The Pedagogy of Digital Humanities Budgets

Brandon Walsh, University of Virginia

Introduction: Institutional Finances and Teaching and Learning1

Institutions of higher education are spaces of enormous financial uncertainty for many in their communities. Sara Goldrick-Rab’s work with #realcollege, for example, has brought attention to the number of college students struggling with food and housing insecurity (2017). The situation is often no better for graduate students who, even if their programs offer tuition remission and stipends, are frequently forced to live in poverty. To take one example, B. Mano’s piece on their particular circumstances at The Massachusetts Institute of Technology sheds light on how specific institutional policies can intersect with national labor and immigration law to produce especially dire situations for students (2019). Despite these ever-present financial stresses, students (and even faculty) are often disconnected from the decisions that go into their wages, stipends, and salaries. University finances are typically complicated systems, and the financial processes at the university level involve so many linking chains that even those putting together budgets can feel disconnected from students even as they make decisions that affect their lives. Budgetary decisions often mark the first pedagogical move for teachers and learners, deciding what can be funded, who has access to resources, and what kinds of teaching can manifest.

Even as it remains hidden from view, the budget is one of the most foundational tools that can enable or obstruct educational processes at institutions of learning. Financial pressures can compound the personal obstacles affecting any specific teacher, quickly magnifying difficult circumstances and leading to greater inequities while teaching. And while students are no doubt aware of the importance of personal financial stability, the impact of unstable funding streams on student programs may be more obscured to them. For example, stable, hard budgets are often a luxury for practitioners of digital humanities, a field in which people and organizations have successfully lobbied a range of private and governmental organizations for substantial grants to support their work. Grant funding can provide valuable experience to students and resources for paying them for their labor, and at some institutions these avenues might be the only ones available for funding teaching and learning. Grant funding comes with the disadvantage, of course, that it will eventually end. The associated instability can change the culture of the work undertaken. As Bethany Nowviskie has written, hard funding has the virtue of offering “fundamental stability [that] keeps us (individually and as a group) from feeling risk-averse, on the one hand, and—on the other—from worriedly chasing ‘the next big thing,’ with no time to think it through” (2012). While soft money can provide useful supplemental resources for employing students, the associated instability can cause long-term issues for students and staff. As noted by the authors of the “Postdoctoral Laborers’ Bill of Rights” (Alpert-Abrams et al. 2019), a term-limited grant-funded position can leave a student worker forced to spend a significant portion of their time planning and searching for what comes next when that position ends. In short, stable programs lead to better support for students, a fact that might be hidden from their learning experience. Supporting students requires time and energy from staff, no matter how experienced and skilled they might be. Thoughtful and considerate planning that includes student support as part of the regular workload for staff ensures that teaching and pedagogy will not become afterthoughts. Good teaching follows from well-supported and energized staff who are empowered to decide if they have the bandwidth to take on new students. Good learning follows from students who can make informed decisions about their lives and have the time and space to commit to learning. In each case, teachers and learners need greater financial literacy in order to reshape how budgets affect their control over their education. The essay that follows offers the digital humanities budget as the pedagogical tool best suited for building this capacity.

Budget Pedagogy

Budgetary decisions are perhaps the clearest example of how mundane administrative details, seemingly disconnected from the work of the classroom, have profound ramifications for teachers and learners. Sean Michael Morris refers to a pedagogical habitus, “embodied practice, often uninspected or subterranean to a person’s own thinking about themselves,” that forms the “genetic makeup” of an instructor’s teaching (2018). In this line of thought, pedagogy is not just a practice—it is more properly thought of as a general attitude towards the work of teaching. Put simply, your pedagogy is reflected in every action you take that could potentially affect students and your relationship towards all such actions. No administrative decision is too small to affect students in some way, and financial choices can have especially dire consequences for the lives of the students around us. Furthermore, the economic circumstances our student activities create or participate in directly affect the kinds of people able to participate in our programs and the work they can do. Those unknown and inscrutable financial processes, happening in spaces outside the classroom, nevertheless directly shape and structure the possibilities instructors have to design teaching and learning experiences for their students.

