The subject of this letter is a single minute of conversation I had with Paul when I saw him alone four days after the joint mediation session — the session at which Rose arrived 20 minutes late with their small infant and big dog.
Both parties were suffering from the pain that’s part of the grief that goes with divorce. Paul’s grief was amplified by the guilt he felt from leaving Rose less than two months after the birth of their child. I’ve told him twice that the legal divorce is secondary to the psychological divorce. He continues to hope that I can facilitate a prompt and businesslike conclusion to the case.
With respect to his guilt, I anticipate that he will take every opportunity to blame Rose’s post-separation actions for both his and her post-separation suffering. I wouldn’t be surprised if Paul relieves some of his pain by acquiring a new intimate companion.
If I can’t slow Paul down, Rose is going to become increasingly frightened as she experiences mediation as one more thing that’s beyond her control. I can’t order Paul to slow down. If he senses that I am slowing the process down by my action or lack of action, he is likely to abandon mediation for conventional divorce practice, which he will perceive as a much more direct and therefore more efficient (faster) way to deal with Rose. It is more direct, but it will have the opposite of the intended effect — it will slow the process down. I have the empirical data and explanatory theory to demonstrate this fact to Paul, but it is of no use to him right now.
In the conversation that follows, my lines are not spontaneous. Each is the product of a methodology called “reflective practice” developed by Donald Schön while a professor at MIT (and made more concrete by the late Stewart Shapiro, a UCSB professor who was instrumental in the development of the innovative and popular Confluent Education program).
• • •
This first line is the opening gambit.
“Paul, are you a veteran?”
“No, but my uncle went to Vietnam.”
“Does your family ever talk about that?”
“I’ve heard my father say that Vietnam messed my uncle up.”
“I’d like to share with you a little bit of military history from the 20thcentury. Would that be OK with you?”
The opening gambit is complete, and I’m ready to communicate information to Paul via a story that doesn’t appear to be about him.
“I have a feeling that I’m going to hear about it whether I like it or not.”
Paul is infusing the situation with a little levity, and he is also distancing himself from the conversation. I must digress from the planned intervention to prevent his disengagement. This will be a little uncomfortable for him.
I continue, “Have I been saying things that you think I shouldn’t say?”
“I don’t know about ‘shouldn’t say,’ but there have been some things I prefer you wouldn’t say.”
“Would you like it if I did my job without ever saying things you or Rose don’t want to hear?”
“You can tell Rose anything you want — especially what she doesn’t want to hear.”
“And to you?”
“Whatever.”
“I don’t understand — ‘whatever’?”
“OK, tell me whatever you have to.”
“A little military history?”
“Yeah, a little military history. Fine.”
“When I’m done, will you tell me if you think I should have found something else to talk about?”
“Sure.”
To prevent his disengagement, I’ve caused Paul to have six exchanges before I will tell him the story he wasn’t interested in hearing. If nothing else, he’s relieved to finally hear what I’m going to say.
“OK. The American war in Vietnam could be described as the war between Robert Strange McNamara and General Vo Nguyen Giap. In the early 1960s, President John F. Kennedy sent the first several thousand Green Beret advisers to help prop up the anticommunist government of South Vietnam in its struggle against the Viet Cong who were supported by the government of North Vietnam. By 1968, there were more than a half-million American soldiers stationed in South Vietnam.
“McNamara, the chief architect of the American side of the war, was the secretary of defense during the Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson administrations. McNamara was a very smart man and one of those guys who succeeded in everything he tried to do. If you had a project or problem and could get McNamara, the president of Ford Motors, on your side, you’d take him.
“When it came to Vietnam, McNamara was willing to do whatever it took to bring about a quick victory. He would commit the country to the expenditure of vast resources; he would lie to Congress and to the American public to gain approval for his plans; and he was imperious to the death of others — ultimately 55,000 Americans and a million Vietnamese.
“General Giap was also a winner. He spent his entire adult life supporting and fighting for the independence of Vietnam. He commanded the forces at Dien Bien Phu and brought an end to the French colonialism of Indochina. After the expulsion of the French, the country was divided in two — and General Giap had the task of rejoining the two halves. Unlike McNamara, Giap’s vision of victory included no constraints of time; it was well known that he believed that his movement of independence would take however long it would take.
“In 1975, Giap’s forces overwhelmed Saigon, the capital of South Vietnam, while the Americans remaining in the country escaped by helicopter from the temporary safety of the roof of the American embassy.”
Paul seems to be paying attention, so the story has more detail than I originally intended to include. Now I’ll insert a direct link between the story and Paul.
“I’m telling this story because it’s a good story about attitudes toward time, and I’d like you to think about whether you will be a General Giap or a Secretary McNamara as you deal with this divorce.”
Paul asked, “Haven’t you said that using war as a metaphor for divorce is disastrous?”
“I have, and it’s true. Using Giap and McNamara to describe different attitudes toward time in the context of war may confuse one point with another, but I think both may be useful to you. First, think about and decide whether you will use war as a metaphor for divorce. Then, think about whether the McNamara or the Giap attitude toward time will be more useful to you with respect to your divorce.”
Paul asked, “Will there be a quiz?”
This is an opportunity to set up future conversation on this topic without seeming too insistent.
“Yes and no. From time to time I’ll ask you if you’ve reached any conclusions. When you have, I’ll ask you to tell me what you’ve concluded and how you reached your decision.”
“What if I don’t reach a conclusion and get tired of saying ‘I don’t know’ every time you ask me the question?”
“Paul, I won’t do that. It’s not my job to make you think or do anything in particular. It’s your life. You and Rose have hired me to help you solve a difficult problem, but it will remain your problem. I won’t attempt to compel you to do anything, which means I won’t try to force you to answer these two questions. Fair enough?”
“I’ll give you answers. Does it have to be in front of Rose?”
Here is an opportunity to enhance engagement for future conversations on a specific subject.
“I guess it could be, but I’ve assumed this was something that would be between you and me.”
“I think that would be better.”
“OK.”
“OK.”
The next letter will explain how I used the principles of reflective practice to generate nearly every word I spoke during this conversation.
— Brian H. Burke is a certified family law specialist practicing family law and mediation in Santa Barbara. A researcher and educator in the field of divorce and family conflicts, he is also the creator of the Legal Road Map™. Click here for more information, call 805.965.2888 or e-mail info@burkefamilylaw.com. Click here to read previous columns. The opinions expressed are his own.