The Truth about Truth: Final

The story so far:

The truth about truth is that human beings are incredibly lousy at apprehending the truth. Most of the disappointments and frustrations at work – indeed, any place – are due to such misapprehensions. There are at least three common types of misapprehensions. The first is mistaking inference for the truth, the second, your common garden-variety misunderstanding.

This post is about the third.

Misapprehension 3: Justification

Daniel Gilbert, Professor of Psychology at Harvard University, discusses in a New York Times article another kind of misapprehension, one that involves a very common justification.

When he was a boy, Gilbert’s family would drive to New York on their annual holiday. At some point in the trip, his brother and he would get bored with reading comics and they’d start fighting. One would punch the other on the arm, the other would punch him back, and so on. His mother would chastise them, and he and his brother “would start to plead our cases.”

“But he hit me first,” one of us would say …

In pleading this way, Gilbert says, he and his brother were following a very common pattern. In most human societies,

being hit first provides an acceptable rationale for doing that which is otherwise forbidden.

A punch thrown second is viewed as legally and morally different from a punch thrown first. Hence, “participants in every one of the globe’s intractable conflicts … offer the even-numberedness of their punches as grounds for exculpation.”

Yet there’s a problem, Gilbert says, because “people count differently”.

People think of their own actions as the consequences of what came before [and] … other people’s actions as the causes of what came later.

He cites research from the University of Texas illustrating the effect. In a mock conversation, pairs of volunteers played the roles of world leaders trying to decide whether to initiate a nuclear strike. Volunteer A was to make an opening statement, B was to respond to A, A to respond to B, and so on. At the end the volunteers were shown various statements and asked to “recall what had been said just before and just after.”

The results showed an “intriguing asymmetry.” Volunteers remembered the causes of their own statements and the consequences of their partner’s statements. Gilbert says, while it seems a “grossly self-serving pattern of remembering”, it’s actually

the product of two innocent facts. First, because our senses point outward, we can observe other people’s actions but not our own. Second, because mental life is a private affair, we can observe our own thoughts but not the thoughts of others …[thus] our reasons for punching will always be more salient to us than the punches themselves, but the opposite will be true of other people’s reasons and punches …

So is born the escalation of mutual harm, another example of the misapprehension of truth. What is the truth here? It’s the situation shorn of the “illusion” that others are responsible for my actions and the “belief” my actions are justifiable responses to theirs.

The truth is A and B punched.

***

Being lousy at apprehending the truth doesn’t mean it’s impossible. In the three examples, the truth might have been under a mound of baggage, a little stifled and crumpled to be sure, but it was always discoverable.

And there’s something else to consider. Even if the truth is too plain to be discovered at a particular time, the mere fact of recognising our failure to apprehend it would make a difference. For if we got how poor we are at apprehending the truth, our lives would be easier.

We might begin perceiving our bosses not as monstrous, but human-sized; as human beings trying, and often failing, like the rest of us.

We might give up the insistence we are right, and entertain the possibility we actually don’t know.

As Daniel Gilbert says, we might learn to trust.

Until we learn to stop trusting everything our brains tell us about others – and to start trusting others themselves – there will continue to be tears and recriminations in the [back of the car].

***

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That obscure object of desire: Breakfast cereal

Sight. Morning, this week. Man in late 20s on bicycle, stopped at lights on way to work. Backpack agape. Huge purple box of Sultana Bran hanging out.

Second sight. Morning, this week. Man in early 30s on bus, beautiful suit, blue semi-transparent plastic shopping bag. Bag swinging against leg, weighted with box of breakfast cereal.

Third sight. The utter satisfaction on the face of my 20-something colleague as she sits down in front of her computer with her bowl of breakfast cereal at 10am each morning.

What is it with Gen-Y and the conspicuous consumption of breakfast cereal?

***

In memory of my father, d. 25 July 2010

My father, Leonard Francis, died a year ago today.

I bought a book of poems a little while after, written by a man remembering his own father.  In his poems I hear my father’s resourcefulness, his joy in being alive, his wonder at finding the things he needed, his humility.

This is the poem, Nails, by Melbourne poet, Tom Petsinis.

I shake the biscuit tin awake,
Struggle with its lid, rust-sealed, tight.
Arising from the nest of nails,
You take me by the heart
And remind me with half a smile:
Luck’s never found looking up.

A boy, eyes glowing still
From last night’s thunderstorm,
You prospect the village,
Thinking as your pockets fill:
They’re also from grandfather-God,
Like silver rain, lightning bolts.

Some go back fifty years
To Fitzroy’s blue-stone lanes;
Others, extracted with joy
From hardwood boards and beams,
You tapped lightly on a brick -
A chiropractor of crooked spines.

Sitting on a home-made bench,
Tin on knees, you’re looking for
A tack to close my gaping sole,
A brad for Mum’s curtain rod,
A grey clout to keep evening light
Slipping our corrugated fence.

It’s a decade since you died,
But they remain, a legacy of sorts,
Set by your galvanising touch.
I see you in the shape of my hand
Rummaging for the nail
That crucifies father to son.

***

Three months on

Rest not! Life is sweeping by … ~ Goethe

It’s almost three months since Dad died.  Grieving hasn’t been what I thought it would be.  Normally, I cry at the drop of a hat.  But I’ve cried only once – when we arrived back at my parents’ home on the day of his death and I got out of the car and saw his garden, and the shed in which he dreamed and listened to foreign radio stations (he spoke only English), and mixed up his various fish bait recipes.  Garlic chicken breast, it turns out, is beloved of black bream.

If I were to start crying, I’d have to feel the loss.  And I fear that.  So I keep putting off thinking about him and his death.  But fear, I think, will not be denied.  Blocked on one front, it finds another route.

