Are we too afraid to ask?

In the midst of last week’s Snowpocalypse, I discovered the perfect way to keep warm: I ran up and down the stairs of the Diana, popping my head in on every floor, trying to find the ever-elusive bathrooms, mumbling all the while about the lack of maps for the new building. As I passed the same burnt orange panel for the third time (I love that the Diana instills such school spirit—Hook ‘em, Horns!), it occurred to me that perhaps I should ask a security guard for help. But to do that would be to admit defeat and declare that I am not entirely self-sufficient. To do that would be to violate the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” attitude that pervades this campus.

Oh, what’s that you say? Not allowing gays to serve in the military has nothing to do with my previous paragraph? Well, I don’t know what you’re talking about—I was merely referring to the reluctance of Columbians to ask questions or admit when they’re confused, lost, or in need of help. Here, self-reliance trumps collaboration. Doubts go unvoiced as we attempt to perpetuate the image of the Columbian as an infallible, unfaltering (and insufferable) know-it-all.

We ask questions in class, ranging from, “Doesn’t that problematize their otherization?” to “What kind of jackass would do that?” (As I learned the hard way, this particular question should probably go unvoiced, because the answer could be “the professor.”) But when it comes to admitting that we don’t know or don’t understand, we’re much slower to raise our hands or to seek outside help.

The “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy is not limited to issues as banal as asking for directions to the bathroom—most Columbians would probably ask about that instead of turning to Depends. But the mere mention of the Barnard Writing Center, where students can get peer help on their essays, sends grumbles through most classrooms. Either students don’t want to take 20 minutes out of their Olympic viewing to talk about their papers, or they don’t want to admit that they might benefit from help.

We made it to this campus by being the best—the best at riding a unicycle, inventing a vaccine, or, for many more of us, bubbling in the right circle thousands of times over. But, as my step mom told me when I applied to college, “Someone’s always going to be the stupidest person at Harvard.” And at a university as riddled with inferiority complexes as Columbia, the fear of being the stupidest is even more amplified. Consequently, we keep our weaknesses hidden, nodding along with everyone else even as our notes grow more frantic and filled with question marks.

We’re told, “There are no stupid questions, only stupid people.” But unfortunately, like many childhood adages, this one falls apart under even the most cursory examination. Much like shooting for the moon does not guarantee that you’ll land among the stars—more likely you’ll be lost in space forever—asking a question does not protect you from looking stupid to your peers. We’ve all rolled our eyes as our classmates asked something that had already been answered or wanted clarification on a point that seemed obvious. By asking a question or expressing hesitation, we expose ourselves to the same scrutiny.

So we act like the lone wolves (or, in light of recent sightings, lone coyotes), who know not to howl and who keep quiet to avoid detection. This way, we protect ourselves from mockery—but at whose expense? By hiding our doubts, we perpetuate the idea that hesitation shows weakness, and we further isolate ourselves.

Such isolation limits what we can learn and how we learn to think. College cannot teach us everything we need to know for life, or even everything we need to know for our first jobs. But it can teach us to think critically, to come to the best answer by taking stock of the situation, exploring and debating the options, and then coming to an informed decision. The key to this process is dialogue—something stifled by the “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” attitude.

“Dialogue” doesn’t have the same romantic ring to it as “lone wolf.” But then, isn’t the lone wolf the ultimate loser, cast off by his pack and doomed to a life of hunting alone until he gets trampled to death by some rogue musk ox? If I learned anything from “Julie of the Wolves,” it’s that life is easier in a pack (and not just because of the occasional regurgitated meat). Yes, someone will always be the stupidest member. But that designation shifts depending on the situation. We each bring our own knowledge and skills, and the fastest way to make it off this (apparently literal) tundra is to share our uncertainties and exchange information and resources—both to ask and to tell.

Anna Arons is a Barnard College senior majoring in urban studies. Two cents and sensibility runs alternate Wednesdays.