# The Art of Helping People Out of Trouble/Chapter 9

What, then, is our neighbor? Thou hast regarded his thought, his feeling, as somehow different from thine. Thou hast said, 'A pain in him is not like a pain in me, but something far easier to bear.' He seems to thee a little less living than thou; his life is dim, it is cold, it is a pale fire beside thy own burning desires. . . . So, dimly and by instinct hast thou lived with thy neighbor, and hast known him not, being blind. Thou hast made [of him] a thing, no Self at all. (Josiah Royce, The Religious Aspect of Philosophy.)
Inasmuch as few people are solitary, most persons being framed in a vast variety of relationships, having families, homes, neighbors, and many other affiliations, there is nothing more important to success in living than an appreciation of our fellows or more fraught with trouble than a failure to understand them. Blindness to the thoughts and desires and feelings of others seems, nevertheless, to be acommon human trait. It is at the bottom of many a maladjustment. It appears again and again as a disturbing factor in marriage, in widowhood, in adolescence, in work, in single life. Nearly everybody has at some time been called upon to repair the damage which it has caused.
The remedy lies, obviously, in clearing away ​whatever misunderstandings exist. It is a work of interpretation, of mediation, and often of arbitration, the underlying principle always being the explanation of one person to another, as, for example, Mrs. Reynolds was explained to her husband.
He was out of patience with her. There had been trouble between them for many months. She was insanely jealous of him and without cause accused him of being unfaithful to her, even going to the hospital to see whether a woman, who was ill there, a fellow employee of his had not supplanted her in his affections. She mistrusted that he was withholding part of his wages from her, as indeed he was, and the disturbance which she made at his place of employment was undoubtedly a factor in bringing about his discharge. When he learned that he had lost his job, he took some money which had come to him as part of a legacy and gave himself up to alcohol. He had not been home for several days when the following interview took place.
"I suppose I am to blame for it all," he began sullenly. "I have done all sorts of things, I suppose, with no cause at all."
"I am neither blaming nor praising you," the ​social case worker replied. "If I did I wouldn't have asked you to come to my office and tell your story."
"Oh, what's the use of my talking," Reynolds retorted unconvinced. "My wife's been blackguarding me to you."
"Now, Mr. Reynolds, you know that I know too much about your situation to be influenced by anything that anybody might say to me, but I can only help you if you will lay your cards down on the table and be fair with me."
"Oh," he exclaimed. "I admit that I've been drinking. Any man would have if he'd been through what I've been through. You take a horse out and beat it and he will act ugly toward you. It's the same way with a human being. If she would only have a little faith in me and speak a kind word to me once in a while, I could go ahead and keep things decent."
"I know it's been hard for you," he was assured, "but your wife has a pretty hard time of it too. She's at home all day working. She scarcely sees anybody except the children and they're a good deal of a trial. Anybody would be nervous with five of them running in and out all day long."
"Yes, but she needn't criticize me to them. ​Why, she even sent Sarah to Fifteenth Street to watch where I went from the factory. The way she talks to me, the children don't respect me any more."
"If you heard how nicely Harry talks about you, you wouldn't think so," the social worker replied. "And, after all, you did tell your wife that your wages were less than they were. That's why she sent Sarah."
"And last pay-day she came herself," Reynolds interrupted, "and made such a fuss that I lost my job."
"She told me all about it," explained the social worker. "She knows that she was responsible for your discharge. She is very sorry. She said so to me several times."
Reynolds was mollified by this. He seemed pleased that his wife had admitted her mistake. "Only I wish she had told it to me," he remarked, and added that it was the loss of his job and Mrs. Reynolds's belief that he had been unfaithful to her which had driven him to drink.
"If it hadn't been for her going to the hospital to see Miss Arsen, I wouldn't have gone on a spree. Miss Arsen is fifty, if she's a day. The only time I ever saw her was at the factory, ex​cept when she first got sick. Then I took her pay to her house. But I had nothing else to do with her, and when my wife went out to the hospital to see her and asked for the maternity ward, that was the last straw."
