Inserting a Key Legend for Genogram Symbols - GenoPro Help
howsoever caused arising directly or indirectly in connection with, in relation to or arising . of using a number of video games (e.g., Super Mario Bros., The Legend of. Zelda, Jeopardy) to generate client gains in learning new problem solving . tors OR psychodynamics OR cognitive behavior therapy OR family systems. Family Relationships in genograms. Family relationships are used to describe the union of two individuals. In GenoPro, a union is defined as the combination of . The desire to pull back from the relationship in its particulars, to view herself and her .. the available plots and standing myths about mothers who lose their children or Marie's daughter Zelda is the next to offer us a contradictory and less A genogram is "a diagram that portrays the family tree of the individual for two.
With multiple ironies, it also describes the two main characters, who occupy one extreme of that broad spectrum: In chapters 3, 4, and 5 of this study, I trace the figure of the mother without child through a series of biological mothers in novels by the betterknown American authors Toni Morrison, Alice Walker, Louise Erdrich and Michael Dorris, Marge Piercy, and Margaret Atwood, whose plots entail the loss of a child or children.
The fictional circumstances that disrupt or endanger the mother-child relationship are usually traumatic but highly various. The mothers in these narratives murder their own children, send them away temporarily or give them up for adoption, abandon them, or lose them to an oppressive state. The lines between voluntary and involuntary loss are often, but not always, blurred, as are perceptions about motives. In several of these stories, women arguably act out of fierce maternal love, although in some cases their intentions are misunderstood, and in others those intentions remain unknown, unclear, or unspoken.
Finally, in the last chapter of this study, I turn to several novels by the British writer Fay Weldon in which the recurring figure of the mother without child includes not only women traumatically separated from the children they have borne but also instances elsewhere on the spectrum: These instances of the mother without child by no means exhaust the supply of contemporary stories that could qualify for inclusion under this rubric and that might confirm, extend, or possibly contradict the conclusions I draw.
I suspect that most readers, like most colleagues and friends to whom I have described my work over the past few years, will immediately think of characters and stories that I could or should have added or chosen instead. This reaction testifies not only to the limits of any one study and the misjudgments I may have made in deciding what to use but also to the fact that the scope of my concern here is large and still growing and that much remains to be charted.
The issues raised in these novels are prominent and pervasive, and the contemporary story of the mother without child, called to attention, demands future considerations. Quite apparently, the inclusion of some of the "subcultures" I treat also calls into question any notion of a static, monolithic first world. Although motherhood is often spoken of in terms of culturally homogenizing and universalizing ideals and standards, stories of the mother without child individually and collectively refuse to let us forget that experiences of motherhood depart from the theories that would inform them, and they also insist on embedding mothers in specific historical communities and groups.
Looking at somewhat different communities and groups throws into relief the ways in which explicit norms and tacit assumptions about motherhood are compromised by varieties of material circumstances, especially in periods of rapid social and technological change and cultural clashes.
I propose no single meaning to these narratives of thwarted motherhood. These novels and stories raise a variety of questions and represent a variety of takes on that most complicated, confounding aspect of motherhood, its relational nature. Wherever we find examples of the mother without child, meaning has to be constructed locally, specifically, in particular contexts. At the same time, I aim to posit some vital common ground. The number and range of instances that can be aptly described by this rubric, despite their differences, argue for treating them as speaking together, although not always in one voice, to concerns that cut across divisions and differences.
Given both material circumstances and the rise of the feminist critique of motherhood, the appearance of so many fictional stories about women distanced in one way or another from their actual or potential children might appear overdetermined and predictable, and it might seem that we don't need to look very hard to understand the phenomenon: I by no means wish to gloss over this concern. To paraphrase one of the characters in Rule's Desert of the Heart, the relational aspect of motherhood, so long taken for granted, may no longer be granted.
