EDITORS Margaret Agee and Philip Culbertson C/o School of Counselling, Human Services & Social Work Faculty of Education University of Auckland Private Bag 92019 Auckland Email: m.agee@auckland.ac.nz Email: p.culbertson@auckland.ac.nz A DV I S O RY G RO U P Tina Besley, California State University, San Bernadino, California Richard Cook, Bethlehem Institute, Tauranga Kathie Crocket, University of Waikato, Hamilton Hans Everts, University of Auckland Frances Griffiths, Education Review Office, Wanganui Lyn James, private practitioner, Palmerston North Catherine Love, Victoria University, Wellington Judi Miller, University of Canterbury, Christchurch Irene Paton, private practitioner, Christchurch John Tetley, private practitioner, Auckland Dick Wivell, Tamatea High School, Napier SUBSCRIPTIONS Copies of the Journal are provided free of charge to all members of the NZAC. For separate subscriptions or single-issue purchase, please contact NZAC, PO Box 165, Hamilton. Single-issue costs: Within New Zealand $25 (GST and post included) Overseas $NZ35 (post included) N ZAC N EWS L E T T E R The Association also publishes a newsletter, Counselling Today, which provides more frequent and informal information about NZAC activities and New Zealand counselling in general.
G E N E R A L I N F O R M AT I O N The New Zealand Journal of Counselling is the official publication of the New Zealand Association of Counsellors.
The Journal’s aim is to promote counselling practice and research that reflect the unique cultural context of Aotearoa New Zealand, respecting and encouraging the partnership principles of Te Tiriti o Waitangi/The Treaty of Waitangi. The Journal is a forum for the sharing of ideas, information, and perspectives on matters of common concern among practitioners and those undertaking research in the field. In the content of the Journal, the Editors wish to be inclusive of a wide range of topics and perspectives, representing the diversity of interests within the profession. The Editors welcome the submission of papers, including commentaries on topical issues, literature reviews, research reports, practice-based articles, case studies and brief reports from the Association’s members and applicants, as well as from others outside the Association with interests relevant to the field of counselling. We welcome papers that represent a wide range of research methodologies, and that contribute to the development of knowledge in the theory and/or practice of counselling. The overriding criteria for selection are that the material is professionally relevant, that the presentation is of high quality, and that the writer has communicated effectively, in an interesting and engaging way, with readers. Manuscripts are welcome from practitioners, counsellor educators, academics, researchers and administrators involved in counselling or in related fields. Guidelines for contributors are available in PDF form from the editors. All articles are reviewed by two referees in a double-blind process.
CORRESPONDENCE All correspondence regarding manuscript submissions should be sent to the Editors, preferably by email (see addresses above).
The opinion and comment contained in articles are those of particular author(s) and do not necessarily reflect the opinion of the Journal’s Editors, the Association, or any other person.
N ZAC M E M B E R S H I P Enquiries about NZAC membership and all other correspondence should be directed to: NZAC, PO Box 165, Hamilton
The copyright of articles contained in the Journal is vested in the New Zealand Association of Counsellors and articles may not be reprinted without the express permission of the Association.
PRODUCTION Make-up: Afineline, Wellington Printing: Adprint Ltd, Cambridge Tce, Wellington
© New Zealand Association of Counsellors
ISSN: 1171-0365
New Zealand Journal of Counselling 2008: Volume 28/2
Contents
Editorial
iii
A Tribute to Michael White
vi
Charles Waldegrave
1
A History of Marriage Guidance in New Zealand A Personal Reflection
1
Ruth Penny, with David Epston and Margaret Agee
2
How Can a “Southern Theory” Perspective Contribute to New Zealand Counselling?
10
Edgar Burns
3
A Deeper Rap Examining the Relationship between Hip Hop, Rap and Adolescent Spirituality
25
Alison Burke
4
Eros and Liberation New Ways of Thinking about Sex, Gender, and Sexuality
41
Philip Culbertson
A Response to Philip Culbertson’s Presentation
56
Josie Goulding
A Response to Philip Culbertson’s Presentation Jeremy Younger
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5
Gay-affirmative Therapy and Emerging Integrative Solutions Working with Ego-dissonant Gay Male Clients
69
Andrew Kirby
Biographical Information
c
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The New Zealand Journal of Counselling Editorial
Following on from the previous issue of this journal, and after Margaret Agee and I received such enthusiastic feedback about the variety of the contents, we were challenged to live up to our new reputation! We are just as pleased with the contents of this issue, and hope you will agree. Structurally, this issue begins with tributes to three influential shapers of counselling as it is practised in New Zealand today. Charles Waldegrave of the Family Centre in Wellington opens this issue with a thoughtful tribute to Michael White, whose sudden death in April 2008 shocked many of us. Speaking personally, I am grateful to Michael for his book Narratives of Therapists’ Lives, which was an important resource for students I taught in Auckland, and which gifted me with the concept of “re-membering”, a way of making present, in our work, those who are physically absent but whose influence we still carry. This tribute is followed by another, to Esther Hall and her daughter Ruth Penny. Esther was a member of the first generation of counsellors in New Zealand and was very active in what we today know as Relationship Services. Ruth followed in her mother’s footsteps in many ways, and like Michael White, died quite suddenly in 2008. The essay is based on transcriptions of an audiotaped interview between Esther and David Epston (one of Michael White’s closest colleagues), and subsequently amended by Ruth with her own recollections. Michael, Esther, and Ruth have, in their own ways, impacted our profession deeply, and we are grateful for their wisdom and their legacy. In an extended response to a new book, Southern Theory by Raewyn Connell, Edgar Burns, a doctoral candidate at La Trobe University in Melbourne, throws down a taki or wero, a challenge, for us all. The majority of counsellors and psychotherapists in this country have trained in New Zealand institutions, predominantly using textbooks and theory bases that originate in the US or England. Burns challenges us to find a way not only to apply these theories locally, but to scrutinise them as well, in that they do not fully fit the cultural context of Aotearoa New Zealand. Taking seriously the challenges presented by Connell and Burns would place a new emphasis on the need for greater training in Mäoritanga and other cross-cultural practices and
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Editorial
sensitivities in this country. Burns argues, “Even as northern ideas offer things we want and find useful, the development of a professional and national maturity that honours and makes greater use of our own southern experience is central to counselling theory and a vibrant counselling community in this country.” His article is so stimulating that Margaret and I have decided to invite reader responses and reactions to it. If you wish to publish a written response, please read the Guidelines for Contributors and contact us if you need further guidance. Volume 27(2) of this journal included an article by Sarah Penwarden on gangsta identity in South Auckland schools. In a complementary manner, Alison Burke, counsellor at Edgecumbe College, here offers an article on the spirituality of rap and hip hop, and the value of school counsellors having an understanding of these two musical genres as an avenue for identifying with the problems and promises of teenagers. Alison’s essay is not so much a “how to” piece as a reflection on what informs her counselling practice as she works with teens—those experiences and theories which we all carry silently in our heads, sometimes as part of “the unthought known” (Bollas, 1987), and sometimes as ways in which our educational and personal experiences affect how we phrase things or react emotionally to our clients (see Culbertson, 2008). Of course, many adults carry negative impressions of hip hop and rap, but Alison challenges us to rethink those views, very much in keeping with the new book by Lawrence Rubin on popular culture’s use in counselling practice. In July 2008, I returned to Auckland for a conference, and while I was there, gave two public presentations on the University of Auckland campus. Each of these presentations was followed by two invited responses. In the next issue of the journal, we will publish my first presentation and the two responses, exploring the meaning of the term “Christian counselling.” In this issue, you will find my second presentation, exploring some new thinking on the relationship among genitals, gender, and identity. My presentation is sort of a “considered rumination” (in Oklahoma, where I grew up, we would call that simply a fancier way of saying “chewing my cud”), giving me the opportunity to assess the impact of Judith Butler’s writing on the ways I think about our task as counsellors when dealing with sexual matters, whether our own, or those of our clients. Excellent responses were offered by Josie Goulding of the Psychotherapy faculty at AUT, and by Jeremy Younger, a psychotherapist in private practice. These issues are all part of what my colleague Jenny Harrison once described as the three primary spiritual questions: Who am I? Will my life have meaning? and Where am I going?
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Philip Culbertson
Closing out this issue, we offer the first part of a two-part article by Andrew Kirby, a recent AUT graduate, surveying current thinking on the ways we approach homosexual identity in the counselling room. In a thoughtful discussion and critique of gay-affirmative therapy, Andrew proposes a valuable, integrative approach to working with ego-dissonant gay clients. Part 2 of this essay will appear in a subsequent issue in 2009. Enjoy! Philip Culbertson Co-editor, New Zealand Journal of Counselling
References
Bollas, C. (1987). The shadow of the object: Psychoanalysis of the unthought known. New York: Columbia University Press. Culbertson, P. (2008). Living into our work: The value of uncomfortable experiences in the search for professional competency. New Zealand Journal of Counselling, 28(1), 1–9. Rubin, L. C. (Ed.). (2008). Popular culture in counseling, psychotherapy, and play-based interventions. New York: Springer. White, M. (1997). Narratives of therapists’ lives. Adelaide: Dulwich Centre Publications.
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A Tribute to Michael White Charles Waldegrave
It is very sad that Michael White, a talented friend and mentor to many of us in the therapeutic community, passed away early in April of this year at such a young age, before reaching 60. Numerous people around the globe have wept and weighed the loss as they have communicated across the internet and through an amazing array of spontaneous memorial services. We hosted one such event at the Family Centre and had the privilege of joining another in Vancouver, where we happened to be working at the time. Michael was enjoying dinner with friends after teaching all day in a workshop in San Diego, when he was suddenly struck down by a massive heart attack. Friends tried to resuscitate him as they waited for an ambulance, but to no avail, and he later died in hospital. Family members were able to join him before he passed away. It was a shock to everyone. Michael was one of the world’s great therapists. I am not exaggerating. He was a master of change and liberation for individuals, couples, and families all over the world. He cleverly undermined the psychiatric hegemony in Australia and in many other countries by redefining “the patient,” so that rather than being seen as an object of treatment, he or she was understood as a person with a rich history, and by redefining the therapist as an honoured guest in a client’s life, whose task was to help re-author new chapters of self-determining hope. As the founder, and co-founder with David Epston, of narrative therapy, Michael’s international legacy in the helping professions is without parallel in Australia and New Zealand. He was a practitioner, teacher, and theoretician, all in one. He was also a fearless advocate of people’s resilience and a sharp critic of “the establishment” in mental health. Dear Michael had a soft spot for New Zealand and New Zealanders, although he wasn’t above ribbing us, like lots of his compatriots. He taught many in this country, and inspired many more to cross the ditch and join his workshops and the Dulwich Conferences in Adelaide. I have met countless Kiwis whose orientation and compassion in counselling and therapy were nurtured and, in some cases, transformed by him. His
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Charles Waldegrave
writing was published most often by Dulwich, and we owe a great debt of gratitude to Cheryl White and David Denborough for capturing and promoting his lines, and the many other articles inspired by narrative therapy. These remain a potent legacy of his intellectual contribution and skill. Life for Michael was not all work, though. He had a pilot’s licence and loved to fly. He flew many of us around different parts of Australia. I chose the vineyards in Coonawarra once, and we had a heap of fun trying to find the tiny landing strip among the rows of vines. I became a little hysterical when, after numerous circles of the area, I thought he was going to attempt a landing among those precious grapes, but he was just rarking me up [Eds: “playing a joke on me”]. He was always obscenely fit, to the extent that it was embarrassing to go swimming with him because he left you so far behind in the pool. I don’t mind it with other people, but he sort of knew we Kiwis are a little sensitive about Ozzie sporting prowess! It is sad, but nevertheless true, that although many others will inspire us in the rich world of counselling and therapy, no one will replace the unique and original contribution this talented man offered so generously and so consistently. A very large eucalyptus has fallen indeed, and the thump has been felt in many continents.
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A History of Marriage Guidance in New Zealand A Personal Reflection Ruth Penny, with David Epston and Margaret Agee
Editors’ note: This article gives voice to the memories of Esther Hall, who was a member of the first generation of counsellors in New Zealand. It was written by her daughter, Ruth Penny, based on transcriptions of audiotaped interviews involving David Epston, Esther, and Ruth, and later between Ruth and Esther. Ruth submitted the article in April, not knowing that she was herself terminally ill. Very sadly, less than a year after her mother Esther’s death, Ruth herself died of cancer on September 29, 2008. Before she died, Ruth added to the article and asked Margaret Agee to complete it for her. Ruth’s own life journey had taken her in her mother’s footsteps, to become a highly respected counsellor, supervisor, and trainer in the Auckland community. Ruth was also a leader in the Christian Counsellors’ Association. We publish this memoir here, in love and gratitude for the lives of both Esther and Ruth, and for the contribution they have both made to others’ lives and to our profession.
Esther Hall began working for the Marriage Guidance Council (MGC) in 1962, as one of the first generation of counsellors in New Zealand.1 Later she became the Auckland director and one of the national trainers, in a career that spanned 22 years. It has been said, “Good counsellors never retire. They don’t get older—they just get better.” This would ring true of Esther who, despite “retiring” at the age of 65, kept on being active in the counselling world, and up to the age of 83 was still being invited to lead seminars or to fill in as a relief tutor. Esther was 86 years old and at war with cancer when the idea of capturing her memoirs was conceived. But despite age and illness, she remained intensely alive, clearheaded, and passionate about both the history and the future of counselling in New Zealand. Much the same could be said of her daughter Ruth, less than a year later.
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A History of Marriage Guidance in New Zealand
Parts of this article incorporate extracts from interviews involving Esther, David Epston, and Ruth, wherein she told the story of her involvement with Marriage Guidance, which went on to play such an important part in the history of counselling here in New Zealand. Other parts use verbatims from a discussion between Esther and Ruth a few days before Esther’s death. This covered aspects of her motivation and passion for her work, and the kind of legacy she wished to leave behind her. Following Esther’s death and “passing on the mantle” on November 23, 2007, and Ruth’s own death on September 29, 2008, this article has become a legacy of two generations rather than one. In Esther’s own words
1962. I was 41 years old, with three children aged seven, eight, and ten. I had wanted motherhood more than anything else, and in the early sixties a woman’s place was still seen to be in the home.2 Social life and community involvement largely revolved around children and church, and that “should have been enough.” But that wasn’t the case for me. I’d had a nursing background, but in that era you couldn’t continue nursing once you were married. Being a nurse over the time of the Second World War and following years had allowed me to make a personal and professional contribution and given me a sense of purpose much wider than was generally allowed to my generation of women and mothers. Parenting had brought fulfilment, but now, with my children growing up, I wanted to do more than that. That opportunity came quite unexpectedly with my introduction to Marriage Guidance at an Auckland women’s meeting in 1962. This group, called the Fireside Group, was made up of a number of young mothers from the local church and was focused around social contact and community involvement. Because most married women didn’t work in paid employment, it was participation in these sorts of groups that provided a life outside the family and an opportunity to broaden our horizons. Some evenings at Fireside, we would have a guest speaker who represented a community organisation or service. It was to one of these evenings that Marie Griffin, who worked for the Home and Family Centre, came and she introduced us to the plan for developing a counselling agency called Marriage Guidance (MG). The impetus for Marriage Guidance came out of the 1954 Mazengarb report regarding youth offending. It was decided that since these children came mostly from what were referred to as “broken homes”, something should be done to strengthen
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Ruth Penny, with David Epston and Margaret Agee
nuclear families.3 Pockets of committees had formed around New Zealand and a steering committee was appointed by the government to decide what could be done. This group included people such as Marie Griffin, Ralph Unger, Elsie Davidge, Ian Jenkin, Dr Stan Mirams, and Dr Jim Robb. From this group came the decision to recruit volunteers to train as counsellors. They were not to be drawn from the ranks of professionals, but to be just people who liked people, who were open to others and who were willing to learn on the job. Learning as we went was the only way we could go as there weren’t really any models other than psychotherapy, psychology and psychiatry at that time. New Zealand didn’t have any “counselling” as we’ve come to know it now.4 The services of the MGC needed to be more widespread and accessible than what was currently on offer, so it really was a matter of creating a new model using “non-professional” people who would be willing to work on a volunteer basis. It was a pretty radical move for MGC to consider training non-medical and nonprofessional people, and Carl Rogers’ theories were at the basis of that. Rogers’ research into the effectiveness of different models led him to believe that the ability to form quality relationships with clients was equally as important as techniques or professional rank. He reckoned that the personality and personal qualities of the counsellor were essential if a relationship of openness, trust and honesty was to be formed. He made links between the level of growth for the client and the level of genuineness and availability of the counsellor. This move away from professional technique to personal availability put a whole new slant on who might make a good counsellor. Whereas once this was seen as the field of academics and professionals, Rogers introduced different criteria based on the ability to demonstrate warmth, acceptance, respect, empathy, and congruence. This opened space for a whole range of people who, like me, were intelligent enough but hadn’t had the opportunity for higher education. Selection was based on who we were, not on our qualifications, or whether or not we had led conventional lives. What they were looking for were people who had come to terms with their own lives and who were open to the lives and experiences of others. Those sorts of criteria made for a surprisingly rigorous selection process. First, there was local selection where we met with the committee, with a doctor who talked about our life experiences, and a psychiatrist who looked at our family of origin. We also went to the university where we did IQ testing to ensure that we could study at a tertiary level, and were put through a series of psychological tests like the Rorschach ink blots and MMPI.5
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If we passed that, the next stage was a selection weekend in Wellington. Once again we had three separate interviews, one looking at present family life, one about family of origin, and a group interview where we were observed for group skills and our capacity for such criteria as tolerance and acceptance of others. That was followed by an interview with a psychologist after he had assessed our test results. The rest of the weekend was spent in groups discussing case studies. Of course, there were “plants” in the group—competent people who were watching our interactions and listening to what we said and the attitudes we expressed, to see if you were dogmatic or whether you seemed at ease with different sorts of cultures. We didn’t know that at the time, as all of us in the group were strangers to one another. With a selection process that thorough, it became obvious who would be suited and who wouldn’t—some hadn’t a clue really. It probably seems strange these days that such rigorous demands would be put on people who were working on a volunteer basis. It didn’t seem strange then. In fact, it felt like a privilege to me to be offered this opportunity, and I really liked the idea that it wasn’t going to cost me anything to get an education. There was a huge stock of women who were married and unemployable, and a climate where many men felt devalued if their wives went out to work. So, for women who weren’t into bridge or golf and who wanted something useful to do, voluntary work was ideal. Not surprisingly, most of the candidates were women, though there were a few men, mostly teachers or clergymen. Much of the training took the form of residential weekends in Wellington, and that was pretty exciting for a suburban mother! Of course, to be able to do that with three children at home required a supportive partner who was willing to take over the reins, and that certainly wasn’t the social norm. Training also took place in local training groups, doing case studies, and reading extensively. After the second weekend in Wellington, we were allowed to see one client per week, and for the first year we had one hour of supervision for every hour of client work. It’s a very privileged way to learn—rather like an apprenticeship. Because there weren’t counsellors as such in New Zealand at that time, our first trainers and supervisors were psychiatrists and psychotherapists. Rogerian principles were the basis, but the flavour was distinctly psychotherapeutic in terms of individual, long-term clients. There was no model for joint work, so when we first started seeing clients as MG counsellors, we had no idea of working with couples. I would see the wife and someone else would see the husband. Both counsellors would make very good relationships with their clients and we couldn’t understand why, when these two very
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Ruth Penny, with David Epston and Margaret Agee
nice people got together, they weren’t the same at all. What happened is that we each became advocates for our own client and couldn’t make any sense out of each other’s case notes. After a few months we realised that approach wasn’t working so we decided to try a foursome. Well, that was a spectacular disaster! Both counsellors would be standing up for their clients, and it would be like two people with their lawyers and four people fighting instead of two. It probably took about a year before Auckland counsellors started experimenting with joint counselling. It really was experimental. There were no models to follow for meeting with couples. Even internationally, the only people we knew of doing joint counselling were at the Tavistock Clinic in London. So it was about finding our own way, and all the different MGC branches were trying new and innovative things and reporting back their findings to the head office in Wellington. We take couple counselling so much for granted now, that it’s hard to imagine it’s being totally unknown 40-odd years ago. Over the first few years, a counselling model different from psychotherapy began to evolve. Carl Rogers’ theories opened the door to different practitioners, and working with couples brought in a different emphasis. The focus moved off the two individuals and instead was given to the interaction and relationship between them—the “invisible client.” Attending to the relationship rather than the individual required quite different skills, and newly emerging Gestalt practices became very useful here, especially immediacy skills and the understanding that what takes place in the counselling room is likely to be a microcosm of the couple’s lives. However, there was still an expectation that we would work long term with our clients. The fact that they didn’t pay facilitated the possibility of that. It was only a few years later that it was decided that people should make some sort of financial contribution, no matter how small, to encourage commitment to the process. When we were first trained, the goal of counselling was seen as being “insight”. It was assumed that insight alone would lead to change, but we began to discover that, in fact, it didn’t always. Insight might happen, but behaviour remained the same. About that time, behavioural counselling and Gestalt emerged and we all leapt on that and began merging Rogerian philosophies with other therapies. The next big change occurred when the Matrimonial Proceedings Act became legislation in 1968, and the Domestic Proceedings Act in 1970. A number of counsellors were appointed as Court Conciliators, and the courts allowed couples three free counselling sessions if they were having difficulty coming to a settlement agreement.
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That brought about a huge learning curve because, with only three sessions, there was an urgency to get results. The counselling process, of necessity, became much more targeted and more succinct. There came to be more emphasis on the “here and now,” on the goals of the client, and on what needed to happen for change to occur. Whereas earlier, it was common to see your clients for six months, now supervisors would question what you were doing if there was not noticeable progress after six sessions. What happened was that the techniques that worked in Court Conciliation then filtered into general counselling situations. I guess you can’t help but use new tools when you find them to be valid. I personally think that Court Conciliation changed the whole philosophy of couple counselling because it offered something quite different from psychotherapy—and it worked! While all these developments and changes were happening in the counselling field, MGC was also making inroads into education. Tutors started going into schools and taking classes on relationships, self-awareness, and sexuality. This started around the late 1960s and continued until legislation came in that said only trained teachers could take the subjects. This was another area that grew and changed as it went on. Initially this programme was only taken with students who were at UE level [now Year 12]. Then it was discovered that the “at-risk” kids who left school at fifteen missed out. It gradually began to be run for younger and younger secondary students. Then it was recognised that some intermediate school kids were already sexually active, so the programme kept being offered to younger students until it was running even in the primary schools. While this was happening, the focus was also coming back to parents and their role, so gradually MGC tutors began to do more community work, such as pre-marriage courses. MGC later became Relationship Services,6 and is in many ways now a very different organisation. The days of a few pioneering volunteers are long gone. Many of those original members are dead now. Many of their innovative discoveries and insights are now so commonplace that their “radical” nature is all but forgotten. Many things have changed. There are skills, models, philosophies, and knowledges available now that were unknown when we started, and counselling itself no longer suffers under the stigma it once did, either for the client or for the counsellor. With demand for services constantly increasing, counselling has once again become the work of professionals. My personal hope is that the need for qualifications and academics will not take the place of personal integrity and genuineness in the counsellor. Carl Rogers’ core values
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Ruth Penny, with David Epston and Margaret Agee
of warmth, respect, availability, empathy, and congruence are harder to teach than techniques and skills, but I remain a firm believer that it is the quality of relationship that heals, and that quality is determined by who we are, not by what we know. As I become older I worry less about using the academically approved words and being politically correct. At bottom line, for me, counselling is about relationship, and relationship is about love. In my later years, Rogers’ phrase “unconditional positive regard” came more and more to sit in my head as a synonym for “love”. We get afraid of the word “love” and the exploitation and confusion that can come with that word. Let us never forget that within the nature of that word itself also lies the greatest key to healing, joy, and growth. In Ruth’s own words
Walking in Esther’s footsteps was not an easy path to follow. It’s never easy being the child of someone who has been significant in their field of expertise, and initially I avoided counselling because of the sensed expectation to prove myself worthy of wearing Esther’s shoes. However, having been brought up from the age of eight with meat, veggies, and Carl Rogers at every meal, I was saturated with ideas about developing relationships and increasing levels of personal awareness and integrity. From a young age, I saw relationships differently from the way many of my peers did. Settled deep inside me because of Mum’s example, I came to see people and relationships as sacred and precious, so the friendships I made were deep and few. Many remain the closest friendships I now have, and it is amazing to see how years apart have not diminished the levels of love, connection, or support. Experiences of deep, “real” conversations going on around me made me quite inadequate at party small-talk until I discovered my “sanguine” side, and have been a party animal ever since. I cannot think of a time when I saw Esther treat anyone with anything less than exquisite care and graciousness, whether that person was a friend, a checkout operator, or a child she met on the beach. The benchmark for “non-possessive love” that Esther embraced from Carl Rogers never faltered in her professional or private life. Her constant, daily habit of asking herself, “What would Love do? How would Love respond?” shaped her day-to-day living and relating, and this is the greatest inheritance she has passed on to me. Esther always believed that there was a source of Love greater than herself, and she learned early what it meant to allow herself to lean in to that and rest in the knowledge that where her resources and patience ran out, there was a Love that would hold both
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herself and the person she was with. That knowing brought a profound sense of peace, both to her professional and private lives. It has only been in the last fifteen years or so that Esther’s “knowing” has become my own, and I cannot begin to explain the depth of change that has made in my client work, or the depth of peace it offers me as I face the inevitable goodbyes I am having to say to clients, friends, and family. I can trust this “holding Love,” knowing that I might be out of the picture, but the source of Love will remain undiminished and unfailing. I learnt and experienced a great deal about active listening skills and communication techniques just by being around a master craftswoman. However, the greatest legacy that she passed on to me is a philosophy, a way of being, and a set of attitudes about people and about life. For all her warmth and gentleness, Esther was also a fiery, stroppy pocket-dynamo, who would fight tenaciously for the values and beliefs she held most sacred. She was unshakeable in her belief that love would find a way to release the intrinsic goodness that people carry within themselves. Her constant affirmation of people and her ability to see what was below the surface taught me that we see what we learn to look for. I began my life looking into others for what might hurt me. Somewhere along the line, Esther’s mantra has steered my vision to look for what is good, for what can be admired and respected, and for what flashes I see of “holding love.” I cannot believe how liberating this has become, or how much more richly I now see the world and those I share it with. All my life, Esther modelled an amazing generosity in the way she would give of herself to other people. It is a rare quality and it is lovely. I think I’ve had that passed on to me as well, along with Esther’s resilience, that can take the hard knocks and the disappointments that are inevitable at times when you commit yourself to people who have been profoundly hurt. Here’s where Esther’s mantra that “love will find a way,” and her example of finding love greater than oneself, has become my personal life-source in both my relationships and in my ability to face death without fear or regret. So what legacy might I leave? Some deeply treasured relationships where I know that the seeds of my own and Esther’s values have been planted deeply and nurtured well. There was a blessing service arranged for me last week which I was too sick to attend, but my friends were there and were asked to come forward and stand in my place. For me, the liberating realisation, when I heard this, was the certainty that when I die, these people who have invested in my life, as I have invested in theirs, will in fact stand in my place and pick up my mantle.
