the anxiety of being seen. The imperative questions of, "How can I make sure I'm reaching and engaging every learner? Am I an empathetic and effective educator, responsive to students' needs?" necessarily coexists with, "Screw those smirky teens" (i.e., Haters to the left).
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