Fall 2020 Teaching Log, Part One: I Love Japanese Fantasy

This fall I’m teaching a class called “Japanese Science Fiction and Fantasy.”

This class isn’t about science fiction so much as it is about fantasy, horror, and speculative fiction.

I haven’t encountered a lot of writing in English about Japanese fantasy, unfortunately, and this is a shame. Meanwhile, there’s an overwhelming amount of writing in English on Japanese science fiction. In addition, there are so many translations of Japanese science fiction coming out each year that I don’t even bother to keep up with them anymore.

So why the disparity? I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it’s a gender thing. This isn’t to imply that women don’t read and write science fiction, but rather that subcultures surrounding science fiction were overwhelmingly dominated by men from the 1940s to the 1990s. When there were women in these cultures – and this is something Joanna Russ has argued much better than I can – their work tended to be downplayed and disregarded in various ways. They were “just fans,” they were writing “silly romance,” they were writing “for children,” they were writing “disposable comics,” they “weren’t serious writers,” and so on.

So science fiction became a legitimate subject of academic inquiry, while fantasy largely escaped critical consideration. After all, intelligent and important men read and write science fiction, while fantasy is self-indulgent frivolity for the ladies. Or, I should say, I’ve personally encountered that sort of attitude frequently enough to think that it’s deeper than the misguided opinion of any one individual.

My main goal for this semester is to use this class as an excuse to do as much research as I can in both English and Japanese to see what’s out there on Japanese fantasy. Hopefully I might eventually be able to make a few small contributions of my own to the literature.

I’m looking forward to getting started!

Live Your Best Life

I ended my post about theme park fandom with a question concerning how someone gets a job as a theme park journalist. I don’t have any serious interest in theme parks, so what I really want to know is how to get paid for doing what you love. It was mostly rhetorical… but also sort of an actual question.

Do you have to have your own YouTube channel? I am not telegenic and hate the sound of my own voice, but maybe it’s something to consider.

The talk I gave at Otakon last Saturday wasn’t great. I mean, it wasn’t bad. I’m going to say that it was a solid 6/10 performance.

This was mainly because of the platform. The way we had it set up, I couldn’t see the audience (which was virtual anyway), I couldn’t see the chat, I couldn’t see the producers, and I had no way to communicate with anyone. I didn’t even know if video was enabled while I was presenting. Basically, I was sitting at my desk and talking to a dead screen for half an hour, which was super awkward. Afterwards, I could barely hear the questions I was given, even with my laptop’s speakers set at maximum volume. There was no way to gauge reactions, which meant that any sort of humor (including even the most basic crowd work) was impossible. I was so nervous!

I’m definitely not blaming the producers, who did excellent work given the timeframe and limitations, and I’m doing my best not to blame myself. This was the first time I’ve ever given a virtual talk, after all. I spent a good two and a half hours editing the slideshow afterwards, and I also put together several pages of notes about what I can do differently in the future, including how to make humor work and how to be more engaging for an unseen virtual audience.

Still, I’ve been having these weird PTSD flashbacks to the talk during the past week. Like, I’ll randomly remember a word I stumbled over or a name I couldn’t remember off the top of my head or a typo in one of my slides, and I’ll experience an intense moment of physically palpable cringe. Then again, this sort of reaction is normal for a lot of people who give live performances of any kind. It’s difficult at first, but you gradually get used to it. I no longer have any problems with teaching or presenting in person, but this sort of virtual talk was an entirely new experience for me. Thankfully, now that I’ve done it once, it can only get better from here.

I’m wondering if I might be able to make short videos for my class this semester. A general rule of thumb is that, unless you’ve got a lot of text on each slide (which you really shouldn’t), you should spend about one minute on each slide of a presentation. If you’re reading aloud from an essay, one minute is about one double-spaced page. I can definitely make a five-slide presentation and write a five-page “script” to go with it every week. The problem would be recording, as I have exactly no equipment and zero experience in video editing. This would be the point pre-semester when it would be good to go to campus and ask a specialist for assistance and advice, but… you know.

