We Teaching Fellows are, on the whole, a lucky and happy bunch, teaching bright students for good pay in interesting subjects. We work hard and strive mightily to project an air of quiet command. But behind our button-down shirts and corduroy jackets with leather elbows, we are bundles of pure anxiety. Now that classes are over, it may be safe to tell the world what goes on in section from the TF's point of view.

It all begins at the first section meeting. Every section has a distinct personality and early on we learn if we have a Quiet Section or a Loud Section. A Loud Section needs no prompting, we walk into the room and people are already arguing about the books. All we need to say is "so what did you make of this week's reading," and people are frantically waving about underlined passages, drawing diagrams on the board and trying desperately to get Habermas on the phone. For teaching fellows a Loud Section is a precious gift. We just show up for class, then wait for the guys at the CUE Guide to give us a call.

The Quiet Section is much harder to shake up. We come in with what we are certain are provocative statements, explosive insights and highly ingenious teaching aids, only to be met with complete silence. We can almost hear them thinking, "just when is lunch?" It's as though the class as a whole is trying not to wake the baby. It seems such a shame to disturb the peace with idle chit-chat. At moments like these, we TFs think to ourselves, "I really should have gone into investment banking like Mom and Dad said. Perhaps from now on, I can just show them movies."

On the first day we also identify the student who can be counted on to speak, who will contribute week-in and week-out, whether or not he has done the reading. Let's call him Johnny. We TF's have what the twelve-step programs would call a co-dependent, highly dysfunctional relationship with Johnny. We need Johnny, but want very much to avoid becoming addicted to him. On a good day Johnny will galvanize the room, firing up an exciting, inclusive discussion. On a bad day Johnny will talk for roughly forty-five minutes, pausing only for oxygen and fluids.

On these days Johnny seems a force of nature and to quote ESPN, we cannot stop him, we only hope to contain him. As Johnny starts talking and the sound of his voice fills the room, the time goes by with an almost Zen-like ease. His soliloquy has a soothing quality and soon our thoughts begin to wander: "I really should get going on my dissertation. If only I could find an invaluable primary source in my grandmother's attic. I wonder if my advisor loves me? For that matter, I wonder if any one really loves me?...Just when is lunch?"

Suddenly it is deathly quiet, with the exception of the gentle buzz of the fluorescent lamp. Has Johnny collapsed under the weight of his own intelligence? With horror, you realize that Johnny has, uncharacteristically, stopped speaking several minutes ago. He looks at you expectantly, the entire class yearning for insight, perhaps even wisdom.

Having no clue what Johnny said, we fall back on the old standard: "that's interesting, say more about that." Johnny replies, "which part, the part where I used Gramsci to explain the origins of the American Revolution, or the part where I employed a cliometric model of my own design to prove the Civil War had no impact on American society?" At this point, we usually show a movie.

Before long, we teaching fellows are inevitably asked a question to which we do not know the answer. At this point we have several options. Option one is a good cop/bad cop routine, which can be employed separately or together. The good cop acts as though the question has played right into his hands: "That's a great question, who wants to take that on?" The bad cop takes the offensive: "I'm not sure what you mean, could you spell that out a little more?" Option two is to obfuscate. When faced with a difficult question we say, "that's deeply contested issue that divides the field right down the middle. What do you think?"

Option three is to get post-modern, calling into question the basis of language itself. This is especially useful when asked simple factual question, like "what happened in 1776?" This can be met with a response like, "well, when we say 1776, do we see a 'number' representing the 'past,' or instead a sort of cultural signifier, a construction, a totality, if you will, that distorts as much as it reveals. What do you think?" Then smile.

Of courses, it is not only teaching fellows who are occasionally ill-equipped to answer questions. I have heard from my spies that students have at times come to section--and I know this will come as a shock--without having done every word of the assigned reading. In section, contrary to students, gallant, even Herculean attempts to disguise the fact, it is usually apparent to the TF who has done the reading and who has not.

Indeed there is usually an easy way to spot the unprepared, namely to ask a question and then see who begins rifling through their materials in a wild, desperate attempt to avoid making eye-contact. People frantically and aimlessly search through their notebooks as if the mysteries of the universe, let alone the answer to the question, could be found there. The look on their face is intent, as if they had just written an essay on that very question and if only they could find it buried deep in their cavernous backpack, they could address the issue. Their eyes remain downcast, praying that someone, probably Johnny, will say something and let them off the hook.

Mercifully, some brave soul does eventually speak. Everyone then immediately looks up and gazes pensively into the middle distance, brows furrowed, nodding sagely. This one comment is all Harvard students need to get them going and before long we are locked in vigorous debate, comparing Aristotle, Levi-Strauss, Virginia Woolf and the early years of the Jackson Five. Our work here is done. Finally, it is time for lunch.

Daniel W. Hamilton is a graduate student in American history and a tutor in Leverett House. He is currently having lunch.