Take Back the Section

Ah, section. We’ve all been there: trapped in some room in the upper reaches of Sever or William James, skimming our pristine, untouched sourcepacks while the TF makes his or her opening remarks (“So, who wants to start us off on Coleridge?...Anyone?”). I like to make a very broad summary statement early on that suggests I’ve done the reading, while not requiring me to advance an original argument. After the teaching fellow places a check mark next to my name, I’m in the clear to doodle, daydream, or stare out the window. I’ve observed a similar pattern in most of my classmates, resulting in a dramatic drop in the level of conversation at the end of the hour.

A new breed of section participant has recently surfaced, however. Pissed off to be in section like a chronic underachiever, yet highly prepared in Type A fashion, these monsters are appearing everywhere. Belligerent, annoyed, and often with piercingly loud voices, they’re creeping into classes from Post-Modernism to BS 54. They aren’t especially intelligent or insightful, but that in no way prevents them from engaging in section participation as though it were a full body contact sport.

They’re the Harvardian equivalent of a Phys-Ed All Star, but without all of the genuine enthusiasm and with a lot more self-loathing (or maybe just loathing).

The worst thing about these students is not that they have things to say about the material. I’m all for other people talking in section; it takes the pressure off of me. What’s unforgivable about these über-students is how blatantly rude they are—often directly (and needlessly) challenging the TF’s every word. Hostility toward TFs is not uncommon, but I’d venture that it has never manifested itself so openly before. This is pure viciousness, barely reigned in and often resulting in two or three zealous students backing the TF into a corner, flustered and inarticulate. I’ve had my share of inept, over-enthusiastic, or even demonic TFs, but I still sympathize when section degenerates into persecution of some hapless graduate student.

Not only will these assaults ruin the TF’s section, they’re bound to ruin yours as well. Any thoughts you may have had about venturing a counterargument will vanish once you see the carnage. And while section may be more entertaining with the addition of a good fight, the entertainment comes at the cost of education. The distracted TF frequently cannot cover much material because he or she spends the majority of the allotted time playing defense. The discussion deviates onto some tangent the über-students want to dissect, and the TF never manages to guide it back to the larger topic. Frustrated, you’ll roll your eyes or write snide notes to your section buddy. Soon you’ll start coming to section late, sitting in silence, wishing your TF would mysteriously switch section to another room and “forget” to tell the whole class.

Is there a solution? I thought for a while that if sections were organized by personality type, perhaps that would solve the problem (shy brilliant kids: Monday at 1; tweed-jacketed know-it-alls: Thursday at 3). Unfortunately, that’s not liable to happen; confrontational people aren’t going anywhere, and they’re hard to avoid. They’re cropping up in class, at work, and on public transportation. We can’t hide forever, but what we can do is refuse to tolerate their rudeness by being proactive. Imagine what would happen if we all went to section one day prepared, and refused to let the über-students even start talking. A thrilled look would appear on the TF’s face as a multitude of raised hands appeared, instead of the normal insistent two. An intelligent conversation might ensue—you might even discover the real purpose behind the system of sectioning (and if you do, let me know). At the very least, your TF will be grateful to you for staving off the shrill onslaught, which, in my experience, never hurts your grade.

Sara Joy Culver ’07, a Crimson editorial editor, is an English concentrator in Eliot House.