Our Education Problems in Contrast With Samoa

For many chapters we have followed the lives of Samoan girls, watched them change from babies to baby-tenders, learn to make the oven and weave fine mats, forsake the life of the gang to become more active members of the household, defer marriage through as many years of casual love-making as possible, finally marry and settle down to rearing children who will repeat the same cycle. As far as our material permitted, an experiment has been conducted to discover what the process of development was like in a society very different from our own. Because the length of human life and the complexity of our society did not permit us to make our experiment here, to choose a group of baby girls and bring them to maturity under conditions created for the experiment, it was necessary to go instead to another country where history had set the stage for us. There we found girl children passing through the same process of physical development through which our girls go, cutting their first teeth and losing them, cutting their second teeth, growing tall and ungainly, reaching puberty with their first menstruation, gradually reaching physical maturity, and becoming ready to produce the next generation. It was possible to say: Here are the proper conditions for an experiment; the developing girl is a constant factor in America and in Samoa; the civilisation of America and the civilisation of Samoa are different. In the course of development, the process of growth by which the girl baby becomes a grown woman, are the sudden and conspicuous bodily changes which take place at puberty accompanied by a development which is spasmodic, emotionally charged, and accompanied by an awakened religious sense, a flowering of idealism, a great desire for assertion of self against authority—or not? Is adolescence a period of mental and emotional distress for the growing girl as inevitably as teething is a period of misery for the small baby? Can we think of adolescence as a time in the life history of every girl child which carries with it symptoms of conflict and stress as surely as it implies a change in the girl’s body?

For many chapters, we have followed the lives of Samoan girls. We watched them grow from babies into caregivers for other babies, learn to prepare the oven, and weave fine mats. We saw them leave their childhood groups to take a more active part in the household. We watched them put off marriage for as many years of casual love affairs as possible. Finally, we saw them marry and settle down to raise children who will repeat the same cycle. As far as our material allowed, we conducted an experiment to discover how girls develop in a society very different from ours. The length of human life and the complexity of our society prevented us from conducting this experiment at home. We could not choose a group of baby girls and raise them to adulthood under conditions created for the experiment. So we had to go to another country, where history had already set the stage for us. There we found girls going through the same physical development as our own girls. They grew their first teeth, lost them, and grew their permanent teeth. They grew tall and awkward, reached puberty with their first period, and gradually became physically mature and ready to bear children. We could say: Here are the right conditions for an experiment. The developing girl is a constant factor in America and Samoa, but American and Samoan cultures differ. As a baby girl grows into a woman, puberty brings sudden, noticeable changes in her body. Are these changes accompanied by development that comes in bursts and is emotionally charged? Does this development bring an awakened religious awareness, a flowering of idealism, and a strong desire to assert oneself against authority? Or does it not? Is adolescence as inevitably a time of mental and emotional distress for a growing girl as teething is miserable for a baby? Can we think of adolescence as a stage in every girl's life that brings conflict and stress as surely as physical change?

Following the Samoan girls through every aspect of their lives we have tried to answer this question, and we found throughout that we had to answer it in the negative. The adolescent girl in Samoa differed from her sister who had not reached puberty in one chief respect, that in the older girl certain bodily changes were present which were absent in the younger girl. There were no other great differences to set off the group passing through adolescence from the group which would become adolescent in two years or the group which had become adolescent two years before. And if one girl past puberty is undersized while her cousin is tall and able to do heavier work, there will be a difference between them, due to their different physical endowment, which will be far greater than that which is due to puberty. The tall, husky girl will be isolated from her companions, forced to do longer, more adult tasks, rendered shy by a change of clothing, while her cousin, slower to attain her growth, will still be treated as a child and will have to solve only the slightly fewer problems of childhood. The precedent of educators here who recommend special tactics in the treatment of adolescent girls translated into Samoan terms would read: Tall girls are different from short girls of the same age, we must adopt a different method of educating them.

