Raise Your Hand不再做课堂上的胆小鬼

In schools across the world， you'll find an incredible genus1） of student who possess the enviable ability to participate in classroom discussion， seemingly without any hesitation. It's bold—sitting there in class just gabbing2） about valence electrons3） or delivering some pithy4） analysis of Antigone5） while 30 or so pairs of eyeballs stare， totally prepared to judge. But I'm almost positive that people who are capable of speaking up don't see it as boldness at all. It's whatever for them， you know？ They're simply talking， ostensibly6） with the same freeness， ease and assuredness7） that most of us have when chatting with friends or discussing extracurricular passions.

Slouched8） in whatever inconspicuous9） corner of the classroom that I'd strategically chosen， I watched with a mix of reverence10） and resentment11） as these folks performed their magic， thinking： How the hell do they do that？ Why can't I do it？ All through each lecture， I was fine， enthusiastically taking notes， loving life and learning and school. But as soon as my professor started trying to facilitate12） a discussion， and especially if she started calling on people who weren't raising their hands， all my happy， fantastic "I love school" vibes13） would instantly evaporate14）.

What was the problem？ Why was I so nervous？ The simplest answer is that I was scared of sounding15） or being perceived as stupid. Or， actually， not even stupid. I was afraid that people wouldn't think that I was super smart. I wanted to not only give the correct answer， but also say something totally insightful every time I spoke. I was told that I was a smart kid by teachers and family from the time I was in preschool， which of course felt good， but eventually started to stress me out. I felt expected to be that smart kid ALL THE TIME， and that thought was a burden that tied my stomach in knots and kept me silent during class.

My apprehensions16） grew when I got to college. Everyone who contributed to discussions in that overwhelming new setting seemed so articulate17）， so adult， while I still very much felt like the insecure teenager that I was. We were graded， in part， on participation， and sometimes the teaching assistant would very overtly18） mark down in a little notebook whether or not students said anything during class， so there was added pressure and weight to the discussion. My sophomore year， I took an introductory American literature course where we had to read The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon. In class， there was a very lively discussion about symbolism and postmodernism that I wouldn't have been able to participate in even if I'd wanted to， because I just didn't understand what the hell was going on in the book … or what postmodern even meant. So what I did—and this is something that， as an academic overachiever19）， I did for most of my classes—was re-read the assignment， take notes on what I'd read， study those notes and read some unassigned scholarly analysis of the subject. Even with that much preparation and even with the knowledge that， Hey， I was accepted into this school， so obviously someone believed that I could thrive in this environment， I was still uneasy about speaking up in class.

Mine wasn't a complete transformation—I didn't go from this timid student to some freewheeling20） self-assured chatterbox21）. But there was a change and I accomplished that in very small， gradual ways. For example， my nerves cause me to speak in really disjointed22）， clumsy23） sentences or forget what I want to say altogether. So， in class， I jotted down24） my comments on a piece of paper first and then raised my hand. I usually didn't end up looking down at what I'd written， but it was like a safety net. I also made little goals for myself： OK， today I'm going to say one thing in class， no matter what. Then the next week， I'd say I'm going to make two comments， and so on and so forth.

At first， even when I was only giving one-word answers， the simple act of talking was packed with so much enormity25） for me that I couldn't speak in class without getting anxious fluttering26） in my stomach and constriction in my throat. Any time I spoke， I had to push the sentences out of mouth. I was sure that everyone could detect my nervousness but the thing that I clung to27） was that no one really showed any outward sign of judgment. Sometimes people would even nod as I spoke！ Eventually， the experience was just mildly uncomfortable. I couldn't be as relaxed as I was while talking to my friends， but I didn't have such a palpable28） physical reaction.

Like so many other things in life， you just have to go through all the nerves and discomfort. You have to experience the trembling voice as you read a book passage aloud； you have to trip up on29） your words a little as you try to speak； you have to ask a question even if you're afraid of being judged， and see what happens. I was able to make the transition from quiet， nervous student to teaching assistant， who was， yes， pretty awkward but still standing in front of a class LEADING a discussion because I forced myself to do it. Becoming a TA was one of the best decisions I could've made because I'd essentially put myself in a situation where not talking in class would actually be more embarrassing than talking.

