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ADOLESCENCE: A TIME OF TRANSITIONBy J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D. Fourteen year old Johnny is driving his parents up a wall. A few years ago he was a pleasant, cooperative child but now he's restless, obstinate, defiant and more interested in spending time with his buddies than his family.
There are three factors that can help us to understand the erratic, fickle, rebellious, sometimes maddening, frustrating and exasperating behavior of the adolescent.
First, adolescence is a time of rapid biological change. The adolescent is growing to his full adult stature and experiencing new and strange impulses that he doesn't yet know how to handle. Hormones are running wild.
Second, adolescence is a transition period between childhood and adulthood. No longer a child, but not yet an adult, the adolescent is caught between the past and the future. Although biologically mature, in that she is capable of sexual reproduction, psychologically and socially she has still not achieved full adult status.
Third, the adolescent is not yet a fully productive member of society. Because of the educational demands of our complex, technical and industrial world, young people have to spend many years acquiring the knowledge and skills they will need to find useful employment.
This has not always been the case. Historically, adolescence is a relatively new phenomenon, having arrived as a by-product of the Industrial Revolution. Prior to that time, the individual went straight from childhood to adulthood when he was old enough to go to work or to be apprenticed in order to learn a trade.
These three factors add up to one conclusion: the status or identity of the adolescent is quite uncertain and insecure. In contrast to other, less complex societies, we do not have an initiation rite that says to her, Now you are an adult. And it is this uncertainty that accounts for much of her behavior.
If he is restless and full of too much energy, it is because of the biological changes that he is undergoing, and because of his anxiety about his uncertain status.
If she behaves like a mature, responsible adult one day, and a spoiled, immature child the next, it is because she is half-child and half-adult.
If he likes one thing one moment, and another thing the next moment, or if he wants to be one type of person at one time, and another type of person at another time, it is because he really doesn't yet know what he wants or wants to be.
If she is a bit too rebellious, or if she challenges parental values and rules, it is because she is searching for her own principles. Up until adolescence, she has tended to uncritically accept her parent's values but now she is better equipped intellectually to challenge those beliefs and decide upon her own.
Parents of teenagers may take comfort in the fact, however, that most young people eventually return to the values of their parents so that their adolescent rebellion is actually a process of challenge and return to parental views, perhaps with a greater sense of acceptance than would have been the case if such standards had not been challenged.
And if it seems at times that his friends are more important to him than his parents, if it seems that he can talk more easily to his buddies than to Mom and Dad, it is because his friends give him a sense of identity and help him to break away eventually from his parents so that he will be able to function on his own.
This, after all, is on of the major tasks of adolescent: partial emotional and complete financial emancipation from one's parents. Someday, every adolescent has to achieve that emancipation if he is to find her own values, identity, work, and mate. The adult who is still too close to, or dependent upon, her parents may have difficulty establishing a successful marriage or independent living.
And, of course, when that day comes, the loving parent has to be willing to let go.
About the Author: J. Bailey Molineux, a psychologist with Adult and Child Counseling, has incorporated many of his articles in a book, Loving Isn't Easy, Isbn 1587410419, sold through bookstores everywhere or available directly from Selfhelpbooks.com. Copyright 2002, J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include authors copyright and website hyperlinks.
Be True to YourselfBy Allen Johnson, Ph.D. I PEERED INTO THE BATHROOM MIRROR and saw reflected there . . . a hideous stranger. He had a stark white completion, a red bulbous nose, and an eight-inch crescent mouth. Who was that? In less than an hour I had been transformed. No longer was I the funny, 16-year-old kid with the devil-may-care attitude. Gone was the sensitive teenager who cried like a baby when Dumbo lost his mother. At that moment, life was dead serious, and I was the incarnation of RONALD MCDONALD!
It was my fault; I could have said no. But when the manager of the new McDonald’s franchise offered me 50 bucks to play the famous clown at the grand opening, I could not refuse. How bad could it be? Who would recognize me under two pounds of grease paint; spring-loaded, polka dot trousers; and rubber shoes that measured 24 triple E? I could be jolly for 50 bucks. Heck, for 50 bucks I could be stark-raving hysterical.
