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- Herausgeber: John Wiley & Sons
- Kategorie: Bildung
- Sprache: Englisch
This book contains 156 heartwarming vignettes that touch on the many universal dimensions in becoming a helping professional, while demystifying and humanizing the process. Readers get a firsthand look at Dr. Gladding's successes and setbacks from childhood to older adulthood in 17 sections covering topics such as family-of-origin influences; education; peer relationships; skill acquisition; professional growth, rejection, happenstance, and achievement; leadership; clinical challenges; multicultural competence; spirituality; and life and career transitions. Points to Ponder conclude each section to enhance self-reflection and classroom discussion. Published by the American Counseling Association Foundation.
*Requests for digital versions from ACA can be found on www.wiley.com
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Preface
New to the Third Edition
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
The World Into Which I Was Born
Section 1: Becoming During Childhood (Birth to Age 11)
Chapter 1: The Trike, the Porch, the Dare, the Air
Chapter 2: Choices
Chapter 3: “Cool,” “School,” and First Grade
Chapter 4: Milledgeville
Chapter 5: The Rock Beneath the Ivy
Chapter 6: If I Had Been Texas, Dr. Toomey Would Have Struck Oil
Chapter 7: Will Lee, Jim Crow, and Racial Poverty
Chapter 8: Perpetuating the Lost Cause
Chapter 9: An Encounter With the Klan
Chapter 10: Just as I Am
Chapter 11: My Brother Was a Home Run; I Was Strike Three
Chapter 12: Water Works! A Rush Downstream to the Reservoir
Chapter 13: Judge Hardy
Chapter 14: Sex at Church
Chapter 15: The Loans
Points to Ponder
Section 2: Becoming During Adolescence (Ages 12 to 18)
Chapter 16: Making the Grades . . . Almost!
Chapter 17: Hard Work
Chapter 18: I Married the Football Team
Chapter 19: Looking for Athletic Support
Chapter 20: Saying “No” to the Skimpy Blue Speedo
Chapter 21: “And This Shall Be a Sign Unto You”
Chapter 22: Radiating Fruit Flies
Chapter 23: Carrot Walks and Talks
Chapter 24: Examinations and the Inauguration
Chapter 25: Junior ROTC and Me
Chapter 26: Cool Breeze
Chapter 27: Mount Up-Some-More and Beyond
Chapter 28: How the Past Came Into the Present
Chapter 29: Typing
Points to Ponder
Section 3: Becoming as a Young Adult
Chapter 30: Greeks, Geeks, Freaks, and Misfits
Chapter 31: A June Night in December
Chapter 32: The Lakes of Wake
Chapter 33: The Beers of My Senior Year
Chapter 34: Student Government
Chapter 35: Swinging and Undue Public Affection
Chapter 36: Holding On to Your Beliefs
Chapter 37: A Summer Camp Surprise
Chapter 38: The Foxhole
Chapter 39: The Good Neighbor House
Chapter 40: Be Modest
Points to Ponder
Section 4: Becoming Oriented to the Counseling Profession
Chapter 41: The Calling
Chapter 42: Bandits
Chapter 43: “Uh-Huh” Is Never Enough
Chapter 44: The Locked Ward
Chapter 45: Tex Ritter Smith
Chapter 46: From the Inside Out
Chapter 47: My Pal Sal
Chapter 48: Talk Is Cheap
Chapter 49: Playing Hunches
Chapter 50: Consultant or Catalyst
Chapter 51: Sometimes It Is How You Ask the Question
Chapter 52: Three Acres of Garlic
Chapter 53: The Music of Life
Points to Ponder
Section 5: Becoming Through Mistakes and Serendipity
Chapter 54: Sleepy Time Client
Chapter 55: Bo
Chapter 56: Rabbits
Chapter 57: Testing a Theory
Chapter 58: Chipmunk Cheeks
Chapter 59: The Right to Struggle
Chapter 60: A Door, a Phone, a Window
Chapter 61: The Price of Being Ill-Prepared
Chapter 62: The Wrong Side of Presentations
Chapter 63: Don’t Take It Literally
Points to Ponder
Section 6: Becoming Skilled in Processes
Chapter 64: The Basics
Chapter 65: The Difficulty of Change
Chapter 66: Boundaries
Chapter 67: Boundaries Too
Chapter 68: Modeling
Chapter 69: Empathy
Chapter 70: Afraid of Blood
Chapter 71: Omelets
Chapter 72: The Concrete Counselor
Points to Ponder
Section 7: Becoming Through the Power of Words
Chapter 73: When a Danish Is Not a Scandinavian
Chapter 74: Specialized Language
Chapter 75: The Words Are There but I Don’t Know Where
Chapter 76: Knowledge Is Power Up to a Point
Chapter 77: Writing for Life
Chapter 78: Fog-a-re-a
Chapter 79: Erotic or Erratic
Chapter 80: Adjectives and Adverbs
Points to Ponder
Section 8: Becoming Through Creativity
Chapter 81: Socks
Chapter 82: Pantomime Can Be Powerful
Chapter 83: Nothing Could Be Finer . . . Almost!
