Check out my essay “Adding Up: Phyllis Rosser and the Gender Politics of Standardized Math Tests” at Lady Science, please and thank you.
Check out my essay “Adding Up: Phyllis Rosser and the Gender Politics of Standardized Math Tests” at Lady Science, please and thank you.
Becoming a historian has left me nearly faithless. Nearly: I still believe people, when aggrieved and motivated, can collectively act on a shared cause and create change. (How long that takes, or how far it goes, or whether it’s any good is another matter.) Where I’ve lost hope, whatever shreds I came in with, is in the idea that those institutions with concentrated power ever have genuine motivation to share that power. Without direct, collective, concerted pressure—people power, if we want to be cheesy—the elite often feel little incentive to expand access to resources.
As shown by the American Historical Association’s release of its annual job figures, this concentration of power also occurs within my own discipline. For the 2016-2017 academic year, colleges and universities listed just over 500 full-time positions in history in the AHA. Less than 300 of these positions were tenure-track positions. Meanwhile, the latest available data for awarded PhDs indicates that over 1,100 graduate students received a doctorate in history during the 2014-2015 academic year. Even if we were to play fair and line up the number of PhDs awarded for 2014-2015 with every AHA job listing for that year (postdocs, non-tenure positions, and all), there would still be roughly twice as many newly-minted members of the guild as there were available job listings. The ratio has presumably become worse in the past two years.
Yet this abysmal trend—two historians for every job—is nothing new. In fact, the chasm between available full-time positions and awarded PhDs has been disgustingly vast for about a decade. (It also mirrors a similar disciplinary crisis in the 1970s and a smaller, though no less depressing, job drought throughout the 1990s; it’s been this way more often than not.) This means that those new historians who apply for one of the few full-time jobs are also likely competing against a massive amount of historians who missed out in previous cycles but still want a chance at the disciplinary ideal: a full-time tenure-track professorship.
Further complicating this job drought is the way prestige influences who gets jobs. Quite simply, the more prestigious one’s graduate school, the more likely one can find a tenure-track position in history. Because history is a particularly prestige-concentrated discipline—that is, historians rarely land a job more prestigious than where they were trained—people who earn PhDs at non-prestigious institutions frequently have a narrower band of academic job options than, say, those trained in Ivy League and other elite institutions. (Keep in mind that prestige is relative, so an R1 school may carry prestige in several other fields and have little currency in historical circles.)
The lack of jobs in my field, then, is not just the product of higher ed’s corporate mimicry or residual effects from last decades’ recession, but also disciplinary practices and norms that keep the professoriate from changing too quickly at any given time.
Again, none of this is anything new. Mark Bousquet’s point that graduate students are the byproduct of the contemporary American university system stands strong a decade later. In 2011, Robert Townsend observed that only 31% of the history graduate students who began their studies in 1997 had transitioned to tenure-track jobs by 2007; this ten-year period wasn’t a magical golden age, but it still had relatively more jobs for available graduates.
I don’t know if I can feel betrayed by a partner who clearly never had my back.
Yet, it seemed that many historians with full-time tenure-track jobs were publicly nonplussed over the past week by this data: “How could it be so bad?” “I’m glad it wasn’t this way when I was on the market.” “I feel even more lucky that I got my position.”
For all this outward confusion and dismay, which I do believe is sincere, I’m not sure I’ve seen much effort from graduate history programs to genuinely reckon with what the ethics are in training thousands of people for jobs they will never receive, without any clear aim to prevent more PhDs from becoming perpetual adjuncts, and without a sense of creating historians who can continue to do social good outside of classrooms. The AHA asserted “No More Plan B” six years ago—the year before I foolishly entered my doctoral program—but I suspect history PhDs haven’t had a considerably easier time forging flexible, adaptable paths of study or finding fulfilling nontraditional lines of work in the time since. What I’ve seen instead are head-scratching articles from tenured professors telling adjuncts that the “truly radical” move is to quit, and historians-turned-presidents of Ivy League colleges opposing graduate employee unions.
If the job market has always been a problem, why have history graduate programs been so damn slow and ineffective at figuring out how to train historians to operate outside of the seminar room––or simply in redefining success outside of the professoriate?