Magdalena Trevino was the real reason I took the job. She was a tall, satin beauty with a smile that could start a Latin revolution. When I looked at her, my hormones fixed bayonets and charged helter-skelter like guerrilla freedom fighters. If sex appeal were people, Lena would be China.
For one year I devised a plan to date this teenage goddess; it took me that long to stop dribbling every time I saw her. (I’ve noticed that girls don’t like to be dated by guys who can’t control their spit bubbles.) So when I finally asked her out, and she said yes, I contained my composure until she was out of sight. Then I did a rain dance and foamed a lot. My date with Lena had to be special: maybe a romantic movie and a late dinner at the swankiest place in town, Frank Eng’s Chinese Place. But that would cost a small fortune, which was why I agreed to be Ronald for an eight-hour shift.
Most of the day was a breeze. The traffic was light in the morning. The little kids shyly accepted lollipops and balloons while clinging to the safety of their mothers’ skirts. I was feeling okay. Then, in the late afternoon, a 12-year-old boy discovered me. He stepped on my two-foot-long rubber shoes and sent me sprawling, spread eagle to the asphalt. He ran like a sewer rat, the twerp. I pulled myself to my feet, dusted my balloon trousers, and looked straight into the brown eyes of . . . LENA TREVINO.
She said nothing. Maybe she didn’t recognize me. Sure, and maybe my mother would be the next World Wrestling Federation champion. My mind scrabbled for something incredibly funny to say. All I could think of was “Want a lollipop little girl?” Geesh, great material.
She smiled placidly and slowly walked away. I was left wondering, “Does she think I’m a complete idiot or what?”
The next Saturday-still hoping for the best-I got ready for my big date with Lena. Everything had to be perfect. That was unusual for me; I was not known for excessive neatness (I once owned a pair of shoes that used to be socks.) But with Lena it was different. I had to be smooth, witty, urbane: I had to be the Great Gatsby. I got in the family ‘53 Chevy and drove the three blocks from my house to Lena’s house. A bead of sweat trickled down my side. At her front porch I felt more like a Great Pyrenees than the Great Gatsby.
When she came to the door, I held out a single grape sucker. “Want a lollipop little girl,” I said.
“I thought I recognized you,” she said with a broad smile. “You crack me up.”
Maybe this would be okay after all. I opened the passenger car door. As she brushed past me the scent of her hair pegged me like a bolt of lightning. By the time I had circled the Chevy, Lena had scooted over to the driver’s side. I had, maybe, nine inches of space to park a 16-inch keister. I had never gone out with a girl who sat that close on the first date. I think I started to blow spit bubbles. As I sat there-wallowing helplessly in a fruit bowl of raspberry lipstick and lemon shampoo-I tried to think of something smooth, witty, and urbane . . . nothing.
“You’re awfully quiet,” Lena said.
“Oh, am I? I’m sorry.”
“How come you’re not joking around?” she said.
I did have a modest reputation for being a class clown. But that was just show business. One-on-one, I was typically quiet and thoughtful, even a little shy. Being a clown was just my way of getting attention-but it was never me, not the essence anyway. “Oh, I don’t know,” I finally said. “I guess I’m just enjoying your company.”
“But I want you to make me laugh,” Lena said with a childlike pout.
“I’m sorry. What did you say?” I heard what she said; I just couldn’t believe she said it.
“Make me laugh,” she repeated. “Come on, stop fooling around. Make me laugh.”
That date didn’t go very well. Even the magic of Frank Eng’s Chinese Palace couldn’t save it. In fact, it was the first and last date I had with the unforgettable Magdalena Trevino. Thinking back, it is not surprising. I was willing to play Ronald McDonald for 50 bucks. I was unwilling to play the clown for any price. Shakespeare had it right: “To thy own self be true and it follows, like the night the day, you can’t be false to any man.” That is where the power is-to our allegiance to our own voice of wisdom. Consider the alternatives. Everything else is self-deceiving or deferential or patronizing, and that is no way to live.