We have tried to answer this question by following Samoan girls through every part of their lives. At every point, we found that the answer had to be no. An adolescent girl in Samoa differed from a girl who had not reached puberty in one main way. The older girl had undergone certain physical changes that the younger girl had not. No other major differences set adolescent girls apart from girls who would reach adolescence in two years. Nor were there major differences between adolescent girls and girls who had reached adolescence two years earlier. And if one girl past puberty is small while her cousin is tall and can do heavier work, the girls will differ. The difference caused by their physical build will be far greater than any difference caused by puberty. The tall, strongly built girl will be separated from her companions and made to do longer, more adult tasks. A change in clothing will make her shy. Meanwhile, her cousin, who grows more slowly, will still be treated as a child. She will have to deal only with the slightly fewer problems of childhood. Educators here recommend special approaches to adolescent girls. Put in Samoan terms, their approach would read: Tall girls differ from short girls of the same age. We must use a different method to educate them.

But when we have answered the question we set out to answer we have not finished with the problem. A further question presents itself. If it is proved that adolescence is not necessarily a specially difficult period in a girl’s life—and proved it is if we can find any society in which that is so—then what accounts for the presence of storm and stress in American adolescents? First, we may say quite simply, that there must be something in the two civilisations to account for the difference. If the same process takes a different form, in two different environments, we cannot make any explanations in terms of the process, for that is the same in both cases. But the social environment is very different and it is to it that we must look for an explanation. What is there in Samoa which is absent in America, what is there in America which is absent in Samoa, which will account for this difference?

But answering our original question does not settle the problem. Another question arises. Suppose we prove that adolescence is not necessarily a particularly difficult time in a girl’s life. Finding any society where adolescence is not especially difficult would prove the point. Then what explains the turmoil and stress among American adolescents? First, we may say simply that something in the two cultures must explain the difference. If the same process takes different forms in two different environments, we cannot explain the difference through the process itself. The process is the same in both cases. But the social environments are very different, so we must look to those environments for an explanation. What is present in Samoa but absent in America, or present in America but absent in Samoa, that explains the difference?

Such a question has enormous implications and any attempt to answer it will be subject to many possibilities of error. But if we narrow our question to the way in which aspects of Samoan life which irremediably affect the life of the adolescent girl differ from the forces which influence our growing girls, it is possible to try to answer it.

Such a question has enormous implications, and any attempt to answer it risks many kinds of error. But we can narrow the question to the aspects of Samoan life that irreversibly affect adolescent girls. If we ask how those aspects differ from the forces influencing our own growing girls, we can attempt an answer.

The background of these differences is a broad one, with two important components; one is due to characteristics which are Samoan, the other to characteristics which are primitive.

These differences have a broad background, with two important parts. One comes from Samoan characteristics, the other from characteristics described as primitive.

The Samoan background which makes growing up so easy, so simple a matter, is the general casualness of the whole society. For Samoa is a place where no one plays for very high stakes, no one pays very heavy prices, no one suffers for his convictions or fights to the death for special ends. Disagreements between parent and child are settled by the child’s moving across the street, between a man and his village by the man’s removal to the next village, between a husband and his wife’s seducer by a few fine mats. Neither poverty nor great disasters threaten the people to make them hold their lives dearly and tremble for continued existence. No implacable gods, swift to anger and strong to punish, disturb the even tenor of their days. Wars and cannibalism are long since passed away and now the greatest cause for tears, short of death itself, is a journey of a relative to another island. No one is hurried along in life or punished harshly for slowness of development. Instead the gifted, the precocious, are held back, until the slowest among them have caught the pace. And in personal relations, caring is as slight. Love and hate, jealousy and revenge, sorrow and bereavement, are all matters of weeks. From the first months of its life, when the child is handed carelessly from one woman’s hands to another’s, the lesson is learned of not caring for one person greatly, not setting high hopes on any one relationship.

