On Identity, Authenticity, Relationships, and Our Characters
By David Corbett | August 14, 2020 |
On July 12th, writing about her latest novel, The Lost Girls of Devon, Barbara O’Neal remarked here at Writer Unboxed that one of the story’s themes concerned “growing into the person you were meant to be. That’s not always easy for women, especially when they become mothers.”
We often speak here at Writer Unboxed about how stories become more meaningful when they touch on issues of identity. We feel deeply moved by stories that demand the main characters answer questions such as: Who am I? What kind of person do I intend to be? What must I change to become more like the person I want to be?
Put another way, in such stories the main character (and perhaps others) answers the call of destiny, becomes her true self—“the person she was meant to be.” She throws off the shackles of a false persona; or she rises above the shallow, unchallenging, meaningless life she’s allowed herself to pursue; or she overcomes or moves beyond the restrictive forces holding her back, even entrapping her—and claims the high ground of authentic selfhood.
We typically respond to such story descriptions with an affirming, even heartfelt nod, as though we implicitly comprehend what such statements mean.
Do we? Or have we just become overly comfortable with certain turns of phrase that are actually misleading?
For example, is there a true, fully formed, non-temporal “I” that every character is constantly striving to recognize, in the hope of fulfilling that selfhood’s promise and answering its demands?
Though she may only see it “as though through a glass darkly,” is her ideal “I” nonetheless there, casting shadows on the wall, beckoning the character forward so that she may fulfill her destiny?
If she has strayed from that path, for whatever reason—motherhood, in Barbara’s example—has the person she was “meant to be” remained in some sort of suspended animation in the recesses of her psyche all this time, waiting to emerge from the shadows once circumstances permit?
(Note: Barbara will speak for herself later in this post. I think you will find her comment interesting.)
This notion of an objective, ideal self represents the Platonic-Kantian view. It proposes a transcendent world of ideal and eternal truth that we can know the way we know mathematical and logical truths—pristine, unadulterated, indisputable. It speaks of things like “essence” as the core truth of who we are as human beings. In theology, this essence is typically referred to as the Soul; in certain corners of psychology, as the Self.
Modernity has tended to cast a jaundiced eye toward this sort of idealism, and is increasingly wary of such notions as a “true self,” “essence,” and other metaphysical hobgoblins. What’s taken its place in the realm of identity is the idea of self-realization, a belief that we do not discover our true selves so much as create them.
Pico della Mirandola, as early as the fifteenth century (a hundred years before Shakespeare), considered men capable of fashioning their own destiny—”the molders and makers of ourselves.” This was revolutionary at the time, when men and women were born into a certain station and died there, but now it’s generally accepted as the natural path of human maturation.
It’s sometimes said that we live in the Age of Authenticity, where an individual is expected to “march to the beat of his own drummer,” pursue his life path as he, not others, sees fit. Only then can he be “true to himself.”
Traditionalists, such as those in the Platonic-Kantian camp and many religious thinkers, find this idea of self-creation misguided. Without strict moral guidelines in particular—the kind provided by religious traditions, for example—self-realization can come to excuse all manner of excess, depravity, even cruelty, all in the name of “finding oneself.”
Non-traditionalists respond that there is nothing in self-realization that inherently discounts concern for morality, social strictures, and so on. But the individual remains free to explore which set of guidelines feels most natural. (For more on this debate, see Selfhood and Authenticity, by Corey Anton.)
Rejecting the idea of a concrete, “immortal” Soul or Self doesn’t require denying the notion of a constant striving for something truer, more honest, more authentic—and more fulfilling. It reflects both an escape from a past or present we no longer see as rewarding and a movement toward something else, something we believe or hope will be better.
In The Compass of Character, I refer to this longing as the character’s yearning, rooted in an ever-present sense of incompleteness, or lack. I consider it one of the fundamental truths of what it means to be alive, and characters based on real people need to reflect that longing or risk appearing slight, contrived: “plot puppets.”
But if characters are not yearning to fulfill their destiny, live up to their true selves, “the person they were meant to be,” what are they yearning for? A raise, a promotion, a bigger house, the next rung on the ladder? Is that really sufficient to compel them to endure great hardship, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and mounting conflict to succeed?