Even the biological connection, once a solid starting place for thinking about motherhood, has recently been attenuated by the most scientifically advanced conceptive technologies. But what can be viewed as an unprecedented opportunity for women can also be perceived as a threat to born and unborn children.
Anxiety over how best to use or limit the control women have or want manifests itself most visibly, perhaps, in the abortion wars. Others, meanwhile, have pointed out how uncertain and ephemeral the benefits of reproductive technology may be.
The ambiguities of medical and technological developments are reflected in the tension between the simultaneously emerging discourses of fetal rights and women's rights.
Despite their opposing political stances, both movements tend to call into question the ideal of mother with child. For increasingly greater numbers of women worries about either fetal rights or women's rights are a luxury; the urgent issues are how a mother can survive and take care of her living children's most basic needs. Poverty puts pressure on the middle-class norms of maternalchild relations, and unthinkable numbers of children and their increasingly isolated, unsupported mothers are visibly at risk in ways that are heartbreaking and resistant to solution.
Apologists for "family values" often ignore the actualities of maternal work, and hence they too may stand between the biological mother and any means of meeting the needs of an actual child.
As the editors of a special issue of Signs on "Mothering and Patriarchy" have observed, "Sentimentalized tropes of idealized mothering—endlessly loving, serenely healing, emotionally rewarding—have no counterpart in a political and social reality where the labor of caring is devalued, unsupported, and unseen, and where mothers are more likely to be endlessly burdened, anxious, and blamed.
Biological motherhood, as a discrete and exemplary feminine event, is elevated, providing of course it occurs within the prescribed cultural scenario. As previously underrepresented voices struggle to speak, and as we look more carefully for places in which they have already spoken, it should come as no surprise that we repeatedly hear sad stories about rupture and loss. It might alternatively be argued that second-wave feminism itself is chiefly responsible, in one way or another, for the rise of stories about mothers who give up or lose their children.
More subtly, perhaps, these stories might be read as the work of the feminist-as-daughter, unable to forgive her own patriarchal mother—either for abandoning the daughter, or for failing to let her go—and barely able to imagine herself as a feminist mother or to represent anything but the anguish of motherhood that threatens from all sides.
It has been suggested that feminists may devise distancing strategies to avoid confronting their ambivalence about mothering. Why do the novels I consider need further analysis, then? Though I would not wish to deny that these stories express anxieties about a multifaceted, sometimes tragic reality, they offer more than reflection and critique.
These narratives can be read in ways that do not forget or transcend but rather remember and look within the sense of loss and impasse. In doing so they insist that we reconsider our assumptions about what motherhood is "really" like, that we resist fundamental theories and practices that would oppress mothers and divide women, and even that we pause before assuming that "the" maternal voice or an autonomous maternal subject can or should be sought.
These stories address several general, often overlapping issues. Common experiences alone tell us that there is something left out if we fail to take account of the many moments at which a person might act as, feel like, or be considered a mother in the absence of a child. Before a baby is born, a woman is often thought of or thinks of herself as a mother; whether or not she ever gives birth, both traditional pronatalist and some feminist assumptions define every woman as a potential mother.
When a child grows up and stops requiring maternal protection, takes responsibility for caring for himself or herself, or fails to offer affectionate reverence, that child still has a mother, and that mother may still identify herself or himself as such. When a mother loses or gives up custody of a child, or gives up hope that a child will live and so stops doing the work required to keep that child alive, or even acts to take back the life she has given in order to protect the child from suffering or to defend some other principle, that person may still be or wish to be considered a mother.
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In any of these instances where the child is absent, where the relation is, for good or for bad, temporarily or permanently, voluntarily or involuntarily broken off, what does motherhood consist of, what does a "mother" feel like? Does a woman without a child simply become at last or again a subject, an autonomous self, free from the claims and contradictions of motherhood? Or does she suffer a tragic, irreparable trauma?
