Placelessness and the Cuckoo’s Egg: on the Closure of UCA Rochester


A few weeks ago, I shared the dispiriting news that the University for the Creative Arts had announced plans to withdraw from Medway, shuttering its campus at Fort Pitt, Rochester, in September 2023. UCA also announced its intentions to excise its provision of Further Education from all campuses.

The range and candour of comments on the original Linkedin post speaks to concerns, felt locally and nationally, in regards to the responsibilities of education providers to the specific regions in which they situate, and to the histories from which they’ve benefited. Many see UCA’s decision as resulting from, and now enabling too, the UK government’s strategic devaluing of creativity and all its would-be practitioners.

I’ve been reflecting on these things too. I guess as good a place to start as any is why I care at all about the fate of that brick-built colossus sitting astride Fort Pitt hill, given I left the university a little under two years ago, and have few regrets I did.

In one way, the answer is obvious. I have an attachment for Rochester. I am sentimental about it. I studied there in the mid-90s, and taught there in two satisfying chunks, once with the photography department, as a spry videographer, and later, as a greying, marginally-less spry course leader for an animation degree. In addition to these lofty academic pursuits, I also worked as barkeep and licensee at Rochester’s student bar, which taught me more about the importance of community to the student experience than any number of journal articles or workshops since. I looked after Rochester’s student accommodation, and designed and installed, wheelbarrow-by-wheelbarrow, the campus’s balcony garden – twice. I’ve painted a good number of Rochester’s walls multiple times, hoovered its carpets, deodorized its lecture theatres, and in all these unremarkable ways, sought to enhance its learning spaces for the benefit of everyone. In addition, I represented Rochester endless times at schools, at career fairs, in films and on showreels, at open days, and in concert halls across Europe and at international conferences. Most rewardingly, I worked with generations of students from the Medway area (and lots from much further afield too), and formed close bonds with long-serving colleagues and alumni.

That I remain emotionally invested in the Rochester campus is surely self-evident. But while it is certainly true Rochester feels ancestral for me, I have to ask why. The answer cannot be found in all the time I’ve given that building, but rather in why I gave that time so completely, so consistently, and for so long.


My first home was a static caravan, after that a council house. Growing up, my one-parent family was routinely poor. I failed my 12+ exam, which, according to the educational system of which I was part, meant I wasn’t promising enough to go to grammar school, and by implication, a ‘good’ university. Instead, I went to a secondary modern, where I met a range of impassioned teachers who treated the educational system of which they were part with appreciable disdain, refusing it any further power over me. That particular school, and those particular people, accomplished two things: they revealed to me there are systems of inequality baked into how we educate, and the power those systems exert is sustained by a form of Stockholm syndrome, which relies on hostages agreeing with their lot and accepting, as incontrovertible, that some children are more valuable to society than others.

As it happens, I left that school with enough A grades at A’level to go wherever the f**k I liked. Instead, I went and did my Art Foundation course at my local college, because neither Oxford or Cambridge, or wherever, was quite the place for a boy who wanted to blow things up on movie sets. Importantly, I was able to walk to the college campus from the estate I lived on, an estate, incidentally, infamous in the local press for its ne’er do wells, ruffians and ‘dole scum’.

Next, I chose UCA Rochester, or as it was back then, the Kent Institute of Art & Design. There were likely much prettier places in more salubrious parts of the country, but the course I wanted to do was there. Anyone who knows me now who knew me then will rightly baulk at any attempt to lionise that time; our particular undergraduate course was a failed experiment. That said, in and around the nuts and bolts of what I was supposed to be doing, I ended up editing the student magazine. In fact, I ended up doing a bunch of things, including graduating with a first class degree and going on to do my Masters. I remember very vividly the year two contextual studies lecture about postructuralism, delivered in Rochester’s lecture theatre, which gave me the intellectual courage to come out as queer. You might say, art school did exactly what it was supposed to do: I went in thinking about myself in one way, and came out thinking differently.

I didn’t plan on teaching at Rochester after my Masters degree. It wasn’t my ambition to teach at all. More prosaically, I just valued the relationships I’d made there, the first suggestion I should teach coming from a senior member of staff I’d enjoyed working with and admired very much. What followed was a sustained period of excitement and adventure, in part largely because I worked, cheek-by-jowl, with a team of lecturers so committed to delivering transformative student experiences, it was frankly addictive. That I ended up giving so much to the job of teaching, returning to Fort Pitt these few years later to ultimately assume the role of a course leader, is a mystery to some, who perhaps hoped for me something showier, or for whom Rochester was a nest from which I never truly fledged. But there is power too in recognising what happiness feels like when you find it, and if not ‘happiness’ as a constant state of bliss, then happiness as a simple, rather solid feeling; a feet on the ground sensation, a click.