In our stories, for this yearning to matter, there must come, at some point in the narrative, a powerful sense of ownership, of responsibility on the character’s part for whatever she longs for, and the sense of self it reflects. Where does that powerful sense of ownership and selfhood come from?
I sometimes remark that characters who are not compelled by some notion of destiny or purpose often need a “gun to the head” or a “pot of gold dropped at their feet” to evoke that unyielding sense of commitment. By that I mean they must either have some clear idea of the benefit of acting, or greatly fear the consequences of not acting, with sufficient clarity to compel them to do something.
But, ironically, what we often observe in human behavior—sadists, narcissists, and psychopaths excepted— is that people are often far more readily and powerfully compelled into action not on their own behalf, but for the sake of others.
We give up far more easily on ourselves, especially when no one will know we let ourselves down, than we do when we recognize others will be affected by our action or inaction.
Some of this, as in motherhood, reflects the need to juggle competing demands. It can also, however, reveal something more insidious, an oppressive bias imposed by culture to subsume one’s personal desires for the obligations of family.
It may also reflect the power of shame—the fear of losing status in the eyes of others whose respect we value or affection we cherish; and so we conform to their desires.
Some of it speaks to guilt, our awareness that harming others, passively or actively, is wrong; and so we put aside “selfish” wants for accommodating ones.
Most importantly for our purposes as fiction writers, however, is that some of this effect, where we value the benefit or harm to others over our own, speaks to our recognition of the intrinsic interconnectedness of one’s own fortunes with those of others.
In The Anatomy of Story, John Truby remarks that one of the greatest mistakes beginning writers make in developing their characters is imagining them in isolation.
It’s not just in stories this mindset makes itself known, of course. Consider the rugged individualist who thinks his only obligation is to himself and his “freedom.” Alexis de Tocqueville diagnosed this affliction long before dime novels and Ayn Rand elevated it to the status of sainthood. De Tocqueville called it the Atomist mindset, and considered it a peculiar and problematic aspect of American society, describing its adherents as follows:
“They owe nothing to any man, they expect nothing from any man; they acquire the habit of always considering themselves as standing alone, and they are apt to imagine that their whole destiny is in their own hands. Thus not only does democracy make every man forget his ancestors, but it hides his descendants and separates his contemporaries from him; it throws him back forever upon himself alone and threatens in the end to confine him entirely within the solitude of his own heart.”
As appealing as the lonesome cowpoke may be, particularly to a certain subset of American readers, he’s about as real as the unicorn. Even wanderers travel town to town. And the most fervent hermit remains aware that someday a stranger may appear at his door.
Need I add: this mirage of the solitary individual is traditionally far more appealing, even addictive, for men than women.
But if interconnectedness with others is true of action (what I do), if how I behave cannot be separated from my relationships with others, why not identity (who I am) as well?
Is it really inaccurate or unsatisfactory to say that identity is not some essence I possess but is instead relational—that, just as with our actions, my idea of who I am is intrinsically connected to how I view myself relative to others and how they view me?
To borrow from the seemingly pristine realm of mathematics and logic—what is the “essence” of the number seven? Is there such a quality as “sevenness” that it possesses? Or, on the contrary, is it known primarily because of its relation to other numbers: it’s the natural number between six and eight, it’s the fifth prime number, it’s the solution to the equation 11 – 4 = ? and so on and so on.
Extending that question to selfhood—is there an essential “Davidness” I am looking for? (I know I left it somewhere. Maybe it’s with my keys, or my glasses…)
Or am I instead trying as best I can to honor a sense of how I should live based on notions of honor, integrity, courage, compassion, honesty, etc., that I have inherited from influential people in my past, from my reading, from history, from my life among others, and so on?
By saying identity is relational, I don’t mean that it is accommodational, a collection of compromises, or that who we are merely reflects what others demand or expect from us.
Rather, our identities grow and adapt on the basis of our interactions with others, especially those who mean a great deal to us. And our better selves or idealized selves often reflect how we’ve been viewed by people we’ve known and respected, even admired, and who saw something worthy of respect in us.
This came home to me in a vivid way once I began teaching. More and more often, I began to weigh how I performed as a teacher against the example of my math professors, who were not just wonderful instructors but admirable men. I found their example resonating with that of my father, who possessed a quiet dignity and integrity I admired and aspired to imitate. I used their example as a means of determining the best course of action in any given moment: What would the men I admire do?
