a summary and extra study guide for the seriously interested -
Thursday, 15 August 2013
Tuesday, 13 August 2013
The Liberal Criticism of the Marxist System of Justice
Tuesday, 18 June 2013
What would you do?
SAPS BRIGHTON BEACH MESSAGE
GRADE 12 PUPIL “SAFE GUARDS” CHILD
On the 20th of May a teenager decided not to celebrate his 18th birthday by spending the afternoon with his family and friends, but instead to “guard” a young 8 year old boy from any harm coming to him.
On his way home a Bluff Christian Academy Grade 12 pupil Mpilo Mhlongo saw a fellow pupil of his school aged eight(8) standing at the taxi rank isolated. He approached the boy and enquired as to why he is catching a taxi home so late after sport practice. The young boy told him that his transport never arrived so he decided to walk to the taxi rank hoping to catch a taxi home. Fortunately the young boy knew his mother’s mobile number and Mpilo could contact the child’s mother. The mother was alarmed as she was under the impression that her son was collected by the transport she had arranged for him and that he was at safe home. The mother could not arrange to be relieved from work and made alternative arrangements for her son to be collected.
Mpilo decided that he was not going to let the boy wait by himself and sat with the 8 year old till his transport arrived at 18h00. During the interview Mpilo said : “ It was getting dark, and the police always comes to our school and informs us about stranger danger, child trafficking and we hear about children being abducted daily. I was not going to let this happen to the boy and I decided to wait with him. It was the right thing to do and I think any other responsible person would have done the same”.
Mpilo never told anybody about his good deed. A few days later the 8 eight year old boy informed his teacher of Mpilo’s good deed, who in turn told the Head Mistress.
SAPS, Brighton Beach Management commends Mpilo on his unselfish act of reaching out to the stranded 8 year old boy and keeping him safe and protected till his transport arrived.
Child trafficking is a reality in South Africa, and Mpilo’s unselfish act could have prevented this 8 year old boy from becoming just another statistic.
For his unselfish act of reaching out and creating a safe environment for the 8 year old boy SAPS, Brighton Beach Management awarded Mpilo with a SAPS, Brighton Beach Safer Communities Medal and Certificate.
This Public Information is sponsored by ADT Security ( Pty ) Ltd.
Kind Regards
Captain Louise Le Roux
Sub-Section Commander : Communication Services
SAPS, BRIGHTON BEACH
Congratulations class of 2013 APHI 111
It was evident by the type of answers written by the students who didnt perform well, that the problem might be that they simply didnt attend lectures or were not responsible enough to commit to writing or preparing themselves well. Hopefully - they will be able to see how negatively a blase attitude to studies affects their chances in their lives sooner than later and will make concerted efforts to get on board the Success Train next Semester.
Hopefully, I will see you all next semester. It has been one of the best semester's of my teaching career.
Sunday, 19 May 2013
Revision
Before I begin my post today, I want to take a few lines
to express my deepest condolences to the family of our legendary Vuyo Mbuli. It was with
deep shock and sadness that I learned of his untimely passing this morning.
Mr Mbuli will certainly be
remembered as one of the most gracious, fair, honest, intelligent,
insightful, compassionate men of superb integrity. He was undoubtedly one
of the few people in our country embraced and loved universally. He lived
and demonstrated with sublime grace all the values we wish to have for ourselves in moral character and in
his mastery of philosophical, objective analysis as a thinker and journalist was unparalleled. May he rest
in peace.SCENARIO ONE:
Sipho and Nokuthula are in trouble. They have only been married for a few months, and it already seems like they are headed for divorce. They simply cannot stop fighting with each other. They decide to see a psychotherapist to help with their marital difficulties.
Sipho says that Nokuthula is a mess. She is not a good housekeeper, she spends too much money, she doesnt seem to worry if there is any food for him when he comes home from work, in fact he often comes home to find her in the middle of a very messy art or craft project. Instead of buying groceries, she spends the money on art supplies and other frivolous things. She is fooled by every conman with a "sob story" and will give whatever money she has foolishly to anyone.
If you were the psychotherapist - how would you explain to Sipho why Nokuthula is the way she is.
SCENARIO TWO
You work at a Mental Health Clinic that specialises in Freudian Psychoanalysis. You go to see your supervisor about your co-worker is driving you nuts. She is one of the most irritating people you have ever had to deal with.
She is the kind of person, who always butts into conversations without asking. No matter who you are talking to, even if she just walks into the room where you are having the conversation with someone else - she just inserts herself into your conversation without invitation.
She always talks as if she is the ultimate authority on EVERYTHING - she is a super know-it-all. She will talk louder than everyone else so that all attention is directed to her. That is not even the worst part, if she decides that she is done with a subject then she will insist on changing it and will talk loudly enough to drown out everyone else so that everyone starts talking about what she wants to talk about.
She is mean-spirited and will often say unkind, sarcastic and nasty things about people behind their backs while pretending to be nice to them to their faces. When she wants to be mean-spirited to you, she will raise her voice and say ugly, hurtful things.
That is not all - the company pays for tea, coffee and snacks for employees. Your co-worker eats and drinks the lion's share of it without considering whether others have had something to eat or drink or not.
What do you think your supervisor, a qualified Psychotherapist would say about your co-worker's annoying personality traits? How would the supervisor explain the process that shaped your co-workers current personality?
