Queeries: On Teaching, Part 2 👽
Happy start of the 2024 - 2025 academic year to those who celebrate 👽
aaaand another summer has come and gone! Honestly, I’m still holding on until September 22, the autumnal equinox and astronomical start of fall, even though the meteorological start of fall is September 1. The school year has already begun at many institutions, sooner than pumpkin spice has taken hold this year.
Many of you have asked me whether or not I’m teaching this semester, and my answer has been an emphatic no—until late last week. I’m still shaking my head at my extremely adjunct instructor experience: receiving an email 1.5 weeks before the start of the semester asking if I could fill a spot 👽 It’s something I am honored and prepared to do—even with notice at the eleventh hour—because, well, the opportunity & prestige & students (& truthfully the extra dough)!
I’m excited because it’ll be my first time teaching my own studio, and the thought of mostly just having to coordinate with myself is relieving. I’m going to build in campy activities like a show & tell for what you did over the summer; send an email to your future self; thinking out loud/no wrong answers; and leaning into the performance / drag-ness of giving presentations. My studio brief features pastel colors and uses Hanken Grotesk as its main font. We’re going to have community agreements. Students will set learning goals for themselves and do self-assessments, which will factor into their grades.
But not everyone can commit to a semester of teaching twice a week at the drop of a hat. You’d think monied institutions would be able to start the planning and outreach process earlier… and don’t get me started on the precariousness of landing a job from one semester to the next. This is all to say—adjunct faculty are organizing, and we’re going to win 👽
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I wrote in my studio brief: “I believe learning is a spiral: you set out to do something new, you try new things, and then you come back and reflect on what you learned, and what you would do differently next time.” This opportunity, for me, is a chance to do things differently, this time. This August marked the ten year anniversary of my move across the country to New York City to attend graduate school at the institution at which I will be teaching starting next week. Back then, I had only barely begun to query my queerness—I was just setting out on a journey around a huge spiral, which is still wrapping in on itself to this day. And I don’t remember community engagement being a focal point of the design studios. Returning as a studio instructor, teaching the way I wanted to be taught when I was a student, will be a full circle / spiral moment.
I often refer to my own architecture graduate education as traumatic. (For the record, it wasn’t just the studios or courses that left marks; I was going through emotional and mental growing pains as well, so to speak.) Years after graduating, I could not step foot on campus without feeling a deep sense of dread 👽 Trauma can teach valuable lessons, but are the scars worth it? I hope to foster a learning environment that is healing, that promotes growth. Because what is school, if not a safe space to try things, fail sometimes, and figure out what works for you?
Somewhat selfishly, I know that I will learn from my students as well. Learning is a two-way street. Or maybe an intersection? Two—or more—spirals colliding? Am I taking this metaphor to far? 👽 Wish me luck, because you know I’m going to queer things up, even if the studio topic isn’t solely focused on queer space!
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Anyway, see you around Columbia University most Mondays and Thursdays 👽 Hit me up if you want to get dinner together!!
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Once again, thank you for reading this newsletter. It really would not exist without you.
I hope these words inspire in some way, shape, or form.
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Until next time,
A.L.