The story of the mother without child addresses these questions and thereby brings us closer to that frequently stated goal of feminist study: At another level of abstraction, the figure of the mother without child expresses the complexity of maternal consciousness by literalizing aspects of the unconscious. American feminism of the s and early s has been critiqued for ignoring the unconscious and positing a "one dimensional," unitary female self.
This dimension of maternal experience is brought out in Elsa First's recent discussion of Winnicott's belief that "hate," for both mothers and psychoanalysts, is a necessary element of "self-respect.
Alternatively, if we are trying to take into account the "unconscious" of mothering, the motif of the mother without child speaks to the perception of recent psychoanalytic approaches that stress the constitutive division of maternity, the mother as "site of an originary, constitutive splitting.
In her revisionary reading of Freud, Madelon Sprengnether has argued that the separation of mother and child, again considered at the level of the unconscious, should be seen as fundamental in human development in a positive way: If the mother's work entails preparing the child, from the moment of birth, for independence from caretakers, and thus paradoxically engaging in a relationship whose ultimate goal is greater disengagement, distance, or even dissolution, the story of the mother without child may figure instead of repressing this paradox.
Yet another tightly connected concern involves the perception that the child has come first and overshadowed the mother in the most influential theories. As many have noted, Freud's is an infantile theory of human development; since Freud, it has been difficult if not impossible to express anything but the child's point of view of the maternal object, which later becomes the adult's. As Knowles puts it, it is hard to see the "reality" of mothers' feelings, including their ambivalence, their desire, or even their dislike of bearing and caring for children, in "a world full of adults whose inner children feel impoverished, who still yearn for the good mothering of their fantasies.
The story of the mother without child frees us, experimentally and provisionally, to focus on the mother, and in doing so to see her as a multifaceted and changeful subject. If narrative theories move away from the preoedipal mother-child bond as the source and site of literary activity, this move may find its narrative form in these stories. Finally, in order to understand and attend to the emergence at this point in time of a new significance to the fictional figure of the mother without child, we need to set these narratives in relief against the old stories, the available plots and standing myths about mothers who lose their children or are threatened with such loss.
My primary interest is stories about mothers without children, and stories need to be accounted for not only at the level of how they may represent, reflect, and resist current psychic and social realities or theories, but also in terms of how they engage available narrative patterns, in this case entering into and arguably revising a diachronic tradition of fictionally represented motherhood. In western culture, stories about the mother without child are not new. Abandonment and separation are common themes, although the point of view from which these stories have been told has been the point of view of the child, broadly speaking, rather than the mother.
Most of these stories, perhaps concomitantly, have not sought or served to scrutinize the implications of the relational status of maternal identity, to dislodge conventional, naturalizing assumptions, or to help us see or see with the mother.
In fact, quite the opposite is true: A foundational example of this old story is the biblical tale of King Solomon and two women who both claim to be the mother of the same child. The women are identified as harlots or prostitutes who live alone together with their babies; the story begins when one of them brings the other to Solomon's court to claim that in the middle of the night the other woman accidentally smothered her own child and then switched the babies, taking the living child for her own.
His strategy, indeed, anticipates what I suggest is going on in today's fictional explorations of motherhood: The constitutional paradox or double bind for the "real" mother here is as clear, at least to a feminist reading, as the cleverness of the King's ploy: This is a familiar plot. Women are pitted against each other in a competition for the scarce commodity that proves their fertility and, indirectly, their heterosexual activity and availability.
The "good" mother is positioned so that she stands in opposition to a quintessentially "bad" mother, a woman so dangerous that she causes the death of her own child and is willing to see a child murdered rather than give up the irrational struggle for possession. The "good" woman and mother can speak only to erase her authority, to renounce possession, to disown her desire; a mother is someone who sacrifices something she has and wants, or is willing to do so, for the good of another. As we all might have learned from the case of Baby M and Mary Beth Whitehead, to want a child too much—so much that one breaks the law—is still to prove that one isn't really a fit mother, that one can't subordinate one's own needs for the child to the best interests of the child.
