In Edinburgh, I took a course called Philosophy of Science and every Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday, I slinked into Auditorium B and sat behind 200 other students during lecture. I had a bird’s eye view of 100 facebook-ing laptop screens ahead of me. The back row’s faces became familiar, and although we never introduced ourselves, and never actually spoke to each other, we all knew that everyone else knew that we (kind of) knew each other. Philosophy of Science had five lecturers, and I sometimes passed them in the hallway, waving, only to remember that I’m just some pale blob in the top left of Auditorium B.
This lecture style has a certain rhythm that’s easy to ease into over a course. Needless to say, though, I am jerked out of my back-row anonymity when I plop into a tiny Pearsons room and the professor reminds our six-person class that he started a pot of coffee in case anyone is interested. He asks a question about Hobbes, and slowly pans the room, fixing his eyes on her eyes, and his eyes, and my eyes, silently probing these non-blobs for some response. I glance back at my binder, flipping through my notes for something insightful to say, or at least relevant to say, re-reminded of Pomona’s distinct small-class-intimacy. Stay tuned for the trials and tribulations of a girl slowly remembering she has to speak up or suffer the prolonged, uncomfortable, expecting gaze of a waiting professor.