I remember so clearly the moment I realized I could mute a student on Zoom. It was early in the pandemic, when we were just getting going on Zoom, trying to offer a community safe space in the form of a Morning Meeting. I was a novice. I was ignorant. I pressed mute on the interrupting student’s name in the participant box and then suddenly I could no longer hear Alex or the background noise in his apartment. He was young, in possession of plenty of new brains cells to my decaying old cells. Before I realized it, he had unmuted himself. We played cat and mouse several more times, me muting him, him unmuting himself.
I saw the memes erupt on social media, passed along and shared in teacher spaces, “What will we do when we go back to school and can no longer mute kids? I laughed along with my colleagues. And then it happened to me.
In a staff meeting, one of the facilitators muted me. And turned off my camera. It felt like they did a jab, right cross to my head and then the body. If felt like they tied a handkerchief to my mouth, gagging me. I knew why they did it. My internet was spotty. I was freezing, glitching. Yet, I sat and seethed. My brow furrowed, my eyes narrowed and glared. And then I thought of Alex. And Stephanie and any and all students I had muted. Is this what they felt? This overwhelming sense of powerlessness that flooded my body and brain. This feeling that made me want to scream out loud and then cry. Is this how they went through the day with teachers muting them. I tried vainly to unmute and speak up only to see the pop-up window that said, “the host had disabled your unmute privileges” or something to that effect. Same pop up response when I tried turn on my camera. I was hostage to the meeting, only able to listen, but not contribute.
I hovered over the red “leave meeting button” and stewed some more. I realized the intent of the facilitator actions, “let me help you out.” Yet the impact was entirely different, “You have no voice, You have no control”. I pressed down on the red button and left the meeting. My control.
Since that staff meeting in the fall, I never mute people. Never. Ever. I ask kids to mute themselves. Then I wait. I have a hand held sign I can hold up with a muted microphone, a quiet signal to kindly remind them. But I do not mute them.
The only person I mute now is myself. I mute myself when my dog barks at every delivery truck that delivers on our street. I mute myself when I am taking notes so everyone does not hear my clickily-clack of my keyboard. I turn off my camera when I move rooms or go quickly to reheat my coffee. All those moves are my choices, my control, over myself.
Be careful of the power of the mute button.
This perspective is so powerful. It feels so obvious, but I needed to read it. These lines: “It felt like they did a jab, right cross to my head and then the body. If felt like they tied a handkerchief to my mouth, gagging me.” went straight to my heart. I am going to think a lot harder before muting kids in the future, thanks to this piece.
Thanks for feedback. I struggle with ways we usurp students’ power and control. The mute button was a good example, and I don’t think it would have been so obvious to me, had it not happened to me. I am grateful for the opportunity to see things from a different perspective.
This is a powerful post. The word hostage is so strong, yet impactful towards your message. Thank you for the reminder that I never want my students to feel like I am holding them hostage.
So interesting how we can go about thinking muting a child is a harmless strategy to manage the class on zoom. But then to experience the implications and messaging of being silenced. I really liked how you relayed all of your thoughts and emotions so powerfully in your writing. I was able to understand how awful this was for you and why you’ve stopped muting students.