So I guess I’d have to wing it, and maybe keep access to the videos limited to my students. If I’m going to do this, there’s no time like the present. Once I get the hang of it, maybe I can re-record everything and put it on YouTube…

Or not, actually. I mean, we’ll see, but I think it’s important to listen to what my anxiety is telling me. Right now, my anxiety is telling me that this isn’t a good time to teach myself to do something that I won’t enjoy and that won’t be rewarded with positive feedback or financial compensation.

What I actually enjoy is making slideshows, and I also enjoy making zines. Maybe, instead of trying to make videos that I will hate and (let’s be real) no one will watch, I could adapt my slideshows into zines. Printing isn’t that expensive, but it isn’t cheap either, so what I could do would be to make free PDF zines and then, once my finances are a bit more comfortable, print one or two that I think might attract interest. A zine based on my class session about urban legends might be good, for instance.

I don’t think making zines out of my lectures is going to win me fame and fortune, but you know what?

If your dream job doesn’t exist, perhaps you just have to make it yourself.

Twitch Studies

The Twitch streamers who spend years broadcasting to no one
https://www.theverge.com/2018/7/16/17569520/twitch-streamers-zero-viewers-motivation-community

The rise of popular (and profitable) influencers on platforms like YouTube and Twitch has also made the idea of being an online influencer aspirational. Some parents note that their children pretend to unbox toys to a nonexistent audience, and teachers report that their students often say they want to pursue YouTubing as a career. But when seemingly everyone wants to record footage or live stream, who ends up watching the content?

Starting a career on platforms like Twitch often means spending some time broadcasting to absolutely no one. Discoverability is an issue: when you log into Twitch, the most visible people are those who already have a large following. While there are tools to find lesser-known streamers, most people starting out without built-in audiences from other platforms or supportive friends and family end up staring at a big, fat zero on their viewership counter. This lonely live stream purgatory can last anywhere from a few days, weeks, months, sometimes even years, depending on your luck. According to people who have gone through it, lacking an audience is one of the most demoralizing things you can experience online.

I found this article by searching for the title, which I saw in a screencap photo in a Kotaku article about a professor who taught a session of his class about Twitch on Twitch.

Although I sometimes fantasize that I’m recording myself when I do 100% completion speedruns of Legend of Zelda games, I have to admit that I never got into Twitch. I understand the appeal, but like… Okay, how do I put this.

So much of being considered cool in high school and college is about sharing communal experiences. You can’t just watch a movie and talk about it, you have to watch it with your friends and share inside jokes that mainly take the form of repeating the lines from the movie that everyone in your friend group laughed at. I enjoy spending time with people, but I have trouble relaxing enough to passively consume content in the company of a group. Doing something like quietly watching a television show or sports game has always felt like having to sit through an awful and boring lecture.

What I’m trying to say is that Twitch isn’t for me. I’m not suggesting that Twitch isn’t worth reading about and writing about and teaching an entire college class about; but, to me, it’s really nothing more than how teenagers and people in their early twenties have always spent time with their peer groups.

The primary difference, I guess, is that people aspire to do this professionally. In fact, some of my own students are already well on their way to making a career out of streaming or Let’s Play videos.

Anyway, I was thinking about teaching a class through Twitch (or possibly Discord) myself, but I ultimately decided against it. I understand the drive to hold class sessions via videoconferencing, but I also don’t think it’s entirely fair to assume that everyone will have access both to a good internet connection and to a quiet space where they can be alone, especially not during an arbitrarily set time, and not while they’re back with their families. See also:

‘Zoombombing’: When Video Conferences Go Wrong

https://www.nytimes.com/2020/03/20/style/zoombombing-zoom-trolling.html

Burn Your Textbook

I’m having a lot of trouble with the cultural politics of my “Introduction to Japanese Culture” class.

