to	understand	how	their	actions	can	help	generate	the	confidence,	the
curiosity,	the	pleasure	in	learning	and	the	understanding	of	limits”
that	help	children	succeed	in	life.	His	advice	is	informed	by	a	growing
body	of	evidence	showing	that	success	in	school	depends	to	a
surprising	extent	on	emotional	characteristics	formed	in	the	years
before	a	child	enters	school.	As	we	saw	in
Chapter	6
,	for	example,	the
ability	of	four-year-olds	to	control	the	impulse	to	grab	for	a
marshmallow	predicted	a	210-point	advantage	in	their	SAT	scores
fourteen	years	later.
The	first	opportunity	for	shaping	the	ingredients	of	emotional
intelligence	is	in	the	earliest	years,	though	these	capacities	continue	to
form	throughout	the	school	years.	The	emotional	abilities	children
acquire	in	later	life	build	on	those	of	the	earliest	years.	And	these
abilities,	as	we	saw	in
Chapter	6
,	are	the	essential	foundation	for	all
learning.	A	report	from	the	National	Center	for	Clinical	Infant
Programs	makes	the	point	that	school	success	is	not	predicted	by	a
child’s	fund	of	facts	or	a	precocious	ability	to	read	so	much	as	by
emotional	and	social	measures:	being	self-assured	and	interested;
knowing	what	kind	of	behavior	is	expected	and	how	to	rein	in	the
impulse	to	misbehave;	being	able	to	wait,	to	follow	directions,	and	to


turn	to	teachers	for	help;	and	expressing	needs	while	getting	along
with	other	children.
5
Almost	all	students	who	do	poorly	in	school,	says	the	report,	lack


one	or	more	of	these	elements	of	emotional	intelligence	(regardless	of
whether	they	also	have	cognitive	difficulties	such	as	learning
disabilities).	The	magnitude	of	the	problem	is	not	minor;	in	some
states	close	to	one	in	five	children	have	to	repeat	first	grade,	and	then
as	the	years	go	on	fall	further	behind	their	peers,	becoming
increasingly	discouraged,	resentful,	and	disruptive.
A	child’s	readiness	for	school	depends	on	the	most	basic	of	all
knowledge,
how
	to	learn.	The	report	lists	the	seven	key	ingredients	of
this	crucial	capacity—all	related	to	emotional	intelligence:
6
1.
Confidence
.	A	sense	of	control	and	mastery	of	one’s	body,
behavior,	and	world;	the	child’s	sense	that	he	is	more	likely	than	not
to	succeed	at	what	he	undertakes,	and	that	adults	will	be	helpful.
2.
Curiosity
.	The	sense	that	finding	out	about	things	is	positive	and
leads	to	pleasure.
3.
Intentionality
.	The	wish	and	capacity	to	have	an	impact,	and	to
act	upon	that	with	persistence.	This	is	related	to	a	sense	of
competence,	of	being	effective.
4.
Self-control
.	The	ability	to	modulate	and	control	one’s	own
actions	in	age-appropriate	ways;	a	sense	of	inner	control.
5.
Relatedness
.	The	ability	to	engage	with	others	based	on	the	sense


Relatedness
.	The	ability	to	engage	with	others	based	on	the	sense
of	being	understood	by	and	understanding	others.
6.
Capacity	to	communicate
.	The	wish	and	ability	to	verbally
exchange	ideas,	feelings,	and	concepts	with	others.	This	is	related	to	a
sense	of	trust	in	others	and	of	pleasure	in	engaging	with	others,
including	adults.
7.
Cooperativeness
.	The	ability	to	balance	one’s	own	needs	with
those	of	others	in	group	activity.
Whether	or	not	a	child	arrives	at	school	on	the	first	day	of
kindergarten	with	these	capabilities	depends	greatly	on	how	much	her
parents—and	preschool	teachers—have	given	her	the	kind	of	care	that
amounts	to	a	“Heart	Start,”	the	emotional	equivalent	of	the	Head	Start
programs.
GETTING	THE	EMOTIONAL	BASICS
Say	a	two-month-old	baby	wakes	up	at	3
A.M
.	and	starts	crying.	Her
mother	comes	in	and,	for	the	next	half	hour,	the	baby	contentedly


nurses	in	her	mother’s	arms	while	her	mother	gazes	at	her
affectionately,	telling	her	that	she’s	happy	to	see	her,	even	in	the
middle	of	the	night.	The	baby,	content	in	her	mother’s	love,	drifts
back	to	sleep.
Now	say	another	two-month-old	baby,	who	also	awoke	crying	in
the	wee	hours,	is	met	instead	by	a	mother	who	is	tense	and	irritable,
having	fallen	asleep	just	an	hour	before	after	a	fight	with	her
husband.	The	baby	starts	to	tense	up	the	moment	his	mother	abruptly
picks	him	up,	telling	him,	“Just	be	quiet—I	can’t	stand	one	more
thing!	Come	on,	let’s	get	it	over	with.”	As	the	baby	nurses	his	mother
stares	stonily	ahead,	not	looking	at	him,	reviewing	her	fight	with	his
father,	getting	more	agitated	herself	as	she	mulls	it	over.	The	baby,
sensing	her	tension,	squirms,	stiffens,	and	stops	nursing.	“That’s	all
you
want?”	his	mother	says.	“Then	don’t	eat.”	With	the	same
abruptness	she	puts	him	back	in	his	crib	and	stalks	out,	letting	him
cry	until	he	falls	back	to	sleep,	exhausted.
The	two	scenarios	are	presented	by	the	report	from	the	National


The	two	scenarios	are	presented	by	the	report	from	the	National
Center	for	Clinical	Infant	Programs	as	examples	of	the	kinds	of
interaction	that,	if	repeated	over	and	over,	instill	very	different
feelings	in	a	toddler	about	himself	and	his	closest	relationships.
7
	The
first	baby	is	learning	that	people	can	be	trusted	to	notice	her	needs
and	counted	on	to	help,	and	that	she	can	be	effective	in	getting	help;
the	second	is	finding	that	no	one	really	cares,	that	people	can’t	be
counted	on,	and	that	his	efforts	to	get	solace	will	meet	with	failure.	Of
course,	most	babies	get	at	least	a	taste	of	both	kinds	of	interaction.
But	to	the	degree	that	one	or	the	other	is	typical	of	how	parents	treat
a	child	over	the	years,	basic	emotional	lessons	will	be	imparted	about
how	secure	a	child	is	in	the	world,	how	effective	he	feels,	and	how
dependable	others	are.	Erik	Erikson	put	it	in	terms	of	whether	a	child
comes	to	feel	a	“basic	trust”	or	a	basic	mistrust.
Such	emotional	learning	begins	in	life’s	earliest	moments,	and
continues	throughout	childhood.	All	the	small	exchanges	between
parent	and	child	have	an	emotional	subtext,	and	in	the	repetition	of
these	messages	over	the	years	children	form	the	core	of	their


these	messages	over	the	years	children	form	the	core	of	their
emotional	outlook	and	capabilities.	A	little	girl	who	finds	a	puzzle
frustrating	and	asks	her	busy	mother	to	help	gets	one	message	if	the
reply	is	the	mother’s	clear	pleasure	at	the	request,	and	quite	another	if
it’s	a	curt	“Don’t	bother	me—I’ve	got	important	work	to	do.”	When
such	encounters	become	typical	of	child	and	parent,	they	mold	the
child’s	emotional	expectations	about	relationships,	outlooks	that	will


flavor	her	functioning	in	all	realms	of	life,	for	better	or	worse.
The	risks	are	greatest	for	those	children	whose	parents	are	grossly
inept—immature,	abusing	drugs,	depressed	or	chronically	angry,	or
simply	aimless	and	living	chaotic	lives.	Such	parents	are	far	less	likely
to	give	adequate	care,	let	alone	attune	to	their	toddler’s	emotional
needs.	Simple	neglect,	studies	find,	can	be	more	damaging	than
outright	abuse.
8
	A	survey	of	maltreated	children	found	the	neglected
youngsters	doing	the	worst	of	all:	they	were	the	most	anxious,
inattentive,	and	apathetic,	alternately	aggressive	and	withdrawn.	The
rate	for	having	to	repeat	first	grade	among	them	was	65	percent.
The	first	three	or	four	years	of	life	are	a	period	when	the	toddler’s
brain	grows	to	about	two	thirds	its	full	size,	and	evolves	in	complexity
at	a	greater	rate	than	it	ever	will	again.	During	this	period	key	kinds
of	learning	take	place	more	readily	than	later	in	life—emotional
learning	foremost	among	them.
During	this	time	severe	stress	can
impair	the	brain’s	learning	centers	(and	so	be	damaging	to	the
intellect).	Though	as	we	shall	see,	this	can	be	remedied	to	some	extent


by	experiences	later	in	life,	the	impact	of	this	early	learning	is
profound.	As	one	report	sums	up	the	key	emotional	lesson	of	life’s
first	four	years,	the	lasting	consequences	are	great:
A	child	who	cannot	focus	his	attention,	who	is	suspicious	rather	than	trusting,	sad	or
angry	rather	than	optimistic,	destructive	rather	than	respectful	and	one	who	is
overcome	with	anxiety,	preoccupied	with	frightening	fantasy	and	feels	generally
unhappy	about	himself—such	a	child	has	little	opportunity	at	all,	let	alone	equal
opportunity,	to	claim	the	possibilities	of	the	world	as	his	own.
9
HOW	TO	RAISE	A	BULLY
Much	can	be	learned	about	the	lifelong	effects	of	emotionally	inept
parenting—particularly	its	role	in	making	children	aggressive—from
longitudinal	studies	such	as	one	of	870	children	from	upstate	New
York	who	were	followed	from	the	time	they	were	eight	until	they
were	thirty.
10
	The	most	belligerent	among	the	children—those
quickest	to	start	fights	and	who	habitually	used	force	to	get	their	way
—were	the	most	likely	to	have	dropped	out	of	school	and,	by	age
thirty,	to	have	a	record	for	crimes	of	violence.	They	also	seemed	to	be
handing	down	their	propensity	to	violence:	their	children	were,	in


grade	school,	just	like	the	troublemakers	their	delinquent	parent	had


been.
There	is	a	lesson	in	how	aggressiveness	is	passed	from	generation	to
generation.	Any	inherited	propensities	aside,	the	troublemakers	as
grownups	acted	in	a	way	that	made	family	life	a	school	for	aggression.
As	children,	the	troublemakers	had	parents	who	disciplined	them	with
arbitrary,	relentless	severity;	as	parents	they	repeated	the	pattern.
This	was	true	whether	it	had	been	the	father	or	the	mother	who	had
been	identified	in	childhood	as	highly	aggressive.	Aggressive	little
girls	grew	up	to	be	just	as	arbitrary	and	harshly	punitive	when	they
became	mothers	as	the	aggressive	boys	were	as	fathers.	And	while
they	punished	their	children	with	special	severity,	they	otherwise	took
little	interest	in	their	children’s	lives,	in	effect	ignoring	them	much	of
the	time.	At	the	same	time	the	parents	offered	these	children	a	vivid—
and	violent—example	of	aggressiveness,	a	model	the	children	took
with	them	to	school	and	to	the	playground,	and	followed	throughout
life.	The	parents	were	not	necessarily	mean-spirited,	nor	did	they	fail
to	wish	the	best
for	their	children;	rather,	they	seemed	to	be	simply
repeating	the	style	of	parenting	that	had	been	modeled	for	them	by
their	own	parents.
In	this	model	for	violence,	these	children	were	disciplined


In	this	model	for	violence,	these	children	were	disciplined
capriciously:	if	their	parents	were	in	a	bad	mood,	they	would	be
severely	punished;	if	their	parents	were	in	a	good	mood,	they	could
get	away	with	mayhem	at	home.	Thus	punishment	came	not	so	much
because	of	what	the	child	had	done,	but	by	virtue	of	how	the	parent
felt.	This	is	a	recipe	for	feelings	of	worthlessness	and	helplessness,	and
for	the	sense	that	threats	are	everywhere	and	may	strike	at	any	time.
Seen	in	light	of	the	home	life	that	spawns	it,	such	children’s
combative	and	defiant	posture	toward	the	world	at	large	makes	a
certain	sense,	unfortunate	though	it	remains.	What	is	disheartening	is
how	early	these	dispiriting	lessons	can	be	learned,	and	how	grim	the
costs	for	a	child’s	emotional	life	can	be.
ABUSE:	THE	EXTINCTION	OF	EMPATHY
In	the	rough-and-tumble	play	of	the	day-care	center,	Martin,	just	two	and	a	half,
brushed	up	against	a	little	girl,	who,	inexplicably,	broke	out	crying.	Martin	reached	for
her	hand,	but	as	the	sobbing	girl	moved	away,	Martin	slapped	her	on	the	arm.
As	her	tears	continued	Martin	looked	away	and	yelled,	“Cut	it	out!
Cut	it	out!”
	over


Cut	it	out!”
	over
and	over,	each	time	faster	and	louder.


