2018.07.15 Portraits of Resilience, Daniel Jackson—Rave Book Review

Sathya Silva, 2016 MIT graduate, doctorate in Aeronautics and Astronautics, human performance investigator,  NTSB

Silva is one of twenty-five portraits, interspersed with photos of campus sites, in this beautiful book by Daniel Jackson, photographer and Professor of Computer Science at Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT). The book was published in 2017 by MIT Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, and is dedicated in part with words of a blessing prayer  from his own religious tradition. 

            Blessed be the One who makes darkness pass and brings light
                        (blessing prayer from the Sephardic liturgy)

“Depression may seem to be an unpromising topic for an uplifting book.” writes Jackson in his Introduction.

And yet . . . Jackson (above) wondered, marveled really, at the resilience he uncovered and brought to light. “I was encountering depression all around. Every term, ten or more students in my class were seeking advice as they found themselves falling behind—and not due to any lack of talent or commitment.” Jackson wrote. MIT had experienced a rash of suicides, however suicide is, of course, not unique to the MIT community. “I had an inkling that members of my community—the students, faculty and administrators of MIT—would have more to share than sad stories.”

Pursuing his “inkling”, Jackson created Portraits. I say “create” rather than authored, because Jackson needed the help, courage, and honesty of many many people to give shape and bring light to his idea: that people suffer in silence and shame because of the social stigma placed on depression, a powerful stigma that keeps people from healing, binds them in shame, and isolates them in darkness. Stigma, I believe, can also be a source of violence because it is rooted in fear, and fear annihilates, from within or without.

I first heard Jackson and two of his portrait subjects interviewed on WGBH’s "Greater Boston." Inspired, I bought the book, read it, located Jackson through the faculty email list, scheduled a time for a conversation, then made my way in high noon July heat to MIT. Miraculously, I did not get lost (my wont). I entered this world of Science—a foreign land to me. Honestly, every wall, not simply inside classrooms, was white board. Most were filled with scrawls of equations of what looked like ancient cuneiform. I gawked. And they think religion is gobbledegook!?

When I left, after an hour and a half of one of the most exhilarating conversations I’d had in some time, I was invigorated. The heat didn’t seem so heavy as I made my way home, wondering, remembering.  

Depression and addiction run all through my family on all sides. Both were always unmentionable, disguised, as in “Wasn’t Uncle XXX affable tonight?” This uncle was drunk. This uncle was depressed. These two often go together. Two cousins, one from each side of my family, committed suicide. I think my dad was depressed and alcohol temporarily unlocked his mood. My own children and theirs are not immune. I get it. Things are better today with psychotherapy and medication, yet no therapy heals unless clients are willing and able to tell the truth about their deepest inner struggles. One reason I eventually trained to become a therapist is because I believe in the healing power of story—true story told to a compassionate other who listens. You can tweak behavior and cognition ten ways to Sunday, and it helps. Still, it’s surface mechanics.

Jackson found, as I have, that to break the barriers of secrecy, privacy, and anonymity we set up to protect ourselves from being ourselves, is no easy task. It takes tons of energy to keep yourself a secret—energy that is withheld from living your life fully. Secret-keeping diminishes your aliveness, mutes your identity. Jackson long ago gave up asking undergraduates to place name tags on their desks, because, although they would say their names when asked, there was a tacit commitment to anonymity.  “It seemed to me that anonymity was unwittingly stigmatizing depression even more.” The same is true of addictions, although I understand the need for anonymity in early recovery to build trust in Twelve Step support groups.

With a sparkle in his voice, Jackson told me: “The subversive message of this book is that not all of us are ‘normal’”—appearances to the contrary.  He set out to break the code of privacy, to celebrate these storytellers, put their names in the light as if to say: Here I am in my own words, and here's my face.