On Tuesday I tried to give a nice and pleasant lecture on Zen Buddhism in the Muromachi period and ended up channeling the unquiet ghost of Karl Marx during a discussion of how the cultural production of the elite is glorified as a means of social and political control.

It’s been really difficult for me not to do this. I feel the same way about Zen that I feel about eugenics, which is that we need to apply the same level of critical thinking to the concept of “restful meditation” that we do to the concept of “healthy babies,” especially given that the ideological systems connected to these concepts were used to justify and facilitate two of the worst genocides of the twentieth century.

I’m going to try to do better in today’s class, but I still feel weird about teaching the straightforward narrative laid out by the (admittedly excellent) textbook I chose for the class. The “great men doing great things” approach to history feels so slimy when it comes out of my mouth, like, Hello children, let me sell you lies.

How to Make Classes Work, Step Three

Figure out everyone’s name immediately.

This can be much more difficult and awkward than you’d think it would be.

For whatever reason, a lot of students are cagey about sharing their names, and a surprising number of them tell me something to the effect of, “You can call me whatever you want.” I couldn’t care less what name someone uses or what their pronouns are, but it’s embarrassing when a student won’t tell you what they prefer to be called and then doesn’t respond when you call them by the name that’s listed on the course roster.

It’s also embarrassing when a student won’t give you a straight answer about how to pronounce their name. This applies to every gender, race, and ethnicity, so don’t @ me.

It usually takes me about a month to learn everyone’s name – in other words, I learn people’s names once I’ve had the opportunity to read, comment on, and return a few weeks’ worth of assignments. Once I learn someone’s name, I make a point of using it as often as I can so that the other students pick up on it as well. This process is usually natural and painless, and the students usually get to know each other at some point, but sometimes this just doesn’t work.

What I’m therefore going to do during the spring semester is to devote at least five minutes of every class period during the first three weeks to self-introductions and name memorization games so that everyone learns everyone else’s name from the start whether they want to or not.

The students don’t have to be friends, but I need them to all be emotionally invested in the class and each other, and this has to start with me not being such a coward about misidentifying people and mispronouncing their names.

How to Make Classes Work, Step Two

Wear a suit to every class.

No exceptions.

Because of some weird harassment from [redacted], I had an intense panic attack at the beginning of the semester that left me so sick and weak that it was impossible to wear a suit for the first two weeks. Anxiety may be psychosomatic, but it’s still very much a physical illness.

You may be thinking that I must be some sort of crazy person, and you wouldn’t be entirely wrong, but I’m actually one of the most normal people I know. If you sat next to me on an airplane or met me at a wedding reception, you’d think I was normal too. I like to talk about normal adult things like pets and vacations and real estate and other people’s children. I’m even a little boring, but in a totally normal and average way.

So how does a normcore person like me with no history of health issues turn into a nervous wreck? Stewing in a toxic environment for a few years will do that to you, and at this point I’m having trouble imagining a more toxic environment than academia.

That’s by design – the university system is structured to consume so much of your life (see my essay about how tenure works) that you stop being able to imagine what the world outside looks like. This isn’t healthy, obviously. If I get tenure, one of the first things I’d like to do is to figure out a set of concrete actions that will help to enable the promotion of a culture of kindness, tolerance, and diversity. I genuinely believe that both professors and university administrators (myself included) would be much better at our jobs if we weren’t so stressed out all the time.

Anyway, I think the combination of my casual clothes at the beginning of the semester and the fact that I’m not a cisgender man may have led some of the students to arrive at the conclusion that I am fun.* I actually am fairly easygoing, but I’m always 115% serious in the classroom, and the suit helps convey that message with less room for misinterpretation concerning the level of effort and engagement I expect from my students.

 

* This conclusion is erroneous. I haven’t had fun since 2008.

How to Make Classes Work, Step One

The classroom should have windows.

Every class I’ve taught in a windowless classroom has been difficult.