Opportunities in the digital humanities, in particular, often directly intersect with and take their shape from funding: fellowships, research assistantships, short-term grants, and more. The digital humanities group at Washington and Lee University, for example, used a grant from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation to encourage teachers to develop and integrate digital humanities projects in the classroom (“Incentive Grants” n.d.). These funds meant new course projects, new opportunities for students to develop their skills. The presence or absence of financial support like this for teaching and learning can directly dictate whether or not those experiences exist at all, particularly for those who want to keep such opportunities equitable and inclusive.2 Given how often finances—internal to the university or external from other sources—affect our work, digital humanities instructors are uniquely positioned to intervene in the impact they have on our ability to educate. Digital humanities practitioners have a particular responsibility to recognize the pedagogical implications of our financial models, the possibilities as well as the limitations that they create for our communities. Doing so is one potential way to counter the field’s oft-critiqued implication with the neoliberal university (Allington et al. 2016). By exploring the relationship between teaching and finance, digital humanities instructors can help to push back upon the opacity of the university, better acquaint students with the economic circumstances of their labor, and develop a more just vision for the university. By treating budgets as always in process, capable of being critiqued and redesigned, we can draw students further into conversations about how to plan and implement digital humanities projects effectively and ethically. I use digital humanities teaching as an entry point and case study given my own particular context, but the lessons are likely to be useful for a range of disciplines and institutions. While students in the humanities might be especially unfamiliar with the ways funding pressures affect their education, conversations about budget literacy, transparency, and participation can prove useful to students across the university. The mere fact that a student knows their position is funded by a National Science Foundation grant, for example, is no indication that they understand what this connection means.

In the essay that follows, I discuss a case study in how to treat the budgeting process as a pedagogical one with students of digital humanities. The first phase of the activity takes the form of a community financial audit, led in conjunction with students, to discuss the affordances and limitations a particular financial document creates for teaching and learning. In the second, I propose extending these discussions by facilitating an exercise where students receive the power to shape the financial decisions that affect their education. The final phase asks the students to reflect on what they have learned and on the transformative impact such conversations can have on their own education. Throughout, I hope to offer both enough context to carry out these activities in your own institution as well as an argument for why to do so. The materials here draw heavily on the practice of participatory budgeting, “a democratic process in which community members decide how to spend part of a public budget” (Participatory Budgeting Project 2023). With roots in Brazil, the process has been successfully adapted in a range of contemporary use cases—from local government to public schools—where administrators aim to bring a greater level of community involvement to the budgeting process.3 While true participatory budgeting typically requires many months and a strong degree of administrative buy-in as participants redesign a portion of an institution’s financial commitments, this article proposes working at a smaller scale. The particular activity I describe below was conceived as part of a one-off teaching event in the Scholars’ Lab, a library-based center for work in experimental digital scholarship, but it could be adapted for inclusion in a credit-bearing course as part of the formal curriculum. By practicing democratic transparency about financial processes and incorporating participatory budgeting, students in our communities can gain new insight into and new control over the workings of the university that affect them. By critiquing the university’s own limited knowability as part of our teaching practice, our pedagogies can help to make our institutions more legible. The budget is a pedagogical technology that can make such transformations possible and render this rich history of democratic civic engagement a part of our digital pedagogy.

As a first approach to critiquing the pedagogical implications of our digital humanities funding structures, I propose a sequence of interrelated exercises that ask students to audit and reconstruct a digital humanities budget. Miriam Posner asserts good project design can be taught by helping students to “reverse engineer digital projects” in her classic exercise entitled “How did they make that?” (2014). Her teaching activity asserts a kind of archaeological excavation of the underlying design in a digital project by looking at its final product. In her original blog post, Posner lists three key components for breaking down projects with students in this way: what it is, what you would need to know to get started, and where you can go to learn these skills. We can adapt this technique for our purposes by leading students in a financial audit of a digital humanities artifact with a narrower, more specific riff on Posner’s activity. In essence, we share a financial document and ask our students “how did they fund that” with a pair of guiding questions:

• Where are teaching and learning in this budget?
• How are teaching and learning impacted by the assumptions and practices of the budget?

Budgets are, of course, very complicated documents that touch on a range of areas of expertise. They can quickly become overwhelming for students viewing them for the first time. This fact can also make them feel challenging for teachers to fit into the constraints of the classroom. Framing our activity with guiding questions about teaching and learning is, thus, both a pedagogical choice as well as a practical one. While the discussion will undoubtedly include a range of financial concepts and lessons, focusing the discussion as much as possible can help prepare teachers and students to carry out the activity successfully. Below I describe other practical decisions to further deal with classroom constraints as you integrate budgets into your teaching praxis.

