Author: Dr. Jeffrey Rubin

Jeffrey Rubin grew up in Brooklyn and received his PhD from the University of Minnesota. In his earlier life, he worked in clinical settings, schools, and a juvenile correctional facility. More recently, he authored three novels, A Hero Grows in Brooklyn, Fights in the Streets, Tears in the Sand, and Love, Sex, and Respect (information about these novels can be found at http://www.frominsultstorespect.com/novels/). Currently, he writes a blog titled “From Insults to Respect” that features suggestions for working through conflict, dealing with anger, and supporting respectful relationships.

Categories
insults

Insults and Respect: What Are They?

Welcome to From Insults to Respect. 

As readers can readily see, this blog deals with issues related to insults and respect. Because I’ve assumed people readily know what they mean, in none of my previous posts have I bothered defining them. However, I recently asked some people what respect means, and found they hesitated, seemed unsure how to respond, or gave some vague answers. For example, one said she knows when she respects someone, then hesitated, and then requested some time to think about it before further replying. Another responded that she respects people who communicate well. Although I have some sense of what she means by this, I decided to seek some additional clarification.

To begin the process, because my adult son, Jack was conveniently visiting me for Thanksgiving, I turned to him to see how he defines respect. Jack replied, “When I’m feeling a person is living their life with integrity, or handles certain situations with integrity, I respect them.”

To encourage Jack to expand on his thoughts on this, I probed: “Think of someone you respect and don’t tell me who he or she is.” Once he thought of this person, I then asked him to tell me what he respects about that person. He replied, “The person lives a life with a strong intention of making the world a better place.”

I probed even further by asking Jack, “Can you think of something that would lead you to respect that person you are thinking of even more?” He replied: “If the person would be more present when he or she spends time with me.”

Hmm. Interesting.

Then I asked another person I know, a similar set of questions.

She said she defined respect as the admiration she feels for herself when living in alignment with her values and the admiration that she feels for others when they are living in alignment with her shared values.”

When I asked her the question about thinking of someone she respects without telling me who he or she is, and then tell me what is it about that person that has led to your respect, she replied, “This person lives with great integrity and humility. Also, that person never says an unkind word about anyone else. They take responsibility for their own actions, and walk their talk.”

When I probed further by asking her, “Can you think of something that would lead you to respect that person even more?” she replied, “Having even more compassion for themselves and their human imperfections.”

After this, I then decided to see what Wikipedia had to say on this subject. It replied:

An insult is an expression, statement, or behavior that is often deliberately disrespectful, offensive, scornful, or derogatory towards an individual or a group. Insults can be intentional or unintentional, and they often aim to belittle, offend, or humiliate the target. While insults may sometimes include factual information, such information is typically presented in a pejorative manner….

Respect, also called esteem, is a positive feeling or deferential action shown towards someone or something considered important or held in high esteem or regard. It conveys a sense of admiration for good or valuable qualities. It is also the process of honoring someone by exhibiting care, concern, or consideration for their needs or feelings.[1]

In many cultures, people are considered to be worthy of respect until they prove otherwise. Some people may earn special respect through their exemplary actions or social roles. In “honor cultures”, respect is more often earned in this way than granted by default.[2] Courtesies that show respect may include simple words and phrases like “thank you” in the West or “namaste” in the Indian subcontinent, or simple physical signs like a slight bow, a smile, direct eye contact, or a handshake. Such acts may have very different interpretations depending on the cultural context. The end goal is for all people to be treated with respect.

This strikes me as a pretty good answer, but I’d like to add a few more ideas.

Some people respect those of us who say they are always happy. It certainly feels nice when we are happy. But once I read a chapter in a book titled Living Philosophies: A Series of Intimate Credos, and the first chapter is by Albert Einstein. There he states in part:

The ideals which have always shone before me and filled me with the joy of living are goodness, beauty, and truth.  To make a goal of comfort or happiness has never appealed to me; a system of ethics built on this basis would be sufficient for a herd of cattle.

Then I read the rest of Einstein’s chapter, and came away with the following image. He viewed happiness as one-half of an oscillation process, with sadness and happiness going back and forth, thrusting his ship forward, and where he chose to steer his ship was in the direction that led to goodness, beauty, and truth. This struck me as a deeper way to view the nature of happiness, and for those of us who want to be respected for being deep, in contrast to shallow, I think that there may be some value in meditating on this.

I always liked Ralph Waldo Emerson’s thoughts on this topic:

Emerson

The purpose of life is not to be happy. It is to be useful, to be honorable, to be compassionate, to have it make some difference that you have lived and lived well.

I dare say, I find myself respecting folks more who strive for these goals than merely always seeking happiness.

Finally, I tend to respect adults more who act in a manner consistent with how I view psychological maturity:

Psychological maturity is “better” in the long run, it considers more variables, and represents more comprehensive cognitive problem solving. Individuals who tend to act at higher levels of psychological maturity can think more critically, logically, and scientifically while acting civilly to people with whom they disagree; they can graciously admit they are wrong when information comes in supporting such a conclusion; they welcome receiving criticism, respond without getting defensive, though they know it can be emotionally concerning for them; they are hesitant to provide uninvited criticism, only doing so when they can formulate it in a way that promises to be specific enough to be helpful, and they do so without insulting tones of voice or name calling; they can role-play and empathize with the emotions of a wide variety of human beings and can process moral dilemmas according to standards of democratic justice and the golden rule; they understand that melancholy and anxiety, rather than symptoms of mental disorders, are part of the natural process of addressing concerns about losses and fears; and they have the ability to puzzle through the tough problems of living, to take a stand, and yet to remain open to possible revisions and new information—thus demonstrating a capacity to make successive approximations toward more efficient, effective, economical, and beautiful accomplishments.

Although I respect people who display behavior consistent with these principles, I strive to treat everyone I meet respectfully.

Well, there you have it, some thoughts regarding the concepts of insults and respect. My whole blog, of course, goes into these ideas in far more detail. Here, we just explored some definitions. I hope you find them useful. As always, I love to hear from readers on this and all of my posts.

My Best,
Jeff

Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional intelligence. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE.

Categories
ADHD ADHD medication ADHD Research Attention Priority Difference

What’s Better, ADHD Or Attention Priority Difference?

Welcome to From Insults to Respect.

Recently, I came upon an article in The New York Times by Ellen Barry titled, “Autism, A.D.H.D., Anxiety: Can a Diagnosis Make You Better?” She begins by telling us about a woman in her early 50s who, upon getting a diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, “described it as a profound relief, releasing her from years of self-blame — about missed deadlines and lost receipts, but also things that were deeper and more complicated, like her sensitivity to injustice.” Other people Ms. Barry met who were given a “diagnosis” of autism spectrum disorder also experienced it as relief. Simply putting a name to it seemed to help.

Negative Effects Emerging

However, Ms. Barry notes that evidence is emerging that over the long term, diagnosing these conditions doesn’t help. “Yes,” she says, “there is a positive effect of lowered self-blame. But there is a negative effect as well–a greater pessimism about recovery.”

Defending her position, Ms. Barry describes a study that looked into this negative effect. The study identified no significant differences in the demographic characteristics or socio-emotional wellbeing of 9-year-olds with hyperactivity/inattention who had and who had not received a diagnosis of ADHD. However, by age 13, those who had a diagnosis at age 9 showed more emotional and peer relationship problems, worse prosocial behaviour, and poorer self-concept.

Other research found that those who were treated with A.D.H.D. medication, in the long run, did no better academically while suffering a variety of negative effects from the prescribed drugs such as becoming addicted to the drug, along with head and stomach aches,

Last year, a study found that even a medium strength daily dose of Adderall, the most commonly prescribed drug to treat A.D.H.D., more than tripled a patient’s likelihood of developing psychosis or mania. A high dose increased the risk by a factor of five. And yet, another study found that the height suppression found in earlier studies, which were thought to be temporary, found that nine years after treatment, the height gap remained. The subjects’ A.D.H.D. symptoms, meanwhile, were no better than those who had stopped taking the medication or who had never started.

Benefits To Realizing The Characteristics That Lead To An A.D.H.D. Diagnosis Are Often Not Permanent

Recent researchers have been discovering that A.D.H.D. behavior characteristics can be highly responsive to the environment. When the surroundings of a person with an A.D.H.D. diagnosis better matches the person’s interests and talents or home life improves, the behavior pattern that led to the “diagnosis” often improves as well.