So, yes, I clicked with KIAD, likely because it was configured in the image of my secondary school, not in terms of bricks and mortar (for there is no other building quite like the Rochester campus), but in terms of its social contract. In this sense, Rochester was configured in my image too; a space for bright young things who’d failed at things; a space for bright young things who perhaps didn’t think of themselves as such, and so a space for the righting of wrongs, a place for making things right.

As a course leader, I was often exhausted, often frustrated, but I was never once confused about my responsibilities as an educator, role model and advocate. In this, I modelled myself on the teachers of my secondary school, and on the lecturers I worked with at the beginning of my teaching career. Like them, I sought to be fearlessly kind and honest and bold, and I never forgot, not once, that the only business I was in was the business of making a difference; of giving power away to young people who often arrived without it. To teach at Rochester, because of where it was, and because of who it was who came there, was to see inequalities still at work in the lives of individuals and then do something about it.

Ultimately, the reason I went on to resign from UCA, with no small amount of anguish, was because the job roles devised for myself and others by the senior management team were unrecognisable, emptied as they were of both specialism and activism (or teaching, as some of us old-timers know it). I saw in that change the intensification of something now culminating in the closure of Rochester; let’s call it the triumph of placelessness.


After the merger, seeing the Kent Institute of Art & Design and Surrey Institute of Art & Design combine, it was marketing heresy to place-name your respective campus or make distinctions between them. That the campuses comprising the new ‘UCA’ had root-systems of their own, indigenous and site-specific, was seen as working against the ambitions of ‘brand UCA’, which was to become ‘an idea of a university’, as opposed to an alliance of different places. Predictably, most staff across the different campuses worked in stealth against the stupidity of this, as demonstrated in this oft-repeated exchange:

Me: “I work at UCA”
Them: “Where?”
Me: “UCA Rochester – the big brick building on the hill.”
Them: “Oh, you mean KIAD?’
Me: “Yep.”

And it used to be that Rochester students graduated from Rochester cathedral, the highstreet black with the flapping of their gowns, and the city’s various hotels, restaurants and tea rooms busy with proud parents in posh clothes. The decision to consolidate UCA’s separate graduation ceremonies into a shindig at the Royal Festival Hall was taken, I guess, for reasons of cost-effectiveness, but had the additional effect of further prioritising UCA’s brand over its actual places. It was considered axiomatic that it was ‘obviously better’ to align UCA with a London location. But it wasn’t obviously better for Medway. I’m pretty sure the Royal Festival Hall didn’t need UCA’s money, and certainly not more so than Rochester’s hotels, restaurants, tea rooms, and cathedral.

But placelessness creeps in other more insidious ways too, as in the increasing disarticulation between UCA and its own disciplinarity; the little-by-little marginalisation of creative education in preference for cheaper-to-deliver business courses: the disassociation of art and design practitioners and educationalists from the running, and governing, of the ‘UK’s #1 creative university’. And while UCA’s identity crisis is deepening, it is not completely of its own making. We are witnessing an unprecedented attack on arts education, a kind of existential undoing enacted against an inarguably profitable sector, for reasons of ideological spite. That UCA is intent on remaking itself in the image of the prejudices levelled against it is ultimately as tragic and self-loathing as I was when I was ‘acting straight’.


Rochester was a nest from which I never truly fledged’. There is truth in that, but there is also truth in this: a nest is defined as ‘a place or environment that favours the development of something’, and in one form or another, there has been a nest for creative arts education in Medway since 1853. I’ve come to think of Rochester in precisely these terms. Certainly I nested there, and, by way of tribute to all those teachers who nurtured me, I built new nests there for many others. Cuckoos, meanwhile, are brood parasites. They don’t value nests, or who or what has made them, or indeed how long a nest might have taken to build or its value to all who used it once and all who might develop there in the future. Cuckoos are instead in the unabashed business of co-opting resources for their own advantage. Into the established nests of other birds, so the cuckoo hides its egg, and so putting all those other birds to work in the incubation of some furtherance of its own design. But before that, before the cuckoo can enact its plan, it must first dispense with the one egg standing in the way of its own.

For those of us who greeted the announcement of UCA’s closure of its Rochester campus with sadness and disappointment, it’s because we are puzzled and appalled by the university’s decision to dismantle so valuable a nest, in so distinctive an environment, at a time of demographic upturn and cultural transformation. For those of us who are angry, it’s because we suspect, despite all crocodile tears to the contrary and expressions of deep reverence for Medway, that UCA Rochester is the cuckoo’s sacrificial egg.

