Staying in the Room: The Courage to Say ‘I Do Not Know’
In an era of rising polarization and increasing Jew hatred on college campuses, teaching critical thinking feels less like an academic task and more like a moral responsibility.
I teach students to become social workers. My course is rooted in empathy, relational cultural theory, and interpersonal neurobiology. We study how human beings grow through connection and how our nervous systems react when we feel threatened. Polarization, at its core, is not just ideological. It is physiological. When we perceive danger, we narrow. We split the world into right and wrong, good and evil, us and them.
The classroom is no exception.
One of the core practices I ask students to engage in is taking the devil’s advocate position. Not to be contrarian. Not to win debates. But to strengthen cognitive flexibility. To practice holding another lens. To build the capacity to say, “I can understand how someone might think this way,” even when they disagree.
It sounds simple. It is not.
When identity enters the conversation, the emotional temperature rises quickly. Assumptions form. Motives are assigned. Curiosity shrinks. Students training to become social workers can feel the same pull toward certainty that dominates social media feeds and campus protests.
I often return to something Arno Michils, a former Neo Nazi I interviewed on the Our Stories Matter podcast, once said. Reflecting on his own radicalization, he told us, “You know someone is no longer radicalized when they can say, ‘I do not know.’”
Radicalization thrives on certainty. Absolutism is seductive because it simplifies a chaotic world. But the inability to say “I do not know” is also the inability to learn.
“I do not know” interrupts the rush to judgment.
“I do not know” calms the nervous system.
“I do not know” creates space for complexity.
For social workers, this is not philosophical. It is practical.
If we cannot navigate difficult conversations with one another in a classroom, how will we sit with clients and communities whose beliefs challenge our own? How will we serve veterans, immigrants, activists, conservatives, progressives, religious clients, secular clients, people who carry grief, anger, or political convictions that activate us?
Grounded presence requires emotional regulation. Ethical practice requires curiosity. Listening is not an endorsement. Understanding is not agreement. But without the capacity to listen, we cannot practice at all.
Years ago, a student in my class whose family came from a country where the United States had been at war was assigned to work with a veteran who had been deployed there. He came to class visibly anxious. He worried the client would notice his last name. He worried about what the veteran might assume about him. He also wrestled with his own countertransference, imagining what the veteran might have done while deployed in his country of origin.
There was fear on both sides of that imagined line.
I asked him whether he wanted to continue working with the client.
He paused and said, “I want to challenge myself. I want to stay.”
The client stayed too.
They did the work.
That is social work.
Not the absence of difference.
Not the erasure of history.
But the discipline of remaining in a relationship when identity and history create tension.
This commitment to staying in dialogue extends beyond the classroom. The current season of our podcast, Campus Voices: Civil Engagement in an Era of Division, is dedicated to equipping college communities with tools and confidence to engage respectfully across differences, including confronting the rise of antisemitism on campuses.
In one episode, we interviewed a Palestinian lawyer and an Israeli filmmaker who are close friends. The conversation was not about debating policy. It was about how they sustain their friendship while holding different histories, grief, and convictions.
As they spoke, my co host and I felt what therapists call a parallel process. There were moments when our hearts raced. Moments when tension surfaced. Moments when we wondered whether connection might fracture. And then something else emerged. Curiosity. Respect. Care.
By the end, we were in tears. Not because disagreement disappeared, but because we had witnessed two people hold two stories at the same time without reducing one another to symbols.
That is relational courage.
College campuses have become flashpoints. Students and faculty struggle to discuss antisemitism, free speech, and political conflict without relationships fracturing. Online discourse amplifies outrage. Ideological sorting replaces dialogue.
But disengagement is not a strategy. Nor is absolutism.
Relational cultural theory teaches that growth happens in connection, not isolation. Interpersonal neurobiology shows that when people feel safe enough, their brains integrate rather than split. Integration allows for nuance. Splitting fuels dehumanization.
Social work demands integration.
Our profession calls us to sit across from people whose stories intersect painfully with our own identities. It requires that we regulate ourselves so others can feel regulated in our presence. It asks us to hold more than one story at a time.
If students cannot practice staying in dialogue with peers who disagree, how will they stay present with a client whose worldview feels threatening? If we equate disagreement with harm, how will we build trust with those who already feel alienated?
The courage to say “I do not know” is not a weakness. It is relational courage. It creates the conditions for growth.
Perhaps dismantling polarization does not begin with louder declarations but with quieter humility.
“I do not know everything.”
“I am willing to listen.”
“I can stay in the room.”
Can you imagine a campus culture where we stayed connected long enough to see each other as human before we reduced one another to symbols?
If we cannot do that with one another, we will struggle to do it with the clients who trust us with their lives.
And in social work, staying in the room is not optional. It is the work itself.
