An Ode to Worry.

I was just telling two faculty members that I feel it's my obligation as a tenured faculty member to "take care of" and advocate for those who aren't tenured. I feel it's my job to worry about what they need. It's my job to advocate for those around me who don't have my privileges. It's my job to worry about them.

In that same vein, it's my job to worry about students. Are they learning? Are they okay? Does something I'm assigning make sense? Can they afford the textbook? Are they resting? What is their mental health status? If my class is the easiest for them, and they save my learning experiences for last or later, what does that say about their other classes and their learning there? I worry about that.

I worry about a lot, even though I shouldn't for my own good. I worry about how I extend kindness to others, especially my students, and they might not notice it because of the possible non-kindness they are dealing with in four other classes. I'm not saying I'm a saint; I'm just saying that when one embraces more compassion and empathy and grace and kindness and progressive pedagogical practices, they start to worry about the life outside that bubble. 

I don't think I cared before. I didn't want to worry. It didn't seem like part of the job. I didn't want to know about what others were going through, but as I age, as I embrace an ungrading classroom, I am filled with worry.