ABSTRACT
Panel
Lance Erickson, Ph.D., Robert Erickson, M.A., and Betty Alice Erickson Elliott, Ed.D. Cand. Betty Alice serves as moderator; Mrs. Milton Erickson, Kristina Erickson, M.D., and Roxanna Erickson Klein, M.S., were in the audience and contributed during the question and answer period.
Betty AliceI am Betty Alice, the fourth of Milton Erickson’s eight children. All of us eight children have many of the same values. Honesty to self and to others, and the desire to live a fulfilled and productive life in a way that is considerate of, and productive to, the world at large.
Now, we don’t believe that those values are unique to us, nor was our general family life unique. However, each of us does feel that Dad and Mom did have some unique ways in which our developing individuality was fostered. Each of us has selected views and concepts which were important to us. We will begin with Lance, who is the second oldest.
LanceI am Lance Erickson, the second of Milton Erickson’s children. We Erickson children are as much in the dark about our development as anyone else might be. We don’t always know what we were supposed to learn and we sometimes don’t know how we learned it, but we learned it. I think it was to a large extent through the very carefully thought-out interventions that occurred in our lives relative to our individuality. I attended a workshop at this Congress that David Gordon gave on metaphors. He was talking about analogies in a way that I appreciated.
The mind is like the soil of the earth; it receives everything that comes into it. Sensations of all kinds are transmitted in different ways. The earth receives dirt, chemicals, whatever, and the earth provides, through some means, some organization of appropriate chemicals or elements, like water or fertilizer, whatever is necessary to bring forth really creative things like plants, blades of grass, or flowers. A mind is similar because it, too, brings forth ideas and behaviors of an individual and his personality, each of which is different and all of which are the result of the individual and peculiar elements that went into that particular mind. Dad certainly believed that and practiced it always. It would be completely incongruous for him to treat us the same because he knew how different we were, certainly from his observations of our day-to-day activities, but also because of his concept of people in general.
The following are a few of the incidents that occurred in my developmental years and some of the reactions that we got from Dad.
One of the things that he attempted to do was to find a physical aspect of each of us that was different from the other children. He felt it was important for each of us to have a good self-concept, both physically and psychologically. I have rather prominent bumps, if you will, on my forehead and I worried some about this. Would they go away? Would they get bigger? If they got bigger, I thought I would surely be a monstrosity, and nobody would care to deal with me. He knew that I was concerned about my appearance. He set up a number of occasions, appropriate occasions, to let me know what a wonderful thing it was that I had these bumps, these knowledge bumps that nobody else in the family had developed so well. They would not only stand me in good stead, but someday I would meet a girl who thought those were just delightful, a wonderful physical asset, and they would endear me to her. I am sure that this is what actually occurred, but his remarks helped me to accept a part of me that I might have rejected.
Along these same lines, I was tall and gangly. He called me a “stringbean” or “high pockets,” in a teasing way, but I was concerned. When was I going to stop growing up and start growing out? I was all skin and bones during my early adolescence, and in typical adolescent thinking I was concerned with that. At first Dad teased me about how I was growing, how tall I was compared to everybody else, and how thin I was until he realized I was really concerned. Then he changed.
He brought it to my attention that everybody in the family, all the males, were relatively short. Dad was about 5′6″ and his brother was about 5′8″, so it was clear to him that I was going to be the tallest male in the whole family, on either side. I would have an advantage that nobody else had. He said that when I did become so tall, I would also widen out and have an appearance that would be fully acceptable to me. Again, that was a successful intervention that relieved how I felt about myself. I could concentrate on other things.