Growing up in Samoa is so easy and simple because the whole society takes life casually. In Samoa, no one plays for very high stakes or pays a very high price. No one suffers for their beliefs or fights to the death for particular goals. Disagreements between parents and children are settled by the child moving across the street. Disagreements between a man and his village are settled by the man moving to the next village. Disagreements between a husband and the person who seduced his wife are settled with a few fine mats. Neither poverty nor great disasters threaten the people, making them cling to life and fear for their survival. No unforgiving gods, quick to anger and powerful enough to punish, disturb the steady calm of their days. Wars and cannibalism are long gone. Now, apart from death itself, the greatest cause for tears is a relative’s journey to another island. No one is rushed through life or punished harshly for developing slowly. Instead, gifted children and those who develop early are held back until the slowest children have caught up. Emotional attachment in personal relationships is just as slight. Love and hate, jealousy and revenge, grief and mourning all last only weeks. From the first months of life, a child is passed casually from one woman’s hands to another’s. Through this, children learn not to care deeply for any one person or place high hopes in any one relationship.

And just as we may feel that the Occident penalises those unfortunates who are born into Western civilisation with a taste for meditation and a complete distaste for activity, so we may say that Samoa is kind to those who have learned the lesson of not caring, and hard upon those few individuals who have failed to learn it. Lola and Mala and little Siva, Lola’s sister, all were girls with a capacity for emotion greater than their fellows. And Lola and Mala, passionately desiring affection and too violently venting upon the community their disappointment over their lack of it, were both delinquent, unhappy misfits in a society which gave all the rewards to those who took defeat lightly and turned to some other goal with a smile.

We may feel that Western civilization penalizes unfortunate people born into it who enjoy meditation and completely dislike activity. In the same way, we may say that Samoa is kind to those who have learned not to care. Samoa is hard on the few who have failed to learn that lesson. Lola, Mala, and Lola’s little sister Siva all had a greater capacity for emotion than other girls. Lola and Mala desperately wanted affection and expressed their disappointment at not receiving affection too violently toward the community. Both were delinquent, unhappy misfits in a society that gave all the rewards to those who took defeat lightly. Those who were rewarded turned to another goal with a smile.

In this casual attitude towards life, in this avoidance of conflict, of poignant situations, Samoa contrasts strongly not only with America but also with most primitive civilisations. And however much we may deplore such an attitude and feel that important personalities and great art are not born in so shallow a society, we must recognise that here is a strong factor in the painless development from childhood to womanhood. For where no one feels very strongly, the adolescent will not be tortured by poignant situations. There are no such disastrous choices as those which confronted young people who felt that the service of God demanded forswearing the world forever, as in the Middle Ages, or cutting off one’s finger as a religious offering, as among the Plains Indians. So, high up in our list of explanations we must place the lack of deep feeling which the Samoans have conventionalised until it is the very framework of all their attitudes toward life.

Samoa’s casual attitude toward life and avoidance of conflict and emotionally painful situations set it sharply apart. The contrast is strong not only with America but also with most primitive civilizations. However much we may regret this attitude, we must recognize its role in the painless transition from childhood to womanhood. We must recognize this even if we feel that important personalities and great art cannot emerge from so shallow a society. For where no one feels very strongly, adolescents will not be tormented by emotionally painful situations. They face none of the disastrous choices that confronted young people who felt that serving God required extreme sacrifices. In the Middle Ages, such service could mean renouncing the world forever. Among the Plains Indians, it could mean cutting off a finger as a religious offering. So we must place this lack of deep feeling high on our list of explanations. Samoans have made this lack of deep feeling a social convention until it forms the framework of all their attitudes toward life.

And next there is the most striking way in which all isolated primitive civilisation and many modern ones differ from our own, in the number of choices which are permitted to each individual. Our children grow up to find a world of choices dazzling their unaccustomed eyes. In religion they may be Catholics, Protestants, Christian Scientists, Spiritualists, Agnostics, Atheists, or even pay no attention at all to religion. This is an unthinkable situation in any primitive society not exposed to foreign influence. There is one set of gods, one accepted religious practice, and if a man does not believe, his only recourse is to believe less than his fellows; he may scoff but there is no new faith to which he may turn. Present-day Manu’a approximates this condition; all are Christians of the same sect. There is no conflict in matters of belief although there is a difference in practice between Church-members and non-Church-members. And it was remarked that in the case of several of the growing girls the need for choice between these two practices may some day produce a conflict. But at present the Church makes too slight a bid for young unmarried members to force the adolescent to make any decision.

