When I learned that William Jewell College would be switching to online learning for the remainder of the semester in the wake of COVID-19, there were many challenges that I anticipated. What would class look like outside of the traditional classroom? Would I have a quiet space with good internet to get work done? How would I manage to keep up with school work while my mind was preoccupied with fears regarding a global pandemic? 

When I returned home, I had more time on my hands than I ever had before. I didn’t feel particularly stressed. I was fortunate to have a good study space and a healthy family. My professors did their best to provide positive learning experiences through Zoom and Moodle assignments. They were kind and understanding, cutting down on my workload significantly and providing extensions when needed.  

So, with all of my previous apprehensions soothed, I didn’t understand why school had become such a struggle. As a motivated and hardworking student, I was caught off guard by how little I suddenly cared about the work I was doing. I was putting off assignments later than I ever had before. The quality of my essays had taken a massive hit, as had my ability to focus.

It turns out that while my initial apprehensions all had some degree of validity, the biggest challenge online learning posed to me was one I hadn’t anticipated. It was the lack of community.

“We are critical thinkers in community pursuing meaningful lives,” reads William Jewell College’s philosophy. The phrase “critical thinking” has become pretty familiar to most Jewell students, as has “meaningful lives.” Many of our courses frequently emphasize these two important values. However, I have now had to grapple with a very different conception of community. This period of isolation has made me realize that community is the most important aspect of the college philosophy to my personal Jewell experience. 

The aspect of my community I thought I would miss most was my social life. I knew I would miss eating every meal with friends, having people across the hall to talk through problems with and professors to visit during office hours. I was prepared to struggle without the larger-scale meaning of community, as well. No more Kansas City or Liberty, which has become my home away from home. No in-person activities, like Nonprofit Leadership Association or Greek Life. These examples of community are things that I miss dearly, but the reason online education has been a struggle goes deeper.

I have always thought of myself as a self-motivated person. However, online schooling has taught me that I am actually very much other-motivated – and I don’t think I’m alone. When I hear my roommate wake up early on a weekend and start working on homework, it motivates me to do so, too. I apply for opportunities because I see my peers applying. I start a paper early because I want to start it before any of my classmates do. Call it hyper-competitive or call it inspiration – either way it’s motivation that has gone missing.

When I have no roommate to hear waking up early in the morning to study, I sleep late. When I don’t hear my peers talking about applying for an opportunity, I let the application date pass. When I never see my classmates working on a paper, I wait until the evening it’s due. Community is the cure for complacency. It creates our drive by positively reinforcing studious behaviors and punishing procrastination. 

In a world of stay at home orders, there is no punishment for procrastination. There isn’t an event I’m going to have to skip if I put my paper off to the last minute because there are no events. My friends won’t be upset with me if I have to bail on dinner to study because we won’t be dining together anyway. 

However, it’s not only the motivation to do schoolwork that suffers without community. It’s also the quality of work. Ideas find their birthplace in community. Whether it’s a heated discussion in class or a casual conversation with a friend in the PLC, the best inspiration tends to strike in the company of others. 

At Jewell, I have been grateful to always be in good company. Jewell students consider the typical cardinal to be a high achiever and extremely involved. In fact, many students even feel that the environment is a little too competitive. I have noticed that students frequently argue about who is the most busy, as if getting the least amount of sleep is a competition to win. Clearly, this need to achieve can be toxic. However, in moderation, it is what makes Jewell students successful. 

The transition to online school has made me realize that many of my successes would have never been possible without my community – and not just the professors or friends who directly helped me. The culture of Jewell as a whole always inspires me to work harder and be better. While living outside of that environment has made me less stressed, it also has made me feel unsatisfied with myself as both a student and a person. 

We can have successful Zoom classes, create calm, quiet study spaces with WiFi hotspots and even be fortunate enough to have healthy family members and financial stability in the midst of a global pandemic, but these things alone are not enough to replicate a productive learning environment. It is our community that challenges us, inspires us and motivates us. Our community gives our lives meaning, which is why it is so important to take proper distancing measures to protect the health of our community. 

I look forward to the day our Jewell community can come back together, both because of how much I miss it and because of the positive impact I know it will have on my learning. Until then, we must remember to push, support and inspire each other creatively and intellectually from afar.

Over this past weekend, I was inadvertently led to a jarring realization, one that has left me unsettled and profoundly disconcerted. In the years prior to my coming to William Jewell College, I thought I had discovered an infallible ideal of personal conduct, one that prescribes a foundational humility, patience and discipline. This weekend’s realization doesn’t contradict the significance of this template, but it did upend my perception of how well I have practiced it. My humanity, it seems, is inescapable.