This beautiful creation should be omnipresent: on every library shelf and bookstore, in waiting rooms of every healing profession, in hospitals, classrooms, law offices, prisons, in all places where religious community gathers to pray and contemplate, in Yoga studios, spiritual direction offices, athletic clubs, boardrooms, and of course on every coffee table.  Why? It offers true wisdom for a world on the brink of a new moral movement. How do people manage to choose life over and over and over? In time I hope this large volume will be re-published in a smaller format, more accessible, portable, and available to those with limited resources.

I asked Jackson what the most exciting thing was for him about this project, beside the flood of responses he got to his invitation to “come out” with depression. He said: “Most exciting and unexpected to me was the fact that these people, while in the very midst of despair, asked the most profound life questions, and derived remarkable insights from their struggles."

Spirituality is about the depth dimension of experience, and Jackson’s book accesses that beautifully and without judgment. Spirituality also has a social dimension. Stunningly, most of these depressed people found that the consistent presence of friends—friends who showed up and kept showing up, never giving up on them—were a foundational factor in their ability over and over to choose life, their own life.

Religion too was a healing factor for many portrait subjects. Why? You’d think there would be more anger at feeling abandoned by God, empty promises, or not being rescued from the darkness. Religion provides structure, hope, prayer, community, ethical guidelines, and the simple assurance of a sacred Presence who cares about each person—no matter what.

Jackson thought that the role of chaplains at MIT was misunderstood. “Chaplains offer a perspective—of much value and different from that of science.” Having been a chaplain myself in several settings, I’d say there is little more powerful than praying with a frightened vulnerable person, touching with permission, anointing with healing oils, blessing, listening forever. I can’t say how but it lifted me, the patient, and perhaps the family, out of the drear of cold, hard reality—momentarily and always.

I was saddened to hear Jackson say that, although his colleagues were supportive, the adjective “religious” at MIT was generally used to discount or dismiss an idea or concept as fanciful.

One subject, Rosalind Picard, Professor in the Program in Media Arts and Sciences and Faculty Chair of the MIT Mind-Hand Heart Initiative, challenged this attitude: “I grew up as an atheist, and I know religion is not a comfortable topic. And religious practice is not the only protective factor. But at MIT, we have to talk about all these pillars of well-being.”


We do not have much time to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel the way with us, so be swift to love and make haste to be kind, and the blessing of the One who brings light into darkness be upon you and within you this day and always. AMEN.    (Amiel, paraphrase)   

2016.10.09 Maybe It IS the Economy, Stupid?

Some years ago I changed my political party affiliation with some trepidation, sneaking into Town Hall and feeling like “Judas.” I used to argue with my father the Republican when I was a college student full of zeal and ill-digested information. Once I told him I favored economic socialism and political democracy. I still might. He loved me anyway.

My parents had been loyal Republicans their whole adult lives, and I followed along without much thought until I recognized that the values of my Christian faith coincided closely with those of the Democratic party. Biblical heroes championed social justice for the marginalized and the poor, an economy that served all people, not just the rich, and yes, a government that looked more like Robin Hood —foolishly generous—than the CEO of a huge corporation—foolishly hoarding. I still consider it a privilege to pay taxes to help those less fortunate than I am enjoy equal access to the ample resources we have in this wealthy country.

Over time I understood politics from my parent’s generational point of view. They were twenty-somethings when the Great Depression threatened their dreams, made them afraid, very Republican, and politically focused on “the economy, stupid.”  Dad was honest, generous, hard-working, and not a corporate show-off. He consumed martini lunches with the best of the “mad men,” yet he was a principled capitalist. In fact he left his NYC ad agency in 1970 when the executives started manipulating their ads to enhance products. He said it was unethical.

I bet today Dad would be voting for Hillary, not only because he was the father of three daughters, but also because she understands the basics of principled economic policies.  This daughter would say she knows how to kick ass and stay balanced.