Next comes the most striking difference between our own civilization and all isolated primitive civilizations, as well as many modern ones. The difference is in how many choices each person is allowed. Our children grow up facing a world of choices that dazzles their inexperienced eyes. In religion, they may be Catholics, Protestants, Christian Scientists, Spiritualists, Agnostics, or Atheists. Or they may pay no attention to religion at all. Such a situation is unthinkable in any primitive society not exposed to foreign influence. There is one set of gods and one accepted religious practice. If a man does not believe, his only option is to believe less than the people around him. He may scoff, but there is no new faith he can turn to. Present-day Manu’a comes close to this situation. Everyone is Christian and belongs to the same sect. There is no conflict over belief, although Church members and nonmembers differ in religious practice. As noted earlier, several of the growing girls may someday face conflict over choosing between these two ways of practicing religion. But at present, the Church does too little to attract young unmarried members to force adolescents to make a decision.

Similarly, our children are faced with half a dozen standards of morality: a double sex standard for men and women, a single standard for men and women, and groups which advocate that the single standard should be freedom while others argue that the single standard should be absolute monogamy. Trial marriage, companionate marriage, contract marriage—all these possible solutions of a social impasse are paraded before the growing children while the actual conditions in their own communities and the moving pictures and magazines inform them of mass violations of every code, violations which march under no banners of social reform.

Similarly, our children face half a dozen moral standards. Some set different sexual standards for men and women, while others set the same standard for both. Some groups argue that the shared standard should be sexual freedom, while others insist on strict monogamy. Trial marriage, companionate marriage, contract marriage: all these possible solutions to a social deadlock are paraded before children growing up. Meanwhile, life in their own communities, movies, and magazines show them widespread violations of every moral code. These violations come with no claim to social reform.

The Samoan child faces no such dilemma. Sex is a natural, pleasurable thing; the freedom with which it may be indulged in is limited by just one consideration, social status. Chiefs’ daughters and chiefs’ wives should indulge in no extra-marital experiments. Responsible adults, heads of households and mothers of families should have too many important matters on hand to leave them much time for casual amorous adventures. Every one in the community agrees about the matter, the only dissenters are the missionaries who dissent so vainly that their protests are unimportant. But as soon as a sufficient sentiment gathers about the missionary attitude with its European standard of sex behaviour, the need for choice, the forerunner of conflict, will enter into Samoan society.

The Samoan child faces no such dilemma. Sex is natural and pleasurable. The freedom to engage in sex is limited by just one consideration: social status. Chiefs’ daughters and chiefs’ wives should not experiment with sex outside marriage. Responsible adults, heads of households, and mothers should have too many important responsibilities to leave much time for casual affairs. Everyone in the community agrees on the matter. The only dissenters are the missionaries, whose protests are so ineffective that they do not matter. But once enough support builds for the missionaries’ attitude, with its European standard of sexual behavior, Samoan society will face choices. That need to choose will pave the way for conflict.

Our young people are faced by a series of different groups which believe different things and advocate different practices, and to each of which some trusted friend or relative may belong. So a girl’s father may be a Presbyterian, an imperialist, a vegetarian, a teetotaler, with a strong literary preference for Edmund Burke, a believer in the open shop and a high tariff, who believes that woman’s place is in the home, that young girls should wear corsets, not roll their stockings, not smoke, nor go riding with young men in the evening. But her mother’s father may be a Low Episcopalian, a believer in high living, a strong advocate of States’ Rights and the Monroe Doctrine, who reads Rabelais, likes to go to musical shows and horse races. Her aunt is an agnostic, an ardent advocate of woman’s rights, an internationalist who rests all her hopes on Esperanto, is devoted to Bernard Shaw, and spends her spare time in campaigns of anti-vivisection. Her elder brother, whom she admires exceedingly, has just spent two years at Oxford. He is an Anglo-Catholic, an enthusiast concerning all things mediæval, writes mystical poetry, reads Chesterton, and means to devote his life to seeking for the lost secret of mediæval stained glass. Her mother’s younger brother is an engineer, a strict materialist, who never recovered from reading Haeckel in his youth; he scorns art, believes that science will save the world, scoffs at everything that was said and thought before the nineteenth century, and ruins his health by experiments in the scientific elimination of sleep. Her mother is of a quietistic frame of mind, very much interested in Indian philosophy, a pacifist, a strict non-participator in life, who in spite of her daughter’s devotion to her will not make any move to enlist her enthusiasms. And this may be within the girl’s own household. Add to it the groups represented, defended, advocated by her friends, her teachers, and the books which she reads by accident, and the list of possible enthusiasms, of suggested allegiances, incompatible with one another, becomes appalling.

