Dana wanted to discuss our investments as well as update us on other money matters and market trends. We chatted about our families for a short while and then he plunged into his passion – economics.
I know less than nothing about the world of money, finance and Ben Bernanke’s latest prognostications. But, here I was, sitting across from our fiscal guru who had charts and spreadsheets sharing table surface with steamed dumplings and bowls of white rice. Not wanting to embarrass myself, whenever Dana checked on my understanding, I assured him that I was keeping up with the conversation. I wasn’t. I was, however, smart enough to make a few comments that sounded as if I was participating.
Over many years, I’ve learned the skill of actively listening. When others are talking, I grab onto a few key phrases and twist them into a reflective question or comment. People nod, smile and believe that I’m part of the discussion at hand. Sometimes, they even remark on my acuity.
There are things I do know a lot about. I “get” cooking, education, literature, and cat psychology, but I’m the first to admit that I’m quite ignorant in many areas – obviously, economics, but as well, acoustics, football, classical music, long-term care options and an array of other topics pertinent to my place in life.
When I was just out of college, my brother helped me buy stereo components. In the 70’s, having a Thorens turntable and KLH speakers indicated superior knowledge of the finer points necessary to appreciate Bob Dylan and Thelonious Monk. In reality, I couldn’t tell the difference between those components and the RCA portable stereo my parents had given me in High School. My self-important boyfriends from Harvard and MIT, however, were wildly impressed when I invited them to my apartment to get drunk, make out and listen to Procul Harum. I smiled as I accepted their compliments on my super cool set-up.
My family put high value on academic and intellectual achievements. When we convened for holidays with aunts, uncles and cousins, the conversations would make reference to current political and cultural events. We children were expected to recognize key players in politics, important works of literature and have a passing familiarity with pop culture icons and trends.
As we sat around the table giving thanks each November, or recounting the story of our people fleeing Egypt at a seder, we were engaged in conversation. And, there was a nerve-wracking awareness that we cousins were being judged by some of our elders. Did we join the palaver at the table? Were our contributions appropriately on target? The pressure, especially on my cousins, the children of the Grand Inquisitor, Aunt Isabel, was palpable.
It was here, in the bosom of my family that I learned to “fake-it”. I’d prepare myself by reading headlines in the New York Times, scanning the Week in Review”, and latching onto names of dignitaries – Haile Selassie, Dag Hammerskjold, and the two Rudolfs, Bing and Nureyev. I learned to pepper my responses with these bits of disparate information, knowing that I had no ability to connect them to anything. My family thought I was brilliant. Of course, I was not AS brilliant as my brother who, with the aid of a near-photographic memory, performed even better at this charade than I.
My skill, if one can call it that, enabled me to impress employers, chatter with people who seemed important and superior to me and pretend my way into a comfortable place in America’s intellectual capital, Cambridge.
One evening, when I was probably a little drunk or high, I confessed my fraudulence to a boyfriend, who, though brilliantly academic, was a bit of a slacker himself. Although I never credited Ihor with a whole lot of wisdom, he shared his own secret with me. “I do that, too. I’ve actually read that believing you are not as smart as others is characteristic of many really talented people. Welcome to my world.”
Whoa. This was a wholly new concept! I had always, in my deepest corners, thought I was smart, but doubted it often enough to undermine my confidence. This guy, now an internationally renowned stem-cell biologist, was telling me other people lived this way. I had a lot to consider.
As I got older, I became more confident in what I actually know and more comfortable admitting holes in the data banks of my brain. I don’t have that gnawing feeling of being a charlatan as often as I used to. But last night, over a plate of House-special tofu, I reconnected with the younger me at my aunt’s table, spouting generalities, filled with factoids and wishing my elders would value me for the person I really knew was inside.
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