A nervous student’s reflections on speaking up in class
Photo by Lance Cheung via Flickr.
“Do the assigned readings and come to the next class prepared to share your thoughts.”
For some students, those instructions from a professor are an exciting opportunity to analyze course material and share their ideas. To those students: I salute and envy you.
But for me — who would rather dig my way under the classroom’s vinyl floor than try to articulate something out loud to other human beings — this instruction is an invitation to sweat.
You see, I’m a stress sweater. From the pits. From the forehead. Even my upper lip has a reliable valve. But in class, it’s my palms on the desk in front of me that leave a forensic trail of anxiety when I’m asked to — or during my bravest moments, volunteer to — speak in class.
I know. I know, this fear is unreasonable and overblown. But there’s a group of us nervous nellies out there who, upon opening a course syllabus — especially for an elective when we’re separated from our regular cohort — dread reading the word Participation as part of a course’s grading structure.
Sure, sometimes the assigned weighting for participation varies — 10 per cent, 20 per cent — and maybe in some classes it’s not even explicitly written. But we all know that the expectation for students is to always capital-P Participate.
I mean, it’s not like we can outright refuse… Can we?
That’s why I often go on the offensive, using tactical body language like averting my eyes to corners of the classroom or rubbing my temples to show discomfort and unavailability. I also find that looking puzzled communicates to the instructor that I’m either not finished processing my thoughts on the topic (thus not ready to share) or am in such a state of confusion that singling me out would just be cruel. A well-placed bathroom break, if not over-utilized, can also be effective.
On the occasion that I do have a comment prepared to share in front of the thirty-odd strangers around me, I use the strategy of repeatedly rehearsing it in my head beforehand — but this can backfire too. Like the phenomenon of the repeated word that loses its phonetic sound to the ear after saying it aloud too many times, my once logical thought breaks down the more I obsess over perfecting it internally. Then, when it’s time to share, the words that come out of my mouth are so over-analyzed that hearing them is more akin to an out-of-body-experience — like listening to someone else speak rather than myself.
I don’t speak for every stress-case. But if you are like me, know that we’re obviously aware of the academic risks associated with “low participation”. But frankly, we don’t care.
Why? We’ve already done the calculation in our head of what a reasonable grade deduction should be by “under-participating.” And you know what? It’s pretty negligible. Most instructors won’t go out of their way to deduct more than a couple per cent each term — and, to be honest, I’m perfectly fine with that compromise.
Listen, I’m not encouraging anyone to participate less in class (you think I want to be this way?) but if you are like me, just know: I see you, and I get it. Power to the timid.