(HINT: You need to examine Freud's theory of the Oral stage of development. Remember that there are two types of personality traits that form if there is too much or too little gratification during this stage - the oral-passive personality and the oral aggressive personality. How is it that one becomes one or the other type of personality? Which type of personality is your coworker?
You may go here to refresh your memory --> http://austinahiv.blogspot.com/2013/05/psychosexual-stages-its-effect-on.html
SCENARIO THREE
Sartre is observing the conversation between the psychotherapist, Sipho and Nokuthula. Nokuthula says to the Psychotherapist that she shouldnt be blamed or held accountable for her personality traits, that she was in effect "made this way" by events that occurred in her childhood, of which she has control over. She says that she doesnt think she can change but she wants to keep her marriage and relationship to Sipho. She reckons that Sipho must just understand and deal with it. At this stage, Sartre jumps in and accuses Nokuthula of being in "bad faith". How would he argue that this is the case?
Monday, 13 May 2013
"Beneath your Beautiful" - Labrinth & Emeli Sande - are they in love with "Phallic personalites?
What do you think? Watch the video below - it contains scrolling lyrics.
If you were a friend of the two characters singing the song - would you tell them to give up this love - that its pointless to try with someone like this, seeing that the personality traits are really a feature of the unresolved conflict in the Phallic Psychosexual stage of development?
How would you explain to them why these people are like that - according to a Freudian interpretation of the Psychosexual Stages of Personality Development? Watch this and think about it!
It's a great track too - dont you think?
Wednesday, 8 May 2013
The Psychosexual Stages – Freud’s controversial theory of the Oedipal Complex in the Phallic Stage of development
The Phallic psychosexual Stage of Development
(takes place between 3 – 5 years of age)
Little boys and girls start to notice their genitalia and that they are different to each other.
Boys notice that they have penises.
Girls notice that they don’t have penises.
Boys and girls start paying more attention to their biological gender differences.
Their mother is the source of all pleasure and gratification. She feeds, hugs, protects, cares, loves, kisses and comforts them.
The little boys and girls think that their mothers belong to them. They want their mother’s all for themselves. They do not want to share their mother. They feel as if their mother is theirs to have. They feel like they own their mothers.
BUT MOTHERS DON’T BELONG TO THEIR SON OR DAUGHTER!!! THEY HAVE TO GET THEIR LITTLE KIDS TO UNDERSTAND THAT.
This is where the crisis arises!
•As the child gets older, the child notices that the mother is paying attention to someone else.
•In the case of a little boy, he notices that the mother’s attention is not solely focussed on him.
•The boy sees that he has competion!
Here is the conflict!
•That competiton for attention is between him and the Father. The boy becomes acutely aware of the fact that the mother is paying a lot of attention to the father. Attention, that he feels HE should be getting – “It’s my mommy!”.
•The boy becomes jealous of the father and starts to get into a competiton with the father for the mommy’s attention and love.
•Freud says that the little boy starts to HATE the Father and wishes to get rid of him so that he may have his mommy all to himself!
(Video 1 and Video 2)
•The boy sees his father as a threat – an enemy! Someone who is trying to take his mommy away from him.
•The little boy enters into a contest with his father. Freud also says that at this stage because of the boys awareness of the biological differences between girls and boys, the boy is also suffering from a great fear that he might lose his penis, and be like a girl. Freud calls this “castration anxiety”. Freud says that when the boy enters into this contest, he after all his efforts realises that his father is the stronger party. He fears that in this competiton to win his mother – the stranger father might cut off his penis and he might end up like the other kind of little person that he has become aware of – A GIRL WHO DOESN’T HAVE WHAT HE HAS.
•So he concedes/gives up and defers to his father, gives up his fight for his mother and joins his father – “If you cant beat them, join them” – he starts copying his father – this is where gender identity is formed, as he emulates the masculine characteristics of his father.
•The mother has to gently show the little boy that she doesn’t belong to him alone. That she must be shared with the father and himself (and possibly other siblings). So in a sense she has to reject him. If she rejects him harshly – two things can happen – as an adult he can become a player (The Ladies Man) or he can become a guys guy (the geek, nerd, bookworm).
•Why? - remember we said that there has to be resolution of a conflict at different stages of development? There is stress – when there is stress we regress to an earlier stage of If the boy receives is rejected harshly – he spends the rest of his life trying to make up, trying to find the attention, win the favour of his mother. He is forever trying to make his mother choose him. The Reality Principle demands that of course he cant have his mother, so the ego sublimates that desire into the pursuit of women.
The Player – (who is the player – examples – Tiger Woods, Charlie Sheen, George Clooney, Simon Cowell – sleeps with as many people as he can, deceiptful, scared of commitment) He can never have real, lasting true relationships with women – because he is scared! He sleeps and tries to get as many women as possible because he is trying to prove to himself, that he is worthy of attention. But he never lets them get close because he is scared that if they do, they might see that same thing that his mother saw that made her choose his father instead of him, and reject him! That will hurt – hurt causes tension. So he never gets close because he doesn’t want to be hurt.
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The Guy’s guy – (who is he) – likes to hang with the guys. Really into sports, games, academic pursuits, reading. Has lots of friends but 
Why? He too is scared. He was rejected harshly by his mother . Because of that fear – he avoids all situations where he might be rejected as a male competitor. He doesn’t want to go through that pain again – so he avoids situations that place him in that position.
