A lesson in child rearing
IN THE shelters, turnover is high, disappearances are common, lines are long, faces flare into view and retreat, and it is easy to forget names. Over time, all those forgotten names float off, like files lost in cyberspace.
A few years ago, a young man just out of childhood, with a remembered face and a forgotten name, landed briefly in one of the shelters. Over the previous five years, he and his mother had lived in Louisiana and Florida, Texas, Minnesota, and California, chasing her hunch that she could find the city that would be a perfect place for child rearing. They had been moving on her hunches for over a decade, and had yet to find the right child-rearing location - though now he was old enough to vote.
While he sat near the door, she pulled his medical records out of a briefcase that also held a hairbrush, perfume, and brochures for her services as a wedding photographer. It had been a while since his last visit with a psychiatrist, she explained, and he probably needed a check-up, like dropping in on a free flu vaccine clinic.
He was very delicate, ever since he had turned 15, when he began over-reading the Bible and thought he had become one of the characters. This did not disturb her much, because he took pills that helped.
What bothered her more was his awkwardness. He had not inherited her charisma for people or her talent for art. In Boston, where there were many opportunities (it might be a good place for child rearing) she had negotiated a free drawing class for him, a real opportunity. But he refused to go. She wanted us to talk him into it. It would be good for him.
He must have thought he was in a general medical clinic, because he shyly asked whether we could write a prescription for his acne medication. He had a Midwestern drawl with a panhandle twang, hailing from everywhere and nowhere. After we had cleared the air of dermatology and explained that we were more equipped to prescribe the other class of pills he took, he agreed to answer some questions. This meant repeating back to us the last phrase of each question. Repetition is an excellent theraputic technique - it invites personal elaboration - and soon we felt like we were being warmly encouraged to open up.
"What about the drawing classes?" we asked.
"Classes?" he said. He did not want to go. He had never felt comfortable in any of the many schools he attended, and had not even graduated from high school.
Being around new students was physically painful. He was done with formal education. It was not clear what he would do next, but no drawing classes would be involved.
We were sympathetic to this situation, in fact, to his situation in general.
"How is it, moving from state to state all the time?"
"State to state?"
"It's a hard life."
"Hard life?" He thought. "My life isn't harder than anyone else's," he said.
This was not true. None of us choose our temperaments, but his shy, pained self seemed the wrong fit for this life. It would have been much less arduous if he could have dropped out of the clouds and landed somewhere with footholds.
Following his mother from shelter to shelter was like roaming in the desert. He did not need psychiatry to explain his biblical character. What he needed was an oasis.
We thanked him for taking some time with us, and asked if he had any questions. He thought and thought, shook his head no. Then, polite illumination arrived.
"How was your day?" he said.
Soon after this checkup, his mother moved the two of them back to Louisiana. They are wandering together there, she is leading him, and he is living in the Old Testament. We have forgotten his name, but not his politeness. Excellent manners are often a sign of good child rearing.
Elissa Ely is a psychiatrist. 