The good mother understands the limits of her love and power and polices the dangers of maternal excess. In thinking about Solomon's wisdom in this context and going back to the Old Testament to look again at how, exactly, the story was formulated, I noted something that struck me for the first time as peculiar: It would seem to be an odd omission of detail, but it is in fact consistent with the understanding that this story, like so many, obscures rather than represents anything about either woman's particular character or practical circumstances.
Tellingly, these are "harlots" living alone, outside the marital bond, on the borders of the law. If we focus on these latter-day concerns, we see what we already know about patriarchal wisdom: Solomon, its representative, is not interested in the truth or in the feelings and needs of the women in question.
We might also wonder whether he is as wise as he seems, or whether he has been duped. Solomon misses or is unconcerned with the fact that both women are victims. One of them has already lost her infant, and if the mother of the dead child is in fact B, the woman who stands accused of child stealing, then her crime may be understood, if not excused, as a sign of her grief, perhaps even her denial and delusion.
Or suppose that woman A is not telling the truth, that she is actually the one whose child died in the night, who then thinks up the clever idea of bringing woman B and B's still living baby to court, falsely claiming that B has stolen that baby.
In this case, we might still want to see A as deranged with grief, but her stratagem would suggest that she has become canny, not irrational, in the face of loss. In either event, it seems altogether possible that Solomon or the teller of the story, who equates the self-sacrificial woman with the mother of the living child could be outsmarted in another way. How do we know that the mother who gets the child isn't just the better performer, the quicker witted one who understands what words to say in order to prove motherhood?
Perhaps the "real" mother of the child is like Lear's truthful daughter, Cordelia, sure that her love is more ponderous than her tongue. Or perhaps she suffers from postpartum depression and, in a moment of great stress, standing before the King, almost welcomes the solution his sword pretends to offer.
We can, it seems, be sure of only one thing: This, again, is the point of the story. In the process, the woman who refuses to perform like a mother might well be the heroine, the one who resists patriarchal law and so ends up losing her child. Indeed, all of the stories of the mother without child that I consider here do just this. They call into question the implications, for women, of Solomon's long-standing wisdom, with its troubling presupposition that, as one Old Testament scholar puts it, "the presence of a love that knows not the demands of ego, of possessiveness, or even of justice reveals motherhood.
In Greek myth, mothers often have real power, but typically that power is horrifying and may be turned against a child or children by a vengeful mother such as Medea or Procne or Althea. Somewhat less frequently, a powerful mother is turned into a victim by the loss of a child, as in the story of Demeter.
Rules to Build Genograms - GenoPro
In several eighteenth- and nineteenth-century novels, mothers who abandon their children are invariably portrayed as rogues like Moll Flanders or Emma Bovary or victims perhaps the most pathetic of whom is Isabel Vane in East Lynne ; in both categories, they often suffer terrible punishments. For example, in a recent discussion of maternal identity with an ostensibly far different notion of motherhood in mind, one that aims to de-essentialize the concept of the "mother" and lay claim to "parental" status for fathers, Thomas Laqueur demonstrates his wisdom in a way oddly analogous to Solomon's method.
Laqueur suggests that since "facts" such as whose body bore the child can no longer prove parenthood, emotions can. To show that "mothering" today is or should be gender-neutral and that fathers do as much emotional work as mothers or in some cases moreLaqueur cites two instances in which the loss or threatened loss of a child proves parental or paternal identity: Gladstone's moving account of sitting for days by the bedside of his dying daughter, and Laqueur's own sadness when his wife miscarried and was less upset, according to him, than he as the prospective father was.
Nor do these familiar stories help us to learn more about the possibilities or implications of a maternal subject somehow distinct from or independent of a relation to a child. They confirm that there is no concept of mother unless, as Ruddick says, there is a concept of child. The longevity of the Solomon plot also confirms how commanding stories may be, how much they may serve to mold and interpret experience in particular ways.