Preparing: Setting the Scene for Budget Literacy

Since many students may have received no prior training in developing budgets, they may find it difficult to go straight to this second-order discussion. Budgetary concepts relevant to administrators and grant projects like cost-sharing, indirect costs, or subcontracting are likely to be entirely new to them, and, while they could feel like niche topics at first glance, they are essential to understanding how digital humanities funding arrangements take shape. As such, it is necessary to first share some resources to aid them in reading financial documents related to humanities research. Jennifer Guiliano and Simon Appleford’s discussion of the “Principles of Budget Design” (2013) is a useful primer in general, but you may also find it useful to share guidance from other funding agencies like the National Endowment for the Humanities (NEH Office of Digital Humanities) or the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. Some universities make their direct and indirect cost policies publicly available, and comparing these documents may help students understand complicated financial concepts that might appear unfamiliar.4 Your own institution might also make publicly available the wage and stipend policies governing student hiring, documents that students are likely to have never read even if they directly impact their lives. Scale the pre-readings to the level of the financial document your students will be auditing: NEH budget guidelines are likely to be too abstract if the students will be discussing funding documents based on a local project. In any case, pre-reading to this effect, whatever its shape, will be helpful in developing the appropriate literacy for students to understand the documents in front of them.

With a shared foundation for the activity, students are ready to begin critiquing a digital humanities artifact. Financial objects that might be selected for discussion at this stage can take many forms and could include digital humanities center budgets, project breakdowns, or grant proposals. Not every instructor will have ready access to or be able to share such local institutional information, and doing so might feel especially vulnerable. But this level of transparency is worth pursuing if it is at all possible, particularly since discussing financial elements that directly impact students’ own experiences will add urgency to the conversation. In the absence of a local artifact, instructors can find ample examples from the National Endowment for the Humanities’ Office of Digital Humanities, the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, and the Institute of Museum and Library Services of funded projects that might provide useful financial documents to consider. In each case, the kind of document will likely guide the kinds of conversations that arise from discussion: the grant proposal for a research project will result in very different issues than the allocations from the operational budget for a center.

Pre-reading on digital humanities budgets will prove useful regardless, and students’ familiarity with the range of shapes these documents can take will help to make for a successful activity. But, when implementing the activity in the Scholars’ Lab, I initially struggled with how to work the many complicated layers of these documents into an exercise. A single budget, even, felt too long and too complex to expect students to discuss in a single sitting. I found success by taking a real-world DH budget and creating a carefully scoped version of it for use in the activity. Using the Scholars’ Lab budget as a framework, I offered the students a fictional scenario:

The Scholars’ Lab is heading to California! We will be establishing Scholars’ Lab West, a branch of the Lab that still engages in a smaller subset of our core activities in a new state: hosting events, offering faculty fellowships, and providing advanced technology for use in research. Looking back on our first year, though, we realize that we have under-examined how we serve our most important constituency: students. We need your help. In what follows, we ask you to look at our budget, consider how students are reflected in our financial plans, and then help us to plan to do better next year.

Rather than sharing the real Scholars’ Lab budget in its entirety, I offered a smaller, fictionalized version of our financial materials, carefully constructed so as to seed certain questions, avoid others, and to be capable of fitting into the ninety-minute framework I had for the activity. We spent roughly one third of our time together auditing the document, one third redesigning it, and the last third reflecting on the activity as a whole. In the remainder of this essay, I share the kinds of reflections that are likely to emerge as a part of each phase of the conversation so that instructors are equipped to guide the discussion in pedagogically useful directions.

Phase 1: How Did They Fund That?

Decisions about infrastructure, at their best, reflect what our organizations care about. A useful first question we can ask of the budget, then, is whether the document cares about students such that student support rises to the level of a legible line item. Not all funding lines are equivalent, and students are likely to have strong feelings about the degree of compensation in the budget if it exists at all. Resources like MIT’s living wage calculator can serve as useful baselines for discussion, as students can calculate the degree to which they would be able to survive on the financial terms of the document in question (Glasmeier 2024). Beyond the direct experience of a specific dollar amount, though, particular types of student employment might also entail eligibility for union membership, access to healthcare, tuition remission, impact on student loans, and other benefits.5 Many of these impacts can be locally specific and not legible in a grant document, and students will need readings on the institutional context for more information. At the University of Virginia, for example, we are subject to a range of policies that impact what we can offer students (Office of the Executive Vice President n.d.). Federal, state, and local regulations can also serve as useful tools for discussing pressures on wage lines. Researching these hidden policies can help illuminate the unseen impact that administrative decisions have on the student experience. In short, interrogating the questions behind particular financial lines can help develop conversations with students about what we ask of them, how we reward this work, and whether we can do better together.

