XplanaZine

I read the student’s e-mail with a sense of impending doom. “I have never heard from my professor. I can’t log onto The Blackboard. How do I get started?” How do I tell the student that the 8-week course is already over? That’s going to be an ugly wake-up call. Who to blame? The professor for this class had successfully shepherded about half of her class through our new combination of Blackboard and department-developed course content website. But still we had problems. Clearly there were some serious flaws. I didn’t want to be the one to break the news to the higher-ups, though.

In response to changing demand and technology, the department voted for a re-vamping. So, after a year of development, we completely changed the curriculum, courses, content, structure, the length of the courses, and course procedures. After the first eight weeks, our success rate was spotty to say the least. Was our glass half-empty, or half full? It’s not half of anything in my opinion. A half a shipwreck is still a complete disaster. What was going on? Only about 20% of the students filled out evaluations. They were absolutely glowing about our new courses. Of course, those evaluations were from the students who had succeeded.

I re-read the e-mail. Why was the student e-mailing me anyway? I wasn’t teaching the class – I had simply given myself admin privileges in all the Blackboard sections so I could go in and lurk about to see which professors were utilizing discussion boards, announcements, etc. Okay. It was coming back to me. There had been ten or twelve sections where complaints and panicked cries for help had come into our help desk. I had decided to step in and send emails to the students in those sections to ask them to contact their professors, and to reassure them that we cared. The idea was to provide support. It, like so many of my great ideas, had unintended negative consequences.

I thought of the guy who survived a plunge over Niagara Falls, just to be arrested for practicing a stunt without a license. A number of other choice analogies also came to mind – pet owners mauled by their exotic pets; spectacular car wrecks involving nitrous oxide-injected engines; and of course, Major Tom, The Space Family Robinson, and HAL, the lovely computer of 2001, A Space Odyssey.

How many students would turn up, lost in cyberspace? We were already well into our second 8-week session.

Kendra, our lead instructional design graduate student, wandered into my office.

“Susan, I think we need to redesign the course websites. We’re not providing enough information and students are getting lost,” she said.

“It’s their fault. They’re not following directions,” I said, mildly annoyed that she would raise the specter of yet another series of exhausting meetings to argue about structure and design.

“What directions? There aren’t any links to our directions page from the course website,” she said.

“They can do a search on Google,” I responded, without really listening to her. Students lost in cyberspace. Heh-heh. That had a nice ring. We could do a cute website on that. Who was that guy back in the 70s who wore the gold suit and six-inch platform boots?

Standing there alone,
the ship is waiting.
All systems are go.
“Are you sure?”
Control is not convinced,
but the computer
has the evidence.
No need to abort.
The countdown starts.
(“Major Tom” / © David Bowie or someone)

That would be a cute portal page for our “Help Desk.”

“Do you have any astronaut clip art?” I asked.

“Hmmm. I have some clips of the Challenger – and also some of guys in HazMat suits picking up Columbia wreckage,” said Kendra. “Why?”

“Uh. Oh, maybe we could redesign our Help Desk or Online Advising sites,” I said.

“Yeah. But wouldn’t you want to use different images?” she said, but I wasn’t listening. I had already tuned her out.

“But why not? No one can find them anyway,” she said. “We need clearer procedures for the students and instructors to follow.”

“I don’t think so. It is their fault. They are not reading. Or, perhaps they need to buy a better computer and get cable modem access.” I didn’t believe any of this, but I needed to maintain a firm, authoritative front to management and to my team members.

I narrowed my eyes and tried to look inscrutable. “If the avalanche is snow, the tree is likewise cold.”

“Is that Haiku?” asked Kendra.

“No. It is Feng Shui,” I said.

“You’re weird,” she said.

“You’re lucky you’re a graduate student and can blame someone else,” I retorted.

“I’m going to pull you out of the fire, even though you don’t deserve it,” said Kendra.

I could not express my appreciation, or even acknowledge I heard her. I was already trapped in another fugue-state, again precipitated by the panic-dread I felt at the prospect of having to attend the weekly staff meeting. How do you explain that you’ve duct-taped and baling-wired together at least a quarter of your online students’ educational experience – the rest were still floating around somewhere, lost in cyberspace.

“Danger! Danger! Will Robinson!” It was a robot voice in my head that snapped me to attention as I read yet another e-mail. This time it was from a professor.

“Here are my comments after surviving the 8-week session. First – the students and I all struggled with the technical dimensions of the course. Some of this was my fault. I thought that since I was going to be on the road, it would be safer to manage the course through a hotmail account than through the university system, since I’ve never had problems with worms, viruses, etc. through hotmail. Now, I think it was not a good choice. If I’m ever given the chance to do this again, I’d probably set up some sort of backup. Still, I’ve been touched by the numbers of students who have taken the time to write and tell me how much they got from the course.”

Hmmm. That was partially positive. In my current frame of mind, it wasn’t enough. Perhaps I could put her face on the astronaut floating around in space. Clearly, our students weren’t the only ones lost in space.

Kendra walked in. I’ve prepared a list that might help us. Here it is:

Problem: Students can’t log in to Blackboard or the Exchange mail server
Solution: Phone accessible and e-mail accessible 24-7 help desk.

Problem: Student not receiving e-mail
Solution: How is student checking e-mail? Logging into Exchange mail? Pop mail?

Problem: Doesn’t understand assignments.
Solution: Provide sample assignments.

Problem: Can’t open attachments or documents uploaded to drop box.
Solution: Save as rtf’s

Problem: Can’t play media or open pdf’s
Solution: Link to plug-in’s and use a plug-in tester page.

Problem: Overlooks e-mail
Solution: Suggested subject lines, esp. if using an account with a different sender name

Links to include on each course website:
—Blackboard
—Course schedule with link to course website, instructor e-mail
—Department help e-mail
—Class descriptions and general catalogue
—Advisor’s website
—Registration
—Bursar
—Session schedule and/or timeline; deadlines
—Plug-in links
—Tips for organizing e-mail, suggested subject lines

I looked over the list. I liked the suggestions, although I didn’t want to give Kendra the satisfaction of thinking she was “right” or that she might know more than I do about her specialty.

“You know, we used to do this stuff all the time in our old courses. We never had any problems,” I said smugly. “In fact we had an 85% completion rate.”

“Then why aren’t we doing it now?” Kendra asked. I made a mental note to myself to make sure she was not included in our weekly staff meeting.

“Uh. Provost-level stuff. Trying to follow their lead,” I responded. “Obviously what they do does not work. Let’s put those items back in. Good work.”

Kendra looked disgusted. “Thank goodness I’m graduating soon,” she mumbled.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“I have a job interview next Wednesday and will be late. Is that okay?” she said.

“Oh sure.” It was perfect. That was the time we usually had our staff meetings. Between now and then, we could implement our new changes and I could present them, just in case the issues presented themselves. It would give me a chance to steal her ideas and take credit for them, too. I couldn’t help gloating a bit. On the other hand, what if something went wrong? No, that wouldn’t work. It should bounce back to the graduate student instructional designer. Credit should go where credit is due. I’m a fair person.

While talking to Kendra, another five or six angry, frustrated or otherwise disgruntled e-mails came in. I felt myself entering another fugue state. The design of a lovely “Lost in Cyberspace Help Desk” came to mind. A tune was already stuck in my head:
Can you hear me Major Tom? Can you …Fmaj7 Em7 Fmaj7 Em7Here am I floating round my tin can, far above the moonBbmaj7 Am G FPlanet Earth is blue and there’s nothing I can doC F G A AC F G A A