The Perils of Trexting

Every semester, I talk about the concept of cultural lag in my introductory classes. This is the idea that material culture--our gadgets, for instance--evolves at a much faster rate than the norms and rules for using these gadgets. To ram the point home, I talk about a particular gadget that everyone's familiar with--cell phones. Every few months we're given a great new cell phone that can do everything but cook for us, but very rarely will you find the "rules" provided with the directions.

As I tell my students, its the difference between "can we" and "should we". For instance, yes we can text our BFF about the hot guy that tried to get our phone number in Biology class. Should we do it while hurtling down the expressway at 75 miles an hour? Probably not, as several state legislatures have now confirmed. Sadly, this is a restriction that you may not find in the manuals of those early phones and PDAs.

Cultural lag is the reason that identity theft came before the laws to prevent it, or why many states now have reactionary "no texting while driving" laws on the books. Its taken some time, and now we know better. Unfortunately, its because we've learned our lessons the hard way.

I see examples of the perils of cultural lag on a daily basis on campus. And again, cell phones are usually the common denominator. For example, this semester I happen to be teaching in a building across campus. It's a bit of a walk, but not one that I mind. Not only does the walk get me out of my office, but it's a daily stroll down memory lane. My walk takes me back to the days when I was one of the masses I so often talk about. There's something novel about mingling with the throngs of students as they flock across the quad, like lemmings heading toward the cliff.

One of the differences I see with students now, however, is that you don't see many faces as you walk from place to place. You're more likely to see the top of someone's head, or the brim of a ball cap as they furiously stab away at their cell phones. Occasionally someone will peek over the top of the phone, making minor course corrections or dodging to avoid oncoming foot traffic. Most will stop before crossing the street, just to check that the coast is clear. But there's always one or two that plow through the throngs like a bulldozer, their eyes never once leaving the screen.

For some of these students, this practice of "trexting"--the ability to compose a text while trekking from point A to point B--is innate, and after years it becomes second nature. For others, however, it's the technological equivalent of walking and chewing gum. Take, for example, a girl I saw one morning last semester. I was walking a short distance behind her, heading to my office. The sidewalk we were on curves around a building in a wide arc, and like many on my campus, is lined with light posts. Each post about six inches across, sits five feet from the edge of the sidewalk, and is made of pebbled steel. In other words, they're hard to miss, especially during the day.

To say this girl was in her own little world was an understatement, but this wasn't the reason I noticed her. After all, trexters are a dime a dozen. She caught my eye because of her ability to juggle a towering stack of books, a large coffee and still manage to text with both hands and cruise along at a pace that may have doubled as a cardio workout. But while her ability to balance a heavy load at high speeds was apparent, her navigation skills were not as well-honed.

As the curve in the sidewalk became more pronounced, I watched as she drifted into a direct collision course with an upcoming light pole. At first, I wasn't concerned, given the fact that even if she veered off the sidewalk, the poles were in the grass, and certainly, she'd notice the difference under her feet.

As you may have guessed at this point, I was wrong. She hit that pole head first at full speed. The stack of papers and coffee exploded around her like a charge had gone off in her hands, and I could hear the clang from 30 feet away. It looked like something out of an old black and white comedy, and it was all I could do not to laugh.

The collision was enough to get the attention of several passersby, who helped her to her feet and to gather her scattered belongings. And except for an impression of the pole on her forehead, the only real injury was to her ego. I'm sure that's what she was texting about as she walked away from the scene.

I see the lemmings everyday, trexting their way to the cliff. And while she was the first one I've seen actually go over the edge, so to speak, I'm sure she won't be the last.

Can we do it? For most, that's a yes. But should we?

I guess that depends on who you ask.

A glimmer of hope...

I realize that I spend a great deal of time complaining about my interactions with what author Jean Twenge has dubbed "Generation Me". Sometimes it seems like jaded and bitter is my default position, but something happened the other night that gave me hope that my efforts may not have been in vain.

Every year our department sponsors a week-long series of lectures, workshops and presentations, given by alumni and directed toward students that are interested in careers in the field. Some students attend out of sheer interest, or at least, self-interest--getting tips on what to expect when their college career is complete. There are also those that want to be seen attending by their professors. But there are many are lured to these events by the siren song of extra credit--those elusive two or three points that could mean the difference between passing and failing in the mind's eye of those who are on the bubble.

I don't like to bribe students to attend events like this, but I'm certainly not above it. My motivation, however, is not to provide a lifeboat for sinking students. Rather, I gently nudge them toward attending in hopes that they may be able to experience something different, or at the very least, get a glimpse of what is "next". Sometimes this backfires, and like many classes, the lecture hall becomes a haven for texting, naps, and attempted booty-calls. But sometimes I'm surprised at how engaged these point-seekers become, despite their best efforts at apathy. And occasionally, a student will surprise me for reasons that defy prediction.

