As the saying goes, there are three sides to every story: your side, my side, and the truth.
I was reminded of this old adage while watching one of those countless reality television shows starring supposed “ordinary” people living out-of-the-ordinary lives which seem to involve an awful lot of catty fighting.
This particular episode offered an interesting opportunity to view an actual argument and then to get each participant’s viewpoint on what happened and what was said. As I watched each woman misquote their adversary and also themselves, draw conclusions about the other’s thoughts and intentions, and broadly label the other’s whole personality based on this one exchange (“juvenile”, “conceited”, “self-centered”, “insane”), I realized why there is so much misunderstanding in the world.
And then I wondered how often I have ascribed unintentional meaning to a statement spoken to me, how many times I have exaggerated details or tone when repeating stories of conflict to my friends, how many words I have misquoted to reflect what I heard more than what may have actually been said. I know I have the habit of saying, “I can’t remember the exact words, but the gist was…..” How often may the actual words have revealed a different intent than the “gist” I got?
They are hardly intentional, these misquotes and false assumptions, but if you think about it, it’s not very surprising that they occur. For one thing, in the heat of battle, our emotions are heightened and our natural instinct is to defend, so we may detect weapons when there are none.
Additionally, our expectations of how people will treat us can shape our view of how they actually do treat us, be they strangers or colleagues, siblings or spouses, best friends or worst enemies. How many of us can laugh off a personal comment made by a close friend (“they know us so well”), while the same comment may be viewed as a personal attack by a competitive colleague (“How dare they say that!”)? Who hasn’t noticed that on days when we’re feeling happy, we are less bothered by the attitudes of those with whom we interact along the way?
The women in the aforementioned television show had earlier concluded that they weren’t on the same wavelength and were never going to be friends, and so their every interaction contributed to the prevention of a friendship.
Finally, when we repeat our exchange to another uninvolved (though perhaps not unbiased) party, we are usually asking for confirmation of our assumptions, agreement with our conclusions, and empathy towards our reactions. So maybe we overstate the venomous tone of our opponent’s voice, or the nastiness of the words, or the frightening volume (not to mention intent that is up for interpretation in email correspondence, where tone is distinguished primarily by capitalization which can symbolize anger, emphasis, importance, or maybe just sloppy typing). And maybe we understate our own – just a bit.
It is possible to keep miscommunications from ruining our relationships if desired. We just have to double-check our conclusions. When we find ourselves reacting negatively to something said to us, we should stop and think about what may be causing the reaction. Did they really mean what we heard? Are we making assumptions about what they said or why they said it that may not be true? Might they be under stress or have some misinformation that is causing them to react with an overabundance of emotion? The only way we can know for sure is to ask. The question can be as simple as, “Excuse me, what did you say?” Or it can be more complex, like “It sounds like you said this. Is that what you meant?” It is only after we know that we have understood each other that we can respond fairly. (Of course, we can still over- or under-react, but at least we know we are reacting to the right input.)
We may never truly eliminate the third side of the story – that’s part of the nature of human interaction – but maybe we can achieve a little more overlap and a lot more understanding.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Clean Up
I have watched a lot of television over the past year, but just one scene has left an indelible impression. It was from the last season of Mad Men, a show set in the early 1960’s which features most of its male and female characters in the very traditional roles of breadwinners and housewives, respectively.
The background to this memorable scene is that the lead character’s wife, Betty, is sinking into depression after discovering her husband’s infidelity and then throwing him out of the house. But in this scene, she isn’t crying or raging, she isn’t hiding in a darkened bedroom or eating ice cream on the couch. She isn’t ripping up family photos or burning her husband’s things. She’s simply laying contact paper in her kitchen drawers.
It was such a different way to depict a woman trying to cope with the emotional turmoil of a life turned upside down, yet to me it still conveyed the severity of her pain, perhaps even more so than a traditional angry or sad reaction. Her stoic appearance as she tried to create order where there was really only chaos portrayed not a lack of emotion, but rather a silent outpouring of it. And I could relate.
When I feel like my life is getting out of control, I clean. If I am frustrated with my family, overwhelmed by schedules, or anxious about choices, I distract myself with soiled counters and unswept floors. The cleaning motions provide a physical outlet for my emotions while the mindlessness of the tasks allow my thoughts to wander or simply disappear for a while.