I’m sure this sort of identity-formation is also clear to all of us who are in a rewarding relationship, or have an abiding friendship or connection to someone else we cherish. The limits of what we would do for such a person are commensurate to our fondness, respect, and sense of obligation to them. And our sense of who we are shifts accordingly with that awareness.
Similarly, in a bad relationship, we often find ourselves shrinking to the level of what will allow us to keep the peace or maintain the relationship for fear of what will happen if we don’t.
One last example: it isn’t just the competitive instinct that makes me want to raise my game when I read a novel that I consider impressive. As Saul Bellow said: “Writers are readers inspired to emulation.” The excellence of the novel I’m reading touches that part of me inspired to be the best writer I can be.
As noted above, this doesn’t mean the Best David Corbett exists in some objective way among the other Platonic Ideals in the Museum of Personal Perfection—or in God’s mind.
The same is true of my characters.
Again, I don’t mean to suggest that characters are confined by their relationships to others. Self-creation is meaningless if it does not permit us to reject what others would have us do—or who they might prefer we be.
For a good example from fiction, consider Robbie Turner in Ian McEwan’s Atonement:
The son of Grace Turner, a servant who lives on the grounds of the Tallis estate, Robbie has been raised with the gracious financial support and personal sponsorship of Jack Tallis, the head of the upper-crust family. That sponsorship has permitted Robbie not only to obtain a good education but to attend Cambridge, where he excelled. When determining what career to pursue, he evaluates the various options afforded him. He once pursued landscape gardening, but this now seems no more than a “bohemian fantasy, as well as a lame ambition.” His Cambridge studies focused on literature, and though he did well the prospect of pursuing it further seems little more than “an absorbing parlor game.” Rather, his “practical nature and frustrated scientific aspirations” have led him to an “exercise of will”—he has chosen to study medicine. “He would take lodgings in a strange town—and begin.” Above and beyond the instinctive appeal of this vocation is the fact he has made the decision on his own, rather than having it proposed by “an ambitious headmaster,” a “charismatic teacher,” or his patron, Jack Tallis, all of whom have proposed other avenues. He feels he is finally his own man: “His adult life had begun.”
Those who know the story are aware that this newfound sense of self gets shattered by adverse results. But one thing remains constant despite every ordeal—his love of Cecily. And in a very significant way it defines who he is and what he wants from his life, even in the face of disaster.
What this means in practical terms is that to understand what my character is striving for in the story—the kind of person she wants to be, the way of life she hopes to enjoy—I need to also envision who else will be included in that life, and who has helped shape her idea of who she should be, how she should act, and what she should value, while still retaining for the character the agency to defy, move beyond, or rise above those influences or rely on some other intrinsic self-awareness—like Robbie’s “practical nature and frustrated scientific ambitions.”
When constructing the character web, I’ll need to identify the other characters who have inspired her, believed in her, helped gird up her confidence—or chastised her for slacking off, accused her of doing wrong. I’ll need to identify who instilled in her those nagging voices: Do more. Try harder. Don’t quit. You have it in you.
Similarly, I’ll need to know who if anyone taught her it’s okay to settle for less, let someone else do the hard work, surrender when the path ahead just seems too difficult. I’ll need to identify whose voices are echoing in her head saying: Better a live dog than a dead lion. Is it really worth it? Nothing is so important it can’t wait until tomorrow. It isn’t all about you.
I’ll also find it helpful to know whether any of those characters are in the present-day story; if not, which characters that are in the story echo those internalized voices, those past influences.
This is why secondary characters are never secondary. They exert moral, psychological, and emotional pressure on the main characters that serve to help them answer those questions we find so compelling: Who am I? What kind of person do I intend to be? What must I change to become more like the person I want to be?
Returning to the example of Barbara’s main character, Poppy, I can’t help but think that simply rewording the issue eliminates the confusion (a common theme in contemporary philosophy, by the way). Accordingly, what if instead of the notion of “the person she was meant to be” we reword it as a dream of life she abandoned once she became trapped in an unfulfilling marriage, but recovered once she decided to escape?
Here, as promised, is what Barbara herself has to say:
I agree that we have to create the life we want during the days and nights of our lives, but in the books I’m writing, the struggle is about women engaged in trying to make those lives against the roles and pressures of society/family. In the case of Poppy, the character in The Lost Girls of Devon, she runs away from her daughter and husband to go to India and pursue the life she wants.