Sadly, with the closure of Rochester, we see very clearly UCA’s full-bodied embrace of placelessness, to which it has always been fatally attracted. Perhaps it has forever been UCA’s destiny to become the ‘Planet Hollywood’ of creative arts business education, as it succeeds in being both ‘nowhere in particular’ and also ubiquitous.

But ultimately, what makes UCA’s decision to close Rochester so problematic is the dissonance of its own decision-making: as UCA contemplates withdrawing its commitment to the intellectual, creative and emotional development of sixteen-to-eighteen year olds, it does so in order to focus on its provision of undergraduate, MA and postgrad courses. I can only wonder from where all these sorts of more profitable students might be coming from, if no one is teaching creative subjects to young people anymore? Not from Medway obviously. But maybe from China? For even as Rochester is shuttered as too expensive to maintain after years of disinvestment, new UCA campuses are in the offing overseas. The optics aren’t great, and the messaging for UK students is worse; while UCA can find a good many reasons to discontinue its long-standing commitment to Medway, it appears to find fewer faults with outsourcing its raison d’etre to a country that, in addition to one day soon boasting a nice new branch of UCA, is already home to all those Vocational Education and Training Centres.

In the end, the pursuit of placelessness always leaves things hollow, and this one has a special name: it’s called a moral vacuum.

Originally published on Linkedin


Fierce Grinding Discords Part 2


The good news is, most universities are packing impressive sound devices now, installed and finely calibrated in the service of retention and the closing of attainment gaps, and if not quite that, then grimly determined to deliver on decent student satisfaction scores and value for money. We are encouraged to detect and manage the emotional well-being of students earlier and earlier, to guard against their unhappiness, (or even worse, them going somewhere else and taking their fees with them).

During my stint as course leader, I was having more and more conversations with students about their private pain and its impact on their studies. I encountered students who didn’t want to write anything because the prospect of writing made them too uncomfortable; and students who didn’t want to talk in front of their peers, work in groups or give presentations because the prospect of doing so triggered their anxiety. I once supported a student who didn’t like experiencing feelings of ‘suspense’, so excused themselves from watching films that were ‘suspenseful’. Institutionally, I began to see a reciprocal trend for clearing the path of obstacles between students and their degree awards, born of all our enlightened acts of listening. I witnessed word counts shrinking, and the reshaping of curricula and credit frameworks, and alluring debates around alternative assessment gaining more and more ground with senior management.

If Klausner happened to wave his sound machine in my direction, he would have heard me screaming inside. In common with many of my colleagues, academic and otherwise, I was becoming increasingly uneasy at all the listening – but not because I was measuring my fabulously diverse student cohorts against paragons of resilience from some imagined rose-tinted past.  


At the conclusion of The Sound Machine, Klausner, fully sensate to the hitherto ignored feelings of the flora surrounding him, insists a doctor applies iodine to an axe wound in an oak tree. As sensitised to the feelings of our student bodies, we came similarly to rely on the various student support services in place to soothe them. Equipped now with our own sound machines, we knew how to better detect the tell-tale frequencies emitted by anxiety disorders and neuro-diversity, and we knew what to do about it; refer, refer, refer: “Go to the VLE and download the policy on applying for an extension”; “Go get a doctor’s note in support of your claim.” Go make an appointment with the counsellor.” Go, go, go. 

All of which looks responsible, commendable, best practice even, until I remind myself, in The Sound Machine story, it was Klausner who first hit the tree with the axe.  

While I always worked closely and collaboratively with student support services, I was keenly interested in understanding what might be producing all this pain in the first place. What point, I wondered, to all this listening, if we dedicate ourselves to reacting to the resonances of the wounded, and never to the swing of the axe? And while, I hope, I was an academic far removed from the tone-deaf tutors of the golden age of education, I wondered if there was still more I could do pre-emptively, and began by assuming there was. Sure, this quest was driven by my interest in producing transformative learning experiences for each and every individual under my care, but it was fired too by bone-deep exasperation at giving so much of my time and energy to pastoral emergenciesOh, for a day without another student panic attack. Oh, for a unit submission without the accompanying confetti of exemptions. You might say I was dreaming again of a life of silence, and not the bad old kind of the good old days, but the hush produced by higher frequencies of student contentment.

Just as The Sound Machine episode provoked my boyhood self into re-looking at seemingly benign environments for probabilities of risk, I turned my attentions to thinking about the design and delivery of year one of my particular degree programme. I was looking for axes, the glint of things we were doing badly. I looked for cruelties and insensitivity, for any unfair exclusionary practices.