"Your wife told me about that too." Reynolds stared at the social worker in surprise. "And I think she really feels badly about it and is ashamed."
The man was amazed and appeased by this, too much so to reply, and the social worker continued:
"A good deal of your wife's trouble is caused by her nervousness. People are just like the machines you run at the steel works. Some of them are more complicated and harder to understand than others. If you don't handle them properly, they break and do a lot of damage. When you have a machine you don't understand, don't you try one way and then another until you find the one that works? Think how much time and patience you take over a machine of steel. And how much more complicated human beings are!"
"That's true,' the man admitted. "That's true. She is nervous and I guess she does have a hard time. Well, she seems to know what's what ​now and I'll do the best I can if she will do her part." Then, as he rose to go, he added:
"It's easy for me to keep from drinking. You won't catch me going on another spree now."
He kept his word. Moreover, he made an earnest effort to understand and to conciliate his wife, and it was only her mental condition which ultimately caused them to decide upon a separation as the one possible solution.
In this interview the social worker did three things. She told Mr. Reynolds that his wife recognized her mistakes and was sorry for them. At the same time she did not let him forget that he had not been truthful about his wages. When errors have been made, it is usually wise to dispose of them by admitting them. This clears the way for a new understanding. It would have been better if Mrs. Reynolds could have done this for herself, but, since she could not, there was an advantage in having the social worker act for her, inasmuch as she could point out to Mr. Reynolds wherein he too had been wrong, a task which his wife could scarcely have undertaken without jeopardizing the chances of a better relationship.
The next step consisted in showing Mr. Rey​nolds some of the difficulties which were handicapping his wife. There is no more certain way of bringing about an understanding of an individual than to describe the obstacles with which he or she must contend. It awakens sympathy and also explains the reasons for actions of which otherwise there would be adverse criticism.
Lastly, the interview was clinched by the analogy of the machine and the human being. This was an attempt to interpret Mrs. Reynolds in terms of Mr. Reynolds's own experience. It was an application of that fundamental principle in education which advises one to proceed through the known to the unknown.
Throughout the interview, of which what has been quoted was only a part, the social worker did not fail to give a sympathetic hearing to all that Mr. Reynolds said, even when she was obliged to tell him that she could not agree with him. By the time he left her office he had relieved himself of the emotions which had prevented him from thinking clearly about his predicament. To allow an angry man "to have his say" is the surest method of bringing him to reason. Feelings dissipate themselves in their own explosion, but accumulate in violence as they are forced back by ​antagonism, a law of human nature which every one recognizes in the abstract, but which few observe when the emotional outburst is directed against them or when it is their part to listen to it.
Another important phase of interpretation consists in showing what might be called the average expectation of human beings. This was what Mrs. Cavallo needed to know in order to understand her son, Tony, who ran away from home one day taking with him twenty dollars which she had set aside for the payment of the rent.
"Tony no good—too bad," Mrs. Cavallo complained. "I treat him right. I give him clothes. I give him money for lunches. I give him car-fare."
"That's just the trouble," explained the social worker. "You give him only the money he has to have. You must remember Tony is growing up. He wants a good time, wants to do as other boys of his age do. He sees other boys going to the movies and he wants to go too."
Mrs. Cavallo raised another objection.
"I sit here. I sew all day, all night. He stay out nights, no come in."
"How late?" asked the social worker.
"Sometimes half-past nine, sometimes ten o'clock."
​"That's not so bad," Mrs. Cavallo's visitor assured her. "If a boy of sixteen is in by ten o'clock, that's early enough."
"Tony no good, though," returned the mother, shaking her head. "He steal twenty dollars that I save for house [meaning rent] and coal."
"How did you get the twenty dollars?" her visitor inquired.
"Tony give me his pay every week. I save twenty dollars."
"Well, then," the social worker explained, "Tony probably didn't think that he was stealing the money. He thought it belonged to him. He had earned it. You mustn't expect a boy of his age to feel the same responsibility toward the family that you do."