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Ruth Penny, with David Epston and Margaret Agee
Notes
1 The Marriage Guidance Council of New Zealand was conceived in Christchurch in 1948, and after a “troubled infancy” the organisation was established in Auckland in 1956, and evolved through “renaissance” and “rebirth” in 1960, as it grew in strength. The history of the organisation from 1949 to 1989 was documented by Daly (1990). 2 For further reading about the social history of New Zealand women, see, e.g., Park (1991). 3 The social conditions that were the cause of public concern at the time are outlined by Daly (1990, p. 11). See also Hermansson (1999). 4 As an historical point of comparison, a pilot guidance counselling scheme was trialled in secondary schools for more than two years in the early to mid-1960s, and guidance counselling in secondary schools was formally established by the government in May 1966 (Winterbourn, 1974). Groups of counsellors began to meet informally for networking and support, as guidance counselling positions were established in a wider range of schools. Between 1967 and 1974, local associations of guidance counsellors were formed in Auckland, Wellington, and Christchurch, culminating in the formation of the New Zealand Counselling and Guidance Association, forerunner of NZAC, at the first national conference in 1974 (Hermansson, 1999). 5 Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory. 6 The change from Marriage Guidance to Relationship Services occurred in 1994 (see http://www.marriageguidance.org.nz/). References
Daly, J. M. (1990). MG reflecting: A portrait of Marriage Guidance New Zealand, 1949 to 1989. Wellington: Marriage Guidance Council of New Zealand. Hermansson, G. L. (1999). Pieces of silver: Twenty-five years of the New Zealand Counselling and Guidance Association/New Zealand Association of Counsellors, 1974–1999. Hamilton: NZAC & Author. Park, J. (Ed.). (1991). Ladies, a plate: Change and continuity in the lives of New Zealand women. Auckland: Auckland University Press. Winterbourn, R. (1974). Guidance services in New Zealand education. Wellington: New Zealand Council for Educational Research.
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How Can a “Southern Theory” Perspective Contribute to New Zealand Counselling? Edgar Burns
Abstract Raewyn Connell’s new text, Southern Theory, is described here as a background perspective for counselling teaching and practice. The first half of the article explores the idea of southern theory and New Zealand culture, seeing parallels to it in the relation between Mäori and non-Mäori New Zealanders. Several points are then raised about perspective in general, suggesting that a southern perspective helps inspect truth claims of counselling concepts and practices. The second half of the discussion is framed around what Connell sees as four key assumptions that northern theory makes about the world which adversely affect southern societies like New Zealand. The southern challenge to these assumptions is linked to counselling in this country.
The purpose of this article is to introduce the New Zealand counselling profession to Raewyn Connell’s new book, Southern Theory: The global dynamics of knowledge in social science (2007), and to discuss the possibilities it offers to counselling practitioners and teachers in this country. From our New Zealand location, professionals often have reason to value personal and vocational connections to ideas and debates in the European and American centres of economic and political importance. Connell’s book, however, suggests that at the same time the social theory that emanates from these world centres, and which frames the work of all human service professions including counselling, undermines the usefulness and recognition of our own ideas for those of us outside those northern centres of power and influence.
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My viewpoint in writing this article is that of a sociologist who has taught counselling, psychotherapy and social work degree students at each year-level of their undergraduate degree over a number of years. Seeing students pulled between the authorities in their northern canonical texts on the one hand, and the need to learn how to address local issues and personal needs on the other, in this country, in these cultures, and in this period of time, has been a powerful experience-near educational exchange for me and my colleagues. Both students and teaching staff engaging this tension are called to reframe experience and reflect on what it means, and how to proceed as we grow professionally and personally. Given that many of the texts used internationally in counselling come from First World or northern hemisphere sources, the implications of Connell’s reasoning suggest that counselling, along with other professional activities, will exist in a tension between developing local concepts for local problems, and the continual absorption and cultural colonisation of our social ways of framing our national and cultural experience by unconscious emulation of those world centres. As a consequence of this tension, the tug and pull of theoretical and cultural social forms creates a kind of practitioner split mentalité. Protocols of professional-client interaction, service provision, and ways of doing things “sort of fit,” but also “don’t exactly fit” at the same time. Counsellors can be so focused on learning and improving their skills and competencies that their faithfulness to what texts and theorists say misses this largely invisible overlay of American and European—what Connell calls northern—ways of doing things on southern societies such as New Zealand and Australia. Australasian societies are a long way from being European countries or cultures any more, and this encroachment of ideas inhibits the interpretation of southern experience and practice here. In a number of ways, this echoes and reinforces the kind of insights provided in the essays that appeared in the New Zealand Journal of Counselling, 27(1). That issue offered, as the editors commented (Cornforth & Parkin, 2007), “at long last, a number of papers that have as their focus taha Mäori, biculturalism and different ways of relating” (p. iv). Many of the same kinds of processes of overlay, and resistance to or amelioration of such imposition that are central to discussions of Mäori and Päkehä and our colonial backdrop, are paralleled today by the northern-versus-southern cultural tensions affecting New Zealand. This fundamental point needs to be expanded because it works at least on the following four levels. First, there are analogous marginalising processes for southern societies as a whole, which to some extent can be read about and learned. Studying the
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Mäori-Päkehä relationships emerging from a new recognition by non-Mäori has already delivered some better understandings of things Mäori in recent years. Second, this is not a claim that says “we” (non-Mäori) understand what Mäori have gone through and continue to go through vis-à-vis the rest of New Zealand society. However, it proposes that the sort of colonisation and racialisation “putting down” mechanisms that affect Mäori—where a dominant group sometimes explicitly, but more often tacitly, systematically disadvantages the minority group—have analogues that are being practised on us as whole New Zealand southern society (Mäori and Päkehä together). This is done by northern powerful societies that speak and write about their problems from their point of view, and in terms of their political process and cultural practices in relation to those issues, and how to deal with them. Such speaking, writing and practice mostly ignores New Zealand experience, but acts as though it also represents and is transferable to our national situation. Third, if this affects all of us in a southern society, as Connell claims, then those of us who are not Mäori can benefit from Mäori input and learning about Mäori experience. This is not just for reasons such as addressing fairness and gaining insights into holistic or spiritual framings that have been greatly eclipsed in secular society, but because Mäori are a near-at-hand source of knowledge and insight into how such marginalising processes play out. If we find it hard to see the near-invisible strands like those with which Gulliver was tied down by the Lilliputians and which also tie us, we have a need to absorb some of that often bitter marginalisation to help shift our collective New Zealand self-understanding. This need not be a cultural cringe, but a growth towards cultural maturity. Fourth, to the degree that the idea of southern theory has merit, it is certain that the professional activity of counselling, in any of its institutional or practitioner forms or modalities, draws upon professional and theoretical models that in toto, whatever their conceptual usefulness, at the same time effectively marginalise the full development of local counselling knowledge, ideas, and ways of thinking about our issues. This is not a claim to privilege local experience, but an assertion of the legitimacy and appropriateness of locally generated ideas with which to think about and understand that experience. The idea of a southern perspective is not in any way opposed to attention to Mäori and bicultural perspectives, nor is it trying to supersede them. Quite the contrary: it actively builds on alternatives to mainstream values and ways of framing experience, pain, and value, and pays attention to exploring solutions utilised by indigenous
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peoples. Connell asserts that the presence of indigenous peoples in southern countries, and their values concerning land, group behaviour, community and gender, have changed ex-Europeans who now live here. New Zealanders are no longer merely white people in this part of the world; our whole economic and cultural life is different because of this contact and location. In New Zealand’s case, European New Zealanders are Päkehä, whether that word or another is preferred. Connell’s term southern picks up this changed socio-cultural reality across a number of countries like ours. Anthropologist Unni Wikan’s (1991) admonition about “balance” is a useful contribution that complements Connell’s reasoning by means of a brief narrative cameo she provides. From her work in Indonesia, Wikan describes a conversation with a local Balinese couple about applying concepts like “balance” and “harmony”, concepts that might be used in a number of counselling practitioner contexts. In the end the man cut me short and gracefully said, “You know, it’s right what you say, but it is not the way we think.” And he went on to expound how Balinese think, substituting the notion of “balance” I had used with more experience-near concepts of pragmatic consequence in everyday life, and relegating my kind of usage to the discourse of literary and textual specialists. To me his warning came timely. As I saw it, he did not merely juxtapose two kinds of discourses, two ways of knowing, one expert, one folk, or even two different cultural models. More was at stake. (p. 285) Wikan, the academic, reports herself as learning her theory from her everyday conversationalists. Many counsellors and educators report a similar sense of learning from those with whom they work. Connell’s argument is about the professional framing, texts, and Euro-American perspectives imparted from northern, non-New Zealand settings that hinder the development of local self-understanding and action. So even while we expand our understanding of Mäori-and-Päkehä-together ways of behaving, reacting, learning, and adapting, we are continuing to use the theoretical and practice tools of counselling individuals and academic disciplines that are historically and culturally located elsewhere—they are not the simple, literal “truth”. Durie (2007) put it like this in a recent volume of this journal: Since the modern study of psychology owes much to investigations by scientific researchers in western countries, many of the findings about behaviour, relationship building, cognition and affect are particularly germane to western cultures. However, they cannot necessarily be applied to all cultures. Assumptions about
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universality have long since given way to recognition of the impacts of ethnicity on patterns of behaviour, and there is an increasing realisation that the ways in which people think, feel and relate to each other are often a reflection of the culture within which they have been raised. (p. 1) A southern approach to such issues is one way of elaborating a response. It aims to: • name broad themes of cultural and national sensibilities that together make much of what we do in our advice and interpretations appear to be “natural”. The fact that such “sensibilities” are not just “natural” can be readily discovered by New Zealanders visiting or relocating in another country; this learning may be more elusive for northern professionals coming here; • introduce an integrative social theory perspective that might be woven into our counselling teaching and practice in this country, honouring gender, ethnicity, and culture, and gradually challenging existing perspectives and models; • identify southern commonalities across several countries outside the northern European and American metropolitan centres; • invite engagement with northern theory from a standpoint that is increasingly our own, where the “our” shares both indigenous and multi-country insights about how it is to be treated as “other” by the northern geo-political centres. The contention here is that the pattern of inapplicability or merely partial relevance that exists between economically privileged countries and cultures such as Mäori is not just about theories but is an expression of underlying political power. Further, this pattern is replicated even within the so-called group of developed nations in the marginalising effect that many ideas have on New Zealanders and other southern countries—for both Mäori and Päkehä, or for white Australians as well as Aboriginal peoples, and so on. Just as it is all too easy for Päkehä New Zealanders to miss the ways in which they marginalise Mäori in their professional and personal actions and practices, it is also common for Päkehä New Zealanders to be only vaguely conscious of the fact that their own—as well as Mäori—perspectives are discounted against ideas from the centres of intellectual and textbook production. Using perspectives
Sociology and other disciplines often use “perspective” and “approach” as broadly equivalent terms to mean the ways a person or group is oriented towards one or more subjects or to the world in general. The everyday terms “point of view,” or “where a
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person is coming from,” express similar concepts in non-academic language. It is important as practitioners to be able to shift comfortably from the technical terminology of counselling theories and models to the everyday equivalents or near-equivalents that clients use. There is much more data to be harvested from interactions if this is done well. But to be able to do this competently is a counselling skill beyond the initial learning of theories, and where and when they might be applied. As teachers, there may be room for criticism that this further step in developing professional practitioner skills could be elaborated on. The role of sociology as one core contribution in the formation of counselling competence might be said to widen the vision of self and agency in varied cultural and social contexts. It can be tempting for some professional helpers to omit contextual issues from their analyses and solutions for individuals, especially if these are contentious or culturally difficult to articulate, and prefer instead to adopt a more restricted focus that implies that personal issues largely have personal causation. A perspective or point of view can be thought of in two ways. First, it provides a professional route for counsellors to orientate themselves to their own learning, their beliefs and priorities, their skills, and towards their clients. A subset of this is the academic use of perspective or approach to mean the conscious creation of ways to tackle issues and tasks. Perspective in this setting can sometimes be used as approximately the same as model or theory, but is better seen as giving guidance to such models and theory building. A feminist perspective, for example, causes attention to be paid across many diverse situations to gendered constructions, how women are positioned or framed in the given circumstances, and how these expectations and “rules” might affect and disadvantage women. The second way to deploy perspective is to elevate clients’ opinions and statements as their perspective on things, revealing their approach to life, to partner, to work, and so on. Although in one sense amorphous and often not explicit, client perspectives are fundamental material to work with if any reframing or change is contemplated. For example, it is not too hard to see a client perspective of inner self-critical talk having implications for everything from releasing negative links to parents, to reframing a primary partner relationship, to the care and training of the next generation. Further, it is possible to talk about differences between the academic job of self-conscious constructing of perspectives and the personal formation of perspective that clients (in fact, everybody) construct in going through various experiences in life. The first is formal and deliberate, whereas client perspectives may grow accidentally with the flow of life, often uninspected even when problems arise, and essentially private rather
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than debated. Bringing perspectives and the assumptions that accompany them to awareness is often central to resolving internal or interpersonal conflicts. In summary, then, a perspective may be a whole-of-life framework or a set of ideas about some more-focused topic. An academic perspective is usually regarded as broader and more background to a theory, although again there can be a fair bit of overlap in how these terms are used. An academic theory is deliberate, and should be set out formally so that others can—professionally —inspect it, challenge it, and test it in practice or by research, and suggest revisions. A perspective may be more cognitively framed or it may be a personal interpretive framework. The southern perspective implies that we should be critically aware of the supposed “truth” of everyday counselling concepts (Walker, 2004). Without an ongoing agenda of professional enquiry and recalibration of our ideas, procedures, and concepts, our practice may become too narrow, may reflect age-boundedness, be too “white,” too American, not international enough, or in a variety of other ways diminish our capacity to intervene professionally in the range of counselling situations regularly encountered, or in administrative contexts involving practice and policy processes and educator engagement. Four main strands of southern theory
What is southern theory? The subtitle to Connell’s book explains that it is about “the global dynamics of knowledge in social science.” It describes how modern social ideas that are now taken to be scientific, objective, and neutral were developed through the period of colonialism and neo-colonial expansion of European and American influence during the 19th and 20th centuries. The inference to be drawn from Connell’s discussion of social theory is that the very central counselling ideas that we use every day are to some extent implicated in the dominating power relations that exist around the world. They are not simply and uncomplicatedly “truth”. As reflected in NZAC policies, as well as in articles in previous issues of this journal, the idea that it is not possible to be a competent counsellor in New Zealand without some bicultural awareness makes the case for a local knowledge (Geertz, 1983) to be developed and utilised. Outside “knowledge” is not always applicable. Connell’s argument is that similar reasoning applies across Australia and other southern countries as well. When counselling within what may appear to be “completely” white or European New Zealander or other non-Mäori groups, practitioners still need a southern perspective. This is because the presence of white people in this part of the world, and
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the presence of Mäori people here—and all the complexities those facts give rise to— means that Mäori experience and existence, and hence the modification of non-Mäori cultures, is relevant even in what might be supposed by some to be clearly “nonMäori” situations within New Zealand social settings. Even supposing a specialised argument might be made for a recently arrived counsellor interacting with a recently arrived counsellee, the event takes place within the cultural context of this society. Certainly, in all ordinary everyday interactions, the lived experience of Päkehä, Mäori, and any other identifiable groupings people may wish to claim (not just ethnic ones) is intertwined and thereby modified, irrespective of our personal activities, relationships, or opinions. This happens across the diversity of the political, economic, work, family, and interpersonal aspects of our lives. Northern theory, as Connell demonstrates via critique of three well-known social theorists, can be seen upon inspection to be putting a northern “spin” on concepts and ideas that are therefore not entirely accurate representations from our point of view in the south. She calls these northern centres of power the metropole (the centre) and southern societies the periphery (that is, the edge places). The effect of these dominating frames of reference is to marginalise southern understanding, experience, and ability to construct and promote theoretical models and explanations relevant to our field, even if that is not intended or realised. Only by accepting and “buying into” the northern ways of doing things do we become acceptable “players”, but the game is still played on northern terms. Connell (2007, p. 44) identifies four aspects of the northernness of general theory. “The consequences of metropolitan geo-political location can be seen, I suggest, in four characteristic textual moves: the claim of universality; reading from the centre; gestures of exclusion; and grand erasure.” A southern perspective also means that the simple fact of counselling texts being written in English does not necessarily mean they are fully congruent with New Zealand needs and social nuances. In the four “textual moves,” we can begin to discern ways in which these ideas might be appropriated by local counselling theory and practice so that local insights are not invalidated as merely special cases, interesting but not universally applicable, but re-read and established as useful and independent theories in their own right. The claim of universality
From a southern viewpoint, dominant northern texts from American and European authors make “a strong and repeated claim to universal relevance” (Connell, 2007,
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p. 44). This assumption is part of the scientific and secular rationality that reached a peak of confidence in mid-20th-century developed societies. Those dominant economic centres still assume that professional texts (that is, what they say) are equally true for everyone. Four comments about this belief in the universal extension of northern views attempt to link this to New Zealand counselling. First, even though northern ideas are dominating, southern theory is not advocating an “anti” northern standpoint, but rather argues that naming these ideas as northern invites recognition that these are their ideas and theories. Unreflective adoption of such ideas and concepts makes better sense to members of those societies than to us. It is always relevant to ask how poorly or well such ideas, models, and practices fit New Zealand, and to ask what selections we should make, or what challenges should be mounted. This is of course part of the conscious need to update our understanding and use of overseas ideas as our collective awareness of our own society continues to develop. Second, a theory or model from here is given the name “a New Zealand counselling model” or something similar. Connell says “its specificity is immediately obvious,” but such a question is much less often asked of American or European texts. To call something “Latin American counselling” is immediately to ask, in Connell’s terms, how far this is relevant to other situations, and to note that such a question is much further down the list for inspecting northern claims. Often northern theorists and practitioners “bolt on” Australian or New Zealand examples to illustrate their work. Even insights generated from examples of, for instance, Hindu or Japanese culture (Shweder, 1991) still tend to be read by those in the northern environment as something of interest to append to the main truth that they already “know”, rather than shifting an ethnocentric perspective. Third, professional counselling and counsellors share many of the characteristics that northern professionalisation brought to this country in the 19th and 20th centuries. Professions, and the beliefs and practices that are part of professional socialisation and formalisation in modern society, are quite literally products (exports) of European and American—that is, northern—historical development. Professions provide highly desirable links across national boundaries, but at the same time it is necessary to identify differences, culturally appropriate practices, and key focal concerns, and to follow these over time. Core professional competencies around which professional groups are constituted continue to alter over time. What counts as professionalism in American counselling sits at some points the same as in New Zealand, partly a model to be emulated, and at other points as something that has
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rigidities, formalities, assumptions about method, practice, and cultural relevance extending to the “whiteness” of significant parts of the profession, and different malefemale discourses, that compare and contrast with this country when viewed from a southern perspective. Fourth, assumptions or claims of universal relevance can also be challenged by reviewing specific examples from counselling and psychology. The cultural history of IQ tests, for instance, has a very low profile relative to the psychological testing sector creating and norming instrument validation over many decades. Only gradually has a reluctant acknowledgement been forthcoming to reveal how deeply embedded in social and historical contexts these tests are, challenging earlier beliefs in IQ test capacity to abstract a universal measure of intelligence (Murdoch, 2007). Similarly, the currently fashionable idea of emotional intelligence is imbued with cultural relativity. We can also include Walker’s (2004) challenge to usage of learned-helplessness and self-efficacy concepts, staples of the counselling profession too often. Again, as with the previous points, this is not to say such ideas are wrong per se, but that they contribute relative insights rather than the universal truth so often claimed or implied. Reading from the centre
Connell (2007, p. 45) points out that “contributions to general theory are often presented as resolutions of some antinomy, problem or weakness in previous theory.” In most social science and psychology disciplines, inspecting the history or development of the field reveals that schools of thought have emanated from disputes and attempted resolutions of methodological or theoretical positions. Connell’s argument is that these debates or revisions are usually ones stemming from northern traditions, northern history, and northern issues. For example, while the subject-object binary is fundamental to European intellectual traditions, and shapes many counselling concepts, the Balinese example of feeling-thought cited previously demonstrates that there are quite different ways in which such conceptions can be framed. New Zealand has a hybrid history, drawing on Mäori and Pacific ideas as well as European ones. Being able to build on such ideas as viable and legitimate is a much harder task than merely seeing difference, or being seen as different. Reading and re-reading from the centre means that these claims are continually repeated and reinforced: “That this point of view originates in the metropole is not explicit” (Connell, 2007, p. 44). Only to the extent that southern societies and experts
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call these ideas into question, making their assumptions explicit, do the universal claims inherent in such assertions, often described as scientific, become apparent as much less grand and much more ordinary. One clue that can be practically exploited is to identify why disciplinary schools of thought developed, and then chart the succession of such developments. Every disciplinary perspective chronicled in textbooks has its own history of challenge and dissatisfaction with the adequacy of previous approaches. More often than not, studying the history of such groups (not just the potted first-chapter summaries of textbooks such as Goodman, Schlossberg & Anderson, 2006, pp. 3–29) reveals knowledge patterns that make better sense when viewed from a southern vantage point as a mixture of culture, national themes and science, not simply science. This is true not only for recent contentions in identity politics involving constructions of gender and ethnicity, but also for supposedly neutral models of personality, use of inventories, creation of typologies, and so on. Gestures of exclusion
When texts are produced about counselling, they are predominantly from the northern centres of America and Europe. Slowly that is starting to change, but still with self-conscious reference to the theories and problems to be addressed as defined in those places. In a recent text such as Sharf ’s (2007) Theories of Psychotherapy and Counseling, the entire list of about a dozen major theories through which the text traverses reads like a who’s who of European and American notable names and models of psychotherapy and counselling. As Connell (2007, p. 46) observes, “Theorists from the colonised world are very rarely cited in metropolitan texts of general theory.” The question needs to be asked: in the other 90% of the world’s population, is there no worthwhile philosophy or theory of personality, of the person, that has emerged over the millennia of multiple sophisticated civilisations? Sharf ’s book mentions a few, here and there, but the national-cultural northern centrism must be continually challenged. There are pragmatic reasons, as well as the more abstract forms of geo-political positioning, for such gestures of exclusion. What Stager Jacques (2007) described in relation to business textbooks in New Zealand has similarities with counselling. He referred to the sense of imposition of non-New Zealand cultural types derived from overseas textbooks, but acknowledged the countervailing argument that the economics of production print-run (and hence being able to provide a more complex educational offering) make a bigger and better-value teaching resource.
