An Abbreviated Life by Ariel Leve

Author:Ariel Leve
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-04-18T16:00:00+00:00

THE NOVELIST AND I stood in the restaurant, leaning against the long wooden bar, waiting for a table to open up. We’d arrived early—fifteen minutes before our dinner reservation. The hostess had flinched when she said, “I am so sorry the table isn’t ready.” She looked devastated. “Don’t worry,” he replied. “It’s no problem at all.” Southern manners were in full force.

He suggested we have some oysters at the bar. “Sure,” I said, why not. I was in Oxford, Mississippi, a place I had never been, having oysters—a food I rarely ate—with an eminent southern novelist whose work championed a life-affirming view.

Being on assignment, specifically for writing a profile, was a mission I enjoyed. To extract and explore another person’s inner life meant I could temporarily set aside all the uncertainties and anxieties in my own life. Personal details shared were no less real, but there would be no fallout. Talking in this context was a designated freedom.

But this conversation was different. We had gotten into a genial debate. Is what happened to us what we become? His position toward overcoming misfortunes of the past banked on the virtue of self-discipline. A hardening of one’s emotional arteries.

“How we are imprinted is something we are not to be victimized by,” he had said. Part of this conversation—his point of view—would later find its way into the interview I was doing.

There was a toughness in his stance that I respected, even though it rattled me. He had a pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps attitude that was intolerant of any alternative.

I had taken a stand, without trying to. And suddenly things had flipped. Rather than reveal something to him, I had revealed something to myself.

“There are,” I countered, with a conviction that surged from the tips of my toes, “certain people who have been front-loaded with trauma that shapes who they are. They are disabled. Psychologically. And this does not make them victims. It makes them soldiers.”

I thought of people whose limbs were not long enough to step over the mess or swat it away. They tried and failed. Why? Did they lack strength of character? Were they simply not dogged enough?

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