But Mrs. Cavallo found still another objection.
"Tony just like his father. He no good."
"If Tony has had as bad a father as you say, how do you expect him to support you like a good husband?" was the response. "He hasn't had any example to live up to."
"He talk like his father," continued Mrs. Cavallo, still apparently unconvinced. "He talk bad to me. When I tell him to do something, he talk bad. He say—'I do as I darn please.'"
​"He's always heard his father talk that way," the social worker reminded the mother. "Besides, he thinks he has the right to do as he pleases because he earns his own money."
Thus far Mrs. Cavallo had shown no indication of any appreciation of Tony's side of the argument, except to change the subject after each of the social worker's comments. Now, however, she said:
"A friend tell me my husband say Tony come over there to see him. You, please, go over and see my husband and Tony."
"Will you take Tony back?" the social worker asked.
"Yes," answered Mrs. Cavallo, evidently from a variety of motives. "No good for Tony to be over there. We need Tony."
"Will you give him money from his pay and let him have a good time two or three nights a week?"
"Yes, I do that."
The social worker, having progressed thus far in helping the mother to a more reasonable attitude toward her son, now went to see the father, who was separated from his wife and was living in a neighboring city. Mr. Cavallo promised to tell ​Tony to call to see the social worker, but Tony did not do so. She, therefore, went once more to see Mr. Cavallo, this time in the company of Mrs. Cavallo, who had several matters of business to transact with him. They found father and son together.
The interview that ensued was decidedly to the advantage of the mother. The man was considerably older than the woman, as lifeless and careless as she was energetic and neat. He was not well, and doubtless his irritability was partly due to this cause, but he stormed about needlessly while his wife was quiet and dignified. All the differences that had existed between the two appeared in the discussion and the substantial qualities of Mrs. Cavallo became more and more evident.
The social worker had not planned the interview as a demonstration for Tony, but since it was developing in this way she allowed the boy to watch his parents for a few minutes. Then she took him aside.
"Well, Tony," she said, "I have heard something about this trouble that you and your mother have had, and I'd like to hear your side."
Tony was moody and sullen, but also a bit ashamed.
​"I got tired of giving all my wages to her and hearing her talk," he grumbled.
"Why did she scold you?" the social worker asked.
"She didn't think I ought to go out with the fellows. She didn't want me to go to the movies."
"It was only her desire to do the best for you," the social worker explained. "She meant well. You know that boys sometimes get into trouble by hanging around the streets at night."
"She wouldn't give me my money," Tony objected.
"That was because your mother thought the money could be better spent at home. She has to think of the whole family. You want your sisters to be well dressed, don't you? You ought to be proud because she wants to have nice things and because she keeps the house so clean and neat." The social worker now made a direct plea to the boy. "She's lonely without you. She needs some one at home to protect her. If you will come back, she has promised to give you spending money and to let you go out at night."
Tony was plainly appeased by what the social worker told him, but he was too stubborn to yield at once.
​"Well, I'll think it over," was all he would say. But a few days later he visited his mother and within two weeks he was at home.
In addition to explaining the son to the mother in terms of what boys ordinarily want and do, and the mother to the son in the light of her responsibility as a parent, the social worker in bringing about a better understanding also acted as a negotiator and mediator. She proposed a new working agreement to Mrs. Cavallo and submitted it to Tony. It was a situation in which concessions must needs be made by both. It was a mutual adjustment.
Peter and Annie Ainsley, on the other hand, represent the type of problem in which the adjustment of a family depends chiefly and almost exclusively upon the actions of others. Their relatives had consulted a social worker in order to discover why Peter could not secure a better job and why Annie did not take better care of her home. They could not understand why she did not serve meals at regular hours; why her husband's clothes were never mended; why her little daughter was not started for school early enough to enable the child to arrive there on time, and why, when the family moved into a new home, ​the furniture remained for days exactly where the moving men had left it.
