Dibs Character Analysis

At one time he seemed to be extremely retarded mentally. Another time he would quickly and quietly do something that indicated he might even have superior intelligence. If he thought anyone was watching him, he quickly withdrew into his shell. Most of the time he crawled around the edge of the room, lurking under tables, rocking back and forth, chewing on the side of his hand, sucking his thumb, lying prone and rigid on the floor when any of the teachers or children tried to involve him in some activity. He was a lone child in what must have seemed to him to be a cold, unfriendly world.

He clasped his hands tightly together against his chest and said over and over again “No lock doors. No lock doors. No lock doors.” His voice took on a note of desperate urgency. “Dibs no like locked doors,” he said. There was a sob in his voice.

I said to him, “You don’t like the doors to be locked.”

Dibs seemed to crumple. His voice became a husky whisper. “Dibs no like closed doors. No like closed and locked doors. Dibs no like walls around him.”

Obviously he had had some unhappy experiences with closed and locked doors. I recognized the feelings he expressed.

I did this because I hoped Dibs would gradually become more and more self-sufficient and responsible. I wanted to communicate to him my confidence in his ability to measure up to my expectations. I believed he could do it. […] I would have gone all the way to the door of his room with him, if he had seemed to need that much support. But he went by himself. I said, “Goodbye, Dibs!”

He said, “That’s right!” […] He looked surprised—almost pleased. He walked into his room and closed the door firmly behind him. It was the first time Dibs had ever gone any place alone.

I attempted to keep my comments in line with his activity, trying not to say anything that would indicate any desire on my part that he do any particular thing, but rather to communicate understandingly and simply, recognition in line with his frame of reference. I wanted him to lead the way. I would follow. […] I didn’t want to go overboard and exclaim about his ability to do all these things. Obviously he could do these things. When the initiative is left up to the individual, he will select the ground upon which he feels his greatest security.

If I could get across to Dibs my confidence in him as a person who had good reasons for everything he did, and if I could convey the concept that there were no hidden answers for him to guess, no concealed standards of behavior or expression that were not openly stated, no pressure for him to read my mind and come up with a solution that I had already decided upon, no rush to do everything today—then, perhaps, Dibs would catch more and more of a feeling of security and of the rightness of his own reactions so he could clarify, understand, and accept them.

“You want to give me that, do you?” I said, gesturing toward his painting. He nodded. The purpose of this response, rather than an expression of thank you’s and praise, was to keep our communication open and to slow it down. Then, if he wanted to, he could add more of his thoughts and feelings and not be abruptly cut off by my response and involvement and values or standards of behavior.

He twisted his hands together and turned around toward me, looking very miserable and unhappy. “Miss A say it paint one picture of a house and then it leave you,” he said huskily. I noted how confused his language had become. Here was a child very capable of great intellectual achievement, whose abilities were dominated by his emotional disturbance.

“Come on Dibs. Put your arms into your coat sleeves.” He did. “Now sit down while I put your boots on.”

He sat down muttering “No go home. No want to go home. No feel like going home.”

“I know how you feel,” I told him.

A child gets his feelings of security from predictable and consistent and realistic limitations. I had hoped to help Dibs differentiate between his feelings and his actions. He seemed to have achieved a bit of this.

I was interested in the manner in which Dibs had been displaying his ability to read, count, solve problems. It seemed to me that whenever he approached any kind of emotional reference he retreated to a demonstration of his ability to read. Perhaps he felt safer in manipulating intellectual concepts about things, rather than probing any deeper into feelings about himself that he could not accept with ease. Perhaps this was a brief bit of evidence of some conflict he had between expectations of his behavior and his own striving to be himself—sometimes very capable, sometimes a baby.

“It is gone,” he said.

“And you feel angry and disappointed because of it don’t you?” I asked.

Dibs nodded in agreement. He looked at me. I looked at him. What would ultimately help Dibs the most was not the sand mountain, not the powerful little plastic duck, but the feeling of security and adequacy that they symbolized in the creation he had built last week. Now, faced with the disappearance of the concrete symbols I hoped that he could experience within himself confidence and adequacy as he coped now with his disappointment and with the realization that things outside ourselves change—and many times we have little control over those elements, but if we learn to utilize our inner resources, we carry our security around with us.

Her failure to relate to her child with love, respect and understanding was probably due to her own emotional deprivation. Who can love, respect, understand another person, if they have not had such basic experiences themselves? It seemed to me that it would be more helpful for her to have learned in this interview that she was respected and understood, even though that understanding was, of necessity, a more generalized concept which accepted the fact that she had reasons for what she did, that she had capacity to change, that changes must come from within herself, that all changes—hers, her husband’s, Dibs’—are motivated by many accumulative experiences.

