It's possible that you've never had a class in the McKeen Study on the first floor of Massachusetts Hall.
There is a good chance, however, that you sat there as a prospective student and listened to your tour guide give their academic spiel.
The room is, as advertised, exemplary of the kind of classroom environment that we preach about, one that promotes discussion as opposed to lecture.
All the same, I find that many classrooms not only fail to move us in any way, but also actively impair our ability to be engaged in class.
I would imagine that our professors have their own unique set of gripes, or praises, for the spaces in which they teach. Lighting in many classrooms is not ideal.
What I'm more curious about, however, is what we, as students, are looking for in a classroom.
I prefer seating configurations that allow me to freely address my classmates, not just my professor. Windows and some decorative or architectural features are also pluses.
In essence, I'm looking for something about a space—whether that be the ability to see my fellow students' faces or some interesting facet of a room's design—that resonates with the fact that this hour and a half is going to bring me some new piece of knowledge.
Although such an estimate may be conservative, I'd venture a guess that only 10 percent of Bowdoin's classrooms are put to their optimal use.
Let's take the room on the fourth floor of Adams Hall as an example. Climbing three flights of stairs to get to class may be less than ideal—if you don't end up somewhat winded from taking the stairs, you'll feel guilty for taking the elevator—but the heart of the problem lies with the actual room.
In Adams 406, the slant of the ceiling makes you feel as if you're sitting in an attic. This might be less of an issue if class sizes in that room were capped at 12 people, but with nearly 30 in the room, it feels cramped and less conducive to absorbing information.
And then, of course, there are those two very unfortunate pillars. God forbid you get stuck behind them; your next hour will surely be one of uncomfortable shifting and neck movement.
Other academic buildings feature a bizarre issue: their corridors do more for them than their classrooms.
Searles is illustrative of this design flaw. I spend roughly three hours every week in Searles 215, a room with high-placed windows and lack of personality that makes the space feel more prison-like than enlightening. Searles' stone-slab staircases, on the other hand, more than make up for it.
Conversely, there are buildings on campus that house beautiful rooms and nondescript hallways.
Sills Halls' passageways certainly do not feel collegiate to me, nor are they places that I want to hang around once I'm done with class. The building's classrooms, however, are a different story; most have large windows, carpets and the occasional wooden plaque listing previous Classics prize winners.
But my favorite part of Sills is located in the basement. Though it's named for the Peucinian Society, which calls the place its home, this is a room that I've only ever used for working on my own or with my Spanish conversation group.
Granted, the lighting is not ideal, but there's a sort of formal comfort to the large, wooden table. Nearly all of the room is made from the same wood, and its simple, rectangular angles create an ambiance akin to that of a ski lodge.
Among the minority of classrooms that thrill are Hubbard Hall West—directly across from the Shannon Room—and the two seminar rooms on the 16th floor of Coles Tower.
Though I wish that the top floor of Coles had more personality and that Hubbard West was slightly smaller, these rooms have excellent lighting, and reflect the types of classes that are held there: seminars and lectures, respectively.
I doubt that there are very many of us who could create, given the opportunity, a perfect learning environment for ourselves.
The most important thing the College can do is provide spaces that inspire the kind of learning that changes our perspectives.