Last week, I went on an evening hike with a woman I kind of know, and aspire to actually know. To distract ourselves from leaf-rustling that could have been mountain lions and a path that was growing harder to see as the sun set, (could I saw off my arm with a car key if faced with a 127 Hours-type scenario?) we chatted. Mostly we chatted about trying to make new friends, while politely ignoring the fact that the hike itself was an exercise in doing just that. What was my experience with the parents at my kid’s school? she asked. The answer is, almost non-existent. Aside from the parents of a little boy my kid is so crazy about he writes his name over and over on walls, insurance claims, and all other graffiti-able surfaces in our house, I really don’t know any of the parents at my kid’s school. I move through morning drop-off like a dog owner at a dog park. I recognize the names and faces of the small, cute things, but ask me to identify the me-sized creatures herding them and I will stare at you with a thousand yards of nothingness in my eyes. I’m sure it would enhance my life to befriend the adults in my kid’s class, but since I haven’t, I don’t really know what I’m missing, and therefore, can’t muster the energy to care.
My hiking partner’s situation sounded more complicated. Her kid’s school AGGRESSIVELY attempts to foster inter-family friendships. I can’t even remember all the bullshit she’s made to volunteer for, but I believe a potluck brunch every weekend may have been mentioned? EVERY WEEKEND? Could that be right? And you have to bring the food? And it’s a private school? You have to foot the bill for donuts AND tuition? Aren’t the donuts what the tuition’s for? This place sounds — as my husband described a neighborhood he hated when we were trying to buy a house — like you’re paying to live in your own prison. The worst part, she told me, was scrambling to maintain conversations that felt completely one-sided. “The other parents never ask me any questions!” Uh-oh. Had I been asking her questions? I spent the rest of the hike exclusively in the register of upspeak. But I was starting to notice a cultural fad of sorts. Could this be an NYTimes trend piece in the making? People feel good when you take a personal interest in them, and bad when you don’t? Because just a week ago, my mom told me that, after the recent death of my sister, she feels hurt encountering friends and acquaintances who just talk about their own lives and don’t ask her how she’s doing. And I began to recall those days of yore, back before electricity and running water when I was still single, nodding politely at men who blabbed about themselves for hours then insisted on splitting the bill, because while equal participation in the conversation wasn’t a priority, equal participation in the bill was a moral imperative. And I still find myself annoyed with fellow moms who drone on about their kids more to monologize than to commiserate. (Oh, really? It’s difficult for you to make it out for drinks to which you invited me because you had to feed and bathe your children? You realize I also have children who eat and accumulate dirt?). So if we all want to be asked questions, why do some of us fall so short in showing others the same courtesy? What kind of an idiot just keeps TALK TALK TALKING without ASK ASK ASKING when we know that, almost universally, being ignored in conversation hurts people’s feelings?
The answer is, we humans are monsters who constantly treat each other badly. Why do you think The Golden Rule was codified into our value system? We had to make it a RULE because if we didn’t, no one would follow it! But also, maybe there’s a little more to it. At the risk of giving the impression that I like anything about myself, I’m kind of a QUESTIONS EXPERT. I hate to admit it (how vulgar of me!) but I’ve been known to ask some prettttay prettttay good ones. I’ve even been told (by my husband when I demand to know why he loves me (in the form of a question!)) that my intelligence is most on display while asking questions. Ignorance is my superpower! Hearing that makes me feel good, because I respect my husband’s opinion and want him to admire me. Unfortunately, not everyone shares his point of view. To some, I can come off anywhere from invisible to imbecilic. Consider the job interview. I have spent many doing most of the interviewing, when I’m supposed to be the candidate! I have to infer, based on the fact that I rarely get hired, that I tend to come off less as a person and more as a prompt with flesh around it, leaving not even a bad impression, but no impression at all, and come time to make a hire, people see my name on a list and ask themselves, who was that, again? And yet, if they could remember me, I think they would fondly, because at the time I gave them the general impression that they were interesting.
But the pitfalls of asking questions don’t end there. Just ask me, the expert! (Or don’t, no one else seems to 🙄.) Curiosity can read as an absence of confidence, which seems kind of unfair. Shouldn’t publicly acknowledging that one knows nothing be the ultimate manifestation of confidence? As if to say, I have so much else going for me, I don’t need to know shit! And yet, I get it. I used to think it was better to ask someone to explain something to me than to try to understand it by googling, etc. The information seemed to stick better, because I could ask follow-ups, and it also provided an opportunity to connect with others, to even flatter them by deferring to their expertise. But in recent years, I’ve noticed irritation replace appreciation. Are people in more of a hurry than they used to be? Their tone seems to be telling me, just fucking figure it out! Or if not their tone, their literal words, when they are my husband and I’m asking if the chicken is cooked enough when I’ve cooked and eaten chicken all by myself for decades now. (I thought he liked it when I asked questions!)
The truth is, I can annoy myself with my own inquiries. Should I let [son #1] have another bowl of rainbow nuts? Should I put [son #2] in timeout? Should I work out today? Should I have another drink? Why do I defer to others in moments like these when there’s no way for anyone else to approach the situation from a more informed place than I do? The questions about my kids are bad enough. How can children feel safe with a mother who can’t make these calls on her own? So often we see the stereotype of the mom who refuses cede control to her co-parent, whose fierce love for her children drives her to insist on doing it all because she alone knows how to do it right. Or maybe more often we see a mom capable of doing it all because no one else is offering to help. Either way, I’d kill to be like that! (Kill what?! See? This is why I can’t be trusted!) When it comes to being a parent, I feel like I’m shadowing my husband to learn the ropes. Only I’m doing it every day, as if each is the first, never learning, just shadowing. Forever. And then there are the questions that demonstrate my inability to know my own desires, my own physical needs! Beneath them, I seem to be asking, I don’t know who I am. Can you tell me who I am? Maybe it’s very bad that at this age (41, okay? GET OFF MY BACK) I don’t know. But maybe the people my age who fail to ask questions don’t know either, they’d just prefer to push against the ignorance than surrender to it.
Everyone on the podcasts I listen to and in the magazines I read seems to be wondering, how do people make friends in middle age? I don’t know the answer, but I suspect that popularity of the inquiry reveals how universally lonely we are. And I suspect that people fail to ask questions for the very same reason they want to be asked them. They are clumsily trying to be seen, because they feel like they aren’t. Or clumsily trying to be known, because they worry they don’t even know themselves. They want to echo-locate themselves against someone else’s presence, to be sure they are not alone on a wide, wide sea. Or maybe I’m just projecting my bullshit onto others because like everyone else I feel lonely and want to feel less so. But come on, people, would it kill you to ask a fucking question? Look, I just did it, and I endure! I don’t know. What do I know? What do you think?
this was really lovely, thank you for sharing it, and now i must resist the urge to reread Coleridge before the end of my workday. <3
Thought-provoking. Interesting how you present diverse perspectives. I know how it feels to have people not ask, and I know how it feels to ask and have people act like I should not have. Thanks.