A profound sense of loss
I was awake in the early hours of the morning, when I saw saw one of the first tweets that said that Aaron Swartz had committed suicide. More and more followed as an unquenchable wave of grief swept over the internet community as the new day began.
I didn't know Aaron personally -- I think I interacted with him a time or two on the net. But I feel the profound sense of loss since I identify with so many of the causes he was so passionate about: freedom of information, individual empowerment, and the potential for technology to make a difference in people's lives.
Others have written already about Aaron's life and passing -- I particularly liked Cory Doctorow's piece RIP, Aaron Swartz. But there is one thing I'm reminded of that I'd like to say.
When I arrived as a new faculty member at UMass, it was the first time that I was really a boss -- someone who supervises employees. Every semester, I hire some students to operate the facility I manage, the Biology Computer Resource Center. It was an eye-opening experience that taught me a lot of lessons about the need to assume responsiblity for other people.
I think it was the winter of the second year I was there that, when classes resumed I discovered that one of my staff members didn't come back and I learned that he'd committed suicide.
He was a slightly goofy kid, a bit overweight, who tended to wear oxford-cloth shirts with sweaters. I never knew, for sure, but I always sort of assumed he was gay. He was very serious, very polite — very tightly-wrapped some might say. But he was very sweet and charming and I really liked him. And on the last day before the beginning of the spring semester, he killed himself.
I've never quite gotten over it. I still tear up to think about it. And I always ask myself if there wasn't something I could have done to make sure he was connected; to make sure he knew that someone cared about him; to make sure he understood that he mattered; to make sure he knew that I was willing to do whatever it took to help him resolve whatever problems he got himself into. He was my student, dammit. He was my charge. And I can't escape the feeling that I failed him.
I never quite look at my students the same way anymore. They're my kids too, now. I try to make sure that I check in with them, that I really listen to what they're saying. I try to never let one of them bounce off me when they have a problem: if they have a problem, I have a problem too until it's fixed. And I'm more careful grading students too.
I still have to assign some students failing grades. But I always try to make the process transparent and to make sure students know that a failing grade doesn't mean that I like them less, or feel any less responsible for them, or that they lack options. Sometimes students don't have the options they want, but it doesn't mean that they have no options.
I'm so sorry that we failed Aaron. Let's try not to lose any more.
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