We need people with different interests and talents to fill the various roles society values. Someone who enjoys painting houses might find sitting all day in front of a computer screen very boring, while others enjoy a job that has them engaging for hours on a computer. Fortunately, we have a need for both types, and conceptualizing one or the other as having a pathological condition does not appear to be helpful in the long run. Much better is to provide narratives that demonstrate people who find they are inattentive in certain settings, such as the typical school classroom, may very well do much better in some other environments better suited to them. More and more, research is demonstrating this is true.

In 2016, Arielle Lasky and other members of her research team published a paper that describes their discussions with subjects who had been given a diagnosis of A.D.H.D. as children, but were now in their mid-20s. Subject after subject spontaneously brought up the importance of finding their “niche,” or the right “fit,” in school or in the workplace. As adults, they had more freedom than they did as children to control the parameters of their lives — whether to go to college, what to study, what kind of career to pursue. Many of them had sensibly chosen contexts that were a better match for their personalities than what they experienced in school, and as a result, they reported that their A.D.H.D. symptoms had disappeared. In fact, some of them were questioning whether they had ever had a disorder at all — or if they had just been in the wrong environment as children.

The work environments where the subjects were thriving varied. For some, the appeal of their new jobs was that they were busy and cognitively demanding, requiring constant multitasking. For others, the right context was physical, hands-on labor. For all of them, what made a difference was having work that to them felt “intrinsically interesting.”

One subject, who was studying film in college, said that his ability to thrive in his chosen field made him question the years he spent being treated for A.D.H.D. “Originally, when I was first diagnosed with it, it was explained to me as attention deficit, just a lack of attention,” he said. “An ability not to have an attention span for very long. But I can have an attention span for extremely long for the things that I care about.”

A hairstylist told the researchers that her inability to concentrate in school vanished when she began studying hair. “If you sit up there and give me a lecture on a haircut, I will remember everything you said, word for word,” she said. “Stuff that I’m into, I am so immersed in it. But in school, it was awful.”

A young man who was training to be an auto technician said that in his new career, his A.D.H.D. was no longer an issue. “It’s just that I had to figure out what I wanted to do,” he explained. “I want to work with cars. I don’t get bored doing that. If people with A.D.H.D. are directed into areas where their strengths and interests lie, I’m pretty sure that they can naturally just go about dealing with it, instead of having to give people medications.”

Instead of characterizing A.D.H.D. as a  medical disorder, which tends to lead people to believe they are defective, perhaps suggesting to them that they may have an “Attention Priority Difference” might be better. For some children, a different school, or a different kind of school, might produce the same profound shift that we are finding in recent research studies.

In a 2021 review paper, researchers found 14 studies in which receiving an A.D.H.D. diagnosis seemed to create a sense of “empowerment” by “supporting a sense of legitimacy accompanied by understanding and sympathy as well as decreased guilt, blame and anger.” In 22 other studies this team found, “a biomedical view of difficulties was shown to be associated with disempowerment. By providing an excuse for problems, a decrease in responsibility by all involved can occur, often followed by inaction and stagnation.” An additional 14 studies found that the diagnosis increased feelings of stigmatization. “The diagnosis can create an identity that enhances prejudice and judgment, which are associated with even greater feelings of isolation, exclusion and shame.”

Conclusion

Admittedly, the  A.D.H.D.medical model provides parents and students a simple explanation for their children’s problems that can bring about relief and reduce blame, at least in the short term. However, the Attention Priority Difference model can do this as well and more accurately reflects the latest scientific understanding that a student’s environmental context can dramatically alter the concerning behavior. Rather than our society spending millions of dollars on drugs that people have become convinced is a quick fix to these problems, the Attention Priority Difference idea can offer for many a valuable alternative. It can motivate schools to provide more varied classroom activities that are designed to better match the various interests and talents of their students who are bored with the traditional approach that has students sitting at their desks doing seat work for unbearably long hours.  And it can give these children a vision of their future in which things might actually improve — not because their brains are chemically refashioned in a way that makes them better able to fit into the world, but because they find a way to make the world fit better with whom they are.

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Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional intelligence. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE

Categories
antipsychotic drugs Ethics in Mental Health Care Ethics in psychiatry psychiatric drugs psychiatric medications

Cool Steve Deals With A Psychiatrist

Dr. Jeffrey Rubin

Welcome to From Insults to Respect. Today, I ask readers to consider a story that raises some questions regarding the practice of psychiatry.

The Story

     Cool Steve and three of his fellow high school buddies, Jeff, George, and Cliff, have come to the Coney Island Child Psychiatric Center because Steve’s eight-year old brother, Pete, has been dealing with some serious emotional problems. When Pete was first brought to the center, Doctor Goldwin had prescribed Thorazine, to treat Pete. Upon doing some research about the drug, the boys learned it has some serious, and even life threatening side effects. The boys have now come to the center to discuss this with Dr. Goodwin, and while waiting to see him, another psychiatrist, Dr. William Kolanski, comes by. Here’s how Jeff tells what transpires.

     “Excuse me, Dr. Kolanski,” I call out just as he’s shutting his office door behind him.

      Dr. Kolanski reopens his door.  “Can I help you boys?”

     “We’d like to ask you some questions about Thorazine,” says Cliff. “We have some questions about the safety of Thorazine.”

      Dr. Kolanski’s forehead crinkles.  “Oh, I see,” he says.  “I’m afraid I too have some questions about its safety.  I’ve seen, personally, a couple of tragedies that have befallen patients who had been placed on Thorazine and related drugs.  One just occurred last night.”

      As he is speaking, we notice Dr. Goldwin opening his office door and as he begins to listen to Dr. Kolanski, his face begins to turn brick red and suddenly he begins to shout at Dr. Kolanski, “Doctor!  Please step into my office!”

      Dr. Kolanski gets up and walks into Dr. Goldwin’s office.

      “Hurry, Jeff,” whispers George.  “You’re the actor.  Go over by the secretary and as you’re walking by her, create a commotion.  Get her into the hallway with you so she can’t see us.  The rest of us will listen at Dr. Goldwin’s door and hear what’s going on.”

      “Wait a minute,” whispers Cliff.  “If they catch us listening, we’ll be the ones they’ll be injecting with Thorazine.”

      I look at Steve who is bending over with his ear close to Cliff’s mouth.  He straightens up, turns his back to the secretary so his voice won’t project toward her.  I glance over and see the secretary is hard at work typing.  She has blond hair, obviously bleached.

     “Cliff, you’re free to leave,” whispers Steve.

     “If you guys are staying, I’m staying,” whispers Cliff.  “But we’re nuts!”

     Then Steve turns to me. “Go ahead, Jeff,” he whispers. “Do what George said. Hurry.”

     What kind of commotion can I make? I think to myself as I head toward the secretary.  As I walk by her, suddenly I scream and grab my leg, falling to the floor.

     “God!  Oh God!  Miss!  Miss!” I shout to the secretary, pretending to be in agony. She leaps up. “Shall I call for a doctor?” she asks, very concerned.

     “No!  No!  It’s just a cramp.  If you could just come over here for a second and help me up.  I get them from time to time.  I just need to walk it off.”  My hand stretches out to her as my face contorts, and I let out a wrenching–“O-h-h-h!”

     She hurries around her desk and helps me up.  I limp, with her support, leading her down the hall. Halfway down I feign another cramp attack. I moan and groan, fall to the floor and clutch my leg.  “I’ll be okay. All I need is some help to walk it off.  It’ll be okay in a second or two. Just help me up again. Oh-h-h-h!”

     I lead her further away from her desk. By the main doorway, I begin to ask her about being a secretary to psychiatrists, while still acting like I’m in distress.  Once she gets to talking, she starts to get lost in what she’s saying for a few minutes. 

     I begin limping slowly when the hallway elevator doors open. An orderly steps out and turns down the hallway toward the chamber where my friends are listening at Dr. Goldwin’s door.

     I have to act fast. I begin yelling, “Orderly!  Orderly!”

     I have no idea what I will say to him, but he stops, turns, and says, “Yes?”

     I explain to him about my leg cramp, and that although the secretary is helping me by holding my left arm, if he could take the other one just until I can get back to the waiting room where my friends can take over to help me.

     I limp, with this assistance, toward the waiting area; and when we’re six feet or so from being able to see into the chamber off to the left, I call out, “Steve!  Cliff!  George!  Could you guys come help me?”

     I pray my warning cries are heard. When the orderly, the secretary, and I enter the chamber, there are the three spies innocently sitting on the waiting area couch.

                                                            *              *              *

As we jump into a taxi, I ask, “What did you find out?”

     “Get this,” says Cliff, obviously annoyed.  “I agree to stay with these nuts, and I didn’t even get to listen at the door.  Steve tells me I gotta watch down the hallway to see if anyone was coming!”

