What Would You Do?

I have just finished reading an excellent blog post about the disappearance of a little boy in Oregon who vanished from school after his stepmother took him to visit his tree frog exhibit at the science fair. The post addressed the fact that there was much speculation about the stepmother’s guilt, based not on any kind of history or evidence, but on the fact that she (and the boy’s father) seemed not to be reacting in a way that proclaimed their innocence to onlookers. As a mother, a stepmother, and a human being who witnesses grief frequently as part of her job, I found myself responding strongly to the idea that people outside a tragedy are able to judge with any accuracy the reactions of those at its center. I have lived long enough to see responses that were deemed “genuine” and were subsequently found to be false, calm and measured grieving that was no less deep for its smooth surface, and a national dismissal of the grieving process. It seems to me hypocritical and shallow to evaluate anyone’s true feelings, let alone their guilt in relation to a possible crime, based on some rickety construct of imagination, snippets of TV dramas, and various other kinds of fiction. Until we wear the shoes of the terrified, the bereaved, or the shocked, we ought not to imagine for one minute that we know what constitutes a “normal” response, or what we ourselves would do.

Five years ago in July , a local boy disappeared. His name was Ricky Holland, and he was seven years old. His foster parents were visibly agonized, participated tirelessly in the hunt for the boy, and were often seen weeping on television. A more gratifying, soul-stirring parental manifestation of pain could not be imagined. Night after night we watched, riveted, as the exhausted couple returned from combing yet another marsh or field, sometimes sobbing, always hollow-eyed. occasionally stumbling and clinging to one another for support. As it turned out, the touchingly broken parents had killed Ricky, bundled him into a plastic trash bag, buried him, and lied for months to police, the media and the hundreds of volunteers who gave up days to search for the child. Crazy like the proverbial foxes, the Hollands showed us all what we wanted and expected to see, and it worked. It was grief sufficient and patent enough that we all believed them; it was a visible manifestation of what we knew we would do under the circumstances. It looked right, and we bought it.

I have also been involved in the death of another seven-year-old boy who died accidentally while riding down a hill with my son Sam on another hot, July night. The day after the accident, after the flashing lights, the yellow tape, and the throngs of gawkers and police-issue blue, the boy’s father came to our house to visit Sam and tell him how grateful he was that he had run to get help right away, and to commend him on his bravery. Maybe it was because he was a doctor, or a father, or just a decent human being, but in his time of greatest loss he was calm and rational enough to consider what had happened to the “other boy.” There was no issue of guilt in that case, but had the media been observing the father’s behavior I am almost certain that there would have been noise about “excessive calm,” and by psychobabble about possible attachment deficits. What that man did was an astonishing gift of awareness and compassion for my own child, and I am eternally grateful to him, but his behavior was decidedly not what we know we would do. We would cry more in public, be unable to leave the house, and probably be unable to bear the sight of the boy who survived.

Finally, I think it’s important to acknowledge that in most cases we are a society that is pathologically uncomfortable with grief. It is some exponentially insane kind of ironic to use someone else’s apparent sadness as a gauge for guilt  in a world in which we are all about the buck-up, get over it and move on. (I blame the Puritans, although the actual explanation is probably more sociologically complex). Many other cultures seem to have a built-in mechanism for acknowledging grief, from wailing over a coffin to legally mandated leave time following a death. The terrible, empty black hole is still there, but there is recognition that some folks need to wail, some need longer than others to get back on track, and everyone in a community shares in a loss. There are pockets of compassion and honesty  here, programs for grieving children, parents and those who have lost a loved one to violence, but mostly the expectation is that you have a few good cries, graciously accept casseroles, and don’t inconvenience anyone else too much with the desperate, wild, unfamiliar and searing pain that threatens to tear you apart. If our only compass at such times is that strange, artificial set of Grief Rules that we learn in this society, what do we do if we don’t feel like crying in public, or if we still feel ravaged after we have worn out the good will of our friends? What if you’re a Kennedy and you want to cry at one of the many family funerals rather than maintaining the requisite stoicism? What if you have lost someone young in shocking and sudden circumstances and you really don’t emerge from your protective daze until weeks after you should have been “healing?”

I have seen people roll their eyes at someone “carrying on” at a funeral, and I have often heard someone told, in the kindest way possible, that it was “time to move on.” Maybe a hobby or a vacation might fill the gaping void – and (if I read the subtext correctly) make the bereaved stop bringing everyone down by moping and being negative. It seems that “normal” involves a prescribed period (maybe six weeks) of intense and observable grief followed by equally visible “getting better.” Anything less is suspicious, and anything more is…suspicious. There is no open-hearted allowance for individual temperament in this standard; we know what we should see and when we should see it, from the moist handkerchief at the funeral to the weak but resolute public reappearance after an appropriate interval. It’s  what we know we would do.

Until we have to do it.

Arguendo

I hate arguing, real or otherwise. I am a consensus-builder, a peace-maker and a finder of common ground. This is not because I was scarred by a combative family as a child, or subject at any point to abusive or explosive anger; it’s really just a matter of temperament. I undoubtedly err on the side of remaining silent when something should be said (you’ve decided against immunizing your baby?!) but in general, being conciliatory  has helped me to make friends, succeed in the workplace, resolve conflict, and keep strong family ties. It may be a character flaw of the highest order, but unless I am advocating for someone weaker, it is always more important to me to be liked than to be right.

