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

That's an interesting way to analyze the situation, Alex. I agree with Leslie that it seems to look at the question from an individualistic perspective, i.e., I need an answer to my question. It doesn't address the potential communal benefits of class participation. For example, something I say may inspire someone else to make a point that wouldn't have occurred to them had I not spoken. Someone might feel more comfortable speaking because I say something so stupid that I've set the bar low for them.

The communal benefit factors might make class participation more rational, and make clamming up during class and asking questions privately the more self-gratifying action. It seems more apt to describe the economic, rational, cost-benefit analysis as symptomatic of the problems we've been talking about in class, namely the need to be certain, the need to quantify, etc.

-- MolissaFarber - 01 Feb 2009

I believe that not only is the cost-benefit analysis symptomatic of the thirst for certainty, but a part of the framework. On the "cost" side, fears of continued abstract exploration weigh down a desire to speak. "Benefits" might include the desire for an answer (as you all have noted). There is list is likely endless.

But to me, it is very interesting to observe how our problems can not only cause certain decision-making processes, but infiltrate them as well. That is particularly worrisome and requires more attention and introspection as to why do we truly have these feelings and what can be done about them. Only then can we begin to use a free form analysis that is also free in its application.

-- KeithEdelman - 02 Feb 2009

Proposition: This fear is the result of the environment created by the large lecture-style class.

I was not nearly as reticent last semester, in my ~30 person Contracts class seated at a large conference table, as I was and am in the 50-90 person lecture halls.

Has the growth of the size of law school classes had a detrimental effect on the per student quality of education?

Is there a stigma against “gunning,” when the setting is more intimate? Were it not for huge classes, one would not have to "gun" for the professor's attention.

Does the fear of error decrease in small classes as well? The cost of public humiliation decreases as you become more familiar with your colleagues.

I also hypothesize that students are more willing to volunteer to assist a classmate who is unclear on a topic that the rest of the class has mastered (read: collaborate) when that deficiency can be admitted without the fear of public scoff, and being inquisitive doesn't mean being pesky.

Unfortunately the economics of law school operations seem to weigh against any solution to this problem in regards to 1L classes, but I look forward to upper level seminars.

-- JonathanFriedman - 03 Feb 2009

Jon, I think you’re very correct that class size has a lot to do with how much people raise their hand in class. One thing about larger classes is that more of your hand-raising time is going to answering rather than asking. In general, the vast majority of times that people speak in class it is to answer a question, but I’ve found that this gets more and more true the larger and larger the class gets. Freshman year of undergrad I had a bunch of 500+ person classes and no-one ever raised their hand then. It’s scarier to answer than to question, although personally I’ve probably been embarrassed more by asking stupid questions then being wrong. The semi-painful silences in classes come when people aren’t answering, not when there’s no questions.

Somewhat related to this, I really like Keith’s phrase “fears of continued abstract exploration weigh down a desire to speak” and feel that it is very relevant to this class in particular. I’m a good deal more intimidated of Prof. Moglen than the other professors I’ve had so far. You can characterize this as my embarrassment cost being high or whatnot. I don’t want to answer when I kinda feel like I know what’s going on because I don’t want to go down some road where my lack of understanding is exposed. I definitely don’t want to ask a question that is quickly and definitively deemed useless for reasons I don’t get.

Lotta “I” in that last paragraph. Anyways, I don’t believe that completely understanding why you’re afraid to talk in class is necessarily all that useful if your goal is to try to talk more. I can spend a long time figuring out that I hate spiders cause my sister dropped one in my crib but this doesn’t make me less afraid of them (not the best analogy maybe).

Possible things to try if you just really want to speak and to get comfortable with it:

• If you have a question, write it down and force yourself to ask it in the beginning during question time.
• Get to know people in the class better so you’re less afraid they’ll think you’re an idiot/douchebag when you talk.
• Piggy-back on someone else’s answer/question.
• Read one part really really well and raise your hand when we get to that part.
• Post on here about how you’re definitely going to say SOMETHING next time and hope that fear of shame will force your hand to go up.
• Imagine everyone in their underwear.

Dunno if that’s what you’re looking for, and it definitely wasn’t what you asked for, but it was helpful to me to try and think stuff up 

-- JustinChung - 02 Feb 2009

-- JustinChung - 03 Feb 2009

That weird symbol at the end was supposed to be a smiley face, btw.

-- JustinChung? - 03 Feb 2009

-- JustinChung - 03 Feb 2009