Dibs: In Search of Self

by Virginia M. Axline

“Some things are up to me. Others are not,” he commented, briskly.

Note

“It is true,” he replied, emphatically.

Note

He reached over and tapped his fingers upon the mirrored wall. “That’s someone else’s room in there,” he said. “Before, some people were sitting in that darkened room, but not today.” I was surprised at this unexpected announcement.

Wow

“I know it,” he said. “Little sounds and hushed voices have told me so.”

Wow

Note

“These are streaks and stripes of my thoughts,” he said.

Note

Hmmmm

Note

“I got rid of all the walls. And the door,” he said.

“I will have to get completely into the sandbox,” he said. He crawled into the sandbox, sat down in the middle of it, looked at me, grinned. “Today, I got into the sand,” he said. “Little by little, I got into the sand. A little way in time before last, and last time, and now this time.”

Self aware

Note

He pushed his foot down under the sand. Then he turned over and lay face down in the sand, rubbed his cheeks against

Texture exploration

the sand, stuck out his tongue and tasted the sand. He gritted the sand between his teeth. He looked up at me.

Ew he ate sand.

“Why, this sand is gritty and sharp and it tastes like nothing,” he said. “Is this what nothing tastes like?” He grabbed up a handful of sand and trickled it down on his head, rubbed the sand into his hair. He laughed. Suddenly, he stuck his foot up in the air. “Look,” he shouted. “I gotta hole in my sock. I gotta holey sock on one foot!”

Inquiring

His movements were free, expansive, relaxed.

“Hand me the nursing bottle,” he commanded. I handed it to him. “I’ll pretend this is my little crib,” he said. “I’ll curl up in a nice, cozy ball and play I’m a baby again.” He did, sucking contentedly on the nursing bottle. Suddenly, he sat up, grinning at me.

Is he self-aware of his regression

Nice

He took a deep breath. Then he started to sing. He seemed to be composing the music, too. His voice was clear, melodious, and sweet. The music presented a contrast to the words he composed. His hands were clasped together. His expression was serious.

Disturbing song he made up

Very telling lyrics

Interesting 🧐

He doesn’t like his sister. Probably because he is always being bout down and she is always being praised

What does he mean by this

He looked at me, distress tightening his lips, wrinkling his forehead.

Regression

Interesting 🧐

He can be demanding

Note the interaction

“I guess I am sure. Okay. I’ll go, now. And I just hope that doctor sticks his needle in Dorothy and I hope he hurts her until she screams and screams. And inside me I’ll laugh and be glad she feels the hurt. And I’ll pretend like it doesn’t bother me at all. Goodbye. I’ll see you next Thursday.”

Disturbing

he walked back to the playroom with easy, relaxed steps. He paused by the door, turned the little sign on the door. “Do not disturb, please,” he said. He entered the playroom, took off his hat and coat and hung them on the doorknob. He sat down on the ledge of the sandbox and removed his shoes. He put them on the floor beneath his coat.

Independent

Dibs seemed to be stalling for time for some reason or other. But he seemed to be very relaxed.

He sat down on the ledge of the sandbox and beat upon the drum with the drumsticks. “Funny, funny drum,” he said. “Oh drum, so full of sounds. Slow sounds. Fast sounds. Soft sounds. Hard sounds. Marching sounds. Running sounds. Steady sounds. Beat — beat — beat goes the drum. Fight — fight — fight says the drum. Come — come — come says the drum. Follow me. Follow me. Follow me.” He placed the drum carefully on the ledge of the sandbox, climbed back into the sand, began to build a hill in the sand.

They so want to get up that hill.” He quickly built his hill, selected some toy soldiers and placed them in various positions, seemingly climbing up the hill.

Note

Note

Interesting

“Yes. Once I did. I didn’t get to the top of it,” he added wistfully. “But I stood at the bottom of it and looked up. I think every child should have a hill all his own to climb. And I think every child should have one star up in the sky that is all his own. And I think every child should have a tree that belongs to him. That’s what I think should be,” he added, and he looked at me and nodded with emphasis, as he spoke.

Interesting

“This one just got buried,” he announced. “This one did not get

a chance to even try to climb that hill. And of course, he did not get to the top. Oh, he wanted to. He wanted to be with the others. He wanted to hope, too. He wanted to try. But he didn’t get a chance. He got buried.”

Note

“He got buried,” Dibs told me, leaning toward me as he spoke. “And not only did he get buried, but I will build another big, high, powerful hill on the top of that grave. He will never, never, never get out of that grave. He will never, never, never have a chance to climb any hill again!”

Note

“That one was Papa,” he said quietly, climbing out of the sandbox. “It was Papa who got buried under the hill?” “Yes,” Dibs replied. “It was Papa.”

“One. Two. Three. Four. Four o’clock,” he said. “I have a clock at home and can tell time.”

Dibs seemed to be retreating from the burial of “Papa” by this intellectual discourse. I would go along with him. It would take time for him to work through these feelings about his father. If he seemed to feel that he was getting in over his head, if he seemed to be a little frightened by what he had just played out, and if he sought for himself a retreat into the safety of a discussion about some material things — like clocks — I would not rush him into any probing of his feelings. He had already made some very concise, affective statements in his play.

Interesting

Note

Dibs beat the drum, slowly and deliberately. “Sleep. Sleep. Sleep,” he said. “Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Sleep. S L E E P S L E E P S L E E P S L E E P S L E E P S L E E P S L E E P!” As he called out each letter, he gradually increased the tempo. He ended with a flourish of beats on the drum. Dibs sat there, with bent head. The drum was silent. Then he arose and quietly placed the drum in the puppet theater and closed the door.

Hmmm 🤔

Then he went into the puppet theater and closed the door behind him. There was a small window inside this tricornered theater, which looked out over the parking lot. From this window, Dibs could see the back of the church. I could not see Dibs, but I heard him speak plainly.

Self isolation

“And sky. So lots of sky away up there. And a bird. And airplane. And smoke.” There was another long pause. “And Dibs standing by a little window, looking out at the bigness.”

Did he do something to his fathers shoes

“These are new shoes,” he said. He sat down and put them on without assistance. Before he put his shoes on, he stuck both feet out toward me. “See?” he said. “New socks, too. No holes. Mother was so embarrassed at the doctor’s.” He laughed. He tied his shoelaces neatly and tightly. He stood up. As he went out the door he stopped, turned the little sign. “They can disturb,” he said. “We are gone.”