I openly admit to being a control freak (maybe some of you can relate). As such, one of the hardest things about having children has been giving up some amount of control to a little person who may not maintain my high standards. I went into parenthood thinking my guidance would be a welcomed force in the household and that nobody would even consider questioning my practicality and inarguable common sense, but it hasn’t exactly worked out that way. I’m learning to let go of the battles that really don’t matter so that I can be heard when they do, but it still requires a mighty biting of the tongue now and again (and again and again). And so I retreat to the kitchen where at least the dishes will go where I tell them.
Emptying the sink of dirty dishes, the garbage cans of pungent trash, and tables of long-accumulated clutter provides a temporary illusion of calm despite how I may be feeling on the inside (although sometimes my disgruntled attitude while doing the cleaning may delay the calming effect).
When I am facing major “to dos” or decisions beyond the everyday, my anxiety is further increased by disorganization, so that is when you’ll find me rearranging cabinets, streamlining files, or finally inserting last year’s photos into albums. During one particularly difficult time, I even did a massive overhaul of the basement. Fueled by hard rock on my iPod and a very heavy heart, I found the super strength to move the heaviest of boxes, old furniture, and construction debris on my own all in the name of order (though I regretted that the next day when my old achy body returned).
Of course, cleaning is a great way to procrastinate as well, one that provides an illusion of accomplishment. I’m not saying that the accomplishment is false, just that it can be misdirected. I clean when I need to clean, but also when I should be making that phone call, resolving that conflict, or taking that next step.
Unfortunately, the cleaning solution is also a short-lived one. The restoration of order lasts for but a moment, as day-to-day messes accumulate in endless cycles (empty dishwasher-fill dishwasher-empty dishwasher), and new messes arise without warning.
Nor is it ever truly possible to establish order in the long-term as we, our children, and our family continually change, and the family dynamics shift. Each year brings different needs, different decisions, and different anxieties, and it’s not always easy to anticipate the challenges that we or our children will face as we grow – together and apart.
But a clean counter is always a clean counter, and sometimes that is what I need to get me through.
The background to this memorable scene is that the lead character’s wife, Betty, is sinking into depression after discovering her husband’s infidelity and then throwing him out of the house. But in this scene, she isn’t crying or raging, she isn’t hiding in a darkened bedroom or eating ice cream on the couch. She isn’t ripping up family photos or burning her husband’s things. She’s simply laying contact paper in her kitchen drawers.
It was such a different way to depict a woman trying to cope with the emotional turmoil of a life turned upside down, yet to me it still conveyed the severity of her pain, perhaps even more so than a traditional angry or sad reaction. Her stoic appearance as she tried to create order where there was really only chaos portrayed not a lack of emotion, but rather a silent outpouring of it. And I could relate.
When I feel like my life is getting out of control, I clean. If I am frustrated with my family, overwhelmed by schedules, or anxious about choices, I distract myself with soiled counters and unswept floors. The cleaning motions provide a physical outlet for my emotions while the mindlessness of the tasks allow my thoughts to wander or simply disappear for a while.
I openly admit to being a control freak (maybe some of you can relate). As such, one of the hardest things about having children has been giving up some amount of control to a little person who may not maintain my high standards. I went into parenthood thinking my guidance would be a welcomed force in the household and that nobody would even consider questioning my practicality and inarguable common sense, but it hasn’t exactly worked out that way. I’m learning to let go of the battles that really don’t matter so that I can be heard when they do, but it still requires a mighty biting of the tongue now and again (and again and again). And so I retreat to the kitchen where at least the dishes will go where I tell them.
Emptying the sink of dirty dishes, the garbage cans of pungent trash, and tables of long-accumulated clutter provides a temporary illusion of calm despite how I may be feeling on the inside (although sometimes my disgruntled attitude while doing the cleaning may delay the calming effect).
When I am facing major “to dos” or decisions beyond the everyday, my anxiety is further increased by disorganization, so that is when you’ll find me rearranging cabinets, streamlining files, or finally inserting last year’s photos into albums. During one particularly difficult time, I even did a massive overhaul of the basement. Fueled by hard rock on my iPod and a very heavy heart, I found the super strength to move the heaviest of boxes, old furniture, and construction debris on my own all in the name of order (though I regretted that the next day when my old achy body returned).