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Notwithstanding economics, the impulse to expanding discussion and writing among ourselves about southern things that concern us today means that several disciplines in this country are beginning to produce texts that, in varying degrees, engage with our locality as well as ideas from the wider globe (e.g., Crothers, 2008, or in counselling, Drewery & Bird, 2004). These texts aim to go beyond merely adding a chapter or piece that recognises alternatives to northern cultures and practices, albeit as something interesting or special. Such writing is for the most part still peripheral to mainstream models, or treated as exotic. Grand erasure
The sheer absence of significant themes, historical information, and personal accounts only makes sense when seen as not fitting a northern viewpoint. A vivid illustration of erasure, as spelled out in Southern Theory, is the contrast between social theorist Pierre Bourdieu and psychiatrist Frantz Fanon. Bourdieu first published his major work Outline of a Theory of Practice (1972) from his research in Algeria during the Algerian colonial wars in northern Africa, with no discussion of the war or its consequences. Fanon (1967; 1986), working in the same time and place, is the major theorist of the psychopathological effects that war and bitter colonialism have on personality, emotional health, and many related themes. The erasure by Bourdieu of the lived, actual experience of people in that locale stands in breathtaking contrast to Fanon’s involvement in and sharing of the pain and turmoil. A political response may not be pertinent for most counselling professionals, but this journal’s previous issue 27(1) is a courageous step in seeking to address huge blankedout experiences in local New Zealand social history. Consider these three erasures: (a) the sense of loss or homeless dislocation of immigrant Europeans to New Zealand (Moir-Bussy, 2003, p. 5); (b) everyday restrictions on Mäori people sitting upstairs in movie theatres, which persisted in this country into the 1960s; (c) passive resistance of Te Whiti o Rongomai and Tohu Kakahi to land confiscation in the Taranaki during European colonisation, detailed in Dick Scott’s (1954/2004) Ask That Mountain (initially described as communist propaganda!). Any one of these erasures, and many others, provides thought experiments for a journey of insight and revelation (Winder, 2003) about the psyche and spirit of New Zealand people today. The logic of client self-erasure of issues and difficulties that is seen in counselling has parallels in the southern perspective of northern erasure being done to our society as a whole, in all the categories of gender, ethnicity, and otherwise that create our
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habitus, our lived self. Becoming familiar with such a perspective assists professional counsellors in addressing client erasures without compounding client situations by adding further professional ones. It is always relevant to ask, “What is missing here? What is not being said? What is being stepped past in this interaction?” The productive openness to challenging the idea that “Isn’t ‘good counseling’ good counseling?” in Sue and Sue’s (2007, p. 3) updated classic is developed in relation to the concepts of multiculturalism and special populations. Yet even the use of these terms is freighted, and while acknowledging the spirit of such explorations, it must be noted, first, that multiculturalism sits very differently in a New Zealand context, and second, as the present discussion has tried to show, southern theory is about the total “us” of our society, not simply “them” of any special group within it. Concluding thoughts
It is worth reiterating that this essay is not an antagonistic attack on the varieties of northern theorising. It does not seek hostility, rejection, or the advocacy of incivility. On the contrary, Connell’s proposal is an invitation to an intellectual and cultural maturity and challenge that draws on the abundance of insight and expertise in those northern centres. It encourages us, however, to recognise that the generation of such large volumes of ideas and texts does not, in itself, validate the applicability and local relevance of such work. It is not an either-or. There is an inextricable blending of desirable and unsuitable material that requires ongoing assessment. Even then, the cultural force of the powerful north means that the selection and response from our southern shores is a trial and error process, one that is never completely finished, in dealing with the upsides and downsides of such a broad yet problematic relationship. Developing a southern perspective sounds somewhat like the problems of individuation as mature adults from school, parents, and youthful peers, and progression on from past hurts, experiences, and relationships that have configured our personal lives. There are indeed many parallels that create analogies between personal paths and (ir)resolutions, and broader cultural and society-wide ones. Further, the experiences and insights we collectively continue to gain from the interaction of European/Päkehä and Mäori strands of New Zealand culture (Bowden, 2001; Liu, McCreanor, McIntosh, & Teaiwa, 2006), and other revised understandings about topics such as gender and sexuality, provide us with a partial template for seeing through the invisible application of power to practice, expectation, and experience.
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Edgar Burns
Even as northern ideas offer things we want and find useful, the development of a professional and national maturity that honours and makes greater use of our own southern experience is central to counselling theory and a vibrant counselling community in this country. Having an agenda that makes explicit the country, time, and conflict from which each theory emerges is a good beginning. One practical starting point to breach the thrall to other values and ways is to take the points of Connell’s critique of the northern assumptions named in Southern Theory, and to use each of them in turn to question and reposition our own New Zealand practice. References
Bourdieu, P. (1972). Outline of a theory of practice (R. Nice, Trans., New York ed., 1977). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bowden, A. R. (2001). A psychotherapist sings in Aotearoa. Plimmerton, New Zealand: Caroy Publications. Connell, R. (2007). Southern theory: The global dynamics of knowledge in social science. Crows Nest, NSW, Australia: Allen & Unwin. Cornforth, S., & Parkin, F. (2007). Editorial comments. New Zealand Journal of Counselling, 27(1), iii–iv. Crothers, C. (2008). New Zealand sociology textbooks. Current Sociology, 56(2), 221–234. Drewery, W., & Bird, L. (2004). Human development in Aotearoa: A journey through life (2nd ed.). Auckland: McGraw-Hill New Zealand. Durie, M. (2007). Counselling Mäori: Marae encounters as a basis for understanding and building relationships. New Zealand Journal of Counselling, 27(1), 1–8. Fanon, F. (1967). The wretched of the earth. Harmondsworth, UK: Penguin. Fanon, F. (1986). Black skin, white masks. London: Pluto. Geertz, C. (1983). Local knowledge: Further essays in interpretive anthropology. New York: Basic Books. Goodman, J., Schlossberg, N. K., & Anderson, M. L. (2006). Counseling adults in transition: Linking practice with theory (3rd ed.). New York: Springer. Liu, J. H., McCreanor, T., McIntosh, T., & Teaiwa, T. (2006). New Zealand identities: Departures and destinations. Wellington: Victoria University Press. Moir-Bussy, A. (2003). Travel that leads to wisdom. International Journal for the Advancement of Counselling, 25(1), 5–9. Murdoch, S. (2007). IQ: A smart history of a failed idea. New York: Wiley. Scott, D. (1954/2004). Ask that mountain. Wellington: Raupo. Sharf, R. S. (2007). Theories of psychotherapy & counseling: Concepts and cases (4th ed.). Belmont, CA: Wadsworth.
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Shweder, R. A. (1991). Thinking through cultures: Expeditions in cultural psychology. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Stager Jacques, R. (2007, February 16). “Indigenous” (Kiwi) textbooks: Damned if you do; damned if you don’t. Paper presented at the Organisation, Identity and Locality (OIL_III) Conference, Massey University, Albany, Auckland, New Zealand. Retrieved October 15, 2007 from http://www.massey.ac.nz/~cprichar/oil.htm Sue, D. W., & Sue, D. (2007). Counseling the culturally diverse: Theory and practice (5th ed.). New York: Wiley. Walker, K. (2004). Practitioner beware! A critical reflection on the theoretical assumptions that inform practice. Australian Journal of Career Development, 13(2), 40–43. Wikan, U. (1991). Toward an experience-near anthropology. Cultural Anthropology, 6(3), 285–305. Winder, V. (2003). Dick Scott outlines own Parihaka journey. Retrieved March 12, 2008, from http://www.pukeariki.com/en/stories/conflict/scottrpt.htm
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A Deeper Rap Examining the Relationship between Hip Hop, Rap and Adolescent Spirituality Alison Burke
Abstract As counsellors working with adolescents, and concerned with young people’s wellbeing, we cannot discount hip hop and rap as “mere noise”—an annoyance to be turned off and ignored. Despite negative press, these two forms of music have survived and flourished, and can have a huge impact on our youth. This essay argues that taking the time to pause, investigate, and reflect on these two closely related musical genres, and their impact on adolescent lives and development, will lead us to a deeper understanding of the world of adolescents and the forging of stronger empathic working relationships. It addresses questions concerning the ways in which hip hop and rap speak to adolescents’ meaningmaking and identity formation, and how they contribute to their sense of place and space, both individually and communally. It supports the importance of these two often-misunderstood musical forms in adolescents’ lives—in short, it shows the positive impact rap and hip hop can have on adolescent spirituality.
Visit any community in any country where adolescents reside, and the rhythmic beat and unique lyrics mixed with the borrowed sounds of musical phrases that combine to form rap and hip hop will be heard pulsating from private homes, public institutions, and open spaces. The importance of music as a “ubiquitous form of human expression and experience” (Reddick & Beresin, 2002, p. 51) has been highlighted in many studies focusing on adolescents (North, Hargreaves, & O’Neill, 2000; Schwartz & Fouts, 2003; Tekman & Hortacsu, 2002). Results have shown how music provides a vehicle through which they can “portray an image to the outside world and … satisfy their emotional needs” (North et al., 2000, p. 255).
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“[C]elebrated, sometimes controversial [but] undeniably influential … [hip hop is] an attitude borne [sic] out of music” (Chappell, 2005, p. 52). Although regarded at their inception as passing fads (Banfield, 2004; Thompson, 1996), hip hop and rap have risen to become powerful economic forces, and in today’s uncertain world, have become a global phenomenon with far-reaching effects (Banfield, 2004; Chappell, 2005). A pervasive presence within the music world and beyond, not only are they unique forms of commercial entertainment, but also platforms for social commentary and criticism, delivering guidelines for living and inciting a sense of pride in their followers. Acting as an “engine and mirror of … social movement” (Trapp, 2005, p. 1482), the strength and depth of their influence visibly dominate all facets of life for their followers. Hip-hop artists draw attention to struggles suffered through oppression and injustice. They speak of religion, migration, and national pride, and give voice to dreams of hope and promise. Alongside this, through what is termed gangsta rap, they describe scenes of violence, misogyny, death, and destruction. Consequently, there are many who believe that these musical genres are detrimental to adolescent mental health (Mahiri & Conner, 2003; Roberts, Dimsdale, East, & Friedman, 1998), a view that is perpetuated via the media, fuelling parental fears. As music plays an extremely important role in adolescence, satisfying certain adolescent social, emotional, and developmental needs (Schwartz & Fouts, 2003), this raises questions about the power, magnetism, and influence of hip hop and rap, their effect on young people’s mental health, and thus on their spirituality. Neither concrete nor measurable, spirituality is a subjective concept that defies definition. More than religious beliefs, Burke and Miranti (1995) describe it as encompassing the “quality that lies at the very core and essence of the client’s being, a core that transcends the physical and material aspects of existence, which is untouchable and often times undefinable, [but] so necessary for an explanation to one’s existence” (p. 2). As such, it forms part of how adolescents make sense of the world and see themselves within it. Hip bones
During the 1970s, the United States experienced intense political unrest, including racial disharmony, civil rights, and anti-war protests (Banfield, 2004). It was during this period that homegrown music, known as “black” music, initially surfaced, being performed on the streets by marginalised youth (Dimitriadis, 2001). Theirs was a life
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experience full of disillusionment and alienation: of gang wars, death, unemployment, poverty, increasing inequalities between rich and poor, feelings of powerlessness, and bleak futures (Ross & Rose, 1994; Taylor, 2003). Comprised of rhyming lyrics, known as rap, spoken over pre-existing music borrowed from other sources, hip hop was cheap, easy to produce, and became a means of giving voice to the youth of marginalised black minority communities inhabiting inner-city ghettos of Brooklyn, New York, San Francisco, and Los Angeles (Thompson, 1996; Whiteley, Bennett, & Hawkins, 2004). Drawing attention to the harsh realities of urban life, it provided a vehicle through which frustrations and tensions could be expressed publicly (Chappell, 2005; Mahiri & Conner, 2003). In this way, young people formed protests, made political statements, and “rework[ed their] local identity” (Mitchell, 2001). This in turn mediated their feelings of powerlessness by instilling a sense of hope, aspiration, and solidarity (Tabb Powell, 1991). The origins of hip hop can be traced to black “rhythm and blues” music; to the early days of black slavery in America and its gospel songs; to reggae and Rastafarian culture, and to West Africa where, centuries ago, ancient traditions and folklore were passed down through generations by a select group of revered members of communities who were known as griots (Banfield, 2004; DJ Dubhead, 2005; Imani & Vera, 1996; Tabb Powell, 1991). These storytellers orally recited both tribal history and real-time events, to the rhythmic accompaniment of the beat of drums. Today’s rap and hip-hop artists, having resurrected these verbal skills, are considered by many to be modernday prophets (Trapp, 2005), “the new griots … the wellsprings of true knowledge … tell[ing] the real story of the ghetto” (Imani & Vera, 1996, p. 170). Soul search
Muss (1996) draws attention to Erikson’s lifespan model of human development in which adolescence is described as being a period of turmoil, as individuals work through critical developmental tasks that can, if successfully achieved, lead to a stable sense of identity, or conversely a negative one—identity diffusion. Yalom (1980) has drawn attention to the importance that meaning has in human lives, pointing out that “to live without meaning, goals, values, or ideals seems to provoke … considerable distress” (p. 422). As adolescents progress on their journey of discovery, growth, and identity formation, they also partake in deep soul-searching and inner reflection, pondering questions that focus on meaning, meaninglessness, loneliness, and the surrounding confusion that these concepts create (Reddick & Beresin, 2002). It follows
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that they would be drawn to and identify with hip-hop artists who echo these same sentiments in many of their songs. For example, in “Somewhere I Belong”, Linkin Park (2003) rap of getting “lost in the nothingness inside of me … just stuck hollow and alone.” Similar sentiments are found in their “By Myself ” (2000), when they tell of finding it difficult to “hold on,” for although bombarded with questions, they remain stuck in a void; no matter how hard they try they cannot find the answers. … it’s all too much to take in / I can’t hold on / to anything watching everything spin / with thoughts of failure sinking in … / if I’m killed by the questions like a cancer / then I’ll be buried in the silence of the answer … / … no matter what I do, how hard I try / I can’t seem to convince myself why / I’m stuck on the outside. Recurring thought patterns of confusion, insecurity, and the accompanying overwhelming feelings of being lost, looking for answers, and losing control, reappear in Linkin Park’s song “Crawling” (2003), which describes feelings of sinking within oneself, being lost, and not knowing who one really is. … there’s something inside me that pulls beneath the surface / consuming / confusing / this lack of self-control I fear is never ending / controlling / I can’t seem to find myself again / my walls are closing in … / I’ve felt this way before so insecure … / discomfort, endlessly has pulled itself upon me / distracting / reacting / against my will I stand beside my own reflection / it’s haunting … In a similar vein, New Zealand artist Che-Fu also ponders questions surrounding meaning and meaninglessness but turns his thoughts outwards when, in “Hold Tight” (2005), he tells of how his “mind keeps on searching, for a reason why, our world keeps turning, needlessly we die.” In their journey of self-discovery, adolescents push boundaries, test new ground, experiment with different personae, and find a sense of security by identifying with a larger group. While originally created as music by and for the black community, today’s hip hop is a genre that appeals across all cultures and ethnicities internationally. In the words of Dimitriadis (2001), hip hop, “[i]f nothing else … speaks to the urgency with which youth from all across the economic, ethnic, and racial spectrum are trying to define and redefine themselves in the face of massive and ever-present uncertainties about identity” (p. xii). In this postmodern age, more than ever before, young people are experiencing and struggling with the impact of such issues as poverty, high unemployment, broken families, lack of parental support, and uncertain futures.
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Indeed, many “… youth of the hip-hop generation have never known the relative security that some of their parents and even grandparents knew” (Hazzard-Donald, 1996, p. 225). Walk the walk—talk the talk
As an answer to the struggles and uncertainties of modern life, hip hop has become a “ritual [that has] flowered into a self-contained culture” (Banfield, 2004, p. 130) comprising not only music but also verbal discourse, graffiti art, break-dancing, a dress code, jewellery, and a rich language. These elements combine to form a strong and totally consuming experience for its followers, enabling them to become fully immersed in this alternative culture. In so doing, they forge relationships with others which thus enable them to establish and maintain a sense of community while moving forward in their personal development (Reddick & Beresin, 2002). Theirs is not only an allegiance to a specific musical genre but also “to the individuals who make it, a way to friendship and kinship with others, and a road to personal identity through belonging” (Reddick & Beresin, 2002, p. 58). It is well recognised that adolescents adopt the mannerisms of their heroes through the process of modelling (Santrock 2003; Wingood et al., 2003). With respect to hip hop, this is visible in adolescents’ adoption of the same dress code, values, language, and symbols as the artists use: they walk the walk and talk the talk. It would follow that as they form a strong connection with the rappers, adolescents also take to heart the messages they hear that “affirm the[ir] experiences and identities” (Ross & Rose, 1994, p. 84). Consequently, hip-hop artists and the rap lyrics they compose constitute a “powerful force for identity, solidarity, and emotional reinforcement” (Tabb Powell, 1991, p. 24) by providing a certain education about values and attitudes, and instilling a sense of self-pride and self-improvement (Chappell, 2005; Tabb Powell, 1991). It can therefore be argued that hip-hop artists are leaders and role models (Trapp, 2005). The “Queen’s” message
The widely held values of giving and of making the world a better place for others can be found in the personal beliefs of many hip-hop artists. For example, the songs of American hip-hop artist Queen Latifah provide a positive role model for young women (Mayo, 2001). During her years in the hip-hop scene, Queen Latifah has addressed societal hypocrisy by passing comment on social issues including the nonexistence of equal opportunities for women, calling for changes in attitudes. She sees
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her task as being not only one of entertainment but also of educating her followers. She always promotes herself as an individual with high self-esteem, showing others that they should treat themselves as royalty. An advocate for women’s rights, she promotes feminism and highlights issues such as the social stereotyping of women, sexual promiscuity, and peer pressure (Trapp, 2005). New Zealand hip-hop artist Ermehn has spoken out concerning his beliefs about the importance of providing positive messages to audiences. Having lived a life of gang membership and crime, for which he spent time in prison, he changed his ways and is telling his story through rap, in the hope that youth will learn from the mistakes he made in his early life (Buchanan, 2005; McLean, 2005). Fears prevail concerning possible negative influences of various hip-hop raps relating to issues such as sex, violence, crime, and misogyny. A study by Mahiri and Conner (2003) found that in contrast to others’ fears, adolescents were fully cognisant of the nature and causes of crimes in their respective communities, and in fact possessed increased desires to avoid such situations in their own lives. In addition, studies have also found that adolescents will most often become co-creators in their listening experience by forming their own meanings about what they are hearing (Reddick & Beresin, 2002). It must also be remembered that not all hip-hop music carries negative messages, and this is the case particularly in the New Zealand scene, where very little gangsta rap is produced. Resonating culture
When considering local adolescents’ search for meaning, New Zealand artists cannot be overlooked, as these artists integrate their own cultural backgrounds and indigenous languages into their raps (Shute, 2004). Focusing more on nationalism, pride in race, cultural heritage, and raising the self-esteem of their listeners, they speak to the cultural spirituality of their audiences. In an article based on the use of native languages in hip hop, Mitchell (2001) draws attention to New Zealand groups, such as Upper Hutt Possee, who integrate traditional Mäori instruments along with calls to ancestors, spirits of the forest, and guardians of the sea. In addition they employ both English and te reo Mäori in their raps. Mitchell (2001) sees this use of indigenous language as being not only a form of “resistance vernacular” (p. 11) in respect of resisting the use of the accepted language of the dominant culture, but also one of “self-assertion and selfpreservation” (p. 11) of these minority groups, that helps connect them musically with the struggles of other marginalised groups on a global scene.
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In a rap entitled “Land of Plenty”, Pauly Fuemana (1997), a hip-hop artist of Niuean and Mäori heritage performing under the name OMC, instils a sense of pride in heritage by painting a verbal picture of New Zealand: a long white cloud ancient land … / bays of plenty, the bluff, the cape, / streaming sands, boiling place…. Then, in the chorus, he reminds the audience that New Zealand is a land of plenty … / land of hope … / land of good times … / land of love. Similarly, in “He Kotahi” Che-Fu (2001) raps in both Mäori and English of migration, times past, and the strength that can be gained from the knowledge of our ancestors and their experiences. yes we’re moving, across the water, / like our fathers before, we remain steadfast and sure … / unified together, we will greet the risen sun, / shoulder to shoulder … / back in the past where our people once did walk, / now we’re running in…. Beating the odds
Culbertson (1998) draws attention to Worthington’s themes of religion which can also be applied to spirituality, whereby individuals are provided with “hope … reassurance … [and] … a sense of self-esteem or spiritual worthiness” (p. 27). Despite gangsta rap lyrics conveying such themes as crime and violence, there is a plethora of hip-hop rap conveying the opposite. New Zealand hip-hop artist Scribe believes that artists can use their music as a means of instilling a positive state of mind in their listeners, thus enhancing their self-esteem, for “… you can be poor and still be rich … you can be rich in thoughts and be rich in spirituality … and just knowing who you are can make you rich enough to know that material things don’t really matter” (Shute, 2004, p. 166). Scribe is a hip-hop artist whose raps tell his own story of success: how he grew up poor, had a tough life and struggled but held onto a dream, made sacrifices, and succeeded. In his rap “Dreaming” (2003), Scribe tells of how … I came a long way since back in the day / … I sacrificed late nights … just to stay home alone / had my eyes on the prize, and my mind on my goal … / I was down and out / struggling / wondered how I’m gonna make it through / I’ve got a dream / Holding on …
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These and Ermehn’s narratives are clear examples of “one person’s growth hav[ing] a ripple effect whereby many others … are benefited” (Yalom, 1980, p. 434). The lyrics are full of hope and promise that it is possible to succeed against all odds, to rise above adversity. Yet other raps speak of lifestyles, providing guidelines for living a better life. For example, in “The Crossroads” (1998), the group Bone Thugs-n-Harmony incite their audiences to think about what will happen when they die and Judgement Day comes. … whatcha gonna do (now tell me what) / when there ain’t no where to run? / when judgment comes for you, / … and whatcha gonna do (now tell me what) / when there ain’t no where to hide? / when judgment comes for you / cause it’s gonna come for you. The rap continues with advice about how life should be lived: that despite daily temptations surrounding humanity, people should follow the Lord who keeps them safe. They should pray and concentrate on getting to heaven. God bless you working on a plan to Heaven / follow the Lord all 24/7 days, God is who we praise / even though the devil’s all up in my face / but he keeping me safe and in my place, say grace … / we living our lives to eternal our soul aye-oh ayeoh … / praaaaay, and we pray and we pray, and we pray, and we pray / everyday, everyday, everyday, everyday. A different slant on guidelines for living can be seen in Che-Fu’s album Beneath the Radar (2005). In “Lightwork” he offers criticism concerning big egos when he comments on what happens to “dudes who have the bighead attitudes with the loudest voices” (DJ Sir-Vere, 2005, p. 29): it’s always lonely at the top / you can only rely on yourself / said a great champion only moments before he fell / he cried … many hands make light work / going solo might turn good to so so … / in the evening jungle of your life / when the road is nowhere to be found / then one must kneel, and follow family prints on the ground / back to where you once were, you can’t always rely on yourself / the singlemindedly strong, find it hardest to reach out for help they don’t know … / many hands make light work.