The absence of a student budget line can be telling. In Elissa Frankle’s talk entitled “Pay Your F-ing Interns,” she describes how unpaid internships reinforce whiteness and homogenous, privileged communities for museum workers (2016). Frankle goes on: “We may say that we value diversity, that of course we want to treat our workers well, but do our core documents and budgets reflect that fact?” Even in the absence of something as formal as an internship or an hourly position, a digital humanities project might expect a great deal of unpaid student time. While it may feel difficult to moderate discussions of a financial document towards questions of its gaps and absences, we can lean on student experiences as a guide: many of them are likely able to speak to times they have been asked for volunteer time in the past. Asking students to drive visiting speakers to events, for example, might appear negligible for the amount of effort it requires. But this small task still takes a student’s time, time that they could be applying to their own work, to another paid position, or to personal needs. If the document’s activities seem to imply or expect this type of labor without compensating it, the materials devalue the work of the students while at the same time building it into the project.

Students need to be able to plan their finances, and having them discuss the stability—or lack thereof—in a budget can also prove useful. While any student would agree that timely payments are important, discussions of payment mechanisms are likely to be new for students: I often find that students have received no real information about the systems by which their finances get processed. To be fair, university budgeting processes are confusing, and information about payment processing might seem like a means to an end and less crucial to students’ day-to-day lives. Providing knowledge about these systems helps students to critique them, though, and it can also help students plan their own lives more capably, especially if the object under discussion is one from their own community. I have found it helpful to make sure students are aware of a range of different components related to how their payments are processed:

• Payroll calendars
• Tax implications
• Payment processing timelines
• Points at which errors might be detected and corrected

These elements are likely to be invisible to non-staff, even as they are helpful for how students plan their own time and finances. While they are unlikely to show up in a budget or grant proposal, discussing their impact on teaching and learning can help to demystify the pressures on program administrators. Examining those elements that are pain points can prove particularly useful. At our institution, it is especially difficult to track when something goes wrong in a payment that we’ve issued. With many links in the administrative chain before the money actually gets disbursed to students, there are many places where an error could be introduced. As payments take time to process, I rely on constant communication and transparency to reduce the burden on students already living in states of financial precarity. Making these habits legible to students can help show how the invisible labor of administration structures their lives, and discussing their absence from the budgetary planning process can also help to expose other things we might be doing better.

Phase 2: Participatory Budgeting

With a firmer grasp on the pedagogical implications of digital humanities funding, we can follow up with the next phase of our activity, which specifically asks students themselves to take power over and renegotiate the relationship between financial support and digital humanities. Digital humanities courses commonly culminate in the development of a fictional project proposal and with good reason: a fictional project gives the students the opportunity to receive feedback on future work while recognizing the limitations of the semester.6 However, these approaches tend to treat funding as an after-thought: form the research project first, and the budget justification—if it is required at all—to support it last, and this in just a few short sentences. As we have learned, though, budgets speak on their own. They can form assignments and the basis for discussion in their own right. I propose expanding budgetary critique into action: in this phase, we draw upon participatory budgeting practices and ask students to redesign the digital humanities artifact they examined in our first discussion.

As developed in the tradition of Paulo Freire, participatory budgeting implemented in an educational context specifically engages with questions of pedagogy. Bartlett and Schugurensky describe the practice of engaging students in the design and distribution of educational funding as typically involving five phases:

1. students propose ideas to improve the school community;
2. students transform these ideas into viable proposals;
3. students campaign for and present proposals to fellow students;
4. students vote for top proposals, and
5. winning projects are funded. (2021, 61)

