You know how people say there’s no such thing as a stupid question?
Those people are wrong.
I know this for a fact because not only have I heard of a lot of marvelously, fabulously, almost unbelievably dimwitted questions, I’ve asked a good number of them myself.
My immediate family members never tire of repeating one of my outright dumbest questions, for example, which concerned wondering—in an idle comment during a long car trip—how they got the water out of the Lincoln tunnel.
There was a moment of silence. Then my husband and stepsons starting laughing so hard, snorting and slapping their knees, that I thought Michael, who was driving, would harm himself. “She wants to know”—here they would pause to catch their breath—“how…they…get…the…oh…god…” and then they would have to stop again because they weren’t getting enough oxygen. “You’re a professor, right? You went to school for, like, 600 years and you think they pumped the Hudson River out of the…oh…god.”
This happened maybe 15 years ago but apparently the story just never gets old. They tell it individually and in groups, as well as on most major holidays.
So let’s agree that not-terribly-astute queries are part of everyday life.
And while I’m not positive if we actually hear more of them because we work at universities and colleges, on occasion it sure seems that way to me.
I get a version of one of these gems every couple of months and it makes me sad.
I’m asked, usually via e-mail but sometimes even by phone, by a youngish (I assume) scholar I’ve never met but who wants my candid opinion on the following: “Should I send my entire magnum opus—it’s only like 112 pages, but 236 with footnotes—and permit the all the editorial board members and multiple reviewers to choose the sections most appropriate? I’m asking because, like, this was I would not risk editing out the parts everybody might find most interesting and this way I could improve my own writing and arguments by receiving really good feedback. Or do you think I should cut it to fit the journal’s guidelines even though that means doing a lot of work and, frankly, I don’t know whether it’ll pay off?”
Who are the senior academics advising these people? Are they out of town? Are they at the casino trying to supplement their dwindling incomes? I’m sympathetic. Really, I am, and I’m certain they have good reasons for not explaining anything to their students, but still…. Doesn’t anybody tell them how the profession works? Doesn’t anybody tell them that they must learn to revise, edit, and prepare their work for publication?
Among other questions I’d classify as stunners are versions of these: “Do we have to bring the book we’re reading to every class?”; “Do I have a chance at a NEA if I’m a strong writer but have never been to an impressive writers’ colony and therefore have never met any of the insiders?”; “I have trouble waking up early, so is it okay if I show up a little late to class?”; “Will personality issues and conflicts actually affect personnel matters at the administrative level?”; “If I write additional papers for class, can I get a higher grade?”; “Will you be willing to take over this committee position since the only (yoga, Zumba, stenciling, baby-and-barbells, zither, spinning) class I want to take meets on those days?”; “Can you tell this shirt is stained?”
So, folks, have you ever felt like saying, “Maybe there’s no such thing as a stupid question, but if there were, that would be one?”