With regard to our behavior, Dad left us a wide range of latitude. We knew what was right and wrong in his sense and what our limits were. But we lived on the grounds of state hospitals, and there were all kinds of wonderful things to do, like learning mental patients’ vocabularies. We didn’t realize that some of the things we did would be beneficial to us in the long run. I remember one incident. Dad and Mom had gone to Detroit to celebrate their anniversary. It was a pleasant June night. Dad had been encouraging Bert’s interest in trapping. Dad had done trapping when he was a boy. While Bert thought it was wonderful to trap muskrats and skin them for the pelts, he thought skunk pelts looked better than muskrat. He had trapped a skunk that night, and he and I went out to get it. The skunk wasn’t quite dead when we retrieved it. Then came the major error in judgment. We took it home. We lived in Eloise at that time on the grounds of a very large county mental hospital in one of the buildings that also served patient needs. It never occurred to us that there was anything wrong with taking the skunk to the washtub down in the patients’ area of the basement. It was there that Bert skinned it, and this was the error in judgment. On their way back (about 5 miles away) Mom and Dad smelled the skunk odor and said, very lightly, “I hope that isn’t something Bert’s been involved in.” The closer they got, the more they worried. When they got home, the building stunk awfully. Dad had to go see the superintendent of the hospital the next day. He returned with orders to curb some of our instincts.
Dad did it in a very nice way but was firm with both of us. My lesson was indirect. I ended up very angry with Bert, because my best flashlight was buried along with a lot of other things, clothes and so forth, because of the skunk smell. Bert’s portion of blame was more direct … several days of work such as groundskeeping for the involved building. Although it was a very constructive kind of punishment, Bert didn’t really feel it was right at the time because he couldn’t quite see that he had done anything wrong. If anything, it was the skunk’s problem. But we both learned the necessary lesson.
We had an enjoyable life growing up. The kinds of interventions that we had from our parents were constructive and individualized. The longer I live, the more I appreciate what we had.
RobertI am the sixth of Milton Erickson’s children. In our household, we all had responsibilities that were rather carefully structured for each of us. But within that structure each child was allowed and encouraged to do family chores in his own fashion and thereby express his individuality in completing them.
What follows is a picture of my growing up and how I now perceive that my individuality was influenced by my parents. Our parents, especially my father, treated my brothers and sisters and me as individuals throughout our lives. He usually used a simple, straightforward approach which was very effective. We were treated differently—as individuals, and for the most part we never really felt that we were being treated unfairly. We grew up in an environment in which we each had an assortment of jobs or tasks which we were responsible for completing. The number of jobs, the complexity or difficulty, and the types of jobs were fairly and reasonably apportioned; at various ages we would either be reassigned a job or we would just gradually accept a new responsibility and take over a new job. I remember how I did my chores in our home in Phoenix, on Cypress Street, where for the most part we children all grew up. We lived in a three bedroom, one bathroom house. During our growing up years, there would usually be seven or eight people living there. By today’s standards, it was a rather small house, but it was warm and comfortable. I sometimes wonder, in retrospect, how we as a family managed to cooperate as well as we did. As children, we had been taught from the very beginning that we all had the responsibility of working, sharing, and planning together as a family. We all had numerous tasks to perform and we each developed our own personal schedules and plans.
I was the early riser in the family, along with my father. At a very early age I might be found up and about playing, reading, or doing some chores an hour or two before my brothers and sisters would be up and active. During the summer when I turned 14 years, I had a newspaper route in my neighborhood which included early Sunday morning deliveries. Thus, I would be up and out of the house long before it was even light outside. Upon the completion of my route, I would then do chores—tend to the yard, edge the lawn, trim bushes, take the dog for a walk, clean up after the dog, then take care of some of the other pets. I would serve myself some breakfast. Then I would bike to my older brother’s house to tend to his plants and do a few minor chores. (My brother, his wife and family were out of state for much of that summer, and I was more or less house-sitting for them.) After biking home, which was a rather lengthy ride, I would complete any of my jobs that I had not been able to complete. I mention all these things—my accomplishments for the day—not to brag but to demonstrate my thesis, which is, with our responsibilities came a certain freedom of choice—choice of method, choice of time, and choice of order.