I recently received a note from a brother Episcopal priest in Overland Park, Kansas, the Rev. Robert Terrill. He makes a connection between Christian faith and the economy, just as I did years ago and do today. He wrote:

“My college degree is in business and economics and over the years I've held fast to the Keynesian principles that have governed progressive economic policies of Democratic Administrations. These economic principles closely represent the ideals of Frederick Denison Maurice, the architect of Anglican Christian Socialism, though I am not a socialist. I'm in favor of regulated, controlled Capitalism that does not screw labor and consumers. The attached article is an editorial that was published by the Kansas City Star, our metropolitan newspaper:

This year's Presidential race is about personalities. I disagree. My vote will be about economic
principles.Conservatives suggest that the principle of free market capitalism is hope of the nation.

However, in each historic period this principle results in a national and world wide depression,
including high unemployment, low productivity, high interest rates, and low acquisition of capital for investment. Think 1933 and 2008.

Progressives have historically corrected these economic blunders by increased government
borrowing and spending, reduced interest rates, increased borrowing by business and
consumers, increasing the flow of money into the economy, and thereby producing jobs,
increased profits and higher wages, increased taxable income, thereby reducing the federal
deficit. This occurred in both the presidencies of Franklin Roosevelt and Bill Clinton.

This is why I will vote for Secretary Clinton, not Donald Trump. Both personalities, while
important, are insignificant.

Hey Dad! Is God a Democrat? Are you one yet?  I love you no matter what.  
     

2014.11.09 Suicide Prevention and Preventive Parenting

In the Nov/Dec, 2014 issue of Poets and Writers Magazine there is a piece by Kevin Nance about Charles D’Ambrosio, a writer who uses words to write with imagined sympathy about his father, who found no fathering within himself.  D’Ambrosio is the author of a new book of creative nonfiction essays called Loitering.

The article tells some of the painful story about a rejecting abusive father, two of whose sons attempted suicide, one succeeded the other survived. D’Ambrosio manages to conveys unimaginable yet imagined sympathy for a dad with whom he never could connect, despite efforts. The article revealed some information I had intuited, but not known, from an outside source about suicide dynamics and prevention. It also sent me a memory, one that told me I had an empathic heart—always a good thing to remember.     

I remember Bradford, the name I will give this cousin. He used to stand in a corner looking sad, if not gloomy, at the annual, command performance, family Thanksgiving gatherings at my grandparent’s home. I used to look forward to these gatherings. The food was plentiful, the grandfather of choice was there with his quiet chuckle and enormous cigar, and the variety of cousins were fascinating to observe. I was particularly observant of Bradford.

He was ten or more years older than I was. Even at young ages I knew he was moviestar handsome—thick black hair, dark brooding intensity, and large eyes. He was an amazing tennis player, I’d heard, and went to some prep school I’d never heard of. He was not approachable, at least by me. I was probably just as shy and introverted as he was, yet I didn’t feel as sad as he looked.

Bradford’s mother was what today we would call certifiable. She was an angry little woman, a jokster who thought nothing of tormenting her children with belittling remarks she thought were hilarious. I shudder to think how she might have been treated as a child. I also couldn’t understand why my uncle, whom I thought pretty decent and kind, did nothing to reach out to his son, at least that I saw.

One seminal story is enough. When Bradford was a teen his mother began to screech at the elevator operator in the  NYC apartment building to stop the elevator at once: “Stop, stop the elevator,” she shouted in front of several people. Then she turned to her son to say, “Bradford, we’ve forgotten your teddy bear.” Some personalities could slough this kind of humiliation off, but not sensitive Bradford who shrank from such assaults. It was cruel. I hated this woman. I refused to think of her as “aunt.”

We all grew up and life changed as it does. I didn’t think more about this until I heard from my parents that Bradford had committed suicide, in his late twenties I think. I remember my first nasty thought, something like “No wonder.” And I felt so sad, wishing I had tried harder to befriend him.