•Remember we talked about how the boy starts to identify with his father once he concedes? That is because he is rejected by his mother and he has to find a way to stay somewhat in the game, he sees that his father seems to have it all worked out (how to get his mother’s attention) – so he realises that he needs to copy that.
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•
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Read this funny account by a famous writer Frank O’Connor as he talks about his early childhood battle with his father -
Irish writer Frank O’Connor explains,
far better than Freud might have done ...
My Oedipus Complex
Father was in the army all through the war – the first war, I mean – so,
up to the age of five, I never saw much of him, and what I saw did not
worry me. Sometimes I woke and there was a big figure in khaki
peering down at me in the candlelight. Sometimes in the early morning
I heard the slamming of the front door and the clatter of nailed boots
down the cobbles of the lane. These were Father’s entrances and
exits. Like Santa Claus he came and went mysteriously.
In fact, I rather liked his visits, though it was an uncomfortable squeeze
between Mother and him when I got into the big bed in the early
morning. He smoked, which gave him a pleasant musty smell, and shaved, an operation of
astounding interest. Each time he left a trail of souvenirs – model tanks and Gurkha knives
with handles made of bullet cases, and German helmets and cap badges and button sticks,
and all sorts of military equipment – carefully stowed away in a long box on top of the
wardrobe, in case they ever came in handy. There was a bit of the magpie about Father; he
expected everything to come in handy. When his back was turned, Mother let me get a chair
and rummage through his treasures. She didn’t seem to think so highly of them as he did.
The war was the most peaceful period of my life. The window of my attic faced southeast. My
mother had curtained it, but that had small effect. I always woke with the first light and, with
all the responsibilities of the previous day melted, feeling myself rather like the sun, ready to
illumine and rejoice. Life never seemed so simple and clear and full of possibilities as then. I
put my feet out from under the clothes – I called them Mrs. Left and Mrs. Right – and
invented dramatic situations for them in which they discussed the problems of the day. At
least Mrs. Right did; she was very demonstrative, but I hadn’t the same control of Mrs. Left,
so she mostly contented herself with nodding agreement.
They discussed what Mother and I should do during the day, what Santa Claus should give a
fellow for Christmas, and what steps should be taken to brighten the home. There was that
little matter of the baby, for instance. Mother and I could never agree about that. Ours was
the only house in the terrace without a new baby, and Mother said we couldn’t afford one till
Father came back from the war because they cost seventeen and six.
That showed how simple she was. The Geneys up the road had a baby, and everyone knew
they couldn’t afford seventeen and six. It was probably a cheap baby, and Mother wanted
something really good, but I felt she was too exclusive. The Geneys’ baby would have done
us fine.
Having settled my plans for the day, I got up, put a chair under the attic window, and lifted the
frame high enough to stick out my head. The window overlooked the front gardens of the
terrace behind ours, and beyond these it looked over a deep valley to the tall, red brick
houses terraced up the opposite hillside, which were all still in shadow, while those at our
side of the valley were all lit up, though with long strange shadows that made them seem
unfamiliar; rigid and painted.
After that I went into Mother’s room and climbed into the big bed. She woke and I began to
tell her of my schemes. By this time, though I never seemed to have noticed it, I was petrified
in my nightshirt, and I thawed as I talked until, the last frost melted, I fell asleep beside her
and woke again only when I heard her below in the kitchen, making the breakfast.
After breakfast we went into town; heard Mass at St. Augustine’s and said a prayer for
Father, and did the shopping. If the afternoon was fine we either went for a walk in the
country or a visit to Mother’s great friend in the convent, Mother Saint Dominic. Mother had
them all praying for Father, and every night, going to bed, I asked God to send him back safe
from the war to us. Little, indeed, did I know what I was praying for!
One morning, I got into the big bed, and there, sure enough, was Father in his usual Santa
Claus manner, but later, instead of uniform, he put on his best blue suit, and Mother was as
pleased as anything. I saw nothing to be pleased about, because, out of uniform, Father was
altogether less interesting, but she only beamed, and explained that our prayers had been
answered, and off we went to Mass to thank God for having brought Father safely home.
The irony of it! That very day when he came in to dinner he took off his boots and put on his
slippers, donned the dirty old cap he wore about the house to save him from colds, crossed
his legs, and began to talk gravely to Mother, who looked anxious. Naturally, I disliked her
looking anxious, because it destroyed her good looks, so I interrupted him.
"Just a moment, Larry!" she said gently. This was only what she said when we had boring
visitors, so I attached no importance to it and went on talking.
"Do be quiet, Larry!" she said impatiently. "Don’t you hear me talking to Daddy?"
This was the first time I had heard those ominous words, "talking to Daddy," and I couldn’t
help feeling that if this was how God answered prayers, he couldn’t listen to them very
attentively.
"Why are you talking to Daddy?" I asked with as great a show of indifference as I could
muster.
"Because Daddy and I have business to discuss. Now, don’t interrupt again!"
