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Looking for the Forrest

Each generation meanders through time, expecting to find meaning and relevance. Some of our fathers and mothers learned the value of employment during the Great Depression, and on both the battlefield and the homefront they discovered the frailty of existence through their participation in World War II. Lately it has become politically correct to salute this generation as a singular group unmatched in our history. Their achievements and sacrifice seem unprecedented—unless, of course, we consider those who gave their lives in the battle for American independence or in the Civil War that brought us the bloodiest days on American soil.

We dishonor the World War II generation, however, unless we also remember that it stood by while blacks were lynched in the South. This generation also witnessed the power and strength of women during the war but did little to welcome women into the workforce or to grant them the rights they should have been given at birth. This generation was not perfect—but it was admirable and, most likely, nothing short of extraordinary.

My generation saw the weaknesses in our predecessors and appreciated few of their strengths. We thought of ourselves as blessed with the answers and a visionary insight, and indeed we did have many worthwhile dreams and a yearning for a better world. The Age of Aquarius, however, never dawned. Self-interest overtook the spirit of sacrifice. As heroes died, cities burned. Dreams were not only deferred but sacrificed on the altar of reality and expediency. From the ashes arose not some mighty phoenix but a malignant cynicism that led us to new levels of distrust and fear and to a seemingly never-ending expectation of what we are "owed." Those of us who viewed Watergate as the natural end product of a corrupt generation waging an immoral war now must wince at the recent spectacle in Washington. At least after Watergate there were some heroes. The recent unpleasantness has left us with villains galore, and only the most ardent partisan can claim that anyone emerged free of the stench of hypocrisy.

During much of the '60s there was a search for identity, and former children of that age cringe with embarrassment when they recall the all-night sessions (with or without the assistance of drugs) that led to mornings of awe as they proclaimed a "new understanding" of the universe. The meaning of life was discovered more often during that decade than was the North American continent during the past 20,000 years! When the '60s ended with death and assassinations, alienation and chaos, our supposedly deep insights were perceived to be as substantive as cotton candy. Many realized that understanding would have to wait and hoped that some kind of Rosetta stone might one day allow us to decode the message of the age and finally see the vision promised to us in the vague lyrics of our rock heroes.

As I write, bombs continue to fall in Serbia—our response to a man who seems to prove that no lesson was learned through our parents' struggle. Ethnic cleansing has become the new millenium's euphemism for genocide. In the background, I also hear the soothing voice of a gospel singer who sings because 14 children lie dead in a Colorado high school and still others have been wounded in body and soul. New patients are being created for us by the inhumanity we show one another. The bombs and the ongoing violence among our young—the offspring of the peace generation—remind us of our vulnerability and the fact that we still cannot understand the meaning of it all. Whenever we approach some new insight, understanding seems to float away from us like a feather in the wind.

My observation is not accidental—nor is the imagery. America hailed the movie "Forrest Gump," but in my view we missed the message of that film. Forrest was there, the ultimate witness to the events of a generation. For the purposes of the plot, he accidentally contributed nuances to the events that we view as markers of that age. In his actions, there was no great wisdom, only pure accident. Movies and books may have well-defined plots, but reality and generational identities follow no simple script.

I have been haunted by a series of remarks made in the movie. Forrest would recall an interaction (such as a meeting with John Lennon), describe how he left a mark on the person (in this case, lyrics), and then simply say (in this case) he had heard that someone shot the man years later. In all his decency, Forrest could not comprehend the dark side of the events he witnessed. He could only dispassionately recall them—evidence that his soul was never scarred. I envied his peace and his comfort. He did not need to understand, and his lack of understanding was a kind of understanding.

As a scientist, I don't want to postpone understanding, but some things are indeed beyond our ken, and if we struggle too hard to understand some things too soon, we may fall into a trap and figuratively recapitulate man's fall from grace. Humans cannot stop their pursuit of understanding and knowledge. If we are possessed by this mission, however, we do the kind of harm to ourselves that we once blamed on the smooth-talking snake of Eden.

Those of us in health care fight disease and disability with all we have, but we would go mad unless we knew our limits. In all aspects of our lives there are limits; we hope that with each successive generation, there will be fewer limitations. When we focus on a furious search to give everything immediate meaning, we ask for too much. Understanding our treatments and the nature of how we can help people is a worthy pursuit, but trying to understand why a little boy has an inoperable tumor while a felon in the prison ward can be saved by emergency surgery is too much. Each patient deserves our concern and our attention. In these situations, I look for the Forrest Gump within me, because he had one response to all that befell him: acting in a decent and caring manner. Instead of taking refuge behind complex ideas, he lived a life that exemplified ideals he could never verbalize.

In these cynical times, we seem to lack heroes. We spend endless nights discussing the origins of tyrants who lead their people into war and on genocidal crusades, and we ask how to banish violence from our schools, our cities, our families. As we consider all this, let's remember a lesson from the '60s. In its search for meaning, that generation—my generation—forgot that love and compassion begin not as a political movement but as actions taken by individuals.

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This Article Submit a response Alert me when this article is cited Alert me when Rapid Responses are posted Alert me if a correction is posted Services Email this article to a friend Similar articles in this journal Similar articles in PubMed Alert me to new issues of the journal Download to citation manager Citing Articles Citing Articles via Google Scholar Google Scholar Articles by Rothstein, J. M Search for Related Content PubMed PubMed Citation Articles by Rothstein, J. M Related Collections All Editorials Jules Rothstein Social Bookmarking                      What's this?