I FIGGERED IT OUT!

 A recent emphasis in parent education and child development studies—based on both research and common sense—is the idea that raising a child with the encouragement of “You can do it” is more nurturing and more lasting than a diet of “You’re so smart.” (Or so “special.” I once heard a speaker remind a group of parents that a child who grows up hearing how special he is may discover—upon beginning his first adult job—that he and his parents are the only people who share this view.)

This is another reminder of the power of words and word choices. Perhaps, even more than for a parent, it is spontaneously intuitive for a grandparent to want to blurt out, “You’re so smart!” to the grandson or –daughter who is the apple of his eye. Yet I am making the verbal shift from “You’re so smart,” to, “Hey! You figured it out!” as I interact with my (very brilliant) grandkids. I am convinced—by the research and the common sense—that there’s an important distinction in the developmental implications of those two phrases. And the second is no less loving than the first. (I suppose that a similar critique could be made of a childhood where one constantly hears, “You’re so beautiful!”)

In a parallel vein, the late child psychologist Haim Ginott emphasized the different messages conveyed (when complimenting a child's drawing, for example) by, on the one hand, saying, “You are a great artist!” or, on the other, “I like that drawing.” In the first instance, an adult has laid upon the child a burden (“great artist”) that she may or may not want to accept. (And, again, I’m thinking here of childhood-long patterns of communication.) In the second, she knows—somewhat objectively—how a grownup feels about her drawing, which perhaps has the effect of being more “encouraging” than having to live up to an imposed label of being an artist.

And it is a word choice. The words we use are not just a matter of dry verbiage; they are the building blocks of the emotional environment in which relationships thrive or wither. (As someone has said, “Remember—it is you who makes the weather.”) I’ve discovered that one can even catch oneself and make a word-choice shift in mid-sentence: “You’re so sm…. Hey! You figured it out!”

(Of course there are variations on “You can do it:” “You figured it out;” “Let’s sit down and see if we can figure this out;” “Let’s try again;” “This is a tough one, but I think you’re on the right track;” “You used your thinker!”)

I had the practical veracity of this concept demonstrated for me, personally, just yesterday: My handyman skills are just slightly beyond knowing which end of the hammer to hold. This is why my favorite tool is my iPhone, with which I take a photo of the project at hand so I can text it to my brother-in-law, Jeff, with my question. In this case, I was trying to make a simple repair to the tailgate of my utility trailer. Simple, but I ran into a bit of a poser, so off went the photo/text to Jeff. Then, just after I sent it, that cartoon light bulb came on over my head: an insight that enabled me to complete the repair. Before he could respond, I sent Jeff a follow-up text, “I figgered it out!”

I haven’t heard back from Jeff yet, but I know what he’ll say. Dearly though he loves me, he won’t say, “You are a brilliant mechanic;”  he won’t say, “It’s because you’re so smart.” He’ll say, “Good for you; you figured it out!” I could receive no greater encouragement—or higher praise.

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BONUS for parents: Doing some reading for this post, I came across this very practical article about some everyday ways to apply the principles of "You can do it."

NOTE: I think of this blog as part of a conversation. I realize that the "Comment" section of this site is unwieldy. For the time being, the only alternative is to share your responses to this essay on Facebook, either to my page, or as a private message. I value your part of the conversation.

"DID I EVER TELL YOU ABOUT YOUR GREAT-GREAT-GREAT UNCLE GUS AND THE DESPERADO?"

A number of years ago, the coincidence of taking classes in Family Systems Theory and Old Testament Theology at the same time caused me to posit that every family has an “Exodus story” as a part of its history and self-understanding. Well, “history” almost certainly; how important it is to forming a family’s (and individual’s) “self-understanding” is an idea that I want to pursue with this essay.

