Knowledge for 1000, please
Ilove knowing things. It’s the Tyrion Lannister in me. In fact, during peak “Game of Thrones” madness, my husband bought me a mug that included Tyrion’s catchphrase, “I drink and I know things.” I’m drinking coffee out of this mug as I write this, so at least half the claim is verifiably true.
Trivia has always been a deep pleasure for me. I know how to correctly pronounce “Kiribati” (the last syllables are pronounced “bahss”), I know my enclaves from my exclaves, and I find joy in figuring out the Latin vs Greek roots of words (it’s why “octopi” is technically wrong, a Latin suffix on a Greek root!). There is something soothing about facts — they confirm objective truths in a world that seems to tremble with subjectivity.
But while knowing random facts is useful in my current career as a writer, and my previous one as a university lecturer, it was not very useful to me as a child.
Mocked and bullied
Kids like me, precocious ones who know too much about how to pluralize animal names, are usually bullied, mocked, ostracized or just disliked. I still think about the people who audibly groaned every time I raised my hand during class in middle school.
Knowing things only becomes cool if you ever make it onto Jeopardy!. I know this, because I once appeared on Jeopardy! and the same people who mocked me in middle school suddenly came out of the woodwork to congratulate me just for making it on the show (which is crazy hard). One schoolmate even wrote, “I always knew you were that nerd!” And I was.
Amy Schneider was also that nerd. The “most successful woman ever to compete on Jeopardy!” has a memoir out, “In the Form of a Question: The Joys and Rewards of a Curious Life,” and so much of the life she details dovetails with my own — from the mild bullying to a deep love of Oscar Wilde.
We were both in the drama club. We both geeked out over
computers. We both did our best to fit in, even as we moved through a world that wasn’t quite built for us. We both had highly impactful English teachers. We delighted in the pursuit of knowledge for the sake of knowledge.
Both Schneider and I loved the American Girl books about Molly, but never owned a doll. In my case, because my immigrant parents didn’t really understand why someone would spend that much money on a doll.
Comforted by Knowledge
For Schneider, it was because her German Catholic parents didn’t really understand why someone would spend that much money on a doll — and Schneider was assigned male pronouns at birth. Little boys didn’t play with expensive American Girl dolls back then.
Knowing Molly’s stories was as close as either of us ever got to the doll. Knowledge was comfort.
Knowing that the St. Lawrence River is the largest estuary in the world, though, is not the same as knowing yourself. And for Schneider, the journey to self-discovery required more effort. She details her thoughts on being trans, with humor and grace, but a selfconsciousness lurks throughout “In the Form of a Question,” as though she is still working out
her thoughts.
Identity is not always a knowable, intractable fact. Identities can change, can shift, without it being the fault or intention of the person. My mother, born in Colombia, became an American in the forty years she lived here. Whenever she goes back to visit her family, she is astounded at how un-Colombian she has become.
Our selves are always in motion, whether we like it or not — or as one friend put it, “I suddenly became an old man, without my own consent.”
Why do you know?
For some people, like Schneider, identity is less like a river in flux and more like a depth to explore. She’s not sure when she really knew she was a woman. It may have been always, it may have been this one particular moment performing in a play. It may have been a shock of recognition well into adulthood.
We like information that is set in stone — like the number and type of chromosomes in our DNA. But Schneider’s memoir, organized as a sometimes-meandering question-and-answer session, contends that embracing change is an important part of acquiring knowledge.
A good trivia master keeps tabs on the latest discoveries. Pluto is no longer a planet. Depending on who you ask, there are five continents or there are seven. Our stones have become more like sand.
Schneider’s answer to “Why do you know so much stuff?” is “Because I wanted to.” But the answer to “how” she came to know “so much” is far more complex — and Schneider is most invested in how we know anything at all, including ourselves.
She is candid about her struggles, vices and sexuality. She considers fame and how she is spending her game-show winnings. She doesn’t have definitive answers for the bigger questions, but she knows how to crack a good Kant joke.
Only half correct
I finished Schneider’s memoir just before I logged onto Zoom for an online trivia league match. I answered half the questions I was assigned correctly, and for a few hours afterwards, I considered the flaws in my knowledge base.
It’s impossible to know everything, even for people like Schneider and the other Jeopardy! greats. It’s what keeps us learning about ourselves and the world around us.
I think Schneider would agree with me that the curious life is its own reward. But we’re nerds like that.