Most of my American cohort here are applying to and receiving word from the same International Relations graduate programs.
Most of them have spent their lives successfully competing for sports teams, school admissions, internships, jobs, and grants and fellowships. For many, this may be the first time that they're hearing "no" or seeing their dreams hindered. (Or that may come later still. Or never.)
I'm finding myself in a different situation: one in which so many of the things I have wanted require little competition-- in fact, much more cooperation than competition. But it's March Madness among my American peers, and I'm surrounded by wins and losses. And, as you know, I've had plenty of time and opportunity to think about loss and failure in my life.
I think you might be laughing at me (or with me or whatever).
Maybe you're thinking that I'm implying privilege in my peer group without applying it to myself.
Maybe you're wondering what failure I could possibly know compared to some of our mutual friends.
I get it. What do you want me to say?
We all only have our own problems, and hopefully we can see with and through and beyond them to be empathetic, sympathetic, compassionate, and good to each other.
Maybe you're thinking that I'm implying privilege in my peer group without applying it to myself.
Maybe you're wondering what failure I could possibly know compared to some of our mutual friends.
I get it. What do you want me to say?
We all only have our own problems, and hopefully we can see with and through and beyond them to be empathetic, sympathetic, compassionate, and good to each other.
And this was one of the first things my father taught me: live by the Golden Rule. Do your best, do what's right, and live by the Golden Rule.
I have a very specific memory from Kindergarten, one in which he was taking me to school (which would have been unusual, because at that time in my life he was the one to pick me up from school-- but it might have been the first few days, so the occasion might've called for his presence; also, Mom had just had Spencer, so she might've been laid up). I am in my uniform, which is a bit scratchy, and I have bangs (truly-- I had bangs in Kindergarten and haven't had them since until now). I am particularly proud of my new glasses and my saddle shoes: I feel like a real school girl. I'm not nervous about school, except about math. I'm not even nervous about making friends (this doesn't come until later in my life). It must be the first day, because Dad makes a special point to squat down so that we're at the same eye level, and he puts his hands on my shoulders. "Now, you remember our three rules?" And he says them with me as I repeat this mantra. Do your best. Do what's right. And live by the Golden Rule. "And always say your 'please's and 'thank you's."
I don't know if it's because of the rhythm of the rules, but "do your best" always came first. More on this later.
Another specific memory comes from age seven and Fred Meyer. I don't even remember what I wanted, but I remember when Dad told me, "you can't always get what you want, but [...] you get what you need." This was a big idea for me. Awesome in the strictest sense of the word.
These tenets, and perhaps a few other things, set me up to expect few handouts and a lot from myself. I knew that my parents expected a lot from me, too.
So, when I began to experience loss consciously, at about age fifteen, I framed it in terms of "did I do my best to achieve it? Did I do what's right? Did I live by the Golden Rule? Had I expected more than what I needed?"
[There is documented loss in my life before this-- but mostly it's surreal, hazy, and something about which I have very little understanding.]
Loss: loss of innocence, giving up a position on a team, losing that boy to another girl, growing apart from a childhood friend, losing faith in your role models, losing faith in your religion, being second-or-third-string, quitting what you love, running away, losing sanity, becoming an adult, betrayal, violation, failing two semesters of graduate school, knowing you can lie to your talk therapist without her realizing it, giving up on a long-term and deep friendship, regret, missing a single day with the one you love, knowing that others who love it less are better at what you love to do, finding out that choosing one thing means not choosing another, or rather, that every opportunity taken is another opportunity left behind. You cannot have everything. You cannot experience everything.
I would-- and consistently still do-- frame my losses in terms of not having done my best or even enough. That when I lost, that was tied up with me, that by doing better next time I could achieve what I wanted. That my best wasn't just what I'd managed to do, but it was a measurement of potential that often exceeded what I'd done that day. That the loss that I was experiencing was within my control.
I've lost at backgammon a lot here. I think of the days I spend here with the cooking that I can bring myself to do and not in the company of the people I love most, and I wonder. I wonder especially about jealousy.
Why do we compete (try?!) when we know that loss is at stake? That we may have to experience the jealousy of those who didn't do so well? Who achieved second place? Can we divorce competition from jealousy? Or, can we divorce achievement from competition? There are competing views on this.
The people who're studying performance seriously these days are finding a connection between performance and a combination of cooperation and competition: it's important to be on a team (something bigger than yourself) and critical to strive-- not for the win, but for mastery. Thus, performance becomes more closely tied to the process of learning than to the ends of achievement.
And so I've been trying to think about how to shift my perspective away from getting what I want or even comparing those wants to what others have achieved towards learning from the process of mastery. I mean:
- Why am I participating in this? Is it because of an end goal I want? Is it to learn?
- How do I treat myself if I experience disappointment in the process? Do I blame myself? Do I see what's in my control and what's outside of my control?
- What I want: is it what I need? Or am I driven by the ambitions of the people I'm surrounded by? Will it actually contribute to my happiness?
- Is there more than one satisfactory option?
- If I feel like I'm losing, or failing, can I see what benefit can be reaped from the situation? Does my failure in one area of my life indicate a necessary redirection of my energies into another?
I saw this strange video from Solange (yes, Beyonce's little sister) several months ago, and at first I could not make sense of it. I'm still not sure I can. I was bewildered by the tone of the video in the face of the loss described in the song. She seemed so cool, even good-humored about it (I mean, the woman's got an infectious smile).
But then! I thought,
But then! I thought,
- if I can take into consideration that my loss in competition is a result of things not entirely within my control,
- if what I can do in a day is actually my best and that my best is being who I am,
- if who I am doesn't want all the same things everyone else wants,
- if loss doesn't necessarily exclude learning,
- and if loss may indicate the need to refocus my energies on some other pursuit that may be better for me
why shouldn't I be good-humored about loss? Why can't I acknowledge the [socially-ingrained] desire for achievement, the painful pang of loss, and then see where that loss leads me? See achievement as taking care of my needs, not as a reflection of what others have or want.
We can't avoid competition, and we can't cut other people out of our lives entirely, but I think we can eradicate jealousy and a lot of the pain of loss by acknowledging our differences from others and seeing that their needs and wants are not our own.
We can't avoid competition, and we can't cut other people out of our lives entirely, but I think we can eradicate jealousy and a lot of the pain of loss by acknowledging our differences from others and seeing that their needs and wants are not our own.
I have lost some things this year; it's not because I didn't do my best, either. But in taking care of my needs, I've realized that losing things I've wanted (or have been ambitious about) means the opportunity to point myself in another direction. It doesn't mean that I'm getting any more control (in fact, I hope I'm not!), but it does tell me more about who I am. And that's worth smiling for.
So, my cohort: I hope that you can continue to strive for mastery, but that if you are experiencing loss right now, that you can recognize it as a chance to learn more about yourself. That you can be good-humored enough to see that many factors influence a win and that it doesn't all depend upon you. It doesn't always depend upon you. Be freed by this.