When	Martin	then	made	another	attempt	to	pat	her,	again	she	resisted.	This	time
Martin	bared	his	teeth	like	a	snarling	dog,	hissing	at	the	sobbing	girl.
Once	more	Martin	started	patting	the	crying	girl,	but	the	pats	on	the	back	quickly
turned	into	pounding,	and	Martin	went	on	hitting	and	hitting	the	poor	little	girl
despite	her	screams.
That	disturbing	encounter	testifies	to	how	abuse—being	beaten
repeatedly,	at	the	whim	of	a	parent’s	moods—warps	a	child’s	natural
bent	toward	empathy.
11
	Martin’s	bizarre,	almost	brutal	response	to	his
playmate’s	distress	is	typical	of	children	like	him,	who	have
themselves	been	the	victims	of	beatings	and	other	physical	abuse
since	their	infancy.	The	response	stands	in	stark	contrast	to	toddlers’
usual	sympathetic	entreaties	and	attempts	to	console	a	crying
playmate,	reviewed	in
Chapter	7
.	Martin’s	violent	response	to	distress
at	the	day-care	center	may	well	mirror	the	lessons	he	learned	at	home
about	tears	and	anguish:	crying	is	met	at	first	with	a	peremptory
consoling	gesture,	but	if	it	continues,	the	progression	is	from	nasty
looks	and	shouts,	to
hitting,	to	outright	beating.	Perhaps	most


hitting,	to	outright	beating.	Perhaps	most
troubling,	Martin	already	seems	to	lack	the	most	primitive	sort	of
empathy,	the	instinct	to	stop	aggression	against	someone	who	is	hurt.
At	two	and	a	half	he	displays	the	budding	moral	impulses	of	a	cruel
and	sadistic	brute.
Martin’s	meanness	in	place	of	empathy	is	typical	of	other	children
like	him	who	are	already,	at	their	tender	age,	scarred	by	severe
physical	and	emotional	abuse	at	home.	Martin	was	part	of	a	group	of
nine	such	toddlers,	ages	one	to	three,	witnessed	in	a	two-hour
observation	at	his	day-care	center.	The	abused	toddlers	were
compared	with	nine	others	at	the	day-care	center	from	equally
impoverished,	high-stress	homes,	but	who	were	not	physically	abused.
The	differences	in	how	the	two	groups	of	toddlers	reacted	when
another	child	was	hurt	or	upset	were	stark.	Of	twenty-three	such
incidents,	five	of	the	nine	nonabused	toddlers	responded	to	the
distress	of	a	child	nearby	with	concern,	sadness,	or	empathy.	But	in
the	twenty-seven	instances	where	the	abused	children	could	have
done	so,	not	one	showed	the	least	concern;	instead	they	reacted	to	a


crying	child	with	expressions	of	fear,	anger,	or,	like	Martin,	a	physical
attack.
One	abused	little	girl,	for	instance,	made	a	ferocious,	threatening
face	at	another	who	had	broken	out	into	tears.	One-year-old	Thomas,
another	of	the	abused	children,	froze	in	terror	when	he	heard	a	child


crying	across	the	room;	he	sat	completely	still,	his	face	full	of	fear,
back	stiffly	straight,	his	tension	increasing	as	the	crying	continued—as
though	bracing	for	an	attack	himself.	And	twenty-eight-month-old
Kate,	also	abused,	was	almost	sadistic:	picking	on	Joey,	a	smaller
infant,	she	knocked	him	to	the	ground	with	her	feet,	and	as	he	lay
there	looked	tenderly	at	him	and	began	patting	him	gently	on	the
back—only	to	intensify	the	pats	into	hitting	him	harder	and	harder,
ignoring	his	misery.	She	kept	swinging	away	at	him,	leaning	in	to	slug
him	six	or	seven	times	more,	until	he	crawled	away.
These	children,	of	course,	treat	others	as	they	themselves	have	been
treated.	And	the	callousness	of	these	abused	children	is	simply	a	more
extreme	version	of	that	seen	in	children	whose	parents	are	critical,
threatening,	and	harsh	in	their	punishments.	Such	children	also	tend
to	lack	concern	when	playmates	get	hurt	or	cry;	they	seem	to
represent	one	end	of	a	continuum	of	coldness	that	peaks	with	the
brutality	of	the	abused	children.	As	they	go	on	through	life,	they	are,
as	a	group,	more	likely	to	have	cognitive	difficulties	in	learning,	more


likely	to	be	aggressive	and	unpopular	with	their	peers	(small	wonder,
if	their	preschool	toughness	is	a	harbinger	of	the	future),	more	prone
to	depression,	and,	as	adults,	more	likely	to	get	into	trouble	with	the
law	and	commit	more	crimes	of	violence.
12
This	failure	of	empathy	is	sometimes,	if	not	often,	repeated	over
generations,	with	brutal	parents	having	themselves	been	brutalized	by
their	own	parents	in	childhood.
13
	It	stands	in	dramatic	contrast	to	the
empathy	ordinarily	displayed	by	children	of	parents	who	are
nurturing,	encouraging	their	toddlers	to	show	concern	for	others	and
to	understand	how	meanness	makes	other	children	feel.	Lacking	such
lessons	in	empathy,	these	children	seem	not	to	learn	it	at	all.
What	is	perhaps	most	troubling	about	the	abused	toddlers	is	how
early	they	seem	to	have	learned	to	respond	like	miniature	versions	of
their	own	abusive	parents.	But	given	the	physical	beatings	they
received	as	a	sometimes	daily	diet,	the	emotional	lessons	are	all	too
clear.	Remember	that	it	is	in	moments	when	passions	run	high	or	a
crisis	is	upon	us	that	the	primitive	proclivities	of	the	brain’s	limbic
centers	take	on	a	more	dominant	role.	At	such	moments	the	habits	the


emotional	brain	has	learned	over	and	over	will	dominate,	for	better	or
worse.
Seeing	how	the	brain	itself	is	shaped	by	brutality—or	by	love—
suggests	that	childhood	represents	a	special	window	of	opportunity
for	emotional	lessons.	These	battered	children	have	had	an	early	and


steady	diet	of	trauma.	Perhaps	the	most	instructive	paradigm	for
understanding	the	emotional	learning	such	abused	children	have
undergone	is	in	seeing	how	trauma	can	leave	a	lasting	imprint	on	the
brain—and	how	even	these	savage	imprints	can	be	mended.


13
Trauma	and	Emotional	Relearning
Som	Chit,	a	Cambodian	refugee,	balked	when	her	three	sons	asked	her
to	buy	them	toy	AK-47	machine	guns.	Her	sons—ages	six,	nine,	and
eleven—wanted	the	toy	guns	to	play	the	game	some	of	the	kids	at
their	school	called	Purdy.	In	the	game,	Purdy,	the	villain,	uses	a
submachine	gun	to	massacre	a	group	of	children,	then	turns	it	on
himself.	Sometimes,	though,	the	children	have	it	end	differently:	it	is
they	who	kill	Purdy.
Purdy	was	the	macabre	reenactment	by	some	of	the	survivors	of	the
catastrophic	events	of	February	17,	1989,	at	Cleveland	Elementary
School	in	Stockton,	California.	There,	during	the	school’s	late-morning
recess	for	first,	second,	and	third	graders,	Patrick	Purdy—who	had
himself	attended	those	grades	at	Cleveland	Elementary	some	twenty
years	earlier—stood	at	the	playground’s	edge	and	fired	wave	after
wave	of	7.22	mm	bullets	at	the	hundreds	of	children	at	play.	For
seven	minutes	Purdy	sprayed	bullets	toward	the	playground,	then	put
a	pistol	to	his	head	and	shot	himself.	When	the	police	arrived	they
found	five	children	dying,	twenty-nine	wounded.
In	ensuing	months,	the	Purdy	game	spontaneously	appeared	in	the


In	ensuing	months,	the	Purdy	game	spontaneously	appeared	in	the
play	of	boys	and	girls	at	Cleveland	Elementary,	one	of	many	signs	that
those	seven	minutes	and	their	aftermath	were	seared	into	the
children’s	memory.	When	I	visited	the	school,	just	a	short	bike	ride
from	the	neighborhood	near	the	University	of	the	Pacific	where	I
myself	had	grown	up,	it	was	five	months	after	Purdy	had	turned	that
recess	into	a	nightmare.	His	presence	was	still	palpable,	even	though
the	most	horrific	of	the	grisly	remnants	of	the	shooting—swarms	of
bullet	holes,	pools	of	blood,	bits	of	flesh,	skin,	and	scalp—were	gone
by	the	morning	after	the	shooting,	washed	away	and	painted	over.
By	then	the	deepest	scars	at	Cleveland	Elementary	were	not	to	the
building	but	to	the	psyches	of	the	children	and	staff	there,	who	were
trying	to	carry	on	with	life	as	usual.
1
	Perhaps	most	striking	was	how
the	memory	of	those	few	minutes	was	revived	again	and	again	by	any
small	detail	that	was	similar	in	the	least.	A	teacher	told	me,	for


example,	that	a	wave	of	fright	swept	through	the	school	with	the
announcement	that	St.	Patrick’s	Day	was	coming;	a	number	of	the
children	somehow	got	the	idea	that	the	day	was	to	honor	the	killer,
Patrick	Purdy.
“Whenever	we	hear	an	ambulance	on	its	way	to	the	rest	home	down
the	street,	everything	halts,”	another	teacher	told	me.	“The	kids	all
listen	to	see	if	it	will	stop	here	or	go	on.”	For	several	weeks	many
children	were	terrified	of	the	mirrors	in	the	restrooms;	a	rumor	swept
the	school	that	“Bloody	Virgin	Mary,”	some	kind	of	fantasied	monster,
lurked	there.	Weeks	after	the	shooting	a	frantic	girl	came	running	up
to	the	school’s	principal,	Pat	Busher,	yelling,	“I	hear	shots!	I	hear
shots!”	The	sound	was	from	the	swinging	chain	on	a	tetherball	pole.
Many	children	became	hypervigilant,	as	though	continually	on
guard	against	a	repetition	of	the	terror;	some	boys	and	girls	would
hover	at	recess	next	to	the	classroom	doors,	not	daring	to	venture	out
to	the	playground	where	the	killings	had	occurred.	Others	would	only
play	in	small	groups,	posting	a	designated	child	as	lookout.	Many
continued	for	months	to	avoid	the	“evil”	areas,	where	children	had
died.


died.
The	memories	lived	on,	too,	as	disturbing	dreams,	intruding	into
the	children’s	unguarded	minds	as	they	slept.	Apart	from	nightmares
repeating	the	shooting	itself	in	some	way,	children	were	flooded	with
anxiety	dreams	that	left	them	apprehensive	that	they	too	would	die
soon.	Some	children	tried	to	sleep	with	their	eyes	open	so	they
wouldn’t	dream.
All	of	these	reactions	are	well	known	to	psychiatrists	as	among	the
key	symptoms	of	post-traumatic	stress	disorder,	or	PTSD.	At	the	core
of	such	trauma,	says	Dr.	Spencer	Eth,	a	child	psychiatrist	who
specializes	in	PTSD	in	children,	is	“the	intrusive	memory	of	the
central	violent	action:	the	final	blow	with	a	fist,	the	plunge	of	a	knife,
the	blast	of	a	shotgun.	The	memories	are	intense	perceptual
experiences—the	sight,	sound,	and	smell	of	gunfire;	the	screams	or
sudden	silence	of	the	victim;	the	splash	of	blood;	the	police	sirens.”
These	vivid,	terrifying	moments,	neuroscientists	now	say,	become
memories	emblazoned	in	the	emotional	circuitry.	The	symptoms	are,
in	effect,	signs	of	an	overaroused	amygdala	impelling	the	vivid
memories	of	a	traumatic	moment	to	continue	to	intrude	on	awareness.


As	such,	the	traumatic	memories
become	mental	hair	triggers,	ready
to	sound	an	alarm	at	the	least	hint	that	the	dread	moment	is	about	to
happen	once	again.	This	hair-trigger	phenomenon	is	a	hallmark	of


emotional	trauma	of	all	kinds,	including	suffering	repeated	physical
abuse	in	childhood.
Any	traumatizing	event	can	implant	such	trigger	memories	in	the
amygdala:	a	fire	or	an	auto	accident,	being	in	a	natural	catastrophe
such	as	an	earthquake	or	a	hurricane,	being	raped	or	mugged.
Hundreds	of	thousands	of	people	each	year	endure	such	disasters,	and
many	or	most	come	away	with	the	kind	of	emotional	wounding	that
leaves	its	imprint	on	the	brain.
Violent	acts	are	more	pernicious	than	natural	catastrophes	such	as	a
hurricane	because,	unlike	victims	of	a	natural	disaster,	victims	of
violence	feel	themselves	to	have	been	intentionally	selected	as	the
target	of	malevolence.	That	fact	shatters	assumptions	about	the
trustworthiness	of	people	and	the	safety	of	the	interpersonal	world,	an
assumption	natural	catastrophes	leave	untouched.	Within	an	instant,
the	social	world	becomes	a	dangerous	place,	one	in	which	people	are
potential	threats	to	your	safety.
Human	cruelties	stamp	their	victims’	memories	with	a	template	that
regards	with	fear	anything	vaguely	similar	to	the	assault	itself.	A	man
who	was	struck	on	the	back	of	his	head,	never	seeing	his	attacker,	was
so	frightened	afterward	that	he	would	try	to	walk	down	the	street


directly	in	front	of	an	old	lady	to	feel	safe	from	being	hit	on	the	head
again.
2
	A	woman	who	was	mugged	by	a	man	who	got	on	an	elevator
with	her	and	forced	her	out	at	knifepoint	to	an	unoccupied	floor	was
fearful	for	weeks	of	going	into	not	just	elevators,	but	also	the	subway
or	any	other	enclosed	space	where	she	might	feel	trapped;	she	ran
from	her	bank	when	she	saw	a	man	put	his	hand	in	his	jacket	as	the
mugger	had	done.
The	imprint	of	horror	in	memory—and	the	resulting	hypervigilance
—can	last	a	lifetime,	as	a	study	of	Holocaust	survivors	found.	Close	to
fifty	years	after	they	had	endured	semistarvation,	the	slaughter	of
their	loved	ones,	and	constant	terror	in	Nazi	death	camps,	the
haunting	memories	were	still	alive.	A	third	said	they	felt	generally
fearful.	Nearly	three	quarters	said	they	still	became	anxious	at
reminders	of	the	Nazi	persecution,	such	as	the	sight	of	a	uniform,	a
knock	at	the	door,	dogs	barking,	or	smoke	rising	from	a	chimney.
About	60	percent	said	they	thought	about	the	Holocaust	almost	daily,
even	after	a	half	century;	of	those	with	active	symptoms,	as	many	as


eight	in	ten	still	suffered	from	repeated	nightmares.	As	one	survivor
said,	“If	you’ve	been	through	Auschwitz	and	you	don’t	have
nightmares,	then	you’re	not	normal.”