In the afternoon, at Mother’s request, Father took me for a walk. This time we went into town
instead of out in the country, and I thought at first, in my usual optimistic way, that it might be
an improvement. It was nothing of the sort. Father and I had quite different notions of a walk
in town. He had no proper interest in trams, ships, and horses, and the only thing that
seemed to divert him was talking to fellows as old as himself. When I wanted to stop he
simply went on, dragging me behind him by the hand; when he wanted to stop I had no
alternative but to do the same. I noticed that it seemed to be a sign that he wanted to stop for
a long time whenever he leaned against a wall. The second time I saw him do it I got wild. He
seemed to be settling himself forever. I pulled him by the coat and trousers, but, unlike
Mother who, if you were too persistent, got into a wax and said: "Larry, if you don’t behave
yourself, I’ll give you a good slap," Father had an extraordinary capacity for amiable
inattention. I sized him up and wondered would I cry, but he seemed to be too remote to be
annoyed even by that. Really, it was like going for a walk with a mountain! He either ignored
the wrenching and pummeling entirely, or else glanced down with a grin of amusement from
his peak. I had never met anyone so absorbed in himself as he seemed.
At teatime, "talking to Daddy" began again, complicated this time by the fact that he had an
evening paper, and every few minutes he put it down and told Mother something new out of
it. I felt this was foul play. Man for man, I was prepared to compete with him any time for
Mother’s attention, but when he had it all made up for him by other people it left me no
chance. Several times I tried to change the subject without success.
"You must be quiet while Daddy is reading, Larry," Mother said impatiently.
It was clear that she either genuinely liked talking to Father better than talking to me, or else
that he had some terrible hold on her which made her afraid to admit the truth.
"Mummy," I said that night when she was tucking me up, "do you think if I prayed hard God
would send Daddy back to the war?"
After that I went into Mother’s room and climbed into the big bed. She woke and I began to
tell her of my schemes. By this time, though I never seemed to have noticed it, I was petrified
in my nightshirt, and I thawed as I talked until, the last frost melted, I fell asleep beside her
and woke again only when I heard her below in the kitchen, making the breakfast.
After breakfast we went into town; heard Mass at St. Augustine’s and said a prayer for
Father, and did the shopping. If the afternoon was fine we either went for a walk in the
country or a visit to Mother’s great friend in the convent, Mother Saint Dominic. Mother had
them all praying for Father, and every night, going to bed, I asked God to send him back safe
from the war to us. Little, indeed, did I know what I was praying for!
One morning, I got into the big bed, and there, sure enough, was Father in his usual Santa
Claus manner, but later, instead of uniform, he put on his best blue suit, and Mother was as
pleased as anything. I saw nothing to be pleased about, because, out of uniform, Father was
altogether less interesting, but she only beamed, and explained that our prayers had been
answered, and off we went to Mass to thank God for having brought Father safely home.
The irony of it! That very day when he came in to dinner he took off his boots and put on his
slippers, donned the dirty old cap he wore about the house to save him from colds, crossed
his legs, and began to talk gravely to Mother, who looked anxious. Naturally, I disliked her
looking anxious, because it destroyed her good looks, so I interrupted him.
"Just a moment, Larry!" she said gently. This was only what she said when we had boring
visitors, so I attached no importance to it and went on talking.
"Do be quiet, Larry!" she said impatiently. "Don’t you hear me talking to Daddy?"
This was the first time I had heard those ominous words, "talking to Daddy," and I couldn’t
help feeling that if this was how God answered prayers, he couldn’t listen to them very
attentively.
"Why are you talking to Daddy?" I asked with as great a show of indifference as I could
muster.
"Because Daddy and I have business to discuss. Now, don’t interrupt again!"
In the afternoon, at Mother’s request, Father took me for a walk. This time we went into town
instead of out in the country, and I thought at first, in my usual optimistic way, that it might be
an improvement. It was nothing of the sort. Father and I had quite different notions of a walk
in town. He had no proper interest in trams, ships, and horses, and the only thing that
seemed to divert him was talking to fellows as old as himself. When I wanted to stop he
simply went on, dragging me behind him by the hand; when he wanted to stop I had no
alternative but to do the same. I noticed that it seemed to be a sign that he wanted to stop for
a long time whenever he leaned against a wall. The second time I saw him do it I got wild. He
seemed to be settling himself forever. I pulled him by the coat and trousers, but, unlike
Mother who, if you were too persistent, got into a wax and said: "Larry, if you don’t behave
yourself, I’ll give you a good slap," Father had an extraordinary capacity for amiable
inattention. I sized him up and wondered would I cry, but he seemed to be too remote to be
annoyed even by that. Really, it was like going for a walk with a mountain! He either ignored
the wrenching and pummeling entirely, or else glanced down with a grin of amusement from
his peak. I had never met anyone so absorbed in himself as he seemed.
At teatime, "talking to Daddy" began again, complicated this time by the fact that he had an
evening paper, and every few minutes he put it down and told Mother something new out of
it. I felt this was foul play. Man for man, I was prepared to compete with him any time for
Mother’s attention, but when he had it all made up for him by other people it left me no
chance. Several times I tried to change the subject without success.
"You must be quiet while Daddy is reading, Larry," Mother said impatiently.
It was clear that she either genuinely liked talking to Father better than talking to me, or else
that he had some terrible hold on her which made her afraid to admit the truth.
"Mummy," I said that night when she was tucking me up, "do you think if I prayed hard God
would send Daddy back to the war?"
She seemed to think about that for a moment.
"No, dear," she said with a smile. "I don’t think He would."
