Read Rebel Without a Cause Online
Authors: Robert M. Lindner
Rebel Without a Cause (36 page)
During the description of the lights, Harold’s head jerked from side to side as if he were actually avoiding brilliant shafts of light.
they are. They turned that time, straight at me. I missed one that time. I can’t miss both of them. They’re shining brightly. I can’t get out of the way. They’re standing steady, pointing at me. I don’t know what they are. They’re coming from where my father is sitting. Everything is black, only the two lights. They’re like the headlights on an automobile, like two spotlights, like pin points, like flashlights, small rays projecting through the darkness. They’re coming right at me. I can duck one, but one—it hits me. I don’t know if it hurts or not. I—I’m afraid of it. I’m—holding my—hand up to my eyes. I’m holding my hand up to my face. I—I don’t know what that light is. When I hold my head down one light only touches me a little bit. It seems to be right on my head. It seems to be coming right out of the darkness. I can’t see anything. I don’t know why everything is black, everything is black. I can’t see my father: I can’t see anything. I’m reaching, reaching. I’m afraid of that light. I don’t know what it is. I can’t even see my mother but—I—the lights—the lights—I can’t seem to get out of the way. They shine right on me. I can’t cut them off no way. I think they’re from my father’s eyes. It was not dark before. It’s dark. I see the—like something coming right at you. Once in a while they just flash on. It hurts. I can feel it in the back of my brain, like somebody sticking a knife in my eye.
L: ‘Harold; look carefully. Is the light coming from your father?’
It’s all black. Only the two lights coming from where my father is sitting. There’s something … His penis …
L: ‘What is the source of the lights?’
They’re coming out of his eyes.
L: ‘Why are they coming from his eyes?’
When I was lying in the cradle … My father was on top of her. My mother looked at me and my father—looked at me. My mother’s eyes were so pitiful and—soft. Then I looked at my father. His eyes were so hard, like bright lights. I saw the whites, the whites, looking right into my eyes, shining. I don’t know whether I am afraid of his eyes or his penis more. They’re mixed up. His eyes—his penis. Once in a while he catches my left eye. He don’t catch my right eye. The left eye on the side toward the bed …
Once again routine tests were made to discover whether there had been any alteration in the depth of sleep. It was found that Harold was still in a profound trance. Additional instruction regarding the exclusion of extraneous noises was given before going further.
L: ‘Now, Harold, you can remember before that. You are going back before that time. You are a little baby. You remember clearly. What do you remember?’
I remember—about eight—no—six months old maybe.
The persistence of memories from the age of six or eight months is of course open to question. It is controversial whether the neural organization is adequate to the retention of events.
In hypnoanalysis the clinican can often utilize the motor behavior of his patient as a time-line and frame an approximation of the sequence of events in his patient’s life by comparing motor behavior during a recital with motor norms such as Gesell has provided. Harold performed—motorially—as one would expect an infant of almost one year to behave. His movements were most unrefined, gross, and lacking in coordination.
The writer personally believes that the events which Harold is describing took place during the first year of life. He thinks that an event of enough significance and portent can be preserved memorially but not necessarily comprehended. Harold is not telling us that he understood what was happening at the time. He is telling us that he saw something which evoked in him a reaction of fear.
Accumulated resistance to awareness of having witnessed the so-called primal scene must be quantitatively tremendous: but hypnoanalysis appears to be a weapon keen enough to penetrate to the core by sloughing off the accretions of years of eventful living as well as neutralizing the tenaciousness of an ego bent upon preserving the psychological status quo.
There are also at least two additional considerations. Primary in importance is the fact that Harold believed these events to have transpired at this age: and, indeed, they could not have occurred very much later if the relationships of all other events in this recounting are to remain undisturbed. Finally, it must be recognized that language—after all—is the missing element. We do not doubt that a child of 6 or 8 months can see an action; we do not doubt that it can experience fear; and if the items with which we are dealing are as primitive, crucial and fundamental as modern dynamic psychology proclaims, we cannot deny some dim and tenuous apprehension—even to an infant—without holding up to question the entire scientific structure.