In the new stories that I consider, the loss or absence of a child may or may not still be presented as tragic or heartrending, and it may or may not literalize a fundamental aspect of human psychology, a "liberatory" political agenda, or a set of deplorable historical circumstances.
The important difference, however, is this: And so the story, insofar as we know it, does not serve to confirm or disprove a fixed and fundamentally conventional or unconventional maternal or parental identity, be it one that is unified around bonding and self-sacrifice or divided between self and child, presymbolic and symbolic positions, and so on.
On the contrary, it leads toward demystification, denaturalization, and reevaluation of the norms and needs of motherhood. It insists that the position of the mother without child is not only a traumatic present reality but also a logical impossibility, a taboo, and therefore a site of instability that facilitates thinking about motherhood and women beyond official logic and conventional possibility.
It exemplifies precisely what Butler calls "subversion within the terms of the law," representing the woman who, unlike the patriarchal mother, is "a mother and outside the father's law at the same time.
Most but not all of the female characters in the stories I consider have hoped consciously or unconsciously at some point in their lives to follow this law, but for various reasons they are unable to do so or choose not to do so. In the new stories, as we shall see, she can subvert these categories of criminal or victim, bad or good mother, by not fitting comfortably into either or by occupying both at the same time. Jane Rule's Fiction I didn't die, trying to make a new life for myself out of an old life, trying to be a lover of myself and other women in a place where we were despised.
I didn't die, but by the spring of the next year, by May, watching the redbud tree drop flowers like blood on the ground, I felt like I had died. I had learned that children were still taken from their mothers in that town, even from someone like me, if by my wildness, by sexual wildness, I placed myself in the wilderness with those feared by white Southern men.
I had learned that I could be either a lesbian or a mother of my children, either in the wilderness or on holy ground, but not both. Minnie Bruce Pratt, "Identity: Skin Blood Heart" Richmond, Sept. The New York Times, September 8, The Sharon Bottoms case, following fast on the heels of the debates on gays in the military, seemed a superfluous reminder that social change is slow, uneven, and easily erased if not illusory to begin with.
Even those who apparently support lesbian rights may draw the line at the right to mother. The exclusion of lesbians from motherhood has been both contested and appropriated by recent lesbian philosophers and activists. To some extent, motherhood may be less controversial among lesbians than it was a few years ago hence, in part, the "shock" to homosexuals, if there was one, of Judge Parsons' decision. Although the politics of this trend are disputed and the actual numbers unknown, in the eighties and nineties more and more lesbians appear to be choosing to mother or to support motherhood as a viable option.
As Audre Lorde notes, writing in"These days it seems like everywhere I turn somebody is either having a baby or talking about having a baby. Bearing in mind Marilyn Frye's observation that there is disagreement about "practically everything" in the lesbian community, I don't suggest that there ought to be consensus about this one thing.
One place where we can clearly see the value of lesbian thinking about motherhood is in Jane Rule's fiction, particularly in her first novel, Desert of the Heart, a remarkably early and interesting effort to imagine ways to move beyond so-called patriarchal motherhood.
At one end of the spectrum are those who focus on the negative demands of mothering as a role and the destructive equation of woman and mother in a culture that simultaneously objectifies and ignores the experiences of both. Declarations of the fundamental opposition between lesbianism and motherhood are most frequently associated with earlier radical separatists, but in fact they can be heard in both extreme and more tempered or distanced arguments throughout the eighties and into the present.
Writing in Signs inJackie Anderson argues that "there are good and sound reasons to consider rejecting motherhood as a value and birthing as a practice. Writing at about the same time as Allen but in a very different tone, Minnie Bruce Pratt mourns the loss of her children, whose father was awarded custody. But she implies that it was a necessary sacrifice, radicalizing and freeing her: In an argument reminiscent of the celebration of clitoral orgasm, de Lauretis maintains that it is the possibility of separating female sexual pleasure from procreation that makes lesbian sexuality so subversive and opens up a space for woman as speaking subject.