Our young people face many different groups with different beliefs and ways of doing things. A trusted friend or relative may belong to each group. So a girl’s father may be a Presbyterian, an imperialist, a vegetarian, and someone who never drinks alcohol. He may have a strong literary preference for Edmund Burke and support workplaces that do not require union membership. He may favor high tariffs and believe that a woman’s place is in the home. He may believe young girls should wear corsets and should not roll down their stockings or smoke. Nor should they go riding with young men in the evening. But her mother’s father may be a Low Episcopalian who believes in luxurious living. He may strongly support States’ Rights and the Monroe Doctrine. He may read Rabelais and enjoy musical shows and horse races. Her aunt is an agnostic, a passionate supporter of women’s rights, and an internationalist who places all her hopes in Esperanto. She is devoted to Bernard Shaw and spends her spare time campaigning against experiments on live animals. Her older brother, whom she admires enormously, has just spent two years at Oxford. He is an Anglo-Catholic, loves everything medieval, writes mystical poetry, and reads Chesterton. He plans to devote his life to discovering the lost secret of medieval stained glass. Her mother’s younger brother is an engineer and a strict materialist. He has never recovered from reading Haeckel in his youth. He scorns art and believes science will save the world. He scoffs at everything said and thought before the nineteenth century. He ruins his health with scientific experiments aimed at eliminating sleep. Her mother has a quiet, passive outlook and is deeply interested in Indian philosophy. She is a pacifist who strictly avoids taking an active part in life. Despite her daughter’s devotion, she makes no effort to draw her daughter into her own interests. And all these people may be in the girl’s own household. Add the groups her friends and teachers represent, defend, and promote, along with those in books she happens to read. The list of possible passions and suggested loyalties, all incompatible with one another, becomes overwhelming.

The Samoan girl’s choices are far otherwise. Her father is a member of the Church and so is her uncle. Her father lives in a village where there is good fishing, her uncle in a village where there are plenty of cocoanut crabs. Her father is a good fisherman and in his house there is plenty to eat; her uncle is a talking chief and his frequent presents of bark cloth provide excellent dance dresses. Her paternal grandmother, who lives with her uncle, can teach her many secrets of healing; her maternal grandmother, who lives with her mother, is an expert weaver of fans. The boys in her uncle’s village are admitted younger into the Aumaga and are not much fun when they come to call; but there are three boys in her own village whom she likes very much. And her great dilemma is whether to live with her father or her uncle, a frank, straightforward problem which introduces no ethical perplexities, no question of impersonal logic. Nor will her choice be taken as a personal matter, as the American girl’s allegiance to the views of one relative might be interpreted by her other relatives. The Samoans will be sure she chose one residence rather than the other for perfectly good reasons, the food was better, she had a lover in one village, or she had quarrelled with a lover in the other village. In each case she was making concrete choices within one recognised pattern of behaviour. She was never called upon to make choices involving an actual rejection of the standards of her social group, such as the daughter of Puritan parents, who permits indiscriminate caresses, must make in our society.