A very little baby. I have a bottle with a nipple on it. I was … Yes. My mother giving me one. My father is sitting there. His eyes have green in them but they are not shining. Six or seven months old. Old enough to hold a spoon. My mother feeding me. I’m all sloppy, all slopped up. I like spilling everything all around, get a kick out of getting all dirty, everything smeared all over my face. She … Then I am looking at the sky. The sun is shining. There is nothing wrong with me. The wind is blowing. I feel myself moving, moving. I guess somebody is pushing me. Once in a while I look at—wires or something. They must be wires to telephone poles. There is a little jar—and a bump—bump. It feels nice. Things are rolling by. I’m not watching anything in particular. I know! I’m in the carriage. Sometimes I can see—people, looking over the carriage, looking at me. I can’t make them out. The sky is all lit up. The people looking at me and the sky bright behind them. I can see the shape of their heads and their hats but I can’t make them out. They seem different. I’m on my back looking up at them, that’s why I can’t make them out. They’re not clear. They’re all blurred up, far away. A woman’s hat … A man’s hat … I can’t see their faces; can’t tell who they are. They’re looking at me.
L: ‘Harold; look closely. Is there anything wrong with your eyes?’
People seem—seem blurred to me. It’s my—my—belt, the belt that holds me in the carriage …
L: ‘Are your eyes winking?’
I—don’t know whether they are blinking. I can’t feel that they are … I don’t know. I see the wires.
L: ‘Did this happen before or after you saw your parents having intercourse?’
It happened after … because I can still remember about my—father. I could still remember. I can still remember. I can still …
L: ‘Can you remember anything that happened before you saw your parents having intercourse?’
I can see something—but … I guess I’m sitting on my mother’s lap—and I’m looking out the window. There are two—cars—in the street. They hit each other. They make a big pile on top of each other. People are all around. They hit like that. I was sitting on my mother’s lap in the window there, looking out of the window.
L: ‘Are your eyes winking?’
No. No! the winking came after. It came after they were—that morning—bed—they—my father—on top …
L: ‘Harold, listen to what I ask you, then answer. Have you always been afraid of your father’s penis? Have you been afraid since that morning?’
Yes. I—Yes. I see—him when he gets up from my mother. I am afraid. Oooo, I am afraid. When he gets off my mother she comes and picks me up. I can still see him. I—when he gets off my mother—I don’t want to look at it. It’s big—big. Something forces me to look at him. I can see it. I’m afraid …
L: ‘Do you remember when you had intercourse with your sister? Do you remember that?’
Yes. We were living on B—— Street. We were sleeping in the same cradle together. My sister slept in the cradle and I slept in the parlor on a small bed. In the afternoons we took our naps and I slept in the cradle with her. We wanted to be together. Sometimes we’d get in the big bed and have pillow fights. My mother would holler at us and put us in the cradle. We were close together. I played with her, put my arms around her. She played—with—my peter. We had—intercourse. I—we—were too big to fit in the cradle. It was so small. We were so close together—like that—and we had intercourse and then we’d go to sleep …
L: ‘Did your mother ever find you having intercourse with your sister?’
No; she never caught us.
L: ‘Did your father?’
No …
L: ‘Do you remember when your father threatened to have Nellie bite your penis off?’
Yes. He brought the dog home. A good pet. I didn’t want to
eat. We had some green stuff and I didn’t like it. He said, “If you don’t watch out I’ll have the dog bite your penis off.”
L: ‘What is the Polish word he used for penis?
Pipsha …
L: ‘Do you remember the man who called you a lying mother—f——r?’
Yes …
L: ‘Why did you wish to hurt him?’
If I had him again, I’d do it again. I’d stab him again. He called me a lot of names, lying mother—f——r, c——s——, names like that.
L: ‘Why, Harold?’
