A Desk in a Dark Corner
Sarah Lonelodge
Keywords: graduate student, teenage care, dissertation writing
Categories: Parenting and Possibility in Impossible Times; Academic Pressures (or Critiques of Neoliberal Horseshit Productivity Expectations, as suggested by Amy Vidali)
I’m not even sure I have the energy to write this. I want to. I have to look beyond this ongoing pandemic and think about getting a job. My dissertation is nearly finished. But here we are in this seemingly never ending trauma and I. . .
“Mom, I know you’re busy, but can you help me with this?” My son plops his laptop onto my desk before I can respond. I bought this desk after my first year of graduate school to give myself a place to grade and write on the days I didn’t commute to campus. Needing such a thing originally felt like a triumph—like I’d settled into the PhD program and was ready for the dedication it would require. In March of 2020, however, this desk, positioned in a dark corner of my bedroom, became my only office space—a hub for the many different hats I now had to wear and a space to which I now felt shackled.
“Sorry. I just can’t figure it out,” Ivan says. I push my laptop to the side and wait for him to explain. I have to hold in a sigh as he asks the same kind of question that he’d asked me two
days ago. His professor has posted another discussion board on Canvas for Introduction to Philosophy, but the instructions are vague. The questions are broad and unclear, and Ivan struggles with reading comprehension anyway. Vague questions about abstract philosophy concepts feel impossible to him.
“What page is this part on?” I point to some term that seems to be the focus of the activity. Ivan doesn’t know where to find it in the book or in the lecture notes or on Canvas or Google. He cracks his knuckles one by one and stares unblinking at the screen.
“Where does the chapter talk about this?” He shrugs apologetically. “Go get your book.” Here we go again. Another day in this forever-semester as my son struggles with online learning. When we first went online last semester, he couldn’t get connected to the class video conference, or the instructor’s microphone didn’t pick up her voice very well, or he couldn’t find the Google Doc for the group activity. Now, he’s able to navigate these kinds of issues, but he just doesn’t learn effectively when not in the classroom. He’s easily distracted. He gets lost. He waits for help that doesn’t come because his professor can’t see him drifting. He comes to me. I’m in the last year of my PhD program, and I’m neck-deep in dissertation writing. I’m teaching an upper-division composition course in a synchronous online format, and I’m also one of the assistant directors of our first-year composition program, which means I am mentoring brand-new FYC graduate student instructors who are relatively new to teaching and are faced with teaching online courses for the first time with minimal training. I love this work, but lately it has become inescapable.
My son is in his second semester, as is my niece. They go to the same local university, and my husband and I invited her to stay with us when the pandemic began so that she didn’t have to move back home where she would be living with her mother, stepfather, and two younger brothers, who were also going to school online. We hoped she would be able to concentrate better, and that she and Ivan could help each other study and navigate online learning. We thought support from a fellow college student going through the same situation would help both of them. This has been largely true for them, but I had not considered the added pressure that another college student would place on me. I feel like I’ve been flailing and fighting to come up for air, only to be hit by another wave.
Ivan rounds the corner of my bedroom, already talking. “Ok, this is the part we were supposed to read.” He places the book on my desk. I skim through the pages and find the term fairly quickly.
“Here, read this section again.” He takes two steps and flops onto the bed with his book. I wish I had an actual office instead of a small desk in the corner of my bedroom. While he reads, I turn around in my uncomfortable chair and try to get back to work. Three students have emailed since this morning. One is sick. I hope it isn’t Covid. As I finish the first email, my niece knocks on my open bedroom door, and she glances at Ivan in confusion. She’s holding her laptop. She procrastinates terribly and wants me to proofread an email to her professor that asks for an extra day to work on her essay.
“This looks good. I’m sure they’ll give you the extension. Everyone is still trying to be flexible even though we did this last semester too.”
“Yeah, I mean, my paper is almost done.” She pulls up the document and starts to scroll through it. “I just have to write one more page. I’m trying to figure out what to say, though. I’ll probably just see what I can add and go from there.”
She does this often. Ivan asks for help. Jordyn hints. “Well, if you want, I can help you later this evening—probably after dinner though.” I smile. I do want to help. Jordyn also has
trouble focusing. Much like Ivan, she drifts and needs the classroom environment to help her concentrate. Neither of them wanted to take classes online this semester after the struggles last spring. This situation is not their fault, and I do want them to succeed.
My husband comes into the room and frowns in confusion for a moment at the three laptops on my desk and the two college students asking questions. He says that he’s going to the store and will start dinner as soon as he gets back. He’s the only person keeping me grounded. He can’t help me with any of the work I do, but he does take care of every single other thing. From paying bills to shopping to cooking and everything else, he keeps our lives running as smoothly as possible. I can see that he recognizes the chaos building around me.
“Anyone want to go to the store with me?” Jordyn glances at her phone, and Ivan turns to the next page in his book.
“They have homework to do.” I smile at him. “Don’t forget your mask.”
I help Ivan again and send him back to his own room. Satisfied with her email and with a plan for working on the essay later, Jordyn goes to her room to study for an upcoming quiz. Back to work. I need a lesson plan that engages my students, though all I see of them is black boxes and their names attached to comments in the chat. I need to grade. I need to write. I need to focus. My phone chirps with the day’s Covid numbers—worse than yesterday—I see no end in sight for this pandemic.
One of the GTAs I mentor emails me with a question about late policies. Another student has Covid, and they aren’t sure how to proceed. A lifetime ago they would have just popped their head into my office, and we’d have had a nice chat. Now I can only preach flexibility and compassion from this desk that is somehow both too lonely and not private enough.
The days melting together have taken a toll on me. There is no longer a segmentation to the day, and I’m frustrated at the constant busyness. With GTA mentees, my own students, and my two college students at home, I am in a constant state of heightened awareness. I’m always waiting for the next email, next question, next knock at the door. It’s a draining frame of mind—constant office hours.
It’s time for dinner. The kids complain about their classes and talk about their assignments while we eat. My husband changes the subject a few times, but school talk always comes back up. His hand clutches mine, and I can only look at him with exhaustion as I tell Jordyn to go get her laptop and meet me at my desk.
Bio
Sarah Lonelodge is an Assistant Professor of English at Eastern New Mexico University. Her research interests include Composition/TPC pedagogy, religious rhetoric, and propaganda studies.