During my semester as a TA， I was able to calm some of my nerves by doing the same kind of extreme preparation that I'd done with The Crying of Lot 49. I studied the class material （Native American Literature） until I was not only deeply familiar with it on an objective level—I knew all of the facts—but also until I'd developed opinions on it， analyzed it， and had questions about it， which I would usually end up sharing with the class as a way to jump-start30） conversation. I'm not someone who can just "wing it31）" entirely when it comes to public speaking or performing， so developing some kind of fluency with the material I'm supposed to be discussing， helps me feel more confident speaking up.

During discussions， I had always desperately wanted to say something. I wanted to participate！ Maybe I couldn't answer every question or offer an opinion on every topic， but there were always moments when I could have said something. After you make yourself participate， you eventually understand that whatever you end up saying in class—whether it's met with a positive response by an instructor or not—doesn't have monumental consequences. That's when you can start to have a much mellower32） time at school （and maybe even learn something）. Speaking up may never feel comfortable or natural for you. You may always be a little nervous， but the way you see the world is unique， and your thoughts deserve to be heard just as much as anyone else's.

在全球各地的学校里，你都会发现有一类学生真令人难以置信，他们拥有令人艳羡的参与课堂讨论的能力，看起来没有丝毫的犹豫。课堂上，他们就那样坐在那儿侃侃而谈价电子问题或是就《安提戈涅》给出一些简要的分析，而与此同时大概有30双眼睛都在盯着他们，随时准备好对他们评头论足。他们这样做可真是勇敢。但我几乎也能肯定，这些有能力当众发言的人压根不会觉得这是什么勇敢的事儿。这对他们来说根本没什么，你知道吗？他们只不过是在说话而已，看上去无拘无束、轻松自信，就和我们大多数人在跟朋友聊天或讨论课外爱好时所表现出来的一样。

我无精打采地坐在教室里一个不起眼的角落里（这可是我经过战略权衡精心选择的位置），怀着既崇拜又怨恨的复杂心情看着这些家伙表演着他们的魔术，心想：真是见鬼了，他们是怎么做到的？为什么我就不行呢？每一节课上，我自始至终都感觉良好：满腔热情地记笔记，内心对生活、学习和学校充满热爱。可一旦老师开始想办法推动课堂讨论，尤其是如果她开始点名叫那些没举手的学生发言，我心中所有“我爱学校”的那种愉快和美好的感觉就会立刻烟消云散。

问题出在哪儿？为什么我这么紧张？最简单的回答是：我害怕发言，或是害怕别人觉得我笨。或者，实际上甚至不是笨的事儿，而是怕别人觉得我并不是超级聪明。我不仅想要说出正确的答案，而且还希望我每一次发言都能说出一些真正有见解的东西。自打我上幼儿园起，老师和家人就都说我是个聪明的孩子，这当然让我感觉良好，但到最后也开始让我感觉到莫大的压力。我觉得大家都希望我一直是那个聪明的孩子，这个想法成了一种负担，让我感到揪心，也让我在课堂上沉默不语。

上大学后我的这些焦虑愈发严重。在那令人窒息的新环境中，每一个参与讨论的人看上去都是那么巧言善辩、那么成熟，而我却依然在很大程度上觉得自己还是以前那个没有安全感的中学生。我们的成绩一部分取决于课堂参与表现，而且助教有时会公然在一个小笔记本里记录学生在课堂上是否发过言，这让课堂讨论更添一份压力与负担。大二那年，我选修了一门介绍美国文学的课程，上这门课必须读托马斯·品钦的《拍卖第四十九批》。在课堂上，大家对象征主义和后现代主义展开了非常热烈的讨论，可我就算想参与讨论也无法做到，因为我就是搞不明白这本书究竟在讲些什么……或是甚至连后现代主义是什么意思也不知道。于是我就做了一些我作为一名学霸在大部分课堂上都做过的事情：将这本书重读一遍，边读边记笔记，然后仔细研究那些笔记，并阅读了一些课堂要求以外的关于这部作品的学术分析。即便我已经做了这么多的准备，即便我清楚既然我已经被这所学校录取，那显然是有人相信我可以在这个环境里茁壮成长，但在课堂上发言却依然让我感到局促不安。

我的变化并不是一次彻头彻尾的脱胎换骨，我并没有从这个胆小怯懦的学生摇身一变成为一个随心所欲、自信健谈的话痨。但我身上确实发生了变化，我以非常细微、循序渐进的方式完成了这次蜕变。譬如，因为紧张，我说话总是断断续续、笨嘴笨舌的，或者全然忘了我想说什么，所以在课堂上，我会先将发言内容草草地写在一张纸上，然后再举手。通常来说，我到最后也不会低头去看我写下的东西，但有了它，就像有了一张安全网。我还给自己设立一些小小的目标：好吧，今天我要在课堂上发言一次，不管说什么都行。然后到下个星期，我会给自己规定要发言两次，诸如此类。