About the Author:
Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY
available through Selfhelpbooks.com.
© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks
Getting Adolescents To ComplyBy J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D. My wife is a smart person. When she took a full time job several years ago, she wanted us to split the household chores and insisted we write down who agreed to do what.
All families - like all groups - must have compliance to certain rules to survive as a group. The problem in families with teenagers is that teens are at an age when they may rebel against rules. As they are about to be on their own, they don't want to obey anyone's rules but the tyranny of their peers.
So how do parents get them to comply?
This will be less of a problem if adolescents have been well disciplined as children. They will have been accustomed to following rules, or being punished for breaking them.
There are three ways parents can establish household rules with adolescents. The first way is to include them in the process of deciding what the rules shall be. Everyone has a say in the formulation of rules, so everyone has a stake in seeing they're followed.
The second way is for the parents to formulate the household rules themselves, and then explain the reasons for them to their children. Teens will then understand the rules even if they don't like them.
The worst way to encourage compliance to rules by teens is to lay them down with a Because I told you so ultimatum. This usually works when kids are six but not when they are sixteen.
What I recommend to families is the first method of formulating rules. It's a process called negotiating and contracting. I try to get everyone together to agree on certain rules and to write them down so each knows exactly what is expected of him or her.
But isn't that allowing teenagers too much freedom? Aren't there some rules the parents should lay down regardless of what teens say or want?
There certainly are. These are what are called non-negotiable items. Thirteen year old Johnny cannot stay out until two or three in the morning no matter what the occasion and Kathy cannot drive the family car without liability insurance.
Once rules have been established, it is imperative the family then agree on rewards and penalties for keeping or breaking those rules. These should be automatic and inevitable, with some room for legitimate mitigating circumstances. It just may be that Suzy is late because she really did get a flat tire and couldn't get to a phone.
Once rules and consequences are established, ideally there should be no fussing, yelling, lecturing, nagging or repeated warnings. I allow parents one warning, but no more, to save wear on their nerves and vocal cords.
About the Author: J. Bailey Molineux, a psychologist with Adult and Child Counseling, has incorporated many of his articles in a book, Loving Isn't Easy, Isbn 1587410419, sold through bookstores everywhere or available directly from Selfhelpbooks.com. Copyright 2002, J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include authors copyright and website hyperlinks.
Preventing Youth ViolenceBy J. Bailey Molineux, Ph.D. Probably most mental health professionals are, or should be, critics of society for we see how certain social conditions inflict damage and emotional pain on our clients. James Garbarino, Ph.D., author of the book "Lost Boys: Why Our Sons Turn Violent and What We Can Do to Save Them" (The Free Press, 1999), is no exception to my prediction.
Preventing lethal youth violence will be no easy task, argues Dr. Garbarino. It will involve changes and increased efforts on three levels: individual, social and therapeutic.
On the individual level, we must do everything we can to provide all boys-indeed all children-with caring family relationships. The more family members who can be there for children in loving, supportive ways, the better for their mental health.
Boys who may become violent need to be taught to actively cope with stress. Paradoxically, most violent boys are passive and see themselves as victims, except when they act out violently. They must be taught to take personal responsibility for their behavior rather than blame others or blame the system.
Boys who may become violent must also be given what Garbarino calls authentic self esteem. They must also have positive social support outside of the family, roles that can be played by teachers, coaches and/or clergy persons.
Garbarino also focuses on social changes to prevent lethal youth violence. He presents a study conducted at Fordum University on the health of our society. Sixteen factors were used to rate the state of our nation and it was found that there has been an overall decline in the health of our society from 74 points in 1970 to 41 points in 1992, quite a precipitous drop.
Children need to feel safe in their environment. One study found that one third of children between the ages of six and twelve were afraid they would be shot.
Another societal problem is the economical inequality that has been growing in the United States and which contributes to resentments, frustrations and instability in any society.