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Myth, poetry, and archetype
Humans create meaning out of their lives through constructing stories. These narratives are continually reconstructed according to life experiences, forming personal myths (McAdams, Josselson, & Lieblich, 2001). Within these life stories, individuals “construct a coherent view of self ” (McAdams, 1993, p. 254) and unconsciously adopt various mythical archetypes that speak to their character and actions. Following this line of theory, hip hop can be described as incorporating a mythopoetical form of spirituality. Rap lyrics narrate the life experiences of the artists, and it is through stories that individuals come to understand themselves, their place in society and their relationship to others. In a study of adolescents’ constructions of self, history, and identity, Dimitriadis (2001) found that the most influential narratives are provided by popular culture. Most of hip hop’s raps are centred on a small number of what Dimitriadis (2001) refers to as powerful psychologised figures whose stories—their characters, plots, messages, and powerful symbols—are extremely important in respect to adolescent identity. One such example is the life story of Tupac Shakur, an American hip-hop artist who was killed when in his early twenties. When alive, Tupac drew on myths for his lyrics, and myths have since been created around his life and death. Much of what Tupac spoke of in his raps centred on a violent and criminal lifestyle. He portrayed himself as invulnerable, living a life of crime whereby all problems were settled with violence, promoting himself as being invincible to any form of retribution. He would verbally attack other rappers, show defiance toward any form of law and authority, but at the same time expressed respect and tenderness towards women, in particular his mother. Since his death he has been “resurrected” and become something of an icon to young people, for through his songs he was an inspiration to many who identified with his stories in their everyday lives. Despite his death, it has been suggested that Tupac has come to represent the modern-day archetype of invulnerability, and indeed, because some believe he knew of it in advance, the events surrounding his death have been likened to the crucifixion, and Tupac as a willing participant in his own sacrifice (Dimitriadis, 2001). In the telling of these specific narratives, hip-hop artists express themselves creatively through a unique form of language that Shute (2005) believes is an artform in itself, one that has strong links to poetry. He draws attention to the artists’ concentration on delivering lyrics against a minimal musical backing, although the rhythmic qualities are built around the rhyme structure of the lines. Each song track has a beat, a base line, and a single melody line, with the lyrics remaining of
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fundamental importance at its core. In this way, hip hop links to the history of poetry which exists somewhere between the spoken and singing voice. Shute (2005) points to poetic techniques that hip-hop artists have adopted, such as the use of alliteration, assonance, metaphors, and similes. In addition, words are deliberately misspelled so as to emphasise the language’s individuality, and to suggest new meanings. As an example, Shute refers to the New Zealand group Foot Souljahs—noting the misspelling of soldiers—and suggests this refers to a soldier of low rank as well as someone who is full of soul and has links to Rastafarianism. Spiritual terrain
Not only is hip hop a poetic artform, but it also creates a spiritual geography, in terms of both place and space. In one respect it provides, as has been shown, the “concept of place as a means of human identity [whereby individuals can] … adapt, create, and re-create their surroundings” (Henderson, 1993). Sheldrake (1996) proposes that landscapes are more than mere physical features; they are the geography of our imagination. Accordingly, in respect to hip hop, the concept of place as a reference point for human identity pertains to identification with, and a sense of belonging to, a group. Strength is drawn from the cultural heritage of such a group, which could include family of origin, ethnicity, or musical taste. A sense of place may also be felt by way of personal experiences linked to surrounding environments (Forman, 2002). Whether the experiences are related to group or place, their influence on identity formation is particularly important for today’s youth. Exploring these concepts of spiritual geography and the provision of a sense of space, Forman (2002) points out the strong emphasis that hip hop’s lyrics place on location in terms of space within urban areas, commenting on how this “highly detailed and consciously defined spatial awareness” (p. 3) is creatively significant, as it is a key factor that distinguishes hip hop from other musical genres. As well as creating physical space, Forman believes that the nature of hip hop’s discourse also creates a sense of space, insofar as it affords definitions and understandings of social landscapes that contribute to forming cultural identities in the face of hostility and oppression. By way of illustration, Rose (1996) has portrayed a scene in which she was involved prior to a hip-hop concert, when all of the concert-goers were searched. She described feelings of fear and hostility as her turn approached, followed by the accusatory stare of the security guard when a nail file was found in her bag. Despite a satisfactory
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explanation, Rose’s “language of entitlement couldn’t erase [her] sense of alienation … [despite being in a public place she] felt … unwanted … [in] hostile, alien territory …” (p. 239). Accordingly, rap takes the events occurring within the environment, “… symbolically appropriates urban space … [and in so doing] gives voice to the tensions and contradictions … [to make them] … work on behalf of the dispossessed” (Rose, 1994a, pp. 71–72). Don’t turn off the music
Music feeds the soul, affecting its audiences physically, emotionally, and therefore spiritually, and hip hop is no exception. To many, it is mere noise that assaults the senses, but “when it brings noise … [it] also conjures spirit” (Taylor, 2003, p. 108). In fact, Taylor believes it to be more intense than emotion, a “radical creation … [with] a conjuring power” (p. 114). According to Taylor, hip hop and rap are full of magic and mystery that affect individuals, both physically through their rhythm, and culturally by way of a combination of sounds, rhythms, beats, and musical intervals. When another important instrument—the voice—is added to the mix, its own unique range of musical tones contributes to the power of hip hop’s sense rhythms and percussion sounds (Rose, 1994a). In order to demonstrate the complexity of this musical genre, Rose (1994b) draws attention to the polyrhythmic layering that is found in hip hop. Despite its apparent simplicity, hip hop is built around the three concepts of flow, layers, and breaks (Ross & Rose, 1994). When creating hip hop, two turntables are used simultaneously, layering musical sounds upon each other, creating backbeats, and adding snatches of other sounds all mixed together to produce a feeling experience for the listener (Imani & Vera, 1996). This is then used as background for the rapper’s voice which comes in over the top. Above all, the main ingredients of creativity and flow are of the utmost importance (Forman, 2002; Ross & Rose, 1994). When listening to hip hop, individuals unconsciously become part of an experience that involves an inner transformation: they listen to themselves through the music, and a change occurs within the self, thereby transcending the self on temporal, spatial, physical, and cultural levels (Taylor, 2003). Describing hip hop as a spiritual practice, Taylor (2003) refers to it as being liminal, liberatory, and integrative. The nature of hip-hop discourse is such that it creates, within its audience, agency of protest, action, social comment, and therefore of liberation. Taylor (2003) views the hip-hop artists’ narratives—in relating their
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criticisms of society and the challenges and indictments they make against hypocrisy and inequality —as being “a struggle for liberatory experience amid entrapment” (p. 119). He suggests such actions form spiritual practices that are also liminal, as the discourse is placed “on a threshold … between entrapment and liberation” (p. 122). Perkinson (2003) likens the impact of hip hop and rap to that of shamanism, as he views adolescents as living on a threshold between the death of childhood and the life of adulthood which they are not entitled to join until their late twenties. In this respect, because much of hip hop focuses on death and “echo[es] with transcendent and tragic power” (p. 143), it is liminal, sitting on the threshold between one world and the next. Rapt with rapping
The nature of spirituality is subjective and extremely difficult to define (Everts & Agee, 1994; Ingersoll, 1995). However, Cornett (1998) has identified what he believes to be the six most relevant elements underlying spirituality, namely “meaning in life, values, mortality, organization of the universe, suffering, and transcendence” (p. 21). It follows, therefore, that hip hop, far from being a mere noise and an irritating presence on our airwaves, provides agency in adolescent spirituality on many levels. It contributes to identity formation and speaks to a spirituality of liberation by giving voice to marginalised youth. It facilitates the formation of bonds, friendships, and relationships (Wubbolding, 2005), and affirms adolescent experiences and identities— all of which are empowering, instilling a sense of freedom within the self. Hip hop provides a spiritual geographical landscape by way of creating both place and space through its use of metaphor, symbol, and conversational discourse, its cultural roots, and its internal experiences. It also fulfils yet another function by encouraging its listeners to dream, to “create visible, viable, and real cultural agency … [and it] helps [them] find the strength to make a better way” (Banfield, 2004, p. 139), thus enabling them to transcend the self. Hip hop is more than just music. It is a culture, a way of life that provides not only a unique form of language and dress code but also a value system that raises self-esteem and instils pride in indigenous ethnicity as its rappers call their listeners to unite as a people, take pride in their race, and learn their language. In describing how individuals’ spirituality and soulfulness work together to form the foundations of human life, Moore (1992) has said that the “goal of the soul path [is] to feel existence … to know life first hand, to exist fully in context. [That] spiritual practice is sometimes described as walking in the footsteps of another … [and accordingly] [t]he soul becomes greater
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and deeper through the living out of the messes and the gaps” (p. 260). Hip hop and rap fulfil this spiritual practice and goal of the soul path as their artists speak of the realities of life in the raw as they are experienced. The artists tell the truth; they “tell it like it is.” They form a creative and powerful voice that calls to the masses globally, and to individual souls at a deep experiential and emotional level, and in so doing they speak into the soulfulness of adolescent spirituality. Postscript
In the writer’s counselling practice in a secondary school, a 15-year-old boy, grieving for several friends who had died during the year in tragic circumstances, recently presented for counselling. Coming from a family of patched gang members—a path he does not want to follow—he was not only struggling with feelings of distress and loneliness, but also questioning his sense of self, identity, and belonging. During the session he talked of the importance of hip hop and rap in his life. My being able to show some knowledge of the artists and lyrics he was referencing added both strength and depth to our empathic working relationship and a new dimension to the counselling process as he became more animated, disclosing in greater depth the effects these two musical genres have on his inner sense of wellbeing. He described how he receives solace from lyrics that echo his life, his experiences and feelings. With earphones and iPod he can escape from daily reality and transcend to a place where he gains a sense of calm, peace, and hope. This encounter highlighted the importance of exploring these two musical genres, rather than discounting them, in order to gain a deeper understanding of the adolescent world and the impact this music has on the wellbeing of our youth. References
Banfield, W. C. (2004). Black notes: Essays of a musician writing in a post-album age. Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press. Buchanan, K. (2005, September/October). Ermehn: The path of blood. Back2Basics, 3(1), 72. Burke, M. T., & Miranti, J. G. (1995). Counseling: The spiritual dimension. Alexandria, VA: American Counseling Association. Chappell, K. (2005, June). Celebrated, controversial & influencial: 30 years of hip-hop music. Ebony, 60(8), 52–58. Cornett, C. (1998). Defining spirituality. The soul of psychotherapy: Recapturing the spiritual dimension in the therapeutic encounter (pp. 21–44). New York: Free Press. Culbertson, P. (1998). The shadow of the transcendent: Valuing spirituality in psychotherapy. Forum: The Journal of the New Zealand Association of Psychotherapists, 4, 14–37.
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Dimitriadis, G. (2001). Performing identity/performing culture: Hip hop as text, pedagogy, and lived practice. New York: Peter Lang. DJ Dubhead. (2005, September/October). The Jamaican connection. Back2Basics, 3(1), 42–45. DJ Sir-Vere (2005, September/October). The gospel according 2 Che Fu. Back2Basics, 3(1), 28–33. Everts, J., & Agee, M. N. (1994). Including spirituality in counsellor education: Issues for consideration, with illustrative reference to a New Zealand example. International Journal for the Advancement of Counselling, 17, 291–302. Forman, M. (2002) The ’hood comes first: Race, space, and place in rap and hip-hop. Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Hazzard-Donald, K. (1996). Dance in hip hop culture. In W. E. Perkins (Ed.), Droppin’ science: Critical essays on rap music and hip hop culture. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Henderson, M. (1993). What is spiritual geography? Geographical Review, 83(4), 469–472. Imani, N.-O., & Vera, H. (1996). War at 33 1/3: Exploring hip-hop (rap) music. In F. B. Dasilva & D. L. Brunsma (Eds.), All music: Essays on the hermeneutics of music (pp. 167–190). Aldershot, Hampshire: Avebury. Ingersoll, R. E. (1995). Spirituality, religion, and counseling: Dimensions and relationships. In M. T. Burke & J. G. Miranti (Eds.), Counseling: The spiritual dimension (pp. 5–18). Alexandria, VA: American Counseling Association. Mahiri, J., & Conner, E. (2003). Black youth violence has bad rap. Journal of Social Issues, 59 (1), 121–140. Mayo, K. (2001). Queen Latifah: The last good witch. In Vibe Magazine, Hip-hop divas (pp. 51–62). New York: Three Rivers Press. McAdams, D. P. (1993). Identity, malaise, and faith. The stories we live by: Personal myths and the making of the self (pp. 165–194). New York: William Morrow. McAdams, D. P., Josselson, R., & Lieblich, A. (2001). Turns in the road: Narrative studies of lives in transition. Washington, DC: American Psychological Association. McLean, R. (2005, July 22). Ermehn is just a storyteller. The Dominion Post. Retrieved July 22, 2005 from http://www.stuff.co.nz/stuff/0,2106,3353784a4500,00.html Mitchell T. (2001). Doin’ damage in my native language: The use of “resistance vernaculars” in hip hop in Europe and Aotearoa/New Zealand. In T. Mitchell (Ed.), Global noise: Rap and hip-hop outside the USA (pp. 108–123). Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press. Moore, T. (1992). Care of the soul: A guide for cultivating depth and sacredness in everyday life. New York: HarperCollins. Muss, R. E. (1996). Theories of adolescence (6th ed.). New York: McGraw-Hill. North, A. C., Hargreaves, D. J., & O’Neill, S. A. (2000). The importance of music to adolescents. British Journal of Educational Psychology, 70, 255–272. Perkinson, J. W. (2003). Rap as wrap and rapture: North American popular culture and the
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denial of death. In A. B. Pinn (Ed.), Noise and spirit: The religious and spiritual sensibilities of rap music (pp. 131–153). New York: New York University Press. Reddick, B. H., & Beresin, E. V. (2002). Rebellious rhapsody: Metal, rap, community, and individuation. Academic Psychiatry, 26(1), Spring, 51–59. Roberts, K. R., Dimsdale, J., East, P., & Friedman, L. (1998). Adolescent emotional response to music and its relationship to risk-taking behaviors. Journal of Adolescent Health, 23, 49–54. Rose, T. (1994a). A style nobody can deal with: Politics, style and the postindustrial city in hip hop. In A. Ross & T. Rose (Eds.), Microphone friends: Youth music & youth culture (pp. 71–88). New York: Routledge. Rose, T. (1994b). Black noise: Rap music and black culture in contemporary America. Hanover: Wesleyan University Press. Rose, T. (1996). Hidden politics: Discursive and institutional policing of rap music. In W. E. Perkins (Ed.), Droppin’ science: Critical essays on rap music and hip hop culture (pp. 236–257). Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Ross, A., & Rose, T. (Eds.) (1994). Microphone friends: Youth music & youth culture. New York: Routledge. Santrock, J. L. (2003). Adolescence (9th ed.). Boston: McGraw Hill. Schwartz, K. D., & Fouts, G. T. (2003). Music preferences, personality style, and developmental issues of adolescents. Journal of Youth and Adolescence, 32(3), 205–215. Sheldrake, P. (1996). The sacredness of place. Studies in Spirituality, 6, 258–275. Shute, G. (2004). Hip hop music in Aotearoa. Auckland: Reed Publishing (NZ). Shute, G. (2005). Hip hop in Aotearoa as a contemporary art-form. In New Zealand electronic poetry centre. Retrieved September 2, 2005 from www.nzepc.Auckland.ac.nz/misc/shute.asp Tabb Powell, C. (1991). Rap music: An education with a beat from the street. The Journal of Negro Education, 60(3), 245–259. Taylor, M. L. (2003). Bringing noise, conjuring spirit: Rap as spiritual practice. In A. B. Pinn (Ed.). Noise and spirit: The religious and spiritual sensibilities of rap music (pp. 107–130). New York: New York University Press. Tekman, H. G., & Hortacsu, N. (2002). Music and social identity: Stylistic identification as a response to musical style. International Journal of Psychology, 37(5), 277–285. Thompson, R. F. (1996). Hip-Hop 101. In W. E. Perkins (Ed.). Droppin’ science: Critical essays on rap music and hip-hop culture (pp. 211–219). Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Trapp, E. (2005). The push and pull of hip-hop: A social movement analysis. American Behavioral Scientist, 48(11), 1482–1495. Whiteley, S., Bennett, A., & Hawkins, S. (Eds) (2004). Music, space and place: Popular music and cultural identity. Aldershot, Hampshire: Ashgate. Wingood, G. M., DiClemente, R., Bernhardt, J. M., Harrington, K., Davies, S. L., Robbilard, A., & Hook III, E. W. (2003). A prospective study of exposure to rap music videos and
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African American female adolescents’ health. American Journal of Public Health, 92(3), 437–440. Wubbolding, R. E. (2005). The power of belonging. International Journal of Reality Therapy, 24(2), 43–44. Yalom, I. (1980). Meaninglessness. Existential Psychotherapy (pp. 419–460). New York: Basic Books. Discography
Bone Thugs-N-Harmony (1998). Collection: Vol. I [CD]. Sony. Che-Fu (2001). Navigator [CD]. Sony Music Entertainment. Che-Fu (2005). Beneath the Radar [CD]. Sony BMG Music Entertainment NZ. Linkin Park (2000). Hybrid Theory [CD]. Warner Bros. Linkin Park (2003). Live in Texas [CD]. Warner Bros. OMC (1997). How Bizarre [CD]. Hugh. Scribe (2003). Crusader [CD]. Festival.
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Eros and Liberation New Ways of Thinking about Sex, Gender, and Sexuality Philip Culbertson
Originally presented as the keynote address at one of two seminars sponsored by the NZAC Auckland branch, in association with the Counsellor Education Programme, the Faculty of Education, The University of Auckland, July 18, 2008. This was followed by two prepared responses, also printed here. The second keynote address and responses will appear in the next issue of the Journal.
The genesis of this presentation is in the quiet rumination I have had time for since closing my therapy practice and moving to California. Many of my clients have stayed in my head, and having more space in my life has given me a chance to think through what I did with them, what I might have done differently, and how, in the midst of my own transference, I think they would formulate their own stories of what doing therapy with me was like. Interestingly, not all clients have stayed so alive in my head. I also wonder about the ones who don’t spontaneously pop into my thoughts—when I see a certain piece of art, or read a passage in a book, or even discover myself sitting in a familiar body position. I wonder if this is an indication that somehow I didn’t connect fully with those clients that I don’t easily remember. I’ve moved to a community in California that is notorious for many things, including its movie-star colony, the insane idea of building an oasis in a desert, the Dinah Shore golf classic, the Indian Wells tennis tournament, and also, its quality of sex-on-demand. Maybe that has something to do with the hot dry weather. There’s an old Cole Porter song that goes like this: According to the Kinsey report ev’ry average man you know much prefers to play his favorite sport
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when the temperature is low but when the thermometer goes way up and the weather is sizzling hot Mister Adam for his madam is not cause it’s too darn hot, it’s too darn hot. (Porter, 1948) In the Broadway musical, when the thermometer goes way up, so does the humidity. But Cole Porter must not have written about Palm Springs, because here, in the desert, we have negligible humidity most of the year. Earlier this month, on the day I left the US to come to New Zealand, the temperature was 110 in the Shade, to quote another Broadway show. That’s 43 degrees Celsius, in the shade, but if there’s no humidity, that’s really not an uncomfortable temperature at all—well, at least in the shade. In this presentation I will reflect on my ongoing search toward a deeper understanding of human sexual identity and liberation—particularly liberation from some of the dominant discourses about the loci of erotic desire and their relationship to human agency. I will do this in the context of my growing commitment to the work of social constructionists, particularly Michel Foucault, Judith Butler, and Dan McAdams. Parts of this presentation are personal—a sort of inner conversation made public—and parts are retrospective in a professional way. I am also convinced that the exploration of eros and liberation is one way to language what both psychotherapists and pastoral counsellors do, though with different hermeneutics and methodologies. Psychodynamics and narrative
The sexual tension around town reminds me from time to time of clients of mine who did a great deal of sexual acting out. Most of those clients were gay men, and they would replay their adventures for me in detail. Yet there was something that seemed desperate about what they were doing. They could easily find sex, but what they ached for was a long-term, stable, loving relationship. Often, it seemed that they believed a relationship would materialise if they just had sex with enough people. Surely, someone out there was “the one”, and the way to the heart was, apparently, through the groin. Some schools of psychodynamic psychotherapy would argue that this sort of behaviour is the sign of a deep splitting, probably quite an early one. The healing of these early splits often necessitates long, hard work in the therapy room, but fortunately, there is a wealth of theory to support us in working with clients who are so split. I’m thinking of Freudian “repetition compulsion” in relation to his “Mourning
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and Melancholia” (1917), as well as the work of Jessica Benjamin (1995), Robert Stoller (1985), Jonathan Dollimore (1991), Robert Hopcke (1990), Roy Schafer (1992), and in particular, D. W. Winnicott’s “The Capacity to Be Alone” (1965). On the other hand, some schools of narrative counselling would argue that there isn’t a self anyway, but that we are a collection of embodied, atomic, and social selves. I find it interesting in New Zealand how little the disciplines of psychodynamic psychotherapy and narrative counselling theory have to say to each other, at least in public, the notable exception that I am aware of being the work of Brian Broom of Christchurch (Broom, 1997, 2007). In spite of their differences, both disciplines are about story-telling and meaning-making, and perhaps one day they can find more ways of learning from each other here in this country. Such a conversation is beginning elsewhere, including through the Boston Change Process Study Group (BCPSG), which combines narrative counselling theory with the work of Daniel Stern and Edward Tronick. I should clarify that my orientation toward narrative counselling and therapy may be less familiar to some New Zealanders. The “genealogy” of my education in narrative counselling begins with the work of Peter Berger and Thomas Luckmann (1966), then continues with Kenneth Gergen (1994, 1999), Mikhael Bakhtin (1981), J. L. Austin (1962) and Stanley Fish (1980), and Dan McAdams (1985, 1988; McAdams & Ochberg, 1993). McAdams, Professor of Psychology and Human Development at Northwestern University in Chicago, in particular, has shaped my thinking and application of narrative theory and human identity. As much as I respect the distinctive theoretical work of Michael White and David Epston, my training did not include them, and in many ways I find myself uncomfortable at times with their approach to narrative treatment. Only later, too, was I exposed to the work of Foucault and Butler, both of whom allowed me to move into a deeper understanding of the power of discourse and linguistics in the formation of human identity, and what we, as well as our clients, decided to normalise or pathologise. It seems to me that both of these modalities—psychodynamics and narrative—need to pay ever-closer, continuing attention to the larger and overwhelming discourse inside which we live, including the deeply sexualised discourse of television, popular music, video games, movies, the internet, and advertising, including of Viagra. These pull us apart anyway, and construct a world in which everyone has lots and lots of sex, on demand, even, and in which, if you’re not having lots of sex, then you’re not getting the most out of life. Maybe, even, you’re a failure. It’s not that psychodynamics and
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narrative are ignoring these larger and overwhelming discourses; rather, it’s that with all the emphasis in both on individual experience and meaning-making, it is easy to lose sight of how powerless individuals can be to make meaning, and how overwhelming and ubiquitous are the messages to be someone other than who each of us might want to be. We will never be able fully to escape the power-to-construct that is granted to the overwhelming discourses in which we live. I believe we have learned that, now, from Foucault, especially by way of his monumental volume, Discipline and Punish (1975). But surely the purpose of both psychodynamic psychotherapy and narrative counselling is to support and challenge people as they do the best they can do, making some sort of individual, nearly congruent meaning inside of that overwhelming discourse. When we are congruent, we can be both healthy and safe, or at least, healthier and safer, and contribute to the good of society as a whole. Counselling and psychotherapy can help people to “individuate in place,” which is quite subjective, for it calls on us to constitute the subjectivity. I believe that the analogy of a Pasifika fine mat would be appropriate here. Not every mat woven in our indigenous cultures is perfect from the beginning, and no matter how perfect, most mats need to be repaired from time to time. You will remember, perhaps, the classical Greek story of Penelope, wife of Odysseus, who wove in the daytime, and unwove at night. Her rationale was to stave off suitors, hoping against hope that Odysseus would reappear. In the Pacific, women weave and unweave for a different reason: because the exchange value of any mat, especially the ‘ie toga, is based on the fineness, the delicacy, the perfection, of its weaving, so errors and blemishes must be constantly removed as the weaving of the mat proceeds. Of course, not every Samoan woman is automatically a fine weaver. In Albert Wendt’s novel Ola (1991), the protagonist, Olamiileoti Monroe, laments that she is “hopeless at weaving” (p. 330). Some of our clients weave their new resilience well; others, like Ola, are less skilled, and we must sit with them a lot longer as they unweave, and reweave, their lives (see also Filemoni-Tofaeono & Johnson, 2006; on the similar process of repairing a Pacific tapa cloth, see Palu, 2003). In the face of the dominant discourses that surround and oppress us, we must first learn who we are not, and afterwards learn who we are. The influence of Judith Butler
Searching to understand human sexual identity and liberation is a complicated task. To discourse theory, we must then add social constructionism. Social constructionism
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has been around for a long, long time, at least since Peter L. Berger and Thomas Luckmann’s 1966 book, The Social Construction of Reality. Social constructionism is illustrated by this story from Jill Freedman and Gene Combs (1996, pp. 22–23): Imagine two survivors of some ecological disaster coming together to start a new society. Imagine that they are a man and a woman who come from very different cultures. Even if they share no language, no religion, and no presuppositions about how labour is to be divided, or what place work, play, communal ritual, and private contemplation have in a good society, if culture of any sort is to continue, they must begin to coordinate their activities. As they do this, some agreed-upon habits and distinctions will emerge: certain substances will be treated as food, certain places found or erected to serve as shelter, each will begin to assume certain routine daily tasks, and they will almost certainly develop a shared language. Even as time passes, they will always be able to remember, “This is how we decided to do this,” or “It works better if I assume this role.” For the children of the founding generation, “This is how we decided …” will be more like “This is how our elders do it,” and by the third generation it will be “This is how it’s done.” Mothers and farmers and builders will be treated as always-having-existed types of people. The rough-andready procedures for building houses and planting crops that our original two survivors pieced together will be more-or-less codified as the rules for how to build a house or plant corn. By the fourth generation of our imaginary society, “This is how it is done” will have become “This is the way the world is: this is reality.” The precursors of social constructionism include Antonio Gramsci, Talcott Parsons, Stanley Fish, John Searle, Emile Durkheim, and Michel Foucault. Foucault is one of a group of writers generally lumped together under the label “critical theorists.” Other writers in the field of critical theory would include Walter Benjamin, Herbert Marcuse, Ferdinand de Saussure, Noam Chomsky, Hans-Georg Gadamer, Roland Barthes, Theodor Adorno, Jean Baudrillard, Hélène Cixous, Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari, Umberto Eco, Jean-François Lyotard, Pierre Bordieu, Jacques Derrida, Jacques Lacan, J. L. Austin, Slavoj Ž iž ek, and Judith Butler. In my later years as a senior academic, these are the thinkers who have most deeply influenced me, and in a sense, I feel I have come to them too late in life. But of all the people on that list, it is Judith Butler whose writings have earned the largest portion of my reading time in the first six months of my semi-retirement. Right at the end of my teaching career, in 2006 and 2007, I began to require theology students to learn something about Butler, as well as Foucault. If I were doing it over again, I would require those students to learn even more about
