Don't You Wonder?

Quick: how many times yesterday did someone ask you a question whose answer he or she didn’t already know?

And now, be honest: how many times yesterday did you ask a question whose answer you didn’t already know?

I ask, because, yeah, I already know the answer: zero. Or close to it.

What I am wondering, is why. When, where, how did we all become so reflexively incurious, so utterly closed to open-ended inquiry?

Some years ago, when smart phones and search engines suddenly put the world’s entire body of knowledge at our fingertip, a cafeteria worker asked me why more people didn’t bother to access that knowledge. “The internet can tell you why the sky is blue,” he observed, plating up my breakfast. “But what do folks use it for? To watch cat videos.”

He was exaggerating, of course. People ask the internet lots of “why” questions, the Number One being, “Why is there a leap day?” That is a really good question, right up there with why the sky is blue. (Less good: “Why are cats afraid of cucumber?” — Number Six, and, “Why are cats scared of cucumber?”— Number Eight).

This guy made me consider, though, how the internet, with its wealth of information, might be to blame for our withered and atrophying sense of curiosity . . . and our inflated sense of authority. Most adults I encounter put enormous energy into convincing me they have all the answers. Their self-worth seems to hinge on demonstrating total command of subjects they cannot possibly know much about firsthand, regurgitating media-sourced opinion as though it were fact. It’s a curious impulse, given that none of us, with 24/7 access to the internet, actually needs to consult another human being for factual information. It’s also boring as hell. There is literally nothing to discuss, no conversation possible, with such people.

But I have to concede how easily I drift into answer mode myself, particularly with people I know and love. I suspect this is a parental reflex, cultivated during the years I was besieged by questions from inquiring young minds who lacked internet access. I reveled in being my kids’ trusted source, the authority who made them feel safe. It was so affirming to answer their questions and win their esteem that I’ve been slow to retire the Answer reflex.

I’m determined to, however. Because those whom I admire most—and trust immediately— are those brave enough to be child-like, not parental, in their thirst for knowledge, their desire to understand. They are leaders who surround themselves with people smarter than they are, because they recognize that leadership is all about asking the right questions. I wish they would run for office. Except we don’t reward that quality in our political candidates. Like children, we don’t discern between know-it-alls and the truly knowledgeable. Given the problems we face—global pandemics, climate change, mass migration—we desperately want to be assured that the person we put in charge has answers.

Solutions have always come from men and women who seek expertise, not opinions; who draw on others’ hard-won insight, and not on social-media cesspools of spot judgments. We have to become those men and women, for trustworthy leaders to emerge. Change begins with each of us.

So I’m cultivating a new reflex. When asked a question, I try mightily not to blurt my opinion, though you can be sure I have one. I say instead, “What do you think?” Then, no matter what the response, I ask, “Why?”

It’s amazing, what I am learning. And how wonderful it is, to be amazed.