Rejecting classroom passivity

By Andrew Corcostequi
The Collegian

WHEN I WAS approached to consider submitting an article for The Collegian, my initial reaction was a mix of disbelief and denial, not because I found myself incapable of writing something potentially interesting, but more because of the way I presented myself to my then-future editor.

Picture it: me, his chain-smoking classmate, Cheetos crumbs on my face, and a hair-cut-and-color that might be found on the illegitimate child of Cruella Devil and Paris Hilton.

Frankly, I was a mess, and in my world, nobody with any sort of journalistic integrity would be caught dead eating food from a vending machine or venturing out of the house in an ensemble he or she had woken up in two days before.

My major hang-up involved me not being able to see what my editor could, this perception that I would look foolish (I did) and would be wrong for the job (the jury is still out).

I am now convinced that our perceptions of others, and our overly judgmental natures only serve to deter us from achieving a personal success that most everyone else can recognize in us — something that we would be able to recognize in ourselves if we weren’t so afraid of failing.

I say this not because I believe everyone should run out and write an opinion piece, but because of a mounting frustration that I experience every time I find a class discussion going from bad to worse.

You know exactly what I’m talking about — when the entire room sits in an embarrassed silence because nobody is ballsy enough to risk looking, sounding, or feeling like a complete and/or total idiot.
I cannot say that I encourage stupidity, and if you have nothing to say founded on any shred of intelligence, I actually encourage you to put your fist in your mouth and let it remain there until the lecture is over.

But for the rest of you, the ones that are fairly certain they might have something insightful to say, speak up.

I won’t suppose it is easy to take risks, to be daring and to potentially injure your ego. But I also know (from plenty of experience, usually in the form of a panic attack) that making a humble attempt to offer something beautiful or important, or downright genius is the best and only way to let everyone else experience something from a perspective unlike his or her own.

Who knows? If you do well, you might earn serious brownie points from a professor desperate for proof that at least some of the student body still indeed has a pulse. Or, if you come across as a moron, at least you gave it a fair shot, and your answer (or article, as the case seems to be) will eventually fade into a distant memory, far removed from the sleepy consciousness of students piling into class with their super big mugs of coffee and disdain for the required Math 45 course.

It would be naive to believe that this article will have a profound effect on this issue’s readers, but at least it is an attempt in the right direction.

Student apathy is at an all time high, and though my journalistic career might very well crash and burn right where it began, at the very least, I can say I tried. Sure, you can mock, tease or taunt me for taking a school paper seriously.

But unless you have tried making a difference, or risked wounding your pride, I suggest you leave campus and not return. I’m spending too much money on tuition and parking tickets to sit in complete silence, to miss out on something defining, brilliant or all together enlightening.

Not one of us can be certain of what we can accomplish until we say (or write) something that carries with it the fear of looking like a complete doofus. But, if you’re very lucky, you might just score praise that outweighs the insecurity and doubt that pervaded your sense of self prior to your efforts.

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