Commenting on Monique Wittig's development of a "cognitive practice" in The Lesbian Body, de Lauretis also opts for wildness: First, the assumption that motherhood entails in whole or at least in part the biological act of childbearing is either endorsed or, more frequently, unexamined. Does Allen include adoption or artificial insemination in "all forms of motherhood"? Is the "maternal" body that de Lauretis speaks of only the body that actually bears a child? Like many pronouncements about motherhood, these are insufficiently attuned to the increasingly difficult problems of who counts as a mother and what we mean by maternal.
Second, despite efforts to resist "precoded" conventions, many versions of the antimotherhood position ironically confirm even as they invert the value of older, prefeminist views that stressed the nonmaternal nature of lesbians, seeing them as "defeminized" women who resisted their "normal" female roles as mothers. For example, the patriarchal villain of Sheila Ortiz Taylor's Faultline, a father of six children suing for custody because their mother has left him for a colleague's wife, rests his case on the same claim that women as diverse as Anderson, Allen, Pratt, and de Lauretis are making: Exemplified by Adrienne Rich's influential theory of the "lesbian continuum," such arguments maintain that for women it is the forced disruption of the preoedipal bond, making women heterosexual, that is perverse and unholy.
Psychotherapist Meg Turner cites a young female patient who explicitly articulates what we might call the Rich position: Oddly like the antimotherhood arguments in this regard, Rich's position in a sense reaffirms by inverting the claims of prefeminist accounts, in this case the Freudian view that homosexual women represent cases of arrested development, stuck in the preoedipal stage and immaturely fixated on their first love-objects, their mothers.
This position tends to totalize and idealize views of motherhood and emphasize thinking about the good or good enough mother while ignoring, as theory or experience, the bad mother. If those in the second camp are right, women fundamentally are or should be lesbians because of the primacy of their relations to a same-sex caregiver, a mother assumed to be a female and birth mother, for the most part.
But if those in the opposing group are right, they cannot reproduce this love by passing it on to their own children because it is philosophically and politically vital to resist becoming a mother in discourse or in the material, male-dominated world. This logic strands the lesbian as an adult woman in a place where she cannot become in practice what she still loves in theory. Ironically, to preserve the very identity derived some say from her love for her mother, she must from a certain point of view remain a daughter: These limits push people into either total acceptance of motherhood or total negation, thus precluding the emergence of a standpoint which, transcending both, could provide an effective challenge to the status quo.
Rich herself tries to separate motherlove as symbol or ideal and motherhood as institution, particularly in Of Woman Born. In These Our Mothers, or: The Disintegrating Chapter, published in France L'Amer ou le Chapitre effrite in and available in English translation sinceBrossard proposes two opposing kinds or meanings of mother: Brossard describes meeting "other mothers" of this sort while sitting on a park bench, watching her daughter playing: Who have nothing to say.
To exchange a domestic silence. The most frequent videos are hosted by the six most prolific employees: Achievement Hunter has a large presence on YouTube — where it runs four different channels: History and development — Inception and growth InGeoff Ramsey's interest in gaming achievements resulted in the realization that no community-based website related to achievements existed. Alongside employee Jack Pattillo, Ramsey regularly released achievement guides and Easter egg videos, often receiving assistance from select volunteers from the Rooster Teeth community.
David Dreger also assisted in the founding of the site. The more detailed family trees used in medicine and social work are known as genograms. Family history representations Genealogical data can be represented in several formats, for example as a pedigree or ancestry chart. Family trees are often presented with the oldest generations at the top and the newer generations at the bottom. An ancestry chart, which is a tree showing the ancestors of an individual, will more closely resemble a tree in shape, being wider at the top than the bottom.
In some ancestry charts, an individual appears on the left and his or her ancestors appear to the right. A descendancy chart, which depicts all the descendants of an individual will be narrowest at the top.
Family trees can have many themes. One might encompass all direct descendants of a single figure, or all known ancestors of a living person.