Hoisted

A year or two ago, I borrowed a published idea from a professor who required anyone (herself included) whose cell phone rang in her class to bring a high-quality cookie for the rest of the class at the next meeting. This was a substitute for my previous draconian policy of often asking those whose phones rang to leave the class immediately, not to return until the next class. Faced with an epidemic of ringing cell phones five years ago, I had adopted the harsh policy to try to restore the quiet that had been one of my most effective tools.

In my syllabi I've included myself among those who might have to bring a cookie for the class, because I realized the way my habits had changed that one day I might well forget to turn my phone off. In the last couple of years I've recoiled in horror a few times when I discovered after a class that my phone was in my pocket and had been on for the entire period.

The other day it finally happened. I reddened, but didn't have to panic and turn off the phone quickly because it was just the text message alert and only sounded once. I shut the phone off and let the students all know they'd be getting a cookie from me. They seemed to be laughing, but I don't know for sure because I couldn't quite bring myself to look up at them, such was my embarrassment.

My conundrum was all the more profound when I recalled a student I asked to leave class five years ago when her text message alert went off. I felt bad at the time, worse in the intervening years, and downright horrible after it happened to me. If I were ever in one of those programs where you get to Step 9, I'd have to hunt her down and apologize. I had no empathy five years ago because I had no cell phone. Even when I had a cell phone I at first got so few calls on it that I still didn't understand how easy it was to make the simple mistake of assuming your phone is turned off.

My experience may demonstrate again that we're either in a place where we can empathize with those around us, or we're headed there.