     “I wanted him to stand guard,” says Steve, defending his actions.

     “Well, at least Cliff, you must of felt relaxed knowing no one would surprise you,” I say.

     “Get out of here!” Cliff responds. “There are three doors in the waiting area–Dr. Goldwin’s office, Dr. Kolanski’s, and some other guy’s.  At any second someone might have popped out of any of the doors.”

     “Well, anyway, you didn’t get caught,” I say. “What’d you find out?”

     “First of all,” says George, “Dr. Goldwin is going to try to get Pete committed to the hospital and to force him to take Thorazine. There’s a meeting in a Judge Kaplan’s chambers at 2:00 today.”

      “What else did you hear? I ask. 

       “Dr. Goldwin,” says Steve, “was yelling at Dr. Kolanski, saying,” ‘What the hell do you think you were doing out there?’     “Then Dr. Kolanski said,” ‘We don’t know what we’re doing with this Thorazine, yet. Just last night one of the patients on it became very sick. We need to back up, re-evaluate.’

        “Dr. Goldwin said, ‘Bill, you’re going to have to learn to take a clinically detached view of these cases. Now pull yourself together.  I want you to go out there and tell those boys you thought they were talking about some other medication–Reserpine.  Tell them you thought they were talking about Reserpine.’

      “Dr. Kolanski said, ‘I can’t do that, Robert.’

       “Dr. Goldwin said, ‘Let me make myself clearer, I’m ordering you to do it.’

       “Dr. Kolanski said, ‘You’re ordering me to do something unethical and immoral.’

        “Dr. Goldwin replied, ‘I’m telling you that if you ever want to work as a psychiatrist again, you’ll get out there now and do what I just told you!’

       “Dr. Kolanski said, ‘Robert, Pete’s mother has a right to make an informed and completely voluntary decision concerning treatment for her son.  I intend…’

       “Dr. Goldwin interrupts, hollering,  ‘Informed consent–what crap. You know what kind of patients we deal with.  You think their parents are any better…’

      “Dr. Kolanski then said, ‘Under the law, parents are presumed competent. You presume incompetence. If you think the parent is incompetent to be the boy’s legal guardian, pursue the case in a court of law. At least there she’ll be entitled to due process.’

       “Dr. Goldwin then said, ‘Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?  Who the hell… you want us to get rid of drugs, do you?  What are we supposed to do, talk to the patient? That’s what the social workers and psychologists do. You know what they get paid around here?  Do you know what I paid for my brownstone on 57th Street? You’re fired, Dr. Kolanski.'”

Discussion

This story raises some important questions. For example, do you respect Dr. Kolanski for seeking to be honest with Steve and his friends? Did Dr. Goldwin do the right thing by firing Dr. Kolanski? How do readers feel about Dr. Goldwin raising the issue of having a much higher salary than social workers and psychologists because of his prescription privileges?

I encourage readers to chime in on these questions and comment in any other way that comes to mind.

My Best.
Jeff

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Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional intelligence. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE

Categories
Cool Steve N-Word racism respect

Cool Steve’s Puzzled When Blacks Use N-Word

Dr. Jeffrey Rubin

Welcome to From Insults To Respect. Today, let’s consider a story in which the N-word gets used in a couple of very different ways.

A Rough Basketball Game

May, 1965.

            “Wandering around the Coney Island area a few blocks from the amusement parks, 15-year old Steve and his nine-year old brother, Pete, spots some guys about his age playing basketball.

            As they come closer, they see that a five-on-five game is in progress. “Look, Pete, they’re all colored guys.”

“You’re colored, Steve. You got brown skin and darker brown hair. The tall guy over there, Steve, his skin is darker brown than you, and, look, the guy who just shot the ball, he’s almost black.”

            “Marone!  Did you see that guy make that turnaround jumper?” Steve cries.

            “Those guys are good, Steve.”

“Listen, Pete, let me play a quick game with them? I’ve played against some colored guys before and sometimes one or two were a step above, but these guys—Marone! You can watch or play over there with the guys your age.”

            “I don’t mind watching you. It’s fun. You’re really good.”

            Steve was taller than most kids his age and his speed and quickness led him to search out games that would really challenge him. Although not as tall as the two guys playing the center position for the teams playing now or one of the guys standing on the sideline, who looks to be close to six-feet, Steve is taller than most of the other players.

            Walking beside the six-footer, Steve calls out, “I got next!”

            “What?” the tall guy cries out as he turns to Steve and glares into his eyes.

            “I got next,” Steve reasserts.

            “Listen, kid, you watch any of this game over here. We guys are the best fifteen-year-olds in the area. Ain’t no white-ass boy gonna keep up with us.”

            “You ain’t afraid to find out how true that is, are ya?” Steve replies with a twinkle in his eye.

            “Well, I wouldn’t mind finding out if I was to play ‘gainst you, but I got next. That means we’d be on the same team. You make my team lose, I gotta sit out another game, you know what I’m sayin’?”

            “I’ll tell ya what. After one game, if I haven’t proved to you I can keep up with you guys, I’ll leave and it’ll be the last you’ll ever see of this low-down white-ass kid.”

             “Now here comes a real player,” the six-footer says as he notices the arrival of some guy he obviously knows. Heading over to greet him and his little brother, who is by his side, he warmly calls out, “How’s my nigga doin’?” Steve is a bit startled by this greeting, because he thought the use of the word “nigga” was insulting, and yet the six-footer used it as a pleasant greeting.

            “I’m doin’ fine, Shorty.”

            Calling the six-footer Shorty makes Steve smile.

            When Shorty and the new arrival come close enough to one another they start giving each other this weird handshake: a slide of their palms, a bump of their fist, some twisting of their fingers, another palm slide, and then finishing up with both pointing at one another.

            “You and the white kid got next, Shorty?” asks the new arrival.

            “Well, I got next, Earl, but I don’t know ’bout this other guy. He says he wants to play, but sheeeeet.”

             “Hi Earl. I’m Steve.”

Earl, a shade darker than Shorty, three inches shorter, has curly hair grown out distinctly longer than the others on the court. He sizes up Steve, shrugs his shoulders, and declares, “Let’s give him a try, see if he can fly.”

            Shorty let’s out another prolonged, “Sheeeeet,” but resigns himself to having Steve for a teammate.

            “You think you and these other guys out here are the best fifteen-year-olds in the neighborhood?” Steve asks.

            “We don’t think it, we know it. We all play in this kick-ass basketball league in Coney Island. Last year’s basketball season, the coaches got together, and they made All Star teams for each of the age groups to compete with All Star teams in other neighborhoods. We guys were the Coney Island All Stars for the fourteen-year-olds, ya know what I’m sayin’?  Now we’re fifteen and we’re getting ready for next season.”

            “You guys get to play real organized basketball, like with grown-up coaches and real refs?” Steve says very much impressed.

            “Sure.”

            “Me, I only ever played street ball,” says Steve.

The game Steve, Earl, and Shorty had been waiting on comes to its finish.

            “If ya fuckin’ passed the ball sometime, we could’ve won that game, ya fuckin’ nigga!” says one of the losers to a teammate.

            “Ya momma!”comes the reply.

              Steve notices this time the word “nigga” was used as an insult, leading him to scratch his head.

            Shorty begins to walk on the court with his hands apart, looking at the guy who’s holding the ball.

            Shorty catches a bounce pass, takes a couple of quick dribbles, and tosses up an eight footer—swish.

            There’s a quick minute or two for some loosening up, and then Earl calls over his squad for a strategy session. “Listen-up,” he says. “We’ll play man to man. Steve, you take Mad Dog, the brother with the orange sweatshirt. Clyde, you take…”

            “Time-out!” Steve interrupts while making a ‘T’ with his hands. “That kid over there with the gray sweatshirt, that’s who I want.”

            “Sheeeeet!’ cries Shorty.

            “That’s Jet!” Earl says looking astonished. “He’s the fastest nigga here!”

             “I’ve been watching him,” Steve responds. “I think I can take him. When the game gets going, as soon as any of ya think I can’t, say so and I won’t say a word. But at least give me a chance.”

            Earl shrugs his shoulders and says, “Okay, then Steve’s set wit’ Jet. Clyde, you take Mad Dog for now. Shadow, you do your thing on Darnell. Shorty, crash dem boards ‘gainst Bull and show him ya mean it!  I’ll continue my habit of taking Rabbit. Me and Clyde are the best shooters on our team, so see if you can set us up. Obviously, if Shorty’s open underneath, work the ball into him.  Steve, watch for Jet on the fast break.”