This is by design.

A built-in feature of the postwar modernist architecture used for a lot of schools and other public buildings in the United States is that it facilitates certain types of social control. For example, if you put students in a room with a low ceiling, poor lighting, no windows, and acoustic features that mute sound, it has a soporific effect. This is meant to make students sluggish, thereby minimizing class disruptions like, you know, a student asking questions or formulating their own ideas.

If this sounds dystopian to you in theory, let me assure you that it’s even more dystopian in practice.

There’s not much I can do about this, to be honest. The last time I tried to request classrooms with windows, I was told that the only time slot available was Saturday morning at 8:00am. The shortage of classrooms at large universities is also by design, even at well-funded flagship state schools located in depopulated areas with declining enrollments. The purpose of this artificial scarcity of basic teaching resources is to keep both students and instructors in a subservient position, but that’s a much longer essay that I have no patience (or emotional energy) to write.

Still, I guess I can at least keep asking. There’s no harm in trying, right?

When Seminar Classes No Longer Work

I’d like to say that the Fall 2019 semester was wonderful and that all my students were brilliant. It feels good when everything is going well, after all, and I like to brag about how smart my students are.

The truth is, however, that this semester was miserable, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. What was going on? What was I doing wrong? What could I do better?

Now that the semester is behind me, I’ve come to the conclusion that something wasn’t working with the students. I hate to shift blame onto someone who isn’t me, but I think that what happened with my classes this semester is indicative of a larger trend in higher education.

Students are no longer capable of engaging with course material that requires reading or watching something for more than a few minutes. This is fine in large lecture classes, but it makes smaller and more discussion-focused seminar classes very awkward and uncomfortable.

There’s a lot to unpack here, and it would be helpful to give some background information first.

There are generally three types of classes in a university: lectures, seminars, and labs.

Lab classes are above my pay grade, so I’m not going to talk about them.

Lecture classes are larger classes with minimal participation. The professor stands on stage presenting information, and evaluations are structured so as to measure the students’ retention of this information. If an individual student performs poorly, they fail. Unless a specific professor has an innate knack for entertaining an audience, most people don’t particularly enjoy lecture classes. These classes are necessary and vital to what a university does, of course, but students tend not to think that they’re fun or engaging.

Seminar classes are smaller and focus more on individual student participation. Although it’s still necessary to evaluate students based on their retention of information, these classes allow much more room for individual student expression. A lot of Social Science and Humanities courses with more specialized topics, such as the ones I teach, are seminar classes. If a seminar class goes well, both the students and the instructor can get a lot out of the experience. This is the type of class where students have the sorts of transformative experiences that the institution of higher education likes to celebrate.

In lecture classes, the instructor basically has to show up, present material, perform evaluations, and make sure these evaluations are assessed properly. This is far from easy, and there’s a lot of planning and preparation involved. Still, it’s the responsibility of the students to do the work or risk failing the class. If a student gets a bad grade, it’s the fault of the student, not the instructor.

In seminar classes, the instructor still has to show up, present material, perform evaluations, and make sure these evaluations are assessed properly. At the same time, because the classes are smaller, there’s more of an opportunity for student engagement, and most seminar classes are designed to take advantage of this. While an introductory lecture class in Art History might expect students to memorize lists of names and dates and manufacture short and shallow essays about, for example, the symbolism of fruit in Renaissance painting, a seminar class would encourage students to dig deeply into a more specialized topic while discussing their own thoughts and intellectual interests in a structured manner.

Because the instructor of a seminar class has more leniency in evaluating each individual student’s performance, they also have much more responsibility for what each student gets out of the class. This involves a lot of extra work for the instructor, but the trade-off is that they can more or less teach what they want.