Points to Ponder
Section 9: Becoming Through Multiculturalism and Spirituality
Chapter 84: Shirley
Chapter 85: WASPs
Chapter 86: The Argentine
Chapter 87: Spirits, Spirituality, and Counseling
Chapter 88: Putting on the Gloves With Mother Teresa
Chapter 89: Becoming a Student of Culture
Chapter 90: Getting There
Chapter 91: Ten Pesos for the Gringo
Chapter 92: Hiccups Overseas
Chapter 93: Geography and Identity
Chapter 94: Women Are People!
Points to Ponder
Section 10: Becoming Through Connections
Chapter 95: The Office
Chapter 96: Happenstance
Chapter 97: Sources Within
Chapter 98: Cool Under Fire
Chapter 99: 20/20
Chapter 100: Courtland, the Turkeys, and Me in Tennessee
Points to Ponder
Section 11: Becoming Skilled in Working With Groups, Couples, and Families
Chapter 101: The Wake-Up Dream
Chapter 102: The Other Side of Labels
Chapter 103: Nancy Drew
Chapter 104: Airtime
Chapter 105: Three’s a Crowd but Four Is a Family Counseling Session
Chapter 106: Sex Therapy
Chapter 107: Laura Ashley
Chapter 108: Humor
Chapter 109: Home Alone With Humor
Chapter 110: Putting Words Into Action
Points to Ponder
Section 12: Becoming a Lifelong Learner
Chapter 111: Supervision
Chapter 112: Court
Chapter 113: Research and Theory
Chapter 114: A Quiet Riot
Chapter 115: Reality Sits in a Green Cushioned Chair
Chapter 116: Who Wants to Work?
Points to Ponder
Section 13: Becoming an Academic
Chapter 117: Oh No, a Typo
Chapter 118: Mr. TBA
Chapter 119: Love on an Academic Level
Chapter 120: Not by Work Alone
Chapter 121: Rejection
Chapter 122: Just Because You’re the One and Only Doesn’t Mean You Won’t Be Left Out Cold and Lonely
Chapter 123: Counselors Anonymous
Points to Ponder
Section 14: Becoming a Family Man
Chapter 124: Research and Reframing Within the Family
Chapter 125: Trees With Lights
Chapter 126: A New York Adventure
Chapter 127: The Pace of Change
Chapter 128: Attitudes
Chapter 129: The Wearing of Black and Development
Chapter 130: Scars
Chapter 131: Changing Names
Chapter 132: Resiliency and Unpredictability
Chapter 133: Finding a Vision That Works
Points to Ponder
Section 15: Becoming a Leader
Chapter 134: The Human Side of Leadership
Chapter 135: Dealing With the Press Can Be a Mess—But You Should Do It
Chapter 136: The Leader as a Catalyst and Servant
Chapter 137: Leadership in Counseling After a Crisis
Chapter 138: Smoke and Mirrors
Points to Ponder
Section 16: Becoming More Aware of Issues in Counseling
Chapter 139: Counseling as a Quiet Revolution
Chapter 140: Counseling in an Age of Chaos
Chapter 141: Counseling in Context
Chapter 142: Diagnosis, Labels, and Dialogue
Chapter 143: Forgiveness Is Transformational
Chapter 144: The isms in Counseling
Chapter 145: Territory Folks Should Stick Together
Chapter 146: Counseling or Counselling
Chapter 147: Why Counseling?
Points to Ponder
Section 17: Becoming Amid Transitions and Endings
Chapter 148: Aging but Not Developing
Chapter 149: Termination
Chapter 150: The Quilt
Chapter 151: Hair
Chapter 152: Avoiding Permanent Termination
Chapter 153: On Grief and Gratitude
Chapter 154 Meaning and Mattering:
Chapter 155: Be a Good Ancestor
Chapter 156: Always Becoming
Points to Ponder
Epilogue
Appendix A: A Concise History of My Life
Appendix B: Notes
References
Technical Support
End User License Agreement
Guide
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Preface
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
The World Into Which I Was Born
Table of Contents
Begin Reading
Epilogue
Appendix A: A Concise History of My Life
Appendix B: Notes
Technical Support
Wiley End User License Agreement
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THIRD EDITION
BECOMING A Counselor
The Light, the Bright, and the Serious
Samuel T. Gladding
6101 Stevenson Avenue, Suite 600 • Alexandria, VA 22304www.counseling.org
Copyright © 2021 by the American Counseling Association Foundation. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. Except as permitted under the United States Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
American Counseling Association Foundation6101 Stevenson Avenue, Suite 600Alexandria, VA 22304
Associate Publisher • Carolyn C. Baker
Digital and Print Development Editor • Nancy Driver
Senior Production Manager • Bonny E. Gaston
Copy Editor • Beth Ciha
Cover and text design by Bonny E. Gaston
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Gladding, Samuel T., author.Title: Becoming a counselor : the light, the bright, and the serious / Samuel T. Gladding.Description: Third Edition. | Alexandria : American Counseling Association Foundation, 2021. | Revised edition of the author’s Becoming a counselor, c2009. | Includes bibliographical references.Identifiers: LCCN 2021008008 | ISBN 9781556204128 (paperback)Subjects: LCSH: Counseling. | Counselors.Classification: LCC BF637.C6 G525 2021 | DDC 158.3—dc23LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021008008
Dedication
To Thomas J. Sweeney, Rich Yep, David Kaplan, and Courtland Lee Active and strong voices for counseling as a profession!
