The Will to Power

Power is a funny thing.

When you consider who's "in charge" in any given situation or relationship the world can look pretty backwards. I just finished reading some Nietzsche earlier in the month, encountered a couple paragraphs of Adler by way of criticism, and am now reading the big Rawls book on justice, so power and authority have been on my mind.

If I look in the mirror I ought to be well-pleased with what I see. I'm a reasonably attractive white landed male with education and disposable income in stable family relationships and secure employment. Demographically speaking, the world is my oyster. In countless ways that other people start from a position of disadvantage, I am thoroughly empowered. I can travel anywhere I want. (Or at least I will be able to when my passport arrives in the mail.) I can borrow money, set my own schedule, learn any new skill at leisure, and could even conceivably get elected to the most important political office in the world. If I'm worried about posterity, I have reasonable confidence that my sons will enjoy the same advantages.

Thinking about my boys is where the question of power gets interesting. That's a straightforward relationship, right? I'm their Father, their legal guardian, immediate moral authority, and the dispenser of justice and law in their tiny little worlds. I hold parental power, and as I push them along the aisles of Wegmans in a steering wheel cart (which they can only pretend to steer with their little wheels--really I'M steering it) they are completely in my charge.

Until James remembers about the free cookies. And then he asks. And then he asks again. And then he asks louder. And then Owen picks up on it because he recognizes the word "cookie" and knows what that means. And then they began to attract the attention of the other shoppers who look askance from their inspections of avocado-ripeness.

So who's really in charge in that moment? I mean, I could enact some sort of nuclear disciplinary measure like refusing the cookie dole or threatening time-outs or cancelling Christmas, but these sorts of measures just confirm what the boys already know: Even though I may be the nominal authority figure, our relationship is one of negotiated cooperating interests. They do, in fact, have some say in how I'm going to make decisions. Even if their little steering wheels won't turn the cart towards the bakery, their squeaky little voices can get the cart turned around.

Perhaps I ought to just march them straight out of the store and whisk them back home, but I don't have the authority to take that action either, because of the division of power in another family relationship--I'm under an obligation to pick up sour cream, mushrooms, and cream of mushroom soup for my wife. If only my own interests were at stake, I might forgo the pleasure of being at Wegmans, or at least delay it until a future date. (Like today, where I'm stuck at the Syracuse Wegmans for the next four hours waiting for the Opera dress rehearsal.) But J is waiting at home for the ingredients she needs to make beef stroganoff, and the power dynamic between the two of us is one of egalitarian cooperation. I owe her the completion of the Wegmans trip. We are bonded and vowed to submit to the interests of the other person, and that relationship is one of ongoing negotiation and redistribution.

A marriage relationship is a particularly fertile source of power negotiations. Take, for example, the division of housework. I've slowly taken over laundry duty in the course of our marriage, but the disadvantage to me is more than offset by the fact that I've been completely liberated from all kitchen responsibilities. (Except for scullion duty.) Sure, I fold a lot of shirts and unload the dishwasher quite a bit, but not having to eat my own cooking empowers me, quite literally. J's beef stroganoff, even without the cream of mushroom soup that I forgot, is way better than cereal for supper. This division of authority in domestic duties isn't a hard and formal system. Some duties are re-negotiated quite often. For example, J will say "I'll wash the pots and pans if you can put away the library books that James was dropping behind the couch." Within our system of shared authority it's perfectly acceptable for me to counter with "Why don't you hold Owen instead and see if you can pull the leaves out of his mouth so that I can vacuum up all the dirt that he just spread around the rug while he was eating the houseplants."

In our marriage I've inherited the disadvantage of total responsibility for all financial matters in our marriage, but that's come with the power to be the captain and pilot of our "financial ship." (J, on our "financial ship" is chained to a bench in the hold where she plies her oar and wonders how much money I'm spending on mouthpieces.) Yes, as far as the financial side of the marriage relationship goes, I'm in complete control. You could even say, like Orwell does, that money in the modern world is the only important measure of power. But if I look outside the marriage relationship and consider the actual pressures of money and its power, the real financial authority in my life is the partnership of the Franklin American Mortgage Company. There are a bunch of people in suits who I've never met who hold the real authority over our checkbook--they're the reason why I'm at work right now instead of sitting at my desk in my pajamas.