And at the risk of starting a bigger conversation than can be answered in this single discussion, I do believe the struggles of women to achieve a life of meaning are much more difficult, still, than the struggles men face. I am almost constantly writing about this now.
A dream that’s been put aside, and the person who might have instead pursued that desire, doesn’t have to be a Platonic Ideal to exert its influence on a character’s current sense of self; it need simply be remembered. And characters, like their authors, exist in time, remembering what has come before while continuing to grow, adapt, make choices, face the consequences—creating themselves, and their lives. Not just alone, but among others.
Does your main character have some notion of “the person she was meant to be”? How does that differ, if at all, from the person she wants to be? Put differently: is she discovering her true self or creating it? In either case, what is holding her back from fulfilling that pursuit?
What secondary characters are crucial to your main character’s self-realization? Who encourages or helps guide them? Who holds them back or undermines them? Who, if anyone, actively opposes their desire to “find themselves”?
Would you like to comment on Barbara’s “bigger discussion” about how the struggles for a life of meaning are much more difficult for women to achieve than men?
David Corbett (he/him) is the author of seven novels: The Devil’s Redhead, Done for a Dime (a New York Times Notable Book), Blood of Paradise (nominated for numerous awards, including the Edgar, Do They Know I’m Running?, The Mercy of the Night, The Long-Lost Love Letters of Doc Holliday, and The Truth Against the World. He has also published the story collection Thirteen Confessions and the novella The Devil Prayed and Darkness Fell.
David’s short fiction and poetry have appeared in a broad array of magazines and anthologies, with pieces twice selected for Best American Mystery Stories.
His non-fiction has appeared in numerous venues, including the New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, Narrative, Zyzzyva, MovieMaker, The Writer, and Writer’s Digest.
He has taught both online and in classroom settings through the UCLA Extension’s Writers’ Program, Book Passage, LitReactor, 826 Valencia, The Grotto in San Francisco, and at numerous writing conferences across the US, Canada, and Mexico. In January 2013 Penguin published his textbook on the craft of characterization, The Art of Character (“A writer’s bible that will lead to your character’s soul.” —Elizabeth Brundage), and Writer’s Digest published his follow-up, The Compass of Character, in October 2019.
Sure, I’ll comment on Barbara’s bigger discussion. What she said in a few sentences is the essence of what your very long post was trying to say. For a woman, this is all understood. Secondary characters are society. Living as a woman, means being constantly told, not just by family or friends, but by strangers on the street and anyone you meet, where you stand in relation to their concept of how you should be. Try living a day like that and see what happens to your sense of identity.
For example wake up and decide what clothes you’re going to wear. First, you’ll need to know where you’re going and who you might meet, because you have to choose if you’re up for the leers or the laughs, coming across too strong, or too severe. Walk down the street and strangers critique your body and tell you to smile.
I can go on and on. It’s endless. Top it off with the fact that many women that you might want to emulate are rich and/or stayed single and childless. So, if you are not all those things, you might beat yourself up as you fail to live that life.
I’d also like to mention that when your secondary character is female – do not make the mistake of solely using her as an enabler or disuader of the male’s journey. She is so much more than that.
“Living as a woman, means being constantly told, not just by family or friends, but by strangers on the street and anyone you meet, where you stand in relation to their concept of how you should be.”
Add to that list of who tells you who you should be (and how you’re doing it wrong) almost every image you see of a woman in ads, TV, movies, your social media feed…every single person, real or online or printed on the side of a bus, is someone against whom you measure yourself in looks, capabilities, parenting styles, nutritional intake, shininess of hair, trendiness of clothes…
Also add to that list your past self (your pre-childbirth self) and all of her expectations. Sometimes she’s the toughest critic.
Truly, getting dressed is the ultimate embodiment of this, as Ada said. My closet is full of things I can’t wear certain places for reasons women understand intrinsically but a man likely would not. And it doesn’t all have to do with how much of my body they reveal or conceal. Much of it is “how will the women I encounter in this space react to this outfit” (am I going to be making friends or enemies here?) and “how will the men I might encounter in this space react to this outfit?”
Am I striking the right balance of femininity and power/competence/intelligence (and why do those things feel at odds??!!)? Will he feel challenged and thus put on his guard and be harder to deal with? Will looking professional mean he respects me more or will it make him insecure and so he will thwart my efforts to rise in my career?
