Dibs: In Search of Self

by Virginia M. Axline

I attempted to keep my comments in line with his activity, trying not to say anything that would indicate any desire on my part that he do any particular thing, but rather to communicate, understandingly and simply, recognition in line with his frame of reference. I wanted him to lead the way. I would follow. I wanted to let him know from the beginning that he would set the pace in that room and that I would recognize his efforts at two-way communication with some concrete reality basis of a shared experience between the two of us.

Any exclamation of surprise or praise might be interpreted by him as the direction he must take. It might close off any other areas of exploration that might be far more important for him.

only shared ingredients at this point for communication between us. To Dibs these were safe concepts.

He was, indeed, not only on the verge of coming through, but actually emerging. Whatever his problems were, we could discard the label of mental retardation.

Communication is like a baby or toddler when things upset him

Maybe the sand was over stimulating

He learned to ask for help

Note for later analysis

“You really know what you want, don’t you?” I commented. Dibs looked at me directly for a brief moment. “You know,” he said curtly.

He made a square of the red paint and with meticulous care filled it in with precise, careful strokes of color.

He continued to make squares of painted color in the same rigid sequence — red, orange, yellow, green, blue, black, white, violet.

He seem not want to leave places he feels comfortable in or he just simply does not want to be home with his parents

Dibs released his grip on the edge of the easel. His arms hung limply by his sides. He seemed so defeated.

This is so sad that he doesn’t want to go home

The poor researcher they feel so sorry for Dibs

He needed to develop strength to cope with his world, but that strength had to come from within him and he had to experience personally his ability to cope with his world as it was. Any meaningful changes for Dibs would have to come from within him. We could not hope to make over his external world.

His mother stood there waiting for him, looking very much like Dibs — uncomfortable, ill at ease, not at all sure of herself or of the situation.

He doesn’t seem to like his mom

She was embarrassed and aggravated by his behavior.

Note for later

I stood aside for Dibs to enter. He started to go into the room, but suddenly pulled back and grasped the edge of the door. There was a reversible sign on the door. Dibs reached up and took the card out of the holder.

“Play,” he read. He tapped the second

word with his finger several times. This was a new word to him. Therapy. He studied it carefully. “The rapy,” he said.

I looked at him. I knew he was referring to himself, but was using the second person pronoun. Dibs seldom had been heard to refer to himself as “I.”

Interesting

He remembered

Interesting he wants to lock up the house but last time he said he didn’t like locked doors

“I did,”

Referring to himself in the fist person and showed pride in himself

Note for later

Does he get locked in the basement at home?

Introduced. Note for later

Problem solving

Problem solving display

Note for later

So Dibs obviously had many words in his unused vocabulary. He could observe and define problems. He could solve these problems.

The locked doors in his life had certainly made an impression on Dibs.

Observation and making connections with other events in life

The most he has spoken since the start of the book

“I... I... I can.”

“Listen,” he said. “One. Two. Three. Four. That’s four o’clock.”

But he could not bear to touch the paint. He circled his hands closely over the wet paper. Then he picked up a wooden spatula, dipped that in the paint, and spread it around on the paper.

“Oh, wipe it off,” he said.

He dipped his fingers into the yellow paint and slowly, deliberately, spread it over each of his fingers. Then he wiped it off with the paper towels. Next he dipped his fingers into the blue paint. He put his hand down on the paper and bent over, very absorbed in what he was doing. He spread the paint carefully over each finger. “There,” he said triumphantly, holding out his hands. “Look.” “You really did it that time, didn’t you?” I remarked. “Look,” he said. “Fingers all full of blue finger paint.” He looked at his hands.

There was in the finished painting relationships, form, and meaning.

communication open and to slow it down. Then, if he wanted to, he could add more of his thoughts and feelings and not be abruptly cut off by my response

Another place where the doors have locks. The dark basement thing worries me. Is he being locked away in the basement at home?

Interesting

That was so sweet that he made her a picture

The only window without bars and was happy looking was the playroom window