Most seminar classes are upper-level – meaning that they’re intended for students in their third year or above – and many also have prerequisites. The idea is that you can’t just throw someone with no prior knowledge, training, or skills in the discipline into a small class and expect them to succeed. Essentially, by the time someone becomes eligible to take a seminar class, they should be able to contribute to it at the requisite level. In other words, it wouldn’t make much sense to allow someone with no knowledge of Art History into an advanced seminar for specialists, even if they really enjoy art.

A major problem in American universities, however, is that many colleges now require courses to have a minimum enrollment in order to avoid being cancelled. People who teach seminars are therefore under pressure to open registration to everyone. In addition, instructors are also pressured into allowing upper-level seminars to count for university general education requirements, especially if the class is offered by a “program” instead of a “department.” (A department can offer a major and thus grant a degree, while a program is generally younger and smaller and can generally only offer a minor or a secondary major.) What this means is that, practically speaking, you might have a bunch of sophomore accounting majors taking an upper-level seminar (offered by the Gender Studies program instead of the Art History department) specifically about the queer symbolism of fruit in Renaissance painting.

Meanwhile, students don’t want to risk their GPA on a seminar with a strict instructor and a qualitative assessment structure, so people who teach seminar classes are under a lot of pressure to make sure everyone gets a decent grade. This means that there’s no way to warn students if they’re not doing the work and not performing at the required level.

This is not an ideal situation. As you might imagine, it creates problems.

Many experienced instructors can handle these problems with a range of strategies that can help to make the best of less-than-ideal situation. Unfortunately, a collection of ill-prepared students sitting in an advanced seminar can result in some truly awkward situations that nothing can be done about.

In order for a seminar to work, there need to be at least two good students. If there’s only one good student, the rest of the class will resent them, and that student will grow to resent the class in turn. Two students can get a discussion going, however, and all it takes is the enthusiasm of two people to encourage the other students to contribute as well. Having multiple good students also enables each individual student to slack off sometimes, meaning that the classroom space feels more collaborative.

What I mean by a “good” student is a student who can and will do the work and contribute to the class. A student who can do the work but doesn’t isn’t a good student. A student who has done all the work but sits quietly in the back of the room isn’t a good student. A student who hasn’t done any of the work but “contributes” anyway isn’t a good student either. Meanwhile, the students who don’t do the work, don’t pay attention, and have to be “reminded” to put away their phones and laptops in the middle of class are aggressively bad students. For a seminar to be successful, the instructor needs to work with the good students to create a critical mass of goodness (attention, engagement, contribution, and collaboration) that overwhelms the badness (the attitude of students who clearly don’t want to be in the room) before it becomes pervasive.

An experienced instructor can set boundaries and encourage a productive classroom environment by rewarding goodness and punishing badness. If there’s no genuine student engagement, however, there’s nothing to reward. Meanwhile, in the hope of at least maintaining a neutral status quo, it can be tempting for an instructor to avoid punishing disengagement by, for example, calling out a student who is clearly spending the entire class scrolling through social media.

It goes without saying that it’s easier for men to set these boundaries. If you’re not a cisgender man, you’re already starting at a disadvantage, and every other minority positionality you occupy makes it even harder to maintain an atmosphere of civility and respect in the classroom. There has been so much work (here’s an annotated selection) that demonstrates how sexism functions in a university setting that this observation has almost become a truism, but it’s still worth commenting on.

To return to the point of this essay, what happened this semester is that I didn’t have a single good student in either of my seminar classes. I know that sounds awful and judgmental, but this is what I mean:

(1) Not a single student prepared for class by doing the required reading or viewing.
(2) Even if one or more of them did, those students did not engage with the class.
(3) Multiple students were actively disengaged and disruptive.

What this meant was that…

(1) It was not possible to have a sustained discussion about the material.
(2) It was not possible for students to otherwise engage with the material.
(3) Students were not capable of retaining or intellectually processing the material.
(4) Students grew to resent being asked to engage with material they couldn’t understand.
(5) Students who were not prepared still insisted on speaking, which was awkward and awful.

In other words, everyone was uncomfortable and no one learned anything.

