— Noah Chartoff '01

Most of the time, I'm asking questions. Why? Well, because there is something that I don't understand. So what? So, it bothers me, like forgetting what you were going to say. It doesn't even matter if the thing I don't understand is important or not; that is, whether it's something I'll ever really need to know. You could call it curiosity, but curiosity suggests to me an idle desire to pass the time. A question is more like a mason noting a missing brick in a wall, and asking someone to hand him another brick to fill the hole. If you asked the mason why the hole needed filling, since the wall would stand strong enough without the misplaced brick, the mason would call for the brick anyway.

Also, I ask questions because of how it feels to get the answer. You've probably felt it before: maybe when you solved a riddle, or beat a logic puzzle, or when you read the end of a good mystery novel. Maybe it was when you grasped someone's elusive point, suddenly knew what Shakespeare or Robert Frost was talking about, or finally got a joke. There's the moment of understanding, the coming of the dawn, when you say, "Ohhh," your eyes widen, and, in a flash, you get it. The "it" that you just got may not be great wisdom that you will remember for the rest of your life; you may forget it the very next day. But for that moment, it feels great to understand.

I think I first began to appreciate questions when I went to "Hebrew school" at age 11. Hebrew school, as we called it, was a weekly lesson in the Jewish religion. The class didn't meet in a classroom, but in the home of our teacher, Rose. She seated us on couches and comfortable chairs, as if we were visiting. The most unusual thing about Hebrew school was that there was no raising of hands. Whenever people wanted to ask a question, they just asked it. Sometimes Rose would say, "That's an interesting question," and then motion to the rest of the class (there were six of us), asking, "What do you think about that?" The most rewarding surprise came when it turned out your question was the basis of a Midrash. In the Hebrew bible, there have been additions made to the stories from time to time called Midrashes. They are used to answer frequently asked questions concerning the stories, and, although written centuries after the writing of the original Torah, are accepted as part of the story.

There is a problem with asking questions, though: it pisses people off. Not all questions do this, but I think it's safe to say I annoy more people asking questions-in class, at assemblies, in social groups-than when I do anything else (and I can be pretty annoying with my other qualities). I think it has something to do with the fact that a question, by its very nature, points out something that you either do not understand, or do not agree with. As offensive comments go, a question is so low on the scale that it is almost a compliment-after all, it shows you are interested in what the person has to say-but it has qualities of doubt and challenge nonetheless. What I learned was that there are times when certain groups do not ask questions or challenge each other at all.

In class, my questions elicit a range of reactions. There is the usual type of aggravation, when students roll their eyes or wearily lay down their heads after I have pursued a question far past their points of interest. Sometimes, though, a question would get a reaction out of the class I could not quite pin down because the gesture was so slight I thought I had imagined it. But when I spent a term in Stratford with a group of seniors during my upper year, I noticed these gestures more and more: a tiny sigh, a grunt, or a leaning back in the chair. What was universal, though, was that after someone made the gesture, everyone stopped listening to the question. Simply put, they lost interest as soon as I opened my mouth.

I wanted to know what was wrong, naturally, so I spent some time trying to figure out what these gestures meant. I asked myself if I had bored people by going on too long, or if they thought the question stupid, or if they were not interested in the subject in the first place, or if they thought I was asking questions to be a brown-noser to the teacher. Maybe they just didn't like me. All these things seemed logical, but if I tried to avoid doing any of them, I'd have to stop asking questions altogether.

So I did.

For about three days.

Understand, for me this was a Herculean act of self-denial. When the teacher finished reading the poem "Ozymandias" and asked, "Any questions?" I told myself, "Don't do it. No one will be interested in the question anyway, so it won't be answered if you ask it or if you don't."

That sort of thinking held me back for a while, but then I thought some more. "What if," I asked myself, "there's just one person who would be interested in this particular question? What if there's someone who wants to ask it, but is afraid? What if the teacher will answer my question, even if no one else will?"

But I backed down again, realizing that it might not even be the specific questions that got people upset in the first place. "If you keep on asking questions, " I told myself, "everyone will stay annoyed with you; they'll never warm up to you, and you'll be alone here, with no one to talk to."

I countered back without hesitation: "What good is talking to anyone if I can't ever ask my questions? What good is their liking me if I never get to be myself?"

I tried to quiet myself down. "Be considerate," I said, and kept saying it until Friday, when I was sitting in art history class, wanting to ask exactly what defined the "avant-garde" that the teacher so frequently referred to. Then, unexpectedly, I asked myself a question (one of my favorite ones, incidentally):

"Why?"

"Because," I responded, "you would want them to be considerate of you." But I knew they wouldn't be. Even if eventually the other students came to care whether I was upset or not, it would only come to pass if I never asked questions. Then to whom were they being considerate? Not me. Just the person with my name and face, someone who is quiet most of the time, laughs with them and tells a joke from time to time. Without a question ever being asked, how would they know when I didn't understand an argument they made, or agree with a view they held? How would they ever know when I was different from them? How would they ever know who I was?

By the way, it turns out that "avant-garde" means something new and not particularly popular: literally translated, it means "before ready."

It's not that I don't care when other people are upset with me; naturally, it bothers me. Also, I know that some questions should be asked at the right time, when they won't hold up a conversation or cause annoyance, and I'm working on not asking the question at the wrong time. However, I've yet to find any question which should never be asked. I've asked questions for most of my life, and I don't think they will ever stop completely; after all, I don't foresee knowing everything anywhere in my future. Ultimately, I ask questions because I have them, and I think that's reason enough.

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