While my discipline very slowly comes to terms with creating historians of all stripes, a far more immediate political threat is on the horizon. The House GOP tax bill will bankrupt tens of thousands of graduate workers by making tuitions waivers—a type of creative accounting that universities primarily use to assert why they cannot pay graduate employees any more than what they do—taxable income. Taxing tuition waivers will suddenly make graduate workers responsible for thousands more in taxes than their actual wages warrant. For graduate employees at public universities, this would stretch meager paychecks to the breaking point; imagine being told you’re responsible for taxes on $26,000 of income when you only take home $15,000 (not even factoring the $2,000 you have to pay back to the university as non-waived “fees.”) For graduate employees at private universities—where tuitions are often several times higher—this move would eliminate everyone except the elite; imagine making a relatively more comfortable $30,000 but suddenly being expected to pony up taxes for $75,000 of income.
The idea that graduate employees are some untapped source of wealth that will save this country a tremendous amount of money is, at best, a moronic delusion and at worst, ideological warfare. People who support this measure either have absolutely no idea how much graduate assistant make—the same ignorant fantasies the fuel the idea that adjuncts and public school teacher roll in cash—or truly detest the types of thinking and ideas that comes from colleges and universities. The only conclusion I can draw is that Paul Ryan and the House GOP regard academic researchers of all disciplines as petit leftist demagogues who instill dangerous social justice values in precious young adult minds and who must be corralled: why not start by cutting off the supply?
I tend to believe multiple things can be true at once. It isn’t difficult to believe that the proposed graduate tax would ruin graduate education as we know it—leaving only the very wealthy the ability to become historians, or chemists, or mathematicians, or whatever—and, all the same, that graduate training for historians is insufficient and should be throughly reconsidered.
This is a matter of deciding quite clearly who belongs in the guild. If tenure-track professors believe that the purpose of doctoral-level training in history is to simply replicate their own kind, then the guild of historians is rather small and not worth saving. But if history departments believe that their mission is to create historians who engage with and operate in the world around them—academic, nonprofit, governmental, corporate, wherever—then we must not only fight like hell to ensure people from various backgrounds have equitable access to graduate training, but also consider how graduate programs can better nurture students into becoming historians who fit into multiple spaces.
Even if we want to believe that the best PhDs will eventually find quality jobs, there is something particularly gross about a guild of professionals willingly creating far too many historians than there are professorial spaces and then normalizing the additional hurdles one often needs to jump before landing a tenure-track job—and by extension, the sense of being fully welcomed into the guild. It feels as though one is not taken as a genuine historian upon receiving the PhD; one must have the tenure-track job. If that takes years of adjuncting at several schools and stringing along visiting positions—while trying to publish and secure a book contract and pay bills, all with scant time and money—so be it.
What I suspect, however, is that history graduate programs and universities’ treatment of graduate employees will not change unless absolutely compelled. A dizzying combination of disciplinary inertia and institutional profit-motives got us to this point already. If the Senate approves a tax plan that does eliminate tuition waiver tax exemptions, universities may develop some scheme in which graduate students still receive funding at a rate that bankrupt them. But these plans would likely only showcase institutional generosity, because universities already use “it’s as if” logic when bargaining when graduate students. (“No, we will not give you a raise; when you factor in the tuition waiver and insurance, and then extrapolate your 20-hour, 9-month position to a year-round full-time position, it’s as if we pay you $55,000 annually. How ungrateful are you to act as if we don’t give you that!”)
We need to save this laggard, dopey system in order to make it better, because there’s no way in hell we can fix it if a tax plan that eliminates tuition waiver tax exemptions passes. We must call our congresspeople, again and again, and make clear that the graduate tax will immediately ruin higher education and research. We must be relentless. Send countless faxes. Picket in the streets. Demand that they explain on the record why they would support a measure that would bankrupt all but the very wealthiest students. Demand that they explain on the record why they support a measure that would prevent people paying back their student loans to deduct interest from their taxes. Demand that they explain the math, because it seems like they can barely add or subtract unless it’s to fuck teachers over. Ruin their holiday weekend. Ruin their holiday season. Be unavoidable.
But we also need to do the same to university leaders, too. Where are the statements condemning—not watching, not brow-furrowing, not appealing to greater angels—the tax plan? Has your university issued one? If not, have you put pressure on your university administration? Have you written letters to your paper? To your University president and Board of Trustees? Have you booked space to demonstrate on campus? Have you interrupted undergraduates? Surely there’s some around. Surely you know where they congregate. Surely there will be plenty around in the week before finals. Surely you can be a nuisance in a way that doesn’t violate your contract. Surely you can be loud.
