The Case for Complexity

My friend Kevin, who is the smartest person I know personally, lit a fire under me to apply to colleges when I was 19. He had already saved me once from rotting away in Tampa working in a sandwich shop by convincing me to move to North Carolina. That’s how I ended up in Durham, where he was attending Duke University.

I promptly got another food service job, working in the kitchen of a store called Wellspring, which was part of the origin story of Whole Foods (look it up). However, doing the same thing in a different place is not much of a change, and I began to feel despondent. So Kevin and I talked it out.

Now that I had been living in the state for a year, and my parents could no longer claim me on their taxes, I would qualify for both in-state college tuition and financial aid. Kevin convinced me that I had nothing to lose by applying. So I did. I applied to UNC-CH and was waitlisted. But on a whim, I also applied to Duke University just to see the response.

Part of the application was an essay question asking me to describe who my hero was and why. Eye roll. With nothing to lose, I answered the question like the spicy teen I was. My answer in a nutshell: dumb question.

My essay postulated that a large part of the problem we have in Western society today is the impulse to wrap everything up in a neat little package, to cast everything in black or white, when reality is far more complex. I used President Nixon’s (Duke alumnus) legacy as an example. Simplification is polarizing and dangerous. Facing complexity is where understanding begins. Today these ideas still ring true.

Communication carries power. Story tellers who wield that power effectively shape people’s perception of history, society, and their place in it. Politicians know this and play (or prey) on people’s feelings to garner votes, pass laws, and manipulate public sentiment. So stories that tell just one side or simplify complex issues feed into the two-party political machine. Those stories, whether right or left, divide us.

As a reader, I look for publications that consistently confront complexity and don’t try to find the lowest common denominator in a piece. Reading such articles, I feel challenged, I always learn something, and I often change my perspective. That kind of thought provoking prose is something worth striving for, but how to begin?

All writing starts with an objective: sell something, get clicks, expose an injustice, start a conversation. If you strive to offer a picture that embraces nuance, digs deep for motivation, and looks at details individually instead of packaging a conclusion for readers, then you are interested in provoking thought. Assume that people, while they might be attracted to shiny things, have the capacity to process complex ideas. That’s the beauty of humanity, right?

Capturing complexity is easier said than done, though. As writers, we could use some benchmarks or rigor checks to measure whether or not a piece actually earns its nuance. Here are some self-checks to consider when your aim is to address a complex concern:

• Have you identified an issue that doesn’t have clean edges? Can you articulate why opposing viewpoints can’t be easily dismissed?
• If you have a belief or specific narrative to share, have you included a contradictory fact or opposing view and let it stand for consideration, or have you reduced and dismissed it?
• Does the scope allow you to dig deep enough to uncover complexity? If you address a narrow topic, you can explore an idea from many angles in a thought-provoking way.
• Is there an inherent cost to the reader? Do you ask them to give up a long-held belief or reconsider current events in a new context? Without a mental challenge, the impact may not be as strong as you hoped.
• Does the ending invite consideration rather than allegiance? If the piece collapses into an easy conclusion, the complexity presented may be superficial.

With these points in mind, it’s easier to self-check a piece before you turn it loose into the world for readers. You’ll also gain confidence that you are inviting conversation rather than dominating it.

As you evaluate your own work, you’ll take greater notice of when stories flatten reality, and recognize and value those that allow it to remain whole.

At nineteen, I had only intuition; I knew that the neat answers felt wrong. Thirty-six years later (yes I am old-ish), I still believe that writing that matters does far more than simplify the world for us. It asks us to sit with complexity so that we can develop understanding that allows us to navigate the world with compassion.

And in case you were wondering, I was eventually accepted to UNC-CH. My Duke admissions essay was enough to earn me a very weird in-person interview with a graduate student at Duke who was working on the admissions team, but that’s a story for another day.