Will this make me seem too young? Too old? Is this too sexy? Does this send the wrong message? Will this fabric which is opaque in my bathroom actually be see-through in the evening when the sun is at a lower angle in the sky? Does this seem too happy for this sad occasion? Will this look like I’m trying too hard? Will people give me pointed looks to let me know they disapprove? Or will they simply whisper about me off in the corner?
Most men I know just look for something that is reasonably clean and un-wrinkled. The same basic outfit every day. Women look for something that will strike all the right notes with all the right people and hope they don’t run into someone they hadn’t anticipated.
The lovely thing about working from home is how much less you have to play this game with yourself every morning. :)
Bottom line, as I reread this, is that women almost never have the opportunity to see themselves as a lone ranger, transcending the rest of the rabble of humankind. So for a female character, the search for the self is not a search for some Platonic ideal. It is the search for the person she meant to be before everyone else starting telling her who she was. And that person can be really hard to find.
Hi Erin & Ada:
First, to Ada’s remarks about secondary characters as mere enablers–I wholeheartedly agree. Secondary characters (in contrast to minor characters), should themselves be complex enough so that their interactions with the main characters isn’t simply functional. Otherwise they too become mere plot puppets. Their motivations need to be rooted in their own experiences and nature just as with the main characters. I’d that that this applies regardless of what sex the character is.
As for the very compelling account of the countless considerations a woman must navigate simply in getting dressed–one of the first things that came to mind for me was that you were discussing how to dress for the workplace. I almost wrote “the marketplace,” because it is the competitive nature of the male-dominated workplace that obliges a great deal of the concerns you listed–but not all. Some reflect the inescapable influence of power. But I’m sure garden parties with the neighbors require similar strategies, which reflects how shame plays a part in seeemingly benign social situations.
The bottom line is that we struggle to create an authentic sense of self among others, who provide both negative and positive pressure on what apsects of ourselves we feel free to express. I think you’ve both done an exceelent job of underscoring Barbara’s point that it is far more difficult for women in this culture than for men.
Sorry you found the post tediously long, Ada. But I got you to read to the end, so I win. :-)
I should mention that the book Why We Can’t Sleep by Ada Calhoun is an excellent study in all of the aspects of the self and society that are regularly fighting for dominance within the minds of an entire generation of women (GenX). If you are writing female characters of that generation and you are not in that generation, I HIGHLY recommend it as a resource to get into the minds of your characters.
Excellent recommendation, Erin, thanks. Just downloaded it onto the device.
Great thoughts, Erin, and so much of this is true for all of us women! I have to say, I’ve shed many of these expectations of how others view me as I’ve grown older and my kids are becoming teens. Perhaps this has a lot to do with gaining wisdom as I age, but it also has to do with the fact that at mid-life, I can see the end of the road speeding towards me and I don’t want to waste the second half of my life mired in regrets or silly expectations that really mean nothing, in the end.
There is no greater teacher than the awareness of our mortality.
Hello David.
It’s a daunting prospect to comment on this post (or any you publish) without reading it several times and taking notes, but the medium forces WU readers to do just that.
What now seems to replace a Platonic ideal/Aristotelian essence of self is the nature/nurture combo. Biology is 50% of our destiny, i.e., gender, race, etc., and environmental conditioning the other half (or so thinks Steven Pinker). What results from this dynamic is the self. As all know, these verities are now subject to major challenges.
Some brain scientists now deny the concept of free will, convinced that whatever we do is a consequence of pre-conscious processes.
But what difference does that make? We (and our characters) act on the assumption of being free (or free but kept from acting freely) as an identifiable self. Some are comfortable in their own skins, and struggle against forces trying to change things. Others yearn, need, struggle like hatchlings to pull free of the shell. This struggle comes either as an assault to be met in order to restore or maintain a desirable status quo (life in the egg, a desirable life of peace and sanity), or as a struggle for a new life.
Either way, we and our characters live and act on the assumption of having a character, and choosing. As you allude to, all this led in the last century to the assertion of absolute freedom, that existence precedes essence, and so we are free (or condemned) to choose, without recourse to pinning the rap on anyone or anything else. You made it, it’s yours, you broke it, you own it.