And, somehow, if we survive this abysmal tax plan, then history programs need to seriously consider the components of their degree programs. This doesn’t mean embracing the sterile hyper capitalist techbro mantra of “jobs training”––though, what is the old model but a misguided effort at job training?––but instead figuring out the types of courses, skill sets, liaisons, and qualifications a school could provide in order to allow a graduate student multiple paths to becoming a historian. The AHA has done longitudinal work illustrating that, indeed, historians work in many places—so how can departments make that the starting point for graduate training and not the revelation that comes after the despair of dozens of rejection letters?
History departments can’t control the marketplace, of course. Nor can they set the pay scale for piecemeal teaching. But they can look at the state of the field and consider how they’re going to respond to an environment where half of their students won’t be like them. What could “success” become if it isn’t bound to replicating an insular community of professors with little structural incentive to turn outward? What could doing history be outside of that?
I defended my dissertation this August, and I formally graduate with my PhD in a few weeks. My work is good. I have a solid resume, one that balances a few small grants with a lot of teaching experience, plenty of panels and service, and genuinely useful non-historical employment. None of this really matters: my odds of finding a full-time job as a historian at a college or university are truly small. This isn’t a pity party. Rather, my case is unremarkable. And, in some ways, reminding myself that there’s nothing particularly surprising that I can’t line up a full-time gig in higher ed beats a more familiar line of thought, in which I didn’t land a job because I am simply not and never will be good enough.
So, I’m going to be a nuisance to my congresspeople and (soon to be former) university administration over the next couple weeks. I’ve also been sending my resume to dozens of nonprofit and governmental positions, and have considered turning my editing gigs into a full-fledged side-hustle. But I don’t expect that the GOP’s death threat against American graduate education will inspire history programs to make profound changes they should’ve considered all along.
That would require more faith.
By this point, my students already have some idea of what they want to write about for our class project. Last week, I asked them to gather five secondary sources for their Instagram post––a task designed to reinforce the information-gathering methods we worked through in class.
This week, I wanted my students to work on summarizing and making sense of secondary sources––but I also wanted to cover other ground in the process. In particular, I wanted to have students encounter the history of Liberia, which I felt went unnoticed in our course textbook and which really underscores some core themes and questions in modern world history. I had to devise an in-class activity that allowed us to approach new content while also honing certain skills and methods.
To satisfy all of these needs, I developed a small-groups activity in which students worked both individually and collaboratively to make sense of secondary sources:
I asked my students to break into small groups, and provided each group with a list of four articles about some facet of Liberian history. Two of the sources were pieces of journalism accessible through a basic search engine query, while the other two were brief (3-5 page) scholarly articles housed in JSTOR. Each member of the group was responsible for finding, reading, and summarizing one of these four articles. (My tech policy is, more or less, “Just Don’t Be A Shithead”––so students accessed these readings through their laptops, tablets, or phones.) I asked each student to summarize their article in no more than two sentences, and to write their blurb in such a way that someone wouldn’t need to read their article in order to make sense of it.
This part of the activity hit a few snags. Although I took a great deal of time searching for sources about Liberia that were general enough for an undergraduate classroom and brief enough for an in-class activity, I forgot to consider that a couple of the articles would nonetheless be much easier to work through than the others. The students who picked the New York Times or Smithsonian Magazine articles typically finished much quicker than the students who picked the sources from The World Today or OAH Magazine of History. I plugged up this problem in the moment by workshopping the summaries written by those who finished early, discussing how they could make their writing leaner or more robust.
After nearly everyone had finished writing summaries of their articles, I had my students discuss what they had read to their other members of their respective groups. I then asked each group to synthesize what their members shared into one collaboratively-written 5-sentence paragraph.
Checking in with each group, I realized most students had a keen grasp on what they had read––and some were particularly eager to discuss the key points of their article. What each group needed additional help with, however, was conveying why a reader should care about the topic at-hand. Put another way: I care to learn more about Liberia––but why should a random reader? What sense of stakes have they built into their prose? How can they conclude with a daring, provocative invitation to learn more about a topic––to invest time in understanding an idea more deeply?
Although my students likely won’t become historians, they will have many moments in which they have to convince other people––community members, colleagues and coworkers, friends and family, neighbors and strangers alike––to care about something. It may be about the direction of a project, or the need for workplace rights, or a proposal to improve neighborhood conditions. The work of persuasion is in combining what you know about a topic with what you know about an audience in order to convince them to give a shit. This week’s exercise, though small, was a way to reinforce the idea that thinking historically also means making an argument about why people should care about the relationship between past and present.
