More than once, I sat outside the headteacher’s office while lessons continued without me. I was a good student, but I questioned rules and spoke when an explanation felt incomplete. At the time, I assumed the difficulty must be mine.
Growing up in Slovakia, I could remember what I was taught quite easily. Understanding was another matter. If a rule existed, I wanted to know what had made it necessary. If someone told me something was true, I wanted to follow the thought far enough to recognise it for myself. Learning an answer by heart did not settle the question.
There is another classroom memory I return to. One afternoon I raised my hand. I no longer remember the question, only the pause that followed, a quiet laugh, and the teacher’s patient smile. I smiled too. I did not ask it again.
Nothing dramatic happened. That is part of what makes the memory stay. I learned that some questions were easier to keep to myself. Slowly, I became more careful about which parts of my curiosity I allowed into a room.
Drawing was different. A blank sheet of paper did not ask me to defend an idea before I could explore it. I could sit with colours and lines for hours. There was room to discover something without knowing, at the beginning, what it would become. My father’s creativity helped give me that freedom.
When I look back now, I feel tenderness towards the girl outside the office. She was trying to make sense of the world with the words she had. She did not yet know that a question could be valuable even when the people around her had no room for it.
Writing this book has been one way of making room again. I can return to a memory without rushing to explain it away. I can admit that something puzzled me then and still puzzles me now.
The girl who kept asking why is still here. These days, I try to let her finish the question.
