Sixty pages in to this Christmas gift, I found myself enjoying it more than I at first anticipated.  Some malicious news/gossip drifted within the realm of my awareness some months or a year or two ago about Elizabeth Edwards selling out some part of her soul either by publishing this book or – maybe it was going on a talk show circuit afterwards or… I don’t recall the details. It was a reflection of one of those distasteful, distressing tendencies of the media spotlight to grind away at character, seeking and exploiting flaws of integrity, as if there are so many of us who could withstand such scrutiny well.

Context: Whiteness

The back cover sports a quote from pp.37-38, in which Edwards admits a preference for avoiding difficult things in life while reconciling herself to the fact that they are going to happen, no matter what. By this point, she has already painted the picture of herself as a person living a dream and believing it could continue unabated. She had noticed tarnish, but not allowed it to dim the glow of her idealized vision, such as (among other things) recognizing “that the color of your skin gave you a whole different, less hospitable country” (p. 15).  Edwards attributes most of her fantasy to growing up in a magical-military lifestyle framed by Armed Services Radio. Seems like a classic example of how lives become meaningful within a context shaped by media.

It is my interpretation to lay her idyll at the feet of whiteness – not the simplistic version of white skin privilege, but the attitudes and assumptions of whiteness – which can be embedded in any human body of any ethnicity, given enough socioeconomic privilege and cultural conditioning.  You may consider the evidence sketchy, but when Edwards describes how she is changed after the infidelity of her husband (coming very soon after a diagnosis of breast cancer, and some years after the life-altering death of her teenage son), I thought to myself, this is what whiteness shields you from:

“I was not wounded, not afraid, not uncertain before, and

now I always will be.”

Many pages later, discussing a transformation in her Christian faith necessitated by the death of her son, she writes:

“I had believed that God would intervene to protect the innocent. How, at forty-six, having seen what I had of the world, having walked around the site of the children’s hospital at Hiroshima, near the epi-center of the atomic bomb, having seen injustice and misery reposed among the innocent across the globe, I still believed this, I cannot say. I only know that I did…” (p 110).

Whiteness enables this kind of magical thinking.

“What we know is apparently no match for what we need” (p. 70)

Faith is a kind of map that orders a belief structure, enabling coping mechanisms and strategies for survival and – if accompanied by luck – individual and social thriving. “In my life,” Edwards admits, “the map has almost always been wrong.” She is referring to a saying of her friend Gordon Livingston: “When the map does not comport with the ground, the map is wrong” (p. 32). In lieu of a god who protects the innocent and guards the righteous from random trauma, Edwards comes to believe in a God who “promises only salvation and enlightenment,” continuing:

“This is our world, a gift from God, and we make it what it is. If it is unjust, we have made it so. If there is boundless misery, we have permitted it. If there is suffering, it came from man’s own action or inaction” (p. 111).

Later, she adds:

“I remind myself: This is the world we made; its flaws are our flaws; its shortcomings are our shortcomings; and the degree to which there is injustice or unprovoked suffering is just a reflection of our failures…God gave me this world, and He gave me free will. It is my world, and now, if I am able, I have to fix it” (p. 119).

Resilience requires, among other things, “distinguish[ing] between those catastrophes we can repair and those that require us to face a new reality” (p.35). I’m interested that “resilience” is typically invoked as a counterpart to crisis, as if it only emerges spontaneously in the face of a sudden unexpected event rather than persisting as a durable property of a system. Resilience is also most commonly described as a characteristic of individuals rather than groups. How we comport ourselves when wounded, however, is a matter of relationship that is fundamentally inseparable from the co-occurring internal psychological struggle.

a small slice of the middle (or, in-between the turns)

In the subfield of Communication that studies language and social interaction, one of the things we pay attention to are turns at talking: who talks when, how much, after who, about what, how often, and so on and so forth. Turn-taking is a particularly intriguing subject of study because transitions require a rather complex coordination (rarely thought about because the norms for how to do it are so internalized). Edwards quotes a line from Edna St. Vincent Millay’s poem, Interim, about turning the world back a click or two, “just a turn and…” this or that would not have happened, “just a turn and…” we would be living some other reality. Living in the wishfulness of turning something back, however, is not resilient.

“In time, I learned that I was starting a new story. I write these words as if that is the beginning and the end of what I did, but it is only a small slice of the middle, a place that is hard to reach and, in reaching it, only a stepping-off place for finding or creating a new life with our new reality…” (p. 31-32)

Perfection is not a requirement (p. 9)

Effective systems have safeguards and backups in case of normal accidents. It seems like an oxymoron, but accidents do happen. Accidents occur with enough irregularity that they cannot be predicted and controlled, thus any comprehensive system assumes a certain “normalcy” to the fact that accidents will need to be managed. If one adopts the stance that, loosely, accidents are normal, one’s map is already prefigured to minimize damage by building resiliency in. One adapts as best one can, as soon as one can, in the best ways one knows how given the circumstances. This includes recovering from shock, such as Edwards describes:

“The Greatest Generation from World War II was not simply too humble to take credit for their accomplishments in battle (though they were often that), they were also good men too stunned that what they had seen was now part of their own life story” (p. 27).

