THE PHYSICIST AND THE COLUMNIST, BOTH SMART ENOUGH TO KNOW WE’RE DUMB
LITTLE KIDS are question-asking machines. “Why is the sky blue?” “How do fish breathe underwater?” “Why do I have a belly button?” “Why can’t I see the wind?” Huh, Daddy, huh, huh, huh? After any explanation, they still ask “But why?” Kids are endlessly curious, and their questions often lead to fun, sometimes exasperating, but always revealing conversations.
So here’s my question: Why do they stop when they get to school?
Richard Feynman, the legendary physicist, once asked,“What did you ask in school today?” It’s a question that cuts to the heart of why so many of us lose that instinct to question as we grow up. Feynman also said, “I’m smart enough to know that I’m dumb”—a reminder that true wisdom starts with admitting what we don’t know. Both ideas have stuck with me, especially as a columnist who’s spent decades pretending to have answers.
School is more structured than a kid’s free-wheeling curiosity. Teachers guide discussions and lessons, so kids focus on absorbing information rather than questioning everything. As we grow, we learn what’s “cool” or acceptable. Constantly asking “why” might not fit in with peers, so we adapt. We start to self-edit, worried about sounding “silly” or “wrong.” At home, parents are approachable. At school, teachers are authority figures, and the classroom isn’t always a safe space for unfiltered wonder.
I was a curious kid, but I was the third child, and my parents stopped answering endless questions after my older brother was born. Besides, my father’s formal education ended in the sixth grade. He wasn’t a storehouse of academic information. But ask him about Whirlaway’s time in the 1941 Kentucky Derby, and he’d rattle it off down to a fifth of a second—Eddie Arcaro was the jockey, Ben Jones the trainer for Calumet Farms, and Whirlaway, out of Dustwhirl by Blenheim, won the Triple Crown. He would’ve crushed “Jeopardy.” (“I’ll take Derby Winners for $800, Alex.”) Dad knew his lane. He was smart enough to know what he didn’t know—just like Feynman.
Looking back at my 16 years of formal education, I can remember only two teachers who challenged me by asking questions rather than delivering lectures. Decades later, I still remember them as the best teachers I ever had. I’ve even kept their textbooks: “Readings in Western Civilization” (1951), which spans from the Code of Hammurabi to Julian Huxley, and “A Treasury of the Theater,” from Ibsen to Arthur Miller. No, I wasn’t a theater major, but I enjoy reading a play before or after seeing it. Those teachers turned their classrooms into places where questions mattered as much as answers. Feynman would’ve approved.
Most classes, though, were about memorization and regurgitation. The message was clear. Know the right answers, not the right questions. But Feynman’s approach—both as a scientist and a teacher—was the opposite. He thrived on “I don’t know.” He saw curiosity as the engine of discovery. His famous investigation into the Challenger disaster began with a simple, childlike question: “What happens to the O-rings when it’s cold?” He dropped one into ice water and watched it fail. His question led to the truth.
When I interviewed to write a column over 20 years ago, the editor asked why I believed I could write a column. I told her I thought I was Andy Rooney. Had she asked what made me think I could write a column every week, I probably would’ve bolted from her office.
Feynman’s “I’m smart enough to know I’m dumb” isn’t about self-deprecation. It’s about intellectual honesty. I didn’t have all the answers—still don’t—but I had questions, and a willingness to explore them publicly. That’s all a columnist really needs. I don’t think readers want omniscience. They want someone who’s curious enough to dig, humble enough to admit confusion, and brave enough to ask “why?” in print.
So why do we stop asking? Somewhere along the way, we learn to fear the question more than the unknown. We’d rather nod along than risk looking foolish. But the best learners—whether they’re scientists, teachers, or columnists—never lose that childlike curiosity.
I think of my dad, with his encyclopedic knowledge of horse racing. He never pretended to be an expert on Shakespeare or calculus. He knew his limitations. None of us is as smart as we’d like to think. But if we’re smart enough to know we’re dumb—if we hold onto that kid-like wonder—we keep learning.
So here’s my Feynman-inspired challenge. Next time you’re in a conversation, ask a question instead of offering an answer. Admit when you don’t know something. Rekindle that curiosity. Read a play. Watch the Derby in May. Drop an O-ring into ice water. Write a column. The world needs more people who are brave enough to ask the questions—and smart enough to know they don’t have it all figured out.
Contact Jerry at jerrygervase@yahoo.com
