Class. Slip into your seat --second row, third seat from the left, same each day -- and check your watch. Good, you made it on time this morning. Professor walks in, shuts the door and begins the lecture she prepared. Open your notebook, start scribbling and remind yourself to take careful notes today -- next Wednesday is the mid-term. Minutes pass and you feel drowsy. Shouldn't have stayed out so late last night, you think.
You promise yourself a nap after class and try to focus on the lecture.
Now she's asking for questions. You leaf through your notes, searching for something to ask about, but she's already called on that guy sitting in front. Same guy who always raises his hand. His question has three parts and you don't really follow it. But look, time's up.
The professor is restating some points she made earlier. Hard to hear because around you people are shuffling papers and zipping backpacks. The class melts out the door and you hang behind to ask a question: will this week's material be included in the mid-term? No.
"Okay," you say, "see you on Friday."
This is class. Is there anything missing? Where are the other students in this picture? Do we face any challenges more formidable than staying awake? Do we have any goals beyond doing well on the mid-term? Do we have any worries deeper than completing the final paper? Why are the professor and our grades so squarely in the center of this "learning process"?
Most classes at Dartmouth are vertical in structure. Knowledge flows downward from the professor to the students. The highly trained professor is the authority. We are the unlearned.
We seem to accept that classes are structured around this hierarchy. In most classes, for example, we sit in rows -- invisible to one another -- and face the professor who is standing and therefore, visible to everyone. An alternative arrangement is possible: The professor could sit in a circle with the students and all members of the class could see one another.
When it comes to questions, most students direct theirs to the professor rather than to the class. Usually the professor answers the question himself. For whom do we write papers? We wrestle with ideas and hammer them into words, but the only person who sees our work is the professor.
Of course, some classes are exceptions. Some classes truly involve all the students and our ideas. But not only are they just that -- exceptions -- they are exceptions because the professor made them that way. How often do students demand more student participation in class? We seem all too willing to let the professor dictate the terms. Hope Engels, a member of the Class of 1998, described this phenomenon in her English 5 class:
"One day the professor said she would shut up and let us discuss a short story by ourselves. It was as if we were finally allowed to dive into a swimming pool on a hot summer afternoon. At first the water felt cold. Then we became used to it and began splashing some damn good thoughts on each other. We could have pushed for more of it. Instead we climbed out of the pool, dried ourselves off and lazed in the rays of the sun whom we call 'Professor.'"
We have all heard -- perhaps during D.O.C. Trips or Convocation -- that the greatest teachers of our four years will be our classmates. I make the above observations about classes to ask, "Do classes at Dartmouth reflect this truth?" What if we took the idea that our classmates are our teachers seriously? Perhaps then we would ask for discussion time in a class dominated by lectures. Or we might feel a responsibility to state and defend our ideas in class. Maybe we would read one another's papers, study collectively more often or complain to the department about poor professors. Isn't this how you imagined college would be?
Why do we hesitate to engage one another?
We hesitate because standing up and saying what we think means taking a risk. It is a social risk because our classmates are also our friends, our competitors, our community. And if we reveal our ideas in the classroom, then we risk losing the acceptance of our peers.
We are afraid because being accepted is perhaps our greatest concern here. Anyone who lived through Freshman Week knows how much people worry about finding friends and "fitting in." Even those individuals who disdain "conforming to the mainstream" need the love and acceptance of other individuals at Dartmouth. What if I open my mouth and only a sticky ball of terminology falls out? Will that woman think I am hostile and insensitive if I ask her to defend her idea? Can I ask a serious question without sounding pretentious?
Taking risks is what education is all about. A good class should get your head racing and your heart pounding. While professors should do their best to get our adrenaline pumping, they cannot take risks for us. They can prompt and shape our questions, but we are the ones who must have the courage to ask them.
We have to begin by recognizing the greatest luxury of our liberal arts education: a chance to question. To grow. To stretch ourselves and challenge others. We have the freedom to ask our deepest and most serious questions here. If we fail to seize this opportunity, we are wasting $27,000 and four precious years.
It is time for us to renounce the security of answering only to our professors. What is the point of going to school with 4,000 bright students if we never talk to one another? Speak up. Raise your hand and ask a question. Get in an argument. Whatever it takes, make each other think!
That's why we're here, isn't it?
