When I was a student in high school and college, I loved the give-and-take of the seminar and dining-table debate: I scarcely gave a thought to the quiet students in the back or those who put up tentative hands only to recuse themselves in a panic when the teacher's eye bent in their direction. This isn't to say that I always found the scene of discussion comfortable. Unlike many of my friends, especially in college, I grew up in a family that was neither academic nor particularly invested in debate. They liked to talk, but talk, of course, is not debate. During a typical meal, my parents solicited news of my sister's and my doings, exchanged family news and neighborhood gossip, and told stories of their own -- about what they'd done that day, childhood memories and the like. To move from that to the hothouse of collegiate argument over sexuality (it was the late 80s/early 90s), the Iraq war, Andrew Ross' "Television" course (a radical offering for Princeton at that time), Spivak, Derrida, postmodern architecture -- for me, trained to attend more carefully to the table's ease and comfort than to whether we were getting anywhere with our ideas, it was a leap, and often an awkward one. Despite my sense that I was struggling to catch up with minds and tongues whetted sharp by years of parental pressure, though, silence was never an attractive option.
As a young teacher, largely thanks to memories of those flashes of nauseated anxiety, I sympathized with students who rarely or never spoke up in class. I tried notes of encouragement in my paper comments -- "Great insights here: the whole class would benefit from hearing them!" and so forth -- but I recall only one person over whom they exerted any influence. Perhaps there were one or two more.
Now a middle-aged teacher, I have done an about-face. Very few of my undergraduates can speak well and with confidence, and some of the confident ones shouldn't be. Most students grope for words, repeat themselves, say "like" every few words, deploy a limited vocabulary, and admit that they can't say what they're thinking. "You know what I mean?" takes the place of explaining what is meant. To paraphrase Darth Vader, I find the lack of words disturbing. Since (unlike Vader) I don't want to strangle my students -- they're doing a good enough job to themselves already -- I decided to make speaking in class compulsory, I made participation count for 20% of the course grade, and I wrote this handout:
You may find it tough to believe when you’re crammed into a windowless room in the basement of Bobst, but the recitation is preparation for many moments in your future: the start-up strategy meeting, the graduate seminar, the environmental activism group, the art/architecture “crit,” the neighborhood council, the PTA. In all these places you need to be prepared to speak your mind clearly and to explain your reasons; to listen with a critical but civil ear; to engage with others’ ideas; to think on your feet; to be willing to change your mind to incorporate another viewpoint, or even to reverse your original stance. For some of you, the recitation will be the perfect place to develop the nerve to talk (fear of public speaking affects most people). Or you’re the kind of student who welcomes the opportunity to think out loud. Or you may treat the recitation as a totally open opportunity to think about big, sometimes messy ideas—the kinds of ideas that shape the world.
Part of the point of the discussion section is to learn how to have an effective discussion. It’s not the same as hanging out with friends, but it’s not an oral exam either. So long as everyone does his or her bit, recitation will grow more interesting as you learn each other’s views and preferences.
Speaking with eloquence and verve about complex ideas is a skill that will bring you satisfaction forever, regardless of what you pursue in life. It takes practice. Some ways of talking are more convincing, thoughtful, inspiring, and well-informed than others. Part of the college experience—the reason you’re paying so much money to be here instead of living with your parents and taking courses online—is to learn how to speak in an intelligent, well-informed way. This means that your instructor may comment on your comments, so that you and the rest of the class will understand on the spot what works and what doesn’t. Don’t take it personally. Where else will you gain experience in expressing your thoughts in front of a random assortment of people? Here’s Dewey:
The winged words of conversation in immediate intercourse have a vital import lacking in the fixed and frozen words of written speech… Ideas which are not communicated, shared, and reborn in expression are…broken and imperfect thought.
The basics. We expect you to arrive in class on time capable of briefly summarizing the argument and/or the main points and themes of the reading, and to be sufficiently alert to answer elementary analytic questions. We won’t always ask for volunteers, and we won’t allow the same people to speak all the time. You should speak up at least once in each class meeting. Most recitations will include a few minutes of Q&A, often at or near the beginning. (“I don’t know” or “I didn’t finish the reading” don’t count as answers.) If you don’t know how to answer a question, don’t worry: chances are you’re not alone, and unless you come in unprepared week after week, your grade is not on the line at that moment. The key is to give it your best shot. Feel free to ask for a lifeline—for example, a passage to comment on. At these moments, the instructor is evaluating two things. Have you prepared responsibly? Can you respond intelligently to the question, even if your answer is wrong or temporarily leads the discussion off the track?
Our aim is to foster intelligent conversation about the ideas in our texts. Once it’s clear to the instructor that the class understands the main points of lecture and the readings (this can take anywhere from ten minutes to half an hour), the class shifts into a higher gear. Now the class becomes a kind of lab or brain-storm exercise or town meeting, where ideally you will take a position about an idea or a text, explain or defend it with evidence and logical argument, and listen and respond to others. From time to time, you’ll need to think “meta”—take a step back and consider criteria, methods, and unspoken assumptions.
How do you prepare for this? Do the reading, obviously, and jot down a few notes. Read the syllabus, where weekly themes are listed for the recitation. Listen at the end of Wednesday’s lecture for hints of what’s to come. Your instructor may email you to solicit questions or reactions.
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