I know this is a small slice of life and I know few details. I know things were very much more complex than my own vicarious trauma for Bradford. I also know the family had a story and  a history that is not mine to know. Bradford’s siblings survived well enough. Now I’m sure that Bradford probably suffered from ongoing untreated depression, which, back in the 40s, was misunderstood and shamed, just as suicide was. Depression is a medical diagnosis but despair is not. It’s a spiritual diagnosis.

When Bradford died I had another thought I kept secret: “She won.” I don’t remember any funeral or further talk. I forgot Bradford, and I never forgot him. I hope he rests in peace in the vast embrace of God whose love, I believe, compensates for all the failings of human love.

The new information on depression and suicide I referenced above is relevant to Bradford’s situation. D’Ambrosio’s "killer" father tyrannized his household and created despair in his sons. But his mother taught him sympathy.

“Suicide is very often granting someone else that person’s wish. In this case I believe that to be true,” D’Ambrosio said about his father, to whom “the idea of family was heinous—antithetical, really to how he saw himself,” according to Jon Fontana who is married to one of D’Ambrosio’s sisters. Of course D’Amrosio’s father was terrorized by his own father, but does the beat have to go on?

According to the late Edwin Shneidman, a professor of thanatology at UCLA and the putative father of suicidology, “In one way, suicide is homicide to the 180th degree.” I thought of Bradford. I also thought of the book This Is How It Feels written from the inside of suicidality.

Of course this is only one perspective about the issue, but it is an important one to consider. Kudos to Charles D’Ambrosio for using his writing gift to write with such poignancy, authenticity, and, yes, compassion about the terrorism and tragedy he survived.

So what’s preventive here and where is the good news?

-I’m not planning anything rash, in case my interest in this topic alarms anyone.
-Parents always reject their kids to varying degrees; it’s usually not personal to the child.
-Schools address this topic with honesty. Promote mental health. Don’t wait for a tragedy.
-Consider preventive parenting/mindful parenting: If you are contemplating having children, disregard religious pressure and any literalistic interpretations or the biblical mandate to procreate. Rather, know yourself, and the mate who will parent with you, very very very very well, history and all— even if you need therapeutic help to accomplish this. Love isn’t enough. If you're not fit to parent in any way, be humble. Forget the Holy Family model—sweet, but dated.
-If you become a parent and can’t cope, don’t take it out on the child. To abandon is better than to destroy.
-Have conversations in church about the wisdom, or not, of setting up parental dynamics with God and clergy.  Is that really a healthy projection?  Jesus did grow up, remember.
-Pray for yourself.

I am filled with gratitude for my parents and all parents who do their very best, often against odds.  I give thanks for those who choose against parenting for good reasons, and with cost. I am grateful for myself, my former and present spouses, my children and theirs. Thanksgiving.  


   


2013.06.30 Writing In The Dark

"The good writing of any age has always been the product of someone's neurosis, and we'd have a mighty dull literature if all the writers that came along were a bunch of happy chuckleheads." William Styron

Don’t be afraid of the dark spots in your life. Let them be visible. The author of the above quote,  William Styron, suffered from clinical depression for years. Out of its depths he wrote with profound empathy for human flawedness and human grandeur, even in himself when he wrote his book on his own depression, called Darkness Visible.

Most famous for Sophie’s Choice Styron wrote from the interstices of what classical theology called experimentum crucis, the experience of the cross, the matter of hideous choices.

We all have such times of despair and loneliness and fear that now, and ultimately, there is nothing. It is often the very place where we find something more, something mysterious, something impossible that allow us to enter the paradox of hope against hope.

One of my own such moments came when I’d been rejected twice for ordination. Delusionally, I thought I was nothing, God was nothing, and the Church was definitely nothing. And from somewhere deep inside me or outside me, I couldn’t tell which and it could have been both, I heard something: No one can take this away from you. Truth.

And that kind of truth is what we write about—always and repeatedly. It’s not the drama of the dilemma nor the triumph of new life, but the in between process of bearing up no matter what until your inner eyes can actually see luminosity in the darkness itself. 

And that is what we write—over and over, this theme with endless individual variations.