Beasts: Taming Harvard's Largest Lectures

10 a.m.: Sanders sleeps. Hundreds of benches lie empty, and a lonely pool of spring sunshine travels across the hardwood floor of the grand old theater. A couple of hours later, a door swings open, and the dusty air stirs as somebody walks in 10 minutes early for lecture. One minute elapses, and a pack of talkative TFs file in. They speak softly. In whiffs and poofs, students arrive, still quiet. Seven minutes go by-more people still. The spotlights turn on; the P.A. system warms up, and the room buzzes with ambient sound. At 10 minutes, hundreds of rustling papers and chitchat fill the room with ugly, roaring noise, overwhelming the quiet plaint of the antique benches that groan under the load of bodies. Sanders swarms; handouts and slow-movers clog the main door causing backflow into Memorial Hall. The room's air, warm and moist, smells of Chickwich. The Harvard monster-size class begins a new day.

maKing a monster

Within the pages of Harvard's two academic bibles-the Courses of Instruction catalog and the Committee on Undergraduate Education (CUE) guide-the monster class is conceived. Save for a week of so-called "shopping," with daily battles to grab half a syllabus, official Harvard literature provides students with the only concrete evidence of the class to come, and many students scrutinize these books, studying enrollment stats and reading into course titles.

Some professors, however, spend comparatively less time preparing for the upcoming semester. Of his course description for Historical Study B-19, "The Renaissance in Florence," Professor James Hankins confesses, "I wrote it in 30 seconds on deadline." Despite the cursory write-up, his course boasted an enrollment of 450 students last year. Hankins says he knows what really influences students. "Most people take courses on the basis of buzz anyway."

Word travels fast using the available literature as a sound base, and Harvard students often share their personal thoughts about different classes. Even a passing remark has the power to influence a student's interest in a course. "For core classes, I generally take the ones that everyone has taken and said were good," Rachel Altfest '01 admits.

Everett I. Mendelsohn, professor of this semester's Historical Study A-18, "Science and Society in the 20th Century," recognizes this mode of communication. "The word had gotten out that I was good. You know, the e-mail jargon."

From course catalog to buzz, the word is spreads-a monster is born.

Many attractions draw students. David Goldsmith, who is head TF for Agassiz Professor of Zoology Stephen J. Gould's class, "Science B-16: History of Life," says one of his fellow TFs took an informal survey in his section last year to find out why students take the course. The TF uncovered an unsettling fact about their priorities: "Out of 18, three took the course because [Gould] had done a guest voice on 'The Simpsons.'"

More often than not, students look to these popular classes to satisfy a Core requirement-not intellectual curiosity. Students tend to hold these classes to a much lower standard than they would an elective or concentration requirement.

As the monster matures, it develops more ghoulish features-ever larger, ever disinterested.

TAMING THE BEAST

Why not cap courses, limit size and kill the monster?

Director of the Core Program Susan W. Lewis compares Harvard to other academic institutions: "At Princeton, the courses are capped. The people that are hurt by this are the freshmen and sophomores." Harvard administrators say they know better. To limit the class size would be to slice down options even more, they say.

Professors end up carrying the burden, struggling with ways to tame the monster class. When a popular course is only offered every other year, class size explodes in order to accommodate the crowd. Warren Professor of American Legal History Morton J. Horwitz's course, Historical Study B-61, "The Warren Court and the Pursuit of Justice," attracted so many students that a restricting lottery was necessary. But when Horwitz attempted to remedy the evil by offering to teach his course every year, the Core office refused. Unwilling to face the hellish lottery process again, he reveals to FM he will no longer teach his "Warren Court." Horwitz has chosen to focus on his other Core class, "The Rise of a Critical Movement of Law, 1920-1940," last offered five years ago and considerably less popular. The vicious bite of the monster has Horwitz on the retreat.

Sanders Theatre and Science Center C are Harvard's only venues large enough to cage courses bigger than 400 or 500 students. Many professors express dissatisfaction with Sanders as a learning environment. Last year, when Hankins offered his course in the Renaissance in Florence, he planned on facing 120 students. But when 450 showed up, the massive class had to bounce around the campus looking for a venue capable of accommodating the crowd. The room-hopping journey started out in Harvard Hall 104, a room Hankins says he adores. "You get to look people in the face, like the Roman Senate arrangement," he says. He wasn't there for long.

The class grew. It was moved to Emerson Hall. Still, the gigantic crowd proved uncontainable. Finally, Hankins was forced into Sanders Theatre. When a course reaches the Sanders threshold, there is no turning back. "It's a horrible place to teach in. It's a barn. I'm not an orator," Hankins lamnets. "I have 450 students, the room holds 1200-not optimal. I just couldn't see anybody's face," Hankins comments

Mendelsohn also experiences the drawbacks of teaching in Sanders. "It's a real difficulty that you're on a stage so you're not level with even the people in the front. The lights make it so you can't see any faces," he says. To make the classroom more intimate, Mendelsohn acknowledges he actually takes time before lecture to make deals with people in various corners of Sanders; they promise to answer if he asks a question. Mendelsohn denies that lecture-enhancing drama is out of the ordinary for professors.