&
To Donna Henderson, my professional colleague and friend of 22 years
Preface
Some events change your life. Most are not so powerful. Critical occurrences that have an impact are landmark experiences such as leaving home, the death of a parent, the achievement of a goal, failure, an accident, a chance encounter, or a natural disaster. Other transitional times may be less notable but still influential, such as moments of insight, prejudice, or simple acts of kindness. Outside of these memorable incidents, the rest of our existence is rather mundane and routine. Thus, we may be at a loss to recall what we ate or to whom we talked 2 days ago because neither was significant in life-changing or life-giving ways.
In counseling we see people at crisis points. They are usually ready or willing to make necessary changes, some of which are dramatic. However, as clinicians we seldom remember most of the people we encounter because the helping process is more routine than avant-garde. My experiences reflect that pattern. I can recall only a few of the hundreds of individuals I have assisted. Yet some events in my personal and professional lives have been turning points that have influenced my growth and development in a manner like those situations that have most affected my clients. You have had (or most likely will have) some similar experiences. These times are filled with a plethora of emotions and thoughts as well as new behaviors.
The vignettes in this text are representative of many universal dimensions involved in becoming a person and a helping professional. In these stories, you will find examples of
the light, that is, the humorous developments in life and in counseling;
the bright, that is, the insight that comes from life experiences and counseling; and
the serious, that is, the deeper and more sobering dimensions of life and counseling.
Sometimes these three dimensions—the light, the bright, and the serious—occur simultaneously and are obvious. Sometimes they are sequential and more nuanced. Regardless, they are a part of the experience of novice and veteran counselors.
Although the incidents in these stories are unique, they are broad based. You may find yourself identifying with some of the events and their applicability to you. The “Points to Ponder” section at the conclusion of each chapter is an especially good place for such reflections. In any case, it is my hope that this book will assist you in living a richer, fuller, deeper, and more meaningful life through gaining greater awareness of yourself and the stages involved in the bittersweet process of choice and change.
In reading this text, remember that although the incidents recorded here occurred, a few of the stories have been embellished a bit. In all circumstances, characters who were a part of these episodes, unless specifically identified, have been disguised through multiple means, such as combining them with similar people in a composite, changing their names, switching their genders, or modifying their presenting problem.
New to the Third Edition
This third edition of Becoming a Counselor has grown from 121 stories to 156! It has also expanded in scope. The previous editions of this book contained some stories of my coming of age. This edition contains two dozen more from early childhood through college. Some of the incidents in these early memories influence my life today (e.g., “Hard Work”). A number of them I look back on with nostalgia (e.g., “Sex at Church”). Then there is another group I find unbelievable, as in “What was I thinking?” (e.g., “Water Works! A Rush Downstream to the Reservoir”). Regardless, these stories show who I was developmentally at a point in time, and they are timeless as memories.
Besides having more stories, this edition of Becoming a Counselor has grown from 14 to 17 sections. Each section begins with a “Becoming” theme. These sections describe how I was becoming who I am today through such matters as making mistakes early in my career or venturing into the land of leadership.
Another change in this book is that I have created a brief prelude— “The World Into Which I Was Born”—that describes the circumstances of my family when I entered the world in 1945. This introduction makes it easier for you to understand my worldview at the time and some of the behaviors I displayed growing up and maturing. An additional feature of this volume is Appendix A, which gives a brief overview of my life. It describes some of the main events in my development as a person, including successes and setbacks. I hope that it will help you gauge your own progress as a person and realize anew that life is not linear.
Finally, I have added a few more stories about my life as an adult and tweaked a few of the stories in previous editions to make them more readable (see Appendix B). In all these vignettes, I have dealt with the ABCs of reality—affect, behavior, and cognition—and how they individually and collectively impact who we are and how we function through the years.
Acknowledgments
A number of people have been pivotal in the publication of this book and its predecessors. Clients, colleagues, and situations are the key sources for what appears on these pages. However, the one who did the most to transpose my reflections into readable prose for the first edition of this book was Anita Hughes, my assistant in the Provost Office at Wake Forest University, who initially helped type, organize, and edit much of this material. I could not have completed the task without her. My colleagues in the Department of Counseling at Wake Forest University, especially Donna Henderson, Pamela Karr, and the late Tom Elmore, were most supportive of this initial effort too.
Erin Binkley and Elizabeth Cox, my graduate assistants in 2006– 2007 and 2007–2008 respectively, offered invaluable insights into the second edition of this work that were timely and excellent. Likewise, Bobby Lange, my graduate assistant in 2020–2021, has been amazing in providing me suggestions on this third edition and doing the hard work of critiquing each chapter.
I am likewise grateful for the positive input in my life of Thomas J. Sweeney, Rich Yep, David Kaplan, Courtland Lee, and Donna Henderson, to whom this book is dedicated. The encouragement and constructive comments of the American Counseling Association’s Carolyn C. Baker (associate publisher), Nancy Driver (digital and print development editor), and Bonny E. Gaston (senior production manager), have been extremely helpful. My gratitude is also extended to the members of the Association’s Publications Committee who reviewed and favorably recommended this work. Finally, I am indebted to my wife, Claire, and our children, Ben, Nate, and Tim, for the rich memories they have provided me regarding counseling and life. Becoming a counselor is a continuous and challenging process.