Obviously, all children should have access to health care. It is also important that through education and the support of parents, we encourage healthy parent/child relationships.
Early education programs for children, such as pre-schools, Headstart and well-run day care centers, should also be utilized. One study found that for every dollar spent on early education programs saved seven to eight to dollars later by keeping youth out of the criminal justice system.
Child Protective Services should be strengthened to prevent and treat child abuse, since it is one of the major causes of lethal violence. Also, there should be programs in schools to teach conflict resolution skills to youth. We should also be doing whatever we can to reduce media and video game violence.
Although this may be controversial to some, Garbarino also argues we should control and restrict children's access to guns.
On the therapeutic level, early diagnosis and treatment is essential. The earlier we can detect problems of aggression in children, the better prognosis.
Garbarino argues for what he calls a multisystemic therapy. This includes both family and individual therapy, since research has found that individual therapy alone for violent youth is not sufficient to bring about changes in them.
Also, residential programs are an important component in preventing and treating violent youth. However, Dr. Garbarino argues that the "bootcamp" approach which has become popular recently has not been successful with these youths.
About the Author: J. Bailey Molineux, a psychologist with Adult and Child Counseling, has incorporated many of his articles in a book, Loving Isn't Easy, Isbn 1587410419, sold through bookstores everywhere or available directly from Selfhelpbooks.com. Copyright 2002, J. Bailey Molineux and Selfhelpbooks.com, all rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include authors copyright and website hyperlinks.
Take a Vacation from MiseryBy Allen Johnson, Ph.D. JON WAS AWAKENED BY THE SOUND of his three-year-old son Scott crying in his room. He opened one eye, peering hopefully at his wife. Nope, she was conked out for the night. Half asleep, Jon rolled out of bed and shuffled to his son’s room. Scott was sobbing uncontrollably and babbling, “My leg. I-I-I lost my leg.”
Jon guessed that his son was having a nightmare, so he tried to awaken him gently. “Son, wake up,” he said softly. “Wake up, Scott; you’re having a bad dream.”
But Scotty was awake and sobbing harder than ever. “I lost m-m-my leg,” he cried, barely able to get the words out.
Jon squelched his temptation to laugh. “Well, Son,” he said, stroking the boy’s head, “what makes you think you’ve lost your leg?”
With that Scott pealed back the blanket that covered his little body. And there it was. “LOOK!” he screamed. Scotty clutched an empty pajama pant leg in his fist, waving the flannel “flag” in horror.
At that point Jon did laugh. Somehow, in the middle of the night, little Scotty had managed to stuff both limbs into a single leg of his roomy pajama bottoms. For a moment, it looked for all the world as though he had lost his leg.
It is funny how a child can scare himself silly over the most innocuous event. And, yet, when it comes to creative misery, children have no monopoly on the market. To tell the truth, I think adults have come up with some real doozies. Here are some of my favorites.
Nocturne Willies. It is the middle of the night. Suddenly I hear a strange scratching noise. I immediately clench all my toes and imagine that a depraved maniac has escaped from the state penitentiary.
Of all the houses in the world, he has chosen mine to violate. I envision that he has a particular perverted fondness for citizens of my precise temperament and body shape. But I refuse to investigate. I might discover the noise was only the cat seeking entry, and that would mess up a perfectly good misery.
Spider Phobia. I am working quietly at my desk. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a spindly spider surreptitiously stealing up the wall. This is the perfect moment to create a flaming phobia. I instantly imagine that the hairy beast is a rare and deadly arthropod, capable of disguising itself as an innocent daddy-longlegs. The monster is equipped with an internal radar system that tracks humans with loose-fitting garments. It is able to pounce from here to Miami, careen down my shirt, and nest in my navel where it will multiply and order out for pizza. I decide to freak out.
Keeping Up the Front. I am taking an entitled Sunday afternoon nap when the telephone rings. Because my voice sounds a little groggy, the caller asks if I were sleeping. Aha, the sterling opportunity to be miserable and make the intruder the unwitting villain. “No, I was just rereading a journal article on the renaissance of Aristotelian philosophy.” This is an artful dodge. In one well-formed sentence I have achieved three outcomes:
(a) guilt for lying about being awake,
(b) shame for pretending to be more scholarly than William F. Buckley, and © misery for allowing the imagined opinions of the caller to rule my life. Wow! A three-banger!