Although I don’t claim to speak for my Jewish cousins, it is accurate – even an understatement – to say that the biblical  people of Israel, and the Jews of today, find an important sense of who they are in the Old Testament account of the Exodus. And, more than just a sentimental look-backward to days of old, this central and centering story informs not only their identity but their behavior and ethics as well. Beyond simply remembering the time of slavery in Egypt and being grateful for liberation, the story reminds them, among other things, that they “are not to wrong or oppress an alien, because you were aliens in the land of Egypt.” So essential is the Exodus – and the ensuing epic of the formation of Jewish community – to the life and memory of this people that they are charged, through Moses, to celebrate and relive these events for “generations to come,” and to “talk about this when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up,” and to “impress it upon your children.” Tell the story.

The Jews offer a renowned example, but every “people” has some kind of formative story of sojourn, tumult, liberation, discovery, renewal, or all of these. And so do all families. It is the proposal of this theory that hearing these stories is a healthy, even vital, part of a child’s development, and it is the sometimes enjoyable, sometimes painful responsibility of parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, to tell them.

Although these ideas occurred to me as I was learning about Family Systems and studying the Old Testament, the approach I am presenting here is certainly not original with me. Bruce Feiler, in a recent New York Times essay, “The Stories That Bind Us” (adapted from his new book, “The Secrets of Happy Families”), convincingly outlines the importance of having a “strong family narrative.”

Feiler cites the clear research findings of Emory University psychologists Marshall and Sarah Duke and others which demonstrate that “children who know a lot about their families tend to do better when they face challenges.” This isn’t a matter of knowing arcana like which county in Ireland one’s great-great-grandmother came from (although that knowledge may have it’s own interesting value, as I’ll discuss below), but the ability to answer such questions as: Do you know where your grandparents grew up? Do you know where your mom and dad went to high school? Do you know an illness or something really terrible that happened in your family? Do you know the story of your birth? The “Do You Know?” scale, reports Feiler, “turned out to be the best single predictor of children’s emotional health and happiness,” whether the trauma was as minor as a skinned knee or as major as reacting to the attacks of 9-11.

When asked why this might be, Dr. Duke asserted that, “The answers have to do with a child’s sense of being part of a larger family.” They know they belong to something bigger than themselves.

This sense of family does not mean that the “strong family narrative” must be all good news. Among different kinds of possible accounts, 1) “We had nothing and now we’re on top of the world;” 2) “We had it all and we lost everything…;” psychologists report that the “oscillating family narrative” is the most healthful: 3) “Dear, let me tell you, we’ve had ups and downs in this family, but no matter what, we stuck together….”

I was struck by this summary statement in Feiler’s article: “When faced with a challenge, happy families, like happy people, just add a new chapter to their life story that shows them overcoming the hardship. This skill is particularly important for children, whose identity tends to get locked in during adolescence.”

Telling the whole story – the ups and the downs – also helps to counter one of the most potentially destructive elements in a child’s development: the family secret. Although it may not be crystal clear at what age a child ought to be told about mom’s earlier divorce or grandpa’s alcoholism, child psychologists are pretty much united in the understanding that children need to be informed, in an age-appropriate manner, of even these difficult issues. (As a practical matter, the truth “will out” anyway.)

In addition to the more immediate family knowledge in Dr. Duke’s “Do You Know?” scale, I believe a case can also be made for the value of growing up with an understanding of the geographic or geo-political travels of one’s earlier ancestors – one’s own “Exodus story.”

Of course an Exodus story may have to do with physical travel from one place to another. It may also have to do with wandering in the wilderness of an illness or an economic crisis or a family estrangement. The foundational exodus/wandering in a family’s history may have happened two centuries ago or ten years ago. Every family on earth (I am bold to say) has a geographical exodus some time (even if a long time) in its past. Almost as many families have the more figurative sort of wilderness wandering. It’s good to know – and to tell – both kinds of stories. They are (at least as much as what we majored in in college or what our occupation is) stories of who we are.