We are all living our own life stories, and to varying degrees – depending upon exposure and attention – aware of unspeakable inhumanities being done by human beings to other human beings. We need to be resilient, not just in our own self-centered orbits but as persons in relation with the people whose lives we interact with daily, whether through the products of their work or because of direct contact.

the fullest breath (p. 17)

“The only contest we have,” Edwards concludes, “is with ourselves” (p. 212). She is mainly referring to how a parent finds the way to go on after losing a child, but she also means how a spouse recovers from the infidelity of their partner, and how one chooses to glean the most from every moment in the face of a terminal illness. Her answers, she emphasizes repeatedly, are hers alone, and every one must find their own ways to continue living in the face of pain and challenge. Resilience, however, is not only a feature of the the solo, noble human spirit, but of the community and relationships and ways of talking that guide and nurture the spirit through.  Yes, so much rides on single moments, and yet, with each breath, there is a new moment imbued with new possibilities, new paths leading to new and different places.  A friend just taught me this Albanian saying:

The minute does not determine the year.

There are, of course, minutes that do change years, moments whose occurrence changes lifepaths irrevocably and forever. Moments that teach “what it means to scream” (p. 17). But any moment, even those that require years from which to heal, does not have to foreclose the future. It may not be the future one dreamed, but it can still be worthy, happy, and whole. In a recent talk on Resilience: Talking, Resisting, and Imagining New Normalicies into Being (Journal of Communication 60, 2010), Patrice M. Buzzanell argues that “resilience is developed, sustained, and grown through discourse, interaction, and material considerations,” and lists five specific communication processes, all of which are evident in Edwards personal story.

Social relations and ways of talking contribute to individual resiliency but it is still, in the end, the individual who has to learn breathe deeply – either again, or perhaps for the first time.  If Elizabeth Edwards’ life had played out along her original fantasy script, she admits:

“I don’t know..if…it would have occurred to me that I had never taken the fullest breath I could. It had been diaphragmatic breathing, matching my inhaling and exhaling to some rhythm I wanted, some song that fit my life at the time, or I thought did. I had never had to find my own rhythm, never needed to search for my own cadence…For all of the times that followed those carefree days…for all of the pain I endured, at least I learned … what it meant to breathe for myself.”

Dedicated to Alec Kent
and the family who survives him

]]> http://www.reflexivity.us/wp/2010/12/tweaking-the-turns-resilience-is-systemic/feed/ 1 http://www.reflexivity.us/wp/2007/09/in-remembrance-of-alec/ http://www.reflexivity.us/wp/2007/09/in-remembrance-of-alec/#comments Sun, 23 Sep 2007 15:54:25 +0000 Steph http://www.reflexivity.us/wp/2007/09/in-remembrance-of-alec/

Christi imagined a piece of Alec’s spirit in each balloon, including the parts of him held by and given to each person present. I thought of the pace of their departure, the wind picked them up so fast! I imagined their speed parallel with the way Alec lived, not that he was always in a rush, but once that boy had decided there was no hesitation.
The weekend passed quickly, wedged between hectic work weeks for all of us. Yet the picnic at Alec’s gravesite flowed leisurely. The steady stream of arrivals began at one pm and continued until the release an hour-and-a-half later.
The mood was at turns festive, contemplative, sad, and peaceful. The day itself was beautiful. Uncle Dick, all the way from Port Angeles, WA, offered some remarks. Many in the crowd were probably unaware that his daughter, our cousin Saundra, died of leukemia when she was twenty. (Her memory is celebrated annually by the Peninsula Tennis Club.)
Uncle Dick shared some thoughts with us from an article by Mark A. Lorenson, You Can Not Lose the Ones You Love, which challenges the “conventional wisdom” that “we miss the ones we love” (47). Applying the philosophy that “we, through our current beliefs, are actually creating our experience of ‘missing’” (48), Lorenson proposes a reframing which Uncle Dick exhorted us all to try:

I love you and feel your presence.

In all ways, from everyone gathered and those whose thoughts were with us, a fitting tribute.