Misery through Alienation. This is a dating game tactic I discovered in Dan Greenburg’s delightful book, How to Make Yourself Miserable. It is characterized by the suitor’s appeal for rejection. With minor variations, the dialogue twitches along like this.
Allen: You probably have something better to do, so I guess you wouldn’t want to, like, go to movies on Friday night.
Mary: As a matter of fact, I have nothing planned for next Friday.
Allen: So it would be like scraping the bottom of the bucket to go with me, right?
Mary: I didn’t say that.
Allen: But that’s what you meant.
Mary: (Hesitantly.) No, not at all. But now that I think about it, I do have a lot going on this weekend.
Allen: Sure, kick me while I’m down; I’m used to it. I must have been crazy to think you would actually go out with me anyway. I hope you and your jillion fans will be very happy together.
Beautiful. I have managed to deprecate myself and insult Mary at the same time. This is a powerful technique. Both of us should be miserable for at least two-to-three days. Well, there they are: my all-star misery lineup. Understand that this has been an extremely short course in the art of adult miserablizing.
The techniques are, after all, as prolific as human inspiration. One guy I know is persuaded that the bank teller deliberately slows down when he chooses to stand in her line. Another acts as though the “jerk” that cut him off in traffic was following him for weeks, waiting for just that opportunity to burn his shorts. I even met a woman at a picnic who took personal responsibility for a turn in the weather.
I realize all this stuff sounds pretty silly-kind of like losing a leg in the middle of the night. Still, with a little effort I can make myself perfectly crazy-or perfectly sane. One way or the other, it’s all in my head-and not up my sleeve.
About the Author: Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY
available through Selfhelpbooks.com.
© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks
The Power and Potential of YouthBy Allen Johnson, Ph.D. ONE SUMMER NIGHT I had the terrific honor of speaking at a local high school graduation ceremony. Well, it wasn’t really a ceremony; it was more like a festival. The stadium rang with hoops and hollers and cat whistles; high-fives were popping all over the place. It was nothing like my high school graduation. Back then we were stiff and stoic, accepting our diplomas like knighthood from the Queen of England. In contrast, last night felt more like a Greek wedding at Mardi Gras. No one was waiting for permission to have a good time. I like this new spirit of celebration. I love the sharing of human emotion: the joy, the anticipation, the pride, the tinge of sadness. It is all there, transparent and real. At the end of the program, after the names were called, after the mortarboards were flung, after the balloons were released and the fireworks discharged-after all that, I did not want to leave. I stood on the small stage and watched 3000 people storm the field.
I saw a 14-year-old boy with a punk hairdo wipe his eyes with the tail of his tee shirt. At first I thought he was dislodging an errant bug or eyelash. On second look I could see that his tears were streaming. He hugged his big sister and once again dried his eyes with the ready-made “handkerchief.”
I saw a tall, strapping young man call out to another graduate of equal size. He raised both arms high above his head, part in triumph, part in invitation for a hug. They embraced each other like two powerful sumo wrestlers.
“We sure as hell did,” said the other, lifting his friend off the ground.
I saw a pretty young lady who was a member of the small choir that sang during the program. I remembered her because I was touched by her struggle to keep her composure while singing. “Bless her heart,” I had thought. As she walked past me, I smiled. At that moment I was full of emotion, an eye blink away from losing it. She must have sensed that. Without saying a word, she grinned and gave me a splendid hug, firm and honest.
“I almost broke up while watching you sing,” I told her. And then I did lose it. We stood there for a moment, face to face, total strangers and, yet, equal participants in the human experience. I did not know then, nor do I know now, the name of that mature young woman, but I thank her for taking me in. Still I lingered. As I watched the crowd, I wished I could be everywhere all at once. I wanted to be sandwiched between every hug dispensed that night. I wanted to hear the words: the congratulations, the reconciliations, the remembrances, the dreams.