HORROR	FROZEN	IN	MEMORY
The	words	of	a	forty-eight-year-old	Vietnam	vet,	some	twenty-four
years	after	enduring	a	horrifying	moment	in	a	faraway	land:
I	can’t	get	the	memories	out	of	my	mind!	The	images	come	flooding	back	in	vivid
detail,	triggered	by	the	most	inconsequential	things,	like	a	door	slamming,	the	sight	of
an	Oriental	woman,	the	touch	of	a	bamboo	mat,	or	the	smell	of	stir-fried	pork.	Last
night	I	went	to	bed,	was	having	a	good	sleep	for	a	change.	Then	in	the	early	morning	a
storm	front	passed	through	and	there	was	a	bolt	of	crackling	thunder.	I	awoke
instantly,	frozen	in	fear.	I	am	right	back	in	Vietnam,	in	the	middle	of	the	monsoon
season	at	my	guard	post.	I	am	sure	I’ll	get	hit	in	the	next	volley	and	convinced	I	will
die.	My	hands	are	freezing,	yet	sweat	pours	from	my	entire	body.	I	feel	each	hair	on
the	back	of	my	neck	standing	on	end.	I	can’t	catch	my	breath	and	my	heart	is
pounding.	I	smell	a	damp	sulfur	smell.	Suddenly	I	see	what’s	left	of	my	buddy
Troy	…	on	a	bamboo	platter,	sent	back	to	our	camp	by	the	Vietcong.…	The	next	bolt


of	lightning	and	clap	of	thunder	makes	me	jump	so	much	that	I	fall	to	the	floor.
3
This	horrible	memory,	vividly	fresh	and	detailed	though	more	than
two	decades	old,	still	holds	the	power	to	induce	the	same	fear	in	this
ex-soldier	that	he	felt	on	that	fateful	day.	PTSD	represents	a	perilous
lowering	of	the	neural	setpoint	for	alarm,	leaving	the	person	to	react
to	life’s	ordinary	moments	as	though	they	were	emergencies.	The
hijacking	circuit	discussed	in
Chapter	2
	seems	critical	in	leaving	such
a	powerful	brand	on	memory:	the	more	brutal,	shocking,	and
horrendous	the	events	that	trigger	the	amygdala	hijacking,	the	more
indelible	the	memory.	The	neural	basis	for	these	memories	appears	to
be	a	sweeping	alteration	in	the	chemistry	of	the	brain	set	in	motion	by
a	single	instance	of	overwhelming	terror.
4
	While	the	PTSD	findings
are	typically	based	on	the	impact	of	a	single	episode,	similar	results
can	come	from	cruelties	inflicted	over	a	period	of	years,	as	is	the	case
with	children	who	are	sexually,	physically,	or	emotionally	abused.
The	most	detailed	work	on	these	brain	changes	is	being	done	at	the
National	Center	for	Post-Traumatic	Stress	Disorder,	a	network	of


research	sites	based	at	Veterans’	Administration	hospitals	where	there
are	large	pools	of	those	who	suffer	from	PTSD	among	the	veterans	of
Vietnam	and	other	wars.	It	is	from	studies	on	vets	such	as	these	that
most	of	our	knowledge	of	PTSD	has	come.	But	these	insights	apply	as
well	to	children	who	have	suffered	severe	emotional	trauma,	such	as
those	at	Cleveland	Elementary.


“Victims	of	a	devastating	trauma	may	never	be	the	same
biologically,”	Dr.	Dennis	Charney	told	me.
5
	A	Yale	psychiatrist,
Charney	is	director	of	clinical	neuroscience	at	the	National	Center.	“It
does	not	matter	if	it	was	the	incessant	terror	of	combat,	torture,	or
repeated	abuse	in	childhood,	or	a	one-time	experience,	like	being
trapped	in	a	hurricane	or	nearly	dying	in	an	auto	accident.	All
uncontrollable	stress	can	have	the	same	biological	impact.”
The	operative	word	is
uncontrollable
.	If	people	feel	there	is
something	they	can	do	in	a	catastrophic	situation,	some	control	they
can	exert,	no	matter	how	minor,	they	fare	far	better	emotionally	than
do	those	who	feel	utterly	helpless.	The	element	of	helplessness	is	what
makes	a	given	event
subjectively
	overwhelming.	As	Dr.	John	Krystal,
director	of	the	center’s	Laboratory	of	Clinical	Psychopharmacology,
told	me,	“Say	someone	being	attacked	with	a	knife	knows	how	to
defend	himself	and	takes	action,	while	another	person	in	the	same
predicament	thinks,	‘I’m	dead.’	The	helpless	person	is	the	one	more
susceptible	to	PTSD	afterward.	It’s	the	feeling	that	your	life	is	in
danger


danger
and	there’s	nothing	you	can	do	to	escape	it
—that’s	the	moment
the	brain	change	begins.”
Helplessness	as	the	wild	card	in	triggering	PTSD	has	been	shown	in
dozens	of	studies	on	pairs	of	laboratory	rats,	each	in	a	different	cage,
each	being	given	mild—but,	to	a	rat,	very	stressful—electric	shocks	of
identical	severity.	Only	one	rat	has	a	lever	in	its	cage;	when	the	rat
pushes	the	lever,	the	shock	stops	for	both	cages.	Over	days	and	weeks,
both	rats	get	precisely	the	same	amount	of	shock.	But	the	rat	with	the
power	to	turn	the	shocks	off	comes	through	without	lasting	signs	of
stress.	It	is	only	in	the	helpless	one	of	the	pair	that	the	stress-induced
brain	changes	occur.
6
	For	a	child	being	shot	at	on	a	playground,
seeing	his	playmates	bleeding	and	dying—or	for	a	teacher	there,
unable	to	stop	the	carnage—that	helplessness	must	have	been
palpable.
PTSD	AS	A

LIMBIC	DISORDER
It	had	been	months	since	a	huge	earthquake	shook	her	out	of	bed	and
sent	her	yelling	in	panic	through	the	darkened	house	to	find	her	four-
year-old	son.	They	huddled	for	hours	in	the	Los	Angeles	night	cold


under	a	protective	doorway,	pinned	there	without	food,	water,	or
light	while	wave	after	wave	of	aftershocks	tumbled	the	ground


beneath	them.	Now,	months	later,	she	had	largely	recovered	from	the
ready	panic	that	gripped	her	for	the	first	few	days	afterward,	when	a
door	slamming	could	start	her	shivering	with	fear.	The	one
lingering
symptom	was	her	inability	to	sleep,	a	problem	that	struck	only	on
those	nights	her	husband	was	away—as	he	had	been	the	night	of	the
quake.
The	main	symptoms	of	such	learned	fearfulness—including	the	most
intense	kind,	PTSD—can	be	accounted	for	by	changes	in	the	limbic
circuitry	focusing	on	the	amygdala.
7
	Some	of	the	key	changes	are	in
the	locus	ceruleus,	a	structure	that	regulates	the	brain’s	secretion	of
two	substances	called
catecholamines:
	adrenaline	and	noradrenaline.
These	neurochemicals	mobilize	the	body	for	an	emergency;	the	same
catecholamine	surge	stamps	memories	with	special	strength.	In	PTSD
this	system	becomes	hyperreactive,	secreting	extra-large	doses	of
these	brain	chemicals	in	response	to	situations	that	hold	little	or	no
threat	but	somehow	are	reminders	of	the	original	trauma,	like	the
children	at	Cleveland	Elementary	School	who	panicked	when	they
heard	an	ambulance	siren	similar	to	those	they	had	heard	at	their
school	after	the	shooting.


school	after	the	shooting.
The	locus	ceruleus	and	the	amygdala	are	closely	linked,	along	with
other	limbic	structures	such	as	the	hippocampus	and	hypothalamus;
the	circuitry	for	the	catecholamines	extends	into	the	cortex.	Changes
in	these	circuits	are	thought	to	underlie	PTSD	symptoms,	which
include	anxiety,	fear,	hypervigilance,	being	easily	upset	and	aroused,
readiness	for	fight	or	flight,	and	the	indelible	encoding	of	intense
emotional	memories.
8
	Vietnam	vets	with	PTSD,	one	study	found,	had
40	percent	fewer	catecholamine-stopping	receptors	than	did	men
without	the	symptoms—suggesting	that	their	brains	had	undergone	a
lasting	change,	with	their	catecholamine	secretion	poorly	controlled.
9
Other	changes	occur	in	the	circuit	linking	the	limbic	brain	with	the
pituitary	gland,	which	regulates	release	of	CRF,	the	main	stress
hormone	the	body	secretes	to	mobilize	the	emergency	fight-or-flight
response.	The	changes	lead	this	hormone	to	be	oversecreted—
particularly	in	the	amygdala,	hippocampus,	and	locus	ceruleus—
alerting	the	body	for	an	emergency	that	is	not	there	in	reality.
10
As	Dr.	Charles	Nemeroff,	a	Duke	University	psychiatrist,	told	me,


“Too	much	CRF	makes	you	overreact.	For	example,	if	you’re	a
Vietnam	vet	with	PTSD	and	a	car	backfires	at	the	mall	parking	lot,	it
is	the	triggering	of	CRF	that	floods	you	with	the	same	feelings	as	in
the	original	trauma:	you	start	sweating,	you’re	scared,	you	have	chills


and	the	shakes,	you	may	have	flashbacks.	In	people	who	hypersecrete
CRF,	the	startle	response	is	overactive.	For	example,	if	you	sneak	up
behind	most	people	and	suddenly	clap	your	hands,	you’ll	see	a
startled	jump	the	first	time,	but	not	by	the	third	or	fourth	repetition.
But	people	with	too	much	CRF	don’t	habituate:	they’ll	respond	as
much	to	the	fourth	clap	as	to	the	first.”
11
A	third	set	of	changes	occurs	in	the	brain’s	opioid	system,	which
secretes	endorphins	to	blunt	the	feeling	of	pain.	It	also	becomes
hyperactive.	This	neural	circuit	again	involves	the	amygdala,	this	time
in	concert	with	a	region	in	the	cerebral	cortex.	The	opioids	are	brain
chemicals	that	are	powerful	numbing	agents,	like	opium	and	other
narcotics	that	are	chemical	cousins.	When	experiencing	high	levels	of
opioids	(“the	brain’s	own	morphine”),	people	have	a	heightened
tolerance	for	pain—an	effect	that	has	been	noted	by	battlefield
surgeons,	who	found	severely	wounded	soldiers	needed	lower	doses	of
narcotics	to	handle	their	pain	than	did	civilians	with	far	less	serious
injuries.
Something	similar	seems	to	occur	in	PTSD.
12
	Endorphin	changes


12
	Endorphin	changes
add	a	new	dimension	to	the	neural	mix	triggered	by	reexposure	to
trauma:	a
numbing
	of	certain	feelings.	This	appears	to	explain	a	set	of
“negative”	psychological	symptoms	long	noted	in	PTSD:	anhedonia
(the	inability	to	feel	pleasure)	and	a	general	emotional	numbness,	a
sense	of	being	cut	off	from	life	or	from	concern	about	others’	feelings.
Those	close	to	such	people	may	experience	this	indifference	as	a	lack
of	empathy.	Another	possible	effect	may	be	dissociation,	including	the
inability	to	remember	crucial	minutes,	hours,	or	even	days	of	the
traumatic	event.
The	neural	changes	of	PTSD	also	seem	to	make	a	person	more
susceptible	to	further	traumatizing.	A	number	of	studies	with	animals
have	found	that	when	they	were	exposed	even	to
mild
	stress	when
young,	they	were	far	more	vulnerable	than	unstressed	animals	to
trauma-induced	brain	changes	later	in	life	(suggesting	the	urgent	need
to	treat	children	with	PTSD).	This	seems	a	reason	that,	exposed	to	the
same	catastrophe,	one	person	goes	on	to	develop	PTSD	and	another
does	not:	the	amygdala	is	primed	to	find	danger,	and	when	life
presents	it	once	again	with	real	danger,	its	alarm	rises	to	a	higher
pitch.


pitch.
All	these	neural	changes	offer	short-term	advantages	for	dealing
with	the	grim	and	dire	emergencies	that	prompt	them.	Under	duress,
it	is	adaptive	to	be	highly	vigilant,	aroused,	ready	for	anything,


impervious	to	pain,	the	body	primed	for	sustained	physical	demands,
and—for	the	moment—indifferent	to	what	might	otherwise	be
intensely	disturbing	events.	These	short-term	advantages,	however,
become	lasting	problems	when	the	brain	changes	so	that	they	become
predispositions,	like	a	car	stuck	in	perpetual	high	gear.	When	the
amygdala	and	its	connected	brain	regions	take	on	a	new	setpoint
during	a	moment	of	intense	trauma,	this	change	in	excitability—this
heightened	readiness	to	trigger	a	neural	hijacking—means	all	of	life	is
on	the	verge
of	becoming	an	emergency,	and	even	an	innocent
moment	is	susceptible	to	an	explosion	of	fear	run	amok.
EMOTIONAL	RELEARNING
Such	traumatic	memories	seem	to	remain	as	fixtures	in	brain	function
because	they	interfere	with	subsequent	learning—specifically,	with
relearning	a	more	normal	response	to	those	traumatizing	events.	In
acquired	fear	such	as	PTSD,	the	mechanisms	of	learning	and	memory
have	gone	awry;	again,	it	is	the	amygdala	that	is	key	among	the	brain
regions	involved.	But	in	overcoming	the	learned	fear,	the	neocortex	is
critical.
Fear	conditioning
	is	the	name	psychologists	use	for	the	process
whereby	something	that	is	not	in	the	least	threatening	becomes
dreaded	as	it	is	associated	in	someone’s	mind	with	something


dreaded	as	it	is	associated	in	someone’s	mind	with	something
frightening.	When	such	frights	are	induced	in	laboratory	animals,
Charney	notes,	the	fears	can	last	for	years.
13
	The	key	region	of	the
brain	that	learns,	retains,	and	acts	on	this	fearful	response	is	the
circuit	between	the	thalamus,	amygdala,	and	prefrontal	lobe—the
pathway	of	neural	hijacking.
Ordinarily,	when	someone	learns	to	be	frightened	by	something
through	fear	conditioning,	the	fear	subsides	with	time.	This	seems	to
happen	through	a	natural	relearning,	as	the	feared	object	is
encountered	again	in	the	absence	of	anything	truly	scary.	Thus	a	child
who	acquires	a	fear	of	dogs	because	of	being	chased	by	a	snarling
German	shepherd	gradually	and	naturally	loses	that	fear	if,	say,	she
moves	next	door	to	someone	who	owns	a	friendly	shepherd,	and
spends	time	playing	with	the	dog.
In	PTSD	spontaneous	relearning	fails	to	occur.	Charney	proposes
that	this	may	be	due	to	the	brain	changes	of	PTSD,	which	are	so
strong	that,	in	effect,	the	amygdala	hijacking	occurs	every	time


