‘Got a Question? Raise Your Hand’

This spring, I went to see children’s and Young Adult author Jacqueline Woodson speak at Michigan State University. As a writer (some days better than others), I felt both excited and anxious to hear Woodson, whose beautiful memoir Brown Girl Dreaming won the National Book Award. Her natural awesomeness at all things writing is enough to nearly make me drool with admiration.

When I arrived at MSU, I bounced with excitement across the parking lot near the Kiva where Woodson was scheduled to speak. As I walked into the round room, I saw Woodson standing in the center like a sun, the seats filled with students orbiting around her like planets, circling higher and higher. I sidestepped around the chairs, trying to contain the fangirl within me, and found a seat near the top row on the end, right on the edge of the action.

Woodson spoke casually and confidently, as if she was talking to a room full of family and friends rather than strangers and students. I soaked up her stories like a sponge, absorbing the advice and the passages from her books she read out loud. Tears filled my eyes at the beauty of Woodson’s words. I thought, “This. One day, I want to do this — what she is doing, writing and speaking and affecting people — for the rest of my life.” I was inspired.

My eyes scanned the crowd. To my surprise, the audience did not solely consist of college students and professors. Many seats were filled with elementary and middle-school age students, wearing bright colors and wide eyes. They sat in seats closest to Woodson, sneakers folded underneath their laps, books and backpacks leaning on chairs, ponytails almost as high as the excitement levels radiating off of their faces.

“Huh,” I thought, as I took in these kids and young adults. “How cool is this, in a world of heavy technology and distraction, to see so many excited and wanting to see an author speak. Books are not dead!”

After Woodson allowed us into her world of inspiration, she offered time for the audience to pick her brain.

“Okay,” she said after a swig of a water bottle, “Do you have any questions?”

My stomach became a butterfly house, their wings of nerves beating against my insides. I have so many questions, I thought. Does she have a writing schedule? What is her editing process like? Does she ever get anxious about writing? Any fears?

No, no, definitely not, my brain rebutted. You’ll sound stupid, you’ll sound lame, that question does not make sense, maybe someone will ask, just sit here.

I hemmed and hawed, debating the desire to ask a question at the risk of sounding silly. Ultimately, I agreed with the beating of the stomach butterflies that yes, it is probably best to refrain from bringing attention to myself. Someone else will ask, I figured. I will just listen. With the pressure now off, I relaxed back in my chair.

Life is much easier as a sponge, simply sitting and absorbing.

But then, I looked down at the lower level of seats surrounding Woodson. Every child had their hand raised, their fingers pointed and stretched, their bodies wriggling with anticipation so strong they couldn’t take it, their legs lifting them out of their seats so Woodson would see them, choose them, hear them.

“Who is your favorite author?”

“Is writing hard?”

“Where do you get your ideas?”

And one of my personal favorites, so awkwardly innocent: “What is meth?”

Young person after young person asked question after question. And when one of their questions was answered, up their hand would pop again, eager with another inquiry. Only after Woodson called on several younger students did the adults in the room begin to raise their hand, albeit less enthusiastically. I remained quiet.

As I walked out of the Kiva later, my unanswered questions for Woodson weren’t the only ones lingering in my brain. In seeing the eagerness of the younger students compared to the reluctance of myself and other adults to raise our hands, I wondered: When do we lose that fearlessness to ask the questions?

In middle school? High school? College?

When does preserving our self-face become more important than getting our questions answered? In conference rooms around a black phone and a white board? In closed off cubicles sitting behind a computer screen? In trial and error, in past mistakes, in future fears?

Why do we get so reluctant to raise our hands?

Maybe as we get older, allured by “being cool” in middle school and “not looking stupid” ever, we begin to believe that we have to choose between image and knowledge. So we silence ourselves, raise our hands less, stay quiet more, and sit in our desks, our chairs, our cubicles, soaking it all in like a sponge.

Life may be easier as a sponge sometimes, but a sponge does no good if you don’t wring it out once in awhile.

For me, fear often can become a roadblock, defined by the world and its expectations, its criticisms, its boundaries, its egos. But we should remember who we were before the world got in the way because the truth is that the imaginary chuckles and criticisms in our heads are often worse than the real thing.

We are meant to have a dialogue, to ask questions, to seek answers. We should love books and movies and people how children love them: unapologetically and fearlessly and excitedly.

We should ask the questions. We should raise our hand, over and over again, so we can be seen. And heard.

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Lindsay Henry is a contributor for Smart Girls. Find her on Twitter.