But soon, too soon, the crowd began to dwindle. Families returned to their homes, graduates found their parties, and I stood on the fifty-yard line of the high school football field and thought, “It does not get any better than that.”
Those are the moments that make it all worthwhile-when the tears are dried and the battles forgotten. Only the spirit of each youth is important. The potential harnessed in those sturdy, young bodies is enough to power our dreams, heal the world, and move this 1964 high school graduate to tears of perfect joy.
About the Author:
Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY available through Selfhelpbooks.com.
© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks.
The Power of VisualizationBy Allen Johnson, Ph.D. THERE WERE SIX OF US. We had our sleeping bags pitched out in Jim Mullen’s front yard, a kind of campout for the church junior boys. Six blocks away in the church basement, the junior girls were having a slumber party.
Our sacks were laid out in the shape of a star, our heads clustered in the center. It was the perfect arrangement for whispered ghost stories: “Whoooo stole my goOOolden arm?” We scared the bejebees out of each other for a good hour.
“Well, what d’ya wanna do now?” someone asked.
“I don’t know. What do you wanna do?” I countered
“Gee, I dunno.”
The conversation was too much for Jerry. He wasn’t any older than the rest of us, just 13, but always a little more daring. “Will you guys shut up?” he hollered. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t we see what the girls are doing?”
Suddenly, none of us had eyelids. Visit the girls?! Wow, the possibilities were galactic-but crazy. It was already close to midnight; if anyone ever found out, we’d be goners. Still, the more we thought about it, the more sensible it seemed. In fact, after awhile, we figured we’d be nuts not to go. We began to visualize the scene: girls running around in scanty underwear, baiting us with suggestive giggles. (I knew about scanty underwear; I had seen it all in the front section of the Sears and Roebuck catalog.) No, there was no other way; the image was irresistible.
We slipped out of our bags and over the fence. For six blocks we ran with our heads down and our shoulders hunched. Then one of us yelled, “Car!” and we scrambled behind the nearest bush or garbage can. We were great-the “Dirty Half Dozen.”
I can’t remember how long it took us; time was not a factor. We would have crawled on our bellies to complete the mission.
Then we were there. We tapped on the basement church windows. We heard giggling. A window popped open, and the junior girls’ Sunday school teacher thrust her head through the opening. Holy Toledo! None of us had thought about her.
“What do you boys think you’re doing?” she snapped.
What a dumb question; how should we know? So we did the only thing we could do. We ran like hell, six blocks, nonstop-wild men with our pants on fire-over the fence and into our sacks, and fervently prayed for divine intervention.
The next morning, after the news hit the Associated Press, my mother grabbed me by the ear and escorted me to the car and impending doom.
“What were you thinking of?” she demanded.
What could I say? The truth? “Uh, well, mom, I was thinking of breasts, and bottoms, and ladies underwear.” Not on your life! So I said what every kid mutters when trapped by a puny argument and the wish to continue living: “Gee, Mom, I dunno.” If I had known then what I know now, I might have been more convincing: “Well, Mom, it’s really quite straightforward when you stop to think about it. You’ve heard the expression, be careful what you wish for; you might just get it? Well, that’s exactly what happened. The guys just started to fantasize about girls-not just casually, mind you, but in glorious Technicolor. So you see, it was the power of visualization that propelled us to jump the fence. We simply followed the lead of our imagination. How can you fault that? Surely you would not want to deprive us of our capacity for imagination.”
Do you think she would have bought that? Nah! Her comeback would have been brutal: “I’ve got your imagination on the end of this willow switch. Drop ‘em, buster.” If there is one thing I have learned, it is this: It’s impossible to use logic on a mother with a weapon in her hand and malice in her heart.
About the Author: Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY
available through Selfhelpbooks.com.
© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks
The Problem with ArroganceBy Allen Johnson, Ph.D. LAST NIGHT I SLEPT UNDER THE STARS. The newspaper reported there would be a spectacular comet shower, an event that happens only once a year. So, I got out my sleeping bag and favorite pillow and pitched camp in my back yard. My Old English sheepdog settled down beside me. He stared at me, his head cocked and eyebrows raised in wonder.
“How unexpected and doglike,” he must have thought. The sky was clear; the air was cool. It was a perfect night for stargazing. With every falling star, I felt a small jolt, a gentle leap of joy. Soon I began thinking about another night under the stars long ago, the night I met the girl who broke my heart.
I was fourteen years old. My family was spending the summer at Newman Lake northeast of Spokane. It was the perfect setting for a summer romance: mountains, trees, beach, and water.
One night, my brother, a friend, and I walked to a nearby coffee shop at Honeymoon Bay Resort to play the pinball machines. That’s when I saw her: a beautiful, platinum blond, 14-year-old woman of the world. I knew she was experienced; she had that serene look of carnal knowledge.
“Who is that?” I asked my friend, pointing with the side of my head, so as not to be conspicuous. “That’s Julie,” my friend said. “Forget her. She goes with the paper boy, and he’s 16.”
But evidently Julie felt no bond of loyalty to the young journalist. She walked directly to me and introduced herself.
“Hi, my name is Julie.”
Boy, was she smooth.
Then she did something I’ll never forget. She playfully stepped on my brand new, low-cut tennis shoes; it was so cool. That was the beginning of the romance of the summer. We spent every day together: swimming, water-skiing, sun bathing. At night we looked at the stars and kissed a lot; it’s amazing how long two fourteen-year-olds can kiss. And then it happened. One morning near the end of the summer, I looked out our cabin window that overlooked the lake. I was killed. There they were: Julie and the 16-year-old paperboy, scuba diving off the end of the dock. A few moments later they were driving off together in his ‘58 Chevy convertible. That was the end. There was no goodbye-nothing. The summer was over, and I started another year at school. But all year long I thought about Julie. At night, I lay in bed with my eyes open and made up stories about what happened. I imagined that she was kidnapped and drugged and sold to an Arab prince in the white slave market. That was the only possible explanation.
It was two years before I saw Julie again. We were spending another summer at the lake. Julie was there and even prettier than I had remembered. I did not speak to her; I was too nervous. But she spoke to me. One evening she asked if I would like to go for a walk-as if anything could stop me. We strolled silently to a nearby picnic area. I leaned against a large pine, both hands tucked into my back pockets, trying to look as tragic as possible. I rehearsed the familiar words in my head.
“Julie,” I finally said, “what happened two summers ago?”
She looked at me sadly. “Oh, Allen,” she whispered, “I was so immature. And you are so neat, the sweetest guy I’ve ever known. How could I have left you? Can you ever forgive me?”
Then she stepped forward and pressed her lips against mine. I was transported to heaven. For a moment I think I lost control of my bladder. It was better than all of my fantasies. Again, the romance rekindled-no, inflamed. By the end of the summer, we were totally devoted. We promised each other that we would write faithfully and reunite the following summer.
Every week I wrote to Julie, spicing my letters with lines of poetry from my freshman literature book. And then I did something that was outrageously stupid. I had been raised in a very conservative church. We were taught that there were many worldly things to tempt us-all of which should be carefully avoided. One of those vices was going to the movies; Christians did not do that.
Yet Julie, who called herself a Christian, did go. How was that possible? I was deeply troubled by the paradox, so I challenged her in a letter. I waited a week for her response; there was none. I waited two weeks; still no response. Finally, I realized what I had done. I quickly wrote another letter.
“Who am I to judge you?” I wrote. “Please forgive me.”
I mailed the letter and waited. A week went by, two weeks, a month. Julie never wrote again. And I was sick with remorse and shame.
Years later, after I had graduated from college, I decided to give Julie a call. I wanted to know what had happened to her; I wondered if she was happy. But mostly, I wanted to reminisce, to share some of the old stories, to think back for a few moments on the thrill of young love.
