Becoming a Counselor

The Light, the Bright, and the Serious

Samuel T. Gladding

• Publisher: American Counseling Association
• Year: 2021
• ISBN:
  9781119814139
• Edition: 3
• Topic: Éducation
• Subtopic: Développement professionnel

This book contains 156 heartwarming vignettes that touch on the many universal dimensions in becoming a helping professional, while demystifying and humanizing the process. Readers get a firsthand look at Dr. Gladding's successes and setbacks from childhood to older adulthood in 17 sections covering topics such as family-of-origin influences; education; peer relationships; skill acquisition; professional growth, rejection, happenstance, and achievement; leadership; clinical challenges; multicultural competence; spirituality; and life and career transitions. Points to Ponder conclude each section to enhance self-reflection and classroom discussion. Published by the American Counseling Association Foundation.

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Section 1
Becoming During Childhood (Birth to Age 11)

When First Called

Templeman/Gladding travels in me
a restless presence, a history
of time and people who walked the world
long before my birth.
Attuned to the sound of their stories
I wince at their failures
and bask in their glories.
They are a part of my life.

© 1970, Samuel T. Gladding

No one begins life as a counselor. We develop into professionals over time. With or against the currents of our environment we steer, drift, or proceed toward becoming humans who embrace counseling instead of economics, history, or English. Part of the reason has to do with our early personal history and with circumstances in life as a child.

I am no less a product of time, environment, and interpersonal interactions than anyone else. The stories that follow will give you a glimpse into my childhood, but they are meant not so much to focus on me as to open your mind to thoughts of your early experiences. Some of the stories are funny, whereas a few show the frailty of human nature, interpersonal interactions, and just plain luck. In each of the vignettes there is knowledge you may have learned in a different way. Ask yourself as you read what forces in your developing years influenced you to be who you are now.

• • •

Chapter 1
The Trike, the Porch, the Dare, the Air: Gravity Wins Again!

One of the situations that ended disastrously for me at about the age of 4 was my attempt to tricycle down the front steps of our house. This incident was not entirely my fault. An older boy, Bill G., who lived down the street, persuaded me it would be fun. He even put my trike on the landing at the top of the stairs. Our house was brick and had eight concrete steps leading up to the front door. At the bottom of the steps, on either side, were two concrete barrels about 2 feet high. I have no idea why they were there. In any case, on that summer morning with my trike on the porch landing, I climbed the steps, got on, and began to pedal. I may have pedaled twice, but it was probably only once, for after the front wheel went off the landing, gravity took over. I do not remember much about the ride other than being surprised as I went over the handlebars and landed on the concrete barrel to the left of the steps.

Screams broke the silence. My mother came—I am sure with a horrified look on her face—as blood flowed from my injuries. It was then off to the doctor’s office where I was patched up and returned home. I spent the rest of the day inside. Amazingly, my tricycle was not damaged, but I did not ride it for a week and then only on the sidewalk.

Chapter 2
Choices: Holding On or Letting Go

Whenever someone asks me if I have a good illustration of a situation involving choices, I smile and quickly respond. I am not sure why I smile (it probably has to do with reflexes). I do know why I respond. I have a rather graphic illustration. It happened during the exploratory preschool time of my life. My older brother, Russell, and his friend, Bill G. (from the previous chapter), were climbing up to the rafters of Bill’s garage. I wanted to be with them, but I could not climb the ladder on the inside of the structure.

Seeing my plight, my brother and Bill tried to be helpful. They threw down a rope from above and told me to tie it around my waist. I did so awkwardly but enthusiastically and with great anticipation. Then they started pulling me to the rafters. All went well for about 10 to 15 feet, whereupon the rope slipped. Such slippage would have been fine in most cases, but the place where the rope slipped with considerable force was around my neck. Unbeknownst to my brother and his friend, they were hanging me.

The good news is that within a few seconds my brother looked down and saw the noose and my beet-red face. He had to make a split-second decision as to what to do as he realized what was happening. With my head almost to the top of the platform where it and my body would have found a solid surface, he made a fateful decision. “Let him go,” he yelled, “or we will kill him!”

Being about 20 feet off the ground by then I wanted to reply, “But if you choose to drop me, you may also end my life.” Unfortunately, because my windpipe had been closed off, I could not say anything. Windless and limp, I followed the force of gravity to the ground, which was a concrete driveway. The trip down was quick (although it seemed like an eternity and could have made that word a part of my history). Before anyone could say “Farewell,” I made a thud, like a sack of potatoes being dropped from a roof, and the back of my head hit the cement!

At that point, my brother hurried down the ladder, looked me over, untied the noose, and quickly ran home swearing to my mother that he had nothing to do with what she was about to behold. My head was like a coconut cracked open with a stone. The only difference was that blood began pouring out, rather than coconut juice, and whereas coconuts are silent, I was anything but. Neighbors came running, dogs began barking, babies stopped crying, and my grandmother, from four houses away, made the innocent and objective remark to my mother that it sounded like someone was dying (which was more true than she knew). Bill’s mother carried me home to my visibly shaken mother, who got another neighbor to drive her to the doctor with me in her lap, my head wrapped in towels, looking like a Middle Eastern sheik. Two hours later I returned home with a dozen stitches, a pound of gauze, a headache, and a much calmer maternal unit. I had the stitches from the adventures for a few days and sported a red rope burn around my neck for more than a week. I remember my grandmother, Pal, saying to me that my head would heal before I married. She was right, but sometimes my wife wonders if my head should be examined once more.

