I don't know: In Praise of Admitting Ignorance (Except When You Shouldn't)

by Leah Hager Cohen

Overview

A short, concise book in favor of honoring doubt and admitting when the answer is: I don’t know.

From the acclaimed author of No Book but the World and 2019's searing new novel Strangers and Cousins.

In a tight, enlightening narrative, Leah Hager Cohen explores why, so often, we attempt to hide our ignorance, and why, in so many different areas, we would be better off coming clean. Weaving entertaining, anecdotal reporting with eye-opening research, she considers both the ramifications of and alternatives to this ubiquitous habit in arenas as varied as education, finance, medicine, politics, warfare, trial courts, and climate change. But it’s more than just encouraging readers to confess their ignorance—Cohen proposes that we have much to gain by embracing uncertainty. Three little words can in fact liberate and empower, and increase the possibilities for true communication. So much becomes possible when we honor doubt.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781594632396
Publisher:	Penguin Publishing Group
Publication date:	09/12/2013
Pages:	128
Product dimensions:	5.22(w) x 8.14(h) x 0.60(d)
Age Range:	18 Years

About the Author

Leah Hager Cohen is the author of five novels, including The Grief of Others, which was long-listed for the Orange Prize, selected as a New York Times Notable Book, and named one of the best books of the year by the San Francisco Chronicle, Kirkus Reviews, and The Globe and Mail, and the forthcoming No Book but the World. She is also the author of four previous nonfiction titles, including Train Go Sorry. She is a frequent contributor to The New York Times Book Review.

Read an Excerpt

One

Let’s look at the prison piece,” said the professor. “What does the nut graph tell us?”

Around me rose a soft rustle as other students rifled knowledgeably through the photocopied news stories we’d been given at the start of class. I found the article on inmate crowding, but as I turned its pages, failed to spot anything that might fit the professor’s specification. I looked at first for something acorn-shaped, then for anything vaguely pictorial, but could find no pie chart, no bar graph, no pyramid diagram—nary an illustration in the entire piece. I glanced around. Everyone else seemed to have managed the task; they sat absorbedly regarding their copies of the article while the professor continued, parsing the information apparently contained within this elusive “nut graph.” What page were they all on? I strained to see, but couldn’t get an angle. How distinctly I remember growing damp then, my skin flocked with sweat.

I was twenty-two and in my first week of graduate school in journalism. I knew by their appearances that most of my classmates were older, just as I knew from the school’s brochure, which promised to provide journalists “a unique opportunity to hone and deepen their skills at any point in their careers,” that many of them already had experience working in the field, whereas I had never so much as written for my college newspaper. But until the moment I searched in vain for the devilish little entity called a nut graph, I’d been more thrilled than cowed, eagerly optimistic about joining their ranks.

Now I sat awash in shame. It wasn’t the shame of incompetence so much as the shame of hubris. To think I had dared imagine I could be a journalist! I couldn’t even keep up with the class in the very first week of instruction.

Did I raise my hand to ask for help? Turn to a neighbor with whispered appeal?

I did not. The cost felt too great. To confess my ignorance would be to expose my inadequacy; I would be cast off, dismissed from this world to which I craved entry. Such was my fear, and it was powerful enough to make stewing in the solitary confinement of my shame seem a preferable alternative.

In time I would learn that “nut graph” is, in fact, “nut graf” (graf being journalism slang for paragraph) and refers to that part of an article, usually following the lead, that gives a condensed overview of its news value. In time I would discover that I was, after all, up to the task of successfully completing the course of study. In time, as I incrementally proved my worth to myself and others, I would even find the courage to speak up, on occasion, when I came across something I did not understand.

But the memory of that first class more than two decades ago remains uncomfortably sharp. Its residue of fear and shame has never entirely dissipated. And I still sometimes struggle with saying “I don’t know.”

. . .

Fakery is a vital currency in our social intercourse. That’s not necessarily all bad. A lot of the time we pretend as a way of fortifying or easing connections. When we feign recognition, for example, or delight in seeing someone, or gladness to go out of our way, these are acts of goodwill. At best, pretense can be a form of kindness.

But the benign desire to spare ourselves and others embarrassment or disappointment or pain can lead to actions that engender greater falsehood, promulgate more fear. How easily we fall into the pattern of using deception as a shield against feeling uncomfortable. At worst, it can breed a habit of shirking responsibility and avoiding vulnerability—behaviors that ultimately distance us from the very prizes we crave: true connection with others and integrity within ourselves.

