No, not a young version of the 18th century Scottish philosopher. Nor do I mean, while I am a big fan (a Hume-an or Hume-aniac), someone related to Our Man Brit. I mean a Humanities Kid. At the University of Chicago we used the phrase "Hum. (pronounced Hume) Kid" to describe the annoying person or persons in our Humanities Class (some sequence of which were required).
Each class had a Hum. Kid or two and they were really annoying. They would talk too much or have little catchphrases that they would use a lot. One of mine would reference what he read in Streetwise (the awful homeless magazine in Chicago that does nothing but promote and legitimize panhandling and often aggressive panhandling at that since every bum will pick up a paper of some sort and pretend to sell Streetwise often with one on each end of a block and one in between) in class. They were always preening and sycophantic. Often what he or she said had no meaning or relevance to the discussion.
We would return to the dorms after classes and compare notes on our Hum. Kid. We each knew the Hum. Kids from each other’s classes. It was even secretly whispered that one of our group was his class’s Hum. Kid even though he had a competitor he could pin the dishonor on. We'd hope that some of the particularly stellar Hum. Kids would be in our Soc. sequence in the next year so we could fully appreciate mastery in person. I even knew people to sit in on each other's classes for the express purpose of watching a Hum. Kid in situ.
I am hoping that perhaps Inks might have experienced this phenomenon in his time, and that Hard Hat Chipmunk could chime in with some of his Hum. Kids stories.
Anyway, all of this long and twisted lead up is necessary only because I always strive to be honest with you and want you to know just how serious a situation I find myself in after only two weeks of classes. You see, I think I'm the Hum. Kid.
Perhaps it is too early to tell. One can hope. But so far I've been the only one speaking up in class who doesn't have to. Since I come at my classes with a much different background and have a much different area of interest than my classmates I am sure that much of what I say sounds strange to them. For example, this week I went off about Keynesian economics and the Chicago School revolution for a few minutes and then I went off on the collapse of confidence in liberal democracy in the inter-war period (which frequent readers will know is one of my particular soapboxes). Sure, it didn't have THAT much to do with the text we were reading in and of itself, but it did relate to conclusions drawn in a presentation on the text that was given.
So let's all keep our fingers crossed that as time goes by people will chirp up more and I will no longer feel so lonely. Perhaps my saving grace is that by the fact I am conscious of the potential of being a Hum. Kid I cannot actually be a Hum. Kid? Maybe?
Returning to the (original) 1970s, I hated contributing in class -- partly because I wasn't paying good cash money to learn my own opinions, with which I was already familiar; and partly because class comments were nearly invariably embarrassingly stupid, and I didn't wish to add to the clutter. Also, in truth, because I enjoyed being thought an unlettered punk by the instructor -- until I turned in the first paper.
There were situations in which I could not remain silent, though. One was when a question would be asked to which I knew the answer, and the instructor refused to simply move on, while the class exchanged bewildered stares. Once the question, in a History of Science class no less, was, "Does anyone know anything about Charles Darwin?" I thought surely, SURELY, someone must have an inkling, but the tension became too great, and at last I delivered myself of a five-minute impromptu discourse. The teacher smiled afterwards, and said, "What he said." And in a history class in which I was the sole non-major, we read the early novel Simplicissimus. The prof was having trouble getting any comments whatsoever, and finally asked, "Has anyone here read any novels?" Lord help me, there was total silence. I ended up comparing S. with other early novels, such as Don Quixote and Robinson Crusoe.
Then there were the catchprase idiots -- the Hum. kids, I guess. In an 18th Century Philsophy class, one inevitable dullard used to begin the discussion of any question whatsoever with "Marx says--" Another would always ask the supremely irrelevant question, "Isn't this sexist?" and then proceed to interject a laborious personal tale of her tribulations "as a woman." I would become frustrated and attempt to give some sense of perspective. Another Hum. kid would always look thoughtful and comment, "He's right. You can't really blame 18th century white males for being ignorant of what we know now." With friends like these...
My brother's favorite catchphrase in college was one I'd experienced but didn't recognize until he pointed it out -- the kid who raises his hand, leans back, and expounds, "What Aristotle/Gibbon/Shakespeare/whomever is TRYING to say here is..."
Doesn't seem to me that you're meeting your own criterion for Hum kid, though, Misspent -- the promiscuous use of the catchphrase. It even sounds as though you had something to SAY.
Posted by: Bleak Mouse | 11 September 2005 at 01:13