Julie answered the phone, and I introduced myself. Immediately, I felt a coolness, a distancing from me. There was no common bond. Julie had no desire to reminisce. She assured me quickly, and very politely, that she was happily married; in fact, life could not be better. “You do not understand,” I wanted to say. “I do not want to break up your marriage; I only want to remember.”
That may have been the saddest phone call I’ve ever made.
Last night, I thought about all that while watching the shooting stars. Awed by the magnitude of the universe, I marveled at my audacity. How could I, a speck in time and space, ever have thought I could sit in for God?
About the Author:
Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY available through Selfhelpbooks.com.
© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks.
Understanding is the Key to LoveBy Allen Johnson, Ph.D. HENRY WAS A BAD BOY. He was not criminal, just mean. He was the kind of kid who always took cuts in the lunch line at school. He made obscene grumblings in the back of his throat when the teacher sat down-BRruuUMP-and then blamed it on the fat kid with glasses who was too nervous to defend himself. He scratched dirty words on the bathroom walls with his Schlitz Malt Liquor pocket knife. (“You want to have a good time? Call Louise.” Louise was the school librarian and about as sensual as a textbook on quantum physics.)
Nobody liked Henry. He was crude, impolite, and selfish. By the time he graduated from high school-that in itself the eighth wonder of the world-he was voted “Most Likely to Mug a Nun.”
Then a curious thing happened. One summer day Henry was sitting on a park bench, pelting pigeons with chunks of gravel, when a young lady sat down beside him. Her name was Cindy. She was friendly and very pretty-in the way all women are pretty when they value themselves.
“Good morning,” Cindy said cheerfully.
The greeting startled Henry. Her voice was so pleasant he guessed she must be speaking to someone else. But, with the exception of the dazed pigeons, they were alone.
“Uh, hi,” he finally stammered.
“You must not like pigeons very much,” Cindy said.
“Ah, they’re okay, I guess, if you like that sort of thing.”
“What do you like?” Cindy asked softly.
Henry looked suspiciously at this friendly stranger. Her voice was free of the surliness he was accustomed to when people spoke to him. She seemed truly interested in his opinion.
“I don’t know,” Henry finally mumbled. “What’s there to like?”
“You mean you feel like there’s nothing that can make you smile?”
With that Henry did smile. It was not something he did very often; you could almost hear his cheeks crackle like cellophane. “You’ll probably think this is dumb,” Henry said, “but I’ve always liked bugs, especially black beetle bugs.”
“I don’t think that’s dumb,” Cindy said. “Tell me about it.” So, Henry talked about bugs. And Cindy listened. She did not criticize; she did not make judgments. She simply tried to understand Henry’s world as he experienced it. She entered his perceptual domain and made herself at home, experiencing for herself his thoughts and feelings. She activated that human quality that almost instantly makes the confused less troubled: empathy.
The deeper she entered Henry’s world, the more real he became. He was no longer mean and vindictive. Rather, he was relaxed and calm and more sure of himself.
That is the magic of empathy. It clearly moves people toward more positive attitudes and behavior. It helps them gain new insight into their personhood-rich discoveries that are eventually blended into their self-concept. They feel understood, less alienated from the rest of the world. Mostly, though, they feel recognized as a person of worth. And when that happens, they no longer have to compensate by devaluing themselves or ridiculing others. There’s no need; people of worth have a new appreciation for all humanity.
Oh, you may be wondering about Henry and Cindy. They are quite happy, thank you. Henry says that he has the best of two worlds: an understanding wife and the finest collection of black beetles in North America. Who could ask for anything more?
About the Author:
Allen Johnson, Ph.D. is the author of THIS SIDE OF CRAZY: 54 LESSONS ON LIVING FROM SOMEONE WHO SHOULD KNOW BETTER BUT KEEPS MESSING UP ANYWAY available through Selfhelpbooks.com.
© Copyright 2003 by Allen Johnson and Selfhelpbooks.com. All rights reserved. This article may be reprinted but must include the author’s copyright and website hyperlinks.
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