Professor of Astronomy Robert P. Kirshner, whose Science A-35, "Matter in the Universe" course's enrollment will be limited to 325 students this semester, also notes that the lack of intimacy transforms a lecture into a performance. "When the class is 70-plus, it changes. You don't know anyone. It has a larger element of theater," he says.

Professors of monster classes wrestle with a frustrating and alienating circumstance. Some, however, have made heroic attempts to tame the beast-like class.

SHOWTIME

When in doubt, perform. This rationale has led some professors to employ theatrical techniques to stimulate the audience. "I do give a good lecture. I like to tell a good historical tale," says Mendelsohn. "Sure, the material could be magnificent, but if I were dull, they wouldn't come."

Not only do professors work to make their lectures interesting, they also face the formidable challenge of simply keeping students awake. "If a big class is dull, it is really bad. Three hundred people snoring!" Kirshner chuckles. To combat the nightmare of a slumbering crowd, Kirshner works to keep his audience happy.

"Who doesn't like being popular?" he asks. "Some people are not especially interested, so it is a challenge to make it more engaging." His technique seems effective; students know Kirshner for his stand-up routine as much as for his expertise.

Professor of German Maria M. Tatar, who teaches the course Literature and Arts A-18, "Fairy Tales, Children's Literature and the Culture of Childhood," dips into a bag of tricks during her lectures to keep students interested. Her captivating curriculum calls for bits of Snow White and a comprehensive deconstruction of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to engage students with toddler-sized attention spans. Tatar is a firm believer in her teaching methods. "You can see the exhilaration in the eyes of the students as they come to lecture," she boasts.

In keeping with the idea of the class as performance piece, Tatar keeps the lecture lighthearted and breaks up her lesson with intermission playtime. "At 'halftime' we have a trivia challenge-a two or three minute break usually centered on a theme. Once I had the Norman Bates trivia challenge about mothers. It breaks up the tedium."

Like Tatar, Hankins spikes his lectures with some gimmicks. "It's not like the History Channel, but I try to illustrate things from slides," Hankins says. While professors like Hankins and Tatar work to add an element of zing to their lectures, they also put in a significant amount of time off-stage to ensure all runs smoothly. Hankins, who reports at least five or six hours go into every hour lecture, says he doesn't want students to be bored, all the while cautioning that his course is not meant to be entertainment. Mendelsohn also undergoes a ritual of extensive preparation. He denies any stage fright before a lecture, but says he takes the lecture prep a step further to ensure that he feels truly energized when he faces the crowd. "I always take a half an hour before to get hyped up and get the adrenaline pumping," he says. When it comes to taming the beast, many professors ham up their acts to keep the kids awake and engaged. That's show business.

LONE KNIGHT

Not all professors agree. The thought of prepping for a lecture like a Broadway show horrifies Professor of Chinese History and Philosophy Tu Wei-Ming, who teaches Moral Reasoning 40, "Confucian Humanism: Self-Cultivation and Moral Community." Wei-Ming says his opposing outlook on the practice of speaking to a large crowd comes from his Chinese upbringing. "In America, a lecture or speech often begins with a joke," he says. "In Asia, normally, if there is a big audience, you begin with an apology. Self-praise is in poor form."

Contemplative and soft-spoken, Wei-Ming questions the idea of performing for his students, even when lecturing in the grandeur of Sanders Theatre. Education should come before show.

His methodology for instruction, however, has generated some perceived negative results. An incident last year exemplified what sets Wei-Ming's class apart from other packed Cores. The information booth at the Holyoke Center originally called for a photograph of students watching one of his Sanders Theatre lectures. The project ran amuck when the photos revealed the students with strikingly expression-less faces. "Instead they [photographed] a music appreciation course. The responses in that class seemed much more animated," Wei-Ming admits.

As tempting as it may be to buy into the drama, Wei-Ming refuses to compromise his course. "I am not going to sacrifice my time and the time of others to entertain," Wei-ming says. "If [students] say, 'I am here to be entertained,' it will not be helpful in the long run. The issues are too serious."

It is hard to tell if Wei-Ming's students appreciate his pedagogy. While his CUE guide rating is-considerably lower than that of most big class professors and his score has been dropping in recent years-the enrollment in his course is on the rise.

When Wei-Ming looks at his large Moral Reasoning audience, he does not see a beast. Rather, a gigantic learning opportunity. His philosophy seems to suggest that some disciplines don't lend themselves to performance.

Which methodology is better? Which is more effective? Who can say? Acting or not, most Harvard professors attempt to be effective teachers, some more successfully than others.