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both, and starting at an earlier stage of their education. All of these critical theorists are, essentially, hermeneuts—people who teach us a certain way, or hermeneutic, of interpreting the world and its “texts”, in the broadest sense. Lacan, of course, has had a huge impact on psychoanalysis and psychotherapy. Of this list, I am at present unsure who has had a significant impact on counselling theory, in addition to the principal thinkers of discourse theory. It is to Butler and her thinking that I will now turn, and in particular to what I have learned from her writings about sex, gender, and sexuality. Sometimes the parts are greater than the whole
In a recent article on Pasifika identity, Marianne Franklin, a New Zealander who is Senior Lecturer in Social and Political Theory at the University for Humanistics in Utrecht, The Netherlands, wrote: People are far more complicated beings than these unitary labels would suggest and our experiences of being gendered … vary along dimensions of race, class, nationality, ethnicity, sexuality and so on. All these identities with which we are labelled … are social constructs that are created, given meaning, and reproduced by the differing, yet interlocking, systems of power in which we are embedded. (Franklin, 2003, p. 488, n7) Among the complicated mix of identities that Marianne Franklin refers to are sex, gender, and sexuality. We all have genitals, though of various configurations; Butler and others use the word “sex” to refer to that genital part of our identity that is “named” at birth—most often named as “male sex” for a boy, and “female sex” for a girl. However, you may not be aware that just under 3% of all babies are born with GA, or genital ambiguity (Fausto-Sterling, 2000, p. 51). Decisions are then made by parents and doctors in consultation. Discourse theory and social construction tell us how the genitals we see are to be languaged. Once the languaging of genitals is mastered, we then “perform” our genitals. Or as Judith Butler would say, we do not have genitals, we enact them. Medical definitions get involved in this languaging too, for so-called “scientific rationalism” and the objectification and pathologisation of the human body are a part of the discourse that we live in. Common [Western] medical practice imposes stringent requirements for male and female genitals at birth—a penis that is less than 2.5 centimeters long when
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stretched, or a clitoris that is more than one centimeter long are both commonly subject to surgery in which both are reduced to an “acceptable” sized clitoris. (Eckert & McConnell-Ginet, 2003, p. 11) In other words, if a baby’s penis is not “big enough” to be called a penis, “his” genitals are turned into a vagina. Someone must name it, to name what they see (“umm, that one’s not big enough to be a penis”), and in order to name it, it must be “created”. If it is not created, then the child will be assigned what is called “a grammatical gender” (in the Western world, all children must be either a boy or a girl), which may or may not match that child’s social gender as that gender evolves over the course of childhood. A child may have a “sex” which has been named and created as “male”, but for a variety of reasons, might prefer to perform the “female” gender role (Goldberg & Adriano, 2008). To cite an absurdly different illustration: in the early 1970s, when I first started spending a lot of time in Jerusalem, I often heard Golda Meir referred to as “the biggest mensch in the Israeli government.” In that situation, too, her grammatical gender did not match her perceived social gender: she was grammatically female, but socially male. I don’t know if this ascription would have pleased Golda or not. However, it might please Judith Butler (1999) who, arguing for the disconnection between biological sex and social gender, writes: When the constructed status of gender is theorized as radically independent of sex, gender itself becomes a free-floating artifice, with the consequence that man and masculine might just as easily signify a female body as a male one, and woman and feminine a male body as easily as a female one. (p. 10) To summarise the thinking of Butler and others, the gender that we perform is based on how our genitals have been or are languaged by others, even though most of the time our genital configuration is assumed, rather than actually seen by anyone else. The language others ascribe to our genitals may, or may not, be correct, for there are other factors at work in the identification of biological sex, such as endocrinology, that are not readily visible—for example, “female” children who have both an X and a Y chromosome—and these factors simply are not explored before we are labelled “boy” or “girl”. We also all have a gender of some kind. Many cultures in this world think of masculinity and femininity as being the only two gender categories. But that’s not
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correct, as the writings of Bob Connell and David Gilmore helped me realise (Connell, 2005; Gilmore, 1990). Firstly, there are many masculinities and many femininities. We perform those, too, and we have a much bigger repertoire than we often realise. It was Judith Butler (2004) who argued that “Genitals do not determine gender.” Or as theologian Miroslav Volf (1996) argues, our ideas of gender as connected to genitals— of what is masculine and what is feminine—come from animals, but not from God, who has neither gender nor genitals, as we understand those in human terms (p. 173). Secondly, I have watched clients in my therapy room perform, even in the short course of one session, a variety of femininities and masculinities, no matter their genital configuration. I have learned along the way that some of the saddest people I treated were those who were stuck in a single “hegemonic” masculinity or femininity— hegemonic meaning “control or dominating influence by one person or group, especially by one political group over society or one nation over others.” They simply did not have a large enough repertoire of gender performances from which to choose in order to match, for example, the emotions they needed to express. In other words, when we perform our gender, we are performing it inside a political system that is much more powerful than we are, and which tries very hard to regulate “acceptable” masculinities and femininities. We all have a sexuality of some kind. For fifty years now, since the work of Alfred Kinsey, we have known that sexuality does not exist as two isolated poles, but extends across a spectrum from exclusive heterosexuality (Kinsey Scale 1: predominantly heterosexual, incidentally homosexual) to exclusive homosexuality (Kinsey Scale 6: predominantly homosexual, incidentally heterosexual). In fact, I think it is most useful to understand genitally determined biological sex, and gender, and sexuality all as spectrums of possibility, rather than dimorphic categories. To expand Judith Butler’s point, genitals do not determine gender, nor do they determine sexuality. So we have three identities—sex (genitals), gender, and sexuality —all of which are deeply shaped and affected by discourse and social constructionism. And if we “push” on Butler’s theory, none of these three is necessarily attached to, or determinative of, either of the other two. Unweaving and weaving
Bearing in mind counselling and psychotherapy’s desire to help people integrate, I still want to argue that, for some clients, it might be helpful to “unweave” before “weaving”. It seems to me that each one of these component parts of a complex identity—sex,
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gender, and sexuality—has its own history and set of historical narratives, its own internal sense of what is healthy and good for it, its own processes of meaning-making, and perhaps even its own hopes for the future. But if there are that many narratives going on simultaneously, how then can we help clients take them apart, grant them equal privilege, and make good decisions that will benefit each as parts, and the whole as a whole? In 2005, I was invited to write the introductory essay for a coffee-table book of photographs of men’s bodies (Culbertson, 2006). The book’s editors had invited me because they were admirers of an essay I had written in 1997, called “Designing Men: Reading Male Bodies as Texts” (Culbertson, 1998). Inspired by an essay called “Portrait of My Body,” by Philip Lopate (1996), I decided to write the introduction for the photography book by letting parts of my body tell their own story, rather than my telling the story of this body. In my essay, I let various parts of my body find their voice: a broken tooth, a scar on my back, an infected toenail, and of course, the scars on my heart after a lifetime of relationships. Writing this way helped me understand how the parts of our bodies have their own stories which, when told, might not be quite the way we would tell them if we were in charge. And that’s what I’m getting at here: is it not possible that our genitals have their own story to tell—their history, their wants and desires, their hopes and fears, their sense of being trapped, and what being liberated might allow—and that the gender roles we each perform also have their history, wants, desires, hopes and fears; and that our understanding of our own sexuality is also complex and heavily self-storied. The stories I told in the introduction to the photography book are not necessarily stories I would tell in public (and won’t here, either), but they are important stories that my body carries, nonetheless. So it is also with your bodies (and some of you will, for example, know that victims of abuse have stories embedded in their physical bodies that they are unaware of), and with the various ways you perform your gender, and the various ways you perform your sexuality. Do these different sets of stories talk to each other? Correct or contradict each other? What would happen if these body stories were foregrounded, and brought into dialogue with the many other stories we carry about ourselves, just as sometimes in counselling we put people’s various “selves” in dialogue with each other in two-chair work? Unfortunately, because I don’t have a therapy practice in the US, and therefore don’t have a space to test out my new thinking so influenced by Judith Butler’s idea
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that genitals are not connected to gender, I can only lay out a hypothetical method of exploring with a client. Perhaps I have to rely on some of you to test out this theory, and let me know how it goes. A client’s genitals have a psychosexual story they wish to tell. Perhaps it is a story about what those genitals want, how they want to be treated, by whom, why, and what would be the outcome of being treated that way. Is this a story that can contribute to the client’s greater sense of wellbeing? Of health? Of lasting happiness? How does the genitals’ story make meaning out of the client’s experience of self, and what happens when this story enters into dialogue with other stories that the client carries? A client’s gender identity has a story, or probably many stories. Learning to be “acceptably” gendered is one of the hardest things we are each expected to accomplish in our childhood and teen years. As Butler (1999) summarises, “the various acts of gender create the idea of gender, and without those acts, there would be no gender at all” (p. 178). Whether stories of masculinity or femininity, all stories are infected with the traces of heteronormativity —the privileging of the standards of white, heterosexual, educated, married, middle-class, powerful males. Within the crushing power of this structured discourse, what personal story or stories of being gendered does the client prefer, and why? What is the effect of the client’s superego in judging that story? How has the performance of the client’s gender changed for her or him over time? Does that mean that the client’s gender identity stories have changed, simply because the performance changed? In Butlerian thought, “… gendered bodies are so many ‘styles of the flesh.’ These styles are never fully self-styled, for styles have a history, and those histories condition and limit the possibilities” (Butler, 1999, p. 177). Which is the best story for now, for the client in his or her present moment? How might the telling of that story be affected by family and social relationships? How might these stories be influenced by other factors, such as self-loathing or a history of abuse? What would bar the telling of that story in a healthy way? (See Scholinski, 1997, for a tragic example of psychiatric misdiagnosis of a young woman’s gender identity struggle.) A client’s sexuality has a psychosexual story it wishes to tell. My experience with clients is that they often struggle with the task of evaluating their own psychosexual story with any sense of objectivity. Again, many of the same questions pertain: What story does the client prefer, and why? What is the effect of the client’s superego in judging that story? How has the performance of the client’s sexuality changed over time? Does that mean that the client’s sexual identity stories have changed, just because
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her or his performance has changed? Which is the best story for now, for the client in his or her present moment? How might the telling of that story be affected by family and social relationships? What would bar the telling of that story in a healthy way? (See Back, 1985, for examples of the many things inside family dynamics that impede the development of healthy non-heterosexual identity development.) These three parts of a client’s individual identity interact, of course, with things like culture, socio-economic status, age, partnership status, employment, privilege, and others. These are the “interlocking systems of power” that Marianne Franklin (above) referred to in the quote from her article “I Define My Own Identity.” Our genitals, gender, and sexuality can only ever tell their stories in dialogue with our responses to those systems of power, those social constructions, those dynamics of discourse. But if our clients can find a way to unweave their genitals, gender, and sexuality, listen to the many stories that these parts of their identity have to tell, and then begin the process of weaving them back together in a new way, then I believe that wellbeing and resilience are much more within their reach. I’ll tell you a personal story. A couple of months ago, I was on a trip with my daughter and her long-time boyfriend. One night, they knocked on the door of my hotel room and asked to come in, and they sat down with me on the bed. I haven’t spent much time with my daughter’s boyfriend, in spite of their being in a long-time relationship, so I was quite surprised at the question he was bold enough to ask. He said, “Katie says you’re gay, and I don’t believe her. Are you?” I answered him, “There are periods in my life when I have been sexual with women, and other periods when I have been sexual with men, and right now I am very happily single. So I think the answer to your question is ‘No.’ I’m just sexual in a variety of ways, and no label fits me very well.” His response was: “I thought so.” That wasn’t what I expected either. And then, just a few weeks ago, when I was keynoting a clergy conference in Mississippi on some material similar to this presentation, I surprised myself by saying that I am “celibate”. That’s not a word that I have used about myself before, but it felt quite comfortable at the time. In mulling over my surprise utterance, I realise how much I have indeed been affected by reading Judith Butler, because “celibate” is, for me anyway, a description which is about making good choices for my whole self right now. Right now, it feels like “celibate” is a truly life-giving way to describe where I am at this point in my psychosocial development. I can also, maybe for the first time in my life, understand how being celibate is indeed a gift.
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Eros and liberation
Freud is famous for his Drive Theory, understanding human beings as torn between eros (survival, hunger and thirst, sex and propagation, pleasure, the avoidance of suffering, playfulness) and thanatos (unpleasure, suffering, self-persecution, selfdestruction and addictive behaviours, excessive and non-life-giving hedonism). Either drive can manifest itself in our clients when they seem “asleep”—unable to engage with their problems, unwilling to recognise that even erotic pleasures can be a form of being dead. But it can also be thanatos disguised as eros, or desire, that keeps people trapped in stories they are unaware of, or don’t understand. Eros includes the drive to relate intimately, including sexually, and like all other drives, can be constructive or destructive, healthy or perverse, and many in-between mixtures. Eros knows neither bounds nor logic, and as Stoller (1985) and others have shown, is capable of a whole series of inversions. Yet, some modern theologians and spiritual writers are recognising that spirituality—whether inside or outside of organised religion—also has a strong erotic component to it. God, or the Spirit, passionately desires us, as we desire a spiritual relationship. For these theologians and spiritual writers, however, eros without discipline leads quickly to thanatos (see, for example, Burrus & Keller, 2006). Herein, then, lies the problem in working with certain clients. Living in the midst of a deeply sexualised discourse of television, popular music, video games, movies, the internet, and advertising, which encourages people to stop thinking, to simply follow their desire unthinkingly—in other words, to become dead—how do we encourage clients to gain some discipline over the performances of their genitals, gender, and sexuality? We do so, I would argue, but talking to them not just about their behaviour, or their thinking, but more importantly, about their values. Conclusion
One of my favourite writers in psychotherapy is Harry Aponte (1999), a therapist in private practice in Philadelphia. In a recent essay, he stated: The choices that patients make about their lives in treatment are steeped in their values, ethics, and beliefs—in a word, in the morality of their spirituality.… They can choose reality or denial, fighting or being passive, betterment or defeat. In that personal exercise of free will lies the mystery of their essential worth and independence.… By supporting their values, therapy can support clients’ personal identity and power. Therapy based on the freedom of clients to choose calls for
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helping clients identify options and rationale for the choices they face. By offering the technical resources of the intervention and providing the support of the relationship, therapists bolster their clients’ motivation and will to choose. When therapists help them make choices that are theirs, clients are better able to accept responsibility for the consequences of their decisions. (p. 83) Unweaving the mat of sex, gender, and sexuality is, it seems to me, the first step in helping clients gain the will to choose who and how they will be, instead of simply stumbling through a driven life. Genitals, gender, and sexuality are not inextricably linked, but all three may be understood as sites of responsible, ethical, and life-giving value-formation and decision-making, particularly as we sit alongside our clients and listen to the stories that their genitals, gender, and sexuality have to tell for themselves. I seem never to be “done” thinking about things; perhaps “thinking too much” is the curse of both psychotherapists and intellectuals. And that reminds me of American writer William S. Burroughs, author of Naked Lunch, who once said, “All intellectuals are deviants.” But what I am trying to get at is the challenge of how we think about the passion to connect, or eros, and whether there is a way to “do” passion that doesn’t trap us, or undermine our self-esteem, but instead sets us free to love the very best of ourselves, perhaps for the first time. References
Aponte, H. (1999). The stresses of poverty and the comfort of spirituality. In F. Walsh (Ed.), Spiritual resources in family therapy (pp. 76-89). New York: Guilford. Austin, J. L. (1962). How to do things with words. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Back, G. G. (1985). Are you still my mother? Are you still my family? New York: Warner Books. Bakhtin, M. M. (1981). The dialogic imagination: Four essays (C. Emerson & M. Holquist, Trans.). Austin: University of Texas Press. Benjamin, J. (1995). Like subjects, love objects: Essays on recognition and sexual difference. New Haven: Yale University Press. Berger, P., & Luckmann, T. (1966). The social construction of reality: A treatise in the sociology of knowledge. Garden City, NY: Anchor Books. Broom, B. (1997). Somatic illness and the patient’s other story. London: Free Association Books. Broom, B. (2007). Meaning-full disease. London: Karnac. Burrus, V., & Keller, C. (Eds.). (2006). Toward a theology of Eros: Transfiguring passion at the limits of discipline. New York: Fordham University Press. Butler, J. (1999). Gender trouble: Feminism and the subversion of identity. New York: Routledge.
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Butler, J. (2004). Undoing gender. New York: Routledge. Connell, R. (2005). Masculinities (2nd ed.) Berkeley: University of California Press. Culbertson, P. (1998). Designing men: Reading male bodies as texts. In P. Culbertson (Ed.), The spirituality of men: Sixteen Christians write about their faith (pp. 165–178). Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Culbertson, P. (2006). Scars: A man’s body, journeying, from object to subject. In H. Brändle & B. Buehler (Eds.), Scars: Men in their forties. Hohenems, Austria: Bucher Verlag. Dollimore, J. (1991). Sexual dissidence: Augustine to Wilde, Freud to Foucault. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Eckert, P., & McConnell-Ginet, S. (2003). Language and gender. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Fausto-Sterling, A. (2000). Sexing the body: Gender politics and the construction of sexuality. New York: Basic Books. Filemoni-Tofaeono, J., & Johnson, L. (2006). Reweaving the relational mat: A Christian response to violence against women from Oceania. London: Equinox. Fish, S. (1980). Is there a text in this class? The authority of interpretive communities. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Foucault, M. (1975). Discipline and punish: The birth of the prison. New York: Random House. Franklin, M. (2003). I define my own identity: Pacific articulations of “race” and “culture” on the internet. Ethnicities, 3(4), 465–490. Freedman, J., & Combs, G. (1996). Narrative therapy: The social construction of preferred realities. New York: W. W. Norton. Freud, S. (1917). Mourning and melancholia. In J. Strachey (Ed. and Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 14, pp. 237–258). London: Hogarth. Gergen, K. (1994). Realities and relationships: Soundings in social construction. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Gergen, K. (1999). An invitation to social construction. Thousand Oaks: Sage. Gilmore, D. (1990). Manhood in the making: Cultural concepts of masculinity. New Haven: Yale University Press. Goldberg, A., & Adriano, J. (2008). I’m a girl: Understanding transgendered children. Retrieved June 12, 2008, from http://abcnews.go.com/2020/story?id=5261464&page=1 Hopcke, R. (1990). Men’s dreams, men’s healing: A psychotherapist explores a new view of masculinity through Jungian dreamwork. Boston: Shambhala. Lopate, P. (1996). Portrait of my body. In P. Lopate (Ed.), Portrait of my body (pp. 18–31). New York: Anchor Books/Doubleday. McAdams, D. P. (1985). Power, intimacy, and the life story: Personological inquiries into identity. New York: Guilford.
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McAdams, D. P. (1988). Stories we live by: Personal myths and the making of the self. New York: William Morrow. McAdams, D. P., & Ochberg, R. L. (Eds.). (1993). Psychobiography and life narratives. Durham: Duke University Press. Palu, V. (2003). Tapa making in Tonga: A metaphor for God’s care. In L. Johnson & J. A. Filemoni-Tofaeono (Eds.), Weavings: Women doing theology in Oceania (pp. 62–71). Suva: Weavers, South Pacific Association of Theological Schools and Institute of Pacific Studies, University of the South Pacific. Porter, C. (1948). “Too darn hot,” from the Broadway musical Kiss me, Kate. New York: American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers (ASCAP). Schafer, R. (1992). Retelling a life: Narration and dialogue in psychoanalysis. New York: Basic Books. Scholinski, D. (1997). The last time I wore a dress. New York: Riverhead Books. Stoller, R. (1985). Observing the erotic imagination. New Haven: Yale University Press. Volf, M. (1996). Exclusion and embrace: A theological exploration of identity, otherness, and reconciliation. Nashville: Abingdon. Wendt, A. (1991). Ola. Auckland: Penguin. Winnicott, D. W. (1965). The capacity to be alone. In The maturational processes and the facilitating environment (pp. 29–36). London: Karnac.
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A Response to Philip Culbertson’s Presentation Josie Goulding
Thank you for inviting me to respond to your paper, Philip. I have enjoyed the opportunity to play with some of the ideas and questions you have raised. In this response I want to address some of the issues that Philip has raised and, in particular, my thoughts on the clinical implications of the radical separation of sex, gender, and sexuality and the exploration of narratives in relation to this. I would concur with Philip’s statement that there is little dialogue between psychoanalysts and narrative therapists in this country. I find this fascinating, particularly because I first came to psychotherapy following a workshop in family therapy, the birthplace of narrative therapies, run by two women from New York. I was terribly impressed with the videos they shared of their work. Now I am immersed in exploring the psychoanalytic world and practising as a psychodynamic psychotherapist, and I write from that position. On reflection I wondered if the lack of dialogue might be the effect of the social constructionist story that Philip presented. I think the conceptual origins from which each school of therapy was created have not always been considered an important part of training new therapists. The philosophical arguments of history have become practice arguments today. As such, like those people in the story, we have an almost religious belief in the validity of practice theories and techniques that underpin our various therapeutic endeavours. Both schools critique each other’s approaches. These critiques include different ideas about the roles of reality, fantasy, truth, consciousness and unconsciousness, discovering vs creating the mind, and the place of narrative and language in the healing process—not to mention the role of the therapist in the therapeutic relationship. The concept of reality
How do these differences help in thinking about the questions that Philip raises, i.e., the usefulness of separating genitals, sexuality, and gender in working with our clients?
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We might look, for example, at the arguments over the existence of an external, objective, and verifiable reality. This idea is at the heart of the positivist movement out of which psychoanalysis arose. However, it was not long before the role of subjectivity, memory, and Freud’s proposal of the unconscious began to disrupt or interact with this assumption. The subjective nature of memory and experience was problematic to Freud and psychoanalysis. In the 1880s, Nietzsche anticipated Freud’s observations: “‘I did that,’ says my memory. ‘I could not have done that,’ says my pride, and remains inexorable. Eventually the memory yields.” (Brown, 1991, p. 7) Freud framed and reframed his understanding of psychoanalysis and human experience to try and accommodate this, among other subjects, and I have heard psychoanalysis described as the study of human subjectivity. The task of rewriting foundational theory in response to clinical evidence and philosophical movements continues. The difficulty of subjective reality is manifest when we sit with clients. I am sure a number of you will have had the experience of working with transgender clients who want to understand why they are having their particular experience of gender. Some want a clear, single explanation, and for a few, it would be preferable that it be a physical one. This would allow them a socially acceptable understanding, i.e., it is not their fault that they are not having what society determines a “normal” gender experience; it is biological. The idea that there is perhaps a single external truth that will ease the internal distress is comforting. This stands in contrast to the idea that the “why” may be irrelevant and perhaps unknowable in direct cause-and-effect terms. The suggestion that the focus of the therapy is on the “how” and “what”, and the multiple truths inherent in their individual “lived” gender experience, can be less comforting, even disconcerting. The idea of external or verifiable truth lingers and haunts us, both as therapists and as clients. Another area to challenge is the idea that somehow both narrative therapy and psychoanalysis are interested in mental health in its broadest sense. How we conceive of and relate to that seems important. Where psychoanalysis has located itself, I believe, has an impact on the way it has incorporated these ideas into its theory and practice. To some extent, psychotherapy has an uneasy alliance with medicine, often going along with a “consensual standard of mental health based on conscious clarity about objective reality” (Moore, 1999). From a constructivist perspective, this clearly needs to be re-thought. However, it appears that while psychoanalysis has engaged with constructivism from its earliest conception, there is “no articulated consensually
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agreed upon standard [to define mental health] within the current framework of constructivist psychoanalysis” (Moore, 1999, p. 155). Perhaps a single agreed-upon definition is a contradiction in terms. Partially this is because the idea of a single definition brings us back into a circular argument over the competing truth-claims of objective reality, individual subjective reality, consensual reality (in the sense of Habermas’s “converging horizons”), and socially constructed reality. In Philip’s presentation, he makes the observation that “my experience with clients is that they often struggle with the task of evaluating their own psychosexual story with any sense of objectivity.” This clearly demonstrates how difficult it is to work with these concepts. Does he mean that they struggle with their relationship to an external “objective” reality, believing that there might be one? Or does he mean that the client has no observing ego, and therefore can only really be “in the experience,” and therefore only give descriptive accounts and certainly not move to articulate and evaluate the meanings of their behaviour? These two different experiences may necessitate differing clinical approaches. The acceptance of multiple truths, even within the same person, does not necessarily negate the presence of an external reality. The impact of the world on us engenders our subjective reality; Moore (1999, p. 140) would say that “construction cannot occur without it.” We have to have something to be subjective about. In the example we are using, it is the lived experience of the body genitals we are born with, their relation to our experience of our gender identifications, and the development of our gender identity in a gendered society. These discussions are classically poignant in the area of the body, particularly in the discussions on the link between genitals and gender. Freud’s (1923) statement that the ego is “first and foremost a body ego” (p. 26) speaks to the way psychoanalysis has tried to understand the process of the ego’s emergence as being an embodied dialectical process. It occurs at the intersection of what the constructivists would call the “potential reality” of what is outside consciousness, and then is presented to consciousness in the moment-to-moment of living or “going-on-being.” Creating a narrative about discrete experiences can be part of that. What is inside and outside consciousness reflects another difference between narrative therapy and psychoanalysis. The former holds consciousness as the central focus of therapy. Unconscious experience or thought is either not considered, or considered only as it emerges into the conscious field. Psychoanalysis, on the other hand, is very interested in unconscious material.
