The Art of Helping People Out of Trouble/Chapter 4
When you meet with a fact opposed to a prevailing theory, you should adhere to the fact and abandon the theory, even when the latter is supported by great authorities and generally adopted. (Claude Bernard, quoted by René Valléry Radot, in his Life of Pasteur.)
To help a man out of trouble one must know and understand him. This would seem to be axiomatic. The surgeon does not operate until he is intimately acquainted with the physical condition of his patient. The lawyer does not venture an opinion upon a contract without first informing himself about the legal issues involved. Before ever ground is broken, the architect has ascertained how much stress each floor of the projected building will bear. No one would entrust a watch to a jeweler who began by indiscriminately pottering among springs and pinions instead of intelligently endeavoring to discover what was wrong. Certainly, then, when the difficulty concerns a human being, we should approach its adjustment from as complete a knowledge and understanding of him as it is possible to obtain.
Yet knowledge and understanding are precisely the elements most frequently lacking in human relationships. Although people have learned the value of the fact in science and in dealing with material things, they have still to make any general application of it in their association with each other. Here supposition usually has precedence over information. Prejudice outranks evidence and impulse comes before reason. There is no better proof of this than the number of voters, who, without so much as an attempt at verification, allow their electoral decisions to be influenced by the slanders which are whispered about the personal lives of political candidates. The world made up its mind about revolutionary Russia before it had learned to know either Russia or the revolution; and it is not only the schoolgirl, who, without inquiry into causes, pronounces as 'stuck up' the acquaintance who does not notice her as she passes by.
This failure to appreciate the importance of examination and understanding enters even into the family circle. It jeopardizes the harmony between husband and wife and makes difficult the bringing-up of children. Mark Twain's account of how Aunt Polly punished Tom Sawyer for breaking a sugar bowl, which he had not broken, is typical of what happens in many homes.
One evening, it will be remembered, Aunt Polly caught Tom stealing sugar from the table and rapped his knuckles by way of reproof. Later, while she was out of the room, Sid, Tom's usually well-behaved half-brother, reached for the sugar bowl. It slipped between his fingers and fell to the floor. Aunt Polly returned and discovered the fragments. Tom awaited the punishment of the offender, not without a certain sense of satisfaction, but "the next instant he was sprawling on the floor! The potent palm was uplifted to strike again when Tom called out: 'Hold on, now, what er you belting me for? Sid broke it!'
"Aunt Polly paused perplexed." She had punished the wrong boy. Of course, she was too proud to confess her error, and, overcome with self-pity, Tom stalked away into the night. Life was awry between nephew and aunt. If only Aunt Polly had stopped to learn the facts!
She was, however, no different from the rest of human beings in this respect. One need not look far to find many repetitions of her mistake. There was Mrs. Brown whose relatives were estranged from her because of the constant crying of her baby. The family blamed the mother's lack of firmness. They said that the child cried because he had not been properly trained. He had all the appearance of health, and so it did not occur either to the mother or to the relatives that he might not be well. Finally, the situation became so uncomfortable for Mrs. Brown that she left her home. The difficulty was brought to the attention of a social case worker, who suggested that the baby be examined by a physician. A slight intestinal trouble was discovered which an operation corrected. The boy ceased his fretfulness and the cause of difference between the mother and the relatives was removed.
Social case work abounds in similar illustrations, showing how dependent upon facts human problems are for their solution. It is seldom possible to recognize at sight the nature of another person's trouble. Usually what we see on first acquaintance are only symptoms. People generally postpone seeking advice about their personal affairs until they are facing a crisis, and then it is their immediate perplexity from which they want relief. It bulks so large that often they can think of nothing else and emphasize it to the exclusion of the real problem. So it is that one of the first lessons to be learned about helping other people is the importance of looking behind the present difficulty for the disturbing cause, of diagnosing the adjustment that must be made.
It is essential, also, to discover the things within and without the individual to which he can turn for the material he may need in building his life anew. This involves learning to know the personal characteristics of the man who is in trouble: his appearance, his mannerisms, his disposition and temperament, his qualities of character, his habits and his interests, his ambitions, his desires, his talents, his skills, his physical and mental capacity.
It involves learning whether he has any plan for meeting his difficulties and what that plan is, and how he has met similar problems in the past. Likewise is it important to be acquainted with the extent and variety of his resources. What are his assets? They may be many and varied. When a man is suddenly stricken with illness, his most valuable resource may be the hospital that his taxes or his contributions have been instrumental in maintaining. Membership in a civic club was one of the assets which a woman used in making her adjustment to widowhood. When her husband died, she found in her efforts to improve living conditions in her neighborhood an interest that helped to fill the gap that death had made in her life.
To be informed about a man's savings and his credit, or their absence, may be as important in aiding him to solve his problems as information of this kind would be in reconstructing a business on the verge of a receivership. An individual's friends, his relatives, the members of his immediate family, are another valuable asset.