After completing Sunday’s jobs I would then be ready for what I considered to be my favorite pastime—going to the movies. This was a very important form of entertainment for me at that time in my life, because we grew up in a house that did not have a television set in it until I was 18 years old. This is not to suggest, however, that we children didn’t watch TV, nor were we ever forbidden to watch TV. Each of us had friends with whom we would see some programs, and on some occasions my parents would make special arrangements so that we could see a particular program. We grew up with the understanding that we did not need television since we all had so many diverse interests, both those assigned and those we chose to take part in. Only recently, in a discussion with my mother, did I learn that the reason my parents decided not to have television in our house during our growing up years was because they wanted to encourage us to read as a relaxed activity. And we did read endlessly. And now I understand why my brothers and sisters and I are all such avid readers on so many different subjects.
To continue, upon returning home I would clean up, eat a snack, and then set out to a movie theatre, walking or biking with a friend or by myself. Such a Sunday morning as I have just described would begin at 4:30 or 5:00 AM. Delivering the newspapers, tending to the yard, trimming, edging, various chores, the bike ride to and from my brother’s house, and any other jobs would easily take up as much as seven hours. So then it would be as late as 11:30 or noon; and, I was ready to go to the movies and I would do so.
Except for my parents, I would usually be the only one in the household who was up and active until about 10:00 or 10:30 in the morning. Sunday at our house was the day my brothers and sisters liked to sleep late and they were allowed to do so. As I mentioned earlier, my brothers and sisters had their own tasks to perform, and each would carry out his or her responsibilities. They would simply operate on a later schedule—their own schedule. They had their own way of doing things.
For me the early morning was the ideal time to do my chores. Not only did I enjoy doing my work at that time because of the freshness of the day, but I could get things done the way I wanted to without having any brother or sister telling me how to do it, when to do it, in what way to do it, and then to later criticize that I was doing it the wrong way. By the time my brothers and sisters had risen, I had already completed my chores by myself. I had escaped their interference—I had escaped their influence—and I had escaped their criticism. I had done my work—my way.
In conclusion, I realize now that our parents had encouraged us to find satisfaction in our control over our own lives. That satisfaction and control were important aspects which helped to shape our respective individuality.
Roxanna Erickson KleinI’m Roxanna, the seventh of Milton Erickson’s children. Our parents communicated clear values to us: consideration for others, appreciation of differences, the idea that every life experience presents opportunities. They also encouraged the sharing of assets.
As a parent myself, I communicate these values to my children. I don’t think they are unique values. I’m not even convinced that raising eight children to be very different individuals is unique. But if anything is unique, I think it was the creative problem-solving that our parents encouraged.
I don’t think that any of us let problems hang around for long. If we are unhappy with the status quo of anything, we usually initiate a positive change. If we can’t think up one, we seek advice. We don’t always follow the advice, but we do explore the alternatives and make an active decision as to what we will or will not do. We may even decide that status quo isn’t so bad after all.
When we sought advice from Daddy, he would indirectly direct us toward actions that would resolve the problem. He rarely would address the problem outright.
I will illustrate this indirect approach with two examples. One is from my own childhood, and the second is an occasion where I have used a similar approach with my own children.
When I was 12 years old, in the sixth grade, the grammar school I attended merged with another and the population shifted from 100% white to 30% Hispanic. The sixth graders coming in had already dealt with most of the problems associated with coming from a Spanish-speaking home into an English-speaking school. The only concession the school made, that I was aware of, was the introduction of an elective “Spanish as a Second Language” which was available only to those students in the highest reading groups. Although I was very interested in taking the class, my reading scores were not high enough for me to be admitted.
My first approach to solving this problem was to speak with the instructor. I tried hard to convince her that I was so highly motivated that the minimum requirements should be waived. This approach was unsuccessful.
Next, I went to Daddy and described the problem. At first, he seemed very interested and asked all sorts of pertinent questions. Why was I so interested in taking the class? Had I considered waiting till next year and working on reading this year? What did I expect to gain from the class? The answers were clear to me. I was satisfied with my reading abilities, even if I wasn’t in the accelerated group. I liked the sound of Spanish and I was fascinated with the idea of being able to talk in a foreign language.
Then his questions became less relevant. “Where do the Spanish-speaking children live?” “What did they do after school and during the lunch hour?” Both of these questions were dead ends from my perspective. They lived too far away for after-school activities, and at lunchtime, they all participated in the free lunch program. They ate separately at tables reserved for the cafeteria workers.