The social worker, having taken the man and the woman to a mental clinic, suggested that the relatives meet for a conference with her. There were ten adults in the group that gathered one evening at the home of Mr. and Mrs. Gardner, the parents of Mrs. Ainsley. All the brothers and sisters of the man and the woman were present. They had brought their children with them and every now and then the discussion was interrupted by the entrance of one or another of the youngsters.
"I am not going to try to repeat the doctor's exact words," the social worker began, for she knew her audience was composed chiefly of persons of no great education. "But it amounts to this: Peter and Annie have never grown up mentally. Their bodies are fully developed and they have the feelings of a man and a woman. They have fallen in love with each other and have married like the rest of you, but their brains are still those of a boy and a girl. Their minds haven't changed since they were seven or eight years old."
Just then one of the children looked in through the door for a moment and then ran away.
​"Suppose Esther were suddenly to be given a great big grown-up person's body to manage," the social worker suggested after the little girl had left, "and suppose she were to have all the grown-up person's responsibilities; the marketing, taking care of the children, finding a new house, planning the meals, and all the other things, wouldn't she make many of the same mistakes that Annie makes? As Esther's body gets older, her mind will grow older too. She will be able to think what to do. She will learn by experience. But Annie so far as her mind is concerned is just where Esther is to-day. She always will be. The same is true of Peter. He and Annie aren't able to decide things for themselves."
"Why, that isn't the way Annie is at all," interrupted one of the sisters. "She knows perfectly well what she wants and she knows how to holler for it too. She certainly can make an uproar if she has a mind to."
"Doesn't that almost prove what I said?" the social worker replied. "Isn't that just the way children act? Surely hollering or making an uproar would not be your or my way of obtaining our wishes."
The company smiled, and the speaker continued:
​"Children know what they want, but they don't always want the right things. We expect adults to decide rightly most of the time at least."
The family was plainly convinced of this point and she turned to another phase of the same question.
"When Annie still lived at home, was she interested in a lot of different things or did she seem to be 'hipped' on only one thing?"
"Oh, my!" exclaimed the sister who had spoken before, "I guess she was 'hipped' all right. She used to be crazy about cleaning and wouldn't even let father sit on any of the chairs after she had dusted. If he did, she'd almost throw a fit. Really, I don't know what's come over her lately, but since the baby came she hasn't cared a bit about anything else."
"Nothing has come over her," the social worker explained. "She simply hasn't the ability to be interested in the many things you can be interested in. She has room for only one interest. Before she was married, she cleaned. After her marriage she wanted furniture and spent all her money for it. When the baby came she did nothing but take care of him and everything else had ​to go—cleaning, furniture, Peter, marketing, everything."
Old Mr. Gardner shook his head.
"Yes," he said, "I knowed right along that Annie was nothing but a child."
"That's it exactly, Mr. Gardner," the social worker concluded. "Annie and Peter are nothing but children. If you'll remember this, you'll have no trouble in understanding them and helping them."
She might have said that they were mental defectives. That she did not was the success of her explanation. She told the relatives about Peter and Annie in terms that were within the range of their experience, using the apparently inexplicable behavior of the Ainsleys as proof of the diagnosis which she advanced—Peter and Annie were nothing but children.
In general, the same methods of interpretation were used both here and in the other instances that have been presented. While the dialogue was devious and prolonged and while what has been reported represents only the climaxes of the various conversations, they all bear testimony to the validity of certain fundamental principles.
If, as with Tony Cavallo, the behavior of the ​person who needs to be explained is normal then it is only necessary to show that other people are doing the same thing; if abnormal, as with the Ainsleys, then the plea for understanding should be based upon the special handicaps of their abnormality. One can usually gain a hearing and a sympathetic interest by describing the obstacles with which the individual in trouble must contend, but as with Mr. Reynolds, one must be careful also to give emotions an opportunity to express themselves. Finally, one must never fail to speak in the language of the experience of the man to whom one is talking, always proceeding through the known to the unknown. To observe these axioms of human intercourse is the essence of the art of helping people to understand each other.