When Curiosity Earns Its Place
How Fairfield University turned classroom hesitation into shared ownership
A professor asks a question. Twenty students sit in front of her.
Some are thinking, some know the answer, some are calculating whether it’s worth the risk of being wrong out loud.
No one wants to be the first to speak. In small classrooms, silence isn’t empty. It’s cautious.
At Fairfield University, they began asking a different question: What if participation didn’t depend on bravery?
Fairfield is a Jesuit institution known for small class sizes and a strong culture of teaching. Faculty build their own courses. They refine them. They take ownership of them.
At the Center for Academic Excellence, Jay Rozgonyi and Deborah Whalley work with professors across campus. They see what happens inside those twenty-five-seat rooms.
“There’s a real reticence,” Jay says. “Students don’t want to embarrass themselves.”
After COVID, Debbie noticed the hesitation deepen. Participation didn’t simply rebound. Students became more cautious about speaking publicly in class .
The silence wasn’t a lack of ideas. It was a calculation.
Is this answer good enough? Will this sound foolish? Is it safer to stay quiet?
Silence shapes who gets heard. And who doesn’t.
At Fairfield, new technology doesn’t enter the classroom lightly.
“We use backwards design,” Debbie explains. “We start with goals and outcomes. Then exercises. Then we look at what technology supports that.”
Or, as she puts it:
“It’s not, ‘Here’s a cool tool.’ It’s, ‘What are you trying to accomplish?’”
Faculty also need tools that respect their presence in the room.
“Things need to be very simple,” Debbie says. “So the faculty don't worry about fumbling with technology in front of students”
Jay, who spent decades in IT before focusing on teaching and learning, has seen the alternative: powerful systems that demand attention rather than support it. Mentimeter, he says, was “truly easy.”
It didn’t compete with teaching. It fit into it. That distinction mattered.
For Aaron Weinstein, a professor of political thought, teaching has always been about intellectual ownership.
“I want students to have ownership of their education,” he says.
But ownership requires participation. And participation often hinges on confidence, timing, or temperament.
Using anonymous responses, Aaron began structuring questions differently. Students could respond without attaching their names. Responses could be hidden until everyone had contributed, reducing groupthink.
Instead of cold-calling, he could point to an idea on the screen.
“This is really interesting. Who wrote this? Can you tell us more?”
Validation comes first. Exposure second.
“It de-centers me,” Aaron explains. The classroom shifts from performance to dialogue.
Each semester, he asks whether people are fundamentally selfish or fundamentally good. The results change year to year. What remains constant is what follows. Students see their thinking reflected publicly. They realize their ideas shape the discussion.
They lean in.
„Wir arbeiten mit rückwärts gerichtetem Design: Wir beginnen mit Zielen und Ergebnissen. Dann Übungen. Dann schauen wir, welche Technologie das unterstützt. Es geht nicht darum, ‘Hier ist ein cooles Tool.‘ Sondern: ‘Was willst du erreichen?‘“
In Bridget Hussain’s public health classes, the pattern looked familiar.
“You feel like you could ask what two plus two equals,” she says, “and get blank stares.”
She decided to make interaction structural, not optional.
For open-ended prompts, she conceals responses until everyone has answered. Then she reads one aloud.
“This is such an insightful point. Would you expand on that?”
She doesn’t know who wrote it. The class doesn’t know. But the student does.
“I’ve noticed the student sits up straighter,” Bridget says. “They have more confidence.”
One moment of safety often unlocks the room.
The difference became clear on a day she didn’t use it. A snowstorm disrupted her preparation. She delivered a traditional lecture.
The energy dropped. The feedback loop disappeared. Students seemed more fatigued. She missed the pulse checks that helped her adjust in real time.
Engagement wasn’t decorative. It was functional.
Adoption at Fairfield didn’t begin with policy. It began with exposure.
The Center for Academic Excellence first used Mentimeter in workshops and new faculty orientation. Professors saw it in action and asked about it.
Licenses were funded gradually. A dedicated workshop accelerated uptake. The faculty experimented, adapted, and began sharing.
Jay recalls colleagues stopping him in the hallway.
“They’d say, ‘I’m so glad I got that license. I’m doing this and this with it.’”
Students responded too. They told faculty they loved it. They wished more classes used it .
Because Fairfield professors own their courses, change spreads organically .
When something strengthens dialogue, it travels.
Fairfield’s broader philosophy explains why the shift felt aligned.
As a Jesuit institution, it leans into Ignatian pedagogy. Teaching is about recognizing the experiences students bring into the room and building understanding together.
Technology is not the centerpiece. It is the support.
“We’re not here to use technology,” Jay says. “We’re here to teach students.”
Mentimeter worked because it respected that order.
It didn’t add more noise. It redistributed participation. It didn’t reward the loudest voices. It made space for quieter ones. It didn’t make classrooms louder. It made them more honest.
A political theory student sees their anonymous answer spark debate.
A public health student gains confidence because their idea was recognized before they were exposed.
A faculty member redesigns a session and watches the room shift in minutes.
Small design decisions. Repeated consistently. Over time, they become culture.
At Fairfield University, curiosity no longer depends on who is brave enough to raise their hand.
