by Robert Coles
In many other well-to-do homes I’ve visited, parents have known in their bones what child psychiatrists think and wonder as they talk with their children. Will a certain child get too much — so much that he or she runs the danger of turning away from life, forsaking people for a life of passionate involvement with objects? Less ominously, might a mild tendency in that direction become especially evident when things get tough, psychologically, for one reason or another? Will the child be willing to reach for people, and get along with them, but always with certain limits on the involvement? Often when children are four, five, and six, parents who have felt able to offer them virtually anything begin to pull back, in concern if not outright horror. A son not only has become increasingly demanding or petulant; even when he is quiet he seems to be sitting on a throne of sorts — expecting things to happen, wondering with annoyance why they don’t, reassuring himself that they will, or, if they haven’t, shrugging his shoulders and waiting for the next event.
It was just such an impasse — not dramatic, but quite definite and worrisome — that prompted that New Orleans father to use the word “entitlement.” He had himself been born to wealth, as will future generations of his family be, unless the American economic system changes drastically. But he was worried about what a lot of money can do to a person’s “personality”; he uses that word as a layman, but he knows exactly what he has in mind. It isn’t so much a matter of spelling or indulging children; he is willing to let that happen, “within limits.” But he knew precisely what those limits were: when the child begins to let his or her situation, the life that he or she lives, “go to the head.” It is then that children begin “to act as if they have royal blood in them.” And conservative though he is, for him each generation has to prove itself — not necessarily by finding new worlds to conquer or by becoming extraordinarily successful. He has wanted his children to show an interest in the world, to reach out and touch others, to develop their own initiatives, however circumscribed, undramatic, and conventional. It is those kinds of initiative he naturally finds appealing. He is rather satisfied with the life he was born to. He finds each day to be pleasant, interesting, and by his lights, quite useful. He has, however, worried at times that his children were taking too much for granted. When his young daughter, during a Mardi Gras season, kept assuming she could one day receive this honor and that honor — indeed, become a Mardi Gras queen — he realized that his notion of “entitlement” was not quite hers. Noblesse oblige requires a gesture toward others. Had a parent sensed the danger of what my supervisor referred to as a “shift” from “entitlement” to “narcissistic entitlement”?
He would not be the only parent to express such a concern to me in the course of my work. In homes where mothers and fathers profess no explicit reformist persuasions (to say the least!) they nevertheless worry about what happens to children who grow up surrounded by just about everything they want, virtually, on demand. And if much of the apprehension is conventional — that the child will become “spoiled” — there is an element of uneasiness that runs deeper. The parents may begin to regard spoiled behavior as but a symptom: “I don’t mind if my children become a little spoiled. That’s bound to happen. I worry that they will think that everything is coming to them; that they will grow up with the idea that if they’re frustrated, or if they want something, then all they have to do is say a few words, and they’ll have what they asked for. When they’re like that, they’ve gone from spoiled to spoiled rotten — and beyond, to some state I don’t even know how to describe.”
When children are two and three they become increasingly conscious of what belongs to whom. They also become, usually, more and more willing and able to leave themselves behind, so to speak — reach out for objects as well as individuals. They develop their first friends, their first interests or regular and cherished activities. They learn too, most of them, a variety of restraints and frustrations. They must gain control of their bodies, manage without diapers, remember to empty their bladders before going to bed, and get up at night and do likewise in the bathroom rather than on the sheet and mattress. They must learn not to touch hot stoves; not to leave refrigerator doors open; not to spill things, break things, step on things; not to intrude on what belongs to others; not to confuse their prerogatives or possessions with the rights and property of parents, brothers and sisters, friends. At three and four, children from homes like those in New Orleans’ Garden District have often started nursery school, have also started making visits to other homes or receiving visitors at their own homes. There are toys to share, games to play, a sandbox or a lawn or indeed a swimming pool or a paddock with its animals. All children have to struggle with themselves for the strength to offer as well as take, or to yield with tact and even a touch of gratitude what has been loaned rather than made an outright gift.