I’m a child of the 20th century, and I more or less subscribe to this existentialist point of view. I see myself and my characters as responsible agents. For good or ill, and whether they like it or not, they make decisions and act. Were I not white and male and privileged in other ways, would I hold to this view? Very possibly not.
In my own current project, my principal POV character is mostly moved by what the French call ressentiment, a kind of all-purpose sense of being wronged by the times. He has good reasons for this, but it leads to his offending family and his community. He scoffs at what he considers the illusion of change, an idea that he thinks has little meaning outside novels and movies.
So: how does such a person recover his family, and get himself readmitted into his social world without playing a part? Without being “inauthentic?” That’s my challenge: to find a way for my protagonist to recover what’s been lost, without losing his sense of self.
Thanks for a post I will read again and learn from.
Thanks, Barry. Yes, you’ve laid out the existentialist project nicely and succinctly. I’m not sure it’s as timeworn as you suggest. Sure, we may be far more the products of unconscious processes than previously believed, but as you note, what does that matter? My being conscious mind obliges me to choose, even if my unconscious mind has already done so for me. If this is an illusion of choice, so be it. I can become aware through mindfulness of what choices my unconscious elects for me, and to resist them. This creates a Russian Doll syndrome where the “real” actor keeps receding one step back. So instead we act, we face consequences, we learn, we grow–perhaps not as efficiently or quickly as we might, constantly struggling with weaknesses and limitations and wounds and the pesky influence of others, but moving in time nonetheless. It’s as up to ourselves as anyone else the extent to which we do indeed learn and grow or simply meander the labyrinth.
Your story sounds intriguing. The difficulty of being authentic among the daily demands of social and familial compromise once turned a certain Gregor Samsa into a giant bug. Here’s hoping your character makes it to the end with only two legs.
Sorry for the numerous typos in my responses so far. It’s early here on the west coast, I checked in before having any coffee, and my vision seems particularly blurry (I have what’s known as epiretinal membrane which distorts my vision). They’ve also removed the edit function which previously allowed me to go back in and tidy up my miscues. Regardless, my apologies, and I’ll try to do better.
Having never been a man, it would be unfair for me to suggest that manifesting one’s truthiness is more difficult for the male gender or female. I lean towards we are all thrown a set of choices. Most choose the easiest route. Some strive for a more difficult route.
While it is true that in this socio-economic system, it is easier for men to achieve that which is valued in dollar signs more easily, money isn’t everything. I’ve seen more than one man wonder through life vapidly and die without apparently having any conscious awareness of why he made the choices he did or who he was.
On the other hand, the person with the womb has a different set of choices presented to her. And I’ve seen plenty of women make safe choices as well, justified by their lack of imagination, or fear perhaps. Some are satisfied by their choices. Many are bitter.
As for the big “who am I” question, it’s far easier to describe the 10,000 Things than the Mother of the 10,000 Things.
Thinking I wondered off into the cosmos.
Hi, Keenan:
Nice to hear from you, thanks for chiming in.
I like the Mother of All Things analogy. I think what we’re all saying is that there is no concrete, rock-solid Self acting like an anchor as we get tossed to and fro by the forces around us. But there is a sense of going in the right direction (or the wrong direction, or merely drifting). And that sense points us toward the relationships we find most rewarding and the way of being in the world we feel is most justifiable.
My mention of my father and my professors was meant in this light. Their example acts like a compass for me, helping to guide me toward the best decisions I believe I can make.
And no matter how harsh, vindictive, oppressive, or stifling the other forces in life can be, having an idea of whose example inspires, enlightens, and guides you can help you withstand the blowback you receive from others when you don’t conform to their expectations.
Some of the most compelling characters are the ones who find their own guiding light–their daimon. It doesn’t necessarily save them–it may, in fact, “ruin their life”– but to sense its presence and trust in it helps a great deal as we wonder off into the cosmos.
“Need I add: this mirage of the solitary individual is traditionally far more appealing, even addictive, for men than women.”
Ask any mother of a newborn or tantruming toddler if this is true. ;-)
I’ve been lately bathing in the world of evolutionary psychology. Barring birth injuries, illness, or other traumas, much of our potential self is inherited and fixed within a limited range of expression, at least in the realm of the Big 5 (specific personality traits) + Intelligence. That’s not to say we can’t grow or change, because of course we can as we gain experience in how the world works and adapt our behaviors accordingly. But studies of identical twins raised apart show that we have much less ability to alter ourselves than we would like to believe.