About the Authors
Samuel T. Gladding, PhD, is a professor and past chair of the Department of Counseling at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, North Carolina. He has been a practicing counselor in both public and private agencies since 1971. His leadership in the field of counseling includes service as
president of the American Counseling Association (ACA),
president of the Association for Counselor Education and Supervision (ACES),
president of the Association for Specialists in Group Work (ASGW),
president of the International Association of Marriage and Family Counselors (IAMFC),
president of Chi Sigma Iota (counseling academic and professional honor society international),
president of the American Association of State Counseling Boards (AASCB), and
vice president of the Association for Humanistic Counseling (AHC).
Gladding is the former editor of the Journal for Specialists in Group Work and the ASGW newsletter. He is also the past chair of the American Counseling Association Foundation. A prolific author of refereed journal articles, books, book chapters, and poetry, Gladding was cited as being in the top 1% of contributors to ACA’s flagship journal, the Journal of Counseling & Development, for the 15-year period from 1978 to 1993. Some of Gladding’s most recent books are The Creative Arts in Counseling (6th ed.; 2021), A Concise Guide to Opioid Addiction for Counselors (with Kevin Alderson, 2021), Group Work: A Counseling Specialty (8th ed.; 2020), Family Therapy: History, Theory and Process (7th ed.; 2019), Choosing the Right Counselor for You (with Kevin Alderson, 2019), The Counseling Dictionary (4th ed.; 2018), and Counseling: A ComprehensiveProfession (8th ed.; 2018). In addition, Gladding has produced a dozen films on counseling, his most recent being Adventures in Mental Health, a humorous animated production.
Gladding’s previous academic appointments have been at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, Fairfield University (Connecticut), and Rockingham Community College (Wentworth, North Carolina). He was also Director of Children’s Services at the Rockingham County (North Carolina) Mental Health Center at the beginning of his career. Gladding received his degrees from Wake Forest University (BA, MAEd), Yale University (MAR), and the University of North Carolina at Greensboro (PhD). He is a national certified counselor, a certified clinical mental health counselor, and a licensed clinical mental health counselor (North Carolina). He has served as a member of the North Carolina Board of Examiners in Counseling and the Alabama Board of Examiners in Counseling.
Gladding is a Fellow of ACA and the recipient of numerous other honors, including
ACA’s Gilbert and Kathleen Wrenn Award for a Humanitarian and Caring Person,
ACA’s Arthur A. Hitchcock Distinguished Professional Service Award,
ACA’s David K. Brooks, Jr. Distinguished Mentor Award,
the American Counseling Association Foundation’s Bridgebuilder Award,
ACA’s President’s Award,
the Association for Creativity in Counseling Lifetime Achievement Award,
the Association for Spirituality, Ethics, and Religious Issues in Counseling Humanitarian Award,
Chi Sigma Iota’s Thomas J. Sweeney Professional Leadership Award,
AHC’s Joseph W. and Lucille U. Hollis Outstanding Publication Award,
ACES’s Professional Leadership Award,
ASGW’s Eminent Career Award,
the North Carolina Counseling Association’s Ella Stephens Barrett Award for leadership and service to the counseling profession, and
the American Counseling Association Foundation’s 2021 Thomas Hohenshil National Publication Award.
Dr. Gladding is married to Claire Tillson Gladding and is the father of three grown children: Ben, Nate, and Tim. Outside of counseling, he enjoys walking, swimming, pop music, and humor.
The World Into Which I Was Born
Few people enter the world at an ideal time, and my birth was no exception. I was born on the morning of October 5, 1945. World War II had been officially over for about month, and American military personnel were returning home. Although the end of the war might seem like an ideal time to arrive on earth, especially in a nation that was on the winning side, other circumstances were afoot.
My parents, Russell Burton and Gertrude Barnes Templeman Gladding, were 35 and 34, respectively. They already had two children: Margaret Northam (Peggy), who was 3 (May 21, 1942); and Russell Burton, Jr. (Russell, Jr.), who was 13 months (August 17, 1944). Although my parents had talked about a third child, family history has it I was unexpected. To make matters more complicated, I was born with dislocated hips. I spent much of my first 2 years in Scottish Rite Hospital, where I had three operations to wire my hips back in place. My parents visited on Sundays and brought me a Hershey’s chocolate bar when I was old enough to eat one. My brother also had dislocated hips, and both of us had plaster of paris body casts from the waist down at times. We were later informally described as “heavy Chevys.” Because my mother, Grandmother Templeman (whom we called “Pal”), and sister, Peggy, could barely lift let alone carry us, they pulled us around the living and dining rooms of our house in a Radio Flyer red wagon modified with a platform and a hole for the bedpan underneath.
My mother was the oldest daughter of four children of Samuel and Inez Templeman. Her two younger sisters were Inez and Ruth, and her younger brother was Samuel II. She was petite, about 5 feet tall, and probably never weighed more than 100 pounds. She was attractive, with a good figure, a sharp mind, and a religious focus as the oldest child of a Baptist minister. What she lacked in size she made up for in spirit—determination, perseverance, and even a bit of feistiness.