But for some children, a relative handful of the world’s, such obligations and struggles are muted. Obviously it is possible for parents to have a lot of money yet avoid bringing up their children in such a way that they feel like members of a royal family. Yet even parents determined not to spoil their children often recognize what might be called the existential (as opposed to strictly psychological) aspects of their situation, and that of their children. A father may begin rather early on lecturing his children about the meaning of money; a mother may do her share by saying no, even when yes is so easy to say — but the child may well sense eventually what the parents know quite well: the difference between a voluntary posture and an utterly necessary one.
Such a child, by the age of five or six, has very definite notions of what is possible, even if not always permitted; possible because there is plenty of money that can be spent. That child, in conversation and without embarrassment or the kind of reticence and secretiveness that comes later, may reveal a substantial knowledge of economic affairs. A six-year-old girl in New Orleans knew that she would at twenty-cne inherit a half a million dollars. She also knew that her father “only” gave her twenty-five cents a week — whereas some friends of hers received as much as a dollar. She was vexed; she asked her parents why they were so “strict.” One friend had even used the word “stingy” for the parents. The father, in a matter-of-fact way, pointed out to the daughter that she did, after all, get “anything she really wants.” Why, then, the need for an extravagant allowance? The girl was won over, told her friends thereafter that it was no matter to her whether she even received an allowance; the important point was the future and what it had to offer. The friends then checked back with their parents, who were rather alarmed — that such young children were talking so freely and openly about family financial matters.
As a result the girl learned from her friends that she had disclosed what ought to be kept firmly under wraps. She decided on the basis of such declarations that her friends may well be “comfortable,” but they are not as rich as her parents are or as she will one day be. They in turn explained to her that she had gone beyond the bounds of available evidence. The friends may simply have been told to keep quiet about their family’s monetary status — a good idea, the girl was reminded by her parents. The girl agreed, but was not really prepared at the time to follow such advice. She had heard her parents talk with their parents about money matters and had been told that it is best that she, too, gradually understand what her financial situation is and will be. That being the case, she wondered out loud why it wasn’t appropriate for her to share what she had learned about her future prospects with those she considered good friends. Her parents could only repeat their conviction that certain matters are quite definitely and properly kept within the confines of the family.
Such conversations between young children and their parents help consolidate in boys and girls a conviction of present and future affluence. It obviously never occurs to these children that they won’t have food at some point in the near or distant future. Nor do they ever really lack for anything. There are differences in amount, and lectures and sermons ma
y accompany parental acts of generosity. But admonitions don’t modify the quite shrewd appraisal children make of what they are heir to, and don’t at all diminish the sense of entitlement.
With none of the other American children I have worked with have I heard such a continuous and strong emphasis put on the “self.” In fact, other children rarely if ever think about themselves in the way children of well-to-do and rich parents do — with insistence, regularity, and, not least, out of a learned sense of obligation. These privileged ones are children who live in homes with many mirrors. They have mirrors in their rooms, large mirrors in adjoining bathrooms. When they were three or four they were taught to use them; taught to wash their faces, brush their teeth, comb their hair. Personal appearance matters and becomes a central objective for such children. A boy of eight expresses his rebelliousness by clinging to sloppy clothes, but leaves the house every day for school in a neat and well-fitted uniform. A good number of these children wear them — shirts or sweaters with a school’s name and / or insignia on them. Even when the child relaxes, comes home, and changes into “old” clothes, there is an air of decisiveness about the act — and certainly, the issue is one of choice: to wear this, or that; to look a particular way, in keeping with a particular mood, time of day, event.