For the first few weeks after his death it showed up as fear for my mother, 10 years younger than my father, but suddenly at risk too.  Death had now visited our neck of the woods; it would know its way back a second time.

Then that passed, and for the last couple of months the fear has transferred itself to my own life.  So almost every night at 3 or 4am I’ve been waking up wondering what’s to become of me, imagining catastrophes like stroke and physical disability, stunned at the tenuousness and fleetingness of it all.

And that’s the thing.  If ever I thought about grief before I thought of it as grief for the person lost.  But it’s not that.  It’s grief for ourselves, for our loss, for our fate.

*****

When I was about nine years old I went through a phase of magical thinking.  Each night Dad hadn’t yet come home – usually from a fishing trip – I’d lie in bed and rehearse in my mind all the possible catastrophes that could befall him.  I’d think of fire and drowning – one of my aunties had just died in a house fire and a neighbour had just drowned in a fishing accident – of car accidents and muggings and all kinds of disasters, the idea being that if I’d thought of the disaster first, it couldn’t possibly happen.  It was my own childish version of lightning not striking twice.  And once I’d gone through all the possibilities in my mind, I was free to go to sleep.  Or else Dad had got home sometime during the whole rigmarole.

And if he’d gotten home it was all due to me.  Proof that my patented method of lifesaving worked.

When I think of this now I’m amazed at the extent of my eldest child syndrome; I was a child so … responsible.  More than that, I’m amazed how little I’ve changed.

Because I see that the doubts and regrets I’ve been keeping at bay about the last few days and hours of his life are all mini-versions of one giant question, the question my nine-year-old self had presaged: what could I have done, but failed to do, to keep you alive?

*****

I have his dimples and half his beautiful dancer’s posture, and I’m wearing his watch as I type this.  It’s big and silver, with a clear face.  About his watch he was very funny.  My brother bought it for him from some exotic location, and it came in an exquisite box made of some highly varnished wood with a satisfying closure.  The watch box became one of Dad’s most prized possessions, and for the last few years of his life, whenever a visitor would arrive at my parents’ home, he’d get out the watch box to show them.

He was full of sweetnesses.

*****

My father

My lovely father, Leonard Francis, died yesterday from heart failure. He was 87.

He was a rare and fine person, a man who knew the secret of happiness and brought joy to all around him.

I’m going to miss him terribly.

*****

Follow the money, or Org Chart Bingo #2

It’s Org Chart Bingo time again.  Today’s org chart is from Telstra, one of Australia’s largest publicly-listed companies providing telephone and internet services to millions.  This time, we have details on both the Executive team and the Board of Directors.

Following are a few quick facts about the company (from the Annual Report for financial year 2008-2009), an outline of the Executives and Directors, and a link to the company’s website.

Few quick facts


Executive team + Board of Directors

Telstra’s Executive team consists of 15 Executives: 11 men, 4 women. The Board of Directors consists of 10 Directors: 9 men, 1 woman.  This is how the figures look when charted.

Link to Telstra’s website

For more information about Telstra, its Executives and Directors, click here.

*****

Read previous instalments here: Follow the money, or Org Chart Bingo #1

Julia carries the day

What an amazing day it’s been. I’ve resented every minute away from the internet, TV, radio. Yet only 24 hours ago, as someone said somewhere, this was no more than …

Chris Uhlmann’s wet dream.

Australia has its first female Prime Minister, sworn in by its first female Governor-General.

Headline of the day?

Gillard grabs her moment in history

This is what’s really inspired.  How she seized the day.  She didn’t squib it or get cold feet or play “nice”.  She just reached out with both hands and took power.   In doing so she demonstrated what power is: taking the thing desired and accepting the consequences, whatever they may be. It’s what Peter Costello couldn’t do.

Most searing moment of the day?  When Kevin Rudd talked about the Stolen Generations and how they’d come in “that door” on that day in 2008 — here he broke down for several minutes — and

… they were frightened.

Ahhhh. His greatest achievement, and the one for which every Australian will remember him with gratitude: the apology to the Stolen Generations.

Well-played, Mr Rudd!  Well-played, Ms Gillard!

*****

Wishy Washy Waltz: guest post by Bluehorn

I was brimming with ideas when my dear friend, this blog’s owner, generously asked me to write for a week while she is away on a holiday. Now, I am experiencing the famous writer’s block. But I think it’s just the inertia of not having written in so long a time. So dear readers, consider this my warm up blog and I will be loquacious in the ones after this one.
I have been wondering  about this word – wishy washy today.  Someone close to me said that my belief system is very wishy washy. I experienced a moment of panic. Wishy washy cant be too nice. Its neither here nor there. There is nothing definitive about it. Its neither extreme, or mild. Nor is it good or bad, its almost as if its nothing – insipid. Therefore, one can derive that I must be insipid for believing in something that can be anything and yet nothing. So I immediately called my husband and gave him the third degree – “Do you think all my beliefs are wishy washy??” .
I realised then that, I do this to my parents. A disdainful and” I know better” attitude towards all their beliefs. Do they experience panic that their life long held belief system was under attack? Maybe not, their belief system by now had a solid foundation and a sound structure. Maybe that is what it is; my belief system is very young and feels threatened when under attack. Maybe the belief system in itself isn’t wishy washy but the fact that my belief in my belief system isn’t firm yet. I can be swayed. I can momentarily forget all that I joyfully learnt and collected, I can give in to fear and all of this can happen often. My faith in my own belief system is unsteady and that is what is wishy washy about it.
I feel relieved. My faith has been restored. My belief system is not wishy washy and hence, that must mean that I am not wishy washy.
For those who are wondering what my husband did say – he said no, ofcourse.