Chapter 3
“Cool,” “School,” and First Grade

I have a difficult time speaking English, let alone another language. It is because of what is known as a “central processing disorder.” In my case, I have auditory discrimination problems. I do not hear distinct sounds—for example, English letters or words that might sound similar, such as “ch” and “sh,” but are in fact different. This disability appeared most dramatically in my life the night before I was to enter first grade. My parents were flabbergasted I could not pronounce the word “school.” I told them repeatedly I was going to “chool.” They were not “chilled out” with my announcement or pronunciation.

I am still not sure why they let me go. I was more than a month too young, was small, and was immature in more than my language development. They could have held me back. I struggled with first grade but passed and learned more than may have appeared on the surface. The summer between first and second grades my parents worked with me on remedial reading and pronunciation. It was not cool but rather an extension of school. It helped.

Chapter 4
Milledgeville

“Behave or they’ll send you to Milledgeville!”

My friends and siblings would often say that when I was growing up and acting what they termed “a little bit crazy.” The reason the name of a former capital of Georgia came up in conversation was that it was the site of the Georgia Insane Asylum. No longer was Milledgeville a place where you went for politics. It was now a place for lunatics. (Actually, I am pretty sure some Georgian politicians ended up there!)

I never went to Milledgeville, but I am aware that during my childhood, the institution was overcrowded. Five thousand patients were confined in a space constructed for half that many. I have since learned that the book and movie The Three Faces of Eve (about multiple personalities) was based on a person who had spent part of her life at the asylum.

In some ways I wish I had been sent to Milledgeville because it seemed so mysterious. However, I am more grateful that I did not take that ride south. I would probably have been traumatized or deeply disturbed.

I do not know of any sentence I have heard since my preteen years that has made me act more properly than the one that began this piece. Behavior has consequences, whether it sends you somewhere or not.

Chapter 5
The Rock Beneath the Ivy

I knew better. And I knew that I knew better. And my friends knew that I knew better. But there I was on top of the horse stables—30 feet up above the ivy down below with my friend Carl Jones saying, “If you want in the club, jump.”

Being 10 at the time, I wanted in the club (whose name I have now forgotten). And so, looking straight ahead, I sprang from the roof like I was diving from a platform in the Olympics and flew gracefully for a millisecond. Then I landed with a thud and with considerable pain. Most of my body was fine. However, below my right elbow was a rock that simply obeyed the laws of physics and homeostasis. In other words, it did not move, and when my elbow came crashing down on it, the hypothesis that bones are not as hard as granite was proven once again. My elbow, though pointed, did not break through the granite. Instead, it was shattered, and so was my hope of landing on my feet, metaphorically or literally.

At first the grown-ups who examined my injury thought I had a sprain or a bruise, even Carl’s dad, who was a doctor (an allergy specialist). The long and short of the story is that the elbow was never set properly, and I lost full rotation in it. After the accident, I found it difficult to eat with my right hand. Therefore, I switched and became more ambidextrous by using my left hand to hold my fork or spoon. I already was a lefty when batting in baseball.

The mobility I lost in one hand (or should I say arm?) gave me new agility in the other. I wish I had not had the accident and did not still carry some physical pain in my right elbow. Sometimes the breaks we get in life are not the ones we want. Yet they can lead us to become more flexible and remind us never to foolishly leap or seek after the superficial.

Chapter 6
If I Had Been Texas, Dr. Toomey Would Have Struck Oil

One of the most unpleasant and physically painful times of my childhood was going to see Dr. Toomey, our dentist. “Ouch” and “terrified” are the words that best describe my relationship with him. He seemed quite old and had white hair. Even his equipment looked ancient and worn out. It was yellowing. In his waiting room, there were pictures on the wall of him in World War II. I felt like I was entering a war zone when I walked into his office.

Every time I went to see Dr. Toomey it was painful because I had cavities. There was no fluorinated water to help prevent decay. His message to me when he was drilling in my mouth was “Open wide, Sammy.” I had changed my name from Sammy to Sam when I was 5 years old, but Dr. Toomey failed to get the message. His instructions for me after every visit were “Don’t eat anything for 3 hours.” I did not want to do so, but I did feel like biting him!

Dr. Toomey either died or gave up his practice about the time I was midway through high school. I am sure underneath his pain-inflicting exterior he was probably a nice, easy-going individual. Had he been an oilman, though, and had I been Texas, he certainly would have been rich from drilling!

Chapter 7
Will Lee, Jim Crow, and Racial Poverty

The South I grew up in was blatantly segregated. Jim Crow laws ruled society and the Ku Klux Klan was active, especially outside of cities like Decatur. Yet Blacks and Whites spoke to each other and worked for or with each other within the confines of the written and unspoken rules of society. My first exposure to this interaction came during the spring when my dad hired an older Black man to come plow his garden. Will Lee was his name. Each year he came to our house around late March or early April riding in the wagon that his mule pulled. At first his journey was short because he lived in a Black settlement up Church Street between the...