She met my father in 1931 at a boarding house owned by her maternal grandfather, Robert Leonard Barnes, in Richmond, Virginia. She had gone to Richmond after graduating from Salem College to study for a master of arts at Westhampton College—the female campus of then Richmond College—because she could not get a teaching job during the Great Depression. Unbeknownst to her, my father and his brother, Randolph, had rented a room at the house at 3300 Monument Avenue in exchange for money and help with the yardwork. My parents waited 3 years to tie the knot because of the accidental death of my dad’s father and because my mother insisted that my dad make a $100 a month before she would marry him. Their wedding took place in November 1934. My mother’s father, Samuel Huntington Templeman, a Baptist minister for whom I was named, walked her down the aisle and then performed the wedding at Brown Memorial Baptist Church in Winston-Salem, North Carolina.
My mother and her father were close. He died in March 1945 and my grandmother, Inez Barnes Templeman (“Pal”), came to live with my parents soon thereafter. Thus, in October 1945, my mother was dealing with the birth of an unplanned child, grief surrounding the recent death of her father, and the arrival of her mother into the couple’s modest three bedroom, one bathroom house at 957 Church Street in Decatur, Georgia, a city outside Atlanta. After that came the discovery of the dislocated hips and the stress that her two youngest children needed operations and hospitalization if they were ever going to walk.
My father was a bit of a contrast but a complement to my mother. He was the third of four children—two older brothers and a younger sister—born to Henry Arcemus and Maggie Lena Northam Gladding. He stood about 5 feet 10 inches but was thin, weighing around 135 pounds. Like my mother, he wore glasses and had since the age of 4 because of what was described as a “lazy eye.” He had a high school and a business school education. He would likely have gone to college, probably Virginia Tech, had it not been for the Great Depression. His family had made a living as farmers on the Eastern Shore of Virginia in Accomack County since the mid-1600s, but 18 months into the Great Depression the farm was foreclosed on and the family became sharecroppers for a few years. Free from the constant labor of being a farmer, my father nurtured his love of the soil by having a large garden—about a third of an acre—behind our house in Decatur. There he grew many of the vegetables our family ate.
As mentioned previously, the ancestors of my father’s immediate family had settled on the Eastern Shore in the mid-1600s. In 1945, he found himself an office worker at the Virginia-Carolina (V-C) Chemical Corporation, a company that made fertilizer, in Atlanta. V-C, for whom he worked 27 years, had transferred him from Richmond to Atlanta in 1942. The transfer may well have saved his marriage, because my father’s mother and his younger sister, Mildred—both of whom my mother did not like—had moved into my parents’ apartment in Richmond in the 1930s, and the atmosphere in their flat was “uncomfortable.” Regrettably, in the mid-1940s, my father’s oldest brother, Hilton, who owned a general merchandise store on the Eastern Shore, was fighting lung cancer; he would die in 1946.
Thus, in addition to dealing with an unexpected birth, hospital bills, the arrival at the house of his wife’s mother, three children under the age of 5, and stress from his wife’s loss of her father, my father was dealing with the imminent death of his oldest brother. Overall, October 1945 was a bittersweet time for the Gladdings, with gains, losses, and uncertainty.
Section 1Becoming During Childhood (Birth to Age 11)
When First Called
Templeman/Gladding travels in mea restless presence, a historyof time and people who walked the worldlong before my birth.Attuned to the sound of their storiesI wince at their failuresand bask in their glories.They are a part of my life.
© 1970, Samuel T. Gladding
No one begins life as a counselor. We develop into professionals over time. With or against the currents of our environment we steer, drift, or proceed toward becoming humans who embrace counseling instead of economics, history, or English. Part of the reason has to do with our early personal history and with circumstances in life as a child.
I am no less a product of time, environment, and interpersonal interactions than anyone else. The stories that follow will give you a glimpse into my childhood, but they are meant not so much to focus on me as to open your mind to thoughts of your early experiences. Some of the stories are funny, whereas a few show the frailty of human nature, interpersonal interactions, and just plain luck. In each of the vignettes there is knowledge you may have learned in a different way. Ask yourself as you read what forces in your developing years influenced you to be who you are now.
• • •
Chapter 1The Trike, the Porch, the Dare, the Air: Gravity Wins Again!
One of the situations that ended disastrously for me at about the age of 4 was my attempt to tricycle down the front steps of our house. This incident was not entirely my fault. An older boy, Bill G., who lived down the street, persuaded me it would be fun. He even put my trike on the landing at the top of the stairs. Our house was brick and had eight concrete steps leading up to the front door. At the bottom of the steps, on either side, were two concrete barrels about 2 feet high. I have no idea why they were there. In any case, on that summer morning with my trike on the porch landing, I climbed the steps, got on, and began to pedal. I may have pedaled twice, but it was probably only once, for after the front wheel went off the landing, gravity took over. I do not remember much about the ride other than being surprised as I went over the handlebars and landed on the concrete barrel to the left of the steps.
Screams broke the silence. My mother came—I am sure with a horrified look on her face—as blood flowed from my injuries. It was then off to the doctor’s office where I was patched up and returned home. I spent the rest of the day inside. Amazingly, my tricycle was not damaged, but I did not ride it for a week and then only on the sidewalk.
