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Interview: Taking Care of Our Stories

 

Dr. William Randall

Dr. William Randall


Ask William Randall the secret of a happy old age and he will tell you, "Aging Well requires a good strong story."

Dr. Randall is professor in gerontology at St. Thomas University in Fredericton (New Brunswick) and director of the Centre for Interdisciplinary Research on Narrative.

His research has appeared in numerous papers and several books, including Reading Our Lives: The Poetics of Growing Old (with Elizabeth McKim, Oxford University Press). He is listed in 2000 Outstanding Scholars of the 20th Century.

AHB reached him in Fredericton.

Ruth Dempsey: You begin your research, not with the usual list of statistics, but with, "Once upon a time . . ." Why is this?

Bill Randall: Since earliest times, human beings have been storytelling creatures. We think, feel, decide, learn and believe in terms of stories. In fact, we experience our very selves – our identity, if you will – through stories: "the story of my life", we call it.

RD: "Our story may be the most precious possession we all have, especially the older we grow." How so?

BR: Late life brings with it many challenges and changes, and because of these, it can confront us with an "identity crisis" that can be every bit as powerful as when we were in our teens. To cope with that crisis and face those challenges, we need, in effect, a good strong story.

Too often, though, gerontology has dwelt on the bad news about the aging process: loss of mobility, agility, memory, or hair – that sort of thing. The good news has been all but overlooked.

What is that good news? One way of expressing it is that, the older we get, the "thicker" our story becomes inside of us – the accumulated memories and impressions of all the people we have known, events we have experienced, troubles we’ve seen and so forth.

Also, we can get considerable enjoyment from telling our stories and a renewed or enhanced sense of meaning and purpose in our lives. If our stories are ultimately who we are, then this is no wonder.

RD: You believe we can find more opportunities to tell and listen to each other’s stories. Can you explain?

BR: In a close and respectful "co-authoring" relationship, for example, with a dear and long-standing friend, we have the wonderful feeling that the person knows our story "inside and out". Naturally, they will only have their particular version of that story, which will not be exactly the same as the one we have of it ourselves. And they will inevitably "storyotype" us to some degree. But all in all, we feel not just familiar with them but safe somehow as well.

When they listen to us, they do not interrupt us continually to talk about themselves. Instead, they attend to what we’re saying in a deep and caring manner, which invariably helps us open up. We feel freer, that is, to try on alternative interpretations of events and issues in our lives that, for whatever reasons, we find painful or puzzling.

"You can’t tell who you are unless someone is listening", it’s been said. Or as a sticker on my fridge at home expresses it, "What people really need is a good listening to".

And of course it’s not just in the context of friendships that such story-listening occurs; it happens in therapy as well, in marriages (ideally, at least), in support groups of various sorts and it can happen in a learning environment as well – a life-writing group would be a good example – as we press past the superficial chit-chat and settle down to sharing with one another our deeper thoughts and feelings.

RD: You write about how when someone close to us dies, that person’s departure "de-stories us." Can you give me an example?

BR: This is perhaps a strong term, I admit. However, I tend to think of close relationships, for instance, with friends or family members or with partners in marriage, as "co-authoring" relationships.

In other words, a good part of my story is bound up with your story and with our story, too. That is, all the things that we’ve gone through together; that we’ve suffered, seen, celebrated; all the memories we’ve shared. So, when you go, a part of me goes, too – a part of my identity, a central subplot or chapter of my story.

RD: Let’s look at The Fredericton 80+ Study. These people lived through wars, economic downturns. They survived illness and personal difficulties. What did you learn?

BR: We learned various things, one being that what these people tell depends, in no small part, on who is listening! In fact, with a couple of colleagues, I’ve published on this very point some very intriguing findings.

We also learned that biographical aging and biographical health, if I can call it that, are every bit as intricate and as important as biological aging and biological health about which, of course, gerontology has amassed a tremendous amount of knowledge. But, again, most of that knowledge tends to be in the "bad news" category.

As well, we learned that, story-wise whether they realize it or not, these people are marvelously rich, complicated, many-layered beings.

We learned too that memory is really quite mysterious in the way that, over 80-odd years of life, certain things tend to "stick", while so many other things don’t. Why is this? It’s a question that researchers really know a lot less about than you might think.

Finally, I go back to the point I made earlier, which is that such people’s stories can be a source of great strength (potentially at least, for it’s not automatic) for themselves. Remember, we need a good strong story in order to grow older and not merely get older, and also for others for those of us who listen.

There are many "life lessons", much wisdom that these sorts of individuals, and perhaps they alone, can teach us if we have the ears to hear.

RD: Finally, you say, "It’s never too soon to have a happy old age?" Can you give me some pointers?

BR: I’m convinced more and more that the most important thing we can learn in life is to actively, positively grow old and not just passively get old.

Indeed, the process should really start early in life rather than later, which is too late in other words. We shouldn’t be leaving it until we retire, when we assume we’re going to have all this time on our hands. We need to get going with it now, whenever "now" may be.

Learning to grow old, however, involves more than just taking care of our bodies through a healthy diet and exercise, and so forth. And it’s more than a matter of taking care of our brains through doing crosswords or playing scrabble to keep ourselves mentally fit, as vital as that surely is. No, we need to take care of our stories, too. For, again, they are who we are.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about something called "narrative foreclosure". Narrative foreclosure is the sort of situation in which, technically, our life itself continues on – beyond retirement, for instance – but our story about our life shuts prematurely down.

We end up living in what one scholar calls "epilogue time" no more new events or chapters are likely to be added, no more narrative development will occur. Put another way, we live in the past rather than off the past.

Inside of each of us, I like to think, is a tremendous cache of "biographical capital" – in other words, our memories or our story. Yet, sadly, for many of us as we age, that story goes both under-told and under-read – as sad a fate, no doubt, as that of a novel on which its author has laboured for years to write, only for it to sit forgotten on the library shelf.

I see my work in narrative gerontology as helping to address this kind of tragedy and offer people ways of thinking about the aging process – on the inside, as it were – that will help them truly grow into later life.

Editor’s note: The original interview appeared in AHB November/December 2007.