Hey fellow TA’s, the kids are not alright.
I have a rule that I have tried to follow since my first time being a Teaching Assistant in Fall of 2019. It all started because I was nervous as a first time TA in the fourth year of my undergraduate degree. I made a list of things my TA’s had done that I thought had been effective in the past. I also made a list of things I wanted to be for my students. On this list I wrote the following:
- Don’t be a waste of money.
- Don’t be boring.
- Don’t be confusing.
- Be someone they feel they can trust.
For the most part, I think I managed the first three well. I like to make jokes with my students to remind them that I’m roughly their age too (and I’m funny as hell, thank you). Plus, I am firm believer that if students aren’t worried about sounding smart, they usually end up saying something much smarter anyways. This has worked out for me. And at the end of my first ever semester as TA, I had enough students personally thank me for my teaching that I decided to keep it going this year. It was a pretty great boost to my confidence as an educator too.
My biggest rule for myself comes from simple observation. If a student misses three consecutive weeks, I pull them aside and ask them if they are okay. That’s it. I don’t chastise and I don’t invade their personal life, and they are more than welcome to tell me leave them alone. But I offer an ear and an opportunity to remind them that I am human too. I am a student too. And I get it. I let them tell me if they’re stressed, or tired, or burnt out. And I try to give them advice, or maybe I cut them some slack and a few days on the next small assignment.
In 2019, this led to some good conversations about balancing school and life.
In 2020, this practice became the most difficult thing I’ve experienced as a TA.
So far, I have asked this question of seven of my 38 students. Of these seven, five have broken down in tears and confessed to me that they have no idea how to handle this. This being ‘doing my first year of university in a pandemic’. Amongst other things, I tell them the same thing every time: they’re not expected to know.
My heart aches for them. School is difficult in a normal year. And my students talk about the somewhat common belief from older generations that university online isn’t that big of an adjustment. I’m here to tell you that it absolutely is. It is incredibly demanding. And students are not getting the same support they normally would. As an MA student, I see it from both sides, and I know they aren’t. We aren’t.
Educators are burnt out, and it hurts to see how affected my students are. I want to give these kids the best education I can, but I know that I’m not. I know that this year I mentally am unable to be the teacher I want to be. The teacher these students deserve. I am doing my best, but it doesn’t feel good enough. I recently told my brother that I have never felt as immature as I have this year. I am almost 23, living back home, and feeling like everything I’ve worked for is just out of reach. The pandemic has de-aged me, made me feel a loss of control I haven’t known since I was a child. I feel young. And yet, I am meant to be an example for my students. Ones that I barely feel older than myself.
And my students are young. I didn’t realize how young first years are until I wasn’t one anymore. They are fresh-faced, and 18, and already disillusioned with academia. And they are so smart. They are observant, well read, hard-working, and exhausted. They are determined, and funny, and weary. Above all, they are so incredibly kind. They have been understanding towards me when I’ve made mistakes, or when I needed an extra week for marking.
How can I not extend the same considerations to them? If my students need to cry on zoom to someone who will listen without judgement, then I will be that person. I can give them an extra day on an assignment if gives them the chance to catch their breath. I will care. That is my simple promise to my students: I will care. I do care.
When I was in my second year, I had a professor ask me how I was doing. How I was really doing. And like some of my students have, I started crying from a good mix of stress, exhaustion, and homesickness. Sometimes it can feel like you have the entire world on your shoulders at 19 and I wasn’t even facing a major global crisis. I can’t imagine being in that position now. I asked my professor if you ever really feel like you know what you’re doing. She simply shrugged and replied “no”. It was blunt, but honest. And it made me feel better. I want to be that for my students.
I am not a mental health professional. And I am not trying to pretend to be. But what I can be is kind, understanding, and flexible. I can care about my students as people. I can offer words of encouragement, or I can just listen. I can be a person. I can be a human who cares about other humans. And by God, I hope that’s enough.
I have cycled through the stages of grief so often, it feels like they have blended together to numbness. I feel lost most of the time. I barely know how to TA, let alone TA in a pandemic. But above all, I feel angry. I am angry for my students who have been robbed of their education by a global catastrophe. I am angry for their experiences. I am angry for the stories I have heard from them. Of the lack of care they have been shown by other educators at my university. It’s a pandemic. Let’s have some sympathy, and give them a goddamn break.
And check on them. Check on your students. Because no, the kids are not okay. I’m not either. I hazard to think anybody is. I cannot control or help with so many things, but I can control being kind. And if the only lesson my students take from me is one of kindness in the face of uncertainty, then that needs to be enough. It has to be. Because I don’t know what else to do.