Chapter 2Choices: Holding On or Letting Go
Whenever someone asks me if I have a good illustration of a situation involving choices, I smile and quickly respond. I am not sure why I smile (it probably has to do with reflexes). I do know why I respond. I have a rather graphic illustration. It happened during the exploratory preschool time of my life. My older brother, Russell, and his friend, Bill G. (from the previous chapter), were climbing up to the rafters of Bill’s garage. I wanted to be with them, but I could not climb the ladder on the inside of the structure.
Seeing my plight, my brother and Bill tried to be helpful. They threw down a rope from above and told me to tie it around my waist. I did so awkwardly but enthusiastically and with great anticipation. Then they started pulling me to the rafters. All went well for about 10 to 15 feet, whereupon the rope slipped. Such slippage would have been fine in most cases, but the place where the rope slipped with considerable force was around my neck. Unbeknownst to my brother and his friend, they were hanging me.
The good news is that within a few seconds my brother looked down and saw the noose and my beet-red face. He had to make a split-second decision as to what to do as he realized what was happening. With my head almost to the top of the platform where it and my body would have found a solid surface, he made a fateful decision. “Let him go,” he yelled, “or we will kill him!”
Being about 20 feet off the ground by then I wanted to reply, “But if you choose to drop me, you may also end my life.” Unfortunately, because my windpipe had been closed off, I could not say anything. Windless and limp, I followed the force of gravity to the ground, which was a concrete driveway. The trip down was quick (although it seemed like an eternity and could have made that word a part of my history). Before anyone could say “Farewell,” I made a thud, like a sack of potatoes being dropped from a roof, and the back of my head hit the cement!
At that point, my brother hurried down the ladder, looked me over, untied the noose, and quickly ran home swearing to my mother that he had nothing to do with what she was about to behold. My head was like a coconut cracked open with a stone. The only difference was that blood began pouring out, rather than coconut juice, and whereas coconuts are silent, I was anything but. Neighbors came running, dogs began barking, babies stopped crying, and my grandmother, from four houses away, made the innocent and objective remark to my mother that it sounded like someone was dying (which was more true than she knew). Bill’s mother carried me home to my visibly shaken mother, who got another neighbor to drive her to the doctor with me in her lap, my head wrapped in towels, looking like a Middle Eastern sheik. Two hours later I returned home with a dozen stitches, a pound of gauze, a headache, and a much calmer maternal unit. I had the stitches from the adventures for a few days and sported a red rope burn around my neck for more than a week. I remember my grandmother, Pal, saying to me that my head would heal before I married. She was right, but sometimes my wife wonders if my head should be examined once more.
Chapter 3“Cool,” “School,” and First Grade
I have a difficult time speaking English, let alone another language. It is because of what is known as a “central processing disorder.” In my case, I have auditory discrimination problems. I do not hear distinct sounds—for example, English letters or words that might sound similar, such as “ch” and “sh,” but are in fact different. This disability appeared most dramatically in my life the night before I was to enter first grade. My parents were flabbergasted I could not pronounce the word “school.” I told them repeatedly I was going to “chool.” They were not “chilled out” with my announcement or pronunciation.
I am still not sure why they let me go. I was more than a month too young, was small, and was immature in more than my language development. They could have held me back. I struggled with first grade but passed and learned more than may have appeared on the surface. The summer between first and second grades my parents worked with me on remedial reading and pronunciation. It was not cool but rather an extension of school. It helped.
Chapter 4Milledgeville
“Behave or they’ll send you to Milledgeville!”
My friends and siblings would often say that when I was growing up and acting what they termed “a little bit crazy.” The reason the name of a former capital of Georgia came up in conversation was that it was the site of the Georgia Insane Asylum. No longer was Milledgeville a place where you went for politics. It was now a place for lunatics. (Actually, I am pretty sure some Georgian politicians ended up there!)
I never went to Milledgeville, but I am aware that during my childhood, the institution was overcrowded. Five thousand patients were confined in a space constructed for half that many. I have since learned that the book and movie The Three Faces of Eve (about multiple personalities) was based on a person who had spent part of her life at the asylum.
In some ways I wish I had been sent to Milledgeville because it seemed so mysterious. However, I am more grateful that I did not take that ride south. I would probably have been traumatized or deeply disturbed.
I do not know of any sentence I have heard since my preteen years that has made me act more properly than the one that began this piece. Behavior has consequences, whether it sends you somewhere or not.
Chapter 5The Rock Beneath the Ivy
I knew better. And I knew that I knew better. And my friends knew that I knew better. But there I was on top of the horse stables—30 feet up above the ivy down below with my friend Carl Jones saying, “If you want in the club, jump.”
Being 10 at the time, I wanted in the club (whose name I have now forgotten). And so, looking straight ahead, I sprang from the roof like I was diving from a platform in the Olympics and flew gracefully for a millisecond. Then I landed with a thud and with considerable pain. Most of my body was fine. However, below my right elbow was a rock that simply obeyed the laws of physics and homeostasis. In other words, it did not move, and when my elbow came crashing down on it, the hypothesis that bones are not as hard as granite was proven once again. My elbow, though pointed, did not break through the granite. Instead, it was shattered, and so was my hope of landing on my feet, metaphorically or literally.
At first the grown-ups who examined my injury thought I had a sprain or a bruise, even Carl’s dad, who was a doctor (an allergy specialist). The long and short of the story is that the elbow was never set properly, and I lost full rotation in it. After the accident, I found it difficult to eat with my right hand. Therefore, I switched and became more ambidextrous by using my left hand to hold my fork or spoon. I already was a lefty when batting in baseball.
