Campus without students and students without a campus

I ride my bike from home to the Coe College campus on a beautiful Thursday, the last day of April. There's only a light breeze--quite a difference from the gusty days earlier this week.

There isn't much traffic on the roads. And I'm glad to get out of the house to run a few errands: get some materials from my office for planning one of the classes I'll teach next semester, mail a few items, pick up some things from the print shop.

As I ride onto campus from the College Drive side, I am reminded that the it always looks its best this time of year, when the grass is lush and green, flowers just starting to blossom, and the sun illuminating our limestone and brick buildings.

A day like this would normally bring students out onto the quad--with blankets, books, and laptops--to "study" or maybe just soak up sun after a cold Iowa winter.

Of course, today there are no students, only a lone maintenance guy on a roaring stand-up lawn mower, going slowly back and forth.

Campus is beautiful, but eerily empty.

Eventually, there might be some healthcare workers living in our residence halls, but I don't know if that's happened yet.

I ride my bike down the sidewalks lining the empty quad. The library stands silent; it's been closed since the first week of April.

My office is in a rather remote part of campus; it feels particularly isolated today, and the room where Creative Nonfiction met is dark and empty.

Like most colleges, after an extended Spring Break (two weeks instead of one), Coe began Online Instruction to finish the last 4+ weeks of the semester. Mostly during this pandemic, I've been WFH, or Working From Home: hurriedly revising my class plans, envisioning different ways for students to participate and learn, figuring out work-arounds for getting them course material.

All things considered, we're doing pretty well. It's not what the students signed up for; it's not what anyone signed up for. We're doing the best we can, all of us.

But the situation isn't ideal for any of us. While some students have managed the transition smoothly, I've heard from students in all my classes about struggles during online learning: not getting decent wifi, not finding reading materials, challenges sharing space with families, worrying about illness, and dealing with economic uncertainty as family members lose jobs . . .

Today, the empty campus is making me realize, like a recent article I read suggested, how much the "residential" part of a residential liberal arts college matters. Here all students--no matter their background or situation--can

• live in residence halls with others who are learning and studying 
• have access to an excellent library and decent internet connectivity
• stop by faculty offices when they need help
• drop in to the Writing Center for an immediate conference on a draft or at the tutoring center for help on other classes

With students dispersed across the country because of this pandemic, the temporary equalizing elements of the campus are out of reach.

I finish my errands on campus and get back on my bike to head home. Crossing the lush, green campus, I take one more look around. It's beautiful, yes. But more important, it's a place of refuge for learners, a place of community and connection, of encouragement and challenge.

As I push off and head away, I hope I can figure out a way to create that refuge of learning whether I'm in a classroom, or meeting students on Zoom.