It was the discovery of a resource in relatives that changed entirely the latter course of the lives of two old people. They had reached the years of feebleness and declining strength, and now, alone and apparently friendless, they were living sparingly in two rooms, each with an evergrowing fear of what might happen to the other if he or she were taken first.
The question was not so much one of the physical comforts of life. A home for the aged would have been glad to receive them, or it would have been possible for them to obtain a stipend upon which they could continue to live together, but this would not have solved the problem of their loneliness. They needed to spend their last days among their own kith and kin, and it was relatives that the social case worker, whom they had asked for help, endeavored to find.
The old people had lost all trace of the other members of their family. One clue after another was followed, the search leading first away from the city and then back to it, until at last, within three quarters of an hour's ride on the street car, half a dozen nephews and nieces were found, all living in the same neighborhood.
Years before the old man had violated the ancient family custom by which the great Bible with its history of births, christenings, marriages, and deaths descended to the oldest son. Being the youngest, and coveting the privilege that could not be his by right, he took it by stealth and disappeared. Sometime later he went to live with one of his sisters. Both broke with the rest of the family, and it was not until the social worker was called into consultation that they learned that they were not alone in the world, but that near by there were those to whom they were 'Uncle Sam' and 'Aunt Mary,' and who, the past having been forgiven, would gladly welcome them into their homes.
Resources, then, are the assets a man has outside of himself. They may be economic; they may be spiritual; they may be social. They may be his employer, his lodge, his church, his relatives, his bank account, his university, the municipal employment bureau, the hospital around the corner, his building and loan association. Always they are among the stanchest of the timbers that can be used in helping a person make his adjustments.
Along with the knowledge of them must go the facts which show the influences bearing immediately upon the individual's life. One must appreciate what might be called his setting. Setting may be either a succession of recent events or a present environment which is having a direct effect upon an individual's behavior. His family, his associates at work, the neighborhood in which he lives are all part of his setting. They condition his actions just as what we feel and do in the evening is affected by what has happened and by what we have done during the day.
It was setting which supplied the clue to the unusual behavior of Mrs. Doran. One morning a woman of charming personality called to see her. The two women had had a friendly acquaintance witheach other. Nevertheless, no sooner had Mrs. Doran caught sight of her visitor than she picked up a vase and hurled it at her, and then, pushing her out of the house, slammed the door upon her. Considering only the pleasant character of the visitor and the previous cordial relations which had existed between her and Mrs. Doran, one could only conclude that Mrs. Doran was either vicious or insane. The possession of additional facts gives the incident its true interpretation.
Mrs. Doran's husband had tuberculosis. He had been away at a sanatorium, but having become homesick had returned to his family. The trip and life in the city had been a serious drain upon his health, and Mrs. Doran saw that he was steadily losing the strength he had gained in the mountains. About this time she learned that the older of her two boys had been infected with his father's disease and that it would be necessary for him to take the cure. Application was made for the admission of Mr. Doran and his son to the sanatorium, and Mrs. Doran decided that she would insure their staying away until their disease was arrested by giving up her home. Her younger son, Henry, was sent to live with a family in a neighboring suburb and Mrs. Doran made preparations to store her furniture as soon as the sanatorium could receive the two patients. A month passed. Twice word was received that there was a place for Samuel, the boy who was sick. Each time on the very day when he was to leave, and after Mrs. Doran had nerved herself to the wrench of separation, notice arrived that his departure would have to be delayed. Meanwhile, Henry seemed to be enjoying his new home so much that his mother began to worry lest in the presence of greater comforts he would forget his parents and his brother.
On the day that Mrs. Doran's visitor called, Samuel's trip to the sanatorium had just been postponed for the third time. Mr. Doran had been venting his own irritation upon his wife and had been abusing her so violently that she had been obliged to take refuge in the cellar where she had spent the night. Morning found her physically and nervously exhausted. Her head ached and she was worried to distraction. She had reached the breaking point.
At this critical time the caller appeared, and with a pleasant smile asked how she was feeling. It was the last straw. To see any other human being cheerful at that moment was more than Mrs. Doran could endure, and she hurled at her visitor the first thing upon which she could lay hands, an understandable action when we know its setting.
Similarly, our attitude toward the man who apparently is listless and uninterested in his work changes when we learn that he is having to stay up most of the night nursing a sick wife. There was a time when truancy was thought to be entirely due to difficulties innate with the schoolboy, difficulties that might be corrected by sending him to a special school, but experience has shown that often the home from which the child comes is chiefly responsible for his trouble. The parents may be discouraging him, they may be ill-treating him, or they may not be taking enough interest in him. In his setting may lie the explanation of his truancy.
Immediate environment and recent events are not always enough to enable one to understand the man in trouble. Sometimes his difficulty lies deeper. Its solution may be determined by his early life and training. Facts of this kind which have to do with the previous, as contrasted with the current history of the individual, social case workers call background.
It was the knowledge of the background of George McKloskey which made possible an understanding of his present difficulties and the helping of him to make a better adjustment.
