Yesterday the Translation and Interpreting Department of the UGR had a Zoom meeting. Because my department has about 60 members, the screen looked like a page from a “Find Wally” book.
This was the first time that most of us had seen each other since the lockdown. Everyone naturally wished to look their best, at least from the waist up. (From the waist down, no one really cares.) However, for those who wished not to be seen either waist-up or waist-down, there was also the option of joining the meeting without video.
I decide to turn on my video since I had washed my hair that morning so that my grey roots would appear shimmering and silvery instead of depressing and dusty. I also put on my best purple T-shirt, the color preferred by my feminist daughter, who is a courageous crusader against the Patriarchy.
Because the Faculty of Translation and Interpreting is a relatively new addition to the University Granada, it is not weighted down by the rigid academic traditions of Law, Medicine, or Pharmacy, which have been around since Charles V founded the university in 1531. In those areas of study, male professors teach in suits and ties, while their female counterparts wear dresses and heels.
Since Translation and Interpreting is a more recent addition to the university, we are more modern and progressive (at least that is what we like to think). It is thus the norm to dress more informally and wear jeans to class. Every day is casual Friday. In fact, if anyone dresses up, it is assumed that they will either be judging a PhD dissertation or attending a funeral because there is no other reason for dressing so formally.
However, now in Times of Coronavirus, everything has changed. All normal academic life has vanished. The evil Covid-19 fairy has waved her wand and transported all university activity to an online Neverland.
All of us, who have learned to fly, thanks to computational pixie dust, are currently suspended in a virtual world of Lost Boys, Indians and the occasional pirate ship. The only thing missing is the crocodile with the alarm clock. Not that any of us particularly like this state of affairs. It is how things are, and how they will be, at least for a while.
We are now forced to interact with each other through Zoom meetings, which have become the computational convergence point for online workers throughout the world. Such meetings have their (painful) protocol, which all of us have been obliged to learn.
Zoom meetings generally begin with a lengthy sequence of greetings and introductory comments. All of these hellos occur as everyone is progressively tuning in to the meeting. This can take up a lot of time because there are always some digitally illiterate participants, who have the short-term memory of an aquarium fish (15 seconds) and forget how to use Zoom from one day to the next.
These colleagues are easily recognizable because they invariably approach their computer screen and keyboard as though it were a minefield. Each icon is a death trap, which, if incorrectly clicked, will cause the computer to explode. I have reminded them more than once that neither Microsoft nor Apple has ever invented a computer that has the potential to exterminate its users. (This would not be a good advertising strategy.)
Yesterday, when everyone finally got tuned in, the meeting began about twenty minutes late. Since I am an optimist, I always vainly hope that this type of online meeting will not take as long as a face-to-face meeting, but I am inevitably wrong. People seem to enjoy seeing themselves on the screen (perhaps to fulfill their secret vocation as a newscaster, weatherperson, or screen host). This causes them to prose on and on about an issue that could have been expedited in three minutes. Incredibly, after they finally finish, everyone else in the meeting also feels compelled to weigh in on the topic, and so the torture is prolonged.
Meanwhile, I am not the only one getting bored. There is a chat column on the right side of the screen where people send messages to others in which they express their opinion of the ongoing shipwreck. That is about when some participants begin making excuses to leave. The most frequent excuse is that they have another meeting, which about 60% of the time is a lie.
At some point, probably to preserve the sanity of all concerned, the host of the event finally ends the discussion period, and dictates that we must vote on an issue that could have been decided in the first ten minutes. The vote is mercifully swift, after which the host charitably announces the end the meeting.
By that time, most of the participants have switched off the video option. They do not want anyone to see that they have adjourned to the kitchen to prepare an omelette and heat up lentil soup while listening to the meeting. Meanwhile, the computer perilously balances on the kitchen counter, which is the only time when it is in real danger of exploding.
The final phase in a Zoom meeting is the endless sequence of good-byes, which is even more tiresome than the initial sequence of hellos. For some reason, all participants feel that they must say good-bye several times to all other participants. In the case of a large meeting, this is an exponential catastrophe, and the meeting drags on for another ten or fifteen minutes.
The end of the meeting is further prolonged by the digitally illiterate participants, who now find themselves entrapped in the Zoom program. This attack of claustrophobia has been triggered by the fact that they have again forgotten which icon to press in order to exit the event. They are afraid to click on any of the program icons because that might make their computer go up in flames. The host then feels obliged to instruct the aquarium fish on how to free themselves from their Zoom prison.
At that point, those of us who still retain some remnant of sanity, throw in the towel and flee. It is either that or ritual suicide.