Lastly, the sexual relationship of a marriage is a deeply interesting study in power dynamics. For instance, will one partner withhold sex because the other writes about it and publishes their thoughts on the internet? How, in a marriage, does it work best for one partner to lovingly seek the satisfaction of their spouse and also meet their own needs? It's hard to imagine an experience that leaves one more vulnerable to their most deeply felt needs and insecurities. As much as it may be within my theoretical prerogative as a spouse to tell J, "put on this slinky underwear and be upstairs in five minutes," she will always have the right to say "you forgot that you have a student coming coming, and they just pulled into the driveway."

Thinking about the people who used to hold parental power over me, it still surprises me sometimes to think that they don't (and hopefully don't often have a wish to) regularly exercise that authority over me. In fact, I had a moment of psychological dissonance last week when I found out my Mom an Dad would be leaving for Florida within a few days and hadn't told me. I suppose it surprised me that they wouldn't have taken any precautions to make sure that I didn't need the number of anyone to call in case something happened at the house. There is an interesting new power dynamic that comes up between a launched and independent and child and their parents--mutual demonstration of interest in one another's lives and voluntary re-kindling of the family hearth. It would be hurtful (and disadvantage me) if I didn't think that my parents were interested in what was happening in my now independent life. I assume it would be harmful to them if I showed no interest in theirs, or in respecting and seeking out their advice. It's still a family relationship, but it's one that's been dramatically changed from when they were pushing me around in a shopping cart. (Or, to put it more accurately, insisting that I walk quickly enough to keep up with the shopping cart that was full of groceries and smaller, higher-pitched boys.)

My place of employment also provides an interesting field of studies in the division of authority. The average symphony-going patron probably assumes that the conductor is exercising control over the orchestra and "playing them" according to his or her own vision for the music. This is hardly the truth. Even though some conductors remain convinced that they are in charge of the performance, they do not make a single sound. The musicians cooperate with the conductor out of grudging necessity, but the rehearsal and performance process is a secret resistance that often turns into downright civil war.

Likewise, it's my responsibility as a 2nd trumpet player to cede artistic authority to the principal player in my section. On the one hand, I'm glad to do this. I trust his musical judgment and am usually quite happy in the role of matching, blending, and supporting.

The ultimate power body in a musical setting, however, is the audition panel. Each audition committee holds it within their authority to bestow a position that will pay out millions of dollars over the course of the post. Well, some of the positions would pay millions over a career, anyway. You'd have to do my job for a LONG time to hit the million mark. But even these committees lack power in a certain paralyzing ways. No committee, no matter how much they may want to give a job to a deserving colleague, can go back into a candidate's practice room and force them to turn on a metronome or a tuner. Ultimately, as badly as they may want to give a job to somebody or anybody, they can't control what sounds come from the other side of the screen--only the candidates can.

I have very little real power to anything, when I think about it. I was protected on the drive into work this morning by a comfortable modern automobile, but if we'd had a flat or an accident I'd have been stuck beside the highway in whipping winds and freezing rains--the same rains that were somehow penetrating the windowsill in the house I bought to protect my family from the elements. I have no protection from the advance of day after day and year after year from old age, and though I've enjoyed extraordinary good health to this point in my life, my 160 lb white little body is an extraordinarily fragile system.

Multiple cups of coffee and many hours of Wegmans' reflection have confirmed exactly what my wise parents instilled--the will to love is far greater and more important than the will to power. Authority matters, of course, and the wise exercise of authority cannot be done without. But as I drive home to my children and wife with my friend and colleague after sharing a stage with a conductor I don't know and a bassoon player who resents the sound of my instrument, the most important and the greatest of these is love.