I do the readings. I suspect I understand them; at least I understand parts or sentences of them. I make notes in the margins, and some of my notes have question marks at the end. Surely this must indicate that I have thoughts or questions about the subject matter? Even beyond my notes, just by virtue of my combined experiences in my twenty-four years, I must have some kind of perspective to contribute to the discussion. In the obituary of John Stallings, Barry Mazur explained the virtue of Stallings’ proof despite the fact that it was less complete than Smale’s (fewer dimensions are more complete, correct?) by noting, “Different proofs bring out different aspects of a problem.” I suspect it is the same way with different people in a class discussion such as ours.

So why, when that opening song ends and conversation begins, do I sit quietly in my chair for an hour and twenty minutes? It’s certainly not because Willie Nelson’s rendition of Poncho and Lefty answered all of my questions about Transcendental Nonsense.

I have a few ideas. I hope that by beginning to write about them and share them here, I can better understand my own thoughts, and maybe start the process of breaking through the block I feel when class begins.

1. I have been taught not to raise my hand. I spent the first half of first semester of law school repressing the desire to volunteer answers to professors’ questions. Don’t get me wrong, I have never known all the answers. But I knew SOME, I just couldn’t say them. I didn’t want to be a “gunner,” right? That’s always been my understanding of the culture of law school: we don’t volunteer answers in lecture, we don’t wave our hand around - or at least we don’t do it every day.

Now I’m supposed to raise my hand - expected to, in some respect - and I can’t. It feels wrong. It feels like I’m violating some kind of norm I wasn’t even aware of until I tried to move against it.

I don’t think this is it, though. Some of my convictions about justice and the court system violate social norms of retributivism and revenge, and I am just as adamant about expressing my views on these subjects - perhaps moreso. It shouldn’t be all that difficult that difficult to break free of a norm, to whatever extent it exists, that I have only been subject to for one semester.

No, I think the underlying issue might really be...

2. Philosophy makes me uncomfortable. In my more introspective moments, I think this the lion’s share of my problem. However, I don’t think it’s a Sandra-Day-O’Connor kind of discomfort, where the psychic pain of wrestling with the many levels of a problem becomes too much for me to bear. I suspect that it’s less of Holmes’ “longing for certainty,” and more of Stallings-style reluctance; “...an inhibition of reasoning by an underlying fear of being wrong.”

I’m not sure why this feeling is more acute for me in the discipline of philosophy than I think it would be in most, if not all, of the other disciplines on the list of organized inquiry. If anything, there is probably less of a wrong answer in philosophy than biology. It actually seems possible, from my layman’s perspective, to disagree with absolutely every premise from some kind of philosophical standpoint. I picture two obtuse philosophers talking to each other: “I am here.” “Are you really?”

Now that I’m reviewing my thoughts on this topic, I wonder if these two types of discomfort are really the same. Perhaps my fear of being wrong stems from a fear of the seemingly near-total uncertainty and lack of objective truth that surround much of what we discuss in class. If that’s true, then Stallings would say that I should begin addressing my problem by cultivating “techniques leading to the abandonment of such inhibitions.”

I guess I should start exploring what those might be.

-- MolissaFarber - 30 Jan 2009

I like the points you raised, Molissa, and I would like to add to your writing. Mainly, I would like to offer a simple explanation to the general question of - why am I reluctant to talk in class? I can answer this answer simply: most people think before speaking (ie, conduct a mental cost-benefit analysis of speaking), and for most people, the cost-benefit analysis of volunteering in class clearly weighs against speaking.

Why is this? The answer becomes evident when we look at the costs and benefits associated with volunteering.

What are the benefits of talking in class? I can think of only three. One, you get your question answered. Two, you are brought to the attention of your professor, and he or she may think you are more intelligent for speaking. Three, you get to feel good if you said something intelligent, and your classmates might think you're smarter. Unfortunately, the benefits of volunteering are slight. A question can get answered through email or after class, your professor probably won't remember you unless you volunteer frequently, and your classmates thinking you're smarter just makes them eye you with suspicion and envy. So we are left with one purely positive benefit, and that is self gratification.

When weighed against the cost of talking, it becomes clear that volunteering just isn't worth it! There are two major and very real costs of answering: one, gaining the reputation of a gunner, and two, answering incorrectly or asking a stupid question. I don't think it is necessary for me to delve into why either of these results are bad (though I will, if asked), but in the end, you are damned if you do, and damned if you don't.

Now, of course, people weigh every factor differently in their minds, depending on the class situation and other various external factors. For example, sometimes you really want a question answered right then, and it would be hard to ask in an email, to the point that the benefits of receiving the answer outweighs the costs associated with speaking.

Some people will never talk, because to them, the potential costs associated with talking will always outweigh the potential benefits. And some people could care less about being branded as an outcast gunner, so they will always talk whenever they think they can sound intelligent or have a question.

Hopefully, I didn't come off as negative or offend anyone with my comment. To the contrary, I'm a very positive person, and like Molissa, sometimes I have things that I'd like to say that I don't. I just wanted to present my perspective on why many people are reluctant to volunteer in class.

-- AlexHu - 31 Jan 2009

Chicken or Egg?

When asked (and nobody asks) what my secret power is, I claim the power of invisibility. So you will not have noticed that I, too, sit mute through nearly every class. With that said, it seems to me that your list omits one clear benefit of voluntary participation: engaging in an exchange of ideas for their own sake, or because it's interesting (or was formerly) to communicate with our peers and thereby to investigate our own thoughts about society, justice, etc. What an idea! Speaking (and listening to others speak) in order to communicate! The problem seems to be that law school is not a community of scholars, but one of distilled individualistic striving. A competitive environment makes openness and trusting communication difficult. So one question might be: who has created this environment? And one obvious answer might be: who else, if not we ourselves?

How soon did we begin to learn that law school was a cutthroat, hellish trial? (When did you learn the word “gunner”?) Admitted students day? LSAT exam day? While browsing Top-law-schools.com? The study of law is famed for the harsh social, cultural and emotional environment in which it takes place. Anticipating this, we have zealously sought to assimilate as quickly as possible, and in the process I suspect that we ourselves have created the environment that we were told to expect. (Who is the class?)

Somewhere close to the root of the particular tension that characterizes the law classroom is, I suspect, the reason that we are here at all. If the big payoff for our 3 years of toil is position, wealth and prestige – that is, joining the ‘elite’ of the world’s most powerful society – well then, it’s clearly a Me vs. The World proposition (how many elites can there be, after all?).

Bring on the cost-benefit analysis (and another round for the house).

-- LeslieHannay - 01 Feb 2009