                                  *                                  *                                  *

The way they play, it takes eleven points to win. Rabbit brings the ball up court at its start, Dribbling confidently, Rabbit dashes first to his right, then to the left, as Steve’s team-mate, Earl, D’s up on him—his hands taking swats at the ball, his body cutting off direct lines of attack.

            Jet tries to break away from Steve, but Steve sticks to him like glue.

Mad Dog flashes into the passing lane as Rabbit shoves the ball into him. A quick step to the side, a spin jump and the ball is lofted upwards. Clyde leaps, sweeps at the ball, and ticks it just enough. Shorty pulls down the rebound, passes to Shadow, who dishes to Earl.

            Crossing over to his team’s side of the court, Earl dances around as his players set up, then fires to Clyde, who spins and tosses up a mid-range jumper. It rattles around the hoop and kicks out.

            Shorty tries to move in for the follow-up, but Bull has other plans. Although lacking a couple of inches in height, Bull has a twenty-pound advantage. He places his thick body in-between Shorty and the basket. The rebound goes to the high jumping Rabbit.

            Steve starts back peddling as he sees Jet trying to dash by him. Rabbit flings the ball over everyone’s head in the direction of the basket down court. The ball is targeted to land about ten feet from his team’s basket and Jet is expected to have run it down and execute an easy lay-up.

            Steve quickly turns his body as he switches from back-peddling to an all-out sprint in the direction of where the ball is heading. The adjustment costs him a precious fraction of a second, and he finds that Jet now has a half step on him. Putting his head down, Steve pours on the speed. As the ball hits the ground, Steve is dead even with Jet, but Jet has positioned his body so he has a direct line to the ball while Steve is to his right. Steve’s legs strain for some extra speed, his left hand rises, forms into a fist, and with the side of his fist he smashes the ball down against Jet’s shins. Careening off of Jet, the ball ends up out of bounds.

            Jet and Steve use their final few steps to prepare themselves for crashing into the fence just beyond the basket. Then—Wham! As they bounce off, they go sprawling down, roll, and then thrust themselves back onto their feet. Because the ball last touched Jet before going out of bounds, it’s Steve’s team’s possession.

            As Shorty recovers the ball, and from the corner of his eyes, he glances over at Steve.

                                                *                                  *                                  *

Both teams are evenly matched. As it approaches the end, it’s even 9-9. The intensity ratchets up a notch. All game long, Bull has been doing some fine trench work, pushing Shorty off his favorite spots, but now he’s really smashing into him. Shorty, for his part, is playing pay-back with a vengeance. You can hear the thuds from a block away. And whenever someone sets a pick, look out. Collisions are becoming more and more violent—everyone pushing the limits.

            Now, Jet is racing down the court with the ball.

            No way he’s getting by me, Steve says to himself.

            Eight feet from the basket, Jet slams on his breaks and leaps up for a fade-away jumper.  Steve’s right on him.

            Jet sees he’s got to fade back even more than he anticipated if he’s to get the ball over Steve’s outstretched arms. Arching his back, shifting his weight backwards as far as he can, while he and Steve are still in the air, Jet takes aim and launches the brown leathery sphere. A moment after the release, Jet comes crashing down on his back. Everyone watches the slightly rotating sphere sail upwards, then curve downwards, and then—slip through the hoop.

            Jet’s teammate, Darnell lets out a long whistle.

            “ALL RIGHT!” cries Bull.

            Shorty, who had moved in for a rebound, comes down with the ball, takes it over to Steve, glares into his eyes, smashes the ball down, catches it as it bounces back up, tucks it under his arm, turns his back to Steve, and walks away fuming.

            Steve’s face flushes, then he looks over to Jet. He’s still on his back wincing. With an extended hand, Steve helps him to his feet. Looking into Jet’s eyes, Steve says, “Nice shot.”

            Jet smiles, then walks around testing the feel of his back. He touches his toes, goes through the motion of taking a jump shot. “I’m okay.”

The score is now 10 to 9. One more point by Jet’s team and Steve’s team loses.

Earl dribbles the ball on his way to his basket. Suddenly, Mad Dog, who is now about five feet from Earl, screams, “ERRRRRR!” Earl, momentarily distracted by the scream finds his eyes flash at Mad Dog. Rabbit, looking for this opening, leaps toward Earl and grabs the ball away. Mad Dog, at this same instant dashes in the direction of his basket. Rabbit flings the ball to him. Mad Dog is wide open and sinks an easy shot. Just like that—game over.

                    *                                  *                       *

Somehow, despite Earl having messed up, Shorty is decent about it. “We gave them a good game, man,” he says. “They won’t fool us with that play again, that’s for sure.”

             “Well, me and my brother are gonna get going, says Steve.”

            “Why don’t ya stick around?” says Shorty. “The next game will be over before you know it.”

            “I got a few things to take care of,” says Steve, “but you ok if I come back sometime to play. I learned a lot from you guys today.”

             “Yeah, sure. I was just joshin’ ya earlier. We play Saturdays and Sundays in the afternoons and most days after school.”

               “You’re all right, Shorty,” says Steve. Then he waves good bye.

                                                *                                  *                                  *

It’s a curious thing how the N-word is used so differently in this story by these Black teenagers, as well as some current day rap singers. Although sometimes used as a term of endearment, if tried with non-Black guys, Blacks most likely would understandably seriously object. How come? What’s going on with this? And what does this have to do with respect?

———————————
Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional intelligence. There is no cost for doing so. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE. 

 

Categories
Rodyard Kipling Who Cares

Thoughts On Paul McCartney’s Song “Who Cares”

Welcome to From Insults to Respect.

This week, I happened to be listening to Paul McCartney’s album, Egypt Station, and the song “Who Cares” came on. There we hear Sir Paul sympathizing with pretty much all of us who, at one point or another, have been picked on. The song begins:

A-one, a-two
Oh yeah

Did you ever get hurt by the words people say
And the things that they do when they’re picking on you?
Did you ever get sad by the games that they play
When they’re making you feel like a rusty old wheel?

Paul’s song responds to this treatment with the words,

It’s been left in the rain
Who cares what the idiots say?
Who cares what the idiots do?
Who cares about the pain in your heart?
Who cares about you?
I do

With these words, Paul refers to those who picked on us as idiots, a response, clearly designed to insult them. He then offers some kind words to those of us that have been picked on, saying he cares about the pain you experienced as the result of being picked on. He goes on to explain why he cares:

‘Cause you’re worth much more
Of that, you can be sure
No need to hide
The love you’ve got inside

The next verse asks,

Did you ever get lost in the heart of a crowd
And the people around keep on pushing you down? (Hmm)
Is it driving you mad and you’re screaming out loud
And you’re wondering who’s going to recognize you?

As the song continues, Paul again refers to those treating you unfairly as idiots. It captures how many of us indeed react to such negative treatment. The song empathizes with those of us treated this way, and it’s uplifting to have someone pointing out you are worth so much more than the insulters claim. However, I have found it worthwhile to take to heart Rudyard Kipling’s views on this topic as expressed in his poem, “If.” There he wrote in part:

If you can keep your head when all about you
    Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,  
     But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
      Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
      And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise….
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
       And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
With these words, Kipling advocates that rather than responding to those who trash us with hating words such as calling them idiots, we instead learn to trust ourselves while making allowances for those treating us unfairly. Responding humbly also has, in Kipling’s view, merit.

Perhaps the point he was making is, when being talked about in a trashy manner, if you come across as a know it all, and you call the insulter an idiot, this may just rile the insulter up to even a higher level so the insulter ends up throwing even more insults your way. In the box to the right, it is suggested that the person being insulted might do well to respond calmly. I think there is a way to express some sadness when you are being treated in an insulting manner while, at the same time, knowing in your heart that you are not being fairly characterized by the insulting words. Your image of yourself is not brought down by the insulting words. At the same time, the insults are respectfully considered.

To say, as suggested in the box, “I don’t communicate this way. When you’re ready to talk respectfully I’m here.” might be viewed by the insulter as insulting him or her. I’d leave that statement out when immediately responding to the insult. At a later time, if you have a good ongoing relationship with the insulter, and things are calm between both of you for the most recent period, gently explaining how you feel about using insults when criticizing you is not helpful may lead to a helpful discussion.

Well, those are some thoughts that I had upon listening to Paul’s song. I’d sure be interested in the views of my readers as well.

My Best,
Jeff
———————————
Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional intelligence. There is no cost for doing so. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE.
Categories
conflict resolution criticism racism

Cool Steve Deals With Racism

Dr. Jeff Rubin

Welcome to From Insults to Respect. Here’s a story that just might deepen your thoughts about racism.

