My First Zoom Meeting in the Coronavirus World
HANK JONES
March 26, 2020
First off, I’m in sweat pants, slippers, t-shirt, flannel overshirt, sitting in a lazyboy covered by three cats. The cats are C-O-M-F-O-R-T-A-B-L-E, and have been for the length of the show that just finished minutes before the scheduled meeting I’ve all but forgotten about. I ask my wife to bring me my laptop, hoping there’s enough battery charge to get me through this.
I hurriedly find the Zoom link, go through the process of signing in. Thank God it asks if I want the video on. I say, no. Thank God a friend told me you could participate without the video. So I do. I also choose to mute the audio. I sign in as Hank. Others sign in by last name, title, initials. I realize the Zoom handle you choose says something about you. I don’t know what exactly.
My colleagues, also mostly new to this new Zoom world, sign in with video and audio. This will be a problem over the next hour as they blow noses, cough, take drinks from large cups, get bothered by children, look at their phones, lean in and lean out, all in bad lighting with no makeup. We all look terrible. We all look sick. We all look like we rolled out of bed to be at this meeting. I mean, they do. No one can see me. Or hear me. Thank God.
The meeting progresses. It’s not actually a meeting. That’s tomorrow. Today is a presentation by a guy who ostensibly wants to chair our department. This is a position that no one in my department actually wants. Which is why this guy from Illinois is talking to us today. He’s a Shakespearean. He’s young and hip. He has a clever PowerPoint, and like that woman with the legs in the ZZ Top song, he knows how to use it.
So I watch for an hour and more. I’m enjoying it. My wife, who used to work in this department, sees a colleague or two and makes sarcastic, rude remarks about them. Despite the audio mute, I am terrified they can hear. I shush her. She grins mischievously. But it’s clear no one heard a thing. I get more comfortable with my silent witness. I clear my throat. I talk to Julie. I pass a little gas, quietly at first, but after a while, I’m just ripping them. My wife looks at me like I’m insane. I get the giggles. I’m now laughing uncontrollably while this poor candidate keeps talking. I haven’t heard a word he’s said for five minutes. I try to straighten up and listen.
I notice Meg, who had long hair before Spring Break, now has a bob-cut. I can’t resist. I text her about her new doo. I see the little rectangle of her picture look at her phone. She writes back: stuck at home with kids, the hair had to go. I see Moumin in another rectangle. I notice a giant stuffed tiger on a shelf above his head. I write him quickly and warn him not to move suddenly or the tiger might pounce. I see him glance at his phone and laugh. He writes back, LMFAO.
Wait, what am I supposed to be doing? Oh, right, new guy, Shakespeare, might be my boss someday. I try to concentrate. I realize watching this meeting in this chair while covered in cats would make an amazing shot. I reverse my camera and take several trial shots till I get just the right angle. I send the best one to Marissa. She writes back, CATS!
I try to re-focus. I eventually do. I hear most of his presentation. It’s really good. I like this guy. And I’m a little ashamed of myself. I didn’t realize I was EXACTLY LIKE MY STUDENTS!
Realize, though not with much surprise, that this new online world from which we will endeavor to teach our students is a fraught one. We’re lucky, though. Most of the semester is under our belts. We just need to survive for another month and a couple of weeks. Then blessed summer, and I’m not teaching any classes this summer.
I’ve got it relatively easy. At least for now. But for how long? As I log off, I make a promise to cut my students all kinds of slack. Cut myself some slack, too. We’ll be lucky to get through this semester. We’ll be lucky to get through this at all.
HANK JONES lives in Oklahoma, teaches in Texas, and has listened to a lot of audiobooks. He recently had poems in the anthology Speak Your Mind: Poems of Protest and Resistance as part of the 2019 Woody Guthrie Festival in Okemah, Oklahoma.