something	even	vaguely	reminiscent	of	the	original	trauma	comes
along,	strengthening	the	fear	pathway.	This	means	that	there	is	never
a	time	when	what	is	feared	is	paired	with	a	feeling	of	calm—the
amygdala	never	relearns	a	more	mild	reaction.	“Extinction”	of	the
fear,	he	observes,	“appears	to	involve	an	active	learning	process,”
which	is	itself	impaired	in	people	with	PTSD,	“leading	to	the
abnormal	persistence	of	emotional	memories.”
14
But	given	the	right	experiences,	even	PTSD	can	lift;	strong
emotional	memories,	and	the	patterns	of	thought	and	reaction	that
they	trigger,
can
	change	with	time.	This	relearning,	Charney	proposes,
is	cortical.	The	original
fear	ingrained	in	the	amygdala	does	not	go
away	completely;	rather,	the	prefrontal	cortex	actively	suppresses	the
amygdala’s	command	to	the	rest	of	the	brain	to	respond	with	fear.
“The	question	is,	how	quickly	do	you	let	go	of	learned	fear?”	asks
Richard	Davidson,	the	University	of	Wisconsin	psychologist	who
discovered	the	role	of	the	left	prefrontal	cortex	as	a	damper	on
distress.	In	a	laboratory	experiment	in	which	people	first	learned	an
aversion	to	a	loud	noise—a	paradigm	for	learned	fear,	and	a	lower-


key	parallel	of	PTSD—Davidson	found	that	people	who	had	more
activity	in	the	left	prefrontal	cortex	got	over	the	acquired	fear	more
quickly,	again	suggesting	a	cortical	role	in	letting	go	of	learned
distress.
15
REEDUCATING	THE	EMOTIONAL	BRAIN
One	of	the	more	encouraging	findings	about	PTSD	came	from	a	study
of	Holocaust	survivors,	about	three	quarters	of	whom	were	found	to
have	active	PTSD	symptoms	even	a	half	century	later.	The	positive
finding	was	that	a	quarter	of	the	survivors	who	once	had	been
troubled	by	such	symptoms	no	longer	had	them;	somehow	the	natural
events	of	their	lives	had	counteracted	the	problem.	Those	who	still
had	the	symptoms	showed	evidence	of	the	catecholamine-related
brain	changes	typical	of	PTSD—but	those	who	had	recovered	had	no
such	changes.
16
	This	finding,	and	others	like	it,	hold	out	the	promise
that	the	brain	changes	in	PTSD	are	not	indelible,	and	that	people	can
recover	from	even	the	most	dire	emotional	imprinting—in	short,	that
the	emotional	circuitry	can	be	reeducated.	The	good	news,	then,	is
that	traumas	as	profound	as	those	causing	PTSD	can	heal,	and	that	the
route	to	such	healing	is	through	relearning.


One	way	this	emotional	healing	seems	to	occur	spontaneously—at
least	in	children—is	through	such	games	as	Purdy.	These	games,
played	over	and	over	again,	let	children	relive	a	trauma	safely,	as
play.	This	allows	two	avenues	for	healing:	on	the	one	hand,	the
memory	repeats	in	a	context	of	low	anxiety,	desensitizing	it	and
allowing	a	nontraumatized	set	of	responses	to	become	associated	with
it.	Another	route	to	healing	is	that,	in	their	minds,	children	can
magically	give	the	tragedy	another,	better	outcome:	sometimes	in
playing	Purdy,	the	children	kill	him,	boosting	their	sense	of	mastery
over	that	traumatic	moment	of	helplessness.
Games	like	Purdy	are	predictable	in	younger	children	who	have
been	through	such	overwhelming	violence.	These	macabre	games	in
traumatized
children	were	first	noted	by	Dr.	Lenore	Terr,	a	child
psychiatrist	in	San	Francisco.
17
	She	found	such	games	among	children
in	Chowchilla,	California—just	a	little	over	an	hour	down	the	Central
Valley	from	Stockton,	where	Purdy	wreaked	such	havoc—who	in
1973	had	been	kidnapped	as	they	rode	a	bus	home	from	a	summer
day	camp.	The	kidnappers	buried	the	bus,	children	and	all,	in	an
ordeal	that	lasted	twenty-seven	hours.


ordeal	that	lasted	twenty-seven	hours.
Five	years	later	Terr	found	the	kidnapping	still	being	reenacted	in
the	victims’	games.	Girls,	for	example,	played	symbolic	kidnapping
games	with	their	Barbie	dolls.	One	girl,	who	had	hated	the	feeling	of
other	children’s	urine	on	her	skin	as	they	lay	huddled	together	in
terror,	washed	her	Barbie	over	and	over	again.	Another	played
Traveling	Barbie,	in	which	Barbie	travels	somewhere—it	doesn’t
matter	where—and	returns	safely,	which	is	the	point	of	the	game.	A
third	girl’s	favorite	was	a	scenario	in	which	the	doll	is	stuck	in	a	hole
and	suffocates.
While	adults	who	have	been	through	overwhelming	trauma	can
suffer	a	psychic	numbing,	blocking	out	memory	of	or	feeling	about
the	catastrophe,	children’s	psyches	often	handle	it	differently.	They
less	often	become	numb	to	the	trauma,	Terr	believes,	because	they	use
fantasy,	play,	and	daydreams	to	recall	and	rethink	their	ordeals.	Such
voluntary	replays	of	trauma	seem	to	head	off	the	need	for	damming
them	up	in	potent	memories	that	can	later	burst	through	as
flashbacks.	If	the	trauma	is	minor,	such	as	going	to	the	dentist	for	a


filling,	just	once	or	twice	may	be	enough.	But	if	it’s	overwhelming,	a
child	needs	endless	repetitions,	replaying	the	trauma	over	and	over
again	in	a	grim,	monotonous	ritual.
One	way	to	get	at	the	picture	frozen	in	the	amygdala	is	through	art,


which	itself	is	a	medium	of	the	unconscious.	The	emotional	brain	is
highly	attuned	to	symbolic	meanings	and	to	the	mode	Freud	called
the	“primary	process”:	the	messages	of	metaphor,	story,	myth,	the
arts.	This	avenue	is	often	used	in	treating	traumatized	children.
Sometimes	art	can	open	the	way	for	children	to	talk	about	a	moment
of	horror	that	they	would	not	dare	speak	of	otherwise.
Spencer	Eth,	the	Los	Angeles	child	psychiatrist	who	specializes	in
treating	such	children,	tells	of	a	five-year-old	boy	who	had	been
kidnapped	with	his	mother	by	her	ex-lover.	The	man	brought	them	to
a	motel	room,	where	he	ordered	the	boy	to	hide	under	a	blanket	while
he	beat	the	mother	to	death.	The	boy	was,	understandably,	reluctant
to	talk	with	Eth	about	the	mayhem	he	had	heard	and	seen	while
underneath	the	blanket.	So	Eth	asked	him	to	draw	a	picture—any
picture.
The	drawing	was	of	a	race-car	driver	who	had	a	strikingly	large	pair
of
eyes,	Eth	recalls.	The	huge	eyes	Eth	took	to	refer	to	the	boy’s	own
daring	in	peeking	at	the	killer.	Such	hidden	references	to	the
traumatic	scene	almost	always	appear	in	the	artwork	of	traumatized


traumatic	scene	almost	always	appear	in	the	artwork	of	traumatized
children;	Eth	has	made	having	such	children	draw	a	picture	the
opening	gambit	in	therapy.	The	potent	memories	that	preoccupy	them
intrude	in	their	art	just	as	in	their	thoughts.	Beyond	that,	the	act	of
drawing	is	itself	therapeutic,	beginning	the	process	of	mastering	the
trauma.
EMOTIONAL	RELEARNING	AND	RECOVERY	FROM	TRAUMA
Irene	had	gone	on	a	date	that	ended	in	attempted	rape.	Though	she	had	fought	off	the
attacker,	he	continued	to	plague	her:	harassing	her	with	obscene	phone	calls,	making
threats	of	violence,	calling	in	the	middle	of	the	night,	stalking	her	and	watching	her
every	move.	Once,	when	she	tried	to	get	the	police	to	help,	they	dismissed	her	problem
as	trivial,	since	“nothing	had	really	happened.”	By	the	time	she	came	for	therapy	Irene
had	symptoms	of	PTSD,	had	given	up	socializing	at	all,	and	felt	a	prisoner	in	her	own
house.
Irene’s	case	is	cited	by	Dr.	Judith	Lewis	Herman,	a	Harvard
psychiatrist	whose	groundbreaking	work	outlines	the	steps	to	recovery
from	trauma.	Herman	sees	three	stages:	attaining	a	sense	of	safety,
remembering	the	details	of	the	trauma	and	mourning	the	loss	it	has


remembering	the	details	of	the	trauma	and	mourning	the	loss	it	has
brought,	and	finally	reestablishing	a	normal	life.	There	is	a	biological


logic	to	the	ordering	of	these	steps,	as	we	shall	see:	this	sequence
seems	to	reflect	how	the	emotional	brain	learns	once	again	that	life
need	not	be	regarded	as	an	emergency	about	to	happen.
The	first	step,	regaining	a	sense	of	safety,	presumably	translates	to
finding	ways	to	calm	the	too-fearful,	too	easily	triggered	emotional
circuits	enough	to	allow	relearning.
18
	Often	this	begins	with	helping
patients	understand	that	their	jumpiness	and	nightmares,
hypervigilance	and	panics,	are	part	of	the	symptoms	of	PTSD.	This
understanding	makes	the	symptoms	themselves	less	frightening.
Another	early	step	is	to	help	patients	regain	some	sense	of	control
over	what	is	happening	to	them,	a	direct	unlearning	of	the	lesson	of
helplessness	that	the	trauma	itself	imparted.	Irene,	for	example,
mobilized	her	friends	and	family	to	form	a	buffer	between	her	and	her
stalker,	and	was	able	to	get	the	police	to	intervene.
The	sense	in	which	PTSD	patients	feel	“unsafe”	goes	beyond	fears
that
dangers	lurk	around	them;	their	insecurity	begins	more
intimately,	in	the	feeling	that	they	have	no	control	over	what	is
happening	in	their	body	and	to	their	emotions.	This	is	understandable,
given	the	hair	trigger	for	emotional	hijacking	that	PTSD	creates	by


given	the	hair	trigger	for	emotional	hijacking	that	PTSD	creates	by
hypersensitizing	the	amygdala	circuitry.
Medication	offers	one	way	to	restore	patients’	sense	that	they	need
not	be	so	at	the	mercy	of	the	emotional	alarms	that	flood	them	with
inexplicable	anxiety,	keep	them	sleepless,	or	pepper	their	sleep	with
nightmares.	Pharmacologists	are	hoping	one	day	to	tailor	medications
that	will	target	precisely	the	effects	of	PTSD	on	the	amygdala	and
connected	neurotransmitter	circuits.	For	now,	though,	there	are
medications	that	counter	only	some	of	these	changes,	notably	the
antidepressants	that	act	on	the	serotonin	system,	and	beta-blockers
like	propranolol,	which	block	the	activation	of	the	sympathetic
nervous	system.	Patients	also	may	learn	relaxation	techniques	that
give	them	the	ability	to	counter	their	edginess	and	nervousness.	A
physiological	calm	opens	a	window	for	helping	the	brutalized
emotional	circuitry	rediscover	that	life	is	not	a	threat	and	for	giving
back	to	patients	some	of	the	sense	of	security	they	had	in	their	lives
before	the	trauma	happened.
Another	step	in	healing	involves	retelling	and	reconstructing	the
story	of	the	trauma	in	the	harbor	of	that	safety,	allowing	the


emotional	circuitry	to	acquire	a	new,	more	realistic	understanding	of
and	response	to	the	traumatic	memory	and	its	triggers.	As	patients
retell	the	horrific	details	of	the	trauma,	the	memory	starts	to	be


transformed,	both	in	its	emotional	meaning	and	in	its	effects	on	the
emotional	brain.	The	pace	of	this	retelling	is	delicate;	ideally	it
mimics	the	pace	that	occurs	naturally	in	those	people	who	are	able	to
recover	from	trauma	without	suffering	PTSD.	In	these	cases	there
often	seems	to	be	an	inner	clock	that	“doses”	people	with	intrusive
memories	that	relive	the	trauma,	intercut	with	weeks	or	months	when
they	remember	hardly	anything	of	the	horrible	events.
19
This	alternation	of	reimmersion	and	respite	seems	to	allow	for	a
spontaneous	review	of	the	trauma	and	relearning	of	emotional
response	to	it.	For	those	whose	PTSD	is	more	intractable,	says
Herman,	retelling	their	tale	can	sometimes	trigger	overwhelming
fears,	in	which	case	the	therapist	should	ease	the	pace	to	keep	the
patient’s	reactions	within	a	bearable	range,	one	that	will	not	disrupt
the	relearning.
The	therapist	encourages	the	patient	to	retell	the	traumatic	events
as	vividly	as	possible,	like	a	horror	home	video,	retrieving	every
sordid	detail.	This	includes	not	just	the	specifics	of	what	they	saw,
heard,	smelled,	and	felt,	but	also	their	reactions—the	dread,	disgust,
nausea.	The	goal	here	is	to	put	the	entire	memory	into	words,	which


means	capturing	parts	of	the	memory
that	may	have	been	dissociated
and	so	are	absent	from	conscious	recall.	By	putting	sensory	details	and
feelings	into	words,	presumably	memories	are	brought	more	under
control	of	the	neocortex,	where	the	reactions	they	kindle	can	be
rendered	more	understandable	and	so	more	manageable.	The
emotional	relearning	at	this	point	is	largely	accomplished	through
reliving	the	events	and	their	emotions,	but	this	time	in	surroundings
of	safety	and	security,	in	the	company	of	a	trusted	therapist.	This
begins	to	impart	a	telling	lesson	to	the	emotional	circuitry—that
security,	rather	than	unremitting	terror,	can	be	experienced	in	tandem
with	the	trauma	memories.
The	five-year-old	who	drew	the	picture	of	the	giant	eyes	after	he
witnessed	the	grisly	murder	of	his	mother	did	not	make	any	more
drawings	after	that	first	one;	instead	he	and	his	therapist,	Spencer	Eth,
played	games,	creating	a	bond	of	rapport.	Only	slowly	did	he	begin	to
retell	the	story	of	the	murder,	at	first	in	a	stereotyped	way,	reciting
each	detail	exactly	the	same	in	each	telling.	Gradually,	though,	his
narrative	became	more	open	and	free-flowing,	his	body	less	tense	as


he	told	it.	At	the	same	time	his	nightmares	of	the	scene	came	less
often,	an	indication,	says	Eth,	of	some	“trauma	mastery.”	Gradually
their	talk	moved	away	from	the	fears	left	by	the	trauma	to	more	of