McKloskey was considered to be a failure by all who were acquainted with him. He had not succeeded in supporting his family. He had never held a job for any length of time. He had made no friends. He seemed, if anything, to avoid his neighbors and his fellow workmen. He complained frequently of feeling tired and worn out. His relatives said that he was lazy, and because he was silent, called him "dummy." Even his wife who loved him dearly began to wonder whether he was not too easily exhausted and whether he ought not to do more for his family. Various attempts were made to solve his problem. None of them was successful. As soon, however, as the background of his life was learned, the way out of trouble became clear.
McKloskey had been born in a small mill town. His mother died when he was still little more than a baby, and his father, a drinking man, married a woman who had seen the bottom of fully asmany glasses as he. The child knew little except hard work and abuse. Almost his earliest recollection was that of being kicked into the street by his father with the command that he beg food of the neighbors.
He had not spent a day in school. At nine years he went to the factory that his parents might profit by his wages, and there he worked long hours until he was sixteen. Then he grew weary of the drudgery and hardship of his life and the regularity with which his father appropriated his pay envelope. He ran away from home and came to the city. There he knocked about from one job to another. He had barely passed his twenty-first birthday when he met the girl whoa few months later became his wife. Whatever his difficulties in living had been before, they were soon accentuated by the responsibilities of a family, and life became more and more miserable for him and for the household.
Underlying all his experiences were two great emotional facts. He had not gone far past boyhood when he began to suffer from attacks of epilepsy. They were not frequent, but they were always imminent. Sometimes they seized him at work, sometimes on the street. He could never tell where or how they would develop. When he was in the throes of one, his wife seemed better able to take care of him than anybody else, and aside from the fear which he had of them at any time, he dreaded a visitation in her absence. They left him weak and nervously exhausted, so that he had no energy for work.
But he suffered from even a greater handicap. He was illiterate. This was one reason why his jobs were so many and so brief. Sooner or later a situation would develop which would demand an ability to read and he would either be discharged or he would leave through shame. For he was an American of American parentage. If he had been of foreign birth, less would have been expected of him. He would have expected less of himself. Always there was with him this second dread, the dread of the discovery that he could not read. More than the fear of epilepsy it was this which caused him to avoid the company of his fellow workmen. It deprived him of the assurance which every man needs in order to make new acquaintances.
It influenced him in his social life. Several times he had suffered embarrassing disclosures. Once while visiting some friends he was found reading a magazine upside down. On another occasion he had been obliged to confess his inability to tell the time, but the most serious of all the unfortunate incidents that developed from his lack of education happened in Sunday school. Church had been a refuge to him from his troubles. He had found solace and self-expression in religion and he was rarely absent from services.
Then one afternoon in Sunday school the teacher of the Bible class asked him to read a verse of Scripture. McKloskey tried to decline, but the more he demurred the more insistent did the teacher become in encouraging this apparently bashful young man. Finally McKloskey left his seat and walked out of the room, his face ablaze with mortification. That broke his connection with the church.
With each new experience, either of this kind or of an attack of epilepsy, McKloskey's fears grew stronger, until he lost all confidence in himself. He became ashamed of his appearance, although his clothes were no worse than those of many of his neighbors, and in order to avoid being seen he almost never entered his own house by the front door.
Is it surprising that, with such a background of fear and barrenness of opportunity, McKloskey should have been shy, that his jobs were shortlived, and that he made few friends? Yet McKloskey had character; he was not without initiative; he had a substantial asset in the devotion of his wife; both he and she had a sense of humor which enabled them to laugh at the worst of their difficulties; he had a strong and abiding interest in work in the soil—'the ground is just like a fellow to me,' was how he expressed it. When these and other facts appeared, the way in which McKloskey could find his niche became plain. He needed an environment to which he could feel equal and in which he would have a sense of security and comfort. This sort of environment was found for him in a village of a few hundred people from which he could go to work on a neighboring truck farm, and where there was a simple, friendly atmosphere that after the complicated life in the city made him feel immediately at home.
As in the helping of McKloskey, so with many another person, a knowledge of background may be the determining factor in making possible a readjustment to life. A man is what he has been. He is truly a part of all that he has met and there is no better key to his present than that which he has thought and experienced in the past. If, in addition to knowing a man's background, we know his setting, his resources, and his personal characteristics, we are close to understanding the man himself.
There can, of course, be no final knowledge of human beings and their difficulties, no complete acquaintance with them. Seldom are the depths of personality plumbed, seldom are all experiences disclosed. Personal characteristics, a man's plans for himself, resources, setting, and background, are merely categories under which one can assemble at any given time the facts which he possesses about a man. They make possible a tentative diagnosis, a diagnosis of the situation as it presents itself to-day. To-morrow it may be altered by additional facts; for unlike materials and machines people are forever changing and forever new.
The great essential in arriving at an appreciation of men and women is to remember that all information about human beings is relative and must ever be subject to revision. Then, and then only, are we prepared successfully to apply the four categories that have been described, and thereby to achieve the knowledge and the understanding of other people which are necessary to the helping of them out of trouble.