The other day, my sister and I were having lunch and talking. I used the word “Iranian”, pronouncing it “I-ray-nian.”
“I-rah-nian,” my sister corrected.
I stared at her. She stared back with a slight smile, which turned to a frown as I just continued to stare.
“What?” she asked. “You correct my English.”
I do. It’s true. I try not to unless I’m having to put effort into comprehending her words, but I definitely end up sometimes needlessly “correcting” her.
Neither of us grew up in English-speaking environments. If I had an advantage in the language, I would guess that it was that I was often on my own. If I made a mistake, there was no one to shield me from the fallout: the laughter, mockery, condescension, and confusion of my peers and family were mine alone to bear.
So, here we were in a situation where my sister was convinced that this word was pronounced one way, and I was pronouncing it in another way. My instinct was to believe her, because I had no specific memory of being told how to pronounce the word “Iranian”.
But I’ve been training myself out of automatically believing things just because the speaker sounds confident and I’m not confident in my own knowledge. So instead, my sister and I cycled through words that we knew how to pronounce. “Canada” vs “Canadian”. “Arab” vs “Arabian”.
By the end, I was convinced that my pronunciation had not been wrong.
The point I’m making here is not one about pronunciation. I’m not a stickler for pronunciation or grammar in conversation. I think if you can make yourself understood, that’s all that matters. (My non-native English speaking friends can probably attest to how useless I am as an English-speaking practice partner.)
The point I’m making here is one of how knowledge comes to be.
Knowledge is Not Something One Person Has
Something that’s dominated my thinking a lot these past months is the psychology of knowledge.
A few years ago, I started taking more care paying attention to how much I believe of what people say to me.
At some point, I became aware that my natural tendency is to overwhelmingly believe the words that are said to me, even if they aren’t substantiated by anything…except maybe that I like the person who is saying them, or they sound more confident than I feel.
Once I started doing this, questioning everything that is said to me, I started to notice that a lot of people don’t seem to have any idea what they’re talking about. And all my life, I’ve been absorbing these pieces of “information” that are substantiated by nothing.
If I were to go through all the “knowledge” I think I have and dissect it, trying to figure out where I acquired it and how reliable a source that was, I would mentally cripple myself.
It’s not a flaw or a failing to not have fact-checked everything. I do this too: I simply repeat information or opinions that I’ve absorbed from my friends or environment, and don’t give much thought to their accuracy. In some circles, this is a hot topic about the cycle of misinformation. But it’s amazing how much this happens with little, pointless things–the way that everyday decisions can be swayed by words based on information based on nothing.
I read The Knowledge Illusion by Steven Sloman and Philip Fernbach–a book I highly recommend, by the way. Early on, this book highlights the fact that it’s impossible for one person alone to hold all relevant information about a given topic, and see the bigger picture. The bigger picture only comes together when several people come together, each with a different facet of knowledge.
I’ve found that it’s a difficult thing to do, always acknowledging that my viewpoints and opinions are only a tiny slice of the bigger picture–that I will likely never have a full grasp on the bigger picture. It’s a state of uncertainty, and while I can hold my mind there for a time, it often wants to slip into places of certainty.
Sometimes, I’ll notice in the middle of a conversation that all the words I’m saying, and all the words the other person is saying to me, are all pointless. We’re just knocking 2 opinions against each other, both unsubstantiated by anything other than a sense of “this feels right”.
It’s an adventure, and it’s also a realization that makes it harder to get upset or offended when someone says something “ignorant” that might otherwise have cut into my sense of self. It helps me to remember, in moments when I might otherwise be hurt, that this person has no idea what they’re saying—and neither do I.
But it’s not always about accuracy. There are meanings behind the (sometimes inaccurate) words, and that’s the important part.