We were playing pool. He was at the next table. When I pulled the stick back to make a shot I hit him on the elbow. I hit him real hard. He looked at me. Everything was real dark in the poolroom, except for the lights above the table. Then he said, “Why don’t you watch what you’re doing?” And then he called me lots of dirty names. I said I was sorry when I hit him. I guess I spoiled his shot. They said he was a tough guy. He’s not any more. I didn’t pay any attention to what names he called me until I got home. I started to think, why did he have to call me the things he did? He thought he was tough. He could call me all the names he wanted to and get away with it. I started agitating myself. I never had anything to do like that with my mother. I can’t even think about a thing like that. I slept with my mother a lot, even when I was fifteen, but I never had anything to do with her. I would never even touch her. I don’t know why he said that. I was—in a daze for about a week. Then I was going to show him that he wasn’t going to call me that again. He’d never call anybody that again. He was tough. He had a gun on him. We used to play cards and he’d cheat. Sometimes he’d cheat me. He was tough alright. He spent a lot of time in the jail house. I guess he was tough, tough. He—wasn’t—very tough. One day I caught him on the street. I pulled a hunting knife that I stole from my father and stabbed him, stuck him with the knife. He fell. I ran. I didn’t look back. I was scared a long time after that. I kept running away from myself. Every time somebody would go past I would be scared.
L: ‘Harold. Did this man resemble anyone you know now or knew then?’
He looked—more like—my father—than anyone else. He was strong. He had a big chest. He was tough. He could have picked me up and dropped me on the floor. I guess when he called me a mother—f——r there was nothing to it. He was tough. I guess he was going to show everybody how tough he was.
L: ‘When you did that, Harold, with whom were you getting even?’
Getting even? I guess maybe I was getting even with my father, in a way. I agitated myself for about two weeks. I was like in a daze. When I came home at nights my father would be arguing with my mother and calling her names. Calling her names. It agitated me more. Yes; I was getting even with my father. One time when he pushed my mother down I grabbed the poker. I didn’t see anything in the room but him …
L: ‘Now, Harold, I want you just to sleep, sleep deeply, a deep refreshing sleep. When you awaken you will have forgotten all the things you have told me; forgotten everything. You are forgetting now. You have forgotten already. Have you told me anything, Harold?’
Tell you—I … Why, no—I don’t—I forget—I …
L: ‘That’s right. You have forgotten. And when you wake up you will tell me that you have had a good rest, that you are feeling fine for having had a good sleep. You will not recall that you have told me anything at all. Now you will awaken. One—two—three
…’
O, I must have … I’ve been asleep. I had a good sleep …
HE
T
HIRTY-SEVENTH
H
OUR
L: ‘Harold, what do you remember about yesterday?’
I don’t know. All I know is you burned my hand. Here. I know I didn’t have that yesterday when I came here, and I know you’ve burned my hand before, so you get the blame for this too.
The burning of the dorsal surface of the hand was one of the routine tests for depth of trance. It was done with a live cigarette.
L: ‘Does it hurt?’
O, no …
L: ‘Is there anything else you remember?’
About yesterday? All I remember is looking at your ring. I fell asleep. You put me to sleep. All I could see was the R. L. on the ring.
L: ‘All right, Harold. Let us go ahead as usual.’
Everything seems so black. I can’t see anything. Let’s see. It’s a little blurred. I spent three years up at my aunt’s place, but only in the summer time. I don’t remember much about it. I guess I went fishing and I’d go up in the woods and stay there all day. When I got back sometimes I’d get hell for not working. When I wanted to go away I just went away. I didn’t care if anybody liked it; I didn’t care whether I asked permission. I just went. I thought I didn’t have to ask permission. I thought I was old enough to think for myself. I did everything because I wanted to do it. When I wanted to go out at night sometimes I would ask my mother, but if she wouldn’t let me I’d go anyway. So when I’d come home she’d be waiting for me and I’d get a bawling out. “Wait until the morning and I’ll talk to you then.” But when the morning came she’d wake me up and tell me, “Don’t do it again;” and she’d scold me a bit. I didn’t pay much attention to her. Sometimes she’d beg me to stay in at least once a week anyway but I just couldn’t stay around. I’d read trash most of the day and at night I wanted to go out.
