Talking

The bad boys sit in the back, of course, where it’s hard to see them sleeping, or passing notes, or just generally raising hell. The goodie-goodies sit in the front row and raise their hands a lot. The silent majority sits in between – but not silently. Silence only happens when they’re asked a question.

They always sit with their friends. This is an iron law. If you don’t make them engage in community-building games and exercises, they will spend months together without learning anything about each other, not even each other’s names. Besides, if they weren’t with their friends, they wouldn’t have anyone to talk to when they shouldn’t be talking.
Some drift in late, and take seats as close to the door as possible.
That way they’re less likely to be spotted as tardy, plus they can get out in milliseconds when it’s time to leave.

They eat, although they’re not supposed to. They drink liquids other than water, although they’re not supposed to. Often, the simplest instructions have to be repeated. Ask them to count off by fours, and somebody always says “five!”

There’s usually not much in the way of meaningful discussion. Oh, the usual suspects will share their thoughts and feelings, often at length. This earns them rolled eyes and dirty looks from their neighbors, who want nothing more than for the pain to end as quickly as possible.

It’s hard to blame them. They’re not there by choice. Much of the time, they are forced to endure an hour or more of someone droning away about things they don’t care about or understand. That’s why, when asked if there are any questions, many of them ask questions that have already been answered. Then it’s the guy at the front of the room who’s rolling his eyes and giving them dirty looks.

Every expert in education, every field study, every psychological test tells us that the worst way to convey information is talking. I had a friend at Yankee who spent some time teaching school before becoming an editor (what a concept!) who used to laugh about it. “If the purpose of schooling is to teach students to communicate effectively,” he’d say, “why is the teacher the only one who’s talking?”

It’s not always that way, of course. I’m indulging in some hyperbole – a literary term for exaggeration that is not intended to deceive. Sometimes there’s genuine dialogue, sometimes I come out of the room excited and engaged and looking forward to the next time.

But there’s enough truth in it to be unsettling, because it doesn’t fit my expectations, my notion of what it is we’re supposed to do when we are in this room together. When I first came to ConVal, I was shocked by it.

I’m not shocked anymore. Gradually, inevitably, I have grown accustomed to it. I make excuses for it – it’s late in the day, everyone is tired. All of them – those doing the lecturing as well as those being lectured -- have lives of their own and things to do they find more urgent, more interesting, more important. I’ve grown a thicker skin. I had to, or I would have quit long ago.

Besides, it’s not that big a deal. We only have faculty meetings every other week.