Teaching on the Ramparts

by Felipe De La Hoz

It’s nearly three weeks into the semester, and I’m no longer overwhelmed by that sense of full-body tingling apprehension I got the first time I found myself before the attentive eyes of a group of people to whom I had a responsibility to provide wisdom and orientation (and the first class I ever taught was on Zoom, making matters far worse).

I’ve developed a more reflexive ease with the practice of teaching, which is a skill of its own, sharply distinct from the practice of my subject, which is journalism; yet every semester a kind of dread tugs at the back of my brain stem, hissing for my attention: What am I letting these people in for?

Once in a while, I’ve described my teaching career as training the crew for an already-sinking Titanic. I’m walking them through the proper ballast levels and the mechanics of steering as the water pools around our ankles, and fellow passengers douse us as they tear frenziedly past. I know where the lifeboats should be, but I don’t know if they’re still there, or if they were ever installed, or if they’ve been scuttled or already been taken off in by people who never thought about us.

We teach a lot of theory and practice that is deeply useful, but the curriculum doesn’t strictly incorporate real industry dynamics and the workflow of navigating the contemporary media landscape. Every semester I find some time to dig into the basics of reading contracts and haggling over pay; I explain how to pitch succinctly and rebuff mission creep.