December 29, 2008
Dear Colleague:
Since 1968, I have been copying facts, ideas, and stories—those that have attracted my attention—into blank-page books. I have now filled forty-three of them. From time to time, I pick one up and browse through its entries, a rewarding experience for me because they are drawn from other people's minds and hearts. Well, this is no longer quite true. Beginning in 2000, I find that I increasingly mix my own opinions with those of others. Commonplace books have turned into journals. In the last two years, as I record more and more my own doings and happenings, journals have turned into diaries. This trend, I admit, is a sign of mental decline, inevitable as I pile on the years. It doesn't stop even now, for in this letter I continue to talk about myself, though I hope that the content has a larger and more enduring meaning than the private.
The day after Christmas, a Friday, I received six greeting cards, four from relatives and two from former students. The relatives are my brother and sister-in-law; two nieces, their husbands and children: a nephew, his wife, and son. The former students are Dan Gresch, an undergraduate who attended my last class, and Karen Till, who is my last PhD student. Let me say, first of all, that I am delighted to hear from all of them. I rarely see my nieces and nephew, and know their adorable children not at all. And so I appreciate the colored photos and the family news that come neatly printed on cards.
Now, isn't it remarkable that none of my relatives has a personal word for me? By contrast, both former students wrote me greetings in longhand. Still more remarkable is that some of the most personal letters come from total strangers. (I refer here to the birthdays greetings that reached me earlier). The rule seems to be: Mutual understanding and the human touch are in inverse relationship to frequency of encounter and kinship. The closer my blood tie is with someone, the more impersonal is the relationship. At first, this seems counter-intuitive. What has happened to the strength of blood tie, the cri du sang that even Voltaire made so much of? Well, the answer is quite simple. To my kin, I am less an individual than a biosocial type—brother, uncle, or grand uncle. To their spouses and children, I fall under the even broader category of "old man." My former students see me differently. To them, I am not just a professor but one particular professor, someone with a particular manner of speaking and listening. To this individual, they feel an obligation to write a sentence or two in longhand. As for strangers, they know me only through my books and the "Dear Colleague" letters. To them, I am the furthest from being just a biosocial type. I am a voice—even a unique voice—to which they respond with insight and warmth. Or, possibly, with anger. But, then, anger, like warmth, is indicative of a strong connection. What a barrier the body can be! Minds "copulate" (that is, interpenetrate) more fully than bodies can ever hope to do.
Best wishes,
Yi-Fu
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