For Freire, this approach was a way of upending the pedagogical hierarchy at the same time that it educated students about their institutions: “Freire outlines leaving behind banking education, paternalism, elitism, and top-down decision-making and nurturing the emergence of a new ethos and innovative practices guided by a shared vision” (Bartlett and Schugurensky 2021, 57). In the end goal as well as process, educational participatory budgeting redefines how students and the institutions that support them engage with one another. We go beyond merely asking the students to think critically about the financial makeup of their workplaces; we invite them to help re-envision their future. Participatory budgeting commonly takes place over many months, though, so the goals are likely to be quite different when incorporating the approach into the digital humanities classroom. An authentic approach to the practice will move through every phase, culminating in the actual implementation of student funding proposals. When attempting to incorporate the practice as part of a one-off activity, as I did, we only worked through the first phrase as described by Bartlett and Schugurensky: I asked the students to take the total amount of funding as offered by the budget and propose ideas for how to use it. We worked speculatively, discussing and critiquing proposals to use the funding to meet the same goals but with a more equitable and inclusive approach to working with students.

By asking the students to design a new vision for the digital humanities object in question, we engage in Freire’s rich tradition of flattening power hierarchies in the classroom and encouraging education as an act of civic development and transformation. We ask our students to interrogate its associated infrastructure, critique it, and then redesign it with their own student experience in mind. We adapt Freire’s process for our own purposes by asking students to propose an alternative funding proposal in place of the financial document they are examining given the results of their auditing discussion:

• How does the new budget reflect the ideological goals of the project?
• What is gained from asking them—students—for direct input?
• How can we center teaching and learning as a part of this redesigned project?

This exercise in digital humanities participatory budgeting doubles down on our preliminary pedagogical critique by asking students specifically to aim for new values, to center teaching and learning in the project under discussion within the financial plan itself. The activity is likely to be illuminating for administrators as well as students: another reason why the activities described in this essay will be demonstrably enhanced by using real financial materials drawn from your own student communities. To engage your students directly in conversations like those above is to treat them as peers, as collaborators in the learning process in all of its messiness. To the casual observer, the administrative process might seem removed from teaching or overly specific. But all of these decisions have material effects on the day-to-live lives of your student collaborators. At my own lab, we determined that changing our payment calendar would offer students more flexibility to deal with delays—but only after an individual student discussed their own hardships with us. We would not have developed the idea had we not talked with the student directly about their needs. In another instance, one of our yearlong digital humanities fellows reported difficulty balancing the many components that made up our financial offer: the fellow was expected to complete their dissertation and digital project, but their package was rounded out with teaching obligations which provided health insurance, tuition remission, and fees. Based on these budgetary critiques, we made the difficult decision to restructure our financial model such that this program now accepts only a single fellow who receives a more attractive—and livable—financial award with no teaching obligations. Even when purely speculative, participatory budgeting conversations can be empowering for students and transformative for staff, leading to better and more equitable financial practices.

Phase 3: Analysis

Having audited and redesigned a financial document together, it is worthwhile to step back and invite students to reflect on what they learned and what the process meant for them. It can also be useful to share what you learned as an instructor. Any administrative process can be enhanced by student input, but financial activities especially benefit from their voices because of the distance that administrators typically have from the financial pressures of student life. From a position of relative financial stability, it can be easy for staff members to forget the sort of financial precarity that a number of our students live under. And it is impossible for any one person to have personal experience that tracks with every possible student experience in the world. In short, giving students direct control over financial conversations can be a means of helping staff to see students as not one broad monolithic community but, instead, as a diverse community with many cross-cutting pressures, needs, and ideas. In order to take a broad, intersectional approach to teaching and administration, students themselves must actually speak, in and out of our documents. They are experts on their own situations, and talking with your students about their needs can help to inform your decisions. In this way, a participatory budgeting activity educates students about how the university works at the same time that it helps them to shape it to better match the real-world experiences of your community.

Teaching activities like these can be a path for students to learn more about their own labor and the role that they can have in shaping their surrounding institutions. A transparent budgeting and dispersal process is a more ethical one. By assessing the budget as a critical part of the technology stack, we encourage our students to think about the impact that infrastructural decisions have on the full range of digital humanities work. The process can help to render opaque institutions more legible and, thus, subject to intervention. By discussing how financial decisions carry pedagogical implications for both teachers and students alike we can co-create educational spaces based on solidarity and trust.

