This I Believe

I worry sometimes that I’m becoming too cynical about the world. I don’t know if it’s a matter of upbringing or just the nature of being a millennial, but I’ve always kind of relished in the thought of “damning the man.” I’m not talking about raging against every indiscriminate male I meet or sleeping in Zuccotti Park as a middle finger to the 1 percent. I have a hard time trusting people when I can’t distinguish their motives. I assume they have motives. And it’s exhausting. Sometimes I see the scowl lines on my forehead from scrunching my brow over something I don’t quite believe, and I wonder if it would be easier to just let things go. Maybe I’d sleep more. Maybe I’d smile more. However, I do believe it’s necessary to be skeptical, rather than cynical.

Skepticism, to me, is a matter of who you are and why you’re doing it. It’s about that nagging tug you feel in your chest that’s just begging you to ask the question and the challenge to decipher the answer you’re given. It’s wonderful and terrifying.

Over the summer I spent in D.C., working for a wire service, I thought it would be appropriate to read the autobiography of longtime White House correspondent Helen Thomas. What I found was a woman who spent her whole life as a skeptic, but an endearing, sensitive skeptic. Thomas said the key her success as a journalist was that there was no topic that did not garner a question. There was no topic that shouldn’t be questioned.

I admit I find it irritating when people stop asking questions. The face-value acceptance of information is the Achilles heel of our society. We’d rather accept what we agree with than question our own beliefs. I get it’s difficult. It’s uncomfortable. It’s sometimes confrontational. But I believe in being a skeptic because it’s always worth asking why.