“Question with boldness even the existence of God; because if there be one, he must more approve of the homage of reason, than that of blindfolded fear.” —Thomas Jefferson (1743–1826). Third President of the United States, in a letter to his nephew Peter Carr, August 10, 1787.
A mistake in a math book. Imagine! Numbers don’t lie. Right? But they seemed to in our textbook Arithmetic 4: The Word of Numbers. I was stoked.
“Mrs. Petry, look at this! It’s wrong, isn’t it?”
She lowered her glasses, peering out above the frame:
“Yes, I think you’re right, Brentford. Why don’t you write a letter to the publisher and ask, just to make sure.”
I did. And to my surprise, Ginn & Company replied, promising to make a correction in the next edition and send me a copy. They kept their word. I received the corrected edition and treasured it for years. I was even more stoked, not because I was right, but because I asked them about the mistake, and they replied.
That was seventy years ago, and I still remember it—not simply as a fourth-grade incident but as the moment I discovered the power of the ask.
Mrs. Petry was exceptional, but she wasn’t an exception. I continued to be blessed with teachers in grade school and high school who encouraged their students to question, to investigate, and to ask. And I did. I was never on a mission to find textbook mistakes, but whenever I did—or thought I did—I reached out to the publisher just as I had reached out to Ginn & Company. Sometimes my teachers encouraged me to do so. Sometimes I did it on my own. But get this. I always got a response, even when I was wrong. Over time, what began as a childhood discovery became a lifelong Socratic habit: the power of the ask.
Years later, when I became a professor of English, I found myself encouraging my students to do exactly what Mrs. Petry and so many other teachers had encouraged me to do. Ask.
One classroom moment gleams more brightly than others, perhaps because I had absolutely no idea what the outcome would be. But I wanted my student to find out on his own.
It was a Friday afternoon, during a three-hour creative writing class. For our poetry module, I had included one of my favorite poets, Ted Kooser, who served as Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the Library of Congress from 2004 to 2006. His plainspoken poetry always resonated not only with me but also with my students. I could count on Kooser to generate an energetic discussion.
I remember vividly the poem we were exploring, “Flying at Night,” with its opening image of stars, constellations, and a distant dying galaxy.
What I don’t remember is precisely what prompted one student to ask a question. It might have had something to do with the dying galaxy. I’m not sure. But I am certain that I couldn’t answer his question, and he wouldn’t give it up.
Finally, I smiled.
“I know exactly what to do. When you get home, find Kooser’s email address and reach out to him. See what he says.”
“But he’s a famous poet laureate, and besides, it’s the weekend. He won’t answer.”
“Do it anyway. Ask him what he had in mind.”
I didn’t know whether the student would follow through. I didn’t even know whether Kooser had a publicly available email address. And I certainly didn’t know whether Kooser would answer.
But the next Friday, I found out.
My student went home, found Kooser’s email address, and reached out. The very next day—a Saturday!—Kooser replied, providing an answer to my student’s question.
It was a gratifying moment watching the student access his email and share Kooser’s response with me and the class.
“Imagine that! I actually got an email from Ted Kooser!”
And I found myself repeating that line all the way home: “Imagine that. He got an email from Ted Kooser.”
I had passed along the power of the ask, and it had paid off.
I still look for opportunities to encourage people to ask whatever it is that might be on their minds.
Just a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of speaking with Phi Theta Kappa students at their Virginia/West Virginia regional honors conference at George Mason University. I had been asked to speak about Artificial Intelligence (AI). I was delighted, especially since I’ve tried to keep up with recent AI developments. It seemed logical to me that I would use Phi Theta Kappa’s Honors Study Topic–“What’s Next? Imagining the Future”–as the springboard for advancing the idea that AI’s future is already here. I titled my presentation, “AI IS HERE. Whatcha Gonna Do When It Comes for You?”
My message was simple: Engagement with AI is not an option. It is an obligation.
I went a step further. I challenged the students to ask their professors why they weren’t teaching them more about AI.
A retired professor encouraging students to question their professors! Say what?
But I was serious. Students have every right to ask how their education is preparing them for a world in which AI is already transforming the way we live, work, learn, and think.
I wasn’t suggesting that their professors had all the answers. Far from it. I was suggesting that the questions needed to be asked. And who better to ask them than the students themselves? Why aren’t we learning more about AI in our classes?
Did any of those honor students take me up on my challenge and ask when they returned to campus? I don’t know. Perhaps some did. Perhaps none did. I knew what happened when Mrs. Petry encouraged me to ask. I knew what happened when my creative writing student reached out to Ted Kooser. But this time, I may never know.
But that’s the thing about encouraging people to ask. You can’t guarantee that they’ll do it. You can’t guarantee that they’ll get an answer. And you certainly can’t guarantee that they’ll like the answer they get.
You can, however, encourage them to ask.
That’s what I’ve always tried to do. That’s what I’m trying to do here. Right now.
Whatever it is that you’re wanting to know—why a medical bill is so high, why you were passed over for a promotion, why someone you love has grown distant, or why everyone expects you to remain silent when you believe something is wrong—be bold. Ask.
And, for that matter, don’t be afraid to fuss with God, whatever your concept of God might be. Ask why. Ask why not. Ask what on earth is going on.
And while you’re at it, pay it forward. Show someone else the power of the ask.