“I keep that leaf,” he said. “It is very tired and very old. But I keep that leaf. I mounted it and framed it. And I imagine some of the things it must have seen, flying all around the world with the wind. And I read in my books about the countries it saw.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

“Stupid people make accidents!” He shouted. There were tears in his eyes. “The party is over. The children are all gone! There is no more party.” […] He kicked over a chair. He swept the cups from the shelf. “I didn’t want a party,” he shouted. “I didn’t want any other children around.”

“It makes you angry and unhappy when something like that happens,” I said.

Dibs came over to me. “Let’s go down to your office,” he said, “Let’s get out of here. I am not stupid.”

“No. You are not stupid.”

“Oh no, Dibs!” I exclaimed. “That’s scouring powder. Not good to taste!”

He turned and looked at me coldly. This sudden reaction of mine was inconsistent. “How can I tell how it tastes unless I taste?” he asked with dignity.

“I don’t know of any other way,” I told him. “But I don’t think you ought to swallow it. It isn’t good to taste.”

“I weep because I feel again the hurt of doors closed and locked against me,” he sobbed. I put my arm around him.

“You are feeling again the way you used to feel when you were so alone?’ I said.

Dibs glanced back at the doll house. He brushed away his tears and stood there breathing heavily. “The boy will save them,” he said.

“Oh come, Dibs, fix them right,” he said lightly. “There is a correct way to do everything and you get them all in their proper order.”

“Do you think they should always be in a certain order?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said with a grin. “That is unless they all are mixed up.”

“Then either way is all right?”

“In here,” he said. “Remember, in here, it’s all right just to be.”

He came over to me and patted my hand. “You understand,” he said with a smile.

Always testing him. Always doubting his capacity. Trying to get closer to him and all the time only building a wall between us. And he always did just enough to keep me at it. I don’t think any child was ever so tormented with the constant demands made upon him that he pass this test and that test—always, always he had to prove that he had capacity. He had no peace. Except when his grandmother came to visit. They had a good relationship with each other. He relaxed with her. He didn’t talk much to her. But she accepted him the way he was and she always believed in him. She used to tell me that if I relaxed and let him alone he’d come out of it all right.

Dibs should learn to accept himself as he was and use his abilities, not deny them. But socially and emotionally, Dibs was achieving new horizons for himself. They were fundamental to his total development. I felt confident that the ability Dibs used in the playroom and at home would spill out into his other experiences. His intellectual abilities had been used to test him. They had become a barrier and a refuge from a world he feared. It had been defensive, self-protective behavior. It had been his isolation. And if Dibs did begin to talk, read, write, draw, in ways far beyond those of the other children around him, he would be avoided by them and isolated for his differences.

But he joined the circle and volunteered to do a dance one day. He made one up, much to the delight of the other children. He wanted to be the wind. He went blowing and swaying around and the children all decided that he should be the wind in the school program. Dibs agreed. He did his part very well. Suddenly in the middle of the dance he decided to sing. He made up the words and the melody. It went something like this. “I am the wind. I blow. I blow. I climb. I climb. I climb the hills and I move the clouds. I bend the trees and I move the grass. No one can stop the wind. I am the wind, a friendly wind, a wind you cannot see. But I am the wind.” He seemed to be unaware of his audience. The children were surprised and delighted. Needless to say, so were we.

As Dibs stood before me now his head was up. He had a feeling of security deep inside himself. He was building a sense of responsibility for his feelings. His feelings of hate and revenge had been tempered with mercy. Dibs was building a concept of self as he groped through the tangled brambles of his mixed-up feelings. He could hate and he could love. He could condemn and he could pardon. He was learning through experience that feelings can twist and turn and lose their sharp edges. He was learning responsible control as well as expression of his feelings. Through this increasing self-knowledge, he would be free to use his capacities and emotions more constructively.

“At first the playroom seemed so very, very big. And the toys were not friendly. And I was so afraid.”

“You were afraid in there, Dibs?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you afraid?”

“I don’t know. I was frightened at first because I didn’t know what you would do and I didn’t know what I would do. But you just said ‘This is all yours, Dibs. Have fun. Nobody is going to hurt you in here.’”

“I said that?”

“Yes,” Dibs said decisively. “That is what you said to me. And gradually I came to believe you. And it was that way. You said for me to go fight my enemies until they cried out and said they were sorry they hurt me.”

There are things far more important in this world than a show of authority and power, more important than revenge and punishment and hurt. As educators, you must unlock the door of ignorance and prejudice and meanness. Unless my friend is given your apologies for this hurt he has received to his pride and self-respect and is reinstated then I shall not return to this school this fall.

