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the abundance of birds and wildflowers, when I heard the roar of a motorcycle. Looking up, I saw a bushy-bearded, much-tattooed biker rumbling down the deserted, rural road.
I stepped to the side of the road to give him room, and he passed me in a whoosh of sound. Then he stopped his bike and got off.
I felt an adrenaline rush of pure panic as all of the horror stories Iâd ever read rushed to my brain. Fear rooted me to the ground as that muscled, bearded figure advanced toward me and then detoured into a gully, where he commenced picking wildflowers. Seeing me stare, he shrugged sheepishly.
âMy mom likes them,â he growled.
From childhood, weâre taught not to judge a book by its cover, and I believe this with all my heart. Sometimes, though, I slip up. Sometimes, when I come up against someone who doesnât conform to my ideas of good taste or behavior or belief, I begin to pigeonhole them. No matter that I shrink from the idea of stereotyping, I do the very thing I abhor.
But when Iâm wrongâand so often I amâIâm both humbled and overjoyed that my core belief is right after all. And that there is beauty to be found in as many places as wildflowers grow.
Maureen Crane Wartski, who makes her home in Raleigh, North Carolina, has taught high school English and writing, and she conducts writing workshops throughout the country. She has authored many young adult novels, including the award-winning A Boat to Nowhere. She has written short stories for Boysâ Life magazine and for anthologies such as Join In: Multiethnic Short Stories . Ms. Wartskiâs book, Yuriâs Brush with Magic, was recently published by Sleepy Hollow Books.
I Could Be Wrong
Allan Barger
I believe in uncertainty. I believe that the four words âI could be wrongâ should be etched above every schoolroom, house of worship, political assembly hall, and scientific laboratory. Uncertainty is an odd creed, but I find it deeply spiritual, combining humility and a deep respect for the mysteries of God and life. Itâs not an easy creed.
My conversion to uncertainty came from my life. As an evangelical Christian and a pastor, I spent years trying to reconcile my religious certainties with the certain fact that I was gay. I tried being not gay for almost twenty-five years only to find I had simply been wrong. It didnât help, and it didnât stop. In the process I hurt myself, and worse, I hurt others. Sometimes, no matter how certain I am, life and God hand me a different message. This was my hardest lesson in uncertainty. I didnât lose faith in God, but I certainly lost faith in certainty.
My commitment to uncertainty grows today because I see an appalling excess of certainty around me. It seems to me that certainty visits a great many evils upon the world. I see religions lose their humanity because they are certain they know divinity. Some commit acts of terror and others acts of political intolerance all in the name of God. I watch political certainties create inflexibility in the face of changing information and situations. I see scientific researchers sidelined by other scientists when their theories challenge the scientific orthodoxyâsidelined not because they lack sound evidence but because accepting their evidence means rethinking cherished certainties. Itâs human to resist uncertainty. I resist it myself. But when my certainties are in overdrive, I act as if the truth will die if I canât make you see it and then I can do terrible things. I need uncertainty to keep me humble.
Some ask me if itâs crippling to always question myself. I find it uncomfortable, but not crippling. I act with more confidence if I know in my heart that Iâm willing to abandon my certainties if the facts, or the outcomes, turn out wrong. Today, as a teacher and a research analyst, I have certain knowledge. Iâm also pretty certain what I want for my children and
I stepped to the side of the road to give him room, and he passed me in a whoosh of sound. Then he stopped his bike and got off.
I felt an adrenaline rush of pure panic as all of the horror stories Iâd ever read rushed to my brain. Fear rooted me to the ground as that muscled, bearded figure advanced toward me and then detoured into a gully, where he commenced picking wildflowers. Seeing me stare, he shrugged sheepishly.
âMy mom likes them,â he growled.
From childhood, weâre taught not to judge a book by its cover, and I believe this with all my heart. Sometimes, though, I slip up. Sometimes, when I come up against someone who doesnât conform to my ideas of good taste or behavior or belief, I begin to pigeonhole them. No matter that I shrink from the idea of stereotyping, I do the very thing I abhor.
But when Iâm wrongâand so often I amâIâm both humbled and overjoyed that my core belief is right after all. And that there is beauty to be found in as many places as wildflowers grow.
Maureen Crane Wartski, who makes her home in Raleigh, North Carolina, has taught high school English and writing, and she conducts writing workshops throughout the country. She has authored many young adult novels, including the award-winning A Boat to Nowhere. She has written short stories for Boysâ Life magazine and for anthologies such as Join In: Multiethnic Short Stories . Ms. Wartskiâs book, Yuriâs Brush with Magic, was recently published by Sleepy Hollow Books.
I Could Be Wrong
Allan Barger
I believe in uncertainty. I believe that the four words âI could be wrongâ should be etched above every schoolroom, house of worship, political assembly hall, and scientific laboratory. Uncertainty is an odd creed, but I find it deeply spiritual, combining humility and a deep respect for the mysteries of God and life. Itâs not an easy creed.
My conversion to uncertainty came from my life. As an evangelical Christian and a pastor, I spent years trying to reconcile my religious certainties with the certain fact that I was gay. I tried being not gay for almost twenty-five years only to find I had simply been wrong. It didnât help, and it didnât stop. In the process I hurt myself, and worse, I hurt others. Sometimes, no matter how certain I am, life and God hand me a different message. This was my hardest lesson in uncertainty. I didnât lose faith in God, but I certainly lost faith in certainty.
My commitment to uncertainty grows today because I see an appalling excess of certainty around me. It seems to me that certainty visits a great many evils upon the world. I see religions lose their humanity because they are certain they know divinity. Some commit acts of terror and others acts of political intolerance all in the name of God. I watch political certainties create inflexibility in the face of changing information and situations. I see scientific researchers sidelined by other scientists when their theories challenge the scientific orthodoxyâsidelined not because they lack sound evidence but because accepting their evidence means rethinking cherished certainties. Itâs human to resist uncertainty. I resist it myself. But when my certainties are in overdrive, I act as if the truth will die if I canât make you see it and then I can do terrible things. I need uncertainty to keep me humble.
Some ask me if itâs crippling to always question myself. I find it uncomfortable, but not crippling. I act with more confidence if I know in my heart that Iâm willing to abandon my certainties if the facts, or the outcomes, turn out wrong. Today, as a teacher and a research analyst, I have certain knowledge. Iâm also pretty certain what I want for my children and
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