Teachers in physical classrooms understand this well and use the basic human wish for connection to instill learning through team assignments, peer review, classroom dialogue, and other methods. The online teacher faces a considerable challenge, especially when a certain percentage of students have chosen an online class, in part, because they believe they will learn more quickly without classmates who might “waste time” with too many questions and comments. These students begin the class having no desire to recognize or collaborate with other students.

Establishing the presence of co-learners is essential from the beginning. Online students may already perceive that they are in this alone and for those without online experience, the academically unsure, and those who are readily confused, this marks the first moment of learning anxiety.

Many online instructors try to create a sense of community by asking students to write a one-page bio, and then requiring them to read each others’ work. The problem with this is many students won’t bother, and those that do will likely be faced with a sea of dry facts that won’t forge any kind of human connection.

This semester, I’ve tweaked the biography assignment and the student response has been off the charts. Many students have emailed me, excited to have discovered a classmate with similar life experiences or with experiences that are exotic and inspiring. Several have let me know they are meeting to go over class work, either virtually or on campus. A number have thanked me for tricking them into discovering each other as individuals.

Before I introduce the assignment to the class, I dangle that currency that’s valued by students everywhere—bonus points. I explain that each student will write a biography, including those things that make them most interesting, but also include one simple, very believable lie. Whether truth or lie, the more specific, the better. For example, rather than telling classmates you like to garden, explain how you learned by helping your grandma with her peonies and tulips, describe the white picket fence and the smell of rich earth. A lie that’s unbelievable (“I’m a former Dallas Cowboys cheerleader”) will be easy to spot—unless it’s true! This encourages students to dig deep into their own lives and pull up unusual or passionately felt experiences.

The rest is simple. After reading an entry, each student emails the author and tries to guess the lie. Guessing a lie is worth a bonus point, but if no one in the class guesses yours, it’s worth several bonus points. In my classes, 100 bonus points equals a single grade point but students will put in great effort to earn even a few bonus points. By the end of the first week, each student has communicated directly with most of the other students in the class.

This assignment has a practical side, as well. Each page-long bio offers the teacher a base-line writing sample. Since the students know their bios will be read by everyone in class, they take a little extra time to correct spelling, fix grammar, and try to make it shine. Comparing later assignments to this initial piece can provide valuable assessment opportunities, and can also help a teacher identify intentional or accidental problems with plagiarism.

Dr. Cynde Gregory teaches composition and literature at Gwinnett Technical College in Georgia in addition to tutoring second language learners of all ages.

Every good teacher knows that learning doesn’t happen in isolation. Creating a learning community gives students a sense of security, study pals, and somebody to double-check with about assignments. While once upon a time classrooms were largely homogenous, filled with young white males who shared many of the same real-life experiences, these days most classrooms can, at first glance, seem to be a wild cacophony of humanity, tender and tough, curious and hostile, open-minded and most definitely, absolutely closed.

Here’s the question: How do you get them to connect? How do you get them to feel safe enough to express ideas in front of such a varied group, listen to one another’s ideas, engage in authentic dialogue, and push their own academic, social, and personal limits in order to grow?

From the moment the class passed the threshold, I feared this was one pot of stew that was never going to mingle flavors. It wasn’t just that there were a number of different “types,” it was that already, 43 seconds into class, an invisible but palpable distrust was rumbling just below the pitch of human hearing. However, it was not below the pitch of teacher hearing, and it filled me with fear. I had Goths and girlie-girls, straight-shooters and loose cannons, bookworms, and back-row mutterers. I had a guy proudly sporting a spaghetti stained chef’s hat, and another proudly displaying a bald and vibrantly tattooed skull, and they were glaring at each other.

I opened my mouth to say, “Class dismissed.” Fortunately, my inner administrator reminded me that if I dismissed them before the first class had even started, I would lose my job. My mouth has a mind of its own (often not a good thing) and instead, I said, “Let’s dump the desks.”

“Huh?” the class sang in unison. A good sign. Unison.

“Shove them out of the way and make two circles facing each other.”

“Huh?” they sang again.

“You with the gorgeously tattooed skull, you’re in charge. Make them do it!”

He glared. They scrambled. It was done.

The circles formed, the inner circle facing the outer one. They looked almost ready for some spontaneous folk-dancing.

“Inner circle: You’ve got one minute to pry out as much interesting information from the person you are facing as you possibly can. Skip the boring stuff parents ask their kids’ dates. Ask what they’re afraid of, if they’ve ever been lost, or what makes them laugh hysterically.”

“Ummm,” a girlie-girl trilled, “Like, what are we supposed to be doing?”

“You are speed dating,” I said. She perked up immediately, as did several of the older returning students who probably hadn’t dated in a while. “When I flick the lights, everyone absolutely stop talking—even if you’re in the middle of a word. When I flick them again, outer circle has one minute to ask questions. After your two minutes are up, inner circle steps to the left, outer circle stays put, and do it again. Go!”

“Are you crazy?” my inner administrator said. I didn’t bother to answer. The room became a concert hall filled with glorious word-music—murmurs and mutters, giggles and snorts, the rapid gallop of syllables leaping atop one another, all rising to a beautiful crescendo…

I flicked the lights.

Silence.

I flicked again.

Words. Conversations. Eye contact. Here and there, a hand reached out to touch a shoulder, mouths slipped from crescent-moon grins to open laughter.

And thus it went. Round and round the room they probed and questioned and probably overstepped bounds, but nobody complained so I let them be. When everybody had finally met everyone else and it was time to sit down, I saw several students grab their bags and books and slip next to someone from a completely different group. We reviewed policies and talked about my grading system, and they actually listened. But that wasn’t the best part. The best part was when the chef-hat guy and the tattooed skull guy left class together, their charmingly ridiculous heads tipped, chuckling over who-knows-what.

Dr. Cynde Gregory teaches composition and literature at Gwinnett Technical College in Georgia in addition to tutoring second language learners of all ages.