A David born with lower conscientiousness or intelligence, for example, would likely be unable to understand what his mentors were up to, never mind strive to replicate their best behaviors. A woman of lower openness and higher conscientiousness would be unlikely to dream of running away to India, never mind leave her family to do so.)
The imperative, then, is to plant where you’re blooming–and seek out the fertile soil from the start–rather than bloom where you are planted. If you can get the environment right, it is easier to become your best self within the limits of your gene expression. (If you’re trying to eat healthfully, it’s like getting the junk food out of the house rather than having to struggle with willpower every single day.)
There are a few things that alter our lives in a way that are very hard to recover from. Motherhood and addiction are two such forces. They alter every single aspect of an individual’s agency, and many never recover their initial trajectory–that is, if they live. (For women in much of the world, pregnancy and childbirth still offer a world of peril. Obviously the same is true of addiction.)
A lot of fiction is about finding the right milieu in which to plant, including letting go of the people who push you in the wrong direction and cleaving to the ones who understand your essence. A lot is about fighting for the original dream and discovering it no longer fits you, if it ever did, then crafting newer, realistic goals. Maybe I’m blind, but I don’t recall a story that says we can actually become different people at our core.
This is getting too long, but to summarize, yes, I believe we have a stable essence. Yes, I believe we can grow and change by seeking out new environments that facilitate that essence, or changing the one we’re in.
Motherhood is a state which redefines a woman’s path in an essential way that sometimes touches men, too. But it is a visceral, archetypal struggle for many, and I understand why Barbara explores it with her considerable skillset.
Lastly, as per the comments above, we all grow to understand our place in our society’s dominance hierarchy, and that’s still largely linked to our ability to pass on our genes. For woman, much of our value is linked to our fertility. Men are no less constrained, except they are evaluated based on their worth. i.e. their ability to provide resources to any offspring they might sire.
/my $0.04. Sorry. I’m chatty today.
Hi, Jan:
You are eminently welcome to be chatty on my comment thread any time you please.
I love this: “The imperative, then, is to plant where you’re blooming–and seek out the fertile soil from the start–rather than bloom where you are planted.”
The trick there, of course, is to have experienced enough positivity in how people respond to you to trust what you think of as your talents. As an extreme example of the opposite experience: I teach in prison, and it’s one of those true cliches that most violent offenders suffered terrible abuse and little comfort, support, or praise as kids.
Also, it’s something of a luxury to choose where you want to be planted. So many people lack any such choice.
Question: when you say “essence,” what I’m inferring is not a rigid personality construct but a collection of attributes that, to return to my analogy, act more like a compass than an anchor.
For example, openness or conscientiousness are not strictly determined, they don’t crank out cookie-cutter behavior, but rather are inclinations toward a set of behaviors, inclinations that can shift to meet circumstances but don’t fundamentally change absent some lightning strike from above.
And those Big 5 personality traits can also be in conflict with each other, am I right? In fact, Barbara’s Poppy’s key struggle is between her conscientiousness and her openness.
As for “lightning strike,” that brings me to my final point: would you consider Saul’s transformation at Damascus from persecutor to proselyte an example of someone becoming fundamentally different “at their core?” Or is there a sameness deep down, perhaps a call to zealotry (not pejoratively), that remains in place?
Expand that to other religious conversions–including the somewhat curious phenomenon of one-time Trotskyites becoming fire-breathing free-market conservatives.
Finally, what of Winston in Big Brother? Does his change at the end from a rebel to a lover of Big Brother represent a change at his core?
I’m guessing these radical transformations are not so radical in your view. Nor mine. But it’s still a fascinating phenomenon.
Nice to hear from you. Hope all is well in your world.
David, I totally agree with the idea that some people inherit or land in circumstances that inhibit their ability to choose a different path going forward. That’s why racism, sexism, and wealth inequality are so fundamentally abhorrent.
