Personal Relationships = Mathematical Equations?

As a first year graduate student, I took a course in literary criticism and theory. We got an overview of various contemporary trends: formalism, the so-called “new” criticism, structuralism, deconstruction, reader-response, psychoanalytic, Marxist, new historicism, feminist, queer theory, and multiculturalism. It made for heavy reading by scholars who take themselves too seriously, in my opinion; but the class was lively, thanks to the professor’s wisecracks. Serious thoughts disguised as humor: we joked it was Dr. Neff’s Comedy Hour.

One night, my husband looked at my notes for Russian formalism. Dr. Neff had photocopied pages from Morphology of a Folktale by Vladimir Propp, a Russian scholar. The handout included an analysis of a folk story. The scholar had broken down each element of the story (such as characters, individual actions, dialogue, etc.), assigned it a number and letter, and created this:

equation for a story

 

My husband of one year laughed. “That’s not even a real equation!” he said. “It doesn’t mean anything. It wouldn’t work.”

Secretly, I agreed, but was too proud of my newfound scholarly knowledge to let him know. And who was he to assess Propp’s scheme? He was just an engineer. A mere rocket scientist!

Now we joke about the “equation” for a story. He was right: trying to reduce a story to a series of numbers and letters strips away the meaning (not to mention the pleasure of reading.)

But isn’t that how we often view others? People, some we know, some we don’t, are placed in a demographic category. Race. Gender. Clothing. Job. Marital status. Socio-economic class. We define others in broad terms and draw conclusions about them based on those categorical terms.

It’s not just other people, though. Often, we define ourselves by those terms. I’ve been in Bible studies where women are asked to introduce themselves to the group. (I cringe.) The first woman says, “I’m (name) and I’m married to (name) and we have (number) of children.” The next woman follows her example. When a single woman is reached, she says, “I’m (name) and I don’t have a husband or children, but I do (job title).”

And I cringe even more.

The first woman defines herself in categorical terms of who she is related to (husband and children).

What if your husband dies? I want to ask. What if he leaves you or you leave him or your kids die or rebel and refuse to speak to you ever again? Who are you then, when that’s all stripped away?

The last woman defines herself in categorical terms describing what she does not have (husband and child) and her job (which seems tacked on, as if it’s a consolation prize for not “winning” the jackpot of the husband-and-child combo.)

Oh, so your job’s just a piddly little thing. It doesn’t mean anything to you? Why did you take it? What’s your passion? Who are you, really, when you stop thinking of yourself as you-as-person-who-lacks and start thinking of you-as-person-who-has?

In both cases, there’s no truly significant thing conveyed about her. Just her. Not her in relation to others, but simply her.

Granted, this is easy to do. My description of myself on this blog includes the husband-and-kid factors. [See the upper right corner, under my photo.] It’s not completely without value as a shorthand way of conveying important information for, say, a dating website.

But wait, that phony mathematical equation (or whatever Propp called it) wasn’t about individual elements, was it?

It was about a story, and a story is more than its individual elements of characters or plot. Think of the story’s elements (those letters and numbers in the equation) as individual people. What does that make the story-equation as a whole? Relationships between people.

Can I possibly analyze my relationship with another person this way? Think of your closest relationship and how complex it is. (Anyone who isn’t a hermit in a desert has some point in her life where her existence touches others.)

I could try to turn my marriage into a scheme à la Propp, but there are fifteen years of shared jokes, fights, memories, children, high points, low points, passion, sadness, joy, words spoken, actions taken . . . I can’t do it. I could try with friends, parents, kids, doctors. Those would all fail, too.

Yet sometimes I try. Not on paper, but in my mind and how I think about those individuals and our relationship. I reduce our interactions to simplistic terms that fail to capture the multilayered, sometimes contradictory feelings we carry toward another person. I do this because I can’t fully understand all the ways I, as a complex individual, relate to another complex individual. So I focus on one aspect to the exclusion of others: she drives me crazy, he’s so sweet, I hate that she’s so snobby, eww that homeless guy smells bad . . .

This impoverishes our spirits. It hurts our relationships with others.

It rips away an opportunity to understand the depths of our individuality and our relation to the world around us.

If relationships were stories, then we would be more of a sprawling, epic War and Peace-sized tome than familiar fairytale-length stories like “Princess and the Pea.”

Defining ourselves or others only in terms of certain elements of our lives is like taking a novel of Tolstoyian proportions and reducing it to a mathematical equation. It doesn’t work.

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7 thoughts on “Personal Relationships = Mathematical Equations?

  1. That equation reminds me of the poetry graph in Dead Poets Society—-what Mr. Keating wanted his student to rip from their textbook!

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  2. Studying probability has made me wonder just how much is predictable. Having read nearly all of Isaac Asimov’s books in my youth, in which he explored the possibility of a sociological science that could mathematically predict human behaviour… well, the idea is intriguing. But we can’t even predict when it will rain (this is a pressing concern where I live!) so I can’t see that we’re anywhere near such a thing any time soon. Nevertheless the idea of numbers and patterns of logic being able to predict human-related outcomes is fascinating.

    Incidentally, I had to answer a question about the Challenger space shuttle’s O-rings in my last assignment. Haven’t the foggiest what they are, I just know that they’re what failed when the space ship exploded and I had to demonstrate an understanding of the probability of their failure. I have yet to find out whether I demonstrated my knowledge or my ignorance o_O

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    1. As I wrote this post, I thought of you and your studies! That’s interesting about your question regarding the Challenger’s O-rings. My husband is a rocket scientist, and though he wasn’t working for NASA at the time of the explosion, he has studied what went wrong with that space shuttle, and Columbia. (Debris, in the second case. He analyzed debris for two years after that accident!) Despite being the wife of a rocket scientist, I don’t have any idea what an O-ring is, either. Most of his work goes over my head. I’m still overwhelmed by the idea that at certain speeds, air behaves like a fluid. This is why I’m a novelist, not an astronaut!

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  3. Those identifiers – married/single, job, where you’re from, whatever – seem to me to be superficial, but then again they also give us some touchstone from which we can then move on to deeper relationship. The tragedy is when it stays superficial or (as in your example) it leads others to think they are forced to use the same categories; that’s a real stifler of enjoying our diversity in those situations.

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    1. True. Things can be both superficial and significant. I do like to have some idea of a person’s background, if only to learn what subjects might not be interesting to that other person so I can avoid them. But it’s hard when people don’t give me anything about themselves beyond the obvious; I quickly get frustrated and bored with these topics. I think many people do want to deepen relationships, but they are either afraid to go deeper, or have never learned the necessary relationship skills, or both.

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