I tried to mitigate this as best I could by offering praise and encouragement on evaluations, devising in-class groupwork projects and other activities meant to stimulate engagement, and having students watch and discuss short videos during class in lieu of doing any preparation outside of class. I learned the students’ names, I memorized their interests and hobbies in order to help bring them into class discussion, and I played trivia games about tangentially related material to help wake them up and get them in a positive frame of mind. I gave them all sorts of snacks with sugar and caffeine, and I even brought my dog to class several times for stress relief.

But nothing worked. Even students who showed promise at the beginning of the semester were performing poorly by the end, and I felt awful.

What I ended up doing was relying more and more on my presentations, thereby transitioning my classes away from seminar discussions and more toward lectures. Unfortunately, the course material I chose for my seminars was ill-suited to become the subject of a series of lectures, by which I mean a set of discrete topics that could be broken down into smaller units of information suitable for evaluations intended to test basic retention.

Writing these lectures and evaluations felt boring and empty to me, and I hated it. To give an example, imagine having a class about Sailor Moon in which, instead of discussing what makes the show so fun and interesting and culturally meaningful, you have to present the text as something along the lines of, say, “Please list three visual elements of Sailor Moon intended to appeal to its target demographic.” As a result, class sessions that could have been really special and magical became tedious and soulless.

The main problem was that none of the students did any of the assigned reading. Let me emphasize this: None of the students did any of the assigned reading. Moreover, most of them had no intention of doing the reading. The course hosting platform my university uses, Blackboard, allows the instructor to track who has accessed the course material, and almost no one even clicked on the links for the assigned readings and videos. Because none of the students were willing to do any work for my classes, I had nothing to work with myself, and every single one of my attempts to engage the students with the material (and with each other) ended in an awkward failure.

As I wrote earlier, I ended up turning my seminar classes into lecture classes, and any discussions we had were very broad and not too terribly productive. I did my best to smile and laugh through the entire semester, but I have no idea what my students got out of my classes.

I’ve been noticing a trend that’s become more pronounced with each passing year, and I think it’s finally time to acknowledge what’s going on – the undergraduates at my university are unable to read or watch more than a few uninterrupted minutes of video. Even when presented with short and accessible material, they cannot engage with it. I’ve always had a few students in every course who were capable of doing enough work to contribute to a productive classroom environment, but their numbers have been shrinking, and this semester I finally hit zero.

I have theories about how we got to this point, but that’s immaterial. What’s more important is figuring out where to go from here.

Specially, what sort of material can students engage with? Moreover, is the specific information gained through college classes what’s important, or should the emphasis of seminar classes be on the process of developing textual and media literacy and critical thinking skills? If the goal is the retention of information, is there a better way to deliver this information? Something like a podcast, perhaps? If the process is important – and I really think it is – what can be done to encourage it? What needs to change so that students can do the work they need to do?

And finally, is it worth it? Is it ethical to force students to pay so much money for classes that aren’t useful or even interesting to them? By remaining in an institution that exploits some of the most precarious members of American society without giving them anything in return, am I complicit in propagating an unjust system?

The only conclusion I have to offer is that this issue requires more research. Surely I’m not the first person to have made this set of observations, and there have to be strategies for addressing these problems in order to create classes that are more beneficial to students.

A Hellscape of Unsavory Experiences

The bogus “Momo challenge” internet hoax, explained
https://www.vox.com/2019/3/3/18248783/momo-challenge-hoax-explained

A flurry of TV reports, along with both local and national news, began breathlessly advising parents on ways to “protect kids from a disturbing internet game.” Lost in any coverage, however, were any examples of the authenticated versions of the Momo challenge, including screenshots of “threatening messages” or confirmed videos promoting violence.

