Bad enough my provocateur was my daughter, but she leveled the indictment while I was in the middle of a bowl of Wheaties. "I bet you don't even know most of these vocabulary words," she charged, her eyes narrowing. "I'd like to see you take this test."
I almost choked. Of all the people to question my understanding of my craft, to challenge my competence, to go so far as to suggest I'm full of it and then to throw down the gauntlet, I had never expected it to be her. This is the child who has always been in my corner. This is the child who looked past my flaws long after her two older brothers had succumbed to their suspicions surrounding my foibles. On those days when life's hurts rained hardest, this is the child who never failed to rush to my defense.
I put my spoon down. "What are you talking about? Of course I know those words," I replied. "Every one of 'em."
"Prove it," she quipped and started digging in her backpack.
"Prove it?" I was incredulous. "You don't believe me? I know the words," I said brusquely and took another bite.
She peered into her backpack as if she were delving the depths of a well. "Here it is," she said, pulling out her vocabulary book victoriously. She flipped it open and methodically ran her index finger down the page until she reached the bottom. "Vituperative."
"Vituperative?"
"Yes, vituperative. Since you claim to know all the definitions of the words in this book, what's it mean?"
Her tone struck me as condescending. "I know what vituperative means," I said, pouring myself another bowl of cereal.
"OK, then, tell me."
"Vituperative means," I paused and looked at her. She was leaning across the kitchen counter. The smile she wore was the smile her mother always flashed after humiliating me in backgammon when she was the age her daughter is now. "Look, honestly, I know what vituperative means. But it's not important that I know the definition. What's important is that you know the definition."
At this she released a manifest sigh. "Listen," I proceeded, "what I'm about to say might sound confusing, but hear me out. When I was your age, I expected my teachers to know everything they asked me to know. If they didn't know it, I figured, why should I have to know it? But that's the wrong way to look at it. A good teacher isn't someone who wants you to be as smart as he is. A good teacher is someone who wants you to be smarter."
The gray light from the March day filtered into the kitchen. I added more milk to the bowl, watching it splash into the cereal. The furnace clicked on, and from the entryway drifted the drone of a snoring dog. "Don't get me wrong. I'm not suggesting it's unnecessary for teachers to possess expertise. They need to know their stuff. But they don't need to be omniscient. And they're not."
I searched her face for the rudiments of belief or for at least the benefit of the doubt. I found neither. At some point during my proselytizing, she had unpocketed her cell phone. In competition against a text message from one of her friends, I stood no chance. I hastened to complete my point. "You have teachers. I have mentors," I offered. "The mentors I have are brilliant people. But they don't know everything, and when I discover something they don't know, I'm not disappointed. I'm glad. It's a small thrill to know that I know something they don't know." I picked up my spoon and stirred the Wheaties floating in the bowl. They were beginning to turn soggy. "I suspect I'll have mentors until the day I die."
I waited for a response. Finally, one came. "What's vituperative mean?"
Now it was my turn to sigh. "You want to know what vituperative means? I'll tell you what vituperative means."
I looked my only daughter square in the eye. "Vituperative means ..."