After troubleshooting each group’s collaborative writing struggles, we discussed as a class the difficulties in synthesizing multiple sources. Although my students found chronology a rather useful narrative device, they still had some trouble finding a theme or concept that would serve as the genuine through-line for their work. In other words, they understand “change over time” quite well, but they are still grappling with the actual concepts or structures to observe. That said, several students were able to identify several possible ways to answer “So What?” when it came to the history of Liberia. Knowing my students can make sense of the relationship between race, religion, and empire–or the convoluted logic of white supremacy–makes me feel more confident that they can draw out the significance of their own research topics.
We also determined together what would be an appropriate assignment for this week. Nearly all of my students had found 5 secondary sources when completing last week’s assignment––and, talking to one of the students who hadn’t after class, I became confident it would not be an insurmountable task for the remaining students. We decided to essentially replicate the in-class activity on an individual level. I asked students to write tight 2-sentence summaries for each of their sources, making sure they composed them in a way a reader could understand the summary on its own terms. I also assigned students to compose a 5-sentence blurb based on their summaries––stressing that they should save space to address the crucial “So What?”
Oddly, this week turned out to be the least Instagram-focused thus far––and, thinking ahead, will likely remain the least tethered to the platform overall. I am realizing that, although this project takes place on Instagram, not every lesson has to directly relate to it. In fact, there are some fundamentals for solid historical thinking––like reading and synthesizing sources––that transcend the peculiarities of any specific medium. In turn, students seem to trust when I say certain skills and ideas are more important beyond this experiment. It’s a reminder for me to clearly and continually underline the “So What?” of this class.
My clearest mistake this week was failing to account for the different difficulty levels among the four articles I assigned. By giving some students pieces of journalism while giving others pieces of scholarship, I risked derailing this activity with uneven flow. My approach left a couple students with nothing to do after a few minutes while unintentionally encouraging others to rush through their material. If I revise this assignment, I will most likely find a couple extra periodical pieces on Liberia, and require students to summarize two pieces of journalism rather than one. Although the journalists’ writing may still be easier to approach, it would at least balance out the time each student spent on their share of work.
I would also preface the activity with a brief discussion on how to gut a secondary source. We talked about how to do during our recap, but my students would have benefitted more from knowing this in advance. (I usually use a gross gutted fish metaphor when discussing how to approach secondary sources, but I don’t know a more useful image to employ. I suppose I am a vegetarian in deed but not word.) In a longer course––one that runs fifteen weeks rather than six––I may also include an earlier activity where students discover how to gut a standard-length history article; this would make students more surefooted when asked to quickly work through a secondary source on their own.
Last week, I asked my students to determine the elements of effective communication so they could consider how Instagram would serve as a useful medium for brief historical narratives. This week, I wanted my class to work with databases available to them so they could develop worthwhile methods for finding sources–and, in turn, when and how to take alternate routes.
I began this week’s class with a general discussion about research methods. In order get a sense of what information-gathering skills my class already possessed, I wanted to cover three general points. First, I wanted to know how they encountered information on a daily basis–whether the news they read had already been mediated through their social media networks, or if they deliberately sought out journalism from its source, I also wanted to learn how my students did research for larger assignments in other classes. (I stressed we were in a shame-free zone, and I would not hold any less-than-kosher methods against them–especially because I had abysmal research methods during undergrad.) Finally, I wanted to gauge how familiar they were with their university’s online library system, particularly its collection of databases. I figured that I could not expect them to find sources unless I first knew how comfortable they were with the general process.
Most of my students asserted that they were quite familiar with the university’s online library system, and had already used its databases to conduct research. (Whether I had unfairly lowballed the skill set of survey course students–or had simply projected my own haphazard teenage work process–is a matter of debate.)
Assured my students could easily build upon last week’s discussion, I had them assemble into their teams and asked them to navigate the university library’s online databases. I wanted them to determine what kind of information they could find for their projects simply using library resources–and, in the process, figure out where these databases may be less-than-helpful.
My hope was that by wading through library databases together, my students would also begin to hone and narrow their team topic–developing something less massive than, say, “revolutions” or “colonialism.” I also hoped they would realize that, often, images are trickier to find on university databases than journal articles, as are relatively recent sources. Ideally, this would have inspired them to switch over to other methods–in particular, using a search engine.