Cool Steve Deals With Racism

Monday morning.  Lincoln feels more familiar now.  Here and there I see someone I know.

            After lunch, my black friend, Leroy and I are talking about our rock band rehearsal next Thursday night while heading to math class. I spot Steve Marino and Brainy George down the hall.  We’re heading toward them.  I know that Steve and George live in an all-white neighborhood.  How would they react to being introduced to Leroy?

            When Leroy and I reach Steve and George, I nod and try to hurry by, but Steve says, “Wait a minute, Jeff.  I wanna talk to you about playing stickball after school.”

            My heart freezes.  I think, I’ll just keep walking and say quickly, I gotta run.

            But then, what I was doing just feels wrong.  I stop.  My heart—pounding, my forehead—hot—I say, “Hey, this guy over here, he’s… he’s a friend a mine—Leroy Wilson.”

            “Leroy, huh,” says Steve, smiling.  “Hey, you from Coney Island?”

            “No, I ain’t.  I live in Brighton.  Most of the cats in my family, though, live ovuh dere.”

            “Coney Island,’ says George, “a lot of niggers live over there.”

              “What did you say,” yells Leroy? The anger in his voice captures the attention of the hallway traffic.  Students are stopping to see what’s going on.

            Just then, the late bell rings. “Leroy,” says Steve, “I’ll talk to George about his choice of words after school.” Steve then gives Leroy a respectful bow of his head.  Then we quickly head toward our classes.

            On our way, Leroy says, “You know dat Brainy George cat is a real ass.”

*                                  *                                  *

When I spot Steve in the hallway after math, I hustle after him.  “Steve, after school I’m gonna get your friend, George, good.”

            “Get?  Get?  Watcha mean get?”

            “You heard him.  What he said to Leroy, man…”

            “Listen, Jeff, I’ve known George for a couple of years now and I’ve seen quite a few kids rough him up because he can have a big mouth.  And ya know what?  All it does is make him more stubborn. Jeff, I’m with you on wanting George to knock off the insults.  Maybe we could come up with something that actually has a chance of working with him.  I’ll see him in health class eighth period and I’ll tell him we both wanna talk to him after school.  We’ll go to Rocco’s and whyncha keep it friendly until the pizza comes, capeesh?  Then tell him straight how ya feel, without threats.  When you’re through, let him answer you completely.  No matter what he says, don’t interrupt.  When he’s through, you’ll be dying to reply to what he said, but don’t.  Let me go.  We’re old friends.  Some stuff he ough’da hear… well, he’ll be able to take it better if… if it comes from me.  Capeesh?”

            “We still gonna play stickball?”

            “Yeah.  Right after pizza, we’ll go.”

*                                  *                                  *

Later that afternoon, George, Steve and I all walk over to Rocco’s and order a pizza.

            When it comes, I say, “George, ya use the word nigger to piss my friend Leroy off?

            “Hey!  If we start calling those people black, pretty soon they’ll start thinking that they’re as good as us.”

            “George,” says Steve, “why is everything to you in terms of who’s better than the next guy?”

            George doesn’t answer, but his face is turning red.

            Steve pauses a few seconds.  I pick at my pizza trying to restrain myself.  After a few more calming seconds, Steve continues.  “I’ve known you for a couple years now, George, and I know you feel bad about not being too hot in gym and sports and stuff like that.  You looking to put people down to convince yourself that being poor in sports isn’t as bad as being black or… or… or whatever?”

            “Hey!  First of all I don’t give a shit about sports,” George screams.  “And what about you, Steve?! You do the same thing as me, Steve!  You do the same thing!  You’re always saying you want to be the best baseball player around and you’re always comparing yourself to other people!  Just yesterday, I heard you say to Cliff that you think you’re better than Jeff in stickball!  That’s the same thing, Steve!  That’s the same thing!”

            Steve pauses here, looking confused.  Then a smile forms on his lips.  “No.  No, it isn’t,” Steve replies.  I notice he has put his hand on George’s shoulder, and his voice is soft and calming.  “You’re right that I wanna be the best baseball player around, but I know that even if I become the best, that still doesn’t make me better than anyone else as a human being.  Mickey Mantle and Willie Mays are the best players around, but that doesn’t make them any better people than you or me.  It’s okay to strive to be the best at something.  That’s a person’s special contribution.  Cliff’s great at writing about sports; you’re a genius at school stuff; I’m good at baseball; and Jeff’s a good stickball player, maybe not as good as me, but pretty good.”  Steve turns to me and smiles.

            “Finish up with George,” I say, “and we’ll straighten out the stickball issue over the next few games.”

            “All right,” says Steve, still smiling.  “George, first of all, you know I like you, don’t ya?”

            “Yeah.  I guess so.”

            “There’s no guessing here, George.  I don’t have to hang out with you.  I don’t have to be talking to you now.  I do it because I like you.  That’s gotta be pretty obvious to someone with your intelligence.  No?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Good.  Now, correct me if I’m wrong.  No matter how special our talents are, it still don’t make us better or worse than the next guy as a person.  You can see that, can’t ya?”

            I think to myself, maybe in some basic way we are all equal—but people do respect some people more than others.

            George glares at us.  He then roughly shakes hot pepper on his pizza and too much comes spilling out.  “SHIT!” he hollers as he slams the shaker on the table.  He shoves his slice away, crosses his arms in front of his chest, and angles his chair away from us.  We sit silently, listening to the juke box playing “Downtown,” and watching the other patrons passing the time.  Now George is rubbing his head, messing up his already messy hair.  Slowly, a quiet sadness comes over him.  I see a glimmer in his eyes.  He turns to Steve.  “It’s not that I’m bad in sports,” he says, his voice much softer now.  “I couldn’t care less about sports.  It’s just… well, all through elementary school there were these black guys who would gang up on me.  I know white people have roughed me up also.  And probably whites have beat up far more blacks than the other way around.  It’s in the paper all the time how whites are stringing up blacks, especially in the South.  But, when you’ve been beaten up as much as me by blacks, it’s hard to forget just like that.”

            Everyone remains quiet for a few moments.  I notice every now and then Steve looks softly into George’s eyes.  After a while George says, “I guess Leroy… well… he never did anything wrong to me so… well, I guess I should at least give him a chance.”

*                                  *                                  *

A couple of days later, Leroy and I run into George out by the side entrance of Lincoln.  George turns red, stutters for a minute and then says, “Listen, Leroy, I… I… well, I’m sorry about the way I acted the first time we met.”

            “Sorry,” says Leroy.  “Sorry.  Man, git the hell away from me.”

            “Leroy, listen to George for a minute, will ya,” I say.

           

“Leroy,” says George.  “When I was in junior high there were these… well these black kids, and they taunted me day in and day out.  And a few times they beat me up and some of my white friends.  And… well… I wasn’t alone about getting to hate them.  After awhile, the white kids I knew started to say stuff about black people, without bothering to say the stuff just about the kids who picked on us, and… I guess we began in some strange way to think we were better than blacks.  That’s wrong, and I’m… well, I’m sorry.”

            Leroy places his hands on the tight black curls of his closely cropped hair.  He clears his throat by going, “Ahmmm. Ahmmm.”  He crosses his arms in front of his chest and takes a tough looking stance.  Then he puts his arms down to his side.  Finally, in his deep rich voice he says, with his hands moving in front of him: “Ya know, it’s funny… it’s funny about dis business of so many cats tryin’ ta think dey’re better dan everyone else.  Ya know, when I go ta Coney Island, some of da black cats ovuh dere mess wit’ me just because dey know I have white friends.  Dey start squawking, ‘Boy, you a whitey’ or ‘You a Oreo!’  Dey think dey’re better den me ‘cause dey have just black friends.  Dere’s times when I hated all of ‘em because of it.  At uda times, I hated all whites fuh makin’ black people hate me.  T’ tell ya da truth, George, I guess… well, I guess I have no call holden’ a grudge wit’ you, not wit’ me sorta doin’ da same thing lots of times.”

——————————-

Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional and social intelligence. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE.

 

Categories
conflict management conflict resolution respect

Cool Steve Confronts Poverty

Dr. Jeffrey Rubin

Welcome to From Insults To Respect.

When thirteen-year old Cool Steve’s parents no longer can afford the rent where they had been living, they move to a less expensive, run down apartment. Steve has to start a new junior high school even though it’s the middle of a school year. Let’s see if we can learn something when we see how Steve handles his first day there.