Case in point: during our most recent round of alumni guest speakers, I once again offered a little bit of extra-credit for attending and providing a brief written summary of the event. I even truncated my planned lecture for that day to allow students the time to attend without missing class. When I arrived at the lecture, I was pleased to see that the room was full, and fully half of the faces in the room belonged to students from my various classes.

As the speaker began, I sat quietly in the back, listening and scanning the crowd. The speaker was engaging, and before long, many of the students were hooked. But after about 25 minutes or so, I noticed that some people were starting to drift. Little conversations popped up like weeds in a garden, and predictably, cell phones began to appear, their screens consipicuous in the dim light of the lecture hall. Needless to say, I was disappointed but also not surprised.

It was then that I noticed a student from one of my classes seated two rows ahead of me. I watched as he leaned over to a student on his right--a young woman who was furiously stabbing the keyboard of her Blackberry loud enough for me to hear from my vantage point. At first I thought he was going to start chatting with her. Imagine my shock when my student firmly told Ms. Blackberry that her texting was distracting and rude, and could she please either put her phone away or text somewhere else.

I couldn't believe my eyes, and it was all I could to keep from hugging my student and then doing a little happy dance. Finally, I thought, someone gets it. And not only do they get it, but they've embraced it enough to pass along to a peer. Whether it was relief or pride, or something else, I have to say, it felt damn good.

This may not sound like much to someone who's unfamiliar with the daily sorties of a college classroom, or the sheer Herculean effort it takes to keep the attention of students in an On-Demand world. But to have something you've said not only sink in, but be passed along?

Well.

I'm not ready to say my job is done. But sometimes the little victories are the sweetest.

A question of priorities...

I like to think of myself as good natured. Easy going. And above all, tolerant. I used to think I was patient, too, but lately, my patience has been put to the test.

At some point this semester, I came to the realization that the students are getting bolder. Not smarter. That would be too much to ask. But they're certainly not afraid to press the limits of what their professors will and won't put up with.

Case in point. I received an email today from a student. He wanted to know if he could email an assignment to me. This is a common request, and one that usually gets an unequivocable "yes" answer. But the logistics of this particular assignment made it very hard to accept via email, and I asked him to bring a hard copy to class. I was even willing to overlook the fact that he blatantly ignored the big bold line in the assignment instructions that said "This assignment will NOT be accepted via email."

Before I emailed him back, I decided to look him up in the gradebook. I do this often, as I like to be able to pre-emptively address any issues that could come up. But in this case, the student's name was vaguely familiar to me. When I looked at the roster, I realized why. While there were grades for all the "emailable" assignments, there was a conspicuous line of zeros in anything that was administered as an in-class only or participation grade. Flipping through the folder of papers to be handed back, all of those emailable assignments AND the student's midterm grade results were in the stack of papers that had yet to be picked up.

In short, this student was a Visitor.

In my email response I told the student that he would need to bring a hard copy to class, and that I actually wanted to talk to him about his grade. The email was polite and short, and sent without much hope that I would see either this student in class OR a hard copy of his assignment.

Sure enough, I got an email back. But while I was expecting a fumbling excuse and an attached file, I wasn't ready for what was ACTUALLY in the email. Apparently this student, concerned about MY concerns with his grade, checked his own scores online and discovered that not only had he missed six in-class assignments, his chance of earning anything higher than a D for his final grade was a near-statistical impossiblity.

The email stated--in a manner that was decidedly less than polite--that he didn't think it was fair that I penalize him for not coming to class. He then demanded that I allow him to make up the six missed assignments. Not asked. Demanded.

He went on to explain that he worked most days at 3:00 p.m. Granted the job was part time, but he liked to have the extra spending money to pay for his car. Apparently his boss is even more unfair than me, as he expects his employees to show up on time for work and not leave early. I can respect this. In fact, this boss and I would likely be fast friends (see my previous blog).

I know that many of my students work. And whether its out of necessity or by choice, I'm willing to make the occassional exception when someone's work schedule unexpectedly changes. Real life can get tricky, and normally when students come to me with these types of issues, I'm sympathetic. However, by this student's own admission, he took this job and chose his schedule after enrolling for my class, and therefore after learning of the nature of my course and its collection of Draconian policies. Never mind that on the first day I explained my attendance policy. Never mind that I described the class as one that is primarily lecture-based. And never mind that on day one, I explained that in-class assignments would happen, would not always be announced, and could not be made up without a viable, documented excuse.

Oh yeah. He also took this job knowing that my class starts at 3:30.

Had he provided proper documentation of his job and let me know in advance of his work conflict? No worries. Had he asked nicely? I still would have considered it. But demanding that I break my well-established rules because he's not responsible enough to balance his own schedules?

Not gonna happen.

I don't know when it happened. Somewhere along the line, something happened to these students. Not all of them, mind you. I do have many that are bright, consciencious, and able to balance the rigors of work and family and school and, you know, successfully read a clock and a time schedule. But the boldness--the sheer audacity of some of these students--never ceases to boggle the mind.