Reflecting on a Full Life with Big Fish

One of my goals for the Crimprof blog, as I suppose would already be clear from some of my posts (e.g., What Cobra Kai Teaches Profs), is not merely to (of course) be a forum for issues of substantive criminal law and criminal procedure, and (of course) a forum for the lawyering and education of such issues, but to more generally be a forum for thoughtful—and even merely playful—consideration of legal education, lawyering, and, well… life. Striving for mindfulness and joy, including through the study of world religions and philosophies, is not only important to me personally, but is becoming increasingly relevant in my scholarship (e.g., Why Mercy Cannot be Automated).

So, first, a quick shout-out to fellow Crimprof editor Melanie Reid, who put together and will be moderating a panel on Professional Identity Development Among Faculty at the upcoming SEALS annual conference in July. Here’s the description:

A lot of emphasis has been placed in law schools on the new ABA standards requiring law students to develop their professional identity. Students are asked to reflect on their values, intentions, and personal motivations. But what about our professional identity? What internal and external factors motivate us as faculty? The science of human flourishing has identified several key factors for success: continued learning, connection, resilience, finding purpose, and play. The discussants will share how they arrived at their own extrinsic and intrinsic motivators, how these can be used to contribute to the betterment of the legal system and our students (purpose), and how we can build community among faculty (connection).

I’m really looking forward to learning there.

Second, I will sometimes share a book or movie (or, as in this case, a book that is also a movie) that seems worthwhile to any of those aspects of human flourishing. The book/movie I have in mind today is Big Fish, a 1998 novel by Daniel Wallace then adapted into a 2003 film directed by Tim Burton. I highly recommend both, as they differently encapsulate the magic of imagination and storytelling, arts we may undervalue. Both remind us against, as so well expressed in the movie, the story told wrong:

“Will never told you?” asks Edward Bloom, “Ah, probably just as well. He would have told it wrong anyway. All the facts and none of the flavor.”

I fear we lawyers and law professors too often make that mistake. All facts… no flavor.

From the book, I’ll share just one terrific passage, with play of course being one of those components of flourishing (this is found in Part II, His Greatest Power):

There was this man—we’ll call him Roger—who had to go out of town on business, and so left his cat in the care of a neighbor. Now, the man loved his cat, loved his cat beyond all things, so much so that the very night of the day he left he called his neighbor to inquire into the general health and emotional well-being of this dear feline. And so he asked his neighbor, “How is my sweet little darling precious cat? Tell me, neighbor, please?”

And the neighbor said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Roger. But your cat is dead. It was run over by a car. Killed instantly. Sorry.”

Roger was shocked! And not merely at the news of his cat’s demise—as if that weren’t enough!—but also at the way in which he was told about it.

So he said, “That’s not the way you tell somebody about something as horrible as this! When something like this happens you tell the person slowly, you ease them into it. You prepare them! For instance. When I called this evening you should have said, Your cat’s on the roof. Then the next time I call you would say, The cat’s still on the roof, he won’t come down and he’s looking pretty sick. Then the next time I call you might tell me the cat fell off the roof and that he’s now at the vet in intensive care. Then, the next time I call you tell me—your voice sort of quivery and shaky—that he died. Got it?”

“Got it,” said the neighbor. “Sorry.”

So three days later Roger called the neighbor again, because his neighbor was still watching the house and checking his mail, et cetera, and Roger wanted to know if anything important had happened. And the neighbor said, “Yes. As a matter of fact, yes. Something important has happened.”

“Well?” asked Roger.

“Well,” the neighbor said. “It’s about your father.”

“My father!” exclaimed Roger. “My father! What about my father?”

“Your father, said the neighbor, “is on the roof…”