I didn’t find any concealed weapons in our learning aims and outcomes, but as a first year tutor myself, I was able to cut through to something important, to an idea as bold-seeming as it was likely obvious, and it was this: the teaching on first year programmes should not be modelled after the image of the first year undergraduate you hope is coming to study with you, but instead, after the image of the sort of second year student you want your first year programme to produce. 

If we want second years (and thus third years, and thus graduates) unfazed by research and writing, unfazed by public-speaking and collaboration, and by the giving and receipt of constructive criticism, we need to stop anticipating these skills from our first years to ensure we’re actually teaching these skills to our first years. We need to situate their worriesas normal and appropriate, to design for them – and not so as to shame them, anaesthetise them, aggrandise them, or remove them, but to overt them to convert them.

When I asked myself what an undergraduate course without discomfort might look like, I shuddered. To return to The Sound Machine’s image of the neighbour cutting her rose bush, it is also true that expert and judicious pruning produces more flowers. Pruning excises old wood and triggers new growth, but thanks to Klausner’s sound machine, we also know this intervention is painful for its subject. 


When I listened too long to Heads of School, or listened too long to certain student reps, I felt we were in danger of advocating for lobotomies, for excising the pain centres from our learners’ brains, as a sure-fire way to keep them smiling. I began to feel as if our institutional sound machines, for all their good intentions, were producing the effect of deafness in tutors themselves, a growing inability to distinguish our prime responsibilities to students, as educators, from the white noise produced by the effect of aggressive marketisation on our understanding of student satisfaction. I feared I was witnessing the activity of listening being co-opted into damaging long-term strategies for the nullification of short-term dissatisfaction, to the detriment of inclusivity and social mobility. By roping off certain types of academic or social activity from certain profiles of student, I worried we were working only to re-silence their future selves. I knew very well that reading and writing, presenting and group work, produced spikes of anxiety in many of my students. I wanted to see their anxiety managed by them, so not by removing its source, but instead by teaching into these challenging subjects imaginatively, creatively, inclusively, brilliantly.

These were discomforts I wanted for my students because, to overcome them was to learn, to change, to transform; to expose their impermanence; to laugh at fear now and forever after; to win.  


I understand it’s confusing. It sounds suddenly as if I have something in common with those former colleagues, who believed students should just ‘bloody well get on with it’, but that is not the gong I’m banging. Resilience is the weasel word for expecting people to get on with things uncomplainingly because they shouldn’t hope for better; instead of being angry at baked-in injustice, they should knuckle-down and pull themselves up. But I’m not confused at all. The drum I’m banging sounds like this: 

Begin by making different assumptions about your incoming first year students. While they’ve elected to study with you, they are more reluctant than they’re letting on. They will show resistance. They will avoid engaging with activities that worry them the most. This seems like a contradiction or a character flaw, but it isn’t. You can want what scares you, and you can know the value of a thing even as you put your energies into avoiding it.

You might not be able to detect the background hum of first year distress, perhaps because your own familiarity with the rituals of higher education and the foibles of your institution have left you a bit hard of hearing. As Klausner’s sound machine teaches us, just because you can’t hear something doesn’t mean it’s not making a noise. And while first year students are worried by the prospect of learning new things, they are as worried, even more so, by the idea of confronting all the old things they’ve always found difficult or discomforting; perhaps because, before they met you, they sat in classrooms not dissimilar to the ones of my memory, classrooms without any sound machines in them at all.

In the new knowledge your first years, a) don’t already know how to do what you want them to do, and b) feel put at risk at the prospect of trying to do it, you need to, c) teach all of them how to do all of the things you regard as vital for undergraduates. Then, d) keep explaining why what you’re teaching them is valuable, and e) teach those things in ways calibrated to reframe anxiety, not as an expression of weakness or dysfunction, but as a normal frequency of learning.

When you design and deliver programmes of study for first years, as first years actually are, you’re teaching will still discomfort, unsettle and provoke students. You are in the business of pruning roses, and the cries of students must be borne by everyone, by the student, by the tutor, and by the institution, as this dissatisfaction is the short-term noise produced by lasting, long-term change.

But if you don’t design and deliver programmes of study for first years as they actually are, (maybe because you can’t remember what it’s like to be one yourself, or don’t care, or don’t approve of first years as they actually are), your teaching will be very painful. If you don’t teach first years how to do all the things you expect them to know how to do, and you don’t explain your reasons why learning to do those things is important, (and then you fail them for not knowing how to do it or even caring about not knowing how to do it), you are not in the business of pruning roses, you are wielding an axe. Referring your student to the counsellor, on account of their resulting panic attacks, is little different to sending a ‘disruptive’ child to sit at the back of the classroom with the other broken kids, whose own faults it must be they are too different, or too sad, or too angry to make a success of their learning. And if you’re content to wield axes, while bemoaning the spiralling culture of extenuating circumstances plaguing higher education, you must have your fingers in your ears, because the dissonance of that is deafening.