what	was	happening	in	the	boy’s	day-to-day	life	as	he	adjusted	to	a
new	home	with	his	father.	And	finally	the	boy	was	able	to	talk	just
about	his	daily	life	as	the	hold	of	the	trauma	faded.
Finally,	Herman	finds	that	patients	need	to	mourn	the	loss	the
trauma	brought—whether	an	injury,	the	death	of	a	loved	one	or	a
rupture	in	a	relationship,	regret	over	some	step	not	taken	to	save
someone,	or	just	the	shattering	of	confidence	that	people	can	be
trusted.	The	mourning	that	ensues	while	retelling	such	painful	events
serves	a	crucial	purpose:	it	marks	the	ability	to	let	go	of	the	trauma
itself	to	some	degree.	It	means	that	instead	of	being	perpetually
captured	by	this	moment	in	the	past,	patients	can	start	to	look	ahead,
even	to	hope,	and	to	rebuild	a	new	life	free	of	the	trauma’s	grip.	It	is
as	if	the	constant	recycling	and	reliving	of	the	trauma’s	terror	by	the
emotional	circuitry	were	a	spell	that	could	finally	be	lifted.	Every
siren	need	not	bring	a	flood	of	fear;	every	sound	in	the	night	need	not
compel	a	flashback	to	terror.
Aftereffects	or	occasional	recurrences	of	symptoms	often	persist,
says	Herman,	but	there	are	specific	signs	that	the	trauma	has	largely


been	overcome.	These	include	reducing	the	physiological	symptoms	to
a	manageable	level,	and	being	able	to	bear	the	feelings	associated
with	memories	of	the	trauma.	Especially	significant	is	no	longer
having	trauma	memories	erupt	at	uncontrollable	moments,	but	rather
being	able	to	revisit	them	voluntarily,
like	any	other	memory—and,
perhaps	more	important,	to	put	them	aside	like	any	other	memory.
Finally,	it	means	rebuilding	a	new	life,	with	strong,	trusting
relationships	and	a	belief	system	that	finds	meaning	even	in	a	world
where	such	injustice	can	happen.
20
	All	of	these	together	are	markers
of	success	in	reeducating	the	emotional	brain.
PSYCHOTHERAPY	AS	AN	EMOTIONAL	TUTORIAL
Fortunately,	the	catastrophic	moments	in	which	traumatic	memories
are	emblazoned	are	rare	during	the	course	of	life	for	most	of	us.	But
the	same	circuitry	that	can	be	seen	so	boldly	imprinting	traumatic
memories	is	presumably	at	work	in	life’s	quieter	moments,	too.	The
more	ordinary	travails	of	childhood,	such	as	being	chronically	ignored
and	deprived	of	attention	or	tenderness	by	one’s	parents,
abandonment	or	loss,	or	social	rejection	may	never	reach	the	fever
pitch	of	trauma,	but	they	surely	leave	their	imprint	on	the	emotional


brain,	creating	distortions—and	tears	and	rages—in	intimate
relationships	later	in	life.	If	PTSD	can	be	healed,	so	can	the	more
muted	emotional	scars	that	so	many	of	us	bear;	that	is	the	task	of
psychotherapy.	And,	in	general,	it	is	in	learning	to	deal	skillfully	with
these	loaded	reactions	that	emotional	intelligence	comes	into	play.
The	dynamic	between	the	amygdala	and	the	more	fully	informed
reactions	of	the	prefrontal	cortex	may	offer	a	neuroanatomical	model
for	how	psychotherapy	reshapes	deep,	maladaptive	emotional
patterns.	As	Joseph	LeDoux,	the	neuroscientist	who	discovered	the
amygdala’s	hair-trigger	role	in	emotional	outbursts,	conjectures,
“Once	your	emotional	system	learns	something,	it	seems	you	never	let
it	go.	What	therapy	does	is	teach	you	to	control	it—it	teaches	your
neocortex	how	to	inhibit	your	amygdala.	The	propensity	to	act	is
suppressed,	while	your	basic	emotion	about	it	remains	in	a	subdued
form.”
Given	the	brain	architecture	that	underlies	emotional	relearning,
what	seems	to	remain,	even	after	successful	psychotherapy,	is	a
vestigial	reaction,	a	remnant	of	the	original	sensitivity	or	fear	at	the
root	of	a	troubling	emotional	pattern.
21
	The	prefrontal	cortex	can


21
	The	prefrontal	cortex	can
refine	or	put	the	brakes	on	the	amygdala’s	impulse	to	rampage,	but
cannot	keep	it	from	reacting	in	the	first	place.	Thus	while	we	cannot
decide
when
	we	have	our	emotional	outbursts,	we	have	more	control
over
how	long
	they	last.	A	quicker	recovery	time	from	such	outbursts
may	well	be	one	mark	of	emotional	maturity.
Over	the	course	of	therapy,	what	seems	to	change	in	the	main	are
the
responses
	that	people	make	once	an	emotional	reaction	is	triggered
—but	the	tendency	for	the	reaction	to	be	triggered	in	the	first	place
does	not	disappear	entirely.	Evidence	for	this	comes	from	a	series	of
studies	of	psychotherapy	conducted	by	Lester	Luborsky	and	his
colleagues	at	the	University	of	Pennsylvania.
22
	They	analyzed	the
main	relationship	conflicts	that	brought	dozens	of	patients	into
psychotherapy—issues	such	as	a	deep	craving	to	be	accepted	or	find
intimacy,	or	a	fear	of	being	a	failure	or	being	overly	dependent.	They
then	carefully	analyzed	the	typical	(always	self-defeating)	responses
the	patients	made	when	these	wishes	and	fears	were	activated	in	their
relationships—responses	such	as	being	too	demanding,	which	created
a	backlash	of	anger	or	coldness	in	the	other	person,	or	withdrawing	in


self-defense	from	an	anticipated	slight,	leaving	the	other	person
miffed	by	the	seeming	rebuff.	During	such	ill-fated	encounters,	the
patients,	understandably,	felt	flooded	by	upsetting	feelings—


hopelessness	and	sadness,	resentment	and	anger,	tension	and	fear,
guilt	and	self-blame,	and	so	on.	Whatever	the	specific	pattern	of	the
patient,	it	seemed	to	show	up	in	most	every	important	relationship,
whether	with	a	spouse	or	lover,	a	child	or	parent,	or	peers	and	bosses
at	work.
Over	the	course	of	long-term	therapy,	however,	these	patients	made
two	kinds	of	changes:	their	emotional	reaction	to	the	triggering	events
became	less	distressing,	even	calm	or	bemused,	and	their	overt
responses	became	more	effective	in	getting	what	they	truly	wanted
from	the	relationship.	What	did	not	change,	however,	was	their
underlying	wish	or	fear,	and	the	initial	twinge	of	feeling.	By	the	time
the	patients	had	but	a	few	sessions	left	in	therapy,	the	encounters	they
told	about	showed	they	had	only	half	as	many	negative	emotional
reactions	compared	to	when	they	first	started	therapy,	and	were	twice
as	likely	to	get	the	positive	response	they	deeply	desired	from	the
other	person.	But	what	did	not	change	at	all	was	the	particular
sensitivity	at	the	root	of	these	needs.
In	brain	terms,	we	can	speculate,	the	limbic	circuitry	would	send
alarm	signals	in	response	to	cues	of	a	feared	event,	but	the	prefrontal


cortex	and	related	zones	would	have	learned	a	new,	more	healthy
response.	In	short,	emotional	lessons—even	the	most	deeply
implanted	habits	of	the	heart	learned	in	childhood—can	be	reshaped.
Emotional	learning	is	lifelong.


14
Temperament	Is	Not	Destiny
So	much	for	altering	emotional	patterns	that	have	been	learned.	But
what	about	those	responses	that	are	givens	of	our	genetic	endowment
—what	of	changing	the	habitual	reactions	of	people	who	by	nature
are,	say,	highly	volatile,	or	painfully	shy?	This	range	of	the	emotional
compass	falls	under	the	sweep	of	temperament,	the	background
murmur	of	feelings	that	mark	our	basic	disposition.	Temperament	can
be	defined	in	terms	of	the	moods	that	typify	our	emotional	life.	To
some	degree	we	each	have	such	a	favored	emotional	range;
temperament	is	a	given	at	birth,	part	of	the	genetic	lottery	that	has
compelling	force	in	the	unfolding	of	life.	Every	parent	has	seen	this:
from	birth	a	child	will	be	calm	and	placid	or	testy	and	difficult.	The
question	is	whether	such	a	biologically	determined	emotional	set	can
be	changed	by	experience.	Does	our	biology	fix	our	emotional	destiny,
or	can	even	an	innately	shy	child	grow	into	a	more	confident	adult?
The	clearest	answer	to	this	question	comes	from	the	work	of	Jerome
Kagan,	the	eminent	developmental	psychologist	at	Harvard
University.
1
	Kagan	posits	that	there	are	at	least	four	temperamental


Kagan	posits	that	there	are	at	least	four	temperamental
types—timid,	bold,	upbeat,	and	melancholy—and	that	each	is	due	to	a
different	pattern	of	brain	activity.	There	are	likely	innumerable
differences	in	temperamental	endowment,	each	based	in	innate
differences	in	emotional	circuitry;	for	any	given	emotion	people	can
differ	in	how	easily	it	triggers,	how	long	it	lasts,	how	intense	it
becomes.	Kagan’s	work	concentrates	on	one	of	these	patterns:	the
dimension	of	temperament	that	runs	from	boldness	to	timidity.
For	decades	mothers	have	been	bringing	their	infants	and	toddlers
to	Kagan’s	Laboratory	for	Child	Development	on	the	fourteenth	floor
of
Harvard’s	William	James	Hall	to	take	part	in	his	studies	of	child
development.	It	was	there	that	Kagan	and	his	coresearchers	noticed
early	signs	of	shyness	in	a	group	of	twenty-one-month-old	toddlers
brought	for	experimental	observations.	In	free	play	with	other
toddlers,	some	were	bubbly	and	spontaneous,	playing	with	other
babies	without	the	least	hesitation.	Others,	though,	were	uncertain


and	hesitant,	hanging	back,	clinging	to	their	mothers,	quietly
watching	the	others	at	play.	Almost	four	years	later,	when	these	same
children	were	in	kindergarten,	Kagan’s	group	observed	them	again.
Over	the	intervening	years	none	of	the	outgoing	children	had	become
timid,	while	two	thirds	of	the	timid	ones	were	still	reticent.
Kagan	finds	that	children	who	are	overly	sensitive	and	fearful	grow
into	shy	and	timorous	adults;	from	birth	about	15	to	20	percent	of
children	are	“behaviorally	inhibited,”	as	he	calls	them.	As	infants,
these	children	are	timid	about	anything	unfamiliar.	This	makes	them
finicky	about	eating	new	foods,	reluctant	to	approach	new	animals	or
places,	and	shy	around	strangers.	It	also	renders	them	sensitive	in
other	ways—for	example,	prone	to	guilt	and	self-reproach.	These	are
the	children	who	become	paralyzingly	anxious	in	social	situations:	in
class	and	on	the	playground,	when	meeting	new	people,	whenever	the
social	spotlight	shines	on	them.	As	adults,	they	are	prone	to	be
wallflowers,	and	morbidly	afraid	of	having	to	give	a	speech	or
perform	in	public.
Tom,	one	of	the	boys	in	Kagan’s	study,	is	typical	of	the	shy	type.	At


every	measurement	through	childhood—two,	five,	and	seven	years	of
age—Tom	was	among	the	most	timid	children.	When	interviewed	at
thirteen,	Tom	was	tense	and	stiff,	biting	his	lip	and	wringing	his
hands,	his	face	impassive,	breaking	into	a	tight	smile	only	when
talking	about	his	girlfriend;	his	answers	were	short,	his	manner
subdued.
2
	Throughout	the	middle	years	of	childhood,	until	about	age
eleven,	Tom	remembers	being	painfully	shy,	breaking	into	a	sweat
whenever	he	had	to	approach	playmates.	He	was	also	troubled	by
intense	fears:	of	his	house	burning	down,	of	diving	into	a	swimming
pool,	of	being	alone	in	the	dark.	In	frequent	nightmares,	he	was
attacked	by	monsters.	Though	he	has	felt	less	shy	in	the	last	two	years
or	so,	he	still	feels	some	anxiety	around	other	children,	and	his
worries	now	center	on	doing	well	at	school,	even	though	he	is	in	the
top	5	percent	of	his	class.	The	son	of	a	scientist,	Tom	finds	a	career	in
that	field	appealing,	since	its	relative	solitude	fits	his	introverted
inclinations.
By	contrast,	Ralph	was	one	of	the	boldest	and	most	outgoing


children	at	every	age.	Always	relaxed	and	talkative,	at	thirteen	he	sat
back	at	ease	in	his
chair,	had	no	nervous	mannerisms,	and	spoke	in	a
confident,	friendly	tone,	as	though	the	interviewer	were	a	peer—
though	the	difference	in	their	ages	was	twenty-five	years.	During
childhood	he	had	only	two	short-lived	fears—one	of	dogs,	after	a	big


dog	jumped	on	him	at	age	three,	and	another	of	flying,	when	he	heard
about	plane	crashes	at	age	seven.	Sociable	and	popular,	Ralph	has
never	thought	of	himself	as	shy.
The	timid	children	seem	to	come	into	life	with	a	neural	circuitry
that	makes	them	more	reactive	to	even	mild	stress—from	birth,	their
hearts	beat	faster	than	other	infants’	in	response	to	strange	or	novel
situations.	At	twenty-one	months,	when	the	reticent	toddlers	were
holding	back	from	playing,	heart	rate	monitors	showed	that	their
hearts	were	racing	with	anxiety.	That	easily	aroused	anxiety	seems	to
underlie	their	lifelong	timidity:	they	treat	any	new	person	or	situation
as	though	it	were	a	potential	threat.	Perhaps	as	a	result,	middle-aged
women	who	remember	having	been	especially	shy	in	childhood,	when
compared	with	their	more	outgoing	peers,	tend	to	go	through	life	with
more	fears,	worries,	and	guilt,	and	to	suffer	more	from	stress-related
problems	such	as	migraine	headaches,	irritable	bowel,	and	other
stomach	problems.
3
THE	NEUROCHEMISTRY	OF	TIMIDITY
The	difference	between	cautious	Tom	and	bold	Ralph,	Kagan	believes,
lies	in	the	excitability	of	a	neural	circuit	centered	on	the	amygdala.