At one time he seemed to be extremely retarded mentally. Another time he would quickly and quietly do something that indicated he might even have superior intelligence. If he thought anyone was watching him, he quickly withdrew into his shell. Most of the time he crawled around the edge of the room, lurking under tables, rocking back and forth, chewing on the side of his hand, sucking his thumb, lying prone and rigid on the floor when any of the teachers or children tried to involve him in some activity. He was a lone child in what must have seemed to him to be a cold, unfriendly world.

He clasped his hands tightly together against his chest and said over and over again “No lock doors. No lock doors. No lock doors.” His voice took on a note of desperate urgency. “Dibs no like locked doors,” he said. There was a sob in his voice.

I said to him, “You don’t like the doors to be locked.”

Dibs seemed to crumple. His voice became a husky whisper. “Dibs no like closed doors. No like closed and locked doors. Dibs no like walls around him.”

Obviously he had had some unhappy experiences with closed and locked doors. I recognized the feelings he expressed.

I did this because I hoped Dibs would gradually become more and more self-sufficient and responsible. I wanted to communicate to him my confidence in his ability to measure up to my expectations. I believed he could do it. […] I would have gone all the way to the door of his room with him, if he had seemed to need that much support. But he went by himself. I said, “Goodbye, Dibs!”

He said, “That’s right!” […] He looked surprised—almost pleased. He walked into his room and closed the door firmly behind him. It was the first time Dibs had ever gone any place alone.

I attempted to keep my comments in line with his activity, trying not to say anything that would indicate any desire on my part that he do any particular thing, but rather to communicate understandingly and simply, recognition in line with his frame of reference. I wanted him to lead the way. I would follow. […] I didn’t want to go overboard and exclaim about his ability to do all these things. Obviously he could do these things. When the initiative is left up to the individual, he will select the ground upon which he feels his greatest security.

If I could get across to Dibs my confidence in him as a person who had good reasons for everything he did, and if I could convey the concept that there were no hidden answers for him to guess, no concealed standards of behavior or expression that were not openly stated, no pressure for him to read my mind and come up with a solution that I had already decided upon, no rush to do everything today—then, perhaps, Dibs would catch more and more of a feeling of security and of the rightness of his own reactions so he could clarify, understand, and accept them.

“You want to give me that, do you?” I said, gesturing toward his painting. He nodded. The purpose of this response, rather than an expression of thank you’s and praise, was to keep our communication open and to slow it down. Then, if he wanted to, he could add more of his thoughts and feelings and not be abruptly cut off by my response and involvement and values or standards of behavior.

He twisted his hands together and turned around toward me, looking very miserable and unhappy. “Miss A say it paint one picture of a house and then it leave you,” he said huskily. I noted how confused his language had become. Here was a child very capable of great intellectual achievement, whose abilities were dominated by his emotional disturbance.

“Come on Dibs. Put your arms into your coat sleeves.” He did. “Now sit down while I put your boots on.”

He sat down muttering “No go home. No want to go home. No feel like going home.”

“I know how you feel,” I told him.

A child gets his feelings of security from predictable and consistent and realistic limitations. I had hoped to help Dibs differentiate between his feelings and his actions. He seemed to have achieved a bit of this.

I was interested in the manner in which Dibs had been displaying his ability to read, count, solve problems. It seemed to me that whenever he approached any kind of emotional reference he retreated to a demonstration of his ability to read. Perhaps he felt safer in manipulating intellectual concepts about things, rather than probing any deeper into feelings about himself that he could not accept with ease. Perhaps this was a brief bit of evidence of some conflict he had between expectations of his behavior and his own striving to be himself—sometimes very capable, sometimes a baby.

“It is gone,” he said.

“And you feel angry and disappointed because of it don’t you?” I asked.

Dibs nodded in agreement. He looked at me. I looked at him. What would ultimately help Dibs the most was not the sand mountain, not the powerful little plastic duck, but the feeling of security and adequacy that they symbolized in the creation he had built last week. Now, faced with the disappearance of the concrete symbols I hoped that he could experience within himself confidence and adequacy as he coped now with his disappointment and with the realization that things outside ourselves change—and many times we have little control over those elements, but if we learn to utilize our inner resources, we carry our security around with us.

Her failure to relate to her child with love, respect and understanding was probably due to her own emotional deprivation. Who can love, respect, understand another person, if they have not had such basic experiences themselves? It seemed to me that it would be more helpful for her to have learned in this interview that she was respected and understood, even though that understanding was, of necessity, a more generalized concept which accepted the fact that she had reasons for what she did, that she had capacity to change, that changes must come from within herself, that all changes—hers, her husband’s, Dibs’—are motivated by many accumulative experiences.