SIDE SHOW

In the manic scramble of Uniball Deluxe pens, not all is lost. Fun can come when some students resort to antics for attention. Every semester, a handful of students manipulate the classroom into an arena for the entertainment of others. Several Harvard student organizations have maximized their visibility this way. While a cappella groups often sing at the start of a lecture to plug an upcoming jam, more offbeat spectacles have taken place. In December, the Phoenix S.K. final club sent its new members to Literature and Arts B-51, "First Nights: Five Performance Premieres" to show off their legs and moves while dancing to Stravinsky's "Rite of Spring." In another unrelated incident, another final club initiate grunted through "Astronomy 14" and "Economics 1011" dressed as a caveman.

One year, in Kirscher's "Matter in the Universe," his own daughter-while taking the class-pulled a prank of similar nature. "She stood up in class and said she was pregnant," the embarrassed father remembers.

Off-stage desperate students perform another kind of side-show. Kirshner's students have subjected him to every "academic" excuse thinkable. From a student missing a midterm because of a prior commitment to testify in a trial to a complaint that a plane ticket to Bermuda was non-refundable, Kirshner says one pitiful plea irks him to no end. "The worst excuse is, 'I have an interview with Goldman Sachs.'"

Freaks come in all shapes and sizes. The monster-size class guarantees all varieties of side show hijinx.

SLIPPING THROUGH

THE CRACKS

Inevitably, students get lost in the fray. There are casualties of a monster-size class.

Professors acknowledge that skipping once or twice is common practice among students regardless of class size, but with the most populated courses, this principle can be taken to an extreme. In a most egregious incident, two seniors approached Hankins shortly before the final exam. These two lost souls revealed that they had neither sectioned nor taken the midterm. To their own dismay, they needed the Renaissance course to graduate and threw themselves at Hankin's mercy. "There are always some people who get lost. They slipped through the cracks somehow," Hankins says of the two.

Hankins, while disturbed by the state of events, consented to give them "remedial Renaissance history." After the crash course, both passed and managed to graduate. One has even remained in contact with him, but not to talk about history. "One of them wants his grade changed. He tells me the honor of his family depends on his getting a B," Hankins deadpans.

While these two students epitomize the heinous fallout of a monster class, the small-scale implications of negligible student-teacher relations can prove just as detrimental to the student. Mendelsohn himself admits that the distance between him and his students in his Core course is glaring. "Someone will walk though the Yard and smile at me and I'll have no idea that they are in my class," he recalls.

Most Professors, however, do make a concerted effort to be accessible for their students. Mendelsohn occasionally offers students a chance to chat and dispose of Crimson Cash by having coffee at the Greenhouse with him. Still only a handful out of the hundreds bother to take the opportunity.

More orchestrated attempts at fostering a tighter bond have run a force for Tatar and her "Fairytales" class. The first year she taught the course, she invited everyone to turn in their papers at her home where she served milk and cookies. At the time, it seemed like a good idea for a small course, but hundreds of ravenous college students descending on one house is a big burden for any cookie jar. "I guess they were all hungry because the food disappeared," Tatar remembers.

Although the effort of these two professors is noble and appreciated, the bond that results from a small classroom environment and a tight learning group can never be formed in a few minutes of small talk over refreshments. This is the nature of the beast.

SURVEY SAYS

Core Director Lewis denies that the monster class wounds student learning. CUE Guide-thumping Lewis says students should not fear the untameable creature. "I don't think it should hurt a student's education. I am not saying that it doesn't, but the CUE Guide data doesn't say it does," she maintains.

Dean of the Faculty Jeremy R. Knowles, chair of the Committee on the Core Program, agrees the monster is innocuous. "There will always be some lecturers whose presentations are so exciting, and who talk about subjects of interest to such a wide range of students, that they fill Sanders," he says. "Once the audience has risen above about 100 or so, I don't think that the 'student's ability to learn' is affected. It can become, instead, a vivid, shared experience. There is surely nothing intrinsically wrong with very popular lecturers." Knowles's vision of a "vivid, shared, experience" reflects administrative insulation from the bustling and smelly confusion students live with Monday through Friday in Sanders and Science Center C.

A study done outside of the Harvard community warns of the danger of the monster class. Wayne C. Booth, professor emeritus of English and rhetoric at the University of Chicago, who was on the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching study commission that examined Harvard last year, claims immense classes are often the source of much of the failings of any research institution. "I am passionately opposed to large classes," he says. "The real learning occurs with one-on-one education." The commission put out a report detailing the problems with undergraduate education at the nation's 125 research institutions. "There's lots of scientific data that shows the smaller the class, the better the result," Booth says. The commission found that people watching lectures tended to be much less involved in the topic than students in small discussion groups. "They just dream off and get the credit for showing up," he says.

Daydreaming or dancing in the aisles, students and faculty continue to contemplate the nature of the beast. Brave as the souls dueling the monster classes may be, they have not slain it. The beast is simply too big.