Of course, cleaning is a great way to procrastinate as well, one that provides an illusion of accomplishment. I’m not saying that the accomplishment is false, just that it can be misdirected. I clean when I need to clean, but also when I should be making that phone call, resolving that conflict, or taking that next step.
Unfortunately, the cleaning solution is also a short-lived one. The restoration of order lasts for but a moment, as day-to-day messes accumulate in endless cycles (empty dishwasher-fill dishwasher-empty dishwasher), and new messes arise without warning.
Nor is it ever truly possible to establish order in the long-term as we, our children, and our family continually change, and the family dynamics shift. Each year brings different needs, different decisions, and different anxieties, and it’s not always easy to anticipate the challenges that we or our children will face as we grow – together and apart.
But a clean counter is always a clean counter, and sometimes that is what I need to get me through.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Let It Be
I recently held a party at my house and for the first time that I can remember, I actually enjoyed it.
It’s not that I don’t usually take pleasure in having people over to celebrate special occasions, reunite with family and friends, or simply hang out. It’s just that I obsess too much about the details.
I start cleaning days beforehand then freak out when my family decides to utilize the kitchen and family room on party day. “How dare they live their lives and wrinkle the couch cushions?!”
I make lists of all the major house projects that should be completed in time for the event (ignoring the fact that many of them have been on my to do list for months if not years), then berate myself when they don’t get done.
I plan to make new foods rather than the same old boring snacks, and in the haste of party day, I forget some key ingredient that renders the dish “interesting” if not completely tasteless.
At the end of the night I feel like I’ve said just “hello” and “goodbye” to each guest, and I’m exhausted and hungry, having not taken a moment to sit down or sample the food.
Without even trying, I take note of every flaw in the day, whether uncontrollable, like the weather, or controllable, like running out of cups, and consider the party ruined. I’m in shock when anyone tells me it was a nice party, assuming they are just being polite.
But this time, I didn’t do any of the above. I had seven people staying over for the weekend, so keeping people from using the house before the party was impossible, if not rude. So I got their rooms ready, and left the prep at that. I ordered food from a deli and stocked up at Costco. I still had the to do list from years back, but this time I shrugged it off. I left the breakfast crumbs on the floor, with the justification that guests would think they were created at the party itself.
And perhaps the biggest change of all was that when people asked if they could help, I said, “Yes!”
In the past, I’ve always said, “No, thanks, I’ve got it,” then spent the afternoon scurrying around slicing cheese and mixing dips, laying out plates and picking up cups, filling baskets and pouring drinks. But this time I let others do it. I was surprised by how light the workload became when it was shared and how enjoyable it was for all of us to work together.
At this party, I finally got to converse with the guests instead of just greeting them. I even got to eat, although I did miss some special appetizers brought in by my Italian relations.
Now, I’m not going to lie. In the week following the party, I did review the day in my head. I noticed the flaws in my home – the untidy porch, the paper pileups, the front window my son had covered with post-it notes full of 6-year old thoughts that I had meant to take down. I realized that I had forgotten to put soap in the showers for my overnight guests, had no trash cans or towel hooks in some of the bathrooms, had left some food unserved. But this time I let them go.
Why was it different this time? Why was I finally able to free myself my frankly unhealthy obsessions and be a happy, healthy, host? I don’t really know. Maybe a recent birthday sent me into the age of reason. Maybe the birth of my second child left me with too few hands, too little sleep, and not enough time to even attempt perfection. Maybe I just finally realized that true friends aren’t looking for dust bunnies, chipped plates, or couch stains, and if they see them, they are relieved to know that my house is just like theirs.
Recently, my brother and I received one of those email quizzes from a relative. At one point in the quiz, we had to think of a person, and later a song, which you later find are to be matched up. My brother had chosen me and The Beatles’ Let It Be. “So, Let It Be connects with you?” he emailed me quizzically, perhaps surprised at the uncharacteristic label.
“Yes, finally, I think it does,” I replied.
It’s not that I don’t usually take pleasure in having people over to celebrate special occasions, reunite with family and friends, or simply hang out. It’s just that I obsess too much about the details.
I start cleaning days beforehand then freak out when my family decides to utilize the kitchen and family room on party day. “How dare they live their lives and wrinkle the couch cushions?!”
I make lists of all the major house projects that should be completed in time for the event (ignoring the fact that many of them have been on my to do list for months if not years), then berate myself when they don’t get done.
