Like all first year law school students, we experienced the Socratic Method of teaching. In theory, the Socratic Method is a technique of engaging students and promoting discussions. The instructor asks questions and encourages students to explore concepts through dialogue. The goal is to enhance learning by the student’s expression and participation – instead of simply listening to lectures and regurgitating information on exams.
My first-year of law school was daunting. It was not exactly harrowing, but it was not much fun, either. I had classmates who loved the verbal interaction with law professors, zinging back and forth with them like analytical, but respectful, trolls. Not me. I was diligent about reading the materials, primarily case law, but when I was called upon, my heartbeat would quicken, and stress would practically obliterate every thought in my head.
I do not remember much about law school, as it was about forty years ago, other than my fear of flunking out. But I recall the first question posed to me. My Torts professor looked down at his roster, which he used to ensure that he evenly distributed his colloquy torment. He scanned the room and called out my name. His query was whether a tortfeasor could, by contract, absolve him/herself from complying with the standard of care. In other words, if you sign a document that says you assume all the risk of, say, ziplining, and the company that operates the zipline is negligent, will the contract protect the zipline company if you are injured and sue for damages?
I answered no; I did not think you could contract away the standard of care. I could tell it was the wrong response, but the professor simply asked me why not. I said something artful like it just did not seem fair. (A more gifted pupil would have discussed exculpatory clauses and the difference between negligence and wanton disregard.) To be honest, I still do not know the answer to that question. It is a good thing I did not become a personal injury lawyer.
After my failed exchange in class, I sought out my professor during his open office hours. I was on the verge of tears, but I wanted him to know that I was studying hard and preparing earnestly. He was kind and sympathetic, and he told me you cannot predict who will become a good lawyer from how they answer questions in the first year of law school. I left his office even more committed to my studies than I already was.
The Socratic Method was not used when I was in junior high school. Teachers would ask questions, and the students who knew the answer would raise their hands. Most of the time, the instructor would call on someone with a raised arm. Students usually only volunteered if they were confident of the answer, but some just liked to talk, and they seemed unperturbed if their response was incorrect. A few classmates were brilliant but lazy; raising an arm was just too much work. If they were called on, they would respond correctly, and the teacher would move on to find another victim. Answering incorrectly mortified me.
As a young junior high student, I remember sitting in class and hearing my science teacher ask a question that I had no understanding of. The teacher’s eyes roamed the room, skimming over the students with raised hands, and her eyes fixed on me. She called on me, and I was certain I knew her intention, which was to embarrass me. I could not fathom a reason otherwise. In hindsight, I suppose it was possible that she wanted to engage me or improve my attentiveness, but I interpreted her questioning me as nothing other an attempt to punish me.
There were only three possibilities in how I could respond. I could hazard a guess, but I did not have a clue what to say. I could also just admit that I did not know the answer, which in my young adolescent mind would be a win for her. Or, I could stick up for myself.
I paused, the silence around me more deafening than a rock concert. I collected myself, and said, “if I knew the answer, I would have raised my hand.” My classmates were stunned, and all eyes pivoted to see how the instructor would respond. She turned on her heel and made a statement that was designed for everyone except for me. “That is how Laurin demonstrates her lack of respect for education.” The remark was intended to humiliate me, but for some reason it empowered me.
I grew up a lot in the years following. By the time I went to college, academic diligence was central to who I was. Large seminars at a public university did not always allow for much discourse, but when they did, I was usually prepared. More importantly, I understood that learning was my goal, and I did not ascribe professors’ intentions as malicious when they called on me.
I owe my seventh-grade science teacher an apology; my statement to her was profoundly disrespectful. Perhaps she would respond by telling me that you cannot pick out successful adults by how they answer questions as young, rebellious adolescents.