Evolutionary psych would say that personality is genetically determined, but each trait operates within a defined range. (And yes, they can conflict with one another exactly as you’ve described.) Depending upon the environment, any given trait will function as balloon or millstone. So for example, take my freckled skin. Depending upon clothing and sunscreen application, latitude, time I spend outdoors, etc., it could range between a sexily stunning blistered red, or a sexily stunning freckled taupe. But it will never approach a sexily stunning mahogany. ;-)
I’m not versed in the classics so can’t speak to all your specific examples, but in general, humans will alter their outward behavior based upon either new information (formal education, life experience, experimentation, etc., especially if coupled with self-awareness) or a changing cost: benefit analysis. But outside of extreme circumstances, we will still choose to operate within our genetically determined range.
Let’s take a passionate freedom-loving, anti-maker right now. (And we’ll make them male, because testosterone leads to risk-taking and a higher proportion of disagreeable behavior, in general.) They might be persuaded to change if given data through a laborious education campaign, or if they witness the unnecessary death of a beloved grandparent. (New information/understanding of the nature of reality.) But I bet I could change their behavior in three seconds. Just have the woman of their dreams indicate she’d be available to him sexually…if only he’d wear a mask. Have her give a lip curl when discussing the non-mask-wearers. Boom. The cost:benefit analysis just shifted astronomically and his behavior will follow.
Anyway, fun stuff to think about. Thanks for the conversation.
PS: If this take interests you, I can recommend the Beat Your Genes podcast. It infuriates me at times but I have a much better understanding of human nature now and can explain ongoing puzzles I saw in my practice.
PS: All is well in my world, *touch wood*, and I have a son who worked on the front lines with Covid and escaped infection.
Hope you and yours are well!
That’s great to hear. Hope your son and the extended family remain healthy and safe–and thank him from all of us for his being there on the front lines.
Perhaps one of the reasons it’s so much harder for women is that in Western industrialized societies the role of men has been reduced to pretty much just paid work. No one’s giving men side-eye for not being at home with the kids, or not keeping the house company-ready. Being good at the one thing is enough. (Which can result in identity problems if out of work, but still.)
Whereas women are still expected to fulfill multiple roles in society – parent, housekeeper, etc etc and worker, most often – and so it becomes harder to juggle the competing roles which are all trying to define you.
Agatha Christie reflected in her memoir that there were many Agathas that people saw – including the Agatha she saw herself as – but that the truest Agatha was who God saw her as.
“Agatha Christie reflected in her memoir that there were many Agathas that people saw – including the Agatha she saw herself as – but that the truest Agatha was who God saw her as.”
This is beautiful.
David, I’ve enjoyed your essay and the ensuing discussion–it’s my wedding anniversary today so it’s natural to reflect upon how marriage and motherhood has changed me (my husband too). It brought us closer to who God created us to be. When we were younger, we were pursuing our own separate interests but it is really in loving another that you more fully become yourself. A paradox but it’s true. We have so many examples–Mother Teresa, Father Damien–who loved to the extreme.
In writing stories, I often have my main character in the center with arrows towards others where I define their relationships and conflicts. Even when a MC is alone, she can be wrestling within herself, for ex., between desire and duty. I love going to the core (the couer) of what my characters believe, what they’re willing to sacrifice, to discover what they truly love.
Hasppy Anniversary, Vijaya, and may you have many many more. I agree, I have never felt more myself than as a husband.
Thank you.
Great Agatha Christie quote, thanks, Deborah.
The growing number of white middle-aged male suicides has largely been attributed to shame over failing to find or keep work. So yeah, the single thing can have hazards all its own.
David,
I’m a day late in reading and responding, but this article made for an excellent read this Saturday morning with my coffee before I sit down to write. I don’t have anything to add to what you’ve said or what the others have said–lots of great food for thought. I’m going to print this out and make some notes and highlight and come to it again!
Thanks for reading and chiming in, Heather. And I can second Erin’s recommendation of “Why We Can’t Sleep.” MIddle-age for GenX women has proven very much to lead to “the edger of a dark wood.”
I am late again! But I just want to say I love this post. It resonates especially now in such a divided time in our history, compounded by the pandemic. This bit stood out to me, and I wanted to say it is perfectly stated: “Is it really inaccurate or unsatisfactory to say that identity is not some essence I possess but is instead relational—that, just as with our actions, my idea of who I am is intrinsically connected to how I view myself relative to others and how they view me?” We struggle to know ourselves, to evolve in wisdom and spirit. Who do I know, what do I know, who do I love? Who am I? We are what we do every day. We are ever changing, because everything around us is changing, too.