*           *.         *

At lunchtime, Steve’s teacher informs him, “Young man, because this is your first day here, when you get down to the lunchroom, you’re to report to the vice principal, Mr. Lantern. He’ll assign you a place to sit. You can’t miss him; he’s the large, bald gentleman down in the lunchroom.”

    “You must be the new member of our team,” says Mr. Lantern, amidst the noisy sounds of the lunchroom. He glances at a clipboard. “Steve Marino?”

     “Yes,  Mr Lantern.”

     “Welcome to Cunningham. Follow me.”

    They walk past rows of long rectangular lunch tables until Mr. Lantern, pointing to an empty spot, says, “Why don’t you have a seat right here? This is where the students in your homeroom sit.”

     “Okay,” says Steve, nervous but attempting an air of nonchalance.

     As Steve begins to sit down, this very pretty girl who is sitting just to the right of where he has been assigned leaps up wildly screaming. “I can’t believe this!”

     Steve looks around for some answer to this crazed girl’s actions.

    “I can’t believe this!” she screams. “The incredible power!”

     Steve sees that she’s talking to him while intensely staring at him.

     “You have a very old soul,” she continues, “an ancient soul of some mighty leader. I’ve never sensed such power! This is incredible!” Then she touches Steve’s arm and her shining, green feline eyes drift up as if leading her to another dimension and she swoons, “Ohhhhhhhh!”

     Steve, shaking his head, sits down, looking bewildered.

     “Don’t mind her,” says this broad, dark haired guy sitting opposite to the girl. “You’ll get used to Mysterious Jane.”

     “Mysterious Jane?” Steve asks.

      “Yeah,” says the guy, “we call Mysterious Jane, Mysterious Jane, because she’s strange. Anyways, I’m Ron DeFilipo. 

       After Steve introduces himself, he looks over the situation. Directly to Steve’s right sits Mysterious Jane, with her long glimmering black hair, lovely green eyes, strikingly beautiful facial features, and, even as a thirteen-year-old, her curves are hard to ignore.

    Ron points to a guy on his left. “This here is Jerry Miller, the best athlete in eighth grade.” Jerry, thick dark brown hair, swarthy, and wearing a silver chain around his neck with a distinctive Star of David hanging from it.

     Steve gives Jerry a respectful salute.

     Jerry returns the gesture with a nod.

     “You see those kids over there?” says Ron to Steve, referring to the table two feet away. “They’re the SP kids, the biggest wimps at school.”

       We had SP students, those in the “Special Progress Program” for super smart kids in my last school, Steve thinks to himself.

    At the SP table this blond-haired, blue-eyed kid who, upon hearing Ron calling SP kids wimps, turns to Ron and yells, “We aren’t wimps, you are!”

     Both glare at each other.

     “Personally,” says Steve, “I like some of the kids that got school smarts. I like to have a couple of them for my friends ‘cause I’m not all that great with school stuff, capeesh? They help me to understand some stuff.”

     “I don’t need no help from any wimpy SP kids,” says Ron.

     “We wouldn’t give you any,” the SP kid bitterly responds.

     “Ya wanna be friends with those jerks, ga’ head,” says Ron.

     “I’m not saying you have to be a school wizard to be my friend,” says Steve. “I like to know kids with different kinds of talents.”

     “So you’re a new kid here,” says another kid sitting at the SP table.

     “Yeah. Today’s my first day.”

     “Well, I’m Cliff, Cliff Schweitzer, and this blond guy sitting across from me who is always arguing with Ron; well, the guys call him Brainy George.”

     “Your real name is ‘Brainy George’?” Steve asks smiling.

     “Na. George Beck.”

     Steve looks him over. His fine blond hair is sloppily combed mostly to the right, but some haphazardly falls over to the left. Thick glasses magnify his pale blue eyes.

    Steve turns to look at Cliff. Even though he’s in the SP program like George, Cliff hardly looks like an intellectual. Dark and athletic looking, Cliff is quite a contrast to his buddy, Brainy George.

     “Just because these guys are in the SP program, you don’t like them, Ron?”  Steve asks.

     “Aaa, they’re a bunch of losers,” Ron responds.

     “What did he say?!” asks a student who is sitting to Cliff’s left.

     “Shutup Abromowitz!” Ron hollers.

      “I don’t like this kind of talk, Ron,” hollers Jerry Miller, his gold star of David glimmering reddish blue like an igniting flame.

      Mr. Lantern points to Steve’s section of the lunchroom.

      “That means it’s time for us to get in the lunch line,” says Mysterious Jane to Steve touching his arm and smiling into his eyes.  

As Steve begins to get up, he feels an intense anxiety pang. Great, he says to himself. Now I gotta get on this lousy lunch line and use this damn free lunch pass I got at the welfare agency.

*                                  *                                  *

The aroma of chicken soup, peanut butter sandwiches, and fried fish cakes drifts into Steve’s nostrils. He picks out a peanut butter sandwich, a container of milk, and some ice cream. Then he shows the cashier his free lunch pass. Ron DeFelipo, standing right behind Steve, starts to laugh and says to Mysterious Jane, “Look at this! This is the guy with all the power! He can’t even afford to buy himself lunch! What a joke!”

       When Steve hears this, it feels like a knife has been stuck in his gut. His face becomes hot, he pleads with himself not to have tears well up in his eyes, and he looks down avoiding everyone’s eyes.

       Jane looks at Steve, turns to Ron, shoves him, and says, “You have no brains.”

       “Don’t ya get it?” says Ron. “He’s got all this power and…”

       “Lay off. It’s hard enough,” says Brainy George, who’s standing nearby.

       When Steve gets back to his table, his appetite’s gone. There’s a sour feeling in the pit of his stomach. After a few moments he accepts that he isn’t going to get any food down, so he pushes his tray away.

       A few minutes later, Ron turns to Steve and says, “Can you believe this? This ugly midget George says he can take me.”

      Now Cliff, who has been quietly reading the Daily News sports page while eating, decides to put in his two cents. “If it’s important to you to be a good fighter, Ron, why don’t you join a wrestling team or karate club? Or learn to box. There’s a boxing club not too far from here where the former world heavyweight champ, Floyd Patterson, trained when he was growing up. Join one of those things. You’ll find that, compared to people who train regularly, your skills are awful. With training you can develop them and test them respectfully against other people who are also skilled.”

       “I don’t need no training,” says Ron. “I can take anyone around here.”

       “Anyone?” Jerry Miller asks.

       “Well, maybe not you, Jerry,” Ron comes back, “but pretty much anyone.”

       “Look,” says Cliff, “all I’m trying to say is, no matter how good you get at fighting, it’s not going to prove who’s a man and who isn’t. Patterson was the champ. Sonny Liston beat him and now he’s the best fighter around. He can take all of us. Does that mean he’s the only man around and the rest of us are wimps? And what happens when someone finally takes Liston? Does that mean that one day Liston’s a man and the day he loses suddenly he becomes a wimp?”

       Steve once again begins to wrestle with his food and this time he gets some of it down, though it tastes like sawdust.

                                             *              *.         *

Well, that’s my story for today. I hope it provokes some thoughtful reactions about how poverty isn’t just a shortage of money; it includes embarrassing experiences and opportunities to be cruelly looked down upon.

My Best,
Jeff

Categories
Uncategorized

Cool Steve Deals With An Insult

Jeffrey Rubin, PhD

Welcome to From Insults To Respect.

Today, I present a brief story that asks the question, How would someone people respect handle the challenging situation of being insulted? The story is an abbreviated section from my novel, Fights In The Streets, Tears In The Sand. The story’s setting, 1965, Brooklyn’s lower middle class section of Brighton Beach. Jeff Star, one of the two major character’s of the novel and its narrator has begun his second day at Lincoln High, and he is intrigued and jealous as he begins to hear about a classmate some students refer to as “Cool Steve.”

The Story

My second day as a student at Lincoln High, at lunch I spot an open seat at a table. A couple of guys that I recognize from my gym class are sitting there. One of the guys is reading a story in Sports Illustrated with a great shot of Mickey Mantle. The Mick’s neck and forearms are bulging as he’s clobbering a monster home run. There’s another guy sitting next to Cliff, two very nice to look at girls are there as well. I’ll give this a try.

     “Anybody got this seat?” I ask while preparing myself for rejection.

    The guy reading the sports magazine checks me out for a couple of seconds, then replies, “Sit down. I’m Cliff Schweitzer.” The two girls give me a friendly smile and resume a conversation they’re having about what they did over the summer. The other guy at the table completely ignores me.

     “Hey, who do you have for Social Studies?” Cliff asks,

     After checking my schedule card, I answer, “Mr. Lofton.”

     “Is he any good?”