The issue also is that of the “self” — its display, its possibilities, its cultivation and development, even the repeated use of the word. A ten-year-old boy who lives in the outermost part of Westchester County made this very clear. I had originally met him because his parents, both lawyers, were active in the civil rights movement. His father, a patrician Yankee, very much endorsed the students who went South in the early 1960s and, nearer to home, worked on behalf of integrated schools up North. His own children, however, attended private schools — a source of anguish to both the father and the son, who do not lend themselves easily to a description that only emphasizes the hypocritical element in their lives.
The boy knew that he also would be (as opposed to wanted to be!) a lawyer. He was quick to perceive and acknowledge his situation, and as he did so he brought himself (his “self”) right into the discussion: “I don’t want to tell other kids what to do. I told my father I should be going to the public schools myself. Then I could say anything. Then I could ask why we don’t have black kids with us in school. But you have to try to do what’s best for your own life, even if you can’t speak up for the black people. When I’m grown up, I’ll be like my father; I’ll help the black people all I can. It’s this way: first you build yourself up. You learn all you can. Later, you can give of yourself. That’s what Dad says: you can’t help others until you’ve learned to help yourself. It’s not that you’re being selfish. People say you’re selfish, if you’re going to a private school and your parents have a lot of money. We had a maid here, and she wasn’t right in the head. She lost her temper and told Daddy that he’s a phony, and he’s out for himself and no one else, and the same goes for my sister and me. Then she quit. Daddy tried to get her to talk with us, but she wouldn’t. She said that’s all we ever do — talk, talk. I told Daddy she was contradicting herself; because she told me a few weeks ago that I’m always doing something, and I should sit down and talk with her. But I didn’t know what to say to her! I think she got angry with me because I was putting on my skis for cross-country skiing, and she said I had too much, that was my problem. I asked her where the regular skis were, and she said she wouldn’t tell me, even if she knew! It’s too bad, what happened to her.
“I feel sorry for her, though. Like my sister said, it’s no fun to be a maid! The poor woman doesn’t look very good. She weighs too much. She’s only forty, my mother thinks, but she looks as if she’s sixty, and is sick. She should take better care of herself. She said my sister and I make big messes in the bathroom. But that’s because we use the bathroom! And her breath — God, it’s terrible. She isn’t as clean as she should be. My mother wanted to get her some deodorant, but we were afraid she’d just blow up at us. But she did anyway. So it didn’t make any difference! Like my Dad said, it’s too bad about her; she didn’t know how to take care of herself and now she’s thrown away this job, and she told my mother last year that it was the best one she’d ever had, so she’s her own worst enemy. I wonder what she’ll think when she looks at herself in the mirror and tries to figure out what to do next.”
He was no budding egotist. If anything, he was less self-centered, at ten, than many other children of his community or others like it. He was willing to think about, at least, others less fortunate than himself — the maid, and black people in general. True, he would often repeat uncritically his father’s words, or a version of them. But he was trying to respond to his father’s wishes and beliefs as well as his words. It was impossible for him, no matter how compassionate his nature, to conceive of life as others live it — the maid, and yes, millions of children his age, who don’t look in the mirror very often and may not even own one; who don’t worry about what is worn, and how one looks, and what is said and how one sounds, and what is done (in the bathroom) and how one smells.
Sometimes minor details of a life tell more than larger attitudes spoken and duly recorded by outside observers. A boy’s fingernails, for instance; or his sister’s skin — in each instance, a reflection of much more. Here is the boy from Westchester County, at eleven, talking about the new pair of scissors he has received from his father: “I like them. I didn’t want my mother to clip my fingernails any longer. I’d rather take care of myself! I’ll be shaving soon. I look forward to that! I’ve watched my father a lot. He showed me how to use the scissors and end up with nails that aren’t too short and aren’t too long. There’s a kid in my class, he lets his nails get longer and longer and there’s a lot of dirt under them, and you wonder how long they’ll get, and then all of a sudden, one day, you notice that they’ve been cut off. His parents have got a divorce, and they have a maid taking care of him and his kid brother, and she runs the house and there’s no one supervising her. You have to tell the help what to do, because if you don’t, they forget and they don’t live up to your standards, and they’re acting as if they were back in their own homes.”
