By Eve Macaulay, Fourth Year, Economics and Politics
It’s that time of year. The evenings are darker, the pubs are fuller, and across Redland and Clifton, the words ‘does it smell damp in here?’ are being uttered for the first time.
A new year brings new courses, and, for many, a resolution that this academic year will be different: this year will be your year. And it is, for a week. But, then every newborn academic weapon befalls the same fate: the conviction, ‘I will go to everything!’ devolves into ‘I will go to my seminars(?)’
It’s a natural compromise: for many of us, seminars are the only interactive learning we get, and at £1600 per course, you might be horrified to learn that your weekly seminar runs you about £160. (For legal reasons, this maths makes unreasonable assumptions - i.e. pitiful lecture attendance - and should not be quoted).
So, in the spirit of new beginnings, allow a matured (and irritated) fourth year to lay the foundations of basic seminar etiquette.
For my more socially-inept readers, I should first state the obvious things. Don’t eat (are you insane?). Don’t come with fresher’s flu. Don’t smell. For those of you insulted by such rudimentary advice, find below intermediate tips to unlock your potential as a peer.
Punctuality Etiquette
Punctuality is often overshadowed by its more popular cousin, attendance. Attendance is a formidable foe - extremely impressive to maintain as the novelty of September wears off, the sparkle in your eyes dims and thoughts creep in like ‘it’s pointless’ and ‘oh god’. Nonetheless, punctuality is crucial: the beginning of the seminar sets the tone for what’s to come.
My housemate likes to be early. She revels in the awkwardness of pre-seminar small talk, ‘asserting [her] dominance’ through dry responses. In avoiding this most undesirable situation, frankly, I find myself late more often than not.
This opens a new can of worms. A seminar is not a lecture; you can’t just slip in late and find a spot gloriously near the exit. Rather, you must undergo the appropriate humiliation ritual: walk in, realise everyone is staring at you, realise you know nobody, and then realise the room is full. Then, be assured that the room is not quite full, and condemned to shuffle through the least practical arrangement of desks you have ever seen to the worst seat in the house. At this point, you are questioning what attendance ever did to overshadow its humble cousin.
So, be on time. If not only to avoid being utterly disruptive, to avoid the worst fate of all: an awkward situation.
Laptop Etiquette
Congratulations. You have made it to your seat. Now, to get out the perfect concentration aide: a magical glowing box containing all the information in the world. The internet is an alluring mistress, and you can hardly be blamed for falling for her fickle temptations. But, there are rules to this - or at least, there ought to be.
Imagine trying to comprehend assessment instructions, when suddenly, the person next to you starts doing the Wordle. I’m sure this is not hard to imagine: the New York Times should be paying tuition for its 100% attendance in humanities seminars.
The tutor’s voice drifts away, as you are transfixed by the intellectual tussle your neighbour is having with a row of white boxes. There is no point reattempting ‘active listening’ now; the tutor’s point has been rendered moot by phonetic siren song.
Admittedly, there is only so much rage one can feel towards word puzzles. As an economics student, I face an uglier distraction: men in quarter-zips, who sit in seminars and peruse their ‘investment portfolio’, or worse, fill out internship applications. The gall!
Such obnoxious behaviour should be avoided at all costs. LinkedIn has no place in the seminar: it is to be used privately, and in shame.
So, please toe the line. Use your laptop privileges to display humility (taking notes) and solidarity with your peers (Googling what on Earth your tutor is talking about).
Grace Rose
Elocution Etiquette
We all know the feeling: the tutor asks a question, and gazes expectantly at a sea of grown adults, all of whom are doing their best impression of somebody who: a) doesn’t speak English or b) has just discovered a computer for the first time. The question hangs in the air like a bad smell, whilst everybody shifts in their seat in some awful game of chicken.
Why must we recede into this childlike state? It is hardly easy or comfortable. It is hardly worth the mammoth task of attending the seminar. Speak! Be the hero!
That said, there is, in fact, something worse than the dreaded silence: a posh boy playing the devil’s advocate. Though outnumbered, these creatures manage to saturate seminars with such drivel that I find myself thinking, ‘Really? £65,000 per year couldn’t buy some critical thinking skills?’
Don’t be this creature. It is not becoming. And, whilst I’m at it, don’t ask questions that nobody else understands – it’s simply discourteous. You know full well that nobody did the reading.
Overall, use the seminar for what it is: a collaborative place to speak freely. Unless, you are a tool. Then, don’t.
Featured Image: Epigram / Lianne Ponferrada
Which of these 'seminar sins' have you found yourself guilty of?