This book looks at two kinds of pretending: pretending to know stuff we don’t, and pretending not to know stuff we do—for just as we might avoid saying “I don’t know” for fear of being ridiculed or rejected, the flip can also be true: Sometimes we pretend ignorance of things we think might lower our cachet, whether to prove our membership in highbrow culture (“What’s a Kardashian?”) or to accommodate social pressures (as so many women of my mother’s generation were warned, “Boys aren’t attracted to smart girls”).

This book also looks at two kinds of fear: fear of estrangement and fear of stepping into the abyss—for as much as we might worry that saying “I don’t know” could cost us the human company we desire, evict us from our place around the hearth, there’s an even more primal fear associated with not knowing: that our inability to comprehend the universe might threaten our very survival. Our efforts to compensate for both social and psychic fears manifest in some pretty interesting ways.

Finally, this book looks at two kinds of hope: that which comes from opening ourselves up to a greater understanding of the world and ourselves and that which comes from making peace with all that must, in the end, remain unknown.

What People are Saying About This

John Perry

"Short and engaging, but also powerful and wise. Cohen documents the natural human reluctance to admit ignorance, the damage it causes, and its sources in human nature and social structure. Like Socrates, she recommends that we take pride in knowing, and admitting, what we do not know."

From the Publisher

Praise for Leah Hager Cohen’s Nonfiction

“Remarkable and insightful . . . a parable of understanding . . . Ms. Cohen has given us reporting that feels like a love story—as intimate, tender, and troubling . . . as you are likely to find.” —The New York Times Book Review

“A breakthrough book.” —Chicago Sun-Times

“Eloquent.” —The New York Times Magazine

Editorial Reviews

09/02/2013
In her latest endeavor, Cohen (Without Apology) dissects the nervousness that surrounds not knowing. She does so in an even, understanding tone that eschews the very "incomprehensibly pretentious muddles" she associates with worries of not appearing knowledgeable enough. Pulling from examples as diverse as a marriage gone sour and Pararescue Jumpers' moment of decision, Cohen hones in on the natural fear of making the wrong choice when perfect comprehension of the future is unattainable. She goes on to highlight the devastating impact false certainty can have when it comes to legal matters—particularly criminal convictions. While most of Cohen's conclusions are well-substantiated, she employs the somewhat dismissive word ‘privilege' to describe an atmosphere in which one is encouraged to ask questions. The pages on racism take on a political feel and, in opposition to other focuses, messily fit within the core message: the value of admitting (honestly) when one does not know. While later case studies are still lucid, well-written, and at times heartbreaking, the section on pretending not to know something is fragmented compared to its predecessor. Furthermore, the link between the two sections feels convenient but ultimately superficial, as the latter section vacillates from the true concealment of knowledge from oneself to simple white lies told to spare another party's feelings. Skillfully worded throughout, the book contains nuggets of wisdom but does not properly integrate them. (Sept.)

Publishers Weekly

"A noted author’s short but pointed meditation on the difficulty human beings have in admitting their own ignorance. . . . Drawing from a variety of scientific, linguistic, literary and philosophical sources, Cohen examines both the human urge to conceal ignorance and its ramifications. The anecdotes are both illuminating and disturbing, and they are from personal experience as well as from the many informal interviews she conducted with people from different walks of life. . . . Refreshingly wise and open-minded."—Kirkus

From the Publisher

A noted author's short but pointed meditation on the difficulty human beings have in admitting their own ignorance. The fear of exposing our lack of knowledge is universal. Cohen (The Grief of Others, 2011, etc.) suggests that the reason for this is that doing so "could cost us the human company we desire [and] evict us from our place around the hearth." Indeed, the inability to understand the cosmos could threaten something even more fundamental: our very existence. Drawing from a variety of scientific, linguistic, literary and philosophical sources, Cohen examines both the human urge to conceal ignorance and its ramifications. The anecdotes are both illuminating and disturbing, and they are from personal experience as well as from the many informal interviews she conducted with people from different walks of like. The stories, which deal with family, friendships, school, work, social injustice and sexuality, reveal how factors like race, class and gender play into our need to dissemble when we do not know something. Cohen recognizes that "fakery is a vital currency in our social discourse" and that it often facilitates the expression of good will. At the same time, she points out that it can lead to the moral irresponsibility and emotional inhibition that can, ironically, endanger the very human connections we seek to cultivate and preserve. True empowerment, Cohen argues, comes from being able to take the chance we fear and confessing ignorance. Doing so opens us "to receiving information, ideas and perspectives from beyond the borders of the self" and reinforces relationships through honesty. Even more importantly, it helps us come to terms with the fact that the world can never be fully known and can only be appreciated for its "inexhaustible mysteriousness." Refreshingly wise and open-minded.

Kirkus Reviews