I plan to make new foods rather than the same old boring snacks, and in the haste of party day, I forget some key ingredient that renders the dish “interesting” if not completely tasteless.
At the end of the night I feel like I’ve said just “hello” and “goodbye” to each guest, and I’m exhausted and hungry, having not taken a moment to sit down or sample the food.
Without even trying, I take note of every flaw in the day, whether uncontrollable, like the weather, or controllable, like running out of cups, and consider the party ruined. I’m in shock when anyone tells me it was a nice party, assuming they are just being polite.
But this time, I didn’t do any of the above. I had seven people staying over for the weekend, so keeping people from using the house before the party was impossible, if not rude. So I got their rooms ready, and left the prep at that. I ordered food from a deli and stocked up at Costco. I still had the to do list from years back, but this time I shrugged it off. I left the breakfast crumbs on the floor, with the justification that guests would think they were created at the party itself.
And perhaps the biggest change of all was that when people asked if they could help, I said, “Yes!”
In the past, I’ve always said, “No, thanks, I’ve got it,” then spent the afternoon scurrying around slicing cheese and mixing dips, laying out plates and picking up cups, filling baskets and pouring drinks. But this time I let others do it. I was surprised by how light the workload became when it was shared and how enjoyable it was for all of us to work together.
At this party, I finally got to converse with the guests instead of just greeting them. I even got to eat, although I did miss some special appetizers brought in by my Italian relations.
Now, I’m not going to lie. In the week following the party, I did review the day in my head. I noticed the flaws in my home – the untidy porch, the paper pileups, the front window my son had covered with post-it notes full of 6-year old thoughts that I had meant to take down. I realized that I had forgotten to put soap in the showers for my overnight guests, had no trash cans or towel hooks in some of the bathrooms, had left some food unserved. But this time I let them go.
Why was it different this time? Why was I finally able to free myself my frankly unhealthy obsessions and be a happy, healthy, host? I don’t really know. Maybe a recent birthday sent me into the age of reason. Maybe the birth of my second child left me with too few hands, too little sleep, and not enough time to even attempt perfection. Maybe I just finally realized that true friends aren’t looking for dust bunnies, chipped plates, or couch stains, and if they see them, they are relieved to know that my house is just like theirs.
Recently, my brother and I received one of those email quizzes from a relative. At one point in the quiz, we had to think of a person, and later a song, which you later find are to be matched up. My brother had chosen me and The Beatles’ Let It Be. “So, Let It Be connects with you?” he emailed me quizzically, perhaps surprised at the uncharacteristic label.
“Yes, finally, I think it does,” I replied.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Do You DNA?
It seems that every month we hear about more ways that technology can be used to help us determine our future. DNA testing can indicate your risk of acquiring diseases, fertility advances can help you choose the gender of your child, you can even choose your spouse based on their predisposition for becoming ill or passing on genetic conditions.
And now DNA testing can be used to determine a child’s athletic abilities.
According to a November 2008 article in The New York Times, “The test’s goal is to determine whether a person would be best at speed and power sports like sprinting or football, or endurance sports like distance running, or a combination of the two.”
Let’s allow that to sink in for a moment.
I’m guessing that many of you just dropped your head in your hands and said “Oh no”, but maybe more than a few of you said “Oh yes” and called the doctor to find out when, where, and how much.
I mean, why bother wasting time trying different sports when you can know upfront in which your child will succeed? Why would we ever wish to make them struggle? Nothing can be learned from failing at something, right?
I can see the gym notes now “Please excuse Johnny from soccer today. He is not genetically designed to play that sport. He will resume PE when you begin the section on basketball as his DNA test shows that he is inherently a jumper. Thank you.”
Before you get too excited, here are some more details. The test analyzes the ACTN3 gene, which has been linked to athletic abilities. However, some experts are skeptical that just one gene would be such a strong determinant of potential. One expert who has studied ACTN3 but has reservations about its influence is quoted in the article stating that athletic performance has been found to be affected by at least 200 genes.
“The company is focused on testing children from infancy to about 8 years old because physical tests to gauge future sports performance at that age are, at best, unreliable.” Perhaps they are unreliable because success is more than just biologically-programmed.
While the science may be enlightening, there arises the eternal question of nature versus nurture. Sure, you may be genetically predisposed for some advantages or disadvantages, but how much of a role does our environment play in realizing these possibilities?
