Dissociative disorder is a superpower where you have the tendency to transcend the current state of being. My therapist made me aware through visualization exercises in ways in which I can control my dissociation and create a safer space for myself. This has brought me to the idea that nearly everything that constructs the veil is holding me back.
That includes grieving.
In a time of pandemic and heightened racism, public grieving is rarely exercised. However, when an influential personality, such as Chadwick Boseman, John Lewis or Kobe Bryant passes, the world pays their respects. While these figures fully deserve such recognition for dedicating their careers to uplifting others, so do the members of the community.
We are asking children to go off to college in a time where they cannot congregate without the major concern of health. Many of them are starting university without parents, grandparents, and other loved ones due to current public health and financial crises.
While policies excusing work are written into the curriculum to acknowledge the effects of CoVid-19, private grieving is still encouraged. When one person gets sick, or loses someone the rest of the class is forced to turn away and focus on their workload. Not only does this cause the isolation of grieving to exacerbate, but now we have the double consequence of other members rightfully feeling collective sorrow for their community. When the Nap Bishop said that we should have taken the year off, I felt that. Rushed away from graduation and a restful summer, I did what I had to do to continue to generate income- worked a high stress and low paying job. But while my summer employment was temporary, essential workers didn’t have that privilege. They still don’t. Fast food employees, sanitation workers, and janitors are under judgment and harassment daily without any form of security, let alone life-sustaining pay. The physical, psychological, and financial effects are disastrous.
Collective grief is necessary.
I have always been punished for grieving in the classroom. Due to health issues, I have lost both my mother and father by the age of 17. Upon my father’s death, I had fallen behind junior year of high school. My AP teachers knew of my troubles and quietly delivered bad grades and comments on my reports such as “I need MORE.” It wasn’t fair. And I was so used to my grieving being brushed aside by my very traditional Black American family that I had not seen these teaching behaviors as secret failures of anyone but myself.
The same happened in college, during the last semester of my senior year. Towards the first few weeks of school I was eager to be in a classroom and taking one of the most difficult classes the department had to offer. Simultaneously, I entered a special grieving period upon the tenth anniversary of my mother's passing. It felt cruel that I become the woman she nurtured me to be after ten years without true parental love. My existence and academic success without her felt torturous. Sleepless nights and depressive thoughts returned from my teenage years. I cried myself to sleep regularly.
With this heavy heart, I initially took time away from classes as needed to tend to myself. My work still got done, but as the class assignments for Control Systems were unforgiving, I found myself underperforming. I tried to be self-forgiving.
On the eve of the first exam, I found myself in the middle of a several hour crying spout. I was supposed to spend the entire day studying, and instead found myself transfixed. Though I'd spent a while in office hours relearning certain concepts, I'd gave more time to grieving. At 3 am I reluctantly sent a message to my professor saying that I was grieving and mentally unable to take the exam.
He responded at 6 am and said he couldn't "admit my excuse."
While 17 credits of math and science was the majority of my semesters, I felt as if this class was too much of everything for the 4 credits it offered upon completion. The assignments took 15 hours each on average. The lab took 10 hours too and often weeks doubled in tasks. There were two midterms and a final. Also, the standards were hardly even lowered amongst the course of a pandemic that shifted students from on campus safety to wherever they could find refuge. I found it inhumane and it caused serious doubt in my ability to even graduate, as it was the most significant roadblock; the only way to beat it was not avoid spending time grieving.
It felt wrong. Yet, I somehow pulled myself together and denied myself space so that I could earn a C in that class. He dropped two assignments and issued a personal extension on the final, as I told him through the online proctor that I was unable to finish the exam because I couldn't stop crying.
All of the studying didn't make me a better student. Working closely with a professor who had denied me of grieving also didn't make me better. At one point, I asked him if I would pass. He showed me my performance was on track to a dismal, yet passing grade and then sent a follow up saying that I would not pass unless I continued the efforts. Self-neglect was mandatory.
This is a characteristic engineering professor. His lack of empathy held consistent until he had to face my immediate emotions. During the final exam, he finally tended to my exhaustion, but it was too late. I'd like to think that I will remember what I worked so hard to learn in that course, but due to my symptoms, I likely won't. I enjoyed his charismatic teaching style. We exchanged humor during class and he answered all of my questions over email. He sent a congratulations when I won a graduate fellowship- one day after he threatened that I wouldn't graduate if I could not pass his class. These mixed messages make me skeptical about the ability of educators to handle grieving American students.
So what I'm calling for is radical grace amongst academics and everyone else. That content that you teach will not be rememberable in this period, but your attitude will.
P.S. If you're interested in more perspective on the social consequences of the COVID-19 pandemic, check out the Corona Chat: Pandemic Podcast, 3 part series.
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