A neighbor is working on a post-graduate degree.

His days in class are in chunks: Several times a year, he spends four days at eight hours a day sitting in a classroom. Listening to lectures.

There are eight experienced folks in the class. From around the globe.

The professor who is nearing retirement reads his lectures.

He puts a slide up on the screen, reads it, and then moves to next slide. That’s on the good days.

On the bad days, he reads his notes verbatim, head down. All day. Every day.

The class wants to grapple with the ideas of the lecture. To “cross discuss” with each other. To engage the professor. To apply the content. The professor shuts down the conversation with nervous anxiety and moves to the next slide.

Each person in the class has a laptop.

On day four, my neighbor, numb from the previous three days, sets up a chat room on Tiny Chat (www.tinychat.com).

During the break, he says, “Hey, let’s discuss the lecture while the professor is reading his notes.” He coaches his fellow classmates about how to join the chat online, and they all jump on. My neighbor’s first instruction in the chat room: “Okay, let’s work hard at not mocking the professor.”

Soon, the room is abuzz, online. It’s not easy to say nice things about the oblivious professor when you can discuss his teaching methods silently in real time, but the class soon begins to engage him and the lecture …

… without him.

If the professor had simply moved the eight chairs into a circle and hosted a conversation about his topics, there would be no need for Tiny Chat. At least not that day.