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Conscious and unconscious material or experience is an example of a range of concepts—for example, inside and outside, experience and narrative, objective reality and subjective reality, mind and body—which can be conceptually argued as opposites. Alternatively they can be seen as dialectics that continually construct each other. Trying to separate them as a way of understanding experience does not work, in my opinion. The embodied nature of being
In his presentation, Philip cites Judith Butler’s suggestion that “we do not have genitals, we enact them.” This clearly holds some experiential truth, but this position separates the body from the mind. That is, if I am enacting my genitals, there is an “I” that is separate from my genitals. Clearly this is not the whole story. Partially this is a perceptual artefact of the way our brain works, e.g., language is a second-order representation; it is always re-presenting some thing to the self (Burmudez, Marcel, & Eilan, 1998). I think Butler’s statement somehow ignores the fact that perceptually and experientially we are our bodies. Everything we experience, we experience through our bodies. Merleau-Ponty is useful here in that he understood the body to be central. Merleau-Ponty inherited the soul as Being and as Nothingness and set out alone to do what none before him—or since him—could think to do; first, he made the soul a thing, a body, and then, he incarnated all things into the Flesh. His successors have yet to appear. Those who follow him in time are still resisting incarnation; they are still trying to make the Flesh become word; they are still seeking to obtain release from the world by transforming it and themselves into a text. (Dillon, as cited in Grosz, 1994, p. 219) This is one of the problems if we unpick the weaving of the mat in Philip’s presentation. The whole is more than the parts, but the parts are necessary for the whole. Radically separating the narrative from the embodied experience is useful for exploration and healing for some people, but I do not believe it is where we live. This is a problem for those who experience their gender—a social construction— as different from their sex, a visible and invisible but effecting total-body experience. No matter whether we perceive ourselves as female or male, or how we enact our gender experience, or even how we alter our bodies through hormones, drugs, and surgery, many defining experiences for both genders have to be grieved in the disjunctions between the body, and an individual’s socially and psychologically constructed gender experience.
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This also raises the issue of congruence. Congruence is the idea that multiple facets of oneself are available in response to social or environmental settings, but are linked in a way that provides us with a sense of “going-on-being.” This experience contrasts with discrete separate selves or parts. My daughter asked me a while ago, “Mum, which character in Sex and the City do you think you are?” I wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or offended by her question! I was more interested in her own answer so, typically therapist, I said, “I will have to think about that; who do you think you are?” “Well, I think I am all of them in some way at some times.” Clever girl, I thought! Yes, the show does provide an overview of a range of somewhat caricatured but typical, or maybe archetypal, “narratives” about what it is to be a professional white middle-class woman. Some of these narratives are contradictory. Having some flexibility to engage and recognise the way in which each is useful and restrictive allows malleability, but also allows some sense of consistency of self-experience. This contrasts starkly with a client story. This client knew she could be librarianlike or vamp-like, but that these two personae were not consciously connected with any triggering events or circumstances, so that she felt her experience as being random. She said, “I just don’t know which one I am going to be at any time.” Or alternatively, another client who had such a rigid attachment to what, for example, it meant to be a man, to the degree that there was no flexibility to move and compassionately, or even passionately, embrace other narratives or constructions he had been exposed to. As Philip has indicated, rigidity around sexuality and gender is often the difficulty, and we can question whether these are trauma-based splits or dissociations. Clinical application
So what about the role of narrative in psychodynamic practice, and in particular, how does it relate to my practice? The concept of narrative is used in a number of ways, so a definition could be helpful. Polkinghorne’s (1988) definition of a narrative is a scheme by means of which human beings give meaning to their experience of temporality and personal actions. Narrative meaning functions to give form to the understanding of a purpose to life and to join everyday actions and events into episodic units. It provides a framework for understanding the past events of one’s life and for planning future actions. It is the primary scheme by means of which human existence is rendered meaningful. (Cited in Moore, 1999, p. 144)
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Using that definition, I want to raise a couple of examples of how I have found that a focus on articulating narratives can be both useful and not so useful, and why I think that is the case. As Philip has suggested, trying to elicit clients’ narratives about the separate parts of their experiences around sexuality in its broad sense is very enlightening, and can be useful in helping them gain insight into how these may or may not form an integrated or generally coherent experience of themselves. In my early training, a large component in TA and Gestalt therapy got me interested in separating out, for example through two-chair work, varying parts of the self and body. Some clients found this very easy and helpful, and they shared rich conversations and descriptions of their respective gender roles, sexual practices, and parts of the body. They were able to use these processes to integrate, grow, develop, and heal—creating, or I would suggest, co-creating, narratives that expressed or gave rise to meaning in their lives. Other clients were not able to create verbal narratives. Their descriptions were impoverished, concrete, and linear, and there was a general failure of symbolisation. This meant they could not manipulate their experiences in an abstract way. Chiozza (1999) suggests: A chronological biography presented with a time sequence almost never contains the meaning that we seek; what we seek, no matter how surprising it sounds, is literature! (p. 118) For example, hearing a client with vaginismus describe her vagina as “… about the size of a pencil … a tube … no I don’t imagine it could change shape … I don’t really think about it except I want to have a baby … I think my husband should just force me to have sex, that might solve the problem” is not literature! My experience of working with this woman was very much a reflection of the apparent dissociation and lack of descriptive, alive language shown in the above verbatim. Her apparent lack of ability to create a living, rich narrative did not just relate to her vagina. One cannot make people think or mentalise. Real thinking and creativity emerges both developmentally and in the space that can be created by “a facilitating environment” (Winnicott, 1960, p. 43). In this situation, I could imagine all sorts of narratives that may have been associated with her statements, but she could not. Her history and the restrictions that it engendered were, however, enacted in the therapeutic relationship.
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We lived her reality in our relationship through processes of enactment and embodiment. These seemed to be the only access points in working with her. Creating a narrative to some extent is a “doing” activity. For her—and this is a psychoanalytic construct—I felt we needed to go back to “being.” My idea was that she might need a containing space, created relationally, in which the capacity to play could be allowed and developed. I believe that this capacity to play is needed before narratives as tools to healing can be useful. Conclusion
Clinically, narratives are clearly useful. We are hardwired for symbolisation and relationship. Verbal language is the form of symbolisation that gives us the most specificity. It allows us to create meaning or, as Krystal (1988, p. 67) says, to “own our own soul.” Language is, however, by its nature restrictive. Whenever we verbalise anything, something is lost. Language is the symbol, not the thing in itself. Ironically, we could therefore say that language is not the whole story in either life or therapy. Narratives are one way that we can engage in play and meaning-making with our clients. This requires that the client, and the therapist for that matter, can both enter that transitional space where play occurs. Winnicott first locates this creative space between the mother and baby (Winnicott, 1971); perhaps it could also be located “between the reflective and pre-reflective spheres of the life world” (van Mannen, 1997, p. 345). The capacity to use this space is a developmental achievement in which some clients are not able to fully participate, due to past trauma or developmental deficit. I believe that growing that capacity requires another sort of activity which precedes the use and exploration of narratives. Finally, to quote one of my favourite philosophers, Leonard Cohen: “Poetry is just the evidence of life; if your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash” (Lunson, 2006). References
Brown, D. P. J. (1991). Introduction to psychotherapy: An outline of psychodynamic principles and practice. London: Routledge. Burmudez, J. L., Marcel, A., & Eilan, N. (Eds.). (1998). The body and the self. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Chiozza, L. A. (1999). Why do we fall ill? The story hiding in the body. Madison, CT: Psychosocial Press. Freud, S. (1923). The Ego and the Id. In J. Strachey (Ed. and Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 19, pp. 12–60). London: Hogarth.
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Grosz, E. (1994). Volatile bodies: Towards a corporeal feminism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Krystal, H. (1988). Integration and self-healing. Hillsdale, NJ: The Analytic Press. Lunson, L. (2006). Leonard Cohen: I’m your man (DVD). Vancouver: Lionsgate. Moore, R. (1999). The creation of reality in psychoanalysis: A view of the contributions of Donald Spence, Roy Schafer, Robert Stolorow, Irwin Z. Hoffman and beyond. London: The Analytic Press. van Mannen, M. (1997). From meaning to method. Qualitative Health Research, 7(3), 345–369. Winnicott, D. W. (1960). The theory of the parent-infant relationship. In The maturational processes and the facilitating environment (pp. 37–55). London: Karnac. Winnicott, D. W. (1971). Playing and reality. London: Tavistock.
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A Response to Philip Culbertson’s Presentation Jeremy Younger
It is a privilege to be invited to respond to Philip’s paper. He invites us to take the issues of sex, gender, and sexuality very seriously and I am happy to take up his challenge. To begin at the beginning, he takes us straight from the sexual energy of Palm Springs to the sexual energy of gay men, his gay clients, desperately “acting out” sexually, and his and their attempt—therapist and client together—to make meaning of this as they juggle the competing discourses and, as Philip puts it, their competing “embodied, atomic, and social selves.” In this process of therapy or counselling, he seeks to find a congruence that can lead to a healthier and safer life and to a contribution to the good of society. To help make meaning, he appeals to Michel Foucault and Judith Butler, especially their writings about sex, gender, and sexuality. Following Foucault and Butler, he first distinguishes between sex and gender. Sex is how our genitals are named at birth, correctly or incorrectly, by society. Gender, on the other hand, is not determined by our genitals, but is understood as a performative effect that is discursively produced, even if it is experienced by the individual as a natural identity. It is, so to speak, what we do with our sex. When Philip comes to discuss sexuality, I find him less clear. As I understand it in Foucault and Butler, difficult though they are to read, sexuality is understood as a social construction that takes place at the interface between gender (what we do with our genitals) and society’s dominant discourses, structured as they are around the concept of heterosexuality as the norm for human relationships. Sexuality, then, like gender, is not about the discovery of an innate or essential identity, existing independently of language. Rather, it is a socially constructed fiction, albeit a serious one, a product of language and specific discourses. We may believe that we have discovered and owned our sexuality as if it is uniquely ours, and that our task is to find words to express that identity, but in fact our sexuality is itself socially constructed, and not the recognition of a natural fact.
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Those who perform their gender heterosexually are constructing their sexuality in a social milieu that reinforces that very heterosexuality. The interface between gender and sexuality for heterosexuals is seamless. Philip offers us the analogy of the weaving of a mat; for the heterosexual, the process of weaving is straightforward, intrinsic, and untroubled. As Tamsin Spargo puts it: Compulsory heterosexuality is installed in gender through the production of taboos against homosexuality, resulting in a false coherence of apparently stable genders attached to biological sexes. (Spargo, 1999, p. 47) However, for those who perform their gender homosexually, the performance of their gender and the construction of their sexuality, in the face of the dominant, privileged, heterosexual discourses, will present vast internal and external difficulties, discontinuities, and conflicts. It is not a case of unweaving and reweaving a mat; it is the recognition that for homosexuals there can be no mat at all, for mats, in Philip’s analogy, belong to the culture of the heterosexual. Any attempt by homosexuals to weave inevitably creates something inauthentic, as it has been designed by others. It is alien, and offers false comfort. In the face of the heteronormativity that undergirds social construction, those who perform their gender homosexually are faced with a choice: assimilation or alienation. Here we come to the crux of my issue with Philip’s presentation. I believe that underlying his approach, and also underlying the practice of much psychotherapy and counselling with those who define themselves as homosexual, is the insidious, though understandable, privileging of assimilation over alienation. This is because the heteronormative onslaught is everywhere: in the media, education, entertainment, popular culture, and the commercial imperatives of the capitalist, materialist system (the pink dollar notwithstanding), and, as a way to survive, it is very tempting to try to fit in—so tempting that it can become second nature. This assimilation privileges relationships over sexual expression; monogamy and civil union over recreational sex and perceived marginalised practices and connections. Such a bias, conscious or unconscious, spawns pejorative terms such as “acting out” to describe the particular recreational, sexual lifestyle of the sauna and the sex-on-site venue. As I say, assimilation is a seductive way to go. Jameke Highwater argues: There will be less pain, less denial, less self-contempt. But there will also be fewer
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people who exist at a distance from the unquestioned conventions of the mainstream. There will also be fewer people who are sufficiently detached from arbitrary conventions to be capable of seeing beyond the sentries of conformity, and, perhaps, to be lured into the transgressions that take us beyond the familiar world into other, unknown and unnamed worlds. (Highwater, 1997, p. 180) Alienation, on the other hand, demands that we take seriously the production of “reverse discourse,” which is one of the fundamental ideas of Foucault: There is no question that the appearance in nineteenth century psychiatry, jurisprudence, and literature of a whole series of discourses on the species and subspecies of homosexuality, inversion, pederasty, and “psychic hermaphrodism” made possible a strong advance for social controls into the area of “perversity”; but it also made possible the formation of a “reverse” discourse: homosexuality began to speak in its own behalf, to demand that its legitimacy or “naturality” be acknowledged, often in the same vocabulary, using the same categories by which it was medically disqualified. (Foucault, 1984, p. 101) Foucault argues that homosexuality only came into existence in social discourse at the end of the 19th century, when it was pathologised as a perverse or deviant type, a case of arrested development, a suitable case for treatment as an aberration from the heterosexual norm. As such, the homosexual was subject to the disciplining, marginalising, and subordinating effects of social control. The irony is that the social discourse used to pathologise homosexuals became the very discourse of resistance to that pathologising. To quote Foucault again: There are no relations of power without resistance; the latter are all the more real and effective because they are formed right at the point where relations of power are exercised. (Foucault, 1980, p. 142) Reverse discourse enables homosexuals to language their alienation and to give voice to their living over-against the dominant heterosexual social culture, rather than their attempting to live within it. It follows, then, that counselling and therapy with homosexual people must also adopt that same reverse discourse so that a therapeutic place can be created where the
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challenge of alienation can be tolerated creatively, rather than avoided. So often the opposite seems to happen: the therapy and counselling process, seduced by the dominance of heterosexuality, consciously or unconsciously, privileges the desire to assimilate. It is my contention that counselling and psychotherapy are called to be countercultural and, given the history of the relationship between psychotherapy and homosexuality, this is risky. It’s about inhabiting a place where not-knowing is the wisdom, where there is no weaving, no mat, no pattern. As David Halperin (1995) argues, homosexuality offers [a]n horizon of possibility that is always unfinished and provisional, and the queer subject occupies an eccentric position in relation to the normal, the legitimate, and the dominant. (p. 62) But here’s a problem! I reckon that the last thing most homosexual clients who come into therapy or counselling want to be is queer. It’s enough that they can call themselves gay —define themselves, categorise themselves in this way. Philip is right, that homosexual clients often feel desperate—desperate to fit in, be accepted, be loved. And thus we face the profound difference between “gay” and “queer”. In the popular definition of gay, we are talking about identity, something that defines, that puts a person in a category, usually, though not wholly, according to sexual activity. Queerness, on the other hand, is more than a word for the rainbow coalition of nonnormative sexualities: lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgendered, and so on. Queer extends the politics of sexuality beyond sex and sexual minorities and their civil rights. “Queer” is opposed not simply to “straight”, but more broadly to “normal”. Defining itself against the normal, queerness exceeds sexuality, sexual practices, sexual identities. It depends on a coming together through the embracing and welcoming and opening up of difference, rather than the closing down of identity. And this is a very important realisation for us in the counselling and therapy community to grapple with: that queerness is not about liberal tolerance. Rather, it is about connection, and the making of meaning, as one dimension of social alienation alongside others: women, children, people of colour, people of the third world, the disabled, the poor, all in fact who must find and language their identity over and against the dominant white, male, rich, Western world, where therapy and counselling predominantly find their natural home.
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So the question I believe we need to discuss further is to what degree assimilation— this process that, to quote Philip, includes “making meaning, being congruent, being healthy and safe and contributing to the good of society”—is, in reality, a defence against the creativity and challenge that comes with tolerating alienation? How often, I wonder, in counselling and psychotherapy have clients been offered this possibility of living with difference? As counsellors and therapists we are not in the business of making (to borrow Adam Philips’ phrase) “shopkeepers into happier or better shopkeepers,” or, in our case, homosexuals into happier or better “straight acting” homosexuals. We are here to do something very different and far more creative and exciting: to challenge and confront and be radical agents of new thinking and new community. Jean Cocteau, the early-20th-century queer, French, surrealist writer, film maker and boxing manager, was once asked in an interview which of his possessions he would save from his burning house if it were on fire. He answered without hesitation: “I would take the fire.” In this, I believe, we locate the heart of our work. References
Foucault, M. (1980). Power and strategies. In C. Gordon (Ed.), Power/Knowledge: Selected interviews and other writings, 1972–1977 (pp. 134–145). New York: Pantheon. Foucault, M. (1984). The history of sexuality: An introduction. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Halperin, D. (1995). Saint Foucault: Towards a gay hagiography. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Highwater, J. (1997). The mythology of transgression. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Spargo, T. (1999). Foucault and queer theory. Cambridge: Icon Books.
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Gay-affirmative Therapy and Emerging Integrative Solutions Working with Ego-dissonant Gay Male Clients Andrew Kirby
Abstract A dichotomy exists in the literature in relation to treating ego-dissonant gay clients who struggle to reconcile their same-sex attraction with opposing values and beliefs. Historically, the treatment of choice was conversion therapy, which aimed to treat the “condition” (homosexuality) by changing an individual’s homosexual orientation to heterosexual. In recent years, as public opinion has shifted towards increased tolerance and acceptance of homosexuality, gayaffirmative therapy has gained popularity and advanced as the modality most likely to benefit the majority of ego-dissonant gay clients. However, each position has tended to offer a limited, exclusionary choice to either reject or accept one’s sexual orientation. This dichotomised approach may not serve all clients who seek help in dealing with conflicts regarding sexual orientation. This two-part article begins with a review of gay-affirmative therapy: its history, the developing relationship between the mental health profession and homosexuality, and key concepts of practice from different theoretical perspectives. Secondly, emerging integrative solutions, including a sexual identity management model, are examined and a Kleinian perspective is offered as a way of working with individuals who are unable to accept, change, or integrate competing aspects of their identity. This study recognises that each approach caters, to some degree, to the unique needs of different individuals.
In my practice I see many individuals who seek help in exploring aspects of their sexuality. The environment in which I work adopts a gay-affirmative philosophy that disavows treatments based upon therapeutic modifications of sexual orientation, and views homosexuality as a normal variation of human sexuality.
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While some gay individuals experience relatively little conflict over their sexuality, others experience a host of challenges resulting from an inability to resolve perceived irreconcilable differences between personal values and sexual feelings. For these individuals, same-sex attraction is experienced as confusing or unwanted, responses that can stem from holding traditional values regarding marriage and family, or religious beliefs that view homosexuality as unnatural and immoral. These conflicts are not restricted solely to individuals who are in the initial stages of the “coming out” process, but can also affect those who openly acknowledge their same-sex attraction and identify as gay. Guided by a gay-affirmative approach that tackles biased socialisation and internalised homophobia, therapy may assist conflicted gay clients to achieve a sense of self-acceptance and pride. Yet there are a few whose dissonance is so persistent and fundamental that it causes them to consider sexual reorientation as a plausible resolution to their distress. At such times, the very professionals they turn to for assistance may also be in conflict over how best to help (Throckmorton & Yarhouse, 2006). Matt (a pseudonym) is a gay man in his mid-thirties who was raised in a conservative Christian home. He recalls having always been attracted to men rather than women, and “came out” to his parents in his early twenties. Despite some sadness that he had disappointed his parents by being gay, Matt has generally felt loved and supported by his family. After several short-term relationships, Matt settled into a happy, long-term relationship of ten years with another man. Matt enjoys a rewarding career and has a close circle of friends both in and out of the gay community. On entering therapy, Matt described a conflict between his homosexuality and a desire to have children of his own. This, combined with his Christian faith, which does not support same-sex attraction, created an underlying gnawing angst that often made him question his gay identity and lifestyle. C1: I realise on the one hand that this is who I am, and I love Luke. If I just think of that, I’m fine. But, then the whole doubt thing creeps in. T1: Doubt? C2: Like maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe, I’m just convincing myself I’m happy, maybe I can change. T2: You’re being pulled in two opposite directions. C3: More like torn apart—like these two parts of my life just can’t go together. Despite sensitive inquiry and exploration into possible determinants stopping Matt from achieving a sense of self-cohesion and identity integration (i.e. biased socialisation
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and condemnatory religious convictions), his dissonance persisted. Even with insight into how formative influences contributed to his core belief system and values, he remained unresponsive to a gay-affirmative approach. It seemed that where Matt was experiencing a powerful conflict, any suggestion that he might consider accepting his sexuality only seemed to activate the opposing side and increase his level of distress. My experiences with Matt caused me to wonder whether certain conflicted gay clients might not benefit (initially or at all) from gay-affirmative therapy.1 In examining the problems that beset people who struggle with their sexual orientation, I wondered if it was right to assume that the only way to alleviate their distress was to help them to work towards accepting their homosexuality. Should therapists automatically view such clients as only suffering from internalised homophobia and heterosexism,2 and thereby downplay or override personal values, attitudes, and/or religious beliefs? Is there a way to work with such clients without either endorsing homophobic treatments or negating opposing values and beliefs? If so, how do we as practitioners respect these two seemingly conflicting expressions of the client’s identity as legitimate aspects of diversity? For those who struggle to accept their same-sex attraction and who experience their homosexuality as ego-dissonant,3 the literature is clearly split between two therapeutic approaches, both offering a “cure”. Each position tends to respond with a limited, exclusionary choice to be either an “out” gay or an “ex” gay; to accept or reject one’s sexual orientation. On the one hand, there are those who argue that some variety of treatment—whether formal conversion therapy conducted by a professional practitioner or a self-help, “ex-gay” group—should be available for those who experience their same-sex attractions as incompatible with competing values or beliefs (Throckmorton, 2002; Yarhouse & Burkett, 2002). On the other hand, proponents of gay-affirmative therapy consider antigay social stigma and internalised homophobia, not sexual orientation, to be the primary motivator for those seeking to change their sexual orientation. These authors (e.g., Liddle, 1996; Schidlo & Schroeder, 2002) highlight the potential harms to those who attempt conversion therapy and question the justification and ethical basis for sexual reorientation when homosexuality is no longer considered a mental illness. They also expound compelling reasons for a gay-affirmative approach, including social justice, preserving autonomy, promoting esteem, and ensuring professional commitment to diversity.
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These dichotomised treatment options may not serve all clients who seek help in dealing with conflicts regarding sexual orientation. While gay-affirmative therapy has been advanced as the approach most likely to benefit the majority of ego-dissonant gay clients, a few individuals, like Matt, end up in therapy embroiled in attempts to resolve the internal dissonance that causes their distress and prevents their achieving emotional congruency and identity cohesion (Meyer, 1995). Emerging integrative solutions aim to help such individuals. Each approach has positive aspects that recognise something essential to the client: the endorsement of sexuality, and personal beliefs or values respectively. Philosophical underpinnings of gay-affirmative therapy
Anthropologists (e.g., Greenberg, 1988; Weinrich & Williams, 1991) have documented that homosexuality is a universally occurring phenomenon. In some cultures it is approved of and encouraged, with homosexuals awarded leadership roles and even status as spiritual leaders. Over the last three centuries, religion, medicine, law, and politics have had the greatest influence on sexuality, primarily in Western societies. These professions came to view homosexuality as sinful, sick, and illegal, resulting in attempts by the mental health profession to treat the “condition” by changing an individual’s homosexual orientation to heterosexual (Weeks, 1985). More recently, a shift in opinion has caused psychology to dramatically develop and expand its capacity to recognise human diversity. Changes to legislation, such as with New Zealand’s Homosexual Law Reform Act (1986), have significantly contributed towards increasing tolerance and acceptance of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people within our society. Essentialism has grown to become the most popular philosophical perspective on the causation of sexual orientation, and in part informs the worldview of most gayaffirmative therapists. Its biomedical view suggests that sexual categories— homosexual, bisexual, heterosexual—describe an inner essence or core of a person that is both ahistorical and acultural (Throckmorton & Yarhouse, 2006). Thus, homosexuality is regarded in a similar way to one’s race, gender, or eye-colour: as a biological characteristic that defines something different about those in one category from those in another. Sexual orientation is something one is born with and, therefore, attributable to nature (DeLamater & Hyde, 1998; Houston, 2006; Karten, 2006).