Discomforts like these should not be borne by students. 

Discomforts like these should be acted upon by the institution, but I absolutely do not mean institutions should act by seeking to excise, reduce or demonise the learning activities that so predictably inflame the pain centres of students. I absolutely do not mean that all the difficult and challenging things we want our undergraduates to master should be removed from them because they produce discomfort. I do not want lobotomies for learners. Instead, I want institutions to listen to what their sound machines are really detecting when it comes to the dissonance of student dissatisfaction. It’s not the wailing of the evermore sick and the evermore stupid, or some klaxon calling time on what is ‘too difficult for some’ about higher learning, but a fierce and powerful clamour for truly inclusive curriculum design and its delivery for all.

Originally published on Linkedin

ding.global


Fierce Grinding Discords Part 1


All these years later, I’m still haunted by a 1981 episode of the television series, Tales Of The Unexpected. Entitled The Sound Machine, and adapted from a Roald Dahl short story, the episode introduces us to Klausner, an enthusiast of sound.


“I believe … there is a whole world of sound about us all the time that we cannot hear. It is possible that up there in those high-pitched inaudible regions there is a new exciting music being made, with subtle harmonies and fierce grinding discords, a music so powerful that it would drive us mad if only our ears were tuned to hear the sound of it.”


In pursuit of his ambition to apprehend sounds undetectable to the normal range of human hearing, Klausner invents a listening device. At first, Klausner doesn’t understand the provenance of the screams detected by his machine when he tests his apparatus out in his garden – until he notices his neighbour snipping the blooms from her rose bush. Klausner’s sound machine is hearing the agonies of plants.

As a child, this episode did for walking across lawns what Jaws did for the deep end of my local swimming pool, freighting ubiquitous behaviors in familiar environments with new probabilities of risk. These days, I’m more likely to worry about entire ecosystems than the discomfort experienced by the few blades of grass between my toes. Even so, I still find myself thinking about Klausner’s sound machine, and the act of listening to pain.

Given the clear and obvious impact of the pandemic on student well-being, and on the institutional infrastructures in place to support it, discussions around the responsibility for the pastoral care of undergraduates have intensified. Even before the advent of Covid, the term ‘epidemic’ was much used to characterise the rise of poor mental health among university students.


In my former higher education institution, initiatives to support student well-being proliferated like plucky mushrooms. There were ‘listening posts’ and ‘Mood Boost’ workshops and online counselling sessions, hopelessly over-subscribed. Consider our incessant hand-wringing over the ethics of granting extenuating circumstances to students, with the university unable to make up its mind as to whether the glass was half-full or half-empty, when it came to recording high numbers of extended deadlines and interruptions of study. Was making extensions available to ever-growing numbers of undergraduates indicative of greater inclusivity, and welcome move towards student-centred learning? Or proof instead of systemic course-level failure? By seeking out extra time and additional allowances, were students demonstrating commendable levels of self-determination, or just vapid snowflakes, melting wetly, the institution wilting similarly under the glare of its canny customers?

When the conservative government cut funding for disabled students in higher education, there were those in the university who feared the good and proper project of widening participation would now continue in name only, in service to the institution’s recruitment targets and not much else. For others, the paring back of learning support assistants and free laptops was like being given permission to switch off an expensive machine that was keeping the pipe-dreams alive of students otherwise ill-suited to the rigours of higher education.

Sometimes, often, I’d hear colleagues talking about ‘the good old days’, when undergraduates just knew how to study; when they were resilient, self-directed, arriving on day one of year one as savvy, professionalised learners. 

Hand-on-heart, I wasn’t immune to prelapsarian thoughts myself, dog-tired after another round of tutorials with unhappy students. But golden ageism is always bullshit, as we know very well. We might look back wistfully at tutors from yesteryear going about their simpler business in their simpler classrooms with their simpler cohorts, just as Klausner might once have smiled fondly at someone taking their shears to a hedge. We might coo nostalgically over all those seemingly stoic undergraduates, the sort who “bloody well just got on with it”; strong, silent types, who could be relied upon to metabolise gumption from hardship. 

But let’s imagine, in addition to its existing functions, Klausner’s sound machine has the capacity to detect the frequencies of the past, and how about we turn the dial: what’s that I hear? Ah yes, it is those same fierce grinding discords, the as-of-now unmuted miseries of diverse groups of individuals being nicked, bruised, picked at, and broken by the everyday habits of teachers and the mono-cultures of their classrooms; and not injuries inflicted on purpose, not always anyway, but injuries nonetheless.