“I keep that leaf,” he said. “It is very tired and very old. But I keep that leaf. I mounted it and framed it. And I imagine some of the things it must have seen, flying all around the world with the wind. And I read in my books about the countries it saw.”

“It was an accident,” I said.

“Stupid people make accidents!” He shouted. There were tears in his eyes. “The party is over. The children are all gone! There is no more party.” […] He kicked over a chair. He swept the cups from the shelf. “I didn’t want a party,” he shouted. “I didn’t want any other children around.”

“It makes you angry and unhappy when something like that happens,” I said.

Dibs came over to me. “Let’s go down to your office,” he said, “Let’s get out of here. I am not stupid.”

“No. You are not stupid.”

“Oh no, Dibs!” I exclaimed. “That’s scouring powder. Not good to taste!”

He turned and looked at me coldly. This sudden reaction of mine was inconsistent. “How can I tell how it tastes unless I taste?” he asked with dignity.

“I don’t know of any other way,” I told him. “But I don’t think you ought to swallow it. It isn’t good to taste.”

“I weep because I feel again the hurt of doors closed and locked against me,” he sobbed. I put my arm around him.

“You are feeling again the way you used to feel when you were so alone?’ I said.

Dibs glanced back at the doll house. He brushed away his tears and stood there breathing heavily. “The boy will save them,” he said.

“Oh come, Dibs, fix them right,” he said lightly. “There is a correct way to do everything and you get them all in their proper order.”

“Do you think they should always be in a certain order?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” he said with a grin. “That is unless they all are mixed up.”

“Then either way is all right?”

“In here,” he said. “Remember, in here, it’s all right just to be.”

He came over to me and patted my hand. “You understand,” he said with a smile.

Always testing him. Always doubting his capacity. Trying to get closer to him and all the time only building a wall between us. And he always did just enough to keep me at it. I don’t think any child was ever so tormented with the constant demands made upon him that he pass this test and that test—always, always he had to prove that he had capacity. He had no peace. Except when his grandmother came to visit. They had a good relationship with each other. He relaxed with her. He didn’t talk much to her. But she accepted him the way he was and she always believed in him. She used to tell me that if I relaxed and let him alone he’d come out of it all right.

Dibs should learn to accept himself as he was and use his abilities, not deny them. But socially and emotionally, Dibs was achieving new horizons for himself. They were fundamental to his total development. I felt confident that the ability Dibs used in the playroom and at home would spill out into his other experiences. His intellectual abilities had been used to test him. They had become a barrier and a refuge from a world he feared. It had been defensive, self-protective behavior. It had been his isolation. And if Dibs did begin to talk, read, write, draw, in ways far beyond those of the other children around him, he would be avoided by them and isolated for his differences.

But he joined the circle and volunteered to do a dance one day. He made one up, much to the delight of the other children. He wanted to be the wind. He went blowing and swaying around and the children all decided that he should be the wind in the school program. Dibs agreed. He did his part very well. Suddenly in the middle of the dance he decided to sing. He made up the words and the melody. It went something like this. “I am the wind. I blow. I blow. I climb. I climb. I climb the hills and I move the clouds. I bend the trees and I move the grass. No one can stop the wind. I am the wind, a friendly wind, a wind you cannot see. But I am the wind.” He seemed to be unaware of his audience. The children were surprised and delighted. Needless to say, so were we.

As Dibs stood before me now his head was up. He had a feeling of security deep inside himself. He was building a sense of responsibility for his feelings. His feelings of hate and revenge had been tempered with mercy. Dibs was building a concept of self as he groped through the tangled brambles of his mixed-up feelings. He could hate and he could love. He could condemn and he could pardon. He was learning through experience that feelings can twist and turn and lose their sharp edges. He was learning responsible control as well as expression of his feelings. Through this increasing self-knowledge, he would be free to use his capacities and emotions more constructively.

“At first the playroom seemed so very, very big. And the toys were not friendly. And I was so afraid.”

“You were afraid in there, Dibs?”

“Yes.”

“Why were you afraid?”

“I don’t know. I was frightened at first because I didn’t know what you would do and I didn’t know what I would do. But you just said ‘This is all yours, Dibs. Have fun. Nobody is going to hurt you in here.’”

“I said that?”

“Yes,” Dibs said decisively. “That is what you said to me. And gradually I came to believe you. And it was that way. You said for me to go fight my enemies until they cried out and said they were sorry they hurt me.”

There are things far more important in this world than a show of authority and power, more important than revenge and punishment and hurt. As educators, you must unlock the door of ignorance and prejudice and meanness. Unless my friend is given your apologies for this hurt he has received to his pride and self-respect and is reinstated then I shall not return to this school this fall.