     “I don’t know. I have him for the first time a couple of periods from now.”

    “I got stuck with Mr. Putzmeister,”Cliff says mournfully.

     “Putzmeister,” I reply with a smile.

     “Yeah. I got to get out of there. He’s major league boring.”

     “You only had him for one period,” I reply. “Maybe he’ll get better. You’re interested in history?”

      “Well, to me, a branch of history is ‘The world of sports,’ and I love sports. In fact, I’m writing a column for the school newspaper. It’s called the ‘Sports Scene.’ The first issue comes out on Friday. Check it out. Let me know what you think.”

     While we’re talking, we hear a kid from a nearby table, yelling, “I bet you wouldn’t do that ta Cool Steve!”

     I turn to Cliff. “That’s the second time I heard this name, Cool Steve. You wouldn’t happen ta know him?”

    “Yeah, from Cunningham,” he answers, referring to one of the junior highs that feed into Lincoln. “I guess most of the kids who know him, know him from there.”

     “There seems to be some kind of respect thing connected to him.”

     “Respect? Steve? Well, yeah.”

     “You respect him?”

     “Sure.”

     “How come?”

      “Well, I guess for me it’s got something to do with the fact that he’s a pretty decent athlete. In stickball he’s got explosive power and a rocket arm, and in football he’s got lightning speed and incredible hands. He’s… he’s history in the making! But, um… I got a feeling people would respect Steve even if he wasn’t so great in sports.” Then Cliff’s voice trails off and he looks like he’s searching for a more complete answer but ends up shrugging his shoulder and resumes reading his article.

     Hmmm. I bet this guy Cool Steve is a real jerk. Everybody thinking he’s such a cool dude. I hate people like that.

     As I begin to eat my lunch, I wait for a break in the two attractive girls’ conversation so I could introduce myself. After several minutes pass, without a single conversational pause, one of the two girls at my table begins to check me out. And then she introduces herself.

     “I’m Jane.”

     “We actually call her Mysterious Jane,” says Cliff.

     “Mysterious Jane?” I ask.

     “Well, we call Mysterious Jane, Mysterious Jane, because she’s strange,” he explains.

She might be strange, I think to myself, but she’s mighty fine–long, straight, glossy black hair that slightly covers her prominent cheekbones, voluptuous body. Her green, almond shaped eyes have a thin line of black mascara and perhaps within these glimmering eyes there is a hint of some sort of mysteriousness.

     “I’m Sandy,” says the other girl. She’s cute, with a peachy complexion, and long, wavy, sandy-blond hair. She glances at me and smiles.

    After a quick sandwich, we all go sit on the steps of Lincoln’s main entrance. It’s warm and the sun is shining. Suddenly something catches Sandy’s attention, and she cries, “Who’s that gorgeous guy?”

     Mysterious Jane turns with her large green eyes in the direction that Sandy is looking—down the steps and off to the right. She lets out a long sigh. “Oh, that’s Steve Marino.”

     “That’s the guy the guys call Cool Steve,” says Cliff.

      “Ain’t he built!” Sandy squeals. “You know him?”

     “Yeah, from Cunningham,” Jane replies. “All the girls were nuts about him because, well, a lot of the girls say it’s because he’s so cute. And he is cute, especially his eyes. I l-o-o-v-e his eyes.” This is followed by a moan, and she then drifts off into another dimension.

     Sandy pokes Jane, returning her back to Earth.

     Jane looks over to Sandy, lowers her voice to an eerie whisper and says, “If you want to know the truth, the real reason all the girls are crazy about Steve is because he moves with the grace and power of a large panther, but he has far more power than any panther you’ve ever seen.”

     I think to myself, that Mysterious Jane, she’s strange!

     Watching Steve down the steps, I can’t notice him moving in any special way. He’s tall with dark eyes and hair, like me. But compared to me, Steve is broader and has more of a Paul Newman nose. Mine ain’t nothing to be proud of.

     Anyway, the guy’s gotta be some kind of jerk. People thinking he’s cool, what a jerk. I notice in my innards a sense of jealousy. In junior high, I was far from the most respected kid there, getting into fights and cursing out anyone who looked at me in a way that provoked me even when later I couldn’t figure out why it had. Oh, I had problems at home, my parents were divorced, I was teased about it, and I had an awful relationship with stepdad, but I sense that being jealous of this guy, Cool Steve, who I had not even yet met, made no sense, but still I had crazy angry feelings toward him.

     I’m walking out the south side exit of Lincoln heading home. Images of how I had treated my friend Leroy disrespectfully earlier in the day flashed through my mind.  Hey, I don’t give a crap about this respect garbage!

     Suddenly I hear, “Hey, Jeff Star!”

     I turn to my left and spot Cliff calling after me and he’s with Steve Marino. “Jeff, that guy Steve you were asking about, here he is.”

     As I walk over, I’m feeling a completely unfamiliar nervousness. And then, when I open my mouth, I find myself saying in a loud tough voice, “So you’re Steve Marino. I’ve been hearing about you. The word is you’re a jerk!”

     As I glare at Steve, my heart pounds furiously. From the corner of my eye, I notice Cliff watching on, his mouth closed so tight he seems to have no lips. His words from yesterday come to mind—”Steve’s the best athlete I’ve ever personally known. Big shit!

     I’m waiting for an angry come on, or a quick jab from his right. My muscles are as tight as a hangman’s noose.

     I notice several students who were walking home from school have put on their brakes and their eyes are darting back and forth between me and Steve.

     Steve’s eyes lower, his forehead creases. Then his eyes look into mine and I see, instead of fury, sadness. “I guess,” he begins to say haltingly, “well… I was hoping… you know… starting a new school here… well, I was hoping the kids would like me.”

     Those dark, glimmering eyes of his….

     “Jeff,” says Cliff, “why did you say that?”

     My eyes dart to him and back to Steve. Cold perspiration beads up on my forehead. The students looking on are almost drooling.

     In junior high, whenever I started to put someone down, I had the favor returned with cries of “Fuck you!” and blood splattering fistfights. Such reactions would turn me into a raving lunatic as we would go at each other screaming and swinging until one of us had nothing left to offer but thoughts of revenge. Now, uncomfortably, I look into Steve’s eyes…the sadness there…eyebrows down. He looks directly into my eyes, then down, and then back up into mine.

     “Listen Steve,” I find myself saying,  “I… I don’t know why I said that… everyone I talked with said you were okay.” I take a quick glance at Cliff and the other students watching on…and hurry away.

    A few minutes later, I’m pushing the elevator button in my apartment lobby. Jeez, I guess I just made a great impression, a hell of a great impression. Steve’s eyes… man, who is this guy?

   *.         *.         *

Well, that’s my story for the day. I’m wondering how my readers think Cool Steve handled the insulting situation. Any views on how Steve or Jeff could have handled the situation better?

My Best.
Jeff

Categories
conflict management conflict resolution Racial Discrimination

How Would Cool Steve Handle This?

Welcome to From Insults To Respect.

Today, I present a brief story that asks the question, How would someone people respect handle the challenging situation of racial discrimination? The story is an abbreviated section from my novel, Fights In The Streets, Tears In The Sand. The story’s setting, 1965, Brooklyn’s lower middle class section of Brighton Beach. Jeff Star, one of the two major character’s of the novel and its narrator has begun his first day at Lincoln High, and he begins to hear about a classmate some students refer to as “Cool Steve.”

The Story

Fights in the Streets, Tears in the Sand

After English, I’m heading to Biology and some guy behind me says to someone next to him, “Hey, Cool Steve’s in my health class!”

     “Wow, Cool Steve! Really!?”

     “Yeah! He sat right next to me.”

     “Damn! Hey, tell him I say hi.”

     There’s an excitement that accompanies this dialogue that somehow has me going, hmmm.

     I go to Math and as I’m entering the room, I spot an old friend from Brighton Beach—Leroy Wilson. We recently had lost touch with each other because my family, when I was twelve, had moved from Brighton to Bensonhurst when my mom remarried. Leroy and I got together a few times after that, but after a bloody incident at a car repair shop that involved a close friend of mine, his mother wouldn’t let him have anything to do with me. I didn’t expect to run into Leroy at Lincoln. He and a few of the other kids my age who I knew from Brighton had always gone to either a Catholic school or a Yeshiva.

     It was Leroy who had taught me to play the guitar. Man, we were really driven back when we were twelve and thirteen with this dream of becoming the greatest rock ‘n’ rollers ever. And when we would get a song down just right it was a wild thrill beyond compare—lightning and sparks everywhere. So, when I first see Leroy, I smile. But then it hits me. Leroy is black. In Boody Junior High, if any white kid was to be nice to a black kid, he would have been taunted.