Suddenly Daddy lost all interest in my problem. Instead, he launched a money-saving campaign. He proposed that I join the lunch work program, but he would continue to provide me with lunch money (25¢ per day) on those days. That would amount to $1.25 a week, and if I was a real good saver and put it in the bank, he would match it! At $2.50 a week, my savings would grow fast. And he went on to speculate what I might like to buy after I had saved my money for several months.
I wasn’t entirely satisfied with what I thought was the “distraction” technique, but nevertheless the new project might take my mind off the problem. So I decided to do it.
It wasn’t until years later that I recognized his suggestion as an intervention dealing directly with the problem described. Eating lunch every day at a table where only Spanish was spoken provided me with a perfect opportunity to learn Spanish. The outcome of that intervention was successful. I did learn Spanish and perhaps more fluently than did my classmates in the advanced reading group.
As a child, I promised myself that when I grew up and had children of my own, I would always answer their questions directly. But as we grow, our perspectives change. Now, as a parent, I find that sometimes the indirect approach is far more effective.
My second example is how Ethan used his imagination.
My son, Ethan, is five years old now. He was only a baby when it became apparent that he was one of those unfortunate children to have ear canals shaped in such a way that earaches and ear infections become a fact of life. As parents, we learned to be alert to the earliest symptoms, to keep antibiotics in the refrigerator, and to hope that the child would grow in such a way that the problem resolves itself.
The hardest part is those long hours between the time the infection is recognized and when the antibiotics gain sufficient foothold to diminish the swelling and the pain. It was during one of those endless spans of time when Ethan, then three years old, sat on the sofa with tears running down his little face. Somehow my comforting embrace seemed insufficient. “What if I’m not around when this happens?” “What if he outgrows his faith in me, faster than he outgrows his earaches?” I wanted him to learn to accept pain and to gain control over it; that skill would be with him throughout his life.
I snuggled close to him and slowly removed my shielding arm while we talked. “It’s really sad to have an earache, Ethan.” I affirmed his unfortunate status. “I hope that none of your pals in the bedroom has an earache.” Ethan giggled thinking whether any of his stuffed toys might have a problem similar to his own. At three, it’s hard to figure these things out.
There on the sofa, we let our imaginations carry us around the bedroom, examining each stuffed animal and speculating on the possibilities. “The giraffe has little-bitty ears, and if one did hurt, would the pain make it all the way down that long neck?”
“And poor Fred! If he had an earache, it would really be something!” Ethan agreed that the toy basset with the long ears and the sad face would have the biggest problem of all.
The game seemed to capture Ethan and enfold him in the possibilities. Pain is experienced differently by each individual.
Then we came to Milton, a very special teddy bear. Ethan named Milton after his own middle name. The remarkable thing about Milton is that he can unzip his fur coat and underneath he has a pair of bright red longjohns!
“I wonder if Milton ever has any ow’s?” It seemed a reasonable possibility. “I wonder what Milton does when he has an ow?”
I wondered, but Ethan knew. “He unzips his coat and puts it on the chair. Then he goes to bed.” We both sat there several minutes marveling over what a wonderful bear Milton is.
“Ethan, I wonder what it would be like if you had a zipper that ran all around your face, down to your tummy, that unzipped your skin?” I ran my finger along the path of the imaginary zipper. At first, he collapsed in laughter, but as I slowly, intently, continued, he became quiet. We pretended to slowly remove Ethan’s skin, back from around his face, over his head. Then we pulled his arms and legs out like one would remove a snowsuit. I carefully took the imaginary garment and placed it on the far end of the sofa. Ethan was blissfully relaxed.
Whereas I helped Ethan and guided him through his first lesson, he picked it up from there. Ethan and Milton have shared a lot. Ethan continues to use Milton and the lesson that Milton taught him whenever he has an earache or any of the other “ows” that are an inevitable part of childhood.
Can parents encourage their children to be individuals, or does it just turn out that way?
