For Harvard students, there are few greater delights than hearing our own voices, and section is the great playground for this pastime.

We all know the deal. No one is planning on really learning anything in section, but the illusion of academic progress is always amusing. And so, each comment is carefully constructed not just to prove how intelligent the sectionee is, but to show just how right she is. Then the next person will object, to prove that he is in fact, “right-ier.” And perhaps the teaching fellow will get a word in with a “That’s not exactly what it means,” and prove they are the “right-iest.” But this just won’t do, because there is no hierarchy in the Harvard reach for right. Professors are corrected mid-lecture; TFs must be debated. The endless stroking of egos continues until the clock slowly ticks forward to the end of the hour. Then we close our books, pack our bags, and return next week for Round Two.

This section dynamic is analogous to the ongoing saga of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences (FAS) and University President Lawrence H. Summers, and what appears to be its approaching denouement.

The Faculty, too, gathers in a specified place at a specified time. Its members arrive with all sorts of things to discuss, and perhaps some have even done their homework. Learning, or at least the illusion of it, awaits—will Summers give them a presentation on Allston or will outgoing FAS Dean William C. Kirby issue a report on the Curricular Review? But despite the collection of brilliant minds in a single place, in this section, just like an undergrad meeting, the discussion devolves, and we are left with an atonal chorus of voices all screaming past each other.

And Larry? Larry is “that guy.” He is the “that-iest” “that guy” that ever that. That guy has the power; he is the undeclared section leader. You may be rolling your eyes as he’s speaking, but he’s got the floor. He always has the floor—because he…say it with me now…is that guy. That guy cannot stop quoting the one introduction of Hegel he read for tutorial last year because it must apply to every situation, and the Presidential that guy will never stop assuring you that everything can be answered with a simple cost-benefit analysis. That guy believes he possesses all the answers. Sadly, even when that guy is qualified to handle the matter, no one is willing to listen to him because of his pedantic personality.

Just as the faculty has used Larry’s attitude, his “that-guy-iness,” to justify retaliation, so think we in section. The faculty has to stop that guy from stealing the show—to prove they are equally smart. We, too, feel we must try to reclaim section from our own that-guy’s unspeakable evils. So someone steps up to lead the charge and becomes, well, that guy. Pretty soon, you have a good chunk of that guys, or that gals, all in constant search of the trump. They, too, must exercise some sort of meaningless verbal one-upmanship, so that they too will get noticed. Time for yet another vote of “no confidence”—Harvard’s new favorite game that never grows old.

Of course, that guy is rarely alone, even that guy has a friend. This friend is always under that guy’s wing, using that guy’s power to gain his own. As that guy continues his latest tirade on just how wrong the professor was in lecture today, friend of that guy (FOTG) pipes up to reiterate a few of that guy’s favorite points. If no one in section likes that guy, well, then FOTG is similarly shunned.

But that guy is a bit fickle, and soon he decides that FOTG doesn’t really have his back, spurning him to the sidelines. Suddenly a new vibe flows through section. FOTG is no longer the “eyes rolled at,” he is the “eye-roller,” which means he’s everyone’s new best friend. Instead of being refuted, his opinions are being affirmed. FOTG has shaken off his that-guy-iness, and as a result, he is momentarily considered wise and insightful.

These are the follies of Harvard life. Our all-encompassing section has two tiers. We have the grand stage performance with its well-crafted jabs and drastically dramatic statements. Action, intrigue, worldwide acclaim—or at least recognition. And we have its touring company, if you will. Controversy on campus gets undergraduates itching—they must pick a side and defend it to the death. No, wait, they must pick a side and be right-ier and more compelling, proving that their right-iness exceeds even the upper tier. But the revival of this hit is just not doing so well. Now the critics all know its cliché. It’s all been done before. The touring company’s not doing so well either because it has used up all its lines. Students don’t care, and pretty soon, the administration has as much credibility as the Undergraduate Council. For after the performers in section have all done their acts, the that guy has pontificated and his critics have sniped back, the audience realizes it was simply show over substance and they lose respect for all the blustery actors. The big-bang finish of a Summers resignation might keep the seats filled for a few days, but soon the show will be bankrupt.

The culture of section isn’t going to change anytime soon—too many egos to stop that. That guy may be kicked out to a new section time, but a new that guy will fill his seat. Sure, that guy is frustrating, but he’s more that just his persona. We need that guy to anchor section—without him, we will be completely adrift. We want to believe in substantive debate, and more idealistically, we want to believe that we actually learn from each other. Maybe if that guy listened a bit more, and that guy, and that gal, and that guy, stopped planning their next point, the rest of us would stop skipping the debate. But that’s just a theory—even though I’m sure it’s the right-iest.

Margaret M. Rossman ’06 is a English concentrator in Mather House. Her column appears on alternate Tuesdays.