The circumstance of my epiphany could not be more ordinary. It occurred amidst my helping with the debate tournament Jewell hosted Sunday afternoon. As the competition was winding down and most of the work was completed, I found myself sitting at a table with two debate coaches and two students. The conversation between the five of us began slowly, and was easy at the beginning. We talked about movies, television and stand-up comedy lightly and playfully. I considered my companions’ preferences and felt welcome to share my own.

I can’t recall the specific catalyst for the turn, but all of a sudden, we were arguing. The particular topic and arguments are not important, but some context might be: I was the sole defender of my position, and the issue was one on which I am very opinionated. A switch was flipped in me. I was no longer an eager and amiable conversationalist, but a readied combatant.

Suddenly the interaction – and my “contributions” – had an entirely different energy. I became stubborn, mean, smug and patronizing. I was self-righteous. I defended my position relentlessly, and thoughtlessly, without consideration for the feelings of my peers. I felt victimized, sensing a disdain and dismissiveness emanating from my newfound opponents. In those moments, it felt as if my competence and ideological dignity were under attack, and instinct coerced me into a rash defense.

This account benefits some from hindsight, but perhaps the most personally troubling variable was that I knew exactly what was happening at the time. Clichéd as this might be, it was as if I was hovering above my body, watching myself do things I knew I would regret, that I knew were neither effective nor productive. My confidence in my position, in its self-evident validity and virtue, seemed to justify succumbing to whatever reactionary defense I could conjure.

Eventually, the argument died down and the contentiousness petered out. No one was satisfied, but everyone was tired.

It seems prudent here to interject with an explanation, to elaborate on the rubric for thoughtful conduct that I mentioned at this article’s outset. In the past few years, I have become enamored with the idea of rigorous critical inquiry as a foundation for encountering all spheres of life. It has had a deep resonance with me, especially when contrasted with other templates by which I have been ensnared.

Throughout my life, I have gravitated toward ideologies with certain ethical and practical outlooks. The beliefs and conclusions they hold are finite and unambiguous. I have been an atheist: I was certain God does not exist. I have been a Marxist: I was certain that capitalism is amoral. I have been a Democrat: I was certain that Republicans are fools. These prescriptions were satisfying and offered a comfortable lens through which I viewed the world. My ultimate experience with all these rigid templates, though, was confusion. Invariably, I would find myself in disagreement with my fellow disciples and our doctrines. None of them were infallible, and each had its own distinct limitations.

Rigorous critical analysis, as a guiding principle for evaluating all my actions and affiliations, was a new religion for me. It separated itself from the confines of my previous tribal infatuations. Its only fundamental requirement was that one weigh all variables and engage with ideas without bias or preconceived truth. Humility in intellectual pursuits is the vital dictum. One must always be prepared to have one’s position uprooted by a better one. Though this seems obvious, I had not considered that one could be this discerning or nuanced in one’s opinions. The preponderance of hard-lined factions in our world had tricked me into thinking that I had to align myself with one of them. With this new wisdom, I felt uniquely empowered and began putting it into practice.

While overall this has served me well, it set a dubious trap. I am not sure I had become aware of it until I digested my conversation from Sunday. Though the tenets of critical inquiry are elevated above any specific dogma, its practice not immune to a dogmatic approach. Critical thought advocates formulating a response instead of acquiescing to a reaction, to ignore immediate feelings and instincts. This, though, is impossible. I will always be plagued by my humanity, by my hunger and lust and emotions. They can be kept at bay at times, but they always find a way to permeate my opinions. Despite my declared preference for critical inquiry and my proclamation that I will embrace its core maxims, I am nevertheless subject to the whirlwind of my self-centered experience.

My inattention to these basic human foibles culminated in my shameful participation in Sunday’s conversation. The social current of the interaction overwhelmed me, and I found myself acting in a way that I knew to be undignified and about which I am ashamed. I am not debilitated, but I am certainly humbled. Though my vigilance is renewed in vigor, I know now to be ready for it to abate. The real practical skill of critical thinking, I have discovered, is to confront my limitations and weaknesses constantly.

On this hilltop, in our self-proclaimed sanctuary of critical thought, students, staff and administration ought be weary of our stated mission obscuring the tedious work it demands. Eschew certainty and entertain uncomfortable alternatives. Though we have articulated our mission, our work has no end in sight.

Photo by Sofia Arthurs-Schoppe.