"Why wouldn’t He, Mummy?"
"Because there isn’t a war any longer, dear."
"But, Mummy, couldn’t God make another war, if He liked?"
"He wouldn’t like to, dear. It’s not God who makes wars, but bad people."
"Oh!" I said. I was disappointed about that. I began to think that God wasn’t quite what He
was cracked up to be.
Next morning I woke at my usual hour, feeling like a bottle of champagne. I put out my feet
and invented a long conversation in which Mrs. Right talked of the trouble she had with her
own father till she put him in the Home. I didn’t quite know what the Home was but it sounded
the right place for Father. Then I got my chair and stuck my head out of the attic window.
Dawn was just breaking, with a guilty air that made me feel I had caught it in the act. My
head bursting with stories and schemes, I stumbled in next door, and in the half-darkness
scrambled into the big bed. There was no room at Mother’s side so I had to get between her
and Father. For the time being I had forgotten about him, and for several minutes I sat bolt
upright, racking my brains to know what I could do with him. He was taking up more than his
fair share of the bed, and I couldn’t get comfortable, so I gave him several kicks that made
him grunt and stretch. He made room all right, though. Mother waked and felt for me. I settled
back comfortably in the warmth of the bed with my thumb in my mouth.
"Mummy!" I hummed, loudly and contentedly.
"Sssh! dear," she whispered. "Don’t wake Daddy!"
This was a new development, which threatened to be even more serious than "talking to
Daddy." Life without my early-morning conferences was unthinkable.
"Why?" I asked severely.
"Because poor Daddy is tired." This seemed to me a quite inadequate reason, and I was
sickened by the sentimentality of her "poor Daddy." I never liked that sort of gush; it always
struck me as insincere.
"Oh!" I said lightly. Then in my most winning tone: "Do you know where I want to go with you
today, Mummy?"
"No, dear," she sighed.
"I want to go down the Glen and fish for thornybacks with my new net, and then I want to go
out to the Fox and Hounds, and –"
"Don’t-wake-Daddy!" she hissed angrily, clapping her hand across my mouth.
But it was too late. He was awake, or nearly so. He grunted and reached for the matches.
Then he stared incredulously at his watch.
"Like a cup of tea, dear?" asked Mother in a meek, hushed voice I had never heard her use
before. It sounded almost as though she were afraid.
"Tea?" he exclaimed indignantly. "Do you know what the time is?"
"And after that I want to go up the Rathcooney Road," I said loudly, afraid I’d forget
something in all those interruptions.
"Go to sleep at once, Larry!" she said sharply.
I began to snivel. I couldn’t concentrate, the way that pair went on, and smothering my earlymorning
schemes was like burying a family from the cradle. Father said nothing, but lit his
pipe and sucked it, looking out into the shadows without minding Mother or me. I knew he
was mad. Every time I made a remark Mother hushed me irritably. I was mortified. I felt it
wasn’t fair; there was even something sinister in it. Every time I had pointed out to her the
waste of making two beds when we could both sleep in one, she had told me it was healthier
like that, and now here was this man, this stranger, sleeping with her without the least regard
for her health! He got up early and made tea, but though he brought Mother a cup he brought
none for me.
"Mummy," I shouted, "I want a cup of tea, too."
"Yes, dear," she said patiently. "You can drink from Mummy’s saucer."
That settled it. Either Father or I would have to leave the house. I didn’t want to drink from
Mother’s saucer; I wanted to be treated as an equal in my own home, so, just to spite her, I
drank it all and left none for her. She took that quietly, too. But that night when she was
putting me to bed she said gently:
"Larry, I want you to promise me something."
"What is it?" I asked.
"Not to come in and disturb poor Daddy in the morning. Promise?"
"Poor Daddy" again! I was becoming suspicious of everything involving that quite impossible
man.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because poor Daddy is worried and tired and he doesn’t sleep well."
"Why doesn’t he, Mummy?"
"Well, you know, don’t you, that while he was at the war Mummy got the pennies from the
post office?"
"From Miss MacCarthy?"
"That’s right. But now, you see, Miss MacCarthy hasn’t any more pennies, so Daddy must go
out and find us some. You know what would happen if he couldn’t?"
"No," I said, "tell us."
"Well, I think we might have to go out and beg for them like the poor old woman on Fridays.
We wouldn’t like that, would we?"
"No," I agreed. "We wouldn’t."
"So you’ll promise not to come in and wake him?"
"Promise."
Mind you, I meant that. I knew pennies were a serious matter, and I was all against having to
go out and beg like the old woman on Fridays. Mother laid out all my toys in a complete ring
round the bed so that, whatever way I got out, I was bound to fall over one of them. When I
woke I remembered my promise all right. I got up and sat on the floor and played – for hours,
it seemed to me. Then I got my chair and looked out the attic window for more hours. I
wished it was time for Father to wake; I wished someone would make me a cup of tea. I
didn’t feel in the least like the sun; instead, I was bored and so very, very cold! I simply
longed for the warmth and depth of the big feather bed. At last I could stand it no longer. I
went into the next room. As there was still no room at Mother’s side I climbed over her and
she woke with a start. "Larry," she whispered, gripping my arm very tightly, "what did you
promise?"
"But I did, Mummy," I wailed, caught in the very act. "I was quiet for ever so long."