If you tell me that you believe in the superiority of Velveeta over Camembert, I will twist myself into a pretzel finding something good to say about Velveeta (it does melt nicely) before I’ll fight with you. When the stakes are higher than the relative merits of cheeses, I will still try to find common ground. I happen to be married to someone of a different political flavor, and while I have certainly not been “converted,” I believe that I have gained valuable insight and tolerance by discussing everything from Iraq to public schools with a conservative. The minute I become doctrinaire, smug or angry, I lose the capacity to listen and understand. It isn’t “caving;”  it’s maintaining civility and refraining from dehumanizing someone because of his opinions. It is not, in my opinion, possible to win anyone’s heart or mind while judging and castigating him, and on the off-chance that I may influence his beliefs, I work incredibly hard at discussing, rather than arguing.

When it’s the real thing, arguing is tense, harrowing, and fraught with peril. Being a person without much of a temper, I have never understood the whole idea of saying nasty things “in anger;” I have, all my life, been convinced that every argument signaled the end of the relevant relationship, even if the other person was my own mother. (As of this morning, you’ll be pleased to know, my  mother and her fierce temper are both still with me). Much as I dislike it, however, I have to give the genuine argument its place in the psychological pantheon. In people of adequate sanity it often serves as a sign that there is an issue requiring resolution, particularly if the same conflict resurfaces repeatedly. It also gives people an opportunity to say things that need to be said, and to hear “the other side.” It can be cleansing, and serve as a wake-up call of white-hot intensity. I still hate it, it still feels cataclysmic, destructive and war-like to me every time, but a legitimate, passionate argument of substance has a purpose.

What I do not credit with a shred of value is arguing “for the sake of arguing.” I know that many folks delight in a good debate, or in provoking “healthy disagreement,” and that is their perfect right. I will be in the corner with my book. If I say “I love ‘Glee’” and  you say “I don’t get it – I tried to watch it but it’s the stupidest thing I ever saw,” where do we go from there? If I say “I’m thinking about trying that new Italian restaurant” and you say “I have no interest in that” you are probably being honest (or a thoroughgoing pain in the ass) but you are also foreclosing any further conversation, and chipping away at any sense of fellowship or mutual sympathy. Why is it not easier to say “hmm” or “tell me why?” rather than shutting the conversation down with the finality of a dead-end? I think, in these situations (both real) that the intention was that I would spar back a little, say why I liked “Glee,” or that I read a great review of the restaurant. I think I was supposed to have been provoked a little, and prodded into defending my position; in both cases I gave up. Life is too short.

I am equally put off by the whole “Devil’s Advocate” thing. I can make out a remote, legitimate purpose in terms of checking an idea for holes.  If one is proposing the roll out of a product intended to change the consumer landscape, it may well be prudent to challenge everything from design to marketing strategy before risking shareholder wrath and public humiliation. If, on the other hand, I declare my personal belief that chocolate chip cookies are the safest thing to bake for a crowd, I do not want to hear “why do you assume everyone likes chocolate chip cookies?” You can tell me to leave out the nuts because of allergies, or suggest that I make two kinds for the sake of variety, but responding negatively with no real solution, just for “fun,” is incredibly annoying.  I don’t want to be rigorously challenged, made to probe more deeply or to have my consciousness raised unless it’s really important. There is, again, that problem of response. Am I meant to say “you’re right; I’m wrong. I have made a terrible, indefensible choice based on false assumptions, and will repair at once to the kitchen to find a better idea?” How about “everyone likes chocolate chip cookies; I’ll show you my data.”

So there’s a line somewhere, and on one side are the controversies necessary to keep our relationships and our government transparent and functional. There are the questions that have to be asked, the assumptions that must be challenged, and the opinions and beliefs that are central to each individual’s sense of justice and morality. If we wish to live meaningful lives, the right to raise, and to refute critical issues must be sacred, and we must all have skins thick enough to withstand criticism and questioning. On the other side of the line are personal preferences, plans and ideas susceptible to many differing and valid viewpoints. There is rarely any need to take up arms over these non-issues, and active inquiry, interest and openness often leads to stronger relationships. My opinion is no more valuable than anyone else’s, and I value common ground more than asserting my individual preferences. I have argued with, and ultimately lost a friend over his insistence that the Holocaust never happened, but I would not spend five minutes sparring with anyone over her taste in sports teams, movies or books.

There is no real answer here (although, if you are inclined to play Devil’s Advocate you may point out that I have stirred the nests of several hornets in this post), only questions about temperament and its intersection with socialization. Am I all touchy-feely and prone to singing “Kumbaya” because I’m sensitive, or because I’m sensitive and raised, as a woman, to be conciliatory and pleasing? Would my self-confidence grow if I challenged everyone on everything, or would I simply be alone more often? Is honest bluntness a public service, or a form of passive-aggressive nastiness masquerading as virtue? Are the only really valuable posts on Open Salon those that focus on controversial issues and incite heated debate, or is there just as much merit in my perpetual navel-gazing? There is no real answer here.