Perhaps the only thing worse than not being able to answer a question from your professor is knowing the exactly right answer to a question from your professor.
For the former, you might try to hide your head between your shoulders and hope that someone else takes the pressure off of you by giving a modest effort at answering the question. But for the latter, you might endure a silent battle with yourself, trying to wait just long enough to give someone else a chance to answer first, but not so long that the professor gives up and invisibly rolls their eyes at the mediocrity of the class before moving on. And if you do answer, you kind of pose it as a question, as if you aren’t sure about the answer you’re giving, even though you’re pretty confident that it’s as good as or better than what the professor expected.
This is the constant balancing act of the undercover intellectual.
If you’ve ever been worried that you’ll seem like a teacher’s pet, this might be you.
If you’ve ever pretended not to know what the assignment was to make your classmates feel more at ease, this might be you.
If you’ve ever been annoyed by the fact that it seems like everyone but you is completely disappointing your professor, this is probably you.
If you’re lucky, you might actually find a friend or two out there in the jungle. And I say jungle quite seriously. Because much like a jungle, while from the outside it seems like campus is overwhelmingly dominated by the vociferous jocks, sorority girls and the generally popular crowd, the truth is that there are far more creatures hidden beneath that superficial veil who are virtually silent, calculating, and completely fed up with the cacophony. Unfortunately, this is what makes it so hard for us to find our crowd.
And if you are someone who fits into the herd, this isn’t an attack on you. In fact, I’m a little bit jealous that you don’t have any difficulty being non-threatening and are easy to talk to. And you may even envy people like me for having the patience or sincere interest in a subject to do all the readings, deliver lengthy discussion posts, or converse with the professor on a collegiate level. This is not to say that we are better than you, but rather to offer support to others like me who would rather hide our true aptitude in a desperate effort to be accepted than be unapologetically smart.
Because that was me. Throughout middle school, high school, and even for the better part of my freshman year in college, I was ashamed to be smart. Unless I was in one of my AP classes, where the majority of people actually tried, I would just hide in the back. I didn’t want people to know I worked hard; I didn’t want to be a nerd; I wanted to fit in. And for a while I did a pretty good job, because for the most part in high school, teachers don’t rely on the class to provoke discussion, so there aren’t a whole lot of opportunities to stick your neck out anyways. And as a girl, I could further disguise myself by wearing the right clothes, using makeup, and having at least one friend in the “in-crowd” who I could sit with at lunch. But I was only passing. I didn’t really care about gossip, I didn’t really want to be popular, I just wanted to be a chameleon.
And then senior year came. I was taking concurrent classes for half of the day at the University of Central Oklahoma, partially because it allowed me to escape the jungle and partially because it was finally an excuse to give my all without being bashful. Since no one from high school would be in my early college courses, I was free to impress the professor when I wanted to; free to be right; free to fully embrace my smartness.
But when that year ended, and I attended the University of Oklahoma, a prestigious yet popular in-state choice for graduates from my class, part of me was disappointed that I’d lose that freedom. I don’t know why this is, maybe someone can help me out, but when I saw people I knew from high school again in college, I felt like I was being dragged back into a flashback, where I was the same shy person in the back of the class when they knew me (not that they even really knew me), and I’d get that same gut-wrenching feeling - that if I exceed their expectations too much, they’ll find me out, they’ll know I’m not really cool. The jig will be up.
I felt that way for the first couple of months, thinking to myself, oh great I have to impress these people all over again. But the best part I discovered about college is that those people only make up a fraction of a hair of the student population. Sure, you might run into an old classmate once a semester, but for the most part you don’t know anyone. While this might be the scariest part about college for some people, this was the most liberating part for me.
Yes, it was still scary speaking up in those huge lecture hall classes, especially because those were typically the gen-ed requirements with over 300 students, so you’d be most likely to run into an old classmate there. But as time went on, and the class sizes narrowed, and discussion was more essential, I felt more confident to speak up. And that confidence became eagerness. And that eagerness turned into excitement. Excitement to the point that I would jump at the chance to give the class a short lecture about a subject I was especially interested in, and one professor even told me that I needed to give other students a chance to participate. (Yes I was that annoying). But I was finally proud to be smart.
This is not to say that today I never struggle with insecurity, or that every year I jump in headfirst to discussion. In fact, the opposite. It takes time to warm up to it. I have to feel out the class - what’s the consensus? Are there any spies like me in the group? Are most of the professor’s questions rhetorical, or can I answer? (Can, not Do I have to). However, now that I am nearly done with my experience as an undergraduate, I feel it is my duty to speak out to anyone like me, who is silently suffering among the crowd.
Don’t feel like you have to play dumb to be cool. Don’t let what others think keep you from harnessing your unique intelligence. Being smart does not make you a leper. The more we hide our acumen, the more entrenched the norm of being ignorant becomes. Trying makes you a better person, someone more likely to succeed. And you know what? Fitting in makes you just like everyone else, when the truth is, you’re not like everyone else. You’re special. You have what other people are too embarrassed to say they wish they had. When you stop camouflaging yourself, professors recognize you. And that translates into employers recognizing you. And that means you will always have an advantage, because you are unique.
So let’s stop reinforcing the idea that you have to play dumb to fit in. You should have your own ideas, and you should vehemently believe in yourself. We need more people who are willing to stand up and answer the questions being asked, and we need more people who are confident in their answers even if everyone else is too scared to join them. And if you are still stuck in that classroom, hiding in the back like I was, I know it’s not easy. I know it’s not easy to not care what they think of you. But I urge you to find your voice. Because the sooner you do, the sooner you’ll gain the confidence it took me years to achieve.
God speed.