"Oh, dear, and you’re perished!" she said sadly, feeling me all over. "Now, if I let you stay will
you promise not to talk?"
"But I want to talk, Mummy," I wailed.
"That has nothing to do with it," she said with a firmness that was new to me. "Daddy wants
to sleep. Now, do you understand that?"
I understood it only too well. I wanted to talk, he wanted to sleep – whose house was it,
anyway?
"Mummy," I said with equal firmness, "I think it would be healthier for Daddy to sleep in his
own bed."
That seemed to stagger her, because she said nothing for a while.
"Now, once for all," she went on, "you’re to be perfectly quiet or go back to your own bed.
Which is it to be?"
The injustice of it got me down. I had convicted her out of her own mouth of inconsistency
and unreasonableness, and she hadn’t even attempted to reply. Full of spite, I gave Father a
kick, which she didn’t notice but which made him grunt and open his eyes in alarm.
"What time is it?" he asked in a panic-stricken voice, not looking at Mother but at the door, as
if he saw someone there.
"It’s early yet," she replied soothingly. "It’s only the child. Go to sleep again.... Now, Larry,"
she added, getting out of bed, "you’ve wakened Daddy and you must go back."
This time, for all her quiet air, I knew she meant it, and knew that my principal rights and
privileges were as good as lost unless I asserted them at once. As she lifted me, I gave a
screech, enough to wake the dead, not to mind Father.
He groaned. "That damn child! Doesn’t he ever sleep?"
"It’s only a habit, dear," she said quietly, though I could see she was vexed.
"Well, it’s time he got out of it," shouted Father, beginning to heave in the bed. He suddenly
gathered all the bedclothes about him, turned to the wall, and then looked back over his
shoulder with nothing showing only two small, spiteful, dark eyes. The man looked very
wicked. To open the bedroom door, Mother had to let me down, and I broke free and dashed
for the farthest corner, screeching.
Father sat bolt upright in bed. "Shut up, you little puppy," he said in a choking voice.
I was so astonished that I stopped screeching. Never, never had anyone spoken to me in
that tone before. I looked at him incredulously and saw his face convulsed with rage. It was
only then that I fully realized how God had codded me, listening to my prayers for the safe
return of this monster.
"Shut up, you!" I bawled, beside myself.
"What’s that you said?" shouted Father, making a wild leap out of the bed.
"Mick, Mick!" cried Mother. "Don’t you see the child isn’t used to you?"
"I see he’s better fed than taught," snarled Father, waving his arms wildly. "He wants his
bottom smacked."
All his previous shouting was as nothing to these obscene words referring to my person.
They really made my blood boil.
"Smack your own!" I screamed hysterically. "Smack your own! Shut up! Shut up!"
At this he lost his patience and let fly at me. He did it with the lack of conviction you’d expect
of a man under Mother’s horrified eyes, and it ended up as a mere tap, but the sheer
indignity of being struck at all by a stranger, a total stranger who had cajoled his way back
from the war into our big bed as a result of my innocent intercession, made me completely
dotty. I shrieked and shrieked, and danced in my bare feet, and Father, looking awkward and
hairy in nothing but a short gray army shirt, glared down at me like a mountain out for
murder. I think it must have been then that I realized he was jealous too. And there stood
Mother in her nightdress, looking as if her heart was broken between us. I hoped she felt as
she looked. It seemed to me that she deserved it all.
From that morning out my life was a hell. Father and I were enemies, open and avowed. We
conducted a series of skirmishes against one another, he trying to steal my time with Mother
and I his. When she was sitting on my bed, telling me a story, he took to looking for some
pair of old boots which he alleged he had left behind him at the beginning of the war. While
he talked to Mother I played loudly with my toys to show my total lack of concern.
He created a terrible scene one evening when he came in from work and found me at his
box, playing with his regimental badges, Gurkha knives and button sticks. Mother got up and
took the box from me.
"You mustn’t play with Daddy’s toys unless he lets you, Larry," she said severely. "Daddy
doesn’t play with yours."
For some reason Father looked at her as if she had struck him and then turned away with a
scowl. "Those are not toys," he growled, taking down the box again to see had I lifted
anything. "Some of those curios are very rare and valuable."
But as time went on I saw more and more how he managed to alienate Mother and me. What
made it worse was that I couldn’t grasp his method or see what attraction he had for Mother.
In every possible way he was less winning than I. He had a common accent and made
noises at his tea. I thought for a while that it might be the newspapers she was interested in,
so I made up bits of news of my own to read to her. Then I thought it might be the smoking,
which I personally thought attractive, and took his pipes and went round the house dribbling
into them till he caught me. I even made noises at my tea, but Mother only told me I was
disgusting. It all seemed to hinge round that unhealthy habit of sleeping together, so I made a
point of dropping into their bedroom and nosing round, talking to myself, so that they wouldn’t
know I was watching them, but they were never up to anything that I could see. In the end it
beat me. It seemed to depend on being grown-up and giving people rings, and I realized I’d
have to wait. But at the same time I wanted him to see that I was only waiting, not giving up
the fight.
One evening when he was being particularly obnoxious, chattering away well above my
head, I let him have it.
"Mummy," I said, "do you know what I’m going to do when I grow up?"
"No, dear," she replied. "What?"
"I’m going to marry you," I said quietly.
