The 50/50 Percent Theory
By J.B. Polk
Photo by Declan Sun on UnsplashOne Monday morning in early October 2000, I was on my way to interview Patricia
Verdugo (1947-2008), a Chilean journalist, writer, and human rights activist. Armed with a
tape recorder and a notebook with my questions, I walked along Santiago's rain-washed
streets, contemplating the beauty of nature awakening around me. The Chilean capital in
October resembles Monet’s landscape in blue and green—the cobalt sky in stark contrast to
trees and grass awakening from their winter hibernation. Sadly, it doesn’t last since the blue
becomes deep indigo, nearly unforgiving in intensity, while the green turns dusty and beige
as there is no rain throughout the summer.
I should have been dizzy with excitement. It was my first solo assignment for an
expat magazine, which had promised to hire me if I could pull it off. Only... I wasn't. Deep
in depression, I couldn't shake off the overwhelming sense of emptiness. Each day felt like
a struggle as if I were carrying the world’s weight on my shoulders.
All I could think of was returning home to an irreparably broken marriage despite
having traveled halfway across the globe to save it. Save us… It was a last-ditch effort to
fix something that had fractured a long time ago and was most likely dead from the start.
The constant disappointment and failed attempts at reconciliation left me feeling defeated
and hopeless. Realizing that I had invested so much time and energy into something beyond
repair was a bitter pill to swallow.
I had prepared thoroughly for the interview. My future as a journalist was on the line.
In those pre-internet days, I spent hours researching Verdugo's life and career at the local
library, leafing through publications, and poring over microfilmed information. A lot was
riding on this interview. I needed the job and the money, but most of all, I needed it to try
to break free from a relationship that had gone beyond toxic. I was finally getting a chance
to do something meaningful, even if it weren't what my 15-year-old self imagined I'd be
doing at the ripe old age of 35. As a teenager, I dreamed of becoming a trapeze artist, and
as I matured (kind of), I opted for teaching. And here I was, on my way to becoming a
REAL journalist.
Patricia Verdugo lived in a large house in a leafy suburb on the city’s south side, where
orange and lemon trees, all in full bloom, grew in tidy rows, and ivy-clad houses peeked
from behind hedges. The writer herself opened the door and welcomed me in. She was in
her late fifties, dark-haired, tanned, and rather on the short side. We sat in the garden in the
shadow of a peach tree, with pink petals falling on us in a perfumed blizzard.
She served tea and cookies, and I turned the tape recorder on and opened my notebook,
ready to begin. Although I knew about the personal tragedies that had followed Verdugo all
her life, including the deaths of her two small children, I was here to talk only about her
work.
It was early afternoon before I realized we were done, and I switched off the tape
recorder.
"I’ll make more tea, and then you can tell me all about it," she said, springing up and
marching off to the kitchen.
"Tell her about what? I was perplexed.
She came back with more tea and cookies and placed them on the coffee table in front
of us. The spicy aroma of ground ginger blended with the sweet smell of peach blossoms
above us.
"Before, it was work. Now we'll talk woman to woman," she said, pouring hot
Darjeeling into our cups.
"Tell me what's bothering you."
As strange as it might sound, I did. I told everything to a woman I met for the first
time. How I didn't want to go back to a home from which I wasn’t sure I would come out
alive. How for over a decade, I’d been married to a man who progressed from
psychological to physical violence and how it had left me in a state of profound depression.
I poured out my fears and insecurities, seeking solace in her empathetic presence. It was a
surreal experience, finding comfort in the words of a complete stranger who seemed to
understand me so well.
Patricia took a sip of her tea and nibbled on a frosted gingersnap.
"I don’t know if it will help you, but it has worked for me,” she said, pausing for effect.
“All my life, I have followed a philosophy, which I call the 50/50 percent theory. It’s
pretty accurate because it’s based on statistics. It's like flipping a coin and having a 50/50
chance of getting heads or tails. There are no other options. The same thing applies to our
lives. The outcome of everything affecting us can be either positive or negative. If it is
good, then you are out of the woods. You were unnecessarily concerned ahead of time. If
it's bad, it can only be as bad as you imagined or better than expected. There is an equal
possibility of things going either way. The only exception is death, of course. There is no
escaping from it. But why beat yourself up before it happens?"
She made perfect sense. I was a textbook case of a domestic abuse victim—isolated,
helpless, with no one to turn to. But there was hope. It was called “the 50-50 percent
theory”!
"So?" she asked, looking at me.
"Will you flip the coin?"
The interview finally came out in print a week later. My boss was happy and offered
me a contract. Unfortunately, the magazine went bust two years later, so I had to look for
another job. I did, and for the following two decades, I worked for an international
organization that not only provided me with a steady income but also took me to the
remotest corners of the earth and was a source of deep satisfaction.
Two months after my conversation with Patricia, I flipped the coin, left my husband,
and...landed on the upside. No, not just on the upside! I hit the jackpot, broke the bank, and
basically lucked out!
Since then, I've used the writer’s formula dozens of times and shared it with my
children, now adults, and others. They all find it helpful. Of course, the coin doesn't always
flip in our favor, but the odds are pretty good, and it saves us from the dreadful knots of
worry.
The odd thing is that as I get older, I don't employ the theory as much as I used to,
possibly because, as a 60-year-old, I know the world a little better. Or perhaps things
stopped distressing me as time passed.
I never spoke to Patricia again after our initial conversation. She died of cancer in
2008, and I could not attend her funeral. But even though we never became friends, she is a
source of inspiration and one of the people whose wisdom I turn to when I’m feeling lost.
I’ve thanked her silently for the theory that made my life so much easier a thousand times.
In this tribute, I am finally saying it aloud