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The mental health profession and homosexuality
Over the last sixty years, homosexuality has been conceptualised by the American Psychiatric Association as a mental disorder, as a possible disorder in the case of the DSM-III ego-dystonic homosexuality, and as neutral as it relates to the mental status of an individual when it was removed from the DSM (The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders) by the APA in 1973. Davies and Neal (1996a) explain that this controversial decision resulted from social science research, influenced by black and feminist civil rights protests, which reflected the new social values of egalitarianism. Bieschke, McClanahan, Tozer, Grzegorek and Park (2000) identified three primary studies that signalled a shift from the assumption of homosexuality as a psychopathology to current views of gay mental health. In the first two studies, Kinsey and colleagues (1948; 1953) provided empirical data on the incidence of homosexuality, which they portrayed as a normal variation of human sexuality. Findings contradicted assumptions that sexuality was a dichotomous phenomenon: heterosexual and homosexual; rather, sexuality encompassed a continuum, with more people experiencing same-sex attraction than had previously been believed. These studies reported that 37% of males had as adults engaged in same-gendered sexual contact to orgasm. Rothblum (1991) criticised sampling methods as over-representing college students, prisoners, and urban gay communities, and therefore not accurately reflecting the general population. However, similar cross-cultural studies by Sell, Wells and Wypij (1995) reported that 7–12% of people in large random samples throughout France, Europe and America “admitted” to having homosexual sex more than once. The authors claim these figures were conservative, as some people were likely to underreport same-sex behaviour due to social pressures. In a third study, Hooker (1957) conducted a landmark survey that established, under blind analysis using psychological testing, that no difference could be found in the mental health status of homosexual and heterosexual men. Outcomes indicated that homosexual men were as well-adjusted as heterosexuals—a remarkable finding, given the extremely negative attitudes held by the public and the mental health profession at the time. Similar evidence from the ranks of psychiatry also came from the work of Szasz (1977) and Halleck (1971, as cited in Silverstein, 1991). It is difficult to pinpoint the first instance of a therapy not based on the belief that homosexuality was a form of psychopathology. However, the formation of gay counselling centres in the early 1970s marked the most significant step in providing
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an alternative form of therapy for gay people who were experiencing emotional distress but did not want to change their sexual orientation (Silverstein, 1991). Practitioners in these centres chose to affirm the client’s homosexuality and then proceeded to work with the person. Publications raised awareness about the therapeutic needs of gay individuals, and professionals started using the term “gay-affirmative psychotherapy.” This suggested that homosexuality was an acceptable lifestyle and that therapists should attempt to “provide corrective experiences to ameliorate the consequences of biased socialization” (Malyon, 1982, p. 62). Since then, all major mental health associations, including the American Psychiatric Association (APA, 2000), the American Psychological Association (APA, 1997), the American Counseling Association (ACA, 1998) and the New Zealand Association of Psychotherapists (2002), have issued statements reiterating their official positions that homosexuality is not a mental disorder, and have warned of the potential harm in attempting sexual reorientation. In 1985, Division 44 was formulated within the American Psychological Association,4 and a British equivalent—the Lesbian and Gay Psychology Section—was officially founded in 1998 within the British Psychological Society (BPS). In 1991, the American Psychoanalytic Association, once renowned for its discriminatory policies against homosexual members, issued a non-discriminatory statement regarding the acceptance of homosexual candidates and the promotion of training and supervising analysts in their affiliated institutes (Bergmann, 2002). Since then, an increasing number of writers have openly advocated a gay-affirmative stance (e.g., Cornett, 1995; Harrison, 2000; Isay, 1989; Lewes, 1988). Currently, the American Psychological Association is embarking on the first review of its ten-year-old policy on counselling homosexuals, a step that gay-affirmative activists hope will end with a denunciation of any attempt by therapists to change sexual orientation. A final report from the task force is expected towards the end of 2008 (Crary, 2007). Gay-affirmative therapy: key concepts, treatment approaches and research
Gay-affirmative therapy views homosexuality as non-pathological, valuing heterosexuality and homosexuality as equally desirable, valid, and potentially healthy. Resting on the assumption that affirming responses from others assist individuals to see themselves as having positive self-worth (Harrison, 2000), gay-affirmative therapy represents a special range of psychological knowledge that considers homophobia and heterosexism, as opposed to homosexuality, as a major pathological variable in the
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development of gay men. Gay-affirmative therapy uses traditional psychotherapeutic methods but proceeds from a non-traditional perspective (Malyon, 1982). While the skills and understandings of most theoretical schools can be assimilated with gay-affirmative concepts, adjustments are necessary to some of the more traditional schools of psychotherapy. As a result, Cass (1979) developed the Homosexual Identity Formation (HIF) model, integrating both psychological and sociological perspectives of gay identity development into six stages: identity confusion, identity comparison, identity tolerance, identity acceptance, identity pride, and identity synthesis. This model set the groundwork for future gay-identity development models (Marszalek & Cashwell, 1999; Troiden, 1984), which emphasise movement across the stages from less acceptance to more acceptance, and involve a paradigm shift engendering changes in emotions, cognitions, and behaviours, similar to minority-identity development models (Perez & Amadio, 2004). Fassinger and Miller’s (1996) findings supported the validity of Cass’s theory, with 90% of participants aligning themselves to the appropriate phases of development. When working with gay clients, some authors contend that it is not enough for therapists simply to offer Rogers’ (1951) “core conditions” (genuineness, unconditional regard, and empathy), nor is it sufficient to have a sound grasp of psychodynamic or cognitive-behavioural principles (Chernin & Johnson, 2003; Davies, 1996; Malyon, 1982; Marszalek, Cashwell, Dunn & Jones, 2004; Perez & Amadio, 2004; Rubinstein, 2003; Shannon & Woods, 1991). Clients in conflict regarding their sexual orientation face unique challenges and, as with any special population, a counsellor helps facilitate and educate through raising awareness about the nature and origin of their distress. On the other hand, a defensively counter-homophobic therapist who assumes that there is nothing different or problematic about an individual’s sexual orientation can inadvertently discourage a client from talking about the painful feelings that go along with being in a minority that is ignored, ridiculed, despised, and persecuted. Such a dismissive acceptance of difference can be as counter-therapeutic as rejection of it could be (McWilliams, 1996). Harrison (2000) synthesised the findings from 33 papers into an integrated model of gay-affirmative therapy that recognises that many gay men who have moved through the “coming out” process towards self-acknowledgment will have experienced being rejected or marginalised. With this expectation embedded in their belief structure, Harrison assumes that such men will face the same fears in seeking professional help. Thus, Harrison’s model has at its core a non-pathological view of gay people, the
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therapist’s role being to challenge oppression in the form of heterosexism and internal/external homophobia. This involves empowering clients and acting as their advocate. A therapist, therefore, requires an understanding of the potential effects of social stigma, and inquires as to the client’s experience. Additionally, practitioners need to be familiar with the particular issues presented by gay clients, i.e. addictive disorders, isolation, anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem (Shannon & Woods, 1991), and to develop competence in using a range of therapeutic interventions. Fundamental to gay-affirmative therapy is the belief that clients may benefit from having gay therapists who self-disclose their sexuality and act as role models. However, studies show that gay-affirmative experiences are not dependent on therapists’ sexuality, and suggest that heterosexual clinicians can develop their knowledge about gay lifestyles and resources and, in some cases, offer increased objectivity and the advantage of a different perspective from the client’s (Moon, 1994; Pixton, 2003; Rochlin, 1981). Traditionally, for those working from a psychotherapeutic perspective, it was thought that to disclose sexual orientation would interfere with the development of the transference. However, as long as a gay therapist is aware of the possibility of a countertransferential need to establish a sense of social alliance through one’s client, and that such information by the analyst is in the service of the client, “all transference paradigms will eventually be established” (Meyer, as cited in Isay, 1991, p. 208). Finally, Harrison (2000) emphasises the need for practitioners to fully explore their own homophobia and be comfortable with their own and their clients’ sexuality, endeavouring to develop self-awareness of personal limitations in working with a gay client group. Therapists’ unrecognised prejudice or misinformation regarding sexual orientation can risk exacerbating clients’ distress. In assessing Harrison’s (2000) model overall, it needs to be noted that Friedman (1991) previously criticised some of the literature Harrison used in his analysis, however, and claimed it only focused on the healthier side of the spectrum and did not include those with severe and enduring mental illness. Gay-affirmative theorists believe any explicit or implicit attempts at changing an individual’s sexuality will inevitably injure homosexuals’ self-esteem (Cornett, 1995; Davison, 1991; Drescher, 2002; Isay, 1986; McWilliams, 1996; Phillips, 2004; Tozer & McClanahan, 1999). Silverstein (as cited in Davison, 1991) argues that, “to suggest that a person comes voluntarily to change his sexual orientation is to ignore the powerful environmental stress, oppression if you will, that has been telling him for years that
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he should change” (p. 144). Where is the “free choice” for those homosexuals who are racked with internalised guilt, self-hate, and discrimination? These authors believe it is more ethical to let a client continue to struggle honestly with their identity than to collude, even peripherally, with a practice that is discriminatory, oppressive, and ultimately ineffective. Psychoanalytic and psychodynamic approaches
In “Three essays on the theory of sexuality,” Freud (1905) separated sexual behaviour from gender, thus founding a radical and invaluable way of thinking about diversity of sexual experience and expression. However, Freud recognised that Oedipal theory,5 which was central to his project concepts, depended on maintaining what Sinfield (as cited in Davies & Neal, 1996a) called “the cross-sex grid,” which refers to bipolar explanations of genders and sexualities as “opposite” to one another. The cross-sex grid had its origins in 19th-century Victorian dominance and oppression by the heterosexual family mode of all possible other modes. Although Freud acknowledged his own inability to completely enter this new discourse, it is this early concept of the separation of human sexuality from gender that has formed the basis of the work of many gay-affirmative psychoanalytic writers (Davies & Neal, 1996a; Isay, 1986; Izzard, 2000; Roughton, 2002; Rubinstein, 2003). Schwartz (1995) divides psychoanalytic writing into two groups. The first proposes a genetic model of homosexuality based in psychobiology and endocrinology that sees sexual orientation as biologically determined. In studies of twins, Kallman (1952) and Ekert, Bonchard, Bohlen and Heston (1986) found a significantly greater preponderance of homosexual behaviour in monozygotic than dizygotic twins. Pillard and Weinrich (1986) also reported that gay men have significantly more homosexual or bisexual brothers (22%) than do heterosexual men (4%). Scientific research by gay geneticist Le Vay (2003) has attempted to find a “gay gene” and, despite inconclusive results to date, continued research has fuelled the writings of genetic theorists such as Friedman and Downey (1993). While not ruling out the importance of the early environment in the development of sexual object choice,6 these authors suggest a genetic predisposition in the origin of sexuality. However, this theoretical perspective leaves out mobility of object choice (Schwartz, 1995). The second, larger group of psychoanalytic writers (e.g., Isay, Lewes, Cornett, O’Connor & Ryan, and Rubinstein) emphasises the prevalence of homophobia in society, within the psyche and in the consulting room. Lewes (1988) retains classical
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developmental ideas and offers a new interpretation of the Oedipus complex. By exploring the vicissitudes of identification and object of desire, Lewes describes twelve equally valid outcomes (six homosexual, six heterosexual) rather than one “successful” heterosexual outcome.7 Other postmodernist writers, i.e. O’Connor and Ryan (1993), claim the Oedipus complex is obsolete and creates a view of sexuality that is fixed for life, whereas Schwartz (1995) argues for a severing of the tie altogether between the erotic and the gendered body. Goldsmith (2001) rejects the notion of a “negative Oedipal” explanation for the homosexual boy, suggesting instead that the configuration of father as love object and mother as rival is the normative experience for the homosexual boy and should be considered his positive triangulation experience. To avoid confusion in terms, Goldsmith proposes the name “Orestes complex,” after the Greek figure who murdered his mother to avenge the death of his father. Isay (1986, 1987, 1989) believed that sexual object choice precedes the development of gender identity. This is based on substantive research identifying homoerotic fantasies in gay men from the ages of three, four, and five years, with all subjects reportedly having felt “different” from other boys. He proposed that this experience of being different and an outsider becomes a screen for conflicted preconscious samesex fantasies. Isay conceptualises this period as analogous to the Oedipal stage of heterosexual boys, except that the primary sexual object appears to be their fathers. He asserts that the period of childhood homoerotic sexual attachment to the father is when a boy acquires his homosexual identity, stating: “I see no evidence either in the nature of the transference or in the nature of the sexual object choice of these men of a defensive shift in erotic interest from their mothers to their fathers” (Isay, 1986, p. 474). Isay reworked Freudian theory, suggesting that a distant relationship between a father and his homosexual son was not the cause of the homosexuality, but the result of the father’s discomfort with his son’s difference. Ensuing consolidation of homosexual identity often occurs later than in heterosexual identity development due to internalised social restraints, causing a homosexual to deny his sexuality with greater vigour. Continuing conscious recognition and subsequent integration of the homosexuality throughout adulthood culminates in enhanced self-esteem, a greater sense of wellbeing and, usually, increased productivity (Isay, 1986). Cornett (1995) has developed an approach grounded in trauma theory and selfpsychology. Utilising Kohutian principles, he recognised the deleterious effects of biased socialisation that cause narcissistic injuries and selfobject failures, and acknowledged resistances where gay men’s hope for acceptance has been overshadowed
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by experiences of rejection and alienation. From this perspective, the therapist becomes a consistent, soothing, and mirroring selfobject for the developing “gay-self ”, generally buried beneath layers of culturally fostered self-deception, and offers a relationship that affirms that authentic self. This seeks to preserve the positive selfobject transference in which the client feels understood, held, and affirmed, and in which the stalled psychological growth might be resumed (Stansfield & Younger, 2006). Peterkin and Risdon (2003) underscore the importance of eliminating the therapist’s power base in therapy, suggesting that therapists who practise from an expert-centred modality should consider its implications. In such practice, a therapist’s power, silence, and knowledge are central to the creation of transference. Many gay men in the past have experienced the silence, knowledge, and power of society, culture, and religion as persecutory. Therefore, a traditional analytic stance of rigid neutrality can be experienced as re-traumatising by certain gay clients and may need to be moderated. Lebolt (1999) supports Cornett’s view that a more actively affirming stance in psychotherapy helps counter the effects of homophobic upbringing. However, Izzard (2000) argues that psychoanalytic neutrality is more helpful than affirmation, even when working with gay clients. Psychodynamic approaches to working with ego-dissonant gay clients rely not only on the clients’ understanding of society’s prejudicial and discriminatory influences but also on the analysis of family background and dynamics. In terms of object relations, Rubinstein (2003) suggests that the avoidance-approach pattern of the rapprochement stage (Mahler, 1972) might be characteristic of gay individuals who are unable to accept their sexual orientation and experience a permanent position of emotional conflict. On feeling close to another man, they are happy, hopeful, and stay with him (“shadowing”). Yet, on realising that the relationship has the potential to succeed, they regress and avoid, since intimacy is threatening for them (“darting away”). Once they have escaped, they feel alleviated and free from the last complication, only to feel lonely and miserable again. Loneliness pushes them into a new romance with the same disastrous consequences. The reason for their rejection is an underlying self-hatred for not being the men that their family, and society, expected of them. Cognitive-behavioural therapy approaches
In contrast to Ellis’ (1959) older, rational-emotive therapy, which comes from a more heterosexist position, Beckian (1976) cognitive-behavioural therapy (CBT), according to Gray (2000), is based on a stance of humanistic empiricism, has no explicit tradition
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of pathologising homosexuality, and takes a morally neutral standpoint on sexuality. CBT acknowledges the role of environmental factors and looks at maladaptive coping patterns as “survival strategies,” rather than being due to some psychopathology of the client. The CBT approach emphasises that the one thing all gay men have in common is that they are taught to be ashamed of their sexual desire (Gray, 2000). “Early maladaptive schemas,” which are unconditional, self-perpetuating, dysfunctional (leading to distress), triggered by the environment, and linked to high affect, are believed to be established in the first few years of life (Young, 1990). These are hypothesised as being the persistent, dysfunctional core beliefs that are thought to underlie enduring psychological problems. They include fundamentally held views of the self as worthless, bad, unlovable, or unacceptable. Schema-focused cognitive therapy has particular relevance for working with gay clients, as feeling “different” is a central theme of many gay men’s early experiences. Gay people often experience attack and erosion of self-worth linked to their growing awareness of being part of a stigmatised group. Members of a minority group may develop negative schema that interfere with their capacity to function and enjoy life and, in particular, relationships. There is limited research into the prevalence of early maladaptive schemas in gay individuals; however, a study by Rivers (1995), demonstrating a significant relationship between homophobic bullying and later relationship difficulties, supports the hypothesis that many gay people show evidence of strong negative schema. CBT explores clients’ beliefs about their sexuality and its formation, and then employs cognitive restructuring techniques to challenge their negative belief systems. With gay clients, treatment is often longer, with greater emphasis placed on the relationship, as the presence of entrenched negative schema impedes or prevents the development of the therapeutic alliance. Psychodrama and Gestalt techniques can be employed and integrated into an explicit CBT framework to confront selfdefeating schema. Empirical evidence supports the effectiveness of CBT for many clinical problems including self-acceptance and identity-integration (Gray, 2000; Marszalek et al., 2004). Group therapy approaches
A central theme within a gay-affirmative approach is that the “problem” needs to be reformulated in terms of self-acceptance (Smith, 1985). Once individual psychotherapy has brought about initial movement towards self-acceptance, group therapy
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can be beneficial in helping the client progress to a more adaptive adjustment to homosexuality in the area of peer socialisation. Group therapy is an effective method for consolidating sexual identity and promoting peer-identification in both gay- and mixed-group therapy (Lebolt, 1999). Participation in gay groups may increase clients’ awareness of the diversity of gay people and help individuals learn to deal with the vicissitudes of being gay. Participants more advanced in self-acceptance and self-disclosure may model healthy behaviour for those not as far along the path to full adaptive functioning. Lebolt added, “The use of group dynamics to challenge and confront dilutes the transference directed towards the solo therapist and promotes self-reliance” (p. 402). In mixed groups, clients experience their issues as human, rather than exclusively gay, which helps them develop the skills and self-confidence required to integrate into the predominantly heterosexual environment. The level of integration may vary depending on the individual’s subculture. For example, Mäori clients might need to overcome feelings of alienation or confusion about connection with whänau and iwi, requiring therapists to acknowledge and work alongside communal or extended family groups (Durie, 2003). With mixed-group therapy, lessons learned from the development of feminist therapeutic practice, which confronts the hegemony of straight white males in the social and epistemological arena, have been valuably integrated (Milton & Coyle, 1999). Religious programmes
“There is no more divisive subject in any denomination today than the issue of homosexuality” (Culbertson, 2000, p. 190). Mahaffy (1996) found that the main source of conflict in many gay people was early religious identity (pre-coming-out). Studies show that over two-thirds of gay people have felt that in order to accept their sexuality, they had to reject religion (Mahaffy, 1996; Schuck & Liddle, 2001; Wagner, Serafini, Rabkin, Remien, & Williams, 1994). This has caused the anti-religion backlash that exists in the gay community. Yet for some individuals, it is easier to come out as gay in their communities of faith than it is to come out as religiously orientated in the gay community (Haldeman, 2002). In their quest to be simultaneously gay and Christian, these individuals often experience conflict, as well as feelings of guilt, shame, depression, self-loathing, and suicide ideation. Increasingly, literature from emergent religious groups calls for a more sensitive and constructive attitude towards gay Christians seeking pastoral assistance. Many
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authors disagree with traditional interpretations of homosexuality in the Bible (Culbertson, 2000; Gomes, 1996; Helminiak, 2000; Miner & Connoley, 2002; Scroggs, 1983; Wink, 1999). They argue it is not the authority of the Bible they challenge but the authority of the culture of interpretation, which they feel has evolved from an obsolete, patriarchal tradition that served to legitimise its doctrinaire prejudices. This has resulted in scholars addressing the hermeneutical problem of how to translate the content of ancient texts into the language and life-context of 21st-century individuals. More recently, some denominations have become more accepting of gay members of their congregation, or splinter groups have opted to cut off from mainstream churches in order to cater to members normally ostracised because of their sexuality.8 These gayaffirmative religious groups have advocated that committed gay relationships are equally able to fulfil “God’s design for creation,” and aim to help clients explore their sexuality and religious identities, evaluate their conflicts, and come to individual resolutions and choices. Rodriguez and Ouellette (2000) found that 72% of participants attending gay-friendly congregations reported less internalised homophobia, a reduction of anxiety around their conflict, and signs of increased mental health, wellbeing, and identity-integration. Stuart (1997) suggests that in considering spiritual core values, religiously conflicted gay individuals must start with their own experience, from which revelation occurs. Helminiak (2000) describes this “core of spirituality as basic integrity where spiritual development is translated into affirming oneself rather than being bound by religious expectations” (p. 441). Research indicates that participants claim the main resolution to their conflict lies in the alteration or re-education of their core belief system. This was achieved by considering themselves spiritual (an intrinsic belief system), rather than religious (an external institutionalised authority), and involved reinterpreting previously damning biblical texts and the reappropriating of scripture by those who felt excluded from it (Barret & Barzan, 1996; Rodriguez & Ouellette, 2000). Queer therapy
There is a growing body of literature on this relatively new perspective that has emerged from gay-affirmative philosophy. Over the past two decades, gay-affirmative therapists have been narrowing the perceived differences between gays and straights as a necessary tactic to achieve a degree of acceptance within the field of mental health. Queer ideology shifts the focus away from similarities, towards recognising the important differences (Roughton, 2002). “Queer therapy” represents a rainbow
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coalition of non-normative sexualities that extends the politics of sexuality beyond sex and sexual minorities to include anything countercultural. “Queerness depends on identificatory alliances; with a coming together through the embracing and welcoming and opening up of difference, rather than the closing down of identity” (Stansfield & Younger, 2006, p. 6). Evaluation and critique
Growing empirical evidence shows the efficacy of a gay-affirmative approach (Hogan, 2002; Lebolt, 1999; Marszalek, 1999; Milton & Coyle, 1999; Miranda, 1986; Tozer & Hayes, 2004), and research suggests that most contemporary therapists prefer to provide gay-affirmative therapy over alternative treatments (Kilgore, Sideman, Amin, Baca & Bohanske, 2005; MacIntosh, 1994). However, much of the literature remains anecdotal, and further empirical research is needed to evaluate the effectiveness of the various conceptual approaches to working with gay clients. Phillips, Ingram, Smith and Mindes (2003) highlight the consistently low percentage of gay empirical and theoretical publications in mainstream journals, and note that 54% of 119 articles they reviewed were based on empirical studies. Of those, the majority were survey/analogue studies and most used convenience samples. Fortyeight per cent of the empirical articles failed to provide theoretical frameworks for their hypotheses. Bowman (2003) asserts, “Articles created from inductive reasoning alone do not tell the whole story, as they often do not provide a framework with which to explain the findings” (p. 67). In addition, Bieschke et al. (2000) note researchers’ tendency to use white, educated men as participants, a sampling that is not reflective of all gay men. Further qualitative studies are needed with a more diverse gay population—in particular, bisexual, transgender, and people of colour—to explore empirically their experiences of affirmative psychotherapy. The American Psychological Association (1992) calls its members to respect “the fundamental rights, dignity, and worth of all people … including those due to … religion … [by] respecting the rights of others to hold values, attitudes, and opinions that differ from their own” (p. 5). Yarhouse (1998) argues that gay-affirmative practitioners may be comfortable with more liberal expressions of spirituality, while fundamentalist expressions of religion often appear to be overlooked as an aspect of diversity. Gay-affirmative therapists are called upon to take seriously the experiences of religious clients, refraining from encouraging an abandonment of their spiritual traditions in favour of a more gay-affirmative doctrine or from discouraging the
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exploration of alternative options. Such an approach can impose sexual orientation over religiosity, neglecting the primary task of integrating all aspects of identity (Haldeman, 2002). Developmentally, heterosexual adolescents may experiment with homosexuality but remain predominantly heterosexual, just as homosexual adolescents experiment with heterosexuality but remain predominantly homosexual (Isay, 1989). Gayaffirmative therapists need to venture discerningly in order to distinguish the struggling homosexual client from the heterosexual client who is confused about his or her sexuality because of a phase they may be going through. Viewing all clients as suffering from internalised homophobia limits access to approaches that might facilitate unbiased inquiry and exploration, exacerbating clients’ distress. The identities of gay men vary as widely as any other group in society. They may share a common journey of self-acceptance, but the map for each individual on that particular journey is unique (Younger, 2007). In an attempt to affirm and validate clients, gay-affirmative therapy runs the risk of stifling the plurality of sexual meaningmaking. A “blanket� approach aimed solely at supporting those who experience homosexuality as ego-dissonant may deprive individuals of the opportunity to make radically different sense of their experiences. If gay-affirmative therapy is to be generative, then it must be prepared to be objectively critical and facilitative of the process of unique meaning-making. Simply validating the perspective of the client, where that perspective and its implications are the cause of their distress, is obviously problematic (Cross, 2001). Summary
Gay-affirmative therapists assert that the target of change is not the individual, but rather the culture. They argue that if there were no discrimination against gay people, there would be no need for gay-affirmative psychotherapy. However, in a society where gay men continue to experience prejudice and oppression, this model provides a way of healing familial and social wounds. Current research indicates that gayaffirmative therapy helps the majority of people who experience their homosexuality as ego-dissonant to achieve an increased sense of identity integration and wellbeing. Yet there is a small group of individuals who value all aspects of their identity equally, and do not wish or are not ready to choose a conventional gay-affirmative approach for fear that their sexuality might be validated at the expense of competing values or beliefs. A later, companion article will explore some of the emerging integrative
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solutions appearing in the literature, which offer more flexible possibilities for productive therapeutic work with these clients. Notes
1. Gay-affirmative therapy in this context refers to an approach also known as “pink therapy” (Davies & Neal, 1996b), which established itself in the 1970s in reaction to pathologising views of homosexuality at the time. 2 The cultural assumption that all people are or would want to be heterosexual (Chernin & Johnson, 2003). 3 Ego-dissonant describes individuals who struggle to integrate their same-sex attraction with competing aspects of their identity. Dissonance stems from the words “dis”, meaning “lack of ” or “apart”, and the Latin “sonans”, meaning “sound” or “accord”. Together they describe a “discord” or “lack of agreement or consistency” with the ego or conscious “I” (Harper, 2001). 4 The American Psychological Association’s Division 44 is psychology’s focal point for research, practice, and education on the lives and realities of lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people. 5 Refers to the Oedipal complex where, between the ages of three and five, the child feels sexual desire for the parent of the opposite sex and desires the death of the parent of the same sex. 6 The act of selecting a person or a type of person as love-object. A distinction is drawn between an infantile object-choice and a pubertal one, with the former pointing the way for the latter. 7 Lewes (1988) described twelve different possible Oedipal constellations for the boy, depending upon whether his attachment is anaclitic or narcissistic, whether he takes himself or his father or mother as object, whether this mother is phallic or castrated, whether he identifies with father or (phallic or castrated) mother, and whether his own sexual stance is passive or active. 8 Dignity/USA (Catholic), Integrity (Episcopal), Metropolitan Community Church (Interdenominational), Evangelicals Concerned, More Light (Presbyterian), and Association of Welcoming and Affirming Baptists. References
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Davies, D., & Neal, C. (Eds.). (1996b). Pink therapy: A guide for counsellors and therapists working with lesbian, gay and bisexual clients. Buckingham: Open University Press. Davison, G. (1991). Constructionism and morality in therapy for homosexuality. In J. Gonsiorek & J. Weinrich (Eds.), Homosexuality: Research implications for public policy (pp. 137–148). London: Sage Publications. DeLamater, J., & Hyde, J. (1998). Essentialism vs. social constructionism in the study of human sexuality. Journal of Sex Research, 35, 10–19. Drescher, J. (2002). Causes and becauses: On etiological theories of homosexuality. The Annual of Psychoanalysis, 30, 57–68. Durie, M. (2003). Whaiora: Maori health development (2nd ed.). Melbourne: Oxford University Press. Ekert, E., Bonchard, T., Bohlen, J., & Heston, L. (1986). Homosexuality in monozygotic twins reared apart. British Journal of Psychiatry, 148, 421–425. Ellis, A. (1959). A homosexual treated with rational psychotherapy. Journal of Clinical Psychology, 15(3), 338–343. Fassinger, R., & Miller, B. (1996). Validation of an inclusive model of sexual minority formation on a sample of gay men. Journal of Homosexuality, 32, 53–78. Freud, S. (1905). Three essays on the theory of sexuality. In J. Strachey (Ed. and Trans.), The standard edition of the complete psychological works of Sigmund Freud (Vol. 7, pp. 123–246). London: Hogarth. Friedman, R. (1991). Couple therapy with gay couples. Psychiatric Annals, 21(8), 485–490. Friedman, R., & Downey, J. (1993). Neurobiology and sexual orientation: Current relationships. Journal of Neuropsychiatry and Clinical Neurosciences, 5, 131–153. Goldsmith, S. (2001). Oedipus or Orestes? Homosexual men, their mothers, and other women revisited. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association, 49, 1269–1287. Gomes, P. (1996). The good book: Reading the Bible with mind and heart. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco. Gray, J. (2000). Cognitive-behavioral therapy. In D. Davies & C. Neal (Eds.), Therapeutic perspectives on working with lesbian, gay and bisexual clients (pp. 24–38). Buckingham: Open University Press. Greenberg, D. (1988). The construction of homosexuality. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Haldeman, D. (2002). Gay rights, patient rights: The implications of sexual orientation conversion therapy. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 33(3), 260–264. Halleck, S. (1971). The politics of therapy. New York: Science House. Harper, D. (2001). Etymology online dictionary. Retrieved September 7, 2007, from http:// www.etymonline.com Harrison, N. (2000). Gay affirmative therapy: A critical analysis of the literature. British Journal of Guidance & Counselling, 28(1), 37–53. Helminiak, D. (2000). What the Bible really says about homosexuality. Tajique, NM: Alamo Square Press.