Confident as my students generally were in their research method skills, they were less surefooted in how to apply those skills to hone a specific for their projects. Above all, students were hesitant to toggle between their library’s databases and a search engine. In particular, they seemed a surprised when I suggested they could Google results–even clickbait-y listicles–as a way to mine for keywords in their database queries. Part of developing an Internet Bullshit Detector is not only knowing when sources are fair and foul, but also sensing how deeply you can rely on any particular source. Sometimes, someone else’s cheap quick work can provide you enough clues to dig deeper and do something more substantive and meaningful.
In other words, I had somehow underestimated their comfort level with library resources, but also overestimated their ability to go between different methods of searching for information.
Meeting with each of the teams, I was able to troubleshoot both individual and group-sized challenges. Sometimes the issue stemmed from my initial team assignments. One group was still unsure what its broader project theme would be. I asked each member what, based on what they had looked into so far, they would be personally interested in researching further. I realized soon enough that the group of four made more sense as two duos: two working on the Lusophone world, and the other two working on France during and after World War Two. It makes more sense to let students with strong research interests clique off rather than have a larger group slug through a soggy and useless compromise. (This is seen elsewhere in academia as “The Random-Ass Conference Panel that Helps None of the Participants and Burdens the Moderator and Audience Alike”)
I wanted to reinforce some of the methods that we eventually reached during the segment of class devoted to the Instagram project, so I turned the second half of class into another group exercise.
Breaking the class into three sections, I asked each to dive a bit deeper into a topic related to the material on slavery they read for that day: US confederates who moved to Brazil after the Civil War; slave labor practices in Florida tomato farms; and slavery in contemporary Mauritania.
I asked students to focus on both content and process: while I wanted each group to explain a bit about their assigned topic when we reassembled, I also wanted them to concentrate on the methods they used to find information about their topic. What could they gather from their university’s databases? Where did those databases fall short? And what information could they gather from their topic using effective search engine practices?
Each of the groups experienced potential pitfalls that, when we reframed them in general terms, could serve as useful research practices for their term projects:
After we recapped, I reminded my students of the assignment printed on that week’s handout. I asked them to find several sources related to their specific project entry, using the same methods we’d built over that day’s class. I asked them to focus on method when writing their response: where did university databases provide useful secondary sources for their topic, and where did they have to turn to external search methods?
This week, I think I really underestimated the level of information literacy my students had coming into class. But at the same time, I also didn’t come in with any assessments to measure whether the skills my students said they had were sharp enough for historical research. I think this is tied into my aim not to overwhelm students with this project–I didn’t want the work to get in the way of the broader lessons to learn from the work. Nonetheless, I will likely develop a small activity to use at the beginning of this segment to see how nimbly students can search for different types of information. While I am not a fan of classwork for its own sake, this may be an instance that benefits from an in-class assignment or some loosely-framed form for students to complete.
I would also give the second half of this lesson more formal structure when I run it again. Giving students more direct questions upfront–“What are the limits of using databases for this topic? What credible sources did you gather using Google?”–would likely diminish the initial hesitation in the room when I have them break into groups.
I was surprised how long it took for students to be on board with the idea that Google is a useful device for finding worthwhile sources. In many ways it felt like a hypercorrection on their end–or, less judgmentally, that they have not had many opportunities to use search engines in a focused way as part of the legitimate research process.
In any case, while I failed on several grounds with this lesson, I believe that it can be refined when I run this project again.
This summer, I am teaching a six-week introductory World History course at my local private university. Although I’ve taught modern world history surveys at the college level before, it’s been a while — long enough for me to wind up redesigning the course from scratch rather than build from old material.
This rebuilding process has given me the space to try new pedagogical practices. One approach I’ve wanted to take for some time in survey courses is using social media as a teaching tool. Over the past several years, I’ve seen plenty of instructors build Twitter into their course structure. But what I’ve yet to see, either personally or in the literature, is the use of Instagram as a tool for developing fundamental historical skills.. So I’m using this course to pilot a term-length Instagram-based project in which students craft photo-essays and, in the process, develop their research and writing skills.
My project plans were based on the incredible work already done by several Instagram users. I’m especially drawn to the accounts @lgbthistory and @the_aids_memorial. The creators of @lgbthistory, Matthew Riemer and Leighton Brown, comb through numerous archival collections — including their own holdings — to illustrate the multifaceted, intersectional, and deeply political foundations of queer culture. The anonymous user behind @the_aids_memorial, meanwhile, has created a space in which contributors around the world share photos and essays that memorialize loved ones lost to the syndrome over the past several decades.