I grew up fascinated with my parents’ stories of “the olden days.” But I find that as an adult the sojourns of my family and my extended family continue to fascinate, enlighten, and form me. I will no doubt write of some of these at another time. For now, I will simply name four stories in our family journey that I am glad to know (and that still get to me), even though they are not all borne out of glad tidings: 1) My father’s experience – as a very young man – of a near-fatal burst brain aneurism and his subsequent slow but grateful recovery. 2)The occasion of my Great-Uncle Gus Jorgensen, sheriff of Martin County, Minnesota, being gunned down by a desperado in 1931 (that’s how I liked to tell it as a kid), fifteen years before I was born. 3) My visit with Caryl to her great-grandfather’s rocky farm in the mountains above Norway’s Sognefjord – a sublimely beautiful locale that, in 1878, offered no choice but exodus. 4) The death of Caryl’s Aunt Ellnora, who, in 1908, died at age eighteen (a year before Caryl’s dad was born) while enrolled as a student at St. Olaf College – and the horse-and-wagon journey her parents made to bring her body home.

I will tell these and more stories to my grandkids. I will be sure to embellish the story of Sheriff Gus and the Desperado.

What is your family’s Exodus story?

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All quotes, and some of the ideas in this essay, are from "The Stories That Bind Us," by Bruce Feiler, New York Times, March 15, 2013.

The Exodus account can be read in the book of Exodus, chapter 12.

WERE YOU A BULLY?

I recall reading a while back about a study that found that bullies enjoy being bullies. This conclusion ran counter to the perception of the bully as a miserable kid whose anti-social behavior is a cry for help. I have a feeling that the label probably encapsulates both types. And then there’s another kind: I was a bully.

In childhood I was always a “good kid.” Good grades, good friends, happy home, happy demeanor, good reports at parent-teacher conferences. I mean this quite honestly, and by “good” I also mean “normal.” I was a typical kid – the occasional playground scrap or rasslin’ match being part of that definition. The little anecdote I will relate here did not change that. I continued to be a good kid, and now I’m a good guy.

But there was one time in sixth grade when two friends and I (two other good kids) literally ambushed a classmate, ganged up on him, and attacked him with large snow blocks crashed over his head. He ran home crying; we ran the other way.

That was it. Although I was not otherwise perfect (see “typical,” above), that was about the extent of my career as a bully. I am not being disingenuous, hoping that the reader will say, “That was it? That’s nothing!” Rather, I offer this as a kind of laboratory example, a part of a theory of how an episode here and an episode there may add up to more bullying than is accounted for by the serial anti-social types. And I add this commentary:

1) We picked on “Raymond” (not his name) because he was “different.” He had a quiet personality and a slight physical deformity that got our attention. The kind of thing that would elicit sympathy in most caring adults became a cause for derision in the sixth grade. We developed a nickname for him because of it. (As I write this I almost weep.)

2) I have a distinct memory that our teacher didn’t like Raymond. This certainly does not excuse our behavior, but now, upon reflection, it seems that her unhidden disdain for him gave us kids a bit of permission. God bless those teachers who recognize the children who are having a hard time and don’t contribute to it.

3) Raymond’s mother called the principal, and we were called into his office (the one time in my life). I can visualize the hall bench upon which I sat waiting for my turn. I can’t remember if the principal called my mom, but I had a good talking-to with him, and I’m forever grateful for it.

4) Again, no saint here, but I have an antipathy for seeing people mistreated, and a sensitivity for the underdog. This incident and my visit with the principal may have contributed to that.

5) There is much discussion these days about how to bully-proof our classrooms and get through to the perpetrators. I support all of this, and have been part of some programs, and I am concerned about the factors that lead to the development of anti-social kids and adults. But I often reflect on my own limited experience and I find it somewhat chilling how easily we good kids turned on Raymond because he was “different,” and I wonder how much of the problem of bullying has to do not with “professional bullies” but with isolated incidents of otherwise well-behaved children picking on “target” kids – one day a taunt from Susie, the next day a jab from Billy, etc.

6) I think a simple well-placed word from our teacher on the general subject of bullying and people’s feelings might have had some effect, but I’m not sure.

7) And by the way, I didn't enjoy it.

Were you ever a bully?