Kagan	proposes	that	people	like	Tom,	who	are	prone	to	fearfulness,
are	born	with	a	neurochemistry	that	makes	this	circuit	easily	aroused,
and	so	they	avoid	the	unfamiliar,	shy	away	from	uncertainty,	and
suffer	anxiety.	Those	who,	like	Ralph,	have	a	nervous	system
calibrated	with	a	much	higher	threshold	for	amygdala	arousal,	are
less	easily	frightened,	more	naturally	outgoing,	and	eager	to	explore
new	places	and	meet	new	people.
An	early	clue	to	which	pattern	a	child	has	inherited	is	how	difficult
and	irritable	she	is	as	an	infant,	and	how	distressed	she	becomes	when
confronted	with	something	or	someone	unfamiliar.	While	about	one	in
five	infants	falls	into	the	timid	category,	about	two	in	five	have	the
bold	temperament—at	least	at	birth.
Part	of	Kagan’s	evidence	comes	from	observations	of	cats	that	are
unusually	timid.	About	one	in	seven	housecats	has	a	pattern	of
fearfulness	akin	to	the	timid	children’s:	they	draw	away	from	novelty
(instead	of	exhibiting	a	cat’s	legendary	curiosity),	they	are	reluctant	to
explore	new	territory,	and
they	attack	only	the	smallest	rodents,	being
too	timid	to	take	on	larger	ones	that	their	more	courageous	feline


peers	would	pursue	with	gusto.	Direct	brain	probes	have	found	that
portions	of	the	amygdala	are	unusually	excitable	in	these	timid	cats,
especially	when,	for	instance,	they	hear	a	threatening	howl	from
another	cat.
The	cats’	timidity	blossoms	at	about	one	month	of	age,	which	is	the
point	when	their	amygdala	matures	enough	to	take	control	of	the
brain	circuitry	to	approach	or	avoid.	One	month	in	kitten	brain
maturation	is	akin	to	eight	months	in	a	human	infant;	it	is	at	eight	or
nine	months,	Kagan	notes,	that	“stranger”	fear	appears	in	babies—if
the	baby’s	mother	leaves	a	room	and	there	is	a	stranger	present,	the
result	is	tears.	Timid	children,	Kagan	postulates,	may	have	inherited
chronically	high	levels	of	norepinephrine	or	other	brain	chemicals
that	activate	the	amygdala	and	so	create	a	low	threshold	of
excitability,	making	the	amygdala	more	easily	triggered.
One	sign	of	this	heightened	sensitivity	is	that,	for	example,	when
young	men	and	women	who	were	quite	shy	in	childhood	are
measured	in	a	laboratory	while	exposed	to	stresses	such	as	harsh
smells,	their	heart	rate	stays	elevated	much	longer	than	for	their	more
outgoing	peers—a	sign	that	surging	norepinephrine	is	keeping	their


amygdala	excited	and,	through	connected	neural	circuits,	their
sympathetic	nervous	system	aroused.
4
	Kagan	finds	that	timid	children
have	higher	levels	of	reactivity	across	the	range	of	sympathetic
nervous	system	indices,	from	higher	resting	blood	pressure	and
greater	dilation	of	the	pupils,	to	higher	levels	of	norepinephrine
markers	in	their	urine.
Silence	is	another	barometer	of	timidity.	Whenever	Kagan’s	team
observed	shy	and	bold	children	in	a	natural	setting—in	their
kindergarten	classes,	with	other	children	they	did	not	know,	or	talking
with	an	interviewer—the	timid	children	talked	less.	One	timid
kindergartener	would	say	nothing	when	other	children	spoke	to	her,
and	spent	most	of	her	day	just	watching	the	others	play.	Kagan
speculates	that	a	timid	silence	in	the	face	of	novelty	or	a	perceived
threat	is	a	sign	of	the	activity	of	a	neural	circuit	running	between	the
forebrain,	the	amygdala,	and	nearby	limbic	structures	that	control	the
ability	to	vocalize	(these	same	circuits	make	us	“choke	up”	under
stress).
These	sensitive	children	are	at	high	risk	for	developing	an	anxiety
disorder	such	as	panic	attacks,	starting	as	early	as	sixth	or	seventh
grade.	In	one	study	of	754	boys	and	girls	in	those	grades,	44	were


found	to	have	already	suffered	at	least	one	episode	of	panic,	or	to


have	had	several	preliminary	symptoms.	These	anxiety	episodes	were
usually	triggered	by	the	ordinary	alarms	of	early	adolescence,	such	as
a	first	date	or	a	big	exam—alarms	that	most	children
handle	without
developing	more	serious	problems.	But	teenagers	who	were	timid	by
temperament	and	who	had	been	unusually	frightened	by	new
situations	got	panic	symptoms	such	as	heart	palpitations,	shortness	of
breath,	or	a	choking	feeling,	along	with	the	feeling	that	something
horrible	was	going	to	happen	to	them,	like	going	crazy	or	dying.	The
researchers	believe	that	while	the	episodes	were	not	significant
enough	to	rate	the	psychiatric	diagnosis	“panic	disorder,”	they	signal
that	these	teenagers	would	be	at	greater	risk	for	developing	the
disorder	as	the	years	went	on;	many	adults	who	suffer	panic	attacks
say	the	attacks	began	during	their	teen	years.
5
The	onset	of	the	anxiety	attacks	was	closely	tied	to	puberty.	Girls
with	few	signs	of	puberty	reponed	no	such	attacks,	but	of	those	who
had	gone	through	puberty	about	8	percent	said	they	had	experienced
panic.	Once	they	have	had	such	an	attack,	they	are	prone	to
developing	the	dread	of	a	recurrence	that	leads	people	with	panic
disorder	to	shrink	from	life.


disorder	to	shrink	from	life.
NOTHING	BOTHERS	ME:	THE	CHEERFUL	TEMPERAMENT
In	the	1920s,	as	a	young	woman,	my	aunt	June	left	her	home	in
Kansas	City	and	ventured	on	her	own	to	Shanghai—a	dangerous
journey	for	a	solitary	woman	in	those	years.	There	June	met	and
married	a	British	detective	in	the	colonial	police	force	of	that
international	center	of	commerce	and	intrigue.	When	the	Japanese
captured	Shanghai	at	the	outset	of	World	War	II,	my	aunt	and	her
husband	were	interned	in	the	prison	camp	depicted	in	the	book	and
movie
Empire	of	the	Sun
.	After	surviving	five	horrific	years	in	the
prison	camp,	she	and	her	husband	had,	literally,	lost	everything.
Penniless,	they	were	repatriated	to	British	Columbia.
I	remember	as	a	child	first	meeting	June,	an	ebullient	elderly
woman	whose	life	had	followed	a	remarkable	course.	In	her	later
years	she	suffered	a	stroke	that	left	her	partly	paralyzed;	after	a	slow
and	arduous	recovery	she	was	able	to	walk	again,	but	with	a	limp.	In
those	years	I	remember	going	for	an	outing	with	June,	then	in	her
seventies.	Somehow	she	wandered	off,	and	after	several	minutes	I


heard	a	feeble	yell—June	crying	for	help.	She	had	fallen	and	could


not	get	up	on	her	own.	I	rushed	to	help	her	up,	and	as	I	did	so,	instead
of	complaining	or	lamenting	she	laughed	at	her	predicament.	Her	only
comment	was	a	lighthearted	“Well,	at	least	I	can	walk	again.”
By	nature,	some	people’s	emotions	seem,	like	my	aunt’s,	to	gravitate
toward	the	positive	pole;	these	people	are	naturally	upbeat	and
easygoing,	while	others	are	dour	and	melancholy.	This	dimension	of
temperament—ebullience
at	one	end,	melancholy	at	the	other—seems
linked	to	the	relative	activity	of	the	right	and	left	prefrontal	areas,	the
upper	poles	of	the	emotional	brain.	That	insight	has	emerged	largely
from	the	work	of	Richard	Davidson,	a	University	of	Wisconsin
psychologist.	He	discovered	that	people	who	have	greater	activity	in
the	left	frontal	lobe,	compared	to	the	right,	are	by	temperament
cheerful;	they	typically	take	delight	in	people	and	in	what	life
presents	them	with,	bouncing	back	from	setbacks	as	my	aunt	June
did.	But	those	with	relatively	greater	activity	on	the	right	side	are
given	to	negativity	and	sour	moods,	and	are	easily	fazed	by	life’s
difficulties;	in	a	sense,	they	seem	to	suffer	because	they	cannot	turn
off	their	worries	and	depressions.


off	their	worries	and	depressions.
In	one	of	Davidson’s	experiments	volunteers	with	the	most
pronounced	activity	in	the	left	frontal	areas	were	compared	with	the
fifteen	who	showed	most	activity	on	the	right.	Those	with	marked
right	frontal	activity	showed	a	distinctive	pattern	of	negativity	on	a
personality	test:	they	fit	the	caricature	portrayed	by	Woody	Allen’s
comedy	roles,	the	alarmist	who	sees	catastrophe	in	the	smallest	thing
—prone	to	funks	and	moodiness,	and	suspicious	of	a	world	they	saw
as	fraught	with	overwhelming	difficulties	and	lurking	dangers.	By
contrast	to	their	melancholy	counterparts,	those	with	stronger	left
frontal	activity	saw	the	world	very	differently.	Sociable	and	cheerful,
they	typically	felt	a	sense	of	enjoyment,	were	frequently	in	good
moods,	had	a	strong	sense	of	self-confidence,	and	felt	rewardingly
engaged	in	life.	Their	scores	on	psychological	tests	suggested	a	lower
lifetime	risk	for	depression	and	other	emotional	disorders.
6
People	who	have	a	history	of	clinical	depression,	Davidson	found,
had	lower	levels	of	brain	activity	in	the	left	frontal	lobe,	and	more	on
the	right,	than	did	people	who	had	never	been	depressed.	He	found
the	same	pattern	in	patients	newly	diagnosed	with	depression.


the	same	pattern	in	patients	newly	diagnosed	with	depression.
Davidson	speculates	that	people	who	overcome	depression	have
learned	to	increase	the	level	of	activity	in	their	left	prefrontal	lobe—a
speculation	awaiting	experimental	testing.
Though	his	research	is	on	the	30	percent	or	so	of	people	at	the


extremes,	just	about	anyone	can	be	classified	by	their	brain	wave
patterns	as	tending	toward	one	or	the	other	type,	says	Davidson.	The
contrast	in	temperament	between	the	morose	and	the	cheerful	shows
up	in	many	ways,	large	and	small.	For	example,	in	one	experiment
volunteers	watched	short	film	clips.	Some	were	amusing—a	gorilla
taking	a	bath,	a	puppy	at	play.	Others,	like	an	instructional	film	for
nurses	featuring	grisly	details	of	surgery,	were	quite	distressing.	The
right-hemisphere,	somber	folks	found	the	happy	movies	only	mildly
amusing,	but	they	felt	extreme	fear	and	disgust	in	reaction	to	the
surgical	blood	and	gore.	The	cheerful	group	had	minimal	reactions	to
the
surgery;	their	strongest	reactions	were	of	delight	when	they	saw
the	upbeat	films.
Thus	we	seem	by	temperament	primed	to	respond	to	life	in	either	a
negative	or	a	positive	emotional	register.	The	tendency	toward	a
melancholy	or	upbeat	temperament—like	that	toward	timidity	or
boldness—emerges	within	the	first	year	of	life,	a	fact	that	strongly
suggests	it	too	is	genetically	determined.	Like	most	of	the	brain,	the
frontal	lobes	are	still	maturing	in	the	first	few	months	of	life,	and	so


their	activity	cannot	be	reliably	measured	until	the	age	of	ten	months
or	so.	But	in	infants	that	young,	Davidson	found	that	the	activity	level
of	the	frontal	lobes	predicted	whether	they	would	cry	when	their
mothers	left	the	room.	The	correlation	was	virtually	100	percent:	of
dozens	of	infants	tested	this	way,	every	infant	who	cried	had	more
brain	activity	on	the	right	side,	while	those	who	did	not	had	more
activity	on	the	left.
Still,	even	if	this	basic	dimension	of	temperament	is	laid	down	from
birth,	or	very	nearly	from	birth,	those	of	us	who	have	the	morose
pattern	are	not	necessarily	doomed	to	go	through	life	brooding	and
crotchety.	The	emotional	lessons	of	childhood	can	have	a	profound
impact	on	temperament,	either	amplifying	or	muting	an	innate
predisposition.	The	great	plasticity	of	the	brain	in	childhood	means
that	experiences	during	those	years	can	have	a	lasting	impact	on	the
sculpting	of	neural	pathways	for	the	rest	of	life.	Perhaps	the	best
illustration	of	the	kinds	of	experiences	that	can	alter	temperament	for
the	better	is	in	an	observation	that	emerged	from	Kagan’s	research
with	timid	children.
TAMING	THE	OVEREXCITABLE	AMYGDALA