It shouldn’t be too surprising that a viral urban legend (and likely hoax) targeting kids would be able to sweep the globe. The internet can be a hellscape of unsavory experiences for anyone; parents face the added challenge of wrestling with how to adequately protect their kids without being overbearing. Indeed, inappropriate content often does make it past automated platform security and monitors — just look at YouTube’s persistent struggle with combating child exploitation, online bullying, or extremist conspiracies.

I taught a class called “Demonic Women in Japanese Fiction” last semester, and some of my students were obsessed with the Momo Challenge. I have vague memories of the Blue Whale Challenge from an old group conversation on WhatsApp, but I didn’t pay any attention to it then, so it was interesting to watch this urban legend spread and develop in real time this past spring. I wonder, will the Momo Challenge be a bit of internet ephemera that people will forget ever existed, or will it eventually resurface and take on a life of its own?

By the way, maybe this is just me being weird, but I think Momo is actually kind of cute.

Performative Environmentalism

Sustainability vs the Mason Jar Aesthetic
https://thebibliosphere.tumblr.com/post/175923334416/sustainability-vs-the-mason-jar-aesthetic-joy-on

I guess the point of this lengthy ramble is a complaint that the aesthetic of sustainability is actually more popular than actual ethical sustainable practices. Too many people are concerned with looking like they care, but don’t actually want to get into the nuance of things. And I get it, I do. It’s nice to feel like you’re doing something good. Who doesn’t want to feel like they’re taking responsibility for their time on this earth and being the best version of themselves?

But it has to require thought, and method, and looking beyond the narrow scope of your own four walls (metaphorical or otherwise) and what that one person on YouTube said, while merely swapping one form of consumerism for another because it looks and feels ethical, but not actually exacting any kind of global change.

And that’s the difference between using a mason jar to drink out of, and the Mason Jar Aesthetic. Being aware of your impact on the earth and doing what you can within your limits and means (and respecting the means of others), vs wanting to be seen as such. And it’s an important distinction and one that requires self reflection and a great deal more thought than buying into an aesthetic.

This is some good writing.

Here is a true story, which I promise is related.

In the Spring 2018 semester I taught an upper-level seminar about the intersections between culture and the environment. I set up the course to examine the main issues involved from multiple angles, but the conclusion of all of the scholars and analysts we read was more or less the same: An overwhelming majority of people around the world are extremely concerned about environmental issues and are strongly in favor of “greener” public policy. Unfortunately, the reason these desires are not accurately represented in the policy enacted by many governments is because the laws that direct what these governments can do and how they can do it were written in historical eras with vastly different concerns than our own, and it is not in the interests of the people who are already in power to change these laws. (The Electoral College system in the United States is a representative example of what I’m talking about.) Therefore, before we can change public policy, we need to reform the laws that shape the scope of our national governments.

For fourteen weeks, in class after class after class, we talked about how local governments, media producers, citizens’ groups, and individual people are already quite environmentally conscious, and we also talked about why policy regulating the vast majority of pollution and resource management needs to be enacted at the national level. Individual actions regarding the environment are important and meaningful, of course, but the harmful excesses of global neoliberal capitalism are larger than any one person can combat on their own.

So, at the end of the semester, I got a course evaluation (which is basically a standardized form that students can use to give the university feedback about a class and its professor) from a student who wrote, in all caps: THE PROFESSOR PRINTS OUT THE WEEKLY QUIZZES ON PAPER, THIS IS VERY WASTEFUL AND DISRESPECTFUL TO THE ENVIRONMENT.

……………

On a completely unrelated note, I’m really interested in what this writer is doing with her Patreon.

“Patreon” is one of the words I’ve muted on Twitter because I’m uncomfortable with the growing trend of everything on social media becoming a transaction. This doesn’t mean, however, I’m not still trying to figure out a way that a system like Patreon can work ethically and without commercializing personal relationships.

All that aside, it’s always good to see a writer with a successful Patreon. Based on the small handful of other popular Patreon sites managed by authors that I’ve encountered, the secret to success seems to have something to do with monster romance.

This might be a good thing to keep in mind for the future.