I know a guy. I call him George. He calls himself Aaron. I prefer George. It’s sort of traditional. Likewise, I call Abigail, George’s partner, Martha. I actually prefer Abigail, but it seems only fair to call her Martha. Fairness can seem important, as we’ll soon see.
George and Martha are tied in knots. Separately and jointly. Consider how they act with their son, Quincy. For now, I’ll call him Quincy.
George insists, based on childhood Episcopalian experience, that Quincy complete his homework before the evening meal. Martha’s childhood Lutheran experience dictates homework be done after the meal. Heated discussions, often entailing invocation of the deity, in which George and Martha each insisted on the inviolability of their homework perspective, led to 27 sessions with an agnostic marriage counselor. This produced compromise. Quincy would alternate homework time daily.
Alternation satisfied no one and annoyed Quincy so much that he contemplated changing his name to Jebediah or Freddy. But at least alternation seemed fair. George and Martha worked to maintain the truce but silently suffered because they couldn’t have their way. They were tied in knots.
George and Martha don’t know that when they have to have their way, they get tied in knots. Their first knot is the notion that a homework time is theirs; that the choice reflects on who and what they are and their worthiness to enter heaven.
Their second knot is that they need or deserve credit for their choice. Their third knot ties them tightly into the game of power and control in which having their way means winning, thereby justifying receipt of admiration and existence on the planet. Fortunately, they were working, albeit aided agnostically, at keeping this knot from tightening. Their fourth knot ties them each more tightly into the notion that there is a “you” with all its separateness, individuality, disconnectedness, apartness, drawing each further away from the reality of unity.
Digression. I recently visited some friends on Cape Cod. We went to the beach. As we sought a place to drop our stuff and proceed to the water, several adults came walking along, arguing whether to sit down here or there. The pack leader, urging the importance of sitting over there rather than merely here, scurried along and the rest followed, continuing their squabbling. I longed to tell them about George and Martha, to share with them how broadly the sword “It just doesn’t matter” severs the mind’s stone walls, iron bars, and, of course, its knots.
It was Quincy, name unchanged, who finally told George and Martha that enough was enough. His points were not news to them. Neither parent was getting their way, Quincy was equally relishing both the pre- and the post-meal homework sessions, and the annoyance of daily switching and keeping track was affecting only him. Accordingly, he presented a protest poster declaring he’d be the one to decide when homework gets done and ending with “Power to the students.”
Further, to guarantee his choice wouldn’t suggest favoritism toward one parent, Quincy would flip a coin. “Heads, I do homework before the meal; tails, I do it after.”
Ludicrously, George immediately responded that he wasn’t sure this was fair. Martha went further, demanding that heads be for after the meal, tails for before, thereby solidifying George’s uncertainty. George immediately counter-demanded that Martha withdraw her demand.
Without a word, Quincy looked at them. Back and forth. Silently demanding their attention. Gradually the two knotted parents stopped their quivering. They returned his gaze. Quincy spoke.
“Are you two loony? Get a grip! Is every distinction, no matter how meaningless, something you latch onto and turn into a power struggle?
“It doesn’t matter when I do my homework, and even I know the coin flip is supposed to be a random event with equiprobable outcomes. It makes no difference which outcome is assigned heads.
“It just doesn’t matter!”
George bellowed, “Next you’ll be telling us who washes the dishes and who wipes doesn’t matter.”
Martha added, “Quincy, are you claiming that who puts the disposables in the trash and recycle wagons and who wheels them out the night before pickup doesn’t matter? Is this what they teach you in school?”
Quincy stared. George’s quivering returned. Martha muttered something about communist teachers.
At last, softly, but firmly, with almost ministerial dignity, Quincy declared, “From this moment on, Dad, you must dry the dishes with cotton towels; Mom, you must dry dishes with synthetic towels; and you both will call me Ringo.”
Richard S. Bogartz is professor emeritus of psychology at the University of Massachusetts Amherst.