What I find really interesting is that neither of these accounts are run by professional historians –and it made me think I could design a project that students didn’t automatically interpret as “stuff historians do.” In other words, I wanted to create an assignment that reinforced the idea that anyone could engage with history — make sense of it, grapple with it, discuss it — as long as they followed certain fundamental methods. Those methods aren’t necessarily bound to any particular medium, so why not do it in a digital space where many are already familiar and comfortable?
The current version of Instagram lends itself to developing students’ foundational writing, revision, and historical inquiry skills. Because Instagram entries have a 2200-character limit, the app doesn’t lend itself to aimless rambling. Users only have 200–300 words to make introduce a topic, make some sort of point, and slip in some salient details related to the images in a post. This space restriction compels students to summarize a great deal of evidence into a few sentences, and craft lean prose with vibrant style. In other words: Instagram provides a way to have students create the best possible page of writing they can — a skill I already try to develop in my courses.
Instagram’s new posting options will also allow us to go beyond a basic book report model. The app now allows users to include up to ten photos in a post. My aim is to have students comb databases to find an assortment of images related to their entry. Having the option to post multiple photos will allow students to make comparative and summative observations about visual sources. In turn, students can use visual sources to augment the limitations of textual description–that is, to build a multidimensional historical narrative.
This week, I rolled out the initial stage of our class project. I provided students a one-page overview of what we will be doing over the next several weeks, as well as a one-page agenda for what I wanted us to consider this week. (Here’s a copy of both of these documents.)
I explained to my students that, by the end of the term, we will create a class Instagram page devoted to examining various topics in modern world history. I also stressed that this project would build week by week: each Thursday we will have a group activity and discussion about some component of historical research––gathering sources, summarizing ideas, editing and revision, etc.––after which they will be assigned a component of the project to complete over the following week. I wanted to make clear that we would be working on this throughout the term, in a gradual, scaffolded fashion.
After covering the overall project structure, we dived into a discussion about history, social media, and communication. Frankly, I wanted to know what they found boring about the type of history they were used to encountering. We also discussed what made for less-than-ideal writing from their own experience–perhaps when they had to rattle off an eight-page paper the day before it was due. Although tastes varied, we came to a consensus that poor communication often takes an otherwise fascinating historical topic and renders it very, very dull. From here, we came to the agreement that, above all, good historical writing should aim for clarity, brevity, and relevance–and that hitting that mark required time to research, draft, and edit.
For the following week, I asked students to comb Instagram and find a historically-oriented account they thought did solid work. (I also later sent a Blackboard announcement with several examples, in case they were having difficulty getting started.) I then asked them to write a page or so addressing several questions about the account they chose:
Although I think this first week was overall successful, there were a couple failures on my end that I should address if I rerun this project:
I failed to gauge for fatigue. My course meets for four-hour blocks twice a week over a six-week period. Because of this scheduling, I designed our first day to include a great deal of foundational discussions and activities about what history means, what sources are, and what thinking like a historian involves. By the time we reached the Instagram project, I could sense that the energy in the room was beginning to trail off. If I reran this project, I would make sure to build our introductory discussion into the second or third class session rather than the first. (And, obviously, hope for a less compact course.)
I also failed to give clarity on how students’ efforts will relate to one another. While everyone will be graded individually for their project contribution, students are working in small teams, whose members will each create entries related to some broader topic (e.g. piracy, slavery, etc.). I originally planned to assign each small group its topic, thus allowing students to focus on their individual contributions. I ultimately changed my mind, reasoning that the research and writing process included grappling with what is an appropriately sized topic. In my estimation, this was a mistake. Although we reconvened and troubleshot any struggles the small groups had coming up with a topic, my choice may have siphoned off energy better spent elsewhere.
That said, I am looking forward to developing the next stage of this project this week.
 There is a great deal of fascination with Twitter as a pedagogical tool, stemming back several years and including schema for degrees of engagement and activity, as well as analyses of student responses to classroom Twitter use. It has even been the focus of graduate research, such as a 2011 MA thesis by Lynn Beth McCool. This cuts across many disciplines, but several historians — including Kristen Burton, have written about building Twitter into their course design.
 I have seen a couple exceptions to this, namely by instructors focused on art history. History instructors and professors, however, still seem focused on Twitter as a pedagogical device that can reach the backchannel in massive survey classes (as Elizabeth Pollard has examined) and foster engagement through creative reenactment (as Brian McKenzie attempted), and Wikipedia as a site where feminist politics can meet praxis (as Jennifer Edwards has written about).