While not a professional yapper myself, I do dabble in endeavors like these, where I write on Instagram for attention, so I feel qualified enough to declare that I am revoking everyone’s privileges to raise their hand in class. I am, actually, the only one who deserves to be heard by the professor in a lecture hall.
What pushed me to this divine proclamation? A few simple crimes against humanity, but the gravest thing is that I’m apparently the only one out of 200 people in the room who has ever laid eyes on the readings. Or even the titles. When the paper is called “The Myth of Language Universals,” and your question—eating up two minutes of my life I will never get back—is “sooo, uh, are there language universals?”, I simply lose hope for mankind. At this point, only two voices should reverberate through Dwinelle 155—mine, and the guy with the actual PhD who the university pays six or five, or maybe three figures for. The only exception to this? My lecture crush. Yes, you, beautiful man. Speak. Whisper even the dumbest possible thought about Chomsky, and I will take it as scripture.
The rest of you may, of course, continue to have thoughts…but they must remain private. And please just go to office hours.