It was his heart. They’re still trying to determine exactly what, why, how. There will be an autopsy. The neighbor did CPR. 911 was called. Christi got stuck in traffic. I’m several hours behind the curve, Rich left his message at 10 pm the previous night but I hadn’t realized there was a message until 11 am the following morning. The media is involved, 911 put the neighbors on hold for ten minutes. No arrangements have yet been made. “I can be there tomorrow.” Austin is doing ok. At the hospital, after viewing his brother’s body, he said to his mom, “How can we be so unlucky?”
Christi and I continue to talk, the hospital called within 7 or 8 hours about tissue donation, salvaging parts of Alec’s body for other people’s medical treatments. There is so much confusion, so many decisions that must be made: cremation? burial? both? The other phone keeps ringing, all the local family is there, friends are dropping by, we stop for now. I get up from the lawn near South College and wander…trying to absorb the news, reeling from the hard fact and the inexorable unfolding of events. Both Rich and Christi have mentioned how awful it was to see Alec’s body, how fast he got cold. My best friend has left a voice mail, responding to a text message I fired off. “I’m just devastated to hear your news.” Her voice is fraught with tears.
I plant myself on the edge of the campus pond. It is an absolutely gorgeous day. A small, perfectly-formed flower draws my attention. I observe a school of small fish, a crawdad, the geese, some dragonflies, the sky. I should touch base with mom. “Hi mom, how are you doing?” She launches into the usual and I realize, she doesn’t know. I confirm, so you haven’t heard the news from Kansas City? No… “Alec died yesterday.” My voice cracks. “What? Who?” she is aghast, possibly even panicked. “Rich’s son, Alec.” We don’t talk long. I’ll purchase her ticket, coordinate our arrival times, arrange housing for us both. I can hear that she is crying. Me, too.
I sit longer. Email Ruth back, explaining some, letting her know I have a window to talk if she has time.
“did I tell you I’m sitting by the campus pond? it’s gorgeous. the sun is shining bright. there’s a light breeze. the sun is hot when the wind is still, if the wind persists it verges on chilly. There’s a school of 2-3 inch fish at my feet, a flock of geese lazing across the way. I don’t know what plant this is in front of me, but the first detail that penetrated me when I sat down here is a perfectly formed small flower with white petals and a brilliant yellow center. Two unopend buds frame it, and a large triangulated leaf arches over it. I left my camera in the car. thinking I should go get it. two wispy blue dragonflies keep skimmering by. there were three at first, but I’ve only seen a pair playing for the last while. all this alec will never experience again.”

ALEC RICHARD KENT | He loved comics
Boy was drawn to illustrating
By JENNIFER BHARGAVA
The Kansas City Star
Who: Alec Richard Kent, a middle school student who enjoyed drawing and games.
When and how he died: Sept. 20, due to heart failure.
Age: 13
An illustrative passion: Friends and family could always find Alec huddled over one of his many sketchbooks. Drawing comics, especially Japanese anime, was one of his favorite activities.
His enthusiasm for illustrating was enhanced by family friend Aaron Williams, who is a local comic book creator. The two artists spent hours together practicing their drawing techniques. Alec also enjoyed reading Williams’ published comics, “Nodwick” and “PS238.”
“Alec always offered his opinion to me and in fact, he used to point out my mistakes,” Williams said. “He was the best editor I ever had.”
He showed physical affection: Alec was not afraid to kiss his mom in public or hug people he just met.
Christi Kent said her son’s most endearing quality was his touch. Whether it was rubbing her temples to get rid of a migraine, or wrestling with his brother and cousins, Alec used physical contact as a way of expressing himself.
However, his desire for interaction could sometimes lead to awkward moments.
“Alec was such a wiggly kid his entire life,” his mom said. “When he was 2, I took him to Kmart and he had his hand in my pocket and tripped. He fell down and so did my shorts &emdash; right in the middle of the Kmart entrance. He was all twisted around me and it makes me laugh every time I think about it.”
Always one to take on a challenge: The energetic teenager was never satisfied with being average. Alec loved to put himself to the test. He challenged his Boy Scout peers to games of chess and poker.
He spent hours each day playing “RuneScape,” an online game that promotes problem-solving skills and puzzles. Alec’s desire to learn new skills amused his family.
“Alec spent all his Christmas money last year on eBay buying swords,” Kent said.
“He wanted to play with them in the backyard, which drove me nuts. There was even a time when he wanted to learn Japanese.”
His secret language: One of Alec’s favorite sayings was “Oh, snap!” This phrase was usually accompanied by a detailed description of his day at school. Encoded in his stories would be nicknames he had for all his friends. He created the special names based on something that happened to that person or how a friend’s name sounded.
“You really had to learn to speak ‘The Alec,’ ” Kent said. “I had to remember all his friends’ nicknames and I even called them by those, which they thought was pretty funny. Alec also made up words, which were so silly but became a part of who he was.”
Survivors include: Mother, father, brother, grandparents and great-grandparents.
The last word: “Alec kept me reading every parenting book I could get my hands on,” Kent said.
“He was just so bright and full of energy.”