I pretty much hate being condescended to—even more so when part of me assumes that the other person is somewhat justified in their estimation of their own higher intelligence or consciousness. Of course, I don’t care to let this show. I shrug my shoulders and give a half smile, secretly hoping that my silent or affable martyr shtick will encourage them to be racked with guilt later.
Hopefully a tragedy was avoided. The scratch on my learned veneer not too deep, not revealing the mess of ignorance and tawdriness comprising the core.
Sometimes I’ll pick their brain right that moment. If I’m ignorant hitherto I’d rather not be henceforth. My immediate shame does yield to hope, hope that future embarrassment over an untruth, mispronunciation or malapropism will be avoided—and that these little nuggets gained can later be paraded about, laurels of the educated life. If anyone’s lording intellectual tidbits over others, it should be me.
Of course, I couch this all behind wide, innocent eyes: Not only am I bright, I'm so modest about it.