Whatever Else Anything Is, It Ought to Begin by Being Personal
A Love Letter to You’ve Got Mail and the Personal Nature of Research
Joe: It wasn’t … personal.
Kathleen: What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s personal to a lot of people. And what’s so wrong with being personal, anyway?
Joe: Uh, nothing.
Kathleen: Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal. (Nora & Delia Ephron, You’ve Got Mail)
I am a sucker for Nora Ephron films, and whilst many consider “You’ve Got Mail” to be the weakest in her canon, I cannot help myself - I’ve watched it a hundred times and will hopefully watch it a hundred more before I go to the great cinema in the sky. I often downplay my love for this rom-com classic, as if it’s not worthy of the reverence reserved for, say, Christopher Nolan or Francis Ford Coppola films. But the truth is, this movie is deeply personal to me. I watched it the week it was released, then again years later as a double bill back-to-back with The Shop Around the Corner at the Cameo in Tollcross on a lazy Sunday afternoon. And it has been my companion on countless long-haul flights between the UK and Aotearoa New Zealand. But it’s more than just cinematic eye-candy; beyond the aesthetic splendour of New York in the autumn, the film offers moments of true pathos. Whilst not as pithy as When Harry Met Sally or as sentimental as Sleepless in Seattle, Ephron’s screenplay is beautifully on point.
Personal Research (and other oxymorons)
Kathleen’s question - what is so wrong about being personal? - has been rolling around my brain over and over in recent weeks. There’s a strange tension when you’re doing academic work that’s also wrapped up in your values, your life, your heart. I find myself losing and rediscovering new versions of myself time and again. Everything I encounter feels like an opportunity to explore, to see what resonates and what doesn’t. Yet, the temptation to try to take it all in, to absorb too much and risk the loss of focus, remains a constant challenge.
Many years ago, I came across Walt Whitman’s poem There was a child went forth whilst reading Richard Louv’s Last Child in the Woods. The opening lines have lingered with me ever since:
There was a child went forth every day, And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love or dread, that object he became, And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or for many years or stretching cycles of years.
Back then, as a newly-minted early childhood teacher, the idea that everything the child sees becomes a part of them resonated deeply with my Montessori preoccupation with order, beauty, and the prepared environment. At the time, I’m not sure if I read the poem beyond the first stanza; however, the concept of thinking critically about everything that the young absorbent mind might encounter was very powerful for me. Now, as I reread the poem in its entirety, I can see that as the poem progresses, it charts the growth of the child, their views and horizons expanding in turn. The continual process of becoming, of change, and of development is at the heart of Whitman’s work, showing how each experience adds layers to a child’s understanding.
In Small Ways, on Ordinary Days
Whitman’s poem is something of a philosophical ally when considering Article 31 of the UN Convention on the Rights of the Child, underscoring the profound impact of cultural encounters on a child’s development. If, as Whitman suggests, every experience becomes part of the child, then ensuring access to rich and diverse artistic experiences is not just beneficial but essential. Full and free participation in the arts doesn’t start with a policy or rhetoric on cultural and arts access from a steering group, but with the lived, personal experiences of those involved “in small ways on ordinary days” (Todres & Kilkelly, 2022, p.39).
Bringing It All Together
Whether through the lens of a rom-com, a poem, or early childhood education, the theme remains the same: the personal is foundational to growth and understanding. Much like Kathleen Kelly’s assertion that “Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal”, I find myself returning to the personal in my research and notice that my journey of redefining myself in academia mirrors the ways children navigate their cultural worlds. Just like the films and poems that shape us, it is okay to acknowledge the personal in what we do. For infants, engaging with the arts also begins by being personal, in the everyday moments that are woven together, that will shape their understanding of the world and their place within it.