This is a question that is also explored in Malcolm Gladwell’s recent book, Outliers, in which he provides analysis of some of the biggest successes in business, sports, and entertainment. He theorizes that it is not just talent that creates success, but also circumstance. For example, he cites the much greater success of geniuses from wealthy families versus geniuses from disadvantaged families (more opportunities) and the higher success of individuals born in years with lower birth rates (less competition).
On the sports front, Gladwell finds that 40% of professional hockey players in the world’s best leagues were born in the first three months of the year, while only 10% were born in the last three. He hypothesizes that since the cutoff birth date for many youth hockey leagues is January 1, the children born in the beginning of the year have the advantage of being a little bit older, stronger, and bigger than those born at the end of the year. This often results in the older children earning spots on the premiere teams that give them the best training, turning their birth advantage into a true experiential advantage.
As an individual example, Gladwell presents Bill Gates as not only brilliant and ambitious, but also as having had a rare opportunity to spend a lot of time with computers at the onset of their development, as his high school had a computer club when few others did. He was also born in the exact year (1955) that resulted in his coming of age at the forefront of the personal computer age.
While some of Gladwell’s conclusions are broad and some of his evidence is shaky, his conclusions are probably embraced at some level by all of us. This is why we move to communities with good school systems, send our fall birthday children to Pre-K, and seek the best instructors in all things.
Or do you want to let a swab of the cheek set the rules?
And now DNA testing can be used to determine a child’s athletic abilities.
According to a November 2008 article in The New York Times, “The test’s goal is to determine whether a person would be best at speed and power sports like sprinting or football, or endurance sports like distance running, or a combination of the two.”
Let’s allow that to sink in for a moment.
I’m guessing that many of you just dropped your head in your hands and said “Oh no”, but maybe more than a few of you said “Oh yes” and called the doctor to find out when, where, and how much.
I mean, why bother wasting time trying different sports when you can know upfront in which your child will succeed? Why would we ever wish to make them struggle? Nothing can be learned from failing at something, right?
I can see the gym notes now “Please excuse Johnny from soccer today. He is not genetically designed to play that sport. He will resume PE when you begin the section on basketball as his DNA test shows that he is inherently a jumper. Thank you.”
Before you get too excited, here are some more details. The test analyzes the ACTN3 gene, which has been linked to athletic abilities. However, some experts are skeptical that just one gene would be such a strong determinant of potential. One expert who has studied ACTN3 but has reservations about its influence is quoted in the article stating that athletic performance has been found to be affected by at least 200 genes.
“The company is focused on testing children from infancy to about 8 years old because physical tests to gauge future sports performance at that age are, at best, unreliable.” Perhaps they are unreliable because success is more than just biologically-programmed.
While the science may be enlightening, there arises the eternal question of nature versus nurture. Sure, you may be genetically predisposed for some advantages or disadvantages, but how much of a role does our environment play in realizing these possibilities?
This is a question that is also explored in Malcolm Gladwell’s recent book, Outliers, in which he provides analysis of some of the biggest successes in business, sports, and entertainment. He theorizes that it is not just talent that creates success, but also circumstance. For example, he cites the much greater success of geniuses from wealthy families versus geniuses from disadvantaged families (more opportunities) and the higher success of individuals born in years with lower birth rates (less competition).
On the sports front, Gladwell finds that 40% of professional hockey players in the world’s best leagues were born in the first three months of the year, while only 10% were born in the last three. He hypothesizes that since the cutoff birth date for many youth hockey leagues is January 1, the children born in the beginning of the year have the advantage of being a little bit older, stronger, and bigger than those born at the end of the year. This often results in the older children earning spots on the premiere teams that give them the best training, turning their birth advantage into a true experiential advantage.
As an individual example, Gladwell presents Bill Gates as not only brilliant and ambitious, but also as having had a rare opportunity to spend a lot of time with computers at the onset of their development, as his high school had a computer club when few others did. He was also born in the exact year (1955) that resulted in his coming of age at the forefront of the personal computer age.
While some of Gladwell’s conclusions are broad and some of his evidence is shaky, his conclusions are probably embraced at some level by all of us. This is why we move to communities with good school systems, send our fall birthday children to Pre-K, and seek the best instructors in all things.
Or do you want to let a swab of the cheek set the rules?
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