So it happens — a boy’s developing sense of himself as against a collective, amorphous “them.” It is a “sense” that has both sociological and psychological dimensions to it. The former are perhaps more painful to spell out but also more readily apparent. The boy has learned that in the ghetto people live who don’t use his parents’ kind of judgment, and don’t, either, have the same personal habits or concerns. The boy’s sister has a similar kind of knowledge. At twelve she could be quite pointed: “We’ve had a couple of maids, and they don’t know why I use my mother’s Vaseline lotion on my arms and hands — and in winter on my face, too. They say I’ve got a wonderful complexion; but I don’t think they know how to look real carefully at my skin — or their own either. Maybe they don’t have the time. But I see them taking a ‘break,’ and what do they do? They go put on a prize show in the morning or a ‘story’ in the afternoon. I don’t know how they can stand looking at that stuff! I’ve got a lot of chores. We’re not spoiled here! I have to clean out the stalls and brush the horses carefully before we go riding. I have to pick up my room. My mother told me when I was real little, before I was even old enough to go to school, that she wasn’t going to have me sitting and looking at television while the maid was straightening out my room. The same goes for outside the house; we have a gardener, but he’s not allowed to come into the barn and help us with the animals.
“We had one maid, and she said we spent more time with the animals than she does with her children. I felt sad when she told me that. She has no understanding of what an animal needs. She was the one who was always telling me I was beautiful, and so I didn’t need any lotion on my skin. I wanted to give her the lotion. She needs it. Her skin is in terrible shape. It’s so dried and cracked. My mother says you can be poor and still know how to take care of yoursel
f. It’s not the money; it’s the attitude you have toward yourself. If our maid stopped buying a lot of candy and potato chips, she could afford to get herself some skin lotion. And she wouldn’t be so fat!”
A child has learned to distinguish between her own inclinations or preferences and those of another person — a whole category of people. This girl was, at the time, not quite an adolescent; for years, however, she had been prepared for that time, for adulthood as well — prepared by parents who not only wanted her to know how to use skin lotions, or choose “tasteful” lipstick, or shun anything but “natural” fingernail polish, or learn how to care for her hair and wash it, and pay attention to the scalp as well. Those parents wanted her to give an enormous amount of attention to herself — to her thoughts, which she has been taught are worthy of being spoken, and to her body, which is going to be, one day, “attractive.” So she has been told by several maids — far too emphatically to suit the taste of her parents. They prefer a more understated, indirect approach. They remind the girl that she looks like her grandmother (“a handsome lady”) or her aunt (“who was quite beautiful”). They let her know how graceful she is as a young dancing student, how agile and accomplished a rider she has become, how fast and accurate a game of tennis she has developed, even at her age. They smile at pictures of her smiling, applaud her once again when watching home movies. Her picture is on the mantel over the living room fireplace, on her father’s desk, on her mother’s desk, and is on her own desk, for that matter.
When she was six and seven she asked a lot of questions about herself. They were answered patiently, thoughtfully, and often with enthusiastic pride — a contrast indeed with many poor children, whose parents are tired, embittered, sad, or all too resigned to their fate, and hardly able to boast about the circumstances of life. The girl’s questions occur to all children, rich or poor — are the banal inquiries we never quite stop asking ourselves: who am I, why am I here, whence do I come, and where am I going — the continuing preoccupations of philosophers, novelists, and painters. Children prefer the painter’s approach. They sometimes don’t pay much attention to the answers to their questions. After all too verbal family meals they retire to a desk or table, draw pictures meant to suggest what life is and will be about. When the girl mentioned above wonders who she is or has questions about her future, she picks up crayons and draws herself with care and affection — on a horse, in a garden, high up in a tower, surveying the countryside.