When I think back to the classrooms of my own secondary modern, my blood runs cold in the knowledge of this parallel universe of suffering, rendered undetectable by the deficit in my own perceptual apparatus. I remember the rather odd-seeming children hidden away at the back of the class who wouldn’t meet your eye, whose non sequiturs disrupted the teacher’s flow and magnetised the bullies. I recall the clamour of the disruptive boys, too quick and too clever to know when to wind in their necks, but too stupid to read the black board; and I think about the weird kids, the whey-faced loners standing disconsolately at the edge of the playground, friendless inside the hoods of their parkas. 

These young people were all unheard and unhearable in their different ways, for how to detect the call-to-action of Asperger’s, when it’s carried by a frequency to which no one is yet attuned? How to decipher the dissonance of dyslexia when the only sound it makes in the world of other people is naughtiness? How to mitigate against acute social anxiety, when there is insufficient bandwidth by which to detect it?

But that was then, the ‘good old days’, when all the damaged, stupid people knew better than to go to university, when silence was golden… 


Tears For Fears: On The Bereavement Of Teachers


There’s a reason why the sympathy cards we buy don’t include, above their sombre, understated images of flowers, statements like; ‘Your Feelings Are Wrong! This Isn’t A Loss, It’s An Opportunity!’ or ‘Buck up! You Need To Regard This Moment As A Challenge!’ or ‘Shame On You, Whinger! Your Feelings Of Grief Constitute A Failure Of Resilience!’

Of course, we wouldn’t accept those sentiments from a sympathy card. We’d know them to be unforgivably insensitive, inaccurate, and crashingly stupid. I wonder why we accept these retractions of empathy elsewhere?

Grief is the response to the loss of something to which a bond or affection has been formed. We establish these bonds whenever we take an idea deep into our care. Grief is a consequence of making values-based commitments. Grief is a consequence of deciding to belong. Grief is the price we pay for identifying strongly with someone or something. Grief is a measure of quality time invested, of the number of f**ks given.

Back when I was working as a course leader for a successful undergraduate degree programme, I grieved surprisingly often. These were the micro-bereavements; the introduction of yet another new credit framework satisfying some arcane efficiency-or-other, with its immediate effect of killing dead all the amenities of my existing units and the nuanced teaching and learning cultures they’d come to support; or whenever senior managers pressurised my staff to ‘revisit’ their assessments to ensure they aligned more readily with the institutional bell curve, a measurement surely as doltish as any wayward algorithm; likewise, senior management’s relentless emphasis on the narrowest possible definition of student satisfaction and its – shhhhh! – magical effects on grade inflation.

All the many moments like these – unremarkable, ubiquitous, bureaucratic, impersonal – would nonetheless elicit real sadness from me, not the boo-hoo variety, but a much more insidious grief, triggered by the casual depreciation of my heartfelt values as an educator.

I recall weightier bereavements too: sitting through the grand unveiling of the university’s ‘Business Plan’, which disestablished my job role, and that of every other experienced course leader in the organisation. I sat quietly in my seat, holding an imaginary bingo card, experiencing a strange mixture of jubilation and disappointment each time the Vice Chancellor used the word ‘opportunity’ to reconfigure the bereavements coming our way. I was reminded of the scene in Star Wars, when Alec Guinness’s Obi-Wan Kenobi waves his hand in the face of a busy-body imperial stormtrooper, intoning, ‘These are not the droids you’re looking for’. The Vice-Chancellor partook in a similar sleight of hand, as with one flash of a desultory PowerPoint slide, he seemed to say, ‘No one is being made redundant today! You’re just being invited to participate in a process of change, adaptation and personal growth.’

In my role as co-director of an online learning design agency specialising in supporting other educators to deliver exceptional online learning, I find myself conflicted. These past strange months, I’ve talked with, Zoomed with, and mentored a large number of teachers, who are meeting the changes wrought by Covid with varying levels of enthusiasm and confidence. In some ways, I find myself in the role of the ‘smiling face’ of change management, as I work with tutors to help them feel more at home in the online teaching space – even going as far as suggesting how some of the characteristics of online learning might enhance their teaching more generally, which I believe. A large part of the successes of my tenure as course leader stemmed from my early embrace of online communities in support of learning and student engagement, and from ‘flipping the classroom’ through making available a rich curricula of quality online video resources.

