Phone Addiction in the Classroom

Now that spring break has begun at my college, I have some space to catch my breath and reflect on the semester. This has been a trying time for us all--students and teachers alike--from flu, bad weather, and compressed schedules due to snow days. It's been more draining than usual.

For me, some of the strain has come from the growing number of students who are glued to their phones. They can't put them down--not to participate in class nor to look where they're going in the hallways. They've more or less vacated the premises.

It seems as if every year the number of phone addicts increases, and this semester has been the worst. They will not be pried from their lifelines. Even my best students sneak a peek from time to time. The slackers don't or can't hide it. They sit in class in plain sight, riveted to the ethereal light glowing from their hands or laps. It seduces and then swallows them, their eyes first, followed by their spirits and minds, until all that remains in the classroom are their vacant shells and empty smiles.

I've tried humoring, lecturing, and scolding them, but they will not be deterred. I know one professor who collects all phones and tablets and keeps them in a basket during her graduate seminar in musicology. Her students may not like her Draconian measures, but they have a crucial stake in pleasing her. There's a good possibility that she'll be writing recommendations for them or referring them for jobs, so they comply.

I don't think confiscation would work with my students, many of whom are taking my literature courses as a requirement for completing their degree programs in art, design, business, or technology. The hard-core among them might revolt. I've considered marking them absent--or half-absent, since their bodies are present. I suppose they should be given some credit for hoisting themselves up from wherever they're parked (bed, floor) and making their way to a seat in my classroom.

I'm thinking of going into my classes after spring break visibly clasping my own phone. I'll stop intermittently during the lesson I'm teaching to gaze rapturously into the screen and lapse into long, deep silences. I imagine ignoring the class while I count in my head to 60 or 100. I don't think I could hold out much longer than that.

I wonder if I could make an impact. If somehow I could create a teaching moment about engagement and disengagement. About role reversal and empathy. I'd like them to ponder how their phone addiction distorts their thought patterns and corrupts their brain cells, but I'd be happy if they managed to glimpse all the lost hours that they will never regain while there is still time for a correction. Carpe diem, the term they learn in my literature lessons, relates to their very own young and fleeting lives.