Why “Normal”

Why “Normal”

Strolling through woods, my friend asked me “is that normal?” and seemed astonished when I replied, “Is that question even relevant?” We were talking about thoughts, feelings, experience – I can’t remember, now, exactly which. In any case, I have been asked that question, or variants of it, so often. We seem to be obsessed with normality; strange when in so many areas of life we are busy deconstructing the notion.

So here is my theory. Normality is an idea that stems from the herd. Herd behaviour is primitive, instinct-driven, and designed to ensure the survival of the group at the expense, if necessary, of the outliers. The slowest, or those on the fringes, can be sacrificed to the group cause; picked off by predators or extreme conditions.

Two things follow.

  • The individual, when the group is operating at this primitive level, becomes anxious if they find themselves at the back, or off too far to one side. “Am I normal?” becomes a proxy for “am I safe?”
  • The group, when under pressure, will expend less energy supporting individuals on the fringes and may even push them further to the edge, since their value to the group lies chiefly in their expendability.

And this is how insecurity leads to Stigma:

  • We are generally placid as long as things continue as they always have (and provided our basic needs, at least, are met). But if something out-of-the-ordinary arrives we are challenged, and the degree of challenge depends on the extent to which we feel insecure. If something unfamiliar turns up in my experience or in my group, I may welcome it if I am feeling secure, but if I am feeling insecure I shall be suspicious of it.
  • Because, in the latter instance, novelty is unwelcome, I do not want the group to associate me with it. If they do – if I run next to this individual – then the group may sacrifice me also, in the interests of its survival. The unusual person – near the rim of the bell-shaped curve – is at the fringe and expendable; a target for predation or a low priority for succour – so the further I am from them the better.

We have developed an attachment to “normality” and when our attachment behaviours are activated this can contribute to stigma and marginalisation.

  • An insecure group will tolerate difference less; will stigmatise it more; will be happier to see it suffer and disappear.
  • A secure group – one in the mood for exploration and discovery rather than survival – will be more likely to welcome difference in its midst, as a possible new resource .
  • To decrease stigmatisation of minorities, maybe we need not to attack the perpetrator more, but somehow reduce their sense of insecurity.

When we find ourselves asking “is it normal?” we are operating from a primitive and insecure position. The better question might be “is it dangerous?”. At least then we allow ourselves the possibility of a higher-level existence; welcoming and experiencing novelty, and providing succour to individuals rather than marginalising them.

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Pebbles and People

Pebbles and People

Whenever let loose on a beach I immediately find myself looking at the ground around me, stooping, and picking up objects for closer examination. Sometimes it is shells or driftwood. Occasionally it is a useful piece of nylon string. But what I find fascinates me most frequently are pebbles.

On the beach at Filey in Yorkshire, about ten years ago it occurred to me that, although I was exercising great discrimination in selecting pebbles, I might just as well shut my eyes and pick up the first one I stumbled across and that single pebble would give me as much satisfaction.

This observation troubled me slightly, and bided its time, quietly fizzing in the very back of my mind until a few months ago on a beach in Pembrokeshire. That idea about “any old pebble” popped up to greet a new niggling observation. I was noticing in myself a sense of affection bordering on love and nostalgia towards the stones I was picking up and, with some reluctance, releasing again to the wild.

Suddenly these were people. Indeed, they were my patients! Do I have a favourite? No, of course not. Is any one not worthy of love? No. Is any of them perfect? No. Do they share features, and yet retain, each of them, a uniqueness? Yes. Do I take a particular interest in some over others, for a time? Yes. Does each of them accompany me for a time and then leave? Yes. And do I have a sense of the number that I can safely carry, and the number that I can examine closely, at any one time? Yes.

Of course the analogy has its limits. Any analogy that is total or complete ceases to be an analogy or of any interest. I do not see myself as of any use to these stones. I don’t expect any of them to be in any kind of predicament that I might be able to help them through. In fact the roles are somewhat reversed. It is more likely that they can help me with my predicament.

But do they talk to me? Yes.

What makes these pebbles like people to me? What is it they share?

A pebble’s character is shaped by two things: their inherent material, and their experience. Each stone is made of a material which may be soft, hard, brittle, porous. These features, in turn, have their distant origin in constituent and experience – their chemical makeup and the terrible forces that gave birth. There may also be a fault line, or a sheering plane due to differing materials joining. And then there is the tossing and churning, the action of water, and jostling with their fellows which has brought them to their current shape. The interaction of these two broad sets of influences is important. Some will have been more or less resilient to this abrasion. Others may have seemed impenetrable until they split after a sharp tap, to reveal a hollow interior. And then this, in turn, was smoothed and adapted. And some may have been brought here from elsewhere, finding themselves in the company of other shapes and colours.

I found myself moved by the stories of these stones. And by the fact that, yes, some of them caught my eye – bright colours or a wet shine – but that I could pick any one of them, take an equal interest in it and enjoy its company – for a time.

Ultimately, of course, the analogy relaxes its grip and we fall back into our respective places. I turn to my human companion, perhaps compare notes, and move on.

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