So my conflict stems, not from insincerity, but from a failure of hypocrisy. I recall very well how often I wanted to slap the smiling face of my own ‘change-managers’ for their breath-taking insensitivity; for the glib way they’d dispense with my feelings of loss by characterising them as recalcitrance, as bloodymindedness, or as pitiable ingenuousness in the face of the irresistible sweep of neoliberalism.

My conflict stems from all those recent conversations with teachers of different kinds in their various institutions, like the late-night email I received from the passionate, highly experienced teacher in textiles, who simply couldn’t stomach the thought of her imminent Google Classroom training, in all its pale comparison with her actual classroom. It wasn’t stubbornness. It wasn’t sloth, and it wasn’t technophobia. It was all much simpler than that. She was being expected to muster enthusiasm for taking on a new pet after her own beloved dog had just been flattened by a car.

More recently, I talked with a senior lecturer, who admitted to feeling physically nauseous at the thought of another day in front of his laptop; another day, on his own, in his room, on his laptop, his face pushed up against the faces of his students, yet devoid also of contact with them, and likewise his colleagues, and with all the smaller, less tangible things once combining to produce the culture of his course and its successes. Green around the gills and exhausted, he sees all of this from his strange remove, as all the things that once felt certain struggle to remain so, his own identity included.

This is the special hopelessness of the bereaved, the secret they keep for fear of appearing weak or uncooperative. Despite the acuity of their loss, despite their discombobulation, they still get up, get dressed, feed themselves, feed the cat – and teach on Microsoft Teams to a classroom of learners with their cameras off.

I’m seeing bereavement everywhere. Sure, individuals are grieving the way things ‘used to be’, but not, I think, because they’re Luddites, or dinosaurs deserving of a jolly big meteor, but rather because their identities are in crisis. They are not who they used to be, and yet the speed of change in the sector insists they bury these feelings in order to satisfy everyone else. Worse, there is as much shame around as you want: shame, because you don’t know how to use Zoom or Teams or Classroom or whatever; shame, because a part of you cannot be bothered to grow, or learn, or adapt, while your heart still smarts; shame, because you suspect your students are unhappy (which they likely are, because, yes, they’re grieving too); and shame, because you just want things to go back the way they were, while other bright and shiny people proselytise about the future; and where there’s shame, there’s resentment, and where there is resentment, there is anger, and so it goes.

Now, before I meet other educators in my role at Ding, I make myself remember sitting quietly in my chair at the presentation of the university’s Business Plan, being cheerled into ‘seizing opportunities’ at the very same moment my incumbent identity was being effaced. I remember to empathise, which is to listen, and extend condolences by showing patience. So I never think, ‘Oh no! Here is another late-adopter’. I don’t think, ‘Why are some academics so bloody difficult?’ I’m thinking, here is just another someone estranged from who they once where and what they once knew how to do, and I’m minded to read frustration, reluctance, resistance and ‘shut-downness’ for what it likely is; bereavement working its way out.

There’s a reason the sympathy cards we buy don’t say ‘Your Feelings Are Wrong! This Isn’t A Loss, It’s An Opportunity!’

There’s a reason change takes time.

Originally published as an article on Linkedin


Santa Hat Friday & Other Dark Rites


Not unlike the little match girl in the well-known festive fairy story, I find myself looking into the dark shuttered interiors of our Tier 3 pubs, wishing for happier times. I feel for all the publicans right now, and worry about all the little dark spots that have opened up in people’s lives where a pint and packet of crisps once shone. 

As a former licensee myself, I have never been confused about the real value of a pub or bar to its community. I was probably happiest when I was running a bar; knowing the exact moment to dim the lights or dial up the volume to bring about some deepening of the social interactions taking place before me; knowing how something as simple as remembering someone’s name and their preferred drink in their preferred glass could both settle and ennoble them.  I recall fondly all the small ways in which proximity and a lovely bit of buzz would see friendship groups diversify, and move towards unexpected and unpredictable intimacies. I remember what it was like to produce the conditions for the making of companions from strangers.

When I look into the pub windows, discarded face masks blowing about my feet like leaves, I ache for my barkeep self, who was younger certainly, who worried less, who could drink eight espressos and still sleep like a log.

I think too of my other former job role, as course leader for an undergraduate arts degree. Despairing at all those empty chairs and tables, I repopulate them with rose-tinted memories of evenings spent in UK pubs and European bars in the company of my students, alumni, and staff.  In these vignettes, we are imbibing gaudy glasses of Aperol Spritz in the lobby of a down-at-heel Roman hotel and sipping mojitos in some gorgeous dive in the labyrinthine heart of La Rambla. In other memories, we are sitting around the sticky, dark wood tables of a Kent boozer, sporting Poundland hats in the shape of Christmas puddings…

Back then, ‘Santa Hat Friday’ was an annual festive rite, seeing staff, students, and alumni convene in our local for an end-of-term wind-down.  While not mandatory, the wearing of seasonally inspired hats was encouraged (in truth, very little encouragement was required). After the very last hand-in, after the long hard slog of the autumn term, we would amble down to the Highstreet, making for a colourful, if untidy, ribbon of revellers.