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Today my child came home from school in tears.
A classmate taunted her about her clothes,
and the other kids joined in, enough of them
to make her feel as if the fault was hers,
as if she can't fit in no matter what.
A decent child, lovely, bright, considerate.
It breaks my heart. It makes me want someone
to pay. It makes me think—O Christ, it makes
me think of things I haven't thought about
in years. How we nicknamed Barbara Hoffman
"Barn," walked behind her through the halls and mooed
like cows. We kept this up for years, and not
for any reason I could tell you now
or even then except that it was fun.
Or seemed like fun. The nights that Barbara
must have cried herself to sleep, the days
she must have dreaded getting up for school.
Or Suzanne Heider. We called her "Spider."
And we were certain Gareth Schultz was queer
and let him know it. Now there's nothing I
can do but stand outside my daughter's door
listening to her cry herself to sleep.

                                                ~ Sins of the Father

                                                    W.D. Ehrhart

WHO ARE YOU?

I have just finished reading a biography of the twentieth century Welsh poet, R.S. Thomas (“The Man Who Went Into The West,” by Byron Rogers): an outstanding example of the biographer’s art, no matter what one might think of poetry or this poet. Thomas will be ranked among the great religious poets of the ages (although his “religion” has as much to do with the absence of God as with his presence).

Thomas was always regarded as a rather difficult curmudgeon; in Roger’s book that characterization comes off almost as an understatement. The product of an emotionally warped childhood, he emerged into adulthood (and the Anglican priesthood) almost at the pathological end of the introversion scale (he once jumped over a cemetery hedge rather than stay and chat with the post-funeral mourners), and with a conflicted sense of self that was pulled back and forth between the Welsh background that he considered his real birthright, and the very English nature of his intellectual formation and his language. Serving in rural Welsh parishes for his entire career, he disdained any of his fellow-Welshmen who would not speak Welsh. (He in fact learned his “native” tongue as an adult – in night classes.) Yet he wrote in English because (he said) he had learned Welsh too late to be a poet in the language. In fact (and this is the point at which I come to the subject of this blog), in terms of his speech, R.S. Thomas, the most authentic of poets, was, it turns out, something of a poseur. As a self-conscious defense against the judgment of his backwoods parishioners, he adopted as a young man what his biographer calls “an extra cut-glass Oxford accent” that he carried through his life (when he wasn’t preaching or conversing with his parishioners in Welsh).

At that point in the story, I was tempted to cry, “Phony!” But it caused me to pause, and think. I wonder if most of us – maybe all of us – in our development, as we come to terms with our emerging sense of ourselves, don’t engage in posing as some kind of person or other – trying on personalities and styles that we see around us – whether consciously or sub-consciously. Certainly a person raised with a healthy ego and a sense of acceptance will become an authentic, self-differentiated individual, but that will undoubtedly involve trying on a hat or two along the way. Perhaps the posh accent was a pose for Thomas at 25; perhaps at 80 it was simply himself. (Some of Robert Frost’s biographers, too, claim that the “good gray farmer-poet” was something of a pose.)

In “The Nurture Assumption,” the child development researcher Judith Harris claims (and goes a good way toward proving) that a child’s personality and character are formed almost completely by her peers – the parents contributing very little. She summarizes the findings of her very sophisticated research with this simple observation: “When you were sixteen, whom did you most want to be like: your parents or your peers?”

I claim now to be one of those healthy-minded self-differentiated individuals, but I recall in my youth (about the same age that Thomas was when putting on that accent), being a shaggy-haired bold rebel like… like all of my peers.

And just when I think I have evolved and emerged fully differentiated: There was a time when I went out and bought a hat just like the one I had seen Ian Tyson wear on stage. I was fifty-five!


Have you, dear reader, been free from the pose?

                                                                                                          The author, posing.
                                                                                                                                                          


(The impertinent reflections in this blog post are the merest footnote to a footnote on the life and art of a sublime poet. You can see R. S. Thomas at 80, and hear that "cut-glass" accent, here.)