The mobility I lost in one hand (or should I say arm?) gave me new agility in the other. I wish I had not had the accident and did not still carry some physical pain in my right elbow. Sometimes the breaks we get in life are not the ones we want. Yet they can lead us to become more flexible and remind us never to foolishly leap or seek after the superficial.
Chapter 6If I Had Been Texas, Dr. Toomey Would Have Struck Oil
One of the most unpleasant and physically painful times of my childhood was going to see Dr. Toomey, our dentist. “Ouch” and “terrified” are the words that best describe my relationship with him. He seemed quite old and had white hair. Even his equipment looked ancient and worn out. It was yellowing. In his waiting room, there were pictures on the wall of him in World War II. I felt like I was entering a war zone when I walked into his office.
Every time I went to see Dr. Toomey it was painful because I had cavities. There was no fluorinated water to help prevent decay. His message to me when he was drilling in my mouth was “Open wide, Sammy.” I had changed my name from Sammy to Sam when I was 5 years old, but Dr. Toomey failed to get the message. His instructions for me after every visit were “Don’t eat anything for 3 hours.” I did not want to do so, but I did feel like biting him!
Dr. Toomey either died or gave up his practice about the time I was midway through high school. I am sure underneath his pain-inflicting exterior he was probably a nice, easy-going individual. Had he been an oilman, though, and had I been Texas, he certainly would have been rich from drilling!
Chapter 7Will Lee, Jim Crow, and Racial Poverty
The South I grew up in was blatantly segregated. Jim Crow laws ruled society and the Ku Klux Klan was active, especially outside of cities like Decatur. Yet Blacks and Whites spoke to each other and worked for or with each other within the confines of the written and unspoken rules of society. My first exposure to this interaction came during the spring when my dad hired an older Black man to come plow his garden. Will Lee was his name. Each year he came to our house around late March or early April riding in the wagon that his mule pulled. At first his journey was short because he lived in a Black settlement up Church Street between the Decatur Cemetery and the First Methodist Church. However, later he and his community were forced to move about 3 or 4 miles south of the city limits. Therefore, when he came to plow, his mule-driven wagon inevitably had several cars backed up behind it. Neither Will nor his mule seemed too concerned. Of course, the mule had blinders on, and Will was focused on the road.
It took most of the day to plow the garden. My mother would always fix Will a hot lunch, which she served him as he sat at our breakroom table. I thought it a bit odd that anyone would want a hot lunch, as I always ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for the noonday meal.
On several occasions my father took my brother, my sister, and me to Will’s house when he rode out to ask Will to plow his garden. Will’s house did not have a phone, so going to see him directly was the only way my dad could employ him. Will lived by himself, although I had the impression he had once been married and had grown children. His house was well below modest. It was a work in progress. The walls of his main room were covered in newspaper, probably for insulation. He had a bedroom off the main room, but I think his bathroom may have been a privy outside. The only other things I noted were a potbelly stove for heating and cooking and kerosene lights.
As a child I initially thought Will’s life seemed neat. Now I realize how poor and discriminated against he was. His world was confined. He had virtually no hope of rising above where he was. I doubt he was content with his life, but he was accepting because he did not have a choice. I am sure he was glad to get jobs like the ones my dad gave him. I wish it could have been different and wish, in retrospect, that I had truly seen what was happening under Jim Crow and had the power to fix it.
Chapter 8Perpetuating the Lost Cause: Essays on Confederates
The American Civil War had been over physically for almost 100 years when I entered fifth grade. However, it was not over mentally in the minds of some Southerners, even those in education. My fifth-grade teacher and later my sixth-grade teacher had our class participate in the Daughters of the Confederacy essay contest and write about famous Confederates. The first year the essay was on Georgia’s Alexander H. Stephens, the vice president of the Confederacy. The second year we wrote about Nathan Bedford Forrest, a Confederate general and the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. Instead of looking these figures up in the library, we were given pamphlets that contained biographical information on each. The handouts were complementary in multiple ways: They portrayed these men as heroes.
The essay experience promoted the Lost Cause myth pervasive in the South in the 20th century. The myth focused on the gallant men who had fought for or served the Confederacy. My take on what I was being taught was that Southerners were good and virtuous, whereas “Yankees”—God bless you if you said that word—were rude, crude, and evil.
I look back on the Confederate essay days with disbelief. If the goal had been to shape young minds prejudicially, the activity would have been helpful. I know in some cases it succeeded. I am glad I was uncomfortable with the process. I realized in some ways then what was happening and that with hate and fear, as the title song from the play South Pacific declares, “you’ve got to be carefully taught.”
Chapter 9An Encounter With the Klan
I can still remember hearing the car horns in the distance. They were coming. The Ku Klux Klan was holding a rally on the courthouse square of my hometown of Decatur, Georgia, and they were driving up Church Street in front of our house as part of their route. I was 10 years old, and up to that point my family had tried to protect me as much as possible from the sounds and the sights of the divided society that was the South of the 1950s. That summer day was no exception as my father quickly shooed me inside. Innocence was about to be lost, and he knew it. Yet he tried as best he could to keep my brother, my sister, and me as far removed as possible from the evil that was to pass before us.
