Thinking about the things you know

We are all experts in so many things, so let’s give ourselves some credit.

This past weekend, I went to my alma mater to give a “talk” and also to hang out with friends I hadn’t seen in years. It felt amazing to get away from the April gloom that has descended on Madison and to catch up with people. I saw old professors who looked exactly the same (is that what happens to your teachers—they’re frozen in time, which means I’ll be frozen in time for my students, too?). I was all in my feels walking back onto a campus and being back in a place that is at the bedrock core of who I am.

There were so many great parts to the weekend (including staying in a hotel by myself for the first time since the pandemic, which, as much as I love my husband and child and cats, is one of the best pleasures in life, to stretch out in a bed that is all yours!). But I guess the most surprisingly enjoyable part was the “talk” I gave to students and alum.

One of my favorite views on campus

Any student who has had me in class knows that I am not that get-up-in-front-of-the-class-and-drone-on-and-on sort of professor. I am not a sage on a stage, as some people describe that mode. For me, conversations are always better than lectures.

But when you write a book, people often expect a “talk” at events. Or a reading. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve been to great talks and readings. It’s absolutely possible to do both well. Lately, book events are more likely to be conversations between two authors and those work especially well.

For this event, my former professor suggested we invite a panel of students to ask the questions and then open it up to the audience. That sounded perfect to me and so that’s what we did. For over an hour, I stood at a podium and answered questions from students all about gender. Whatever they wanted to ask. A few students had told me what they were going to ask ahead of time, but for the rest, I had no idea. It was awesome.

Knowing this was the format, I wasn’t nervous before this event, which I usually am before a “talk.” The only thing that gave me any pause was wondering if I should censor myself given that I was in Mississippi. But I decided that would be disingenuous and I’m too old to much care about soft-pedaling what I believe is true.

Of course, I also wasn’t nervous because I love talking to students. It’s my job. It’s what I do. I do it well.

More than that, standing up there, my voice starting to go hoarse from so much talking, I remembered something important—I know a lot about gender. A lot. I wasn’t afraid of being thrown by a question because I’ve been teaching about gender for 20 years. Maybe there are questions that have never come up before, but not a lot.

Gender was a subject that I stumbled into. It wasn’t a concentration in graduate school. My dissertation isn’t about gender. My college needed someone to teach gender and so I did. That led to a textbook and then the other books.

I don’t know everything about gender. My students are constantly teaching me new things. But I know enough to answer random questions for an hour and to answer them in a fairly well-informed way.

Today, back in the gloom and the rain, I’m sitting with that knowledge and allowing myself to enjoy it. I know stuff. A lot. Sometimes in our world, that’s not cast as a particularly good thing, but it is.

All of us know more than we think we do. This was the whole premise of the first novel I wrote—a town discovering all the secret expertise of their neighbors. The high school librarian knew all about bears. A young woman who struggled with infertility knew all about conception.

We are all experts in so many things, so let’s give ourselves some credit. We know stuff. Be proud.

What do you know a lot about?

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