originally written 2014
How does one begin to explain the first experience of learning? Those first conscious moments where the individual human being begins to not only see the world, but to know the world and to give it meaning.
When are these moments? What is it that we really learn as children?
For most of us our formative education comes as coaxing instruction from the immediate circles of our family, often a mother or father, teaching first words, how to dress, table manners, and the simple difference between wrong and right. No doubt this socialization process can be benign, at times even pleasant.
But often parental instruction is delivered as a half-articulate, hands-shaking rebuke, rather than a time for teaching.
I am reminded of a Toni Morrison novel where the child narrator exclaims, “Adults do not talk to us – they give us directions. They issue orders without providing information...We do not, cannot, know the meaning of all their words…So we watch their faces, their hands, their feet, and listen for truth in timbre.” (1)
I think my first lesson learned was negation, the negative – thou shalt not! For me the word “no” and its derivatives were perhaps the greatest early lesson, often accompanied by raised voices, stern looks, threats, and sometimes, physical violence.
Nothing teaches a child what is right or wrong so effectively as the swat of a spoon, the slap of a hand, the strike of a belt, or the snap of a cord. This type of education is pure Pavlov: do right and be praised, or do wrong and be punished. A kid learns the “right” path soon enough just to avoid being hit.
The almighty NO is a powerful incentive for learning to be sure. The knowledge gained a hard-earned prize. But ultimately, these negative lessons that we learn as children are for the benefit of society and parents, not for us as individuals. We are socialized, not for our own good, but for the good defined by the power of authority and tradition.
The threat of violence is perhaps the basis of all human morality and civilized law, as a cursory glance at most major world religions and judicial penal codes will demonstrate. I grew up in a strict Evangelical Protestant home. The most important lesson that my father taught to me was found in the immortal words of Solomon, the wise king of the ancient Israelites: “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge: but fools despise wisdom and instruction.” (2)
And as any good Christian child would know, the Biblical Jehovah was a sadistic and jealous god who gave life sentences of pain and suffering to Adam and Eve for disobedience, demanded death for disrespecting one’s father, gloried in bloodshed and war, and gave the ancient Israelites a blessed promised land only if they would first massacre every man, woman, child, and beast who happened to already live there.
Then there are the later additions of the New Testament, largely influenced by the legalist mentality of St. Paul who told children to obey their parents, wives to obey their husbands, and slaves to obey their masters. And finally, there is the bloody vision of St. John, who dreamed up a holocaust at the end of history when every non-Christian would be subjected to various horrors during the last days and then tortured in the fires of hell for eternity.
If that is not enough to give a child nightmares, I’m not sure what would.
I learned early on that God’s divine and eternal punishment was something to be feared at a visceral level. I was terrified of God, always scared that I would cross some unknown line and risk an eternity of torture. I would wake up some nights petrified.
I knew the anguish of an indeterminate and capricious salvation by my Lord’s grace. My fear of God instilled something akin to what Sigmund Freud once called das Uber-Ich, often translated as the “Over-I” or “super-ego.” I had a nagging voice of right and wrong mysteriously placed in my subconscious mind.
I was driven by the terror of divine retribution and social approbation. We do “right” not because we want to. We do “right” because we fear the consequences of doing “wrong.”
The flip-side to this subliminal injunction is a type of pleasure. I think most children find it inherently pleasing to acquiesce to authority, groveling before those same dominating figures who dispense punishment.
Most of us are taught to embrace the ingratiating self-effacement of bowing low to those with the power to crush us: parents, priests, police, school principals, and popular peers. This strong social tendency is perhaps more noticeable in Asian cultures where the bow and differential forms of address still sanction a strict social hierarchy.
But every society has hierarchical structures of power and the accompanying relationships of respect and deference. There is a socialized satisfaction that comes through the self-denial needed to appease the higher authority.
The naturalness of authority and privilege are instilled in us at an early age. We this demonstrated in the differential power relations between parents and child, which are based on the traditional power dynamics of God and man, king and subject, ruler and ruled. One does “right” to earn a pat on the head, a smile, or the praise of the powerful.
This is the tyrant’s strength. An Italian Marxist called it hegemony. It is the soft power exercised through the willing cooperation of the lowly who want to please their master, subconsciously fearing to do otherwise.
I believe this unspoken and often unnoticed power dynamic is a central part of human relationships. It has been represented and explained in various theoretical concepts over the past century by Sigmund Freud, Antonio Gramsci, and Michele Foucault. We do what is right because we know it is right and because it is policed by the powerful. We cannot do otherwise.
We dare not do otherwise.
We consciously and subconsciously know the structures of authority that envelope and restrain us. Thus, for thousands of years, the basis of human knowledge and right action was fear of the various lords who ruled over subject populations: God, King, tribal Chief, and Father.
My parents were good people, acting on what they thought was right. They raised their children the best they could with the knowledge and experience they had. They were God’s agents, acting on behalf of the distant liege they worshiped. They were to be respected and they were to be feared in their capacity to dispense justice, punishment, and love.
I wanted to please them, I really did.
But there was also something perverse at the very core of my being. I had an insatiable curiosity. I also had a penchant for experimentation. I was deeply interested in life and different forms of experience.
There was a deep injunction in my subconscious that told me certain words, deeds, even thoughts were prohibited. But I could not help fantasizing about their possibility, and sometimes indulging in the taboo. I was often told that these thoughts and inclinations were the work of the devil who often tried to temp and snare the unwary. But I had a hard time understanding how the devil could seem so connected to my innermost being.
The devil seemed to be such a natural part of my body that I was never sure who was in control. St. Paul’s injunction to hate the flesh and the distractions of the sinful world were constantly uttered in my household. But the devilment of my inclinations was hard to deny, so the reprimands and stern warnings of God’s agents seemed tyrannical, and early on I developed a split personality.
Because of this split personality, I learned to wear a mask. I needed to present an external demeanor that would deliver what was expected of me – my public self. This public self was also subconsciously tutored by an inner voice of right and wrong that was constantly reinforced by parents, pastors, and the words of God.
As I grew older, I was instructed more fully in Protestant theology, grounded on a literal and thorough reading of the Bible. My inner voice of right and wrong became melded with my conception of God’s righteous presence. My parents and pastor fostered this association, as they would often justify their judgments by explicit reference to Bible as the final and ultimate source of authority.
I grew to respect and strive for the “right,” while fearing the consequences of the “wrong.” Morality also came to seem quite natural, albeit not a perfect fit. My public self was my ideal self, and I often strove to be righteous.
I lived in a clear moral universe composed of black and white truths. I was lovingly and firmly led by the Holy Book. I was constantly watched by the knowing disciples of God. And I felt always under the discerning gaze of my inherited Lord.
References
(1) Toni Morrison, The Bluest Eye (1970; reprint, New York, 2007), 10, 15.
(2) Proverbs 1:7, Kings James Bible.