I spent the afternoon with a group of professionals from across the Commonwealth (and one visitor from Colorado) discussing distance education, e-learning, online learning–all those forms of education that try to reach more students more widely, often with the goal of lowering costs. The fact is that e-hybridity in which face-to-face and online learning mix and mingle is pretty much the order of the day in any course that uses any kind of computer-mediated contact, even if that’s only email. It’s that hybridity that interests me most. I want every modality, every window onto the learner’s cognition, every opportunity for “a ha” or “you too?” or “what on earth?” that I can lay my hands on.

But the subject tonight is the haunting postscript my colleague Gene left me with: will the traditional residential college experience, with all its social and intellectual richness, all its developmental depth and serendipity (and hazards, yes), be reserved in the future for the fortunate ones, the ones who can pay the (increasing) tab and who live close enough to be served by the prestigious nurseries these academic retreats provide? Will some of us have transformative encounters while the rest of us try to get our inspiration from the cold light of a cathode ray tube or LCD array?

Okay, the last question was a tad melodramatic, but the point is not: it’s hard to imagine teleconferencing (old style) or web-delivered content (new style) ever becoming an alma mater. My mother embraced me; she didn’t phone it in, or have a local minister mediate her love to me (one recent author suggested local parsons could proctor distance-learning online exams, a risible suggestion from which my fancy takes flight). She was there, I could feel her arms around me, and that closeness lasted a lifetime.

Is there closeness here, dear reader? Even the closeness of print?

And yet, I think about one of the most transformative residential experiences of my life–probably the most transformative, truth to tell. That was the 1974 Governor’s School at Mary Baldwin College, four weeks in which I met 150 other precocious kids from around the state, took classes with them, laughed and played and loved with them. I made several friends there who are still among my dearest intimates. I met my wife there, though we didn’t date at the school, or even “hook up,” as they say these days. No, we began dating at a reunion some three years later. In fact, that group of 151 reunited thirteen times in three years–never all 151, but between forty and sixty most times. Each reunion was another residential festival, but the energy always traced its source back to that transformative and very intense four weeks back in ’74.

Perhaps the residential education of the future will be grouped in briefer, more intense terms. Something like summer school, but better. I honestly don’t know whether semesters do more good than harm; so much exhaustion sets in by the end that the last couple of weeks are a grueling harvest. Regardless, I am sure that the transformative and developmental riches of a residential education ought to be available to anyone who qualifies, but I am less certain what kind or duration of residence best fosters that transformation and development.

Something intense, something taut; a smaller rubber band stretched tighter; options worth considering, perhaps.