Nature vs. nurture - subjective research

The debate over the importance of nature versus nurture as components of human development and behavior is a centuries-old discussion. While research is ongoing and is likely to remain so for the foreseeable future, I must report that my favorite quote on the topic is one attributed to psychologist Donald Hebb. Asked to say which contributes more to personality, nature or nurture, Hebb reportedly answered by asking, “Which contributes more to the area of a rectangle, its length or its width?”

I will not take on the formidable task of presenting a conclusive argument on this matter. Like many people, I believe I can see elements from both nature and nurture that help to define many of my psychological and physical traits. I am also mindful of the argument that the entire nature vs. nurture discussion may be invalid because each may affect the other in subtle ways, rendering any model that tries to consider them separately as invalid from the outset.

So rather than plunge my boot any deeper into the mire of that debate, I want to focus instead on my own forays into the nurture side of the equation; specifically, the experiments I have conducted on myself. I was not looking for a way of using myself as a guinea pig, but once I realized the opportunity, I resolved to pay attention to the process.

The opportunity came in the form of a move from the city of my birth, Detroit, Michigan, to Chicago, Illinois. I was at a transition point in several different areas of my life when the opportunity came to accept a lucrative job offer in Chicago’s Loop. It seemed that if ever there was to be a perfect time to pull up stakes and make a big move, this was the moment. I was in my 30s at the time, which meant that I’d already established a considerable network of social and professional contacts in Detroit, so this was carefully considered, particularly as it was clear that this new job had the potential to be a long-term, career-oriented position.

As I considered what my new life in Chicago might be like, it occurred to me that there would be many factors in my day-to-day life that were unprecedented conditions for me: I would be living alone in my own apartment, which I’d done only briefly in Detroit, so there would be no social network in my home outside of my television and computer – and this was several years before I was to acquire an internet connection. Outside the home, I knew very few people, so my network of friends would have to regenerate with a new cast of characters. I would be using public transportation every day rather than owning a car, an option that is usually unworkable in Detroit. At work, I would be thrust into the pressure cooker of a worldwide firm that demanded substantial amounts of overtime, including weekends.

It occurred to me that these elements would change me over time. The variables and unknowns were so diverse and complex that there was no way I could know what the result would be. It was like getting on an ocean liner based on its attractiveness and the amenities visible from the dock, and upon the apparent abilities of its captain and crew, without knowing where the ship was actually headed. But in the end, I stepped off the dock and sailed to the new land.

In the matter of trying to observe myself and how this new direction and environment might change me, the science is unavoidably sloppy. I had only one version of myself to observe, so there was no control to use for comparison. And there were other factors that could conceivably cause changes, and these factors were impossible to quantify. Aging, for example. What changes in attitudes and abilities might be part of the aging process? Alternatively, what thoughts and attitudes might already be in motion, already evolving into a redefinition, regardless of where or how I was living? So this was an unavoidably murky experiment, largely dependent upon my own possibly shifting perspectives over a long period of time. Still, I decided to play the cards I was dealt and see what I might learn.

While there are many little observations I could comment on, I will limit myself here to the one change that seems the clearest. It began with a chat I had with my boss a few weeks into my new job. She was having a problem with my slow rate of production, and she felt she’d come up with an insight on how my approach might be causing this. While she had no doubts about my technical knowledge, she observed correctly that my default approach was to do things perfectly no matter how long it took. It was very difficult for me to compromise that urge in order to meet a tight deadline.

But it was plain that I had to change if this job was going to work out, so I worked at it. In time, I became (if I may say so) quite adept at balancing time and quality control considerations. I ended up working there for over 16 years, until I was let go three months ago as part of a cost-cutting/outsourcing effort.

I can still recapture some of the feelings and attitudes that I began with, that made it so difficult to sacrifice perfection in the name of time. That’s when I realize that there’s a part of my brain that simply doesn’t work the same way anymore. There has been some sort of rewiring of how I approach certain tasks. It happened slowly, inexorably, but I ended up at a different place. I feel as if I can actually discern a change in the operation of my brain that was brought about by a change in my environment. In this case, it was a change I consciously imposed on my environment. And that change in mental function has, I believe, echoed in other pursuits of mine as well. Take writing for instance – this very column you’re reading. For many years, a great stumbling block in my writing was that I wanted every sentence to be perfectly crafted before I went on to the next one. Then I wanted every paragraph perfectly composed before I went on to the next one. The result, as you may imagine, was that I almost never wrote any complete work that was more than a page or two in length.

In recent years, by comparison, I have completed two plays and have written many long essays and stories. There seems to be a strong connection, or at least a strong correlation, between the ability to do these things and the training of my brain to forge ahead in a non-perfect manner. Oh, the perfectionist urges are still there, but they have been tempered by the satisfaction I feel in being able to label something as “finished.”

As I said earlier, this is sloppy science on my part, so it proves nothing. It is the epitome of anecdotal, non-replicable research. But it gives me things to think about and look out for, because its implications are potentially far-reaching, not only for my own well-being, but for how I look at larger issues outside myself, such as public education and personal accountability.

Given the shaky science upon which the preceding rests, it seems appropriate to close with a poetic quotation:
“Our beginnings never know our ends.”
–T.S. Eliot (from the poem Portrait of a Lady)