In retrospect, I am sure he thought of sending us away for the day. However, he probably knew that such a tactic would backfire later. There was no escape from the pervasiveness of racism that dominated Southern culture at the time. It was simply accepted and legally codified. Blacks and Whites were different races that should be kept separate from each other because Blacks were perceived as inferior. That view covered everything in its day like kudzu and strangled reasonable discussions and change. So, as the car horns became louder and the Klan caravan drew closer, I was confined to the screened-in front porch of our house to watch silently a noisy parade full of people in hoods waving Confederate battle flags and occasionally shouting words that were offensive. The instructions from my father were clear: “You may look,” he told me, “but you must remain as still as the humid air.”
My wait was not long in coming, but while I sat, I thought as well as anticipated. I had read about the Klan and its origin. I knew that Nathan Bedford Forrest had founded the Klan in Tennessee after the Civil War to suppress the freedom of Blacks and keep them fearful and subservient to Whites. I had read of a recent Klan rally and cross burning at nearby Stone Mountain on a Saturday night in the Sunday edition of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution that I helped my brother deliver. I was not as naive as my father thought or wished. Yet I did not know anyone who was an affiliate of or advocate for the Klan or its causes. That made sense because the group was surrounded by secrecy. You became a target of its wrath only if you spoke out against what it tried to enforce by intimidation, beatings, and murder. So I sat quietly and watched as the first cars came by. I was to see what I had read about up close and face to face.
However, what happened was different from what I had envisioned. The distance from our porch to the street was about 50 feet, so I had a clear view. What surprised me was what I saw. Before me were people in vehicles who were faceless in the sense that I could not see who they were. It was like Halloween in the summertime. Over their heads were white hooded sheets that prevented anyone from identifying them. From the holes in their masks I caught glimpses of faces—eyes, noses, and mouths—but nothing distinctive. Even more striking was that as these people passed our house, they not only blew their horns but also waved. I was confused. I thought evil should look and act malevolent. Here before me was the personification of prejudice waving enthusiastically and in a friendly manner. Something was disturbingly wrong with the picture.
However, I did as instructed. I did not move a muscle. The whole parade lasted only about 5 minutes. Then the noisy, white-robed, faceless people disappeared from my immediate senses and became lodged in my memory.
In reflecting on this moment in time, I realize that day and my internal reaction to the events before me have continued to have an impact on my life both personally and professionally. For one thing, I saw then, and see even more clearly now, that racism is often faceless and parades around as if it were something else. The camouflage of racism and its pretentious nature make it elusive and difficult to get a handle on—let alone address constructively.
Chapter 10Just as I Am
Growing up Baptist was mentally and theologically challenging for me—at least in my childhood church, where the emphasis was on record keeping, recitation, and evangelism. Every Sunday morning, each child present (and the adults too) had to fill out a record form checking such categories as “on time,” “read lesson,” and “brought Bible.” There was a chance to have perfect attendance and to score 100% as well! In addition to the records, there was a focus on memorizing scripture, most of which was from the New Testament, Psalms, and Proverbs. I was never asked to recite anything from the Song of Solomon.
I did fine in the first two categories of being a 1950s Baptist—keeping a record of my attendance and memorizing scripture. However, the third emphasis, evangelism, seemed a bit irrelevant to me until one summer day when the weather and our minister both got hot. I was in sixth grade and seated with my family at the 11 a.m. worship service in the fifth row on the left-hand side of the sanctuary. It was a place our family claimed for years. On that summer Sunday when the sermon ended, the minister gave the traditional invitation for anyone who wished to come forward and join the church as the congregation sang “Just as I Am.”
Several verses were sung, and no one came. Therefore, the minister asked everyone to bow their heads and close their eyes while the choir sang the hymn slowly and with feeling. He said he was sure the Lord was calling someone that day, but he was not sure exactly for what. I was pretty sure the Lord did not have my number, so I relaxed a little bit. However, after the choir had sung and no one had responded, the minister asked the congregation to sing some more. Two, then three, verses were sung. Still there was no one in the front of the church except the preacher. Maybe the Lord had dialed over to the First Presbyterian Church that morning. At least that thought entered my mind.
Appearing to me to be somewhat frustrated, our minister asked for the head-bowing, eye-closing response again while the choir sang softly in the background. When his expectations were not met, he said, to the congregation’s surprise, “I want everyone who has volunteered to be a missionary to the Congo to come to the front.”
“Sam,” he said, “that’s you and Sandra,” pointing to one of my friends who was the same age as me.
I was stunned but began to make my way to the aisle past my parents and siblings, who seemed a bit shocked that I was being called to Africa. Coming down the aisle toward the front, I saw my friend, Sandra, who was a pretty girl with long blond hair, blue eyes, and a smile that could melt the heart of almost any preadolescent boy. But this morning she was not radiant. She was not smiling. She looked as if she were upset, and to make matters worse she was crying. The tears ran down her face in small streams, eroding her makeup significantly and causing her mascara to run down her cheeks. When I asked why she was so distressed, she sobbed with significant feeling, “I don’t want to go to Africa as a missionary!”
“I’m not too wild about the idea myself,” I replied in one of the great understatements of my life. Nevertheless, we made our way to the front where the pastor had us stand in line and be greeted by anyone who so chose to come by after the service.