     How would the white kids at Lincoln react if they learn I have a black friend? Over ninety percent of the guys at Lincoln are white. I should be siding with whites, the more powerful group, the majority. Crap, he’s gonna blow my cover.

       “Jeff! How’s ya old self doin’?” cries Leroy as he spots me.

        I look up into Leroy’s eyes and then down at the wood classroom floor—my heart racing. Quickly, I move to an available seat that’s surrounded by seats other students are already sitting in. I avoid looking at Leroy, but I can feel him looking at me. All through class my eyes avoid his, but my heart grapples with his presence. When the period ends, I race out of class.

        One more class to get through before I can head home for the day. In the hall, with hundreds of students racing by, and a couple of guys bumping into me, I check my program card—Social Studies, Room 316. I have to go up a flight of stairs. I look around for a stairwell. There’s one, down the hall. How could I treat Leroy like that? Leroy’s dark confused eyes flash before me.

      “I’m Mr. Lofton,” announces a heavy-set, fortyish-aged teacher. “Welcome. Today we’re going to review some of the major news events of the summer. Then, later in the school year, we will be connecting our social studies lessons with these and other current events. I have some newspaper clippings here. As I read them, I want to get your reactions.

     “Crime at highest level ever,” cries Mr. Lofton. “Latest statistics indicate 13 percent increase. When I was a boy, we used to camp out in Central Park. Now you’d be crazy to go there at night.”

     I think about the newspaper story I read last week of Coney Island boys who were stabbed.

      “Ignoring Nazi pickets and bomb threats, the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King moved into Washington’s ghettoes and told crowds of his admirers that economic freedom is the new cry of the civil rights movement. A dozen brown shirted American Nazis picketed with signs saying, ‘America for whites, Africa for blacks.’”

      Man, how I treated Leroy. Am I turning into a Nazi? Leroy’s dark confused eyes. An image of an exhilarating scene of us playing “Johnny B. Goode.” Am I turning into a jerk to be respected?

     After school, I walk to Rocco’s Pizzeria over on Brighton Beach Avenue. Rocco is shoveling a new pie out of his large steel oven. I take in deeply the familiar aroma of baking dough, oregano, cheese, and Rocco’s underarms.

    With a slice and Coke in hand, I discover none of the tables are empty. At one of them is this guy Brainy George Beck sitting by himself with his blond hair looking like it hadn’t been combed in months. I had noticed him earlier in the day in my gym class and he sat at my lunch table. “How come they call him Brainy George?” I had asked one of the guys in gym.

     “Da guy’s a freakin’ genius,” came the reply.

      With nowhere else to sit, I ask if he’d mind if I sit across from him. He looks up with these large thick glasses and nods his okay. “You were in gym today and at our lunch table,” he says as I sit down.

      “Yeah.”

       “I hate gym.”

        “You do?”

         “Can’t stand it—all the retards trying to prove they’re Mr. Atlas.”

         “Hmmmm.” Personally, gym is a whole lot better than the rest of the garbage we gotta take at school. “What junior high did you go to?” I ask.

         “Cunningham.”

         “That’s the same junior high as this kid some are calling Cool Steve. I guess ya don’t think much of him since he’s inta sports.”

          Oh, you mean Steve Marino? Steve’s different than the guys I’m talking about.”

          “Izzat so?”

           “Yeah. I respect Steve because, well, first of all, he’s not one of those idiots who picks on me because I can’t run as fast as the other guys. And I like the way he’s gutsy. He’s not afraid to stand up for what he believes in. And it’s the way he carries himself… the way he moves. I… I just have a lot of respect for Steve.”

          Hmmm. Well, being gutsy shouldn’t be too hard, I think to myself. Hell, I was gutsy enough to get in lots of fights in my old school. But I don’t quite know what to make of this stuff about the way Steve moves.

When I get home, I go into my bedroom, sit on my bed, pick up my guitar and start to slide my fingers across the strings. Then I find my fingers playing a little piece that my former black friend, Leroy had taught me. It begins with a sort of angry, rough part, but closes with a gentle refrain. As I play, I imagine Leroy playing along, just like the old days. We start to kick it up, jamming up a storm, reelin’ and rockin’ all night long! And then that image of his dark eyes returns to me—how they looked in class—confused, hurt. I wonder, How would this Cool Steve handle this?

*                                  *                                  *

Good Question. The search for the answer is a story for another day. For now, I’m asking my readers who have the courage to propose their answers.

My Best,
Jeff

———————————
Some people will enjoy reading this blog by beginning with the first post and then moving forward to the next more recent one; then to the next one; and so on. This permits readers to catch up on some ideas that were presented earlier and to move through all of the ideas in a systematic fashion to develop their emotional intelligence. To begin at the very first post you can click HERE.

Categories
blame blaming guilt guilting mental disorders Mental Health responsibility

A Lesson From The Play, Next to Normal

Welcome to From Insults to Respect.

This week I happened to watch on TV the play Next to Normal. It dramatically and musically brought forth a wealth of thoughtful and emotional reactions. I can’t, in a single post, express all of these, so here, I’m going to focus on just one–the issue of blaming those given a mental disorder label and their parents for how they are acting and experiencing.

The Play’s Main Plot

A woman who had a baby that died in infancy continued to grieve after four months. A psychiatrist, therefore, has classified her as having a mental disorder and has been prescribing psychiatric drugs for depression. Because his patient also imagines that the baby is still alive, and on birthdays she sees him growing up, and she regularly has conversations with him, the doctor has been prescribing an additional cocktail of drugs. As we enter the play, we see the drugs have certainly not relieved the woman from her or her family of the anguish that has come about. The imagined baby has grown to be a teenager. Her family, made up of her husband and teenaged daughter, are deeply concerned and support the psychiatrist’s treatment recommendations. Treatment during the play changes from drugs, followed by an hypnosis approach, and finally Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT), none of which lead to satisfactory results.

My Reaction To The Play

In my training as a psychologist, I learned to avoid blaming people who act in ways that lead to a mental disorder classification or their parents. Blame implies thinking someone is guilty of doing something wrong.

If I perceive that someone has done something wrong and I become frustrated and angry at the person and I begin to seek to punish the person, I view that person as guilty.

For example, if I make a wrong turn to go to my friend’s house and when I discover my error if I have a strong emotion of frustration that springs up in me and I cry out, “What an idiot I am for making that mistake,” I am feeling guilty that I made the mistake, and the reason I am calling myself an idiot is because it is my angry effort to punish myself.

I use that specific type of definition for “guilty” to distinguish it from how I define responsibility, which I view as a more mature response. When people act responsibly, they recognize that they did something wrong, experience a strong feeling of frustration, recognize at the same time that as long they are a human being they are going to make mistakes. They recognize that the strong feeling of frustration is a good thing because it leads them to focus on what they did wrong, and the emotionality helps spur a process that increases the possibility of fixing the error in the long term, decreasing the chance that they will make the same mistake. Part of this frustration reaction leads me to focus on what I can specifically do next time to prevent the mistake. This is a wonderful process, and I welcome the experience as I would a helpful friend. When I see guilt springing up in me, I have been getting more and more skillful at transforming it into my helpful friend.

It seems to me beneficial to keep the idea of angrily desiring punishment when someone does something wrong separate from the idea of learning from the experience of making a mistake by experiencing frustration in a friendly, non-punishing manner. If you see that your five-year old son has made a mistake when trying to add 7 plus 3 and he came up with 9, you may see that he has done something wrong, but you might experience this as somewhat different from when you feel someone is “guilty” of doing something wrong.  You may think that your son almost got the right answer, and he’s trying, and this is part of a useful learning process. You might not feel angry at him, nor think he deserves to be punished for his efforts. Perhaps you might gently correct him and give him a warm smile.

Although I am pretty good at avoiding the blaming game, from time to time I slip up and become angry at what I’m perceiving is happening with people dealing with mental health concerns. This play, so well done, has helped me to better reconnect with the habit of making the distinction between guilting and taking responsibility as I conceptualize them.

The music, singing, and dialogue blend together to avoid simplistic interpretations of events and filled me with empathy for the complexity of dealing with such challenging circumstances. I was left thinking that people embroiled in the types of situations that the play depict would do well to learn for themselves the difference between blame and responsibility. Moreover, it seems to me that it takes more than just noting the difference; it takes practice to turn this understanding into a useful habit. One useful practice is to identify five times when you found yourself employing guilting, and then see if you can write out a way to turn them into a response that better matches a responsibility response.

My Best,
Jeff