I’ve spent the last few weeks trying to wrap my mind around this past semester. My campus has a master’s of interdisciplinary studies program, and I taught a course about feminist pedagogy in this program this spring. The class consisted of seven graduate students and two undergraduate students, since the class was cross-listed with the undergraduate honors program. There was something about teaching a course about feminist pedagogy using feminist pedagogical methods that was simultaneously exhausting, to such a degree that it’s taken me awhile to be able to talk about it coherently and without wanting to cry, but at the same time incredibly enriching. Teaching this class opened a door to a way of teaching that embraced the affective dimension of teaching rather than shying away from it or resisting it, and it also provided access to a spiritual aspect of teaching that was unexpected, but still profoundly meaningful.
I think I wrote in my book (I say I think, because writing the book happened a long time ago and my memory is fuzzy) about how sometimes I feel like I have to obscure the feminist approaches to my teaching because I’m afraid of how people will react or respond. So to have the freedom to be unabashedly and justifiably explicit about my politics, and how they inform my teaching, was very exciting and liberating. To witness the power of feminist pedagogy each week, to see students’ perspectives—and even their lives!—transform each week—I don’t even know how to describe how moving and powerful this was for me. It was humbling. For example, I watched one of my students struggle to integrate her conservative Christian worldview with feminism all semester, and at the end of the semester, she wrote a paper that examined biblical passages to argue that Jesus was a feminist teacher. Another student experienced the death of her sister during the semester, and she shared with me that she employed feminist pedagogical methods to help her and her family plan the memorial service. Other students reported integrating feminist pedagogy into their work lives, into their relationships and personal lives, and it was a sincere and genuine privilege to witness their journeys throughout the semester.
I’m reminded of this concept from Celtic spirituality called the thin place or thin space, and it describes the place or space where you can sense and experience the divine more closely than you can anywhere else. This is my own definition of it, and if you Google around, you’ll read all kinds of perspectives on it, but this is the basic concept. I think that the term is meant to describe literal places, according to my understanding, but for me, teaching this course on feminist pedagogy using feminist pedagogy was a kind of thin place, where my breath was regularly taken away by a feeling of proximity to something much, much bigger than I, where reading final papers was a spiritual experience, and assigning grades to them felt like blasphemy. The papers still sit in a pile on the bed in my study, because I feel terrible about recycling or shredding or otherwise disposing of them.
I’d like to describe myself as a pragmatic Roman Catholic-turned-Episcopalian who is mostly anti-New Agey or woo woo or whatever. But it is a true fact that I am wordlessly and ineffably drawn to Marian iconography, that I have a Virgen de Guadalupe candle on the desk in my study, that I have the Rublev Trinity icon hanging above my desk, as well as various things I’ve cut out from my church bulletin. But I don’t know how else to express it, except to say that I’m reminded of when I was an undergraduate in college, and one of my psychology professors was conducting research on I don’t even remember what, and we, his students, were regularly asked to fill out surveys about various things. I remember one of the questions, which I think was rated on a Likert scale, was something like, “I feel chills when I see beautiful works of art or read good poetry” or something along those lines. I rated this as a Strongly Agree, and I recall thinking to myself: “Wait, so there are people who don’t feel this way? What’s wrong with them?” I bring this up to try to draw a parallel, to try to explain that this particular teaching experience provoked similar feelings that are difficult to explain: this sense of being unaccountably moved, altered, transformed, just as I am by Psalm 4 or Richard Proulx’s Exodus Canticle.
I think feminist pedagogy can be a deeply healing experience for a teacher. For me, feminist pedagogy, whether in a semester-long course, or in a library instruction one-shot, is more taxing than more traditional modes of teaching. It takes a lot out of me, but the rewards are so rich and soul-feeding that it is worth it to me. And, for me, embracing feminist pedagogy is a way out of the soul-killing dehumanization that is burnout. Feminist pedagogy insists on and honors the humanity of both the teacher and the learner. These feelings are echoed in the work of one of my students, Katie, who gave me permission to use her name and quote from her paper. Katie’s paper argues that feminist pedagogy is a sacred experience, and she notes, “When the personal is no longer considered a valid area of sharing and exploring, both the teacher and student lose much of their personhood.” I believe this to be very, very true, and for me, resisting burnout in the library instruction classroom and beyond means embracing the difficult and demanding but gratifying and soul-feeding work of teaching through a feminist lens. This means being fully present as a teacher, as a person and participant with thoughts and feelings and perspectives and filters and baggage.
On the last day of class, I asked my students to tell a story, using words, images, or both, about their experience with feminist pedagogy. I provided them with sheets of paper and a box of crayons and played soothing instrumental music, and I participated in the activity as well. My image is below, and here is what it means: for me, teaching this class was a way of accessing and being my whole self, and the hole in my self, my soul, that was caused by burnout and depression and all sorts of things was healed and transformed and made new. And as I continue to progress on this journey that is teaching, I need to remember to continually draw upon—and simultaneously feed—my whole self, my whole soul, in order to seek renewal, healing, and joy.