刚开始，即使我只需回答一个字，张口说话这一简单的行为对我而言却异常重大，搞得我只要在课堂上发言就必定紧张得心脏怦怦直跳、喉咙发紧。无论我什么时候发言，我都得使劲把句子从嘴里挤出来。我很确信每个人都能察觉出我的紧张，但让我赖以坚持下去的是，没有人真的表现出任何对我指指点点的明显迹象。有时，他们甚至还会在我发言时点点头！最终，上课发言这件事只是让我感觉略微有些不自在罢了。我不能做到像和朋友聊天时那样轻松自如，但我没有那么明显的生理反应了。

就像生命中许多其他事一样，你别无选择，就是得要经历所有的紧张与不适。你必须要经历大声朗读书中段落时声音发颤，必须要经历在你尝试发言时说错话，并且即使你害怕被人评头论足你也必须要去提出问题，然后看看会发生什么。我能完成从一个安静、紧张不安的学生到一名助教的转变，是因为我强迫自己必须这么做——没错，当助教时我仍旧会很不自在，但还是站在了全班同学面前，带领他们进行讨论。成为一名助教是我做过的最明智的决定之一，因为我基本上把自己置于了这样的境地：在课堂上，不说话居然要比说话更令人尴尬！

在我做助教的那几个学期里，我成功地缓解了我的部分紧张神经，秘诀就是像我对付《拍卖第四十九批》那样最大限度地做好准备工作。我仔细研读教材（《美国本土文学》），直到我不仅在客观层面上对其了然于心（即我对其中所有的事实事件烂熟于心），而且还对教材内容形成了自己的观点，进行了分析，并提出了问题——通常，我最后会和全班同学分享我的这些问题，以此来快速展开对话。我不是那种在公众演讲或表演时可以完全即兴发挥的人，所以在一定程度上能流利地复述我要讨论的材料会让我在当众发言时感觉更为自信。

在讨论时，我总是拼命地想要说些什么。我想要参与进去！也许我不是每个问题都能回答上来，也不能对每个话题提出我的观点，但是，总有那么一些时刻我原本是可以说点什么的。等你成功让自己参与进去之后，你最终就会明白，无论你在课堂上最后说了什么——无论你说的有没有得到老师的肯定——都不会有什么重大的后果。到此时，你就可以开始享受更加轻松愉快的校园时光（甚至可能开始学到些东西）。你可能从未觉得大声发言对你来说是一件舒服或自然的事情，你可能总会有那么一点点紧张，但你看世界的方式是独一无二的，和其他任何人的想法一样，你的想法也值得被人听到。

1. genus [?d?i?n?s] n. 类，种类

2. gab [ɡ?b] vi. 喋喋不休，唠叨，闲聊（尤指说鸡毛蒜皮的事）

3. valence electron： 价电子，指原子核外面能与其他原子相互作用形成化学键的电子。

4. pithy [?p?θi] adj. 简洁扼要的；言简意赅的

5. Antigone： 《安提戈涅》，古希腊剧作家索福克勒斯的一部戏剧。故事中，俄狄浦斯的女儿安提戈涅不顾国王克瑞翁的禁令，将自己的兄长（即反叛城邦的波吕尼刻斯）安葬，结果被处死，而一意孤行的国王最终也落得妻离子散。

6. ostensibly [??stens?bli] adv. 表面上地

7. assuredness [?????r?dn?s] n. 自信；放松

8. slouch [sla?t?] vi. 无精打采地坐着

9. inconspicuous [??nk?n?sp?kju?s] adj. 不引人注目的；不惹人注意的

10. reverence [?rev?r?ns] n. 尊敬；崇敬；敬意

11. resentment [r??zentm?nt] n. 怨恨；愤慨；憎恨

12. facilitate [f??s?l?te?t] vt. 促进；使便利

13. vibes [va?bz] n. [复]情绪；气氛；环境

14. evaporate [??v?p?re?t] vi. （情绪）逐渐消失

15. sound [sa?nd] vi. 发声；出声响；响起

16. apprehension [??pr??hen?n] n. 担心；忧虑；恐惧

17. articulate [ɑ??t?kjule?t] adj. 善于表达的；口齿伶俐的

18. overtly [???v??tli] adv. 公开地；明显地；不隐藏地