The Samoan girl’s choices are very different. Her father is a member of the Church, and so is her uncle. Her father lives in a village with good fishing. Her uncle lives in a village with plenty of coconut crabs. Her father is a good fisherman, and his household has plenty to eat. Her uncle is a talking chief, and his frequent gifts of bark cloth make excellent dance dresses. Her father’s mother lives with her uncle and can teach her many secrets of healing. Her mother’s mother lives with her mother and is an expert at weaving fans. The boys in her uncle’s village enter the Aumaga at a younger age. They are not much fun when they come to visit. But there are three boys in her own village whom she likes very much. Her great dilemma is whether to live with her father or her uncle. This is a clear, straightforward problem, with no ethical complications or questions of abstract logic. Nor will her choice be taken personally. By contrast, an American girl’s support for one relative’s views might be taken personally by her other relatives. The Samoans will be sure she chose one home over the other for perfectly good reasons. The food was better, she had a lover in one village, or she had quarreled with a lover in the other. In each case, she was making practical choices within a single accepted pattern of behavior. She was never asked to make choices that meant actually rejecting her social group’s standards. In our society, a daughter of Puritan parents who allows indiscriminate caresses must make just such a choice.

And not only are our developing children faced by a series of groups advocating different and mutually exclusive standards, but a more perplexing problem presents itself to them. Because our civilisation is woven of so many diverse strands, the ideas which any one group accepts will be found to contain numerous contradictions. So if the girl has given her allegiance whole-heartedly to some one group and has accepted in good faith their asseverations that they alone are right and all other philosophies of life are Antichrist and anathema, her troubles are still not over. While the less thoughtful receives her worst blows in the discovery that what father thinks is good, grandfather thinks is bad, and that things which are permitted at home are banned at school, the more thoughtful child has subtler difficulties in store for her. If she has philosophically accepted the fact that there are several standards among which she must choose, she may still preserve a childlike faith in the coherence of her chosen philosophy. Beyond the immediate choice which was so puzzling and hard to make, which perhaps involved hurting her parents or alienating her friends, she expects peace. But she has not reckoned with the fact that each of the philosophies with which she is confronted is itself but the half-ripened fruit of compromise. If she accept Christianity, she is immediately confused between the Gospel teachings concerning peace and the value of human life and the Church’s whole-hearted acceptance of war. The compromise made seventeen centuries ago between the Roman philosophy of war and domination, and the early Church doctrine of peace and humility, is still present to confuse the modern child. If she accepts the philosophic premises upon which the Declaration of Independence of the United States was founded, she finds herself faced with the necessity of reconciling the belief in the equality of man and our institutional pledges of equality of opportunity with our treatment of the Negro and the Oriental. The diversity of standards in present-day society is so striking that the dullest, the most incurious, cannot fail to notice it. And this diversity is so old, so embodied in semi-solutions, in those compromises between different philosophies which we call Christianity, or democracy, or humanitarianism, that it baffles the most intelligent, the most curious, the most analytical.

Our growing children face groups promoting different standards that cannot be reconciled. But they also face a more confusing problem. Because our civilization draws on so many different traditions, the ideas any one group accepts contain many contradictions. So a girl’s troubles are not over even if she has committed herself wholeheartedly to one group. She may sincerely accept the group’s claims that its views alone are right. She may believe that all other philosophies of life are the work of Antichrist and must be condemned. But she still faces difficulties. The less thoughtful girl suffers her worst shocks when she discovers that her father and grandfather disagree about what is good. She also discovers that things allowed at home are forbidden at school. But the more thoughtful child faces subtler difficulties. If she has accepted that several sets of standards exist and she must choose among them, another problem remains. She may still have a childlike faith that her chosen philosophy is consistent. She expects peace after making the immediate choice that was so confusing and difficult. That choice perhaps involved hurting her parents or alienating her friends. But she has overlooked something: each philosophy she encounters is itself only the partly developed result of compromise. If she accepts Christianity, she immediately faces a confusing conflict. The Gospels teach peace and the value of human life, while the Church wholeheartedly accepts war. Seventeen centuries ago, a compromise joined the Roman philosophy of war and domination with early Church teachings of peace and humility. That compromise still confuses the modern child. If she accepts the philosophical principles behind the United States Declaration of Independence, she faces another conflict. She must reconcile belief in human equality and our institutions’ promises of equal opportunity with our treatment of Black and Asian people. The variety of standards in today’s society is so striking that even the dullest and least curious cannot miss it. And this variety has existed for so long that it is built into partial solutions. These are the compromises between different philosophies that we call Christianity, democracy, or humanitarianism. So this variety baffles even the most intelligent, curious, and analytical people.