The	encouraging	news	from	Kagan’s	studies	is	that	not	all	fearful
infants	grow	up	hanging	back	from	life—temperament	is	not	destiny.
The	overexcitable	amygdala	can	be	tamed,	with	the	right	experiences.
What	makes	the	difference	are	the	emotional	lessons	and	responses
children	learn	as	they	grow.	For	the	timid	child,	what	matters	at	the
outset	is	how	they	are	treated	by	their	parents,	and	so	how	they	learn
to	handle	their	natural	timidness.	Those	parents	who	engineer	gradual
emboldening	experiences	for	their	children	offer	them	what	may	be	a
lifelong	corrective	to	their	fearfulness.
About	one	in	three	infants	who	come	into	the	world	with	all	the
signs	of	an	overexcitable	amygdala	have	lost	their	timidness	by	the
time	they	reach	kindergarten.
7
	From	observations	of	these	once-
fearful	children	at	home,	it	is
clear	that	parents,	and	especially
mothers,	play	a	major	role	in	whether	an	innately	timid	child	grows
bolder	with	time	or	continues	to	shy	away	from	novelty	and	become
upset	by	challenge.	Kagan’s	research	team	found	that	some	of	the
mothers	held	to	the	philosophy	that	they	should	protect	their	timid
toddlers	from	whatever	was	upsetting;	others	felt	that	it	was	more


important	to	help	their	timid	child	learn	how	to	cope	with	these
upsetting	moments,	and	so	adapt	to	life’s	small	struggles.	The
protective	belief	seems	to	have	abetted	the	fearfulness,	probably	by
depriving	the	youngsters	of	opportunities	for	learning	how	to
overcome	their	fears.	The	“learn	to	adapt”	philosophy	of	childrearing
seems	to	have	helped	fearful	children	become	braver.
Observations	in	the	homes	when	the	babies	were	about	six	months
old	found	that	the	protective	mothers,	trying	to	soothe	their	infants,
picked	them	up	and	held	them	when	they	fretted	or	cried,	and	did	so
longer	than	those	mothers	who	tried	to	help	their	infants	learn	to
master	these	moments	of	upset.	The	ratio	of	times	the	infants	were
held	when	calm	and	when	upset	showed	that	the	protective	mothers
held	their	infants	much	longer	during	the	upsets	than	the	calm
periods.
Another	difference	emerged	when	the	infants	were	around	one	year
old:	the	protective	mothers	were	more	lenient	and	indirect	in	setting
limits	for	their	toddlers	when	they	were	doing	something	that	might
be	harmful,	such	as	mouthing	an	object	they	might	swallow.	The
other	mothers,	by	contrast,	were	emphatic,	setting	firm	limits,	giving


direct	commands,	blocking	the	child’s	actions,	insisting	on	obedience.
Why	should	firmness	lead	to	a	reduction	in	fearfulness?	Kagan
speculates	that	there	is	something	learned	when	a	baby	has	his	steady


crawl	toward	what	seems	to	him	an	intriguing	object	(but	to	his
mother	a	dangerous	one)	interrupted	by	her	warning,	“Get	away	from
that!”	The	infant	is	suddenly	forced	to	deal	with	a	mild	uncertainty.
The	repetition	of	this	challenge	hundreds	and	hundreds	of	times
during	the	first	year	of	life	gives	the	infant	continual	rehearsals,	in
small	doses,	of	meeting	the	unexpected	in	life.	For	fearful	children
that	is	precisely	the	encounter	that	has	to	be	mastered,	and
manageable	doses	are	just	right	for	learning	the	lesson.	When	the
encounter	takes	place	with	parents	who,	though	loving,	do	not	rush	to
pick	up	and	soothe	the	toddler	over	every	little	upset,	he	gradually
learns	to	manage	such	moments	on	his	own.	By	age	two,	when	these
formerly	fearful	toddlers	are	brought	back	to	Kagan’s	laboratory,	they
are	far	less	likely	to	break	out	into	tears	when	a	stranger	frowns	at
them,	or	an	experimenter	puts	a	blood-pressure	cuff	around	their	arm.
Kagan’s	conclusion:	“It	appears	that	mothers	who	protect	their
high[ly]	reactive	infants	from	frustration	and	anxiety	in	the	hope	of
effecting	a	benevolent	outcome	seem	to	exacerbate	the	infant’s
uncertainty	and	produce	the	opposite	effect.”
8


uncertainty	and	produce	the	opposite	effect.”
8
	In	other	words,	the
protective	strategy	backfires	by	depriving	timid	toddlers	of	the	very
opportunity	to	learn	to	calm	themselves	in	the	face	of	the	unfamiliar,
and	so	gain	some	small	mastery	of	their	fears.	At	the	neurological
level,	presumably,	this	means	their	prefrontal	circuits	missed	the
chance	to	learn	alternate	responses	to	knee-jerk	fear;	instead,	their
tendency	for	unbridled	fearfulness	may	have	been	strengthened
simply	through	repetition.
In	contrast,	as	Kagan	told	me,	“Those	children	who	had	become	less
timid	by	kindergarten	seem	to	have	had	parents	who	put	gentle
pressure	on	them	to	be	more	outgoing.	Although	this	temperamental
trait	seems	slightly	harder	than	others	to	change—probably	because	of
its	physiological	basis—no	human	quality	is	beyond	change.”
Throughout	childhood	some	timid	children	grow	bolder	as
experience	continues	to	mold	the	key	neural	circuitry.	One	of	the
signs	that	a	timid	child	will	be	more	likely	to	overcome	this	natural
inhibition	is	having	a	higher	level	of	social	competence:	being
cooperative	and	getting	along	with	other	children;	being	empathic,
prone	to	giving	and	sharing,	and	considerate;	and	being	able	to


develop	close	friendships.	These	traits	marked	a	group	of	children	first
identified	as	having	a	timid	temperament	at	age	four,	who	shook	it	off
by	the	time	they	were	ten	years	old.
9
By	contrast,	those	timid	four-year-olds	whose	temperament	changed


little	over	the	same	six	years	tended	to	be	less	able	emotionally:
crying	and	falling	apart	under	stress	more	easily;	being	emotionally
inappropriate;	being	fearful,	sulky,	or	whiny;	overreacting	to	minor
frustration	with	anger;	having	trouble	delaying	gratification;	being
overly	sensitive	to	criticism,	or	mistrustful.	These	emotional	lapses
are,	of	course,	likely	to	mean	their	relationships	with	other	children
will	be	troubled,	should	they	be	able	to	overcome	their	initial
reluctance	to	engage.
By	contrast,	it	is	easy	to	see	why	the	more	emotionally	competent—
though	shy	by	temperament—children	spontaneously	outgrew	their
timidity.	Being	more	socially	skilled,	they	were	far	more	likely	to	have
a	succession	of	positive	experiences	with	other	children.	Even	if	they
were	tentative	about,	say,	speaking	to	a	new	playmate,	once	the	ice
was	broken	they	were	able	to	shine	socially.	The	regular	repetition	of
such	social	success	over	many	years	would	naturally	tend	to	make	the
timid	more	sure	of	themselves.
These	advances	toward	boldness	are	encouraging;	they	suggest	that
even
innate	emotional	patterns	can	change	to	some	degree.	A	child
who	comes	into	the	world	easily	frightened	can	learn	to	be	calmer,	or


even	outgoing,	in	the	face	of	the	unfamiliar.	Fearfulness—or	any	other
temperament—may	be	part	of	the	biological	givens	of	our	emotional
lives,	but	we	are	not	necessarily	limited	to	a	specific	emotional	menu
by	our	inherited	traits.	There	is	a	range	of	possibility	even	within
genetic	constraints.	As	behavioral	geneticists	observe,	genes	alone	do
not	determine	behavior;	our	environment,	especially	what	we
experience	and	learn	as	we	grow,	shapes	how	a	temperamental
predisposition	expresses	itself	as	life	unfolds.	Our	emotional	capacities
are	not	a	given;	with	the	right	learning,	they	can	be	improved.	The
reasons	for	this	lie	in	how	the	human	brain	matures.
CHILDHOOD:	A

WINDOW	OF	OPPORTUNITY
The	human	brain	is	by	no	means	fully	formed	at	birth.	It	continues	to
shape	itself	through	life,	with	the	most	intense	growth	occurring
during	childhood.	Children	are	born	with	many	more	neurons	than
their	mature	brain	will	retain;	through	a	process	known	as	“pruning”
the	brain	actually	loses	the	neuronal	connections	that	are	less	used,
and	forms	strong	connections	in	those	synaptic	circuits	that	have	been
utilized	the	most.	Pruning,	by	doing	away	with	extraneous	synapses,


improves	the	signal-to-noise	ratio	in	the	brain	by	removing	the	cause
of	the	“noise.”	This	process	is	constant	and	quick;	synaptic
connections	can	form	in	a	matter	of	hours	or	days.	Experience,
particularly	in	childhood,	sculpts	the	brain.
The	classic	demonstration	of	the	impact	of	experience	on	brain
growth	was	by	Nobel	Prize-winners	Thorsten	Wiesel	and	David	Hubel,
both	neuroscientists.
10
	They	showed	that	in	cats	and	monkeys,	there
was	a	critical	period	during	the	first	few	months	of	life	for	the
development	of	the	synapses	that	carry	signals	from	the	eye	to	the
visual	cortex,	where	those	signals	are	interpreted.	If	one	eye	was	kept
closed	during	that	period,	the	number	of	synapses	from	that	eye	to	the
visual	cortex	dwindled	away,	while	those	from	the	open	eye
multiplied.	If	after	the	critical	period	ended	the	closed	eye	was
reopened,	the	animal	was	functionally	blind	in	that	eye.	Although
nothing	was	wrong	with	the	eye	itself,	there	were	too	few	circuits	to
the	visual	cortex	for	signals	from	that	eye	to	be	interpreted.
In	humans	the	corresponding	critical	period	for	vision	lasts	for	the
first	six	years	of	life.	During	this	time	normal	seeing	stimulates	the
formation	of	increasingly	complex	neural	circuitry	for	vision	that
begins	in	the	eye	and


begins	in	the	eye	and
ends	in	the	visual	cortex.	If	a	child’s	eye	is	taped
closed	for	even	a	few	weeks,	it	can	produce	a	measurable	deficit	in
the	visual	capacity	of	that	eye.	If	a	child	has	had	one	eye	closed	for
several	months	during	this	period,	and	later	has	it	restored,	that	eye’s
vision	for	detail	will	be	impaired.
A	vivid	demonstration	of	the	impact	of	experience	on	the
developing	brain	is	in	studies	of	“rich”	and	“poor”	rats.
11
	The	“rich”
rats	lived	in	small	groups	in	cages	with	plenty	of	rat	diversions	such
as	ladders	and	treadmills.	The	“poor”	rats	lived	in	cages	that	were
similar	but	barren	and	lacking	diversions.	Over	a	period	of	months	the
neocortices	of	the	rich	rats	developed	far	more	complex	networks	of
synaptic	circuits	interconnecting	the	neurons;	the	poor	rats’	neuronal
circuitry	was	sparse	by	comparison.	The	difference	was	so	great	that
the	rich	rats’	brains	were	heavier,	and,	perhaps	not	surprisingly,	they
were	far	smarter	at	solving	mazes	than	the	poor	rats.	Similar
experiments	with	monkeys	show	these	differences	between	those
“rich”	and	“poor”	in	experience,	and	the	same	effect	is	sure	to	occur
in	humans.


in	humans.
Psychotherapy—that	is,	systematic	emotional	relearning—stands	as
a	case	in	point	for	the	way	experience	can	both	change	emotional
patterns	and	shape	the	brain.	The	most	dramatic	demonstration	comes


from	a	study	of	people	being	treated	for	obsessive-compulsive
disorder.
12
	One	of	the	more	common	compulsions	is	hand	washing,
which	can	be	done	so	often,	even	hundreds	of	times	in	a	day,	that	the
person’s	skin	cracks.	PET	scan	studies	show	that	obsessive-
compulsives	have	greater	than	normal	activity	in	the	prefrontal
lobes.
13
Half	of	the	patients	in	the	study	received	the	standard	drug
treatment,	fluoxetine	(better	known	by	the	brand	name	Prozac),	and
half	got	behavior	therapy.	During	the	therapy	they	were
systematically	exposed	to	the	object	of	their	obsession	or	compulsion
without	performing	it;	patients	with	hand-washing	compulsions	were
put	at	a	sink,	but	not	allowed	to	wash.	At	the	same	time	they	learned
to	question	the	fears	and	dreads	that	spurred	them	on—for	example,
that	failure	to	wash	would	mean	they	would	get	a	disease	and	die.
Gradually,	through	months	of	such	sessions,	the	compulsions	faded,
just	as	they	did	with	the	medication.
The	remarkable	finding,	though,	was	a	PET	scan	test	showing	that
the	behavior	therapy	patients	had	as	significant	a	decrease	in	the
activity	of	a	key	part	of	the	emotional	brain,	the	caudate	nucleus,	as
did	the	patients	successfully	treated	with	the	drug	fluoxetine.	Their


did	the	patients	successfully	treated	with	the	drug	fluoxetine.	Their
experience	had	changed	brain	function—and	relieved	symptoms—as
effectively	as	the	medication!
CRUCIAL	WINDOWS
Of	all	species	we	humans	take	the	longest	for	our	brains	to	fully
mature.	While	each	area	of	the	brain	develops	at	a	different	rate
during	childhood,	the	onset	of	puberty	marks	one	of	the	most
sweeping	periods	of	pruning	throughout	the	brain.	Several	brain	areas
critical	for	emotional	life	are	among	the	slowest	to	mature.	While	the
sensory	areas	mature	during	early	childhood,	and	the	limbic	system
by	puberty,	the	frontal	lobes—seat	of	emotional	self-control,
understanding,	and	artful	response—continue	to	develop	into	late
adolescence,	until	somewhere	between	sixteen	and	eighteen	years	of
age.
14
The	habits	of	emotional	management	that	are	repeated	over	and
over	again	during	childhood	and	the	teenage	years	will	themselves
help	mold	this	circuitry.	This	makes	childhood	a	crucial	window	of
opportunity	for	shaping	lifelong	emotional	propensities;	habits


acquired	in	childhood	become	set	in	the	basic	synaptic	wiring	of
neural	architecture,	and	are	harder	to	change	later	in	life.	Given	the
importance	of	the	prefrontal	lobes	for	managing	emotion,	the	very
long	window	for	synaptic	sculpting	in	this	brain	region	may	well
mean	that,	in	the	grand	design	of	the	brain,	a	child’s	experiences	over
the	years	can	mold	lasting	connections	in	the	regulatory	circuitry	of
the	emotional	brain.	As	we	have	seen,	critical	experiences	include
how	dependable	and	responsive	to	the	child’s	needs	parents	are,	the
opportunities	and	guidance	a	child	has	in	learning	to	handle	her	own
distress	and	control	impulse,	and	practice	in	empathy.	By	the	same
token,	neglect	or	abuse,	the	misattunement	of	a	self-absorbed	or
indifferent	parent,	or	brutal	discipline	can	leave	their	imprint	on	the
emotional	circuitry.
15
One	of	the	most	essential	emotional	lessons,	first	learned	in	infancy
and	refined	throughout	childhood,	is	how	to	soothe	oneself	when
upset.	For	very	young	infants,	soothing	comes	from	caretakers:	a
mother	hears	her	infant	crying,	picks	him	up,	holds	and	rocks	him
until	he	calms	down.	This	biological	attunement,	some	theorists
propose,	helps	the	child	begin	to	learn	how	to	do	the	same	for


