I know Something You Don’t Know: Reflections from a Former Know-It-All
“I was so afraid and am often still so afraid of being seen as less than what I know am - intelligent and capable and good - that it’s hard to admit ignorance.”
I was the “smart kid.” The, “she’ll show you how to do it” student. I caught on quickly and demonstrated it in everything I did. I was shy for the first several years of my schooling to correct someone when they were wrong, but after a couple teachers too many told me to speak up, I became insufferable. Even before I fully came out of my timid, unconfident shell, I was a know-it-all.
In eighth grade science, I intentionally said “eleven hundred” to my lab partner because I knew he wouldn't understand what I meant. In high school, I made fun of my first boyfriend for not following the news. When I was just beginning to teach myself Japanese, I laughed at everyone who mispronounced the words. People never openly hated me for it, so I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. Sure, I was rough — mean, even, at some points — but in my eyes some people were just stupid, and in treating them as such I was convinced I was being fair.
But as I entered new communities, the thrill of correcting everyone on everything didn’t hit like it used to — my ability to display power and pride over others was bruised. I felt like an insensitive smart ass, and I’m pretty sure I looked like one too.
I grew up in a book-filled, music-stuffed, pet-friendly household under the eyes of parents who not only were ready and willing to believe that their child was intelligent, but determined to ensure that she was. I gained childhood consciousness already knowing how to correctly approach dogs and cats and lizards; I was reading above two grade levels by kindergarten. I watched PBS shows and had the harmful effects of chemicals in candies and sodas explained to me; I was taught from a young age about my family's history of education. I was a naturally smart kid, and my parents actively nurtured and praised that, but I was also taught that ignorance was idiocy, and that idiocy was what was wrong with the world.
Naturally, I grew a sharp distaste for the trait.
My dad and I have a running joke of calling each other “stupid,” “idiot,” and “moron” when we make a mistake or get a fact wrong. There's no real judgement in it — neither of us think the other is really stupid — but it became off-putting after I entered college, when I would jokingly say it to my boyfriend or best friend or coworker and watch their face fall. In lifting my grip on intellect, I was realizing, for the first time, that I was pushing others down.
When I was younger, anytime I didn’t know something — or couldn’t figure it out, god forbid — I thought to myself, “stupid, stupid, stupid.” And I never wanted to be seen as stupid, because stupid was bad, and ignorant was stupid, and I knew that I was smart: everyone told me so, so I could never, ever be stupid. I knew better, because I was Smart, I was “above grade level,” I was Educated. I took pride in being told I was these things, flaunting “I know what you don’t” across the look on my face and the words in my mouth.
I deflected my true ignorance by making up information and passing it off as fact, by Googling it and claiming that it came straight out of my head, or by insisting that I was simply having an “off” moment. I had to know it all, and if I didn’t, I would have to give up my control over my intelligence, a pill too distasteful to even put in my mouth.
I went to an affluent, competitive high school where everyone was either over-achieving or stupid. If you didn't have a (weighted) GPA over 100 points, you were stupid. If you weren't going to a well-known college after graduating, you were an idiot. Even with the supportive, understanding friends I had, I cringed sharing that I would be going to community college before transferring to a four-year university. In a school where if you did not know everything, you knew nothing, my fear and shame ran rampant. The drive to prove myself was the strongest it'd ever been, and the strongest I hope it ever will be.
Community college was the first place I felt genuinely bad for parading my intelligence. For the first time in my education, I was learning alongside the diversity of single mothers, army veterans, and 18-year-olds. In my first English class, I sat next to a first-semester freshman taking 18 credit hours, and a 30-something taking 3 credit hours who had just recently returned to college after an extended period of time. As I suspected, my classes were easy, and some were a little boring, but I couldn’t bring myself to be loud about that.
The ignorance that many of my classmates had did not make them any less willing to listen patiently, ask questions, or try out new ways of thinking. Many were dealing with multiple jobs, health issues, and family stress, but it did not make them any less willing to learn.
My professors were lenient and understanding; strict when it came to getting people to do the work but eager to patiently explain what was not understood. Whenever I knew better than what one of my classmates had said, I would catch myself hesitating to throw out a smart remark, ashamed that I could be so unforgiving of their ignorance when I knew they wouldn’t be unforgiving of mine. My values shifted dramatically throughout the year and a half I was in community college.
When I finally did transfer to a four-year university, I was shocked and enraged by the lack of sympathy my pretentious classmates and professors exhibited. We were paying tuition to learn, so why did they act as though we should already have the knowledge and skills that were supposed to be taught in the course?
But even as my values over academic knowledge went through an overhaul, I still would spout my know-it-all attitude around the people I was closest with, throwing the patience and understanding I had gained out the window. It wasn’t until I grew closer to my now best friends that I truly understood how harmful my behavior was even to the people I was most familiar with.
My friends are very smart, and I have always known this. But we have different areas that we shine in, and this was where my own ignorance in knowing how to be patient with people grew. One of my friends is hyper-aware of her privilege and is constantly taking that into account when explaining topics. She is careful to explain things fully and without judgment, regardless of whether or not I may already know about it.
At first, I found it annoying to have things I already knew or half-knew explained to me, the shame and fear of not being seen as smart fizzing with offense. But after a while, I came to know this as a charming and sweet trait of hers: She was not assuming that I was stupid, but allowing for the possibility that I was ignorant on the subject, something I came to know as a reflection of her consideration and care for others and for me.
I had not extended the same care to her or my other friends, and was taken aback by this fact. In my eagerness to change this, I found myself mimicking her patience, catching myself in the middle of a smart remark to instead take the time to objectively explain something or apologizing when I did snap at someone for not knowing what I did.
I had watched the look on my other best friend’s face when I jokingly called her an “idiot” for being ignorant; I could hear the offense in her voice. She never did the same to me, opting instead for light teasing that never conveyed the kind of malice that was implied in my “joking.” So I was more than happy to slow my reactions down and get rid of the tension that came with my previous attitude.
When my coworker and I were play-fighting the other night, I told him that he was “a fucking idiot.” It’s not an unusual phrase for us to throw around jokingly — especially since we work in a restaurant — but it had slipped out of my mouth so quickly and so harshly that I cringed. The attitude felt foreign to me, and I realized that I had grown much more patient and forgiving than I was in high school.
I am still sometimes cruel in my rush to prove my intelligence. I was so afraid and am often still so of being seen as less than what I know I am — intelligent, and capable, and good — that it's hard to admit ignorance. But, I suppose that admitting this is an admission in itself of the ignorance that drove me to this behavior in the first place.
I find comfort in knowing that the person I am now would not flinch away from me for that.