Conclusion

Activities like these, especially when paired with local financial documents that impact students’ lives directly, offer participants the chance to incorporate their understanding of digital humanities design with infrastructure. As Sean Michael Morris and Chris Friend have noted (2020), “The words experience and expert both come from the Latin word experiri meaning ‘to try.’ If we want our students to become experts, we have an obligation to give them the opportunity to try things, without the real danger that otherwise exists outside a classroom environment.” The virtue of running a participatory budgeting exercise as a speculative teaching activity is that, while the process maintains a connection to the real world, we can shape a scenario in which students can debate and design their ideal student-centered version of the budget without the pressures of having to implement it. As Celina Su has demonstrated in the context of marginalized communities in New York City, though, participatory budgeting can gesture at inclusion while falling short of the radical inclusivity that the activity promises (2017). Through an over-reliance on technical, insider information, a deferral to those proposals that seem “feasible,” and the cultural capital afforded to experts, the participatory budgeting process can easily prioritize certain voices over others. In this way, the process might appear to be radically inclusive while actually and insidiously reinforcing typical power hierarchies. A hypothetical resource allocation activity might appear democratic while actually merely pretending to offer opportunities to hear student voices. Carrying out a full participatory budgeting process that actually implements student recommendations could all too easily shove aside learner needs by favoring those ideas that feel doable. By re-imagining digital humanities work on students’ own terms, we can co-create a space that puts them at the center of our practice. But the inclusive terms of these activities require work to bear fruit: even if the conversation is only speculative, we have to be prepared to listen when our students teach us, and students need to know that we take their suggestions seriously.

Every digital humanities teaching situation is unique and subject to different pressures, and it can be challenging to balance conversations about equitable finances against the realities of trying to do this work. Many institutions with digital humanities initiatives simply do not have any budget or funding at all. In positions like these, it might feel difficult to imagine how you could structure financial circumstances for your students in a more equitable manner when you’re still trying to find any kind of firm budgetary structure at all. Activities like those described above can help students and instructors to co-create the terms of more equitable spaces for teaching and learning. In the current climate of higher education, when many are faced with hiring freezes, across-the-board budget cuts, the prospect of layoffs, and withdrawn job offers, this conversation might seem small. But discussion can lead to decisions that, however small, can matter in big ways for your students. And they can help us care for our vulnerable community members during chaotic times. At the very least, by helping students and teachers to see teaching and learning as work—as labor—we can begin to advocate for better conditions for all. Talking with students directly about how finances impact them can help determine how our practices might be redesigned to center their voices. The budget can be a critical part of the pedagogical stack that makes such a future possible.

Notes

1. An earlier version of this article was published as a blog post entitled "Your Budget is a Question of Pedagogy and Equity" (Walsh 2020). I’m grateful to Mackenzie Brooks, Amanda Visconti, and Elizabeth Fox for reading that post over before publication, as their contributions helped shape the content of this subsequent essay. Michelle Dalmau and Spencer Stewart also provided extraordinarily helpful feedback during the review process. And I am very thankful to Amanda Visconti, Laura Miller, Sarah Wells, Winnie Pérez Martínez, and Oriane Guiziou-Lamour for their feedback on the exercise discussed below. ↑

2. For more discussion of the relationship between ethical student programming and financial support, see “A Student Collaborator’s Bill of Rights” (Die Pressi et al. 2015) and “Postdoctoral Laborers’ Bill of Rights” (Alpert-Abrams et al. 2019). ↑

3. The Participatory Budget Project (2023) offers a wealth of further resources on the practice of participatory budgeting and how to implement such activities in your own context. ↑

4. Harvard University (2024) and the University of Chicago (n.d.) both make such policies available, to name a few. ↑

5. Thanks to Patrick DeDauw for his commentary on how this material related to his own employment at JITP. ↑

6. For representative examples, see Thomas (2016) and Cordell (2020). ↑

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Walsh, Brandon. 2020. “Your Budget Is a Question of Pedagogy and Equity.” Brandon Walsh. April 15, 2020. https://walshbr.com/blog/your-budget-is-a-question-of-pedagogy-and-equity/.

About the Author

Brandon Walsh is Head of Student Programs in the Scholars’ Lab in the University of Virginia Library, where he also received his PhD and MA from the English department. His primary research focuses on digital humanities pedagogy, looking at the ways it can reflect and enact infrastructural change in higher education. He was a regular instructor at Humanities Intensive Learning and Teaching (HILT), and he has work published or forthcoming with Programming Historian, Insights, the #DLFteach Toolkit 1.0, Pedagogy, Digital Pedagogy in the Humanities, and Digital Scholarship in the Humanities, among others.

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