It is built into the room.
A professor asks a question. Twenty students sit in front of her.
Some are thinking, some know the answer, some are calculating whether it’s worth the risk of being wrong out loud.
No one wants to be the first to speak. In small classrooms, silence isn’t empty. It’s cautious.
At Fairfield University, they began asking a different question: What if participation didn’t depend on bravery?
Fairfield is a Jesuit institution known for small class sizes and a strong culture of teaching. Faculty build their own courses. They refine them. They take ownership of them.
At the Center for Academic Excellence, Jay Rozgonyi and Deborah Whalley work with professors across campus. They see what happens inside those twenty-five-seat rooms.
“There’s a real reticence,” Jay says. “Students don’t want to embarrass themselves.”
After COVID, Debbie noticed the hesitation deepen. Participation didn’t simply rebound. Students became more cautious about speaking publicly in class .
The silence wasn’t a lack of ideas. It was a calculation.
Is this answer good enough? Will this sound foolish? Is it safer to stay quiet?
Silence shapes who gets heard. And who doesn’t.
At Fairfield, new technology doesn’t enter the classroom lightly.
“We use backwards design,” Debbie explains. “We start with goals and outcomes. Then exercises. Then we look at what technology supports that.”
Or, as she puts it:
“It’s not, ‘Here’s a cool tool.’ It’s, ‘What are you trying to accomplish?’”
Faculty also need tools that respect their presence in the room.
“Things need to be very simple,” Debbie says. “So the faculty don't worry about fumbling with technology in front of students”
Jay, who spent decades in IT before focusing on teaching and learning, has seen the alternative: powerful systems that demand attention rather than support it. Mentimeter, he says, was “truly easy.”
It didn’t compete with teaching. It fit into it. That distinction mattered.
For Aaron Weinstein, a professor of political thought, teaching has always been about intellectual ownership.
“I want students to have ownership of their education,” he says.
But ownership requires participation. And participation often hinges on confidence, timing, or temperament.
Using anonymous responses, Aaron began structuring questions differently. Students could respond without attaching their names. Responses could be hidden until everyone had contributed, reducing groupthink.
Instead of cold-calling, he could point to an idea on the screen.
“This is really interesting. Who wrote this? Can you tell us more?”
Validation comes first. Exposure second.
“It de-centers me,” Aaron explains. The classroom shifts from performance to dialogue.
Each semester, he asks whether people are fundamentally selfish or fundamentally good. The results change year to year. What remains constant is what follows. Students see their thinking reflected publicly. They realize their ideas shape the discussion.
They lean in.
„Wir arbeiten mit rückwärts gerichtetem Design: Wir beginnen mit Zielen und Ergebnissen. Dann Übungen. Dann schauen wir, welche Technologie das unterstützt. Es geht nicht darum, ‘Hier ist ein cooles Tool.‘ Sondern: ‘Was willst du erreichen?‘“
In Bridget Hussain’s public health classes, the pattern looked familiar.
“You feel like you could ask what two plus two equals,” she says, “and get blank stares.”
She decided to make interaction structural, not optional.
For open-ended prompts, she conceals responses until everyone has answered. Then she reads one aloud.
“This is such an insightful point. Would you expand on that?”
She doesn’t know who wrote it. The class doesn’t know. But the student does.
“I’ve noticed the student sits up straighter,” Bridget says. “They have more confidence.”
One moment of safety often unlocks the room.
The difference became clear on a day she didn’t use it. A snowstorm disrupted her preparation. She delivered a traditional lecture.
The energy dropped. The feedback loop disappeared. Students seemed more fatigued. She missed the pulse checks that helped her adjust in real time.
Engagement wasn’t decorative. It was functional.
Adoption at Fairfield didn’t begin with policy. It began with exposure.
The Center for Academic Excellence first used Mentimeter in workshops and new faculty orientation. Professors saw it in action and asked about it.
Licenses were funded gradually. A dedicated workshop accelerated uptake. The faculty experimented, adapted, and began sharing.
Jay recalls colleagues stopping him in the hallway.
“They’d say, ‘I’m so glad I got that license. I’m doing this and this with it.’”
Students responded too. They told faculty they loved it. They wished more classes used it .
Because Fairfield professors own their courses, change spreads organically .
When something strengthens dialogue, it travels.
Fairfield’s broader philosophy explains why the shift felt aligned.
As a Jesuit institution, it leans into Ignatian pedagogy. Teaching is about recognizing the experiences students bring into the room and building understanding together.
Technology is not the centerpiece. It is the support.
“We’re not here to use technology,” Jay says. “We’re here to teach students.”
Mentimeter worked because it respected that order.
It didn’t add more noise. It redistributed participation. It didn’t reward the loudest voices. It made space for quieter ones. It didn’t make classrooms louder. It made them more honest.
A political theory student sees their anonymous answer spark debate.
A public health student gains confidence because their idea was recognized before they were exposed.
A faculty member redesigns a session and watches the room shift in minutes.
Small design decisions. Repeated consistently. Over time, they become culture.
At Fairfield University, curiosity no longer depends on who is brave enough to raise their hand.
It is built into the room.