November 27, 2216. 1:34PM.

   For the sole purpose of maintaining healthy fat-to-muscle ratios, a mother, son, and daughter embark upon a routine walk around the nearest park. While briefly stopping before Apartment 74 to admire a commemorative engraving for the revered Niels Bohr, the daughter—dubbed Julie only for convenience—asks an unusual question.

   “Mommy, who is William Shakespeare?”

   Though perplexed, her mother responds with forced affection in order to positively reinforce Julie’s curiosity.

   “Shakespeare was an ancient writer, Julie.”

   “Like you?”

   At this, Julie’s mother smiles patronizingly. A minute part of her feels offended, even angry, at the naively blasphemous comparison. But such emotions would be illogical and wholly unbecoming; six-year-old children have neither the brain development nor the concrete knowledge to discern every conceivably insulting social behavior. After a period of 2.7 seconds, Julie’s mother reestablishes normal epinephrine levels.

   “No, honey; Shakespeare wrote silly rhymes in incomplete sentences and invented useless fantasies that wasted people’s time. Mommy is a scientist, just like Daddy and all our neighbors. We write research reports and invent machines that heighten the efficiency of commercial production.” Her sickly-sweet tone can barely mask the sneering derision that colors her thoughts.  

   “So, why did Shakespeare write that stuff if none of it helped anyone?”

   Though her patience has begun to thin, Julie’s mother merely takes a deep breath, successfully reducing her heart rate and restoring her homeostatic equilibrium.

   “Shakespeare liked pretty things, dear. He used to go on and on and on about flowers and bees and butterflies—not because of our crucial need for pollinators but because he thought they looked pretty.” She nearly cackled that the notion. “A complete lune, Shakespeare. Simply absurd.”

   Julie nods dutifully, satisfied with her mother’s simplistic answer. Mommy is a scientist, which in Julie’s mind means that Mommy is smart. She also recalls the glittering jewelry and the vivid art in her history textbook from school. In fact, she could’ve spent hours just staring at the mesmerizing photographs—but Mrs. Matthews had called them “unfunctional,” which Julie knew was another word for useless according to the Thesaurus. Thus, Mommy must be right about this “Shakespeare” fellow because Mommy’s statement has been verified with Book Facts—a true stamp of metaphorical approval. As Mrs. Matthews always says, “Science is right because science has proof.”

   Taking a cue from her mother’s sudden kindness, Julie continues with her questioning.

   “Mommy, who are Socrates and Plato?”

   Mother, daughter, and son reach zero velocity once again as they halt their daily round of exercise. They’ve stopped for the moment to address the upshot of adrenaline in Julie’s mother, which has increased the total kinetic energy in her body’s molecules and her temperature to boot. Her frustration has arisen from the observation that none of her daughter’s queries demonstrate any remote connection to the inner workings of the world—to science. But rather than scold her daughter for incessant chatter and risk alienating her inquisitive side, Julie’s mother merely reflects on today’s higher-than-average number of stupid questions.

   “Darling, Socrates and Plato were philosophers. They were ‘lovers of knowledge.’”

   “But everyone loves knowledge, Mommy. Does that mean we’re all philosophers?” 

   Beneath her amusement, Julie’s mother can’t help but feel proud of her daughter’s unwitting display of syllogistic reasoning, however flawed. And while she could easily rationalize this surge of foreign emotion with a scientific explanation of the maternal instinct, Julie’s mother nonetheless attempts to reign in her silliness.

   “Very good, Julie. But I should have been more specific. Philosophers were old lovers of knowledge. Socrates and Plato lived during a time when empirical experiments didn’t exist, so they could only talk about their thoughts and make guesses and dream of a ridiculous world where people would follow their lead. We’re the ones who had the wits to make that vision a reality and more. Our country is ruled by scientists, and scientists are the newer, better philosophers. Do you know why scientists are better, sweetheart?”

   Truthfully, Julie has no idea. Nevertheless, she takes a guess to make Mommy happy.

   “Is it because science can be proven?”

   “Very good, Julie. You’ll make a brilliant scientist one day.” Undeniably pleased, Julie’s mother turns to her fourteen-year-old son, who has said nothing thus far. While aware that modern psychologists ordinarily advise against comparing children, she chooses to take that gamble anyways.

   “Jack, why can’t you show a little curiosity—a little initiative—like your sister? It would certainly do you more good than digging through the trash for paintbrushes and junk.”

   Unmoved, Jack remains quiet and sullen. His mother may not have retained it in her hippocampus’s long-term memory, but Jack still clearly recalls an incident from three years ago where his own similar line of questioning ended only in tearful confusion. Now, by some twist of  fate, his sister seems poised to commit the same error in judgment. He considers intervening for a split second—but it’s too late.

   “I have another question, Mommy. Who is Jesus?”

   For five whole seconds, silence reigns.

   “What did you say?”

   “I asked who Jesus–”

   “I know what you said! Who’s been filling your head with all this nonsense?”

   Upon hearing her mother’s unjustifiably confrontational tone, Jack only sighs in anticipation of the inevitable. In contrast, Julie’s lacrimal glands begin to release tears. Her bewilderment stems from the disparities between Mommy’s current reaction—an explosive, irrational rage—and her previously courteous conduct. This pain displays itself quite distinctly in Julie’s rapidly reddening cheeks as she scrambles for a way to remedy her distress.

   “Mrs. Braverman d-d-down on 23 rd Street told me about philosophy a-and something called literature. Th-Then her friend, Father Joseph, a-asked me if I was a good person. I said I didn’t know wh-wh-what that meant so he mentioned Jesus and G-God and–”

   At this point, Julie’s mother cuts her off, having heard enough to understand the impetus for her daughter’s ludicrous behavior. With her goal in mind, Julie’s mother tries to appear sympathetic by employing a calmer, more soothing tone and kneeling to her daughter’s height.

   “Listen to me, honey. I’ve told you before to avoid homeless people like Mrs. Braverman and Mr. Joseph. They live on the outskirts of town because they don’t know how to let go of the old ways. They would rather go back to fighting over radical religions without ever acknowledging the facts. Lots of people would die, and you don’t want that, do you?”

   Despite her lingering shock, Julie vigorously shakes her head. This earns a rare smile from her mother and a short hug for reassurance.

   “Very good, Julie. Now let’s continue with our walk. Why don’t I tell you a story about Charles Darwin’s theory of evolution?”