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Hogan, C. (2002). A phenomenological study of lesbian affirmative therapy: A client-centred understanding. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Alliant International University, California. Homosexual Law Reform Act. (1986). New Zealand Ministry of Justice. Retrieved August 2, 2008, from http://www.austlii.edu.au/nz/legis/consol_act/hlra1986246.pdf Hooker, E. (1957). The adjustment of the male overt homosexual. Journal of Projective Techniques, 21, 17–31. Houston, L. (2006). Essentialism or social constructionism. Retrieved April 30, 2007, from http://www.banap.net/spip.php?article85 Isay, R. (1986). The development of sexual identity in homosexual men. The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, 41, 467–489. Isay, R. (1987). Fathers and their homosexually inclined sons in childhood. Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, 42, 275–294. Isay, R. (1989). Being homosexual: Gay men and their development. London: Penguin Books. Isay, R. (1991). The homosexual analyst: Clinical considerations. The Psychoanalytic Study of the Child, 46, 199–216. Izzard, S. (2000). Psychoanalytic psychotherapy. In D. Davies & C. Neal (Eds.), Therapeutic perspectives on working with lesbian, gay and bisexual clients (pp. 106–121). Buckingham: Open University Press. Kallman, F. (1952). A comparative twin study on the genetic aspects of male homosexuality. Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease, 115, 283–298. Karten, E. (2006). Sexual orientation efforts in dissatisfied same-sex attracted men: What does it really take to change? Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Fordham University, New York, New York. Kilgore, H., Sideman, L., Amin, K., Baca, L., & Bohanske, B. (2005). Psychologists’ attitudes and therapeutic approaches toward gay, lesbian, and bisexual issues continue to improve: An update. Psychotherapy: Theory, Research, Practice, Training, 42(3), 395–400. Kinsey, A., Pomeroy, W., & Martin, C. (1948). Sexual behavior in the human male. Philadelphia: W. B. Saunders. Kinsey, A., Pomeroy, W., Martin, C., & Gebhard, P. (1953). Sexual behavior in the human female. Philadelphia: W. B. Saunders. Le Vay, S. (2003). The biology of sexual orientation. Retrieved June 18, 2007, from http:// members.aol.com/slevay/page22.html Lebolt, J. (1999). Gay affirmative therapy: A phenomenological study. Clinical Social Work Journal, 27(4), 355–370. Lewes, K. (1988). The psychoanalytic theory of male homosexuality. New York: Simon and Schuster. Liddle, B. (1996). Therapist sexual orientation, gender, and consulting practices as they relate to ratings of helpfulness by gay and lesbian clients. Journal of Counseling Psychology, 43, 394–401.
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MacIntosh, H. (1994). Attitudes and experiences of psychoanalysts in analyzing homosexual patients. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association, 42, 1183–1207. Mahaffy, K. (1996). Cognitive dissonance and its resolution: A study of lesbian Christians. Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, 35(4), 392–403. Mahler, M. (1972). Rapprochement subphase of the separation-individuation process. Psychoanalytic Quarterly, 41, 487–506. Malyon, A. (1982). Psychotherapeutic implications of internalized homophobia in gay men. Journal of Homosexuality, 7(2), 59–69. Marszalek, J. (1999). The gay and lesbian affirmative development (GLAD) model: Testing the validity of an integrative model of gay identity development theory and Ivey’s developmental counseling therapy model. Unpublished doctoral dissertation, Mississippi State University, Mississippi State, MS. Marszalek, J., & Cashwell, C. (1999). The gay and lesbian affirmative development (GLAD) model: Facilitating positive gay identity development. Adultspan Journal, 1(1), 13–31. Marszalek, J., Cashwell, C., Dunn, M., & Jones, K. (2004). Comparing gay identity development theory to cognitive development: An empirical study. Journal of Homosexuality, 48(1), 103–123. McWilliams, N. (1996). Therapy across the sexual orientation boundary: Reflections of a heterosexual female analyst working with lesbian, gay and bisexual clients. Gender and Psychoanalysis, 1, 203–221. Meyer, I. (1995). Minority stress and mental health in gay men. Journal of Health and Social Behavior, 36(1), 38–56. Milton, M., & Coyle, A. (1999). Lesbian and gay affirmative psychotherapy: Issues in theory and practice. Sexual and Marital Therapy, 14(1), 43–60. Miner, J., & Connoley, J. (2002). The children are free: Reexamining the biblical evidence on same-sex relationships. Indianapolis: Jesus Metropolitan Community Church. Miranda, M. (1986). Evaluation of ego-dystonic homosexuality. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas. Moon, L. (1994). Counselling with lesbians and gay men. Changes, 12(4), 277–283. New Zealand Association of Psychotherapists (2002, November). NZAP statement on sexual reorientation therapy. Newsletter of the New Zealand Association of Psychotherapists, 28–31. O’Connor, N., & Ryan, J. (1993). Wild desires and mistaken identities: Lesbianism and psychoanalysis. London: Virago. Perez, R., & Amadio, D. (2004). Affirmative counseling and psychotherapy with lesbian, gay, and bisexual clients. In C. Negy (Ed.), Cross-cultural psychotherapy: Toward a critical understanding of diverse clients (pp. 301–325). Reno, NV: Bent Trees Press. Peterkin, A., & Risdon, C. (2003). Caring for lesbian and gay people: A clinical guide. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Phillips, J. (2004). A welcome addition to the literature: Nonpolarized approaches to sexual orientation and religiosity. The Counseling Psychologist, 32(5), 771–777.
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Phillips, J., Ingram, K., Smith, N., & Mindes, E. (2003). Methodological and content review of lesbian-, gay-, and bisexual-related articles in counseling journals: 1990–1999. The Counseling Psychologist, 31(1), 25–62. Pillard, R., & Weinrich, J. (1986). Evidence of familial nature of male homosexuality. Archives of General Psychiatry, 48, 808–812. Pixton, S. (2003). Experiencing gay affirmative therapy: An exploration of clients’ views of what is helpful. Counselling and Psychotherapy Research, 3(3), 211–215. Rivers, I. (1995). Mental health issues amongst lesbian and gay men bullied in school. Health and Social Care in the Community, 3, 380–388. Rochlin, M. (1981). Sexual orientation of the therapist and therapeutic effectiveness with gay clients. Journal of Homosexuality, 7(2–3), 21–29. Rodriguez, E., & Ouellette, S. (2000). Gay and lesbian Christians: Homosexuality and religious identity integration in the members and participants of a gay-positive church. Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, 39(3), 333–348. Rogers, C. (1951). Client-centered therapy: Its current practice, implications, and theory. London: Constable and Robinson. Rothblum, E. (1991). “Somewhere in Des Moines or San Antonio”: Historical perspectives on lesbian, gay, and bisexual mental health. American Psychologist, 46, 947–949. Roughton, R. (2002). Rethinking homosexuality: What it teaches us about psychoanalysis. Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association, 50, 733–763. Rubinstein, G. (2003). Does psychoanalysis really mean oppression? Harnessing psychodynamic approaches to affirmative therapy with gay men. American Journal of Psychotherapy, 57(2), 206–218. Schidlo, A., & Schroeder, M. (2002). Changing sexual orientation: A consumer’s report. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 33(3), 249–259. Schuck, K., & Liddle, B. (2001). Religious conflicts experienced by lesbian, gay and bisexual individuals. Journal of Gay & Lesbian Psychotherapy, 49(6), 272–279. Schwartz, D. (1995). Current psychoanalytic discourses on sexuality: Tripping over the body. In T. Domenici & R. Lesser (Eds.), Disorienting sexuality: Psychoanalytic reappraisals of sexual identities (pp. 115–126). London: Routledge. Scroggs, R. (1983). The New Testament and homosexuality. Philadelphia: Fortress Press. Sell, R., Wells, J., & Wypij, D. (1995). The prevalence of homosexual behavior and attraction in the United States, the United Kingdom, and France: Results of national population-based samples. Archives of Sexual Behavior, 24(3), 235–248. Shannon, J., & Woods, W. (1991). Affirmative psychotherapy for gay men. Counseling Psychologist, 19(2), 197–215. Silverstein, C. (1991). Psychological and medical treatments of homosexuality. In J. Gonsiorek & J. Weinrich (Eds.), Homosexuality: Research implications for public policy (pp. 101–114). London: Sage Publications.
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Smith, J. (1985). Treatment of ego-dystonic homosexuality: Individual and group psychotherapy. Journal of the American Academy of Psychoanalysis and Dynamic Psychiatry, 13, 399–412. Stansfield, G., & Younger, J. (2006). Beyond the closet. Talk presented to Auckland Family Counselling and Psychotherapy, Auckland. Stuart, E. (1997). Learning to trust our own experience. In E. Stuart, A. Braunston, M. Edwards, J. McMahon, & T. Morrison (Eds.), Religion is a queer thing: A guide to the Christian faith for lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgendered people (pp. 20–28). London: Cassell. Szasz, T. (1977). The myth of mental illness. New York: Harper & Row. Throckmorton, W. (2002). Initial empirical and clinical findings concerning the change process for ex-gays. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 33(3), 242–248. Throckmorton, W., & Yarhouse, M. (2006). Sexual identity therapy: Practice framework for managing sexual identity conflicts. Retrieved May 17, 2007, from http://www. wthrockmorton.com/wpcontent/uploads/2007/04/sexualidentitytherapyframeworkfinal.pdf Tozer, E., & Hayes, J. (2004). Why do individuals seek conversion therapy? The role of religiosity, internalised homonegativity, and identity development. The Counseling Psychologist, 32(5), 716–740. Tozer, E., & McClanahan, M. (1999). Treating the purple menace: Ethical considerations of conversion therapy and affirmative alternatives. The Counseling Psychologist, 27(5), 722–742. Troiden, R. (1984). Self, self-concept, identity, and homosexual identity: Constructs in need of definition and differentiation. Journal of Homosexuality, 10, 97–109. Wagner, G., Serafini, J., Rabkin, J., Remien, R., & Williams, J. (1994). Integration of one’s religion and homosexuality: A weapon against internalized homophobia. Journal of Homosexuality, 26(4), 91–110. Weeks, J. (1985). Sexuality and its discontents: Meanings, myths, and modern sexualities. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Weinrich, J., & Williams, W. (1991). Strange customs, familiar lives: Homosexualities in other cultures. In J. Gonsiorek & J. Weinrich (Eds.), Homosexuality: Research implications for public policy (pp. 44–59). London: Sage Publications. Wink, W. (Ed.). (1999). Homosexuality and Christian faith: Questions of conscience for the churches. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Yarhouse, M. (1998). When clients seek treatment for same-sex attraction: Ethical issues in the right to choose debate. Journal of Psychotherapy, 35(2), 234–259. Yarhouse, M., & Burkett, L. (2002). An inclusive response to LGB and conservative religious persons: The case of same-sex attraction and behaviour. Professional Psychology: Research and Practice, 33(3), 235–241. Young, J. (1990). Cognitive therapy for personality disorders: A schema focused approach. Sarasota, FL: Professional Resource Exchange. Younger, J. (2007). Psychotherapy and gay men. Retrieved May 26, 2007, from http:// www.gmd.net.nz/index.lasso?view=29
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Biographical Information
Margaret Agee is a senior lecturer and coordinator of the Counsellor Education Programme at the University of Auckland. She is co-editor with Philip Culbertson of the New Zealand Journal of Counselling. Email: m.agee@auckland.ac.nz Alison Burke is the guidance counsellor at Edgecumbe College, Whakatane, Bay of Plenty. Email: bur@edgecumbecollege.school.nz Edgar Burns is a PhD candidate in La Trobe University’s Sociology Program, Australia, and previously Faculty Research Mentor and Senior Lecturer in the BA programme for counselling, social work and psychotherapy at Eastern Institute of Technology, Napier. He is on the Sociology Association of Aotearoa New Zealand executive committee. Email: arxione@gmail.com Philip Culbertson is an Adjunct Lecturer in Theology at the University of Auckland, and an Adjunct Instructor in Philosophy at the College of the Desert in Palm Desert, California. Along with Margaret Agee, he is co-editor of the New Zealand Journal of Counselling, and presently works as a freelance copy-editor and writer in California. Email: p.culbertson@auckland.ac.nz David Epston is the co-director of the Family Therapy Centre and lecturer in the School of Community Development, UNITEC Institute of Technology. He was educated at the universities of Auckland, British Columbia, Edinburgh and Warwick. He is the author of many books, including White and Epston (1990), Narrative Means to Therapeutic Ends, and his latest, Epston (2008), Down Under and Up Over: Travels with Narrative Therapy. Email: bicycle2@xtra.co.nz Josie Goulding is a psychotherapist and a nurse. She is Head of Department Psychotherapy at AUT University in Auckland and has a small private psychotherapy practice. Her special areas of interest are gender and sexuality, relational psychotherapy, and MindBody matters as they present for the client and therapist. Email: josie.goulding@aut.ac.nz Andrew Kirby is a psychotherapist working with the sexual health team at Auckland District Health Board, and runs a private practice in Ponsonby, Auckland. He holds a Master of Health Science degree in adult psychotherapy and previously worked as a therapist with the New Zealand AIDS Foundation. Email: andrew@info-ware.biz
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Ruth Penny was an Auckland-based counsellor, supervisor and counsellor educator. A leader in the Christian Counsellors’ Association, as well as a member of NZAC, she was a talented musician, composer, artist and writer. She died on September 29, 2008. Charles Waldegrave is a psychologist, a family therapist and a social policy researcher. He is the Pakeha (European) Co-ordinator of the Family Centre. He leads the Social Policy Research Unit there and is also a joint leader of the New Zealand Poverty Measurement Project. He has published extensively in therapeutic and social policy research areas. Email: waldegrave.c@fc.org.nz Jeremy Younger is a psychotherapist working in private practice in Auckland. He coleads a psychotherapy group for gay and bisexual men at the Auckland Family Counselling and Psychotherapy Centre, and also runs a psychotherapy group for students in the Master of Fine Arts programme at Whitecliffe College of Arts and Design. Email: jeremyyounger@clear.net.nz
The editors would also like to thank the following people who refereed submissions for issues 1 and 2 of Volume 28 of this journal: James Arkwright Kathryn Barclay Mary Caygill Richard Charmley Catherine Cook Hans Everts Claire Ferguson Bob Francesco Kaaren Frater-Mathieson Jenny Harrison Peter Hubbard Peter Huggard Cabrini Makasiale
Bob Manthei Dorothy McCarrison Judi Miller John O’Connor Fiona Pienaar Diane Piesse Jacques van der Meer Sue Webb Tony Westbrook Graham Woolford Jeremy Younger Sabrina Zoutenbier
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New Zealand Journal of Counselling guidelines for contributors
The purpose of the Journal is to provide a forum for the sharing of ideas, information, and perspectives on matters of common concern among practitioners and those undertaking research in the field. The editors welcome the submission of papers including commentaries, research reports, practice-based articles and brief reports from the Association’s members and applicants, as well as from others outside the Association with interests relevant to the field of counselling. The overriding criteria for selection are that the material is professionally relevant, the presentation is of high quality, and that the writer has communicated effectively with readers. There are two issues per year. The closing date for the submission of papers for the December 2008 issue is Friday, July 25; the closing date for the June 2009 issue is Friday, February 27. 1. Manuscripts should preferably be submitted to the editors as electronic documents in MS Word format, using Times New Roman 12 pt and double spaced throughout, with reasonably wide margins. If submitted in hard copy, they should be typed on one side of A4 paper, and accompanied by a disk copy. (Copies submitted in this way will not normally be returned.) Ensure pages are numbered. 2. The text should not exceed 5,000 words (excluding notes and references) unless special arrangements have been made with the editors. 3. The title and abstract (no longer than 150 words) should appear on the first page of the article, or title page. Keep the title short and descriptive of the article. The abstract should cover the intent, scope, general procedures and principal findings of the article. On a separate page list the name(s), job title, and business and email addresses of the author(s). 4. Authors should consult articles in recent issues of the Journal on general matters of style, e.g. conventions regarding headings, tables and graphs, etc. 5. Do not justify your text, but have it left-aligned (i.e. ragged right-hand margin), including headings. Make sure the heading hierarchy is clear and keep the
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number of heading levels to a minimum, preferably no more than three, e.g. Text heading A (14 point for title), Text heading B, and Text heading C. Keep the layout as simple as possible, and do not add additional formatting styles or use Track Changes. Do not have a heading ‘Introduction’—it should be self-evident that the first part of the text is an introduction. Have only one space after a full stop. 6. The location of tables, figures, graphs, drawings or photographs in the text must be clearly indicated, e.g. [TABLE 2 ABOUT HERE], and they should be attached as separate files (jpeg in the case of drawings or photographs), and/or submitted on separate pages at the end of the article. Make sure each table and figure is numbered correctly and has a heading. Position the heading above the figure or table, and place sources and notes immediately below. Do not embed the heading or caption in the figure. If a table or figure is reproduced or adapted from another publication, make sure you have permission to use it. In the text, always refer to a table by its number (rather than, e.g., “the table below”). 7. Mäori orthographic conventions need to be observed by authors, as established by the Mäori Language Commission. Briefly, this means macrons are used consistently to mark long vowels. A copy of the document on Mäori orthographic conventions can be obtained from the editors or from the source at: http://www.tetaurawhiri .govt.nz/english/pub_e/conventions.shtml. Definitions will not be provided for Mäori and Pacific words that are considered to be in common usage, nor will those words be italicised in the text. 8. Footnotes should be avoided. When endnotes may be necessary, number from one upwards and indicate the location of each in the text by a number in superscript. 9. Follow APA editorial style in general, but use New Zealand spelling. 10. Citations within the text should include in parentheses the author’s surname and year of publication, consistent with the item in the references at the end of the article. When a quotation has been used, include the page number(s), e.g. (Jones, 2006, p. 30), with a full stop and a space after the p. Use double quotation marks around the words quoted, and single for any quote within the quotation itself. 11. Quoted material of more than 40 words should be indented from the left-hand margin (set as a block quotation). The source of the quotation should be on a new line below the quotation, within parentheses, and ranged right (i.e., be on the right-hand margin). No quotation marks should be used. 12. Authors alone are responsible for securing, when necessary, permission to use
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quotations or other illustrations from copyrighted materials. Any charges connected to permissions will be paid by the article’s author(s). 13. The reference list at the end of the article should be arranged alphabetically by authors’ surnames. The following examples should be used as a guide, paying particular attention to the sequence of items in the reference and to the capitalisation and punctuation: Hulme, K. (1981). Mauri: An introduction to bicultural poetry in New Zealand. In G. Amirthanayagam & S. C. Harrex (Eds.), Only connect (pp. 290–310). Honolulu: Center for Research in the New Literatures in English. Ifekwunigwe, J. O. (Ed.). (2004). “Mixed race” studies: A reader. London: Routledge. Johnston, M. (2007, April 21). Census planners blasted for “distorted” ethnicity statistics. The New Zealand Herald. Retrieved April 27, 2007, from http://www .nzherald.co.nz/section/1/story.cfm?c_id=1&objectid=10435396. Keddell, E. (2006). Pavlova and pineapple pie: Selected identity influences on SamoanPakeha people in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Kötuitui: New Zealand Journal of Social Sciences Online, 1, 45–63. Krueger, R. A., & Casey, M. A. (2000). Focus groups: A practical guide for applied research (3rd ed.). Thousand Oaks: Sage. Kukutai, T. (2005, August 23). White mothers, brown children: Understanding the intergenerational transmission of minority ethnic identity. Paper presented at the Annual American Population Association Meeting, Philadelphia.
NB: The place of publication for a book is always a city (not a state, province or country). 14. Use abbreviations sparingly; overuse hinders rather than aids clarity. Where an abbreviation or acronym is used, spell out in full at the first reference, with the abbreviation in brackets immediately after, then use the abbreviation. With the abbreviations i.e. and e.g., use no italics but full stops and a comma when used within parentheses or in a table or figure; when used in the text, write out in full. At the beginning of a sentence, write out a number or percentage in full rather than using a numeral. 15. Use bold type sparingly, and do not use bold or underlining in the text for emphasis; instead, use italics, but do so sparingly as well. 16. It is advisable to submit a manuscript to one or two colleagues for critical comment and proofreading before submitting it for publication. 17. The editors reserve the right to make minor alterations or deletions to articles without consulting the author(s), as long as such changes do not materially affect the substance of the article. Authors will be contacted if clarification is required.
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18. All articles will be reviewed by at least two referees before a decision regarding publication is made. In the review process, the identities of both the author and the referees will remain anonymous. 19. Authors are asked to avoid the use of sexist language, and generalisations about all people from limited data. 20. Submission does not guarantee publication. Furthermore, publication does not imply that the views expressed in any article represent those of the New Zealand Association of Counsellors Te Röpü Kaiwhiriwhiri o Aotearoa. 21. The typical process to publication will be: • Submission of paper • Acknowledgement of receipt • Paper sent to referees • Feedback to author following receipt of referees’ responses re acceptance/ changes needed • Resubmission following author modifications (if required) • Copy-edit • Proofs created • Publication Manuscripts for consideration should be emailed to both editors, Margaret Agee and Philip Culbertson, at: m.agee@auckland.ac.nz and p.culbertson@auckland.ac.nz The postal address for the New Zealand Journal of Counselling is: Dr Margaret Agee and Dr Philip Culbertson Editors, New Zealand Journal of Counselling C/o School of Counselling, Human Services & Social Work Faculty of Education The University of Auckland Private Bag 92019 Auckland
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