Father gave a great guffaw out of him, but he didn’t take me in. I knew it must only be
pretence.
And Mother, in spite of everything, was pleased. I felt she was probably relieved to know that
one day Father’s hold on her would be broken.
"Won’t that be nice?" she said with a smile.
"It’ll be very nice," I said confidently. "Because we’re going to have lots and lots of babies."
"That’s right, dear," she said placidly. "I think we’ll have one soon, and then you’ll have plenty
of company."
I was no end pleased about that because it showed that in spite of the way she gave in to
Father she still considered my wishes. Besides, it would put the Geneys in their place. It
didn’t turn out like that, though. To begin with, she was very preoccupied – I supposed about
where she would get the seventeen and six – and though Father took to staying out late in
the evenings it did me no particular good. She stopped taking me for walks, became as
touchy as blazes, and smacked me for nothing at all. Sometimes I wished I’d never
mentioned the confounded baby – I seemed to have a genius for bringing calamity on myself.
And calamity it was! Sonny arrived in the most appalling hulla-baloo – even that much he
couldn’t do without a fuss – and from the first moment I disliked him. He was a difficult child –
so far as I was concerned he was always difficult – and demanded far too much attention.
Mother was simply silly about him, and couldn’t see when he was only showing off. As
company he was worse than useless. He slept all day, and I had to go round the house on
tiptoe to avoid waking him. It wasn’t any longer a question of not waking Father. The slogan
now was "Don’t-wake-Sonny!" I couldn’t understand why the child wouldn’t sleep at the
proper time, so whenever Mother’s back was turned I woke him. Sometimes to keep him
awake I pinched him as well. Mother caught me at it one day and gave me a most unmerciful
flaking.
One evening, when Father was coming in from work, I was playing trains in the front garden.
I let on not to notice him; instead, I pretended to be talking to myself, and said in a loud voice:
"If another bloody baby comes into this house, I’m going out."
Father stopped dead and looked at me over his shoulder. "What’s that you said?" he asked
sternly.
""I was only talking to myself," I replied, trying to conceal my panic. "It’s private."
He turned and went in without a word.
Mind you, I intended it as a solemn warning, but its effect was quite different. Father started
being quite nice to me. I could understand that, of course. Mother was quite sickening about
Sonny. Even at mealtimes she’d get up and gawk at him in the cradle with an idiotic smile,
and tell Father to do the same. He was always polite about it, but he looked so puzzled you
could see he didn’t know what she was talking about. He complained of the way Sonny cried
at night, but she only got cross and said that Sonny never cried except when there was
something up with him – which was a flaming lie, because Sonny never had anything up with
him, and only cried for attention. It was really painful to see how simpleminded she was.
Father wasn’t attractive, but he had a fine intelligence. He saw through Sonny, and now he
knew that I saw through him as well. One night I woke with a start. There was someone
beside me in the bed. For one wild moment I felt sure it must be Mother, having come to her
senses and left Father for good, but then I heard Sonny in convulsions in the next room, and
Mother saying: "There! There! There!" and I knew it wasn’t she. It was Father. He was lying
beside me, wide-awake, breathing hard and apparently as mad as hell. After a while it came
to me what he was mad about. It was his turn now. After turning me out of the big bed, he
had been turned out himself. Mother had no consideration now for anyone but that poisonous
pup, Sonny.
I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Father. I had been through it all myself, and even at that age I
was magnanimous. I began to stroke him down and say: "There! There!"
He wasn’t exactly responsive. "Aren’t you asleep either?" he snarled.
"Ah, come on and put your arm around us, can’t you?" I said, and he did, in a sort of way.
Gingerly, I suppose, is how you’d describe it. He was very bony but better than nothing.
At Christmas he went out of his way to buy me a really nice model railway.
Tuesday, 7 May 2013
Tuesday, 30 April 2013
Summary of Freud's Id, Ego and Superego theory
THE STRAIGHT STORY
•Freud thinks that there are 3 parts of a personality – the id, the ego and the superego.
•The id is the first and primary part of personality and it contains the basic instincts of personality within two drives – the thanatos drive (death/destructive drive) and the eros drive (life, creative drive). The id is universal – all humans contain these same instincts.
• The superego is the part of personality that we sometimes refer to as our conscience. It contains our ideas of right and wrong, good and bad, what is socially appropriate, our morals and organises it into our own value system. It punishes you by making you feel guilty when you do something that is in conflict with your value system. It gives you the drive to achieve your goals, and is responsible for your self-discipline. It rewards you with a feeling of pride, achievement and satisfaction when you do something that is in agreement with your value system. The superego is shaped by your upbringing, society and immediate community. It is unique to every individual.
•The ego is the negotiator or the mediator between the demands of the selfish, inapproriate instincts of the id and the structured value system of the superego. Through the mechanism of sublimation it is able to find an effective solution that satisfies both the the desires of the id and the demands of the superego.
What happens when the Superego is underdeveloped?
•A person may be unmotivated to do anything.
• Usually cannot be trusted to complete tasks unsupervised – does not have the drive to be accountable to himself.
•May be considered impulsive and maybe even reckless.
•Usually not a high-achiever.
•The id part of the personality wins the battle in the decisions that he or she takes. He or she is a slave to his id drives.
What happens when the Superego is overdemanding?