So for the explanation of the lack of poignancy in the choices of growing girls in Samoa, we must look to the temperament of the Samoan civilisation which discounts strong feeling. But for the explanation of the lack of conflict we must look principally to the difference between a simple, homogeneous primitive civilisation, a civilisation which changes so slowly that to each generation it appears static, and a motley, diverse, heterogeneous modern civilisation.

To explain why growing girls in Samoa feel little anguish over their choices, we must consider Samoan culture’s temperament. Samoan culture places little value on strong feelings. But to explain the lack of conflict, we must look mainly at the difference between two kinds of societies. One is a simple, uniform, primitive society, changing so slowly that each generation sees it as unchanging. The other is a modern society with a varied mix of cultures and ways of life.

And in making the comparison there is a third consideration, the lack of neuroses among the Samoans, the great number of neuroses among ourselves. We must examine the factors in the early education of the Samoan children which have fitted them for a normal, unneurotic development. The findings of the behaviourists and of the psychoanalysts alike lay great emphasis upon the enormous rôle which is played by the environment of the first few years. Children who have been given a bad start are often found to function badly later on when they are faced with important choices. And we know that the more severe the choice, the more conflict; the more poignancy is attached to the demands made upon the individual, the more neuroses will result. History, in the form of the last war, provided a stupendous illustration of the great number of maimed and handicapped individuals whose defects showed only under very special and terrible stress. Without the war, there is no reason to believe that many of these shell-shocked individuals might not have gone through life unremarked; the bad start, the fears, the complexes, the bad conditionings of early childhood, would never have borne positive enough fruit to attract the attention of society.

There is a third consideration in making this comparison: the absence of neuroses among Samoans and their frequency among ourselves. We must examine the factors in Samoan children’s early education that have prepared them for normal development without neuroses. Both behaviorists and psychoanalysts strongly emphasize the enormous role of a child’s environment during the first few years. Children given a bad start often struggle later when faced with important choices. And we know that the harder the choice, the greater the conflict. The more painful the demands placed on individuals, the more neuroses will result. The last war provided a striking historical example. Vast numbers of people had psychological injuries and limitations that became apparent only under extreme and terrible stress. Without the war, there is no reason to think many of these shell-shocked people could not have gone through life unnoticed. Their bad start, fears, complexes, and harmful conditioning in early childhood would never have produced effects obvious enough to attract society’s attention.

The implications of this observation are double. Samoa’s lack of difficult situations, of conflicting choice, of situations in which fear or pain or anxiety are sharpened to a knife edge will probably account for a large part of the absence of psychological maladjustment. Just as a low-grade moron would not be hopelessly handicapped in Samoa, although he would be a public charge in a large American city, so individuals with slight nervous instability have a much more favourable chance in Samoa than in America. Furthermore the amount of individualisation, the range of variation, is much smaller in Samoa. Within our wider limits of deviation there are inevitably found weak and non-resistant temperaments. And just as our society shows a greater development of personality, so also it shows a larger proportion of individuals who have succumbed before the complicated exactions of modern life.

This observation has two implications. Samoa lacks difficult situations, conflicting choices, and situations that make fear, pain, or anxiety unbearably intense. This lack probably explains much of the absence of psychological problems. A person with a significant intellectual disability would not be hopelessly disadvantaged in Samoa. Yet the same person would depend on public support in a large American city. Similarly, people with mild emotional instability have a much better chance in Samoa than in America. Furthermore, Samoa has much less individuality and a narrower range of differences between people. Our society allows a wider range of differences, which inevitably includes people with fragile temperaments who struggle to withstand pressure. And just as our society shows greater development of personality, a larger proportion of people also break down. They cannot cope with the complex demands of modern life.

Nevertheless, it is possible that there are factors in the early environment of the Samoan child which are particularly favourable to the establishment of nervous stability. Just as a child from a better home environment in our civilisation may be presumed to have a better chance under all circumstances it