10 a.m.: Sanders sleeps. Hundreds of benches lie empty, and a lonely pool of spring sunshine travels across the hardwood floor of the grand old theater. A couple of hours later, a door swings open, and the dusty air stirs as somebody walks in 10 minutes early for lecture. One minute elapses, and a pack of talkative TFs file in. They speak softly. In whiffs and poofs, students arrive, still quiet. Seven minutes go by-more people still. The spotlights turn on; the P.A. system warms up, and the room buzzes with ambient sound. At 10 minutes, hundreds of rustling papers and chitchat fill the room with ugly, roaring noise, overwhelming the quiet plaint of the antique benches that groan under the load of bodies. Sanders swarms; handouts and slow-movers clog the main door causing backflow into Memorial Hall. The room's air, warm and moist, smells of Chickwich. The Harvard monster-size class begins a new day.
maKing a monster
Within the pages of Harvard's two academic bibles-the Courses of Instruction catalog and the Committee on Undergraduate Education (CUE) guide-the monster class is conceived. Save for a week of so-called "shopping," with daily battles to grab half a syllabus, official Harvard literature provides students with the only concrete evidence of the class to come, and many students scrutinize these books, studying enrollment stats and reading into course titles.
Some professors, however, spend comparatively less time preparing for the upcoming semester. Of his course description for Historical Study B-19, "The Renaissance in Florence," Professor James Hankins confesses, "I wrote it in 30 seconds on deadline." Despite the cursory write-up, his course boasted an enrollment of 450 students last year. Hankins says he knows what really influences students. "Most people take courses on the basis of buzz anyway."
Word travels fast using the available literature as a sound base, and Harvard students often share their personal thoughts about different classes. Even a passing remark has the power to influence a student's interest in a course. "For core classes, I generally take the ones that everyone has taken and said were good," Rachel Altfest '01 admits.
Everett I. Mendelsohn, professor of this semester's Historical Study A-18, "Science and Society in the 20th Century," recognizes this mode of communication. "The word had gotten out that I was good. You know, the e-mail jargon."
From course catalog to buzz, the word is spreads-a monster is born.
Many attractions draw students. David Goldsmith, who is head TF for Agassiz Professor of Zoology Stephen J. Gould's class, "Science B-16: History of Life," says one of his fellow TFs took an informal survey in his section last year to find out why students take the course. The TF uncovered an unsettling fact about their priorities: "Out of 18, three took the course because [Gould] had done a guest voice on 'The Simpsons.'"
More often than not, students look to these popular classes to satisfy a Core requirement-not intellectual curiosity. Students tend to hold these classes to a much lower standard than they would an elective or concentration requirement.
As the monster matures, it develops more ghoulish features-ever larger, ever disinterested.
TAMING THE BEAST
Why not cap courses, limit size and kill the monster?
Director of the Core Program Susan W. Lewis compares Harvard to other academic institutions: "At Princeton, the courses are capped. The people that are hurt by this are the freshmen and sophomores." Harvard administrators say they know better. To limit the class size would be to slice down options even more, they say.
Professors end up carrying the burden, struggling with ways to tame the monster class. When a popular course is only offered eve