propose,	helps	the	child	begin	to	learn	how	to	do	the	same	for
himself.
16
	During	a	critical	period	between	ten	and	eighteen	months,
the	orbitofrontal	area	of	the	prefrontal	cortex	is	rapidly	forming	the
connections	with	the	limbic	brain	that	will	make	it	a	key	on/off
switch	for	distress.	The	infant	who	through	countless	episodes	of
being	soothed	is	helped	along	in	learning	how	to	calm	down,	the
speculation	goes,	will	have	stronger	connections	in	this	circuit	for
controlling	distress,	and	so	throughout	life	will	be	better	at	soothing
himself	when	upset.
To	be	sure,	the	art	of	soothing	oneself	is	mastered	over	many	years,
and
with	new	means,	as	brain	maturation	offers	a	child	progressively
more	sophisticated	emotional	tools.	Remember,	the	frontal	lobes,	so
important	for	regulating	limbic	impulse,	mature	into	adolescence.
17
Another	key	circuit	that	continues	to	shape	itself	through	childhood
centers	on	the	vagus	nerve,	which	at	one	end	regulates	the	heart	and
other	parts	of	the	body,	and	at	the	other	sends	signals	to	the	amygdala
via	other	circuits,	prompting	it	to	secrete	the	catecholamines,	which
prime	the	fight-or-flight	response.	A	University	of	Washington	team
that	assessed	the	impact	of	childrearing	discovered	that	emotionally


that	assessed	the	impact	of	childrearing	discovered	that	emotionally
adept	parenting	led	to	a	change	for	the	better	in	vagus-nerve	function.
As	John	Gottman,	the	psychologist	who	led	the	research,	explained,
“Parents	modify	their	children’s	vagal	tone”—a	measure	of	how	easily


triggered	the	vagus	nerve	is—“by	coaching	them	emotionally:	talking
to	children	about	their	feelings	and	how	to	understand	them,	not
being	critical	and	judgmental,	problem-solving	about	emotional
predicaments,	coaching	them	on	what	to	do,	like	alternatives	to
hitting,	or	to	withdrawing	when	you’re	sad.”	When	parents	did	this
well,	children	were	better	able	to	suppress	the	vagal	activity	that
keeps	the	amygdala	priming	the	body	with	fight-or-flight	hormones—
and	so	were	better	behaved.
It	stands	to	reason	that	the	key	skills	of	emotional	intelligence	each
have	critical	periods	extending	over	several	years	in	childhood.	Each
period	represents	a	window	for	helping	that	child	instill	beneficial
emotional	habits	or,	if	missed,	to	make	it	that	much	harder	to	offer
corrective	lessons	later	in	life.	The	massive	sculpting	and	pruning	of
neural	circuits	in	childhood	may	be	an	underlying	reason	why	early
emotional	hardships	and	trauma	have	such	enduring	and	pervasive
effects	in	adulthood.	It	may	explain,	too,	why	psychotherapy	can	often
take	so	long	to	affect	some	of	these	patterns—and	why,	as	we’ve	seen,
even	after	therapy	those	patterns	tend	to	remain	as	underlying
propensities,	though	with	an	overlay	of	new	insights	and	relearned
responses.


responses.
To	be	sure,	the	brain	remains	plastic	throughout	life,	though	not	to
the	spectacular	extent	seen	in	childhood.	All	learning	implies	a	change
in	the	brain,	a	strengthening	of	synaptic	connection.	The	brain
changes	in	the	patients	with	obsessive-compulsive	disorder	show	that
emotional	habits	are	malleable	throughout	life,	with	some	sustained
effort,	even	at	the	neural	level.	What	happens	with	the	brain	in	PTSD
(or	in	therapy,	for	that	matter)	is	an	analog	of	the	effects	all	repeated
or	intense	emotional	experiences	bring,	for	better	or	for	worse.
Some	of	the	most	telling	of	such	lessons	come	from	parent	to	child.
There
are	very	different	emotional	habits	instilled	by	parents	whose
attunement	means	an	infant’s	emotional	needs	are	acknowledged	and
met	or	whose	discipline	includes	empathy,	on	the	one	hand,	or	self-
absorbed	parents	who	ignore	a	child’s	distress	or	who	discipline
capriciously	by	yelling	and	hitting.	Much	psychotherapy	is,	in	a	sense,
a	remedial	tutorial	for	what	was	skewed	or	missed	completely	earlier
in	life.	But	why	not	do	what	we	can	to	prevent	that	need,	by	giving
children	the	nurturing	and	guidance	that	cultivates	the	essential
emotional	skills	in	the	first	place?


15
The	Cost	of	Emotional	Illiteracy
It	began	as	a	small	dispute,	but	had	escalated.	Ian	Moore,	a	senior	at
Thomas	Jefferson	High	School	in	Brooklyn,	and	Tyrone	Sinkler,	a
junior,	had	had	a	falling-out	with	a	buddy,	fifteen-year-old	Khalil
Sumpter.	Then	they	had	started	picking	on	him	and	making	threats.
Now	it	exploded.
Khalil,	scared	that	Ian	and	Tyrone	were	going	to	beat	him	up,
brought	a	.38	caliber	pistol	to	school	one	morning,	and,	fifteen	feet
from	a	school	guard,	shot	both	boys	to	death	at	point-blank	range	in
the	school’s	hallway.
The	incident,	chilling	as	it	is,	can	be	read	as	yet	another	sign	of	a
desperate	need	for	lessons	in	handling	emotions,	settling
disagreements	peaceably,	and	just	plain	getting	along.	Educators,	long
disturbed	by	schoolchildren’s	lagging	scores	in	math	and	reading,	are
realizing	there	is	a	different	and	more	alarming	deficiency:	emotional
illiteracy.
1
	And	while	laudable	efforts	are	being	made	to	raise
academic	standards,	this	new	and	troubling	deficiency	is	not	being
addressed	in	the	standard	school	curriculum.	As	one	Brooklyn	teacher
put	it,	the	present	emphasis	in	schools	suggests	that	“we	care	more


about	how	well	schoolchildren	can	read	and	write	than	whether
they’ll	be	alive	next	week.”
Signs	of	the	deficiency	can	be	seen	in	violent	incidents	such	as	the
shooting	of	Ian	and	Tyrone,	growing	ever	more	common	in	American
schools.	But	these	are	more	than	isolated	events;	the	heightening	of
the	turmoil	of	adolescence	and	troubles	of	childhood	can	be	read	for
the	United	States—a	bellwether	of	world	trends—in	statistics	such	as
these:
2
In	1990,	compared	to	the	previous	two	decades,	the	United	States
saw	the	highest	juvenile	arrest	rate	for	violent	crimes	ever;	teen
arrests	for	forcible	rape	had	doubled;	teen	murder	rates	quadrupled,
mostly	due	to	an	increase
in	shootings.
3
	During	those	same	two
decades,	the	suicide	rate	for	teenagers	tripled,	as	did	the	number	of
children	under	fourteen	who	are	murder	victims.
4


More,	and	younger,	teenage	girls	are	getting	pregnant.	As	of	1993
the	birthrate	among	girls	ten	to	fourteen	has	risen	steadily	for	five
years	in	a	row—some	call	it	“babies	having	babies”—as	has	the
proportion	of	unwanted	teen	pregnancies	and	peer	pressure	to	have
sex.	Rates	of	venereal	disease	among	teenagers	have	tripled	over	the
last	three	decades.
5
While	these	figures	are	discouraging,	if	the	focus	is	on	African-
American	youth,	especially	in	the	inner	city,	they	are	utterly	bleak—
all	the	rates	are	higher	by	far,	sometimes	doubled,	sometimes	tripled
or	higher.	For	example,	heroin	and	cocaine	use	among	white	youth
climbed	about	300	percent	over	the	two	decades	before	the	1990s;	for
African-American	youth	it	jumped	to	a	staggering
13	times
	the	rate	of
twenty	years	before.
6
The	most	common	cause	of	disability	among	teenagers	is	mental
illness.	Symptoms	of	depression,	whether	major	or	minor,	affect	up	to
one	third	of	teenagers;	for	girls,	the	incidence	of	depression	doubles	at
puberty.	The	frequency	of	eating	disorders	in	teenage	girls	has
skyrocketed.
7
Finally,	unless	things	change,	the	long-term	prospects	for	today’s


Finally,	unless	things	change,	the	long-term	prospects	for	today’s
children	marrying	and	having	a	fruitful,	stable	life	together	are
growing	more	dismal	with	each	generation.	As	we	saw	in
Chapter	9
,
while	during	the	1970s	and	1980s	the	divorce	rate	was	around	50
percent,	as	we	entered	the	1990s	the	rate	among	newlyweds	predicted
that	two	out	of	three	marriages	of	young	people	would	end	in	divorce.
AN	EMOTIONAL	MALAISE
These	alarming	statistics	are	like	the	canary	in	the	coal	miner’s	tunnel
whose	death	warns	of	too	little	oxygen.	Beyond	such	sobering
numbers,	the	plight	of	today’s	children	can	be	seen	at	more	subtle
levels,	in	day-to-day	problems	that	have	not	yet	blossomed	into
outright	crises.	Perhaps	the	most	telling	data	of	all—a	direct
barometer	of	dropping	levels	of	emotional	competence—are	from	a
national	sample	of	American	children,	ages	seven	to	sixteen,
comparing	their	emotional	condition	in	the	mid-1970s	and	at	the	end
of	the	1980s.
8
	Based	on	parents’	and	teachers’	assessments,	there	was
a	steady	worsening.	No	one	problem	stood	out;	all	indicators	simply
crept	steadily	in	the	wrong	direction.	Children,	on	average,	were


doing	more	poorly	in	these	specific	ways:


•
Withdrawal	or	social	problems:
	preferring	to	be	alone;	being
secretive;	sulking	a	lot;	lacking	energy;	feeling	unhappy;	being	overly
dependent
•
Anxious	and	depressed:
	being	lonely;	having	many	fears	and
worries;	needing	to	be	perfect;	feeling	unloved;	feeling	nervous	or	sad
and	depressed
•
Attention	or	thinking	problems:
	unable	to	pay	attention	or	sit	still;
daydreaming;	acting	without	thinking;	being	too	nervous	to
concentrate;	doing	poorly	on	schoolwork;	unable	to	get	mind	off
thoughts
•
Delinquent	or	aggressive:
	hanging	around	kids	who	get	in	trouble;
lying	and	cheating;	arguing	a	lot;	being	mean	to	other	people;
demanding	attention;	destroying	other	people’s	things;	disobeying	at
home	and	at	school;	being	stubborn	and	moody;	talking	too	much;
teasing	a	lot;	having	a	hot	temper
While	any	of	these	problems	in	isolation	raises	no	eyebrows,	taken
as	a	group	they	are	barometers	of	a	sea	change,	a	new	kind	of	toxicity
seeping	into	and	poisoning	the	very	experience	of	childhood,
signifying	sweeping	deficits	in	emotional	competences.	This	emotional
malaise	seems	to	be	a	universal	price	of	modern	life	for	children.


malaise	seems	to	be	a	universal	price	of	modern	life	for	children.
While	Americans	often	decry	their	problems	as	particularly	bad
compared	to	other	cultures’,	studies	around	the	world	have	found
rates	on	a	par	with	or	worse	than	in	the	United	States.	For	example,	in
the	1980s	teachers	and	parents	in	the	Netherlands,	China,	and
Germany	rated	children	at	about	the	same	level	of	problems	as	were
found	for	American	children	in	1976.	And	some	countries	had
children	in	worse	shape	than	current	U.S.	levels,	including	Australia,
France,	and	Thailand.	But	this	may	not	remain	true	for	long.	The
larger	forces	that	propel	the	downward	spiral	in	emotional
competence	seem	to	be	picking	up	speed	in	the	United	States	relative
to	many	other	developed	nations.
9
No	children,	rich	or	poor,	are	exempt	from	risk;	these	problems	are
universal,	occurring	in	all	ethnic,	racial,	and	income	groups.	Thus
while	children	in	poverty	have	the	worst	record	on	indices	of
emotional	skills,	their
rate
	of	deterioration	over	the	decades	was	no
worse	than	for	middle-class	children	or	for	wealthy	children:	all	show
the	same	steady	slide.	There	has	also	been	a	corresponding	threefold
rise	in	the	number	of	children	who	have	gotten	psychological	help


(perhaps	a	good	sign,	signaling	that	help	is	more	available),	as	well	as
a	near	doubling	of	the	number	of	children	who	have	enough
emotional	problems	that	they
should
	get	such	help	but	have	not	(a	bad
sign)—from	about	9	percent	in	1976	to	18	percent	in	1989.
Urie	Bronfenbrenner,	the	eminent	Cornell	University	developmental
psychologist	who	did	an	international	comparison	of	children’s	well-
being,	says:
“In	the	absence	of	good	support	systems,	external	stresses
have	become	so	great	that	even	strong	families	are	falling	apart.	The
hecticness,	instability,	and	inconsistency	of	daily	family	life	are
rampant	in	all	segments	of	our	society,	including	the	well-educated
and	well-to-do.	What	is	at	stake	is	nothing	less	than	the	next
generation,	particularly	males,	who	in	growing	up	are	especially
vulnerable	to	such	disruptive	forces	as	the	devastating	effects	of
divorce,	poverty,	and	unemployment.	The	status	of	American	children
and	families	is	as	desperate	as	ever.…	We	are	depriving	millions	of
children	of	their	competence	and	moral	character.”
10
This	is	not	just	an	American	phenomenon	but	a	global	one,	with
worldwide	competition	to	drive	down	labor	costs	creating	economic
forces	that	press	on	the	family.	These	are	times	of	financially	besieged


families	in	which	both	parents	work	long	hours,	so	that	children	are
left	to	their	own	devices	or	the	TV	baby-sits;	when	more	children	than
ever	grow	up	in	poverty;	when	the	one-parent	family	is	becoming	ever
more	commonplace;	when	more	infants	and	toddlers	are	left	in	day
care	so	poorly	run	that	it	amounts	to	neglect.	All	this	means,	even	for
well-intentioned	parents,	the	erosion	of	the	countless	small,
nourishing	exchanges	between	parent	and	child	that	build	emotional
competences.
If	families	no	longer	function	effectively	to	put	all	our	children	on	a
firm	footing	for	life,	what	are	we	to	do?	A	more	careful	look	at	the
mechanics	of	specific	problems	suggests	how	given	deficits	in
emotional	or	social	competences	lay	the	foundation	for	grave
problems—and	how	well-aimed	correctives	or	preventives	could	keep
more	children	on	track.
TAMING	AGGRESSION
In	my	elementary	school	the	tough	kid	was	Jimmy,	a	fourth	grader
when	I	was	in	first	grade.	He	was	the	kid	who	would	steal	your	lunch
money,	take	your	bike,	slug	you	as	soon	as	talk	to	you.	Jimmy	was	the