My first memory is about a question. I was 2 years old. Our neighbor was a violinist; he was also our friend. Once, he played a song for me. I can’t remember what it sounded like, but I remember looking at him curiously. He played with a rag tucked under his chin. I wondered if he knew that rags are dirty. I didn’t understand why he had one so close to his face. My mother always told me not to touch dirty things.
When I turned 3, I got a long awaited gift. A silver candlestick. I would light it every Friday night from then on to mark the start of Shabbat. My older sister had one too. When my dad gave it to me, I noticed that mine was smaller. I asked him “Papa, why does Musia have a bigger candle?”. I don’t remember what he answered.
My mother used to go to work when I was 4. She’d leave my sisters and I at home with a babysitter. One day, I was eating a snack at the kitchen table with her. My pink plastic cup of apple juice spilled. It trickled down to the floor and got my socks wet. My babysitter screamed at me but I didn’t understand why. I didn’t spill it on purpose. How could I have stopped my cup from falling?
Questions helped me figure out life as a kid. My parents must have given me good answers, because I kept asking. We even celebrated a yearly holiday that revolved around “why”. Many Jews celebrate Passover, but our style emphasized children asking questions. When I’d ask why we kept a specific tradition, the answer was “so you’d ask”. Before the holiday, my family used to launch a month-long preparation for Passover. My mother would turn the house upside down, cleaning the light fixtures on all 4 floors and scrubbing the corners of every stained mattress in the house. Why did she go crazy? It wasn’t spring cleaning; it was so we’d question the custom.
In school and later in homeschool, we kids would spend hours studying Passover. We’d learn from a historic curriculum, called The Haggadah, dating back to the 10th century. The Haggadah is rich like the bible. It’s replete with stories of ancient Rabbis discussing and questioning the story of exodus. For weeks on end, we’d dive into commentaries on the questions which led to further questions. “This Rabbi said this.” “Why?” “Because of this” “So why did he then say this” And another Rabbi would come in ask why on that. It’s a beautiful, short book layered like an endless rabbit hole. We’d study it cover to cover until the start of the 8-day holiday. My dad would then read the most popular sections aloud on the first night..
In the Haggadah, there’s a famous anecdote describing the 4 sons at the Seder table. The wise son, or the Chacham, is full of smart questions. He asks about the strange customs and enthusiastically participates in the rituals. The Rasha is a wicked child. He mocks the traditions. Next to him, sits a simpleton, the Tam. He repeats the same question over and over again. “What’s this?” “What’s this?”. The last son is considered to be the least worthy. He’s the son who doesn’t know how to ask. The Sh’eyno Yodea Lishol sits quietly, not absorbing a thing. His fate is worse than of the wicked child, worse than the simple one. The Sh’eyno Yodea Lishol is never going to learn because he lacks the desire to ask.
As I got older, my questions couldn’t always be answered. While some sects of Judaism encourage blind belief, we were encouraged to dig deeper. If we couldn’t find an answer, then we were told to simply believe. I wanted to understand, to evolve, so I kept asking beyond that. “Just believe” didn’t work for me. Those questions are why I left where I was. They’re also how I got to where I am now.
I have a friend who once decided to keep track of all my questions with tally marks. We worked with each other, so he’d add a line every time he heard me saying “I have a question”. He stopped after reaching 100 within 2 or 3 days.
Questions are my comfort zone. The answers make asking feel extra good. Nothing is more satisfying than understanding something, even when it’s taken 10 or more years. Questions and answers put life into neat little boxes in my head.
Sometimes, I meet new people and they’re confused; is this an interrogation? What’s wrong with her? I ask until I understand the context. I ask so I can connect more dots and feel deeper things. Like a puzzle, everything goes click click click when it fits. When someone asks me why, I remember the 4 sons of Passover. My quirk has backup from the 10th century. I can be like any of the sons; sceptic, simple, or enthusiastically complex, but I don’t want to be the son who sits back and doesn’t ask.
Asking accurate questions are one of you superpowers, and one that makes you very unique and fun to be around, never lose that!
This is such a great story. I’m so glad you ask many questions. I don’t remember them being so many though.