Try as he might, my father simply had no comprehension of the intricate workings of the human mind.
To the end of his 92 years, my Dad’s mind remained pretty sharp. So it baffled me that, despite his good memory, we had several serious conversations multiple times on the same subjects. It’s taken me the two years since his passing to understand why.
One such conversation centered on the fact that Dad’s youngest sister, Mary Therese (who, unlike Dad, was suffering the initial stages of dementia), had nostalgically recalled the time when Dad and Mom, newly married, had welcomed her into their home for a long stay during her difficult adolescence. Her remark bewildered Dad. It had never happened.
Years after his sister’s passing, Dad asked me again and again, “Why would she say that?” Each time, I patiently explained that, as an adolescent in a snit with their mother, this was what his sister had wanted to happen. In dementia, her brain translated the memory of that longing into what had happened.
Each time we held this discussion, Dad would respond to my explanation with no less bewilderment than he had to his sister’s inaccurate memories.
In another repetitive conversation, Dad, angry at a relative who’d disposed of several old family photos, raged about the situation. Calmly but sadly, I explained that the individual in question had been molested as a child by a family member, and although most of the adults of the family at least suspected the truth, only one person had attempted to help him. “Why would he want photos of the people who failed to protect him?” I asked, quite reasonably, I thought. Yet I found myself repeating this explanation numerous times, as Dad once more demanded to know why his relative had discarded the photos.
Dad also questioned me continually about particular behaviors demonstrated by my mother during her final years, when mental illness exacerbated her unsocial conduct. Responsive to his need to understand, I would describe the distorted thought processes that led to Mom’s behavior. Despite my repeated explanations, though, Dad continued to ask me the same question for months. His question recycled until I, at the limit of my patience, snapped, “Because she could, Dad!”
Now, years after my father’s passing, I finally understand that he asked these repetitive questions, endlessly receiving the same simple explanations, because he genuinely did not understand any of it. It was not just the behaviors he questioned, but my explanations of them, that made not the least bit of sense to him. He just kept hoping that they would do so. The complexities of human behavior were, for Dad, ever mysteries, because he lacked the ability to comprehend modes of thinking other than his own.
Put simply: He just didn’t get it.
Had I been on a horse heading to Damascus, that revelation would have knocked me right off.
Suddenly, a whole host of behaviors demonstrated by other people–behaviors that had been utterly inexplicable to me—were made clear. I could not comprehend their conduct because their manner of thinking was so different to my own. Racism, incivility, violence, a lack of self-control, the absence of empathy: these behaviors made no sense to me because my own brain was wired so differently. It did not matter how many times that someone demonstrating such conduct, holding such beliefs, might explain their standpoint: I would never understand.
No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t get it.
Unlike my Dad, however, I had enough comprehension of human behavior that I could unravel the contorted thought processes leading to their viewpoints and behaviors. I might not, possibly never would–probably didn’t even want to–comprehend, but I could imagine . I could chart paths for distorted thinking: fear, that led to white supremacist beliefs; egotism and arrogance that demanded others follow one as a standard-bearer. I could stand witness to the desperation that lay behind a need to control others; I could unravel the pitiless narcissism that lay behind a lack of empathy. Having known anxiety myself, I could observe a fall down the rabbit hole of conspiracy theories, starting with that first step into the quagmire.
I could never replicate the thought processes of those whose viewpoints were so diametrically opposed to my own, but I could stand outside the circle of their existence and, looking in, gain some slight comprehension of their intent. By doing so, I could sometimes learn to tolerate, if not accept, their behavior.
Most importantly, though, needing forgiveness myself for so many wrongs done throughout my life, both those realized and unrealized, I could learn to forgive what I could never accept.
Genuinely comprehending others is the first step to making peace, even with those whose thinking is so different from our own that we would spend a lifetime working to undo the results of their beliefs. And sometimes, just sometimes, it may help us meet the incomprehensible halfway.
As always, feel free to repost any quotes from, or this full essay, with author attribution.
Speaking to the Heart of Many Matters 