But it would be a mistake to presume there was anything instinctive about this community of ours looking to spend a night out in a pub as some natural extension of an existing culture or innate behaviour.  This course tradition had to be enacted. Many of my students suffered with acute social anxiety.  A higher-than-average proportion of their number were neuro-diverse in variously wonderful ways.  They likewise came in every shade of the LGBTQ+ rainbow.  My students were black, and they were brown, multi-faith and studying with us from overseas.  There were students who’d never once frequented a public house, students who didn’t drink, and growing numbers of undergraduates who saw ‘the pub’ as a rather strange, pointless, and provincial space, lacking both the insulation and connectivity of their preferred social media platforms. 

For these reasons, ‘Santa Hat Friday’ presented a challenge.  More cautious members of academic staff on other courses, and some of those among the ranks of student welfare, raised their eyebrows at the propriety of this extracurricular activity.  Was it appropriate to organise course-based events in which some students might feel less able to participate?  Was I engineering a scenario wherein some members of my course community might feel isolated, othered, or coerced?  Indeed, was it even seemly for course staff to accompany their young wards to the pub, and worse still, while wearing a jaunty pair of flashing reindeer antlers?

I used to roll my eyes at all the hand-wringing. For an event like this to achieve such contrary ambitions, the community leader organising it would need to have the EQ of a mince pie. I approached this extra-curricular activity as I approached every other course-related opportunity for the empowerment of a disparate group of young people, who, for all the reasons described above, might experience social disadvantage were they to continue worrying about engaging with noisier, less pastoral, less well-regulated spaces. I felt it important to actually produce the conditions under which my less naturally confident students would actively struggle, in the knowledge they were safe to struggle because the rest of us were there too; in the knowledge that ‘struggle’ is a half-way house en route to something valuable, lasting and new.

Every Santa Hat Friday was a short bonus module in fostering employability – and no, I am not talking about the awful hollowed-out sense of the word that narrows the value of learning to only its most immediate relevance to some industry or other. I’m talking instead about a young person’s cognisance of, and confidence in, following (and resisting), the unwritten rules of the communal workplace and beyond.  I’m talking about their literacy in the unspoken languages of the graduate marketplace.  I am talking about growing their power.

So when I find myself standing outside these shuttered pubs, reminiscing about Santa Hat Friday and other ghosts of Christmas past, I’m not feeling sorry for myself, though I’m not above admitting how much I miss large elements of my former life, principally that colourful, untidy ribbon of students, alumni and staff I had the very real privilege of working alongside for ten years or so. Neither am I pining for my days as a licensee, when the cuffs of every white shirt I owned were liver-spotted with Guinness, and I smelled powerfully of cigarette smoke from dawn ‘til dusk.  What I’m really thinking about is the impact of COVID on the student experience – not as it pertains to the National Student Survey, or ‘value for money’, or their rights as consumers (yawn) – but as it relates to their opportunities to learn invaluable skills from the rough and tumble of more disorderly communal spaces. 

And while I’m in this nostalgic mood, I might kid myself my former students learned everything of real and lasting importance from the content of my lectures… but I know very well, if surveyed, they’d more likely talk about their field trip to Berlin, to Prague, to Barcelona, to Rome. They would recall squeezing into dimly lit hostels, exhausted after early starts and awful flights, negotiating the complex unwritten rules of allocating bunk beds. They’d pick nights out in crap clubs, where they spoke, for the first time, to a classmate they’d otherwise always avoided, or judged, or envied, or fancied.  They might point at some group photograph taken on the worn stone steps of some ancient feat of architecture, in which young people from a multiplicity of backgrounds all look as deliriously sleep-deprived as each other.  Some of them might even have a fond thing to say about those Santa Hat Fridays, about what it feels like to be part of a community of practice, to feel it binding so reassuringly about you.

In my new role working alongside Dr Tony Reeves at Ding, I’m talking with amazing tutors who have adapted to the new normal of online learning with imagination and dexterity.  I have nothing but admiration for the different ways in which tutors have safeguarded their student communities during this hugely challenging time.  But as I stand reflected in these gloomy pub windows, thinking how ridiculous I must have looked in my Christmas Pudding hat, I worry more and more about all the little dark spots opening up in the student experience, and I’m keen to understand what more we could be doing to light them back up.