That’s an accusation I frequently don’t hear. But I see it on some faces. And I heard it so many times when I was young that I can connect that face with those words.

It’s just not true. I know enough to appreciate how often wrong I am. And I learn from being wrong: I’ve learned to treasure being wrong.

I was wrong:

When I argued that time wasn’t the 4th dimension (7th or 8th grade);

When I asserted that a calorie was a calorie (and undervalued protein);

When I considered my eyesight to be more valuable than my mobility;

When I mispronounced helicopter, Vietnam, and desultory (secretive too, but it’s coming around);

When I deliberately shouldered a young Asian woman in the SF financial district because I was in a foul mood and she was in my pedestrian path, and she was slight;

When I argued that no whole life insurance policy is worth its premium (that Northwestern Mutual cash value buildup has outperformed my 401(k));

When I ignored those “help me” screams because I thought it was just a crazy local off her meds, and really it was the meter reader who had just slipped on my front bricks and broken her ankle.