For the First Time in Three Years | Fumitoshi Kato, Dean of the Graduate School of Media and Governance
2022.07.05
July has arrived. The rainy season ended in a flash, and the sweltering hot days continue. With only a few weeks left in the spring semester, we have made it this far safely. Many things are being described with the phrase "for the first time in three years." It's strange how even teaching in-person classes in a classroom feels like a new experience.
I leave my office in time for class to start and walk across campus to the classroom, even if just for a short while. A few students are already in the classroom, and the seats gradually fill up. This once-ordinary scene is also happening "for the first time in three years." It's different from seeing students' faces arranged like a patchwork on a screen. As the temperature rises, it has become difficult to speak while wearing a mask, but it's still nice to feel the warmth of others nearby.
About a month ago, I came across an online news article about the current situation of university students. Having been forced to "stay home" for so long, students (and of course, faculty and staff as well) have become completely accustomed to being online. Perhaps because of this, there is a sense of confusion about the increase in in-person activities this spring. According to the article, some even feel a fear of in-person classes. Having had few opportunities to meet people face-to-face, have they become less concerned about human relationships? Apparently, some also report being unable to sleep due to anxiety.
As our movements were restricted and we were repeatedly told to refrain from "non-essential and non-urgent" activities, a judgment of whether interactions with others are "non-essential and non-urgent" has come into play. In other words, students have started to question whether there is "value" in meeting in person. Some also point out a strong tendency to be concerned with so-called "cost performance (kosupa)," as a reaction to having been deprived of opportunities for a while. While I understand the circumstances, I believe our desire for communication stems from the fact that "you don't know until you meet." Is it even possible to decide whether a meeting has "value" before it happens?
I recently learned the word "taipa." It refers to "time performance," which is the judgment of "value" per unit of time. For several years, behaviors such as watching movies on fast-forward or seeking out digest versions of movies ("fast movies" that save the trouble of watching the full film) have been a topic of discussion. Under the influence of COVID-19, it seems it's not so unusual for students to watch on-demand classes on fast-forward (at 1.5x speed, for example).
I was surprised at first, but in terms of "taipa," it certainly saves time. I can understand the logic, as I sometimes listen to recordings on fast-forward when transcribing interview data. If students have become accustomed to consuming a 90-minute class in 60 minutes, then in a classroom, our lectures must now feel slow to them.
I also heard from a colleague that injuries among students are increasing in physical education classes (practical skills). Perhaps because they spent so much time sitting still in chairs, they have forgotten how to move their bodies. Even if they know what to do in their heads, their bodies don't obey. They end up making forced movements. It's one thing if you're alone, but in events that involve competing or cooperating with others, it becomes difficult to read the other person's movements. When you are required to read the messages emitted from the other person's body and move while sensing each other's intentions, if a good rapport isn't established, you can't moderate your actions, which likely leads to injury.
Though they seem disparate, many things are connected. Aided by a sense of impatience that something has been lost over these past two years, are we not seeking "kosupa" and "taipa" more than ever before? We have had many interactions through screens, but when put into writing, words inevitably fall short, and text flows on, detached from its context. In person, we can express emotions differently than online. The other person doesn't disappear with a single click. There is plenty of "ma" (pause) and "yohaku" (blank space). We can also correct or rephrase our words while looking at the other person's face.
There are many things happening "for the first time in three years," and each one is both nostalgic and new. But we must not rush. I myself was made to realize that I had been sending messages that were more intimidating and one-sided than I was aware of. Of course, I cannot blame this on COVID-19. Due to inertia, slackness, and assumptions, I had lost sight of what I thought I should value regarding my own ways of learning, teaching, using the campus, and the very nature of communication that forms their foundation.
COVID-19 merely brought this into sharp relief. That is why it is best to gradually condition our "three-years-later" bodies with the utmost care. Let's savor the silence, listen to the small voices, and reclaim our ability to sense others (and to sense their sensing of us).
On July 2, the Tanabata Festival was held in person for the first time in three years. It is, after all, the students who bring color to the campus. Around this time two years ago, I wrote a "Dean's Diary" entry titled "Fireworks." I recalled becoming an avatar and watching fireworks on the virtual campus.
This year, it was from the rooftop of the main building. I was with my colleagues. Even without exchanging words, everyone nearby was looking up at the same sparkling night sky. It felt as though "kosupa" and "taipa" were scattering away with the sound of the fireworks.