Cormac Ferguson
Language and Literacy Narrative
Professor Harrison
10/1/21
Questions & Answers
The difference between humans and apes is a matter that’s been studied and recontextualized for as long as we humans could understand the difference in the first place. Although I would never consider myself a scientist of any kind, I can confidently say that I am human, and as a human, I would like to posit that the biggest difference between me and a primate is my seemingly innate ability to ask questions. I believe that our curious nature, and ability to satisfy this with our developed language and communication skills, have led us further than any other “human” characteristic. Now before this leads to any conversation on “human nature” (a phrase with which I have not but one gripe), I’d like to shift this observation from the macro to the micro. The sweeping generalization that apes and humans are most different due to our ability to question is one loose in its accuracy but firm in its sentiment because for me questioning (and subsequent answering) is the core of my personal lingual development. Since childhood, speaking has been my primary mode of self-expression and communication. I’m reminded of this by my parents, who tell of the time when, at 6 years old, Id sit criss-cross applesauce on the ornate rug of my childhood living room and entertain a whole group of family and friends by telling them a series of likely nonsensical jokes along with my observations of the world around me. I don’t remember this happening or what I said but I nonetheless believe my parents because their story feels true to me.
Personally, when I think of my use of language, I think immediately of my 5th-grade homeroom teacher Mrs. Nadollney who placed a limit on the number of questions I could ask per day. During my elementary years, I played the role of the know-it-all, always answering questions, and almost always getting them right. When the class read aloud I would finish other people’s words if they had trouble pronouncing them, and would correct people when they answered questions incorrectly. Essentially I was a real pain in the ass. Surprisingly, however, the reason I raised my hand most frequently was to ask questions, not answer them. I would ask about everything, and anything, from the meaning of words to the real-world application of long division, no matter how minute the detail if I didn’t know about it I would ask. My aforementioned teacher, Mrs. Nadollny, eventually grew tired of my questions and decided to place me on a limit of 10 a day. I took this as a challenge to my resolve and quickly navigated this restriction of curiosity by having friends ask questions for me, beginning a small battle of wits which ended in my teacher’s humor-filled resignation to my onslaught of questions peddled by adversaries like a drug lord and his cronies. Since then the questioning hasn’t seemed to stop or slow down and can be attributed to my current interests and the general daily habits of my mind.
Counterpartial to questions are the answers which they seek, and to me, the answers I can provide have become just as important as the questions themselves. Whether it be a need to feel in control or simply to impress my peers, I’ve always placed great importance on the articulation of a well-thought-out response. To me, how something is said can often feel as crucial as what is said, a sentiment which I can trace back to my elementary years. Placing myself in the colorfully carpeted common area of my 2nd grade homeroom I remember the childhood daze which surrounds all my memories from back then. This day in particular we had a substitute teacher named Mrs. Car who came in often to cover for our teacher and was someone I looked up to as a child. She was one of those teachers who carried a smile with everything she did. She had a sort of innately welcoming presence. The sort of presence which only the most wonderful of grandmothers poses. My classmates and I all gathered around a circle and prepared for the reading of some children’s book describing the great ring of fire. Reading time was always a sacred practice for me and my classmates. Kids are raised on stories, and whenever it came time to read one we would all stop giggling and blow out snot bubbles to prepare our ears for whatever tall tale was in store for us. Mrs Car had us do popcorn reading, and at some point during this, one of my classmates stumbled across a word in which they couldn’t pronounce and reading from the expressions of those around me, it appeared that no one else could pronounce this word either. I took this as an opportunity and blurted out the word in question, lithospheric, which my teacher gave me much praise for. Although there was no great commotion amongst my peers or some magic round of applause, I do remember the feeling of specialness and the realization that I could stand out through my actions. I believe that everyone has some desire to stand out amongst their peers and to be able to do so at such a young age is most likely responsible for part of who I am today. I find it funny how seemingly small things like correctly pronouncing a word can cause such ripple effects, like producing a need for articulation and prepared responses to questions, things which seemingly have little to do with the event that influenced them.