•A person may set such exceedingly high goals for themselves that are so demanding that they become stressed and worried all the time.
•They may feel that they are not good enough., because they feel like they cant live up to their high standards
•On the plus side – people with an overdemanding superego are ususally successful, high-achievers.
They are able to work unsupervised and are so accountable to themselves that they often will go even beyond the call of what is required.
Freud believes that a person’s personality is the outcome of the battle of the id, ego and superego. A well adjusted person is one within whom the ego has won the battle.
VIDEO – THE MARSHMALLOW TEST – The battle between the impulsive id and the rules imposed by the superego -
ACTIVITY – Read the following scenarios and see if you can address the problems or solve the crisis.
SCENARIO ONE - LETTER TO ADVICE COLUMNIST
“I am a University Student. I share a room at the University Residences with two other students. Lately I have been having a very difficult time concentrating on my studies because of my roommates.
One of them has decided to bring a Playstation into the room and plays videogames with the volume turned all the way up. The game he likes to play is one where he plays the role of soldier in a War-themed game, the goal of the game is to kill as many other soldiers as there are in the game and so there are always loud explosions and shouting and the sound of assault rifle gunfire. He plays this game whenever he gets the chance.
The other roommate turns on music really loud whenever she is in and dances around the room at all hours, sometimes she invites friends too and they all start having a dance-party right there in the room, it lasts all night and it happens at least 3 or 4 times a week.
Between my roommate playing those loud, violent videogames and my other roommate throwing dance parties, I hardly have any quiet time to concentrate my studies.
I have tried talking to them to convince them that they need to pay more attention to their studies and spend less time playing videogames and dancing but it doesn’t seem as if they are listening to what I have been telling them. They just keep on doing what they do. I am so confused about their self-destructive behaviour, I cannot understand why they are not as concerned about their studies as I am.
Dear Andile, do you have any idea of why my roommates are behaving like this?”
- You are Andile, the Advice Columnist – answer the letter and advise the reader according to your understanding of Freud’s theory of the id, ego and superego. Also explain why your attitude and behaviour might be different to theirs?
SCENARIO TWO: - “CAUGHT & COURT”
John Smith is on trial for raping 3 women aged 24, 57, and 68. The case has become really famous because E-TV has made it the subject of a new reality show called “Caught & Court”
Freud, Sartre and the journalist for “Caught & Court” are being interviewed for the show outside the local courthouse . The reporter asks Freud, that based on his theory of the id, ego and superego, if it is possible that John Smith’s lawyers could argue that he is not guilty on account of the fact that it could be argued that he had an undeveloped superego, and that John Smith’s Eros id drive, drove him to commit multiple rapes.
Freud disagrees and says that it is more likely that John Smith’s Thanatos drive is responsible for his behaviour. Freud argues that rape is the effect of an overactive or unchecked Thanatos drive – how and why would Freud argue in such regard? Would Freud hold the rapist responsible for his deeds?
Sartre on the hand disagrees with Freud completely and accuses Freud of making excuses for the awful acts of a rapist. Sartre says that blaming brutality on Thanatos is “Bad Faith”. How would Sartre argue in this regard?
SCENARIO THREE – Wayward Wendy
Your very religious mom calls you at the residence and is in a state! She says she does not what more to do with your two younger siblings.
She says that your 12 year sister Wendy is becoming very worrisome. Lately she is dressing very provocatively and holding very inappropriate conversations with men twice her age. Your mom is horrified because she knows that she didn’t raise Wendy to be so overtly sexual. Your mom thinks that it is her fault, and she must have done something wrong – she blames herself for not being able to guide Wendy, as she has had to work as a nanny and domestic worker from 7 in the morning to 21:00 at night. She is worried that Wendy is going to make the wrong choices and either earn herself a bad reputation, become pregnant or worse – contract a terrible sexually transmitted disease.
Advise your mom, and reassure her that it is not her fault that Wendy is dsiplaying this type of behaviour. Explain to her Freud’s theory of the id, ego and superego. Tell her about Freud’s theory of sublimation and advise of things she could encourage Wendy to participate in that would perhaps steer Wendy in a direction that satisfies and mediates the demands of her id drive.
SCENARIO FOUR – TANTRUM TERROR
Your cousin calls you. He is a teacher at a Primary school and has a little student who is causing havoc in his classroom. The little 10 year old throws terrible tantrums and is super destructive. He gets into fights regularly with other children, sometimes for no reason at all, and he is almost always the initiator of the fight. The child comes from a broken family, and is often left to himself as his caregiver works during the day until late.
Your cousin has heard that you are studying Philosophy at University and he knows that in the first year of the course you are made aware of the different perspectives of human nature including the Freudian perspective. Your cousin wants to know if you could share some insight into why this little 10 year old is so troublesome.
You need to present to your cousin Freud’s theory of the id, ego and superego. Use it to explain why the little boy may be behaving the way that he does. You must also tell your cousin about the ego’s role in mediating such behaviour through sublimation. Suggest how your cousin could encourage the little boy to do certain activities that might help direct the boy in a more socially appropriate interaction with the world, and cause less havoc in his classroom.
Wednesday, 24 April 2013
The Ego – A PEACEMAKER!
Tuesday, 23 April 2013
Freud’s theory of Personality - The background to the showdown between the id and the superego
We can see the presence of the id part of personality when kids have temper tantrums
