There are three reasons why someone might have handed you this article to read. The first is because it is outrageously funny, and your friend wants you to share in her mirth. The second is because it is stupid, and your friend wants you to join her in mocking the author. The third possibility is that you are "That Guy," and your friend is trying to hint, as nicely as possible, that your presence in class is the cause of much anguish amongst your fellow scholars.
If you suspect that the third reason applies to you, then don't despair. There are, generally speaking, many different species of "That Guy," and my goal in this article is to elucidate for you which you fall into and how to save yourself. Some characteristics of the genera are as follows.
First, the non-talkers. There are three reasons why you might never talk in class: because you're brilliant, because you're shy, or because you're stupid. All three are legitimate with one special case that's an exception, and that is the non-talker who is a less than stellar student for 14 weeks of the semester, and then come exam time is suddenly eager to crash study sessions. Don't do it. Don't be that person. Your methods are transparent, and nobody wants to waste valuable study time explaining things to you that you would know had you only paid attention in class. Don't be surprised if it seems like people have suddenly stopped having study sessions. More likely they're planning them without you and are desperately hoping you don't show up.
Worse than the non-talkers, however, are the over-talkers, and there are three types that must be given attention today, all insidious in their own right. First are the foolish talkers. Often they are enthusiastic about learning and eager to interact with the material-- admirable qualities to be sure. The problem, however, is that they generally have all the tact of an eighth grader. Being an adult doesn't suddenly give you the right to interrupt other adults, nor does it mean that your opinion is suddenly as valuable, interesting, or legitimate as the professor's. If what you have to say is truly profound-- highly unlikely-- then save it for your papers. Your professor will never have heard your unique insights before and you'll surely be the star of the class. In the more likely scenario that what you're saying is totally inane, you'll be saving yourself the humiliation of having the whole class knowing just how little you know. Better to stay quiet and have people suspect that you're foolish than speak and made it abundantly clear.
The second variety is the brilliant talker. There is a fine line between being a really smart person who adds a lot to classroom discussion and being a bore that monopolizes the class from beginning to end. Those who tread carefully and occasionally cross over may be granted leniency; those who sail past the line and land far on the other side will be despised. Your intellect is impressive, and those of us who are merely average are actually rather jealous of you-- but respectful envy can very quickly turn into blind rage and the perception that you have a misplaced sense of self-worth. The worst part is that the professor, unaccustomed to having a student who engages the material at such a level, may be totally oblivious. And so the rest of us sit and seethe, while you discuss your respective interpretations of the text. Please, don't be that guy. Go to office hours. You'll have the floor to yourself, your professor will enjoy it, and the rest of us won't suffer.
Finally, we come to the worst of the three, and the true target of this column: the thinks-he/she-is-smart-but-is-actually-really-dumb talker. There seems to be one in almost every class, and they are truly the most insufferable. This is the person who tries to make Calculus a discussion-based class, who reads Wikipedia outside of class in order to reference obscure works of literature that nobody but the professor has even heard of, and who makes observations on said texts that everyone, including the professor, knows are totally absurd. This variant inevitably sits either at the very front or at the very back and frequently argues with the professor over semantic niceties and convoluted hypotheticals. Please, spare us. Your classmates will thank you, your professor will thank you, and when you grow up a little bit maybe you'll thank me.
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