Dibs’s Mother Character Analysis

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.

“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.

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.

“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.”

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

“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.”

“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.

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.

“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.