There is nothing more distracting to me when I am sitting in class than a pen and paper. Try as I might to focus, I am soon struck by a random thought and begin to scribble it out. For this reason, I keep my desk empty and take what are called “mental notes.” This method is not particularly effective in retaining information, and I would only recommend it as a lesser evil to someone with my literary bent.
But there is a method of note-taking that is more peculiar than mine. I see it used by many students in my classes. I am not sure exactly what it consists of—all I know is that it keeps them frantically typing for every second of the class. To observe them is rather stressful. They turn the activity of listening to a lecture into an aggressively active ordeal. I typically hear them before I see them, so loud is their huffing and puffing, their incessant pounding of keyboards and scratching of pencils.
I have never understood why they put themselves through such torture, when the content of most lectures can be reduced to a page of bullet points. Surely, they have realized, upon revisiting their notes, how much useless material they record. But the strangest thing about these frantic fellows is that the pace of their notetaking never varies. The professor could be asking the class how their weekend was or observing the weather—and these maniacs act as if he were revealing what will be on the final exam. I truly want to know what they could possibly be writing down, so much so that I am often tempted, during the less essential parts of the lecture, to peek over at their papers. One of these days I am going to do it. In the meantime, I can only speculate on what they fill their pages with. Here is my best guess:
Notes: English 4000
9-15-24
*bell rings*
Professor: ‘Good morning class’ *the boy on the far left the second row, and girl in the middle of the fifth row, say good morning back to the professor* ‘Thank you all for being here on time’ *Professor takes a few steps to the right, while adjusting his shirt collar* ‘I want to go over the homework, chapters eight and nine…or, wait, was it six and seven. I always confuse this class with my other one.’ Professor rubs his eyes, and the wear of teaching, of lecturing for hours and hours every day, of laboring in his office night after night to finish an article for academic journals he does not like, of grading papers that his students did not write—all that toil flickers for a moment on his wrinkled face, exposing, as it were, the wearied spirit which he tries so desperately, through a cheerful voice and bright demeanor, to conceal* ‘It was chapters six and seven’*says Mollie, who loves to answer such easy questions, and earn her participation points that way, because she has no idea what is going on, and certainly does not do the readings, if she has even bought the textbook* Professor: ‘Ok. I want to look at the sonnet on page eighty-five’ *The professor looks out at the class, at the people to whom he has given his life’s service, and seems to contemplate, upon seeing thirty kids on their computers, off in their own worlds, whether his job really matters, whether a single life would change if he stopped coming to work, whether there is anybody else in the room who cares about the importance a Shakespearean Sonnet, whether all literature, in the hands of this new generation, with their phones and laptops, is doomed—and this cold and dreary scene, of an aged professor, lost in thought, surrounded by those who ignore them, contrasts magnificently, dare I say, poetically, with the beautiful autumn day, and the glorious sun, which, having just peeked out, like a bear from his cave at the end of winter, from the clouds, now pours its resplendent rays, in a shower of glorious light, through the tall arching windows on the wall, filling our classroom with an indescribable energy, as though it were the very stuff of heaven.* Professor: “Notice here how the meter changes after the second stanza…
