which,” she said and took something off her desk and handed it to me.
It was a cassette tape, white plastic with black lettering that had smeared. The title was KEEPING A CLEAR MIND , AGES 5-10.
Copyright 1985, Lance Dobbs, Ph.D. Cog-nitive-Spiritual Associates, Inc.
“This is what Little Miss Phony Doc was handing out before you aced her,” she said. “I confiscated all of them, took one home, and listened to it last night. Far as I can tell, what it comes down to is brainwashing. Literally. Dobbs goes on about how bad thoughts make children sad and angry. Then he tells them to imagine their mommies taking their brains out and scrubbing them hard with soap and water until they’re all clean, all the bad thoughts are gone, and what’s left are good, clean, sparkly thoughts. Sounds hokey to me. Is there any way something like that could be beneficial?”
“Doubtful,” I said. “Techniques like that have been used with chronically ill people—positive thinking, guided imagery, trying to get them to focus away from their discomfort. But generally those patients are screened and counseled first—encouraged to express their feelings before they try to clean their heads. That’s what our kids need right now. To unload.”
“So you’re saying this could hurt them—jam them up?”
“If they took it too seriously. It could also cause guilt problems if they started to view their fear and anger as ‘bad.’ To kids,
bad
means they’ve misbehaved.”
“Damn quacks,” she said, glaring at the cassette.
“Was there anything on the tape that would hold a child’s interest?”
“Not that I heard,” she said. “Just some ditsy music in the background and Dobbs droning on like some kind of oily guru. Real low budget.”
“Then there’s probably not much risk. The kids wouldn’t sit through it long enough to be damaged.”
“Hope so.”
“Low budget,” I said. “Just like Massengil’s interior decorating. I can see why that kind of thing would appeal to him—a quick fix, no mucking around with anything psychologically threatening. And outwardly cost-effective—two hundred kids treated at one time. Dobbs could probably rig up some computerized test showing the kids were doing great; then the two of them throw a press conference and end up heroes.”
I put the tape in my pocket. “I’ll take it home and give it a listen.”
She said, “What really burns me is the grief we go through trying to get mental health funds out of the legislature. They’re always demanding outcome studies, proof of efficacy, pages of statistics. Then a creep like Dobbs gets his mouth on the government tit with this kind of nonsense.”
“That’s because the creep has a special in.”
“What?”
“I can’t be certain but I’d be willing to bet he’s Massengil’s therapist.”
She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows. “Old Blowhard in analysis? C’mon. You just said he wouldn’t go for anything psychologically threatening.”
“He wouldn’t. Dobbs probably couches it in nonthreatening—non
therapeutic
terminology. Muscle-relaxation training, management efficiency. Or even something quasi-religious—one of the seminars had something to do with the soul.”
“Down on the old knees and emote?”
“Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure there’s something going on between them.” I told her what I’d seen of the interchange between Dobbs and Massengil, the cues and covert looks. “When I hinted at exposing the nature of their relationship, Massengil almost lost his cookies.”
“Oh, boy,” she said. “There’s a charming image for you.” She touched a finger to her lips. “Wonder what kink he’s having straightened.”
“Maybe it’s temper control, or relief of some kind of stress-related symptom like hypertension. Dobbs seemed accustomed to calming him down and Massengil obeyed him. As if they’d practiced together.”
“A minor league Eagleton,” she said, shaking her head.
It was a cassette tape, white plastic with black lettering that had smeared. The title was KEEPING A CLEAR MIND , AGES 5-10.
Copyright 1985, Lance Dobbs, Ph.D. Cog-nitive-Spiritual Associates, Inc.
“This is what Little Miss Phony Doc was handing out before you aced her,” she said. “I confiscated all of them, took one home, and listened to it last night. Far as I can tell, what it comes down to is brainwashing. Literally. Dobbs goes on about how bad thoughts make children sad and angry. Then he tells them to imagine their mommies taking their brains out and scrubbing them hard with soap and water until they’re all clean, all the bad thoughts are gone, and what’s left are good, clean, sparkly thoughts. Sounds hokey to me. Is there any way something like that could be beneficial?”
“Doubtful,” I said. “Techniques like that have been used with chronically ill people—positive thinking, guided imagery, trying to get them to focus away from their discomfort. But generally those patients are screened and counseled first—encouraged to express their feelings before they try to clean their heads. That’s what our kids need right now. To unload.”
“So you’re saying this could hurt them—jam them up?”
“If they took it too seriously. It could also cause guilt problems if they started to view their fear and anger as ‘bad.’ To kids,
bad
means they’ve misbehaved.”
“Damn quacks,” she said, glaring at the cassette.
“Was there anything on the tape that would hold a child’s interest?”
“Not that I heard,” she said. “Just some ditsy music in the background and Dobbs droning on like some kind of oily guru. Real low budget.”
“Then there’s probably not much risk. The kids wouldn’t sit through it long enough to be damaged.”
“Hope so.”
“Low budget,” I said. “Just like Massengil’s interior decorating. I can see why that kind of thing would appeal to him—a quick fix, no mucking around with anything psychologically threatening. And outwardly cost-effective—two hundred kids treated at one time. Dobbs could probably rig up some computerized test showing the kids were doing great; then the two of them throw a press conference and end up heroes.”
I put the tape in my pocket. “I’ll take it home and give it a listen.”
She said, “What really burns me is the grief we go through trying to get mental health funds out of the legislature. They’re always demanding outcome studies, proof of efficacy, pages of statistics. Then a creep like Dobbs gets his mouth on the government tit with this kind of nonsense.”
“That’s because the creep has a special in.”
“What?”
“I can’t be certain but I’d be willing to bet he’s Massengil’s therapist.”
She lowered her chin and raised her eyebrows. “Old Blowhard in analysis? C’mon. You just said he wouldn’t go for anything psychologically threatening.”
“He wouldn’t. Dobbs probably couches it in nonthreatening—non
therapeutic
terminology. Muscle-relaxation training, management efficiency. Or even something quasi-religious—one of the seminars had something to do with the soul.”
“Down on the old knees and emote?”
“Whatever it is, I’m pretty sure there’s something going on between them.” I told her what I’d seen of the interchange between Dobbs and Massengil, the cues and covert looks. “When I hinted at exposing the nature of their relationship, Massengil almost lost his cookies.”
“Oh, boy,” she said. “There’s a charming image for you.” She touched a finger to her lips. “Wonder what kink he’s having straightened.”
“Maybe it’s temper control, or relief of some kind of stress-related symptom like hypertension. Dobbs seemed accustomed to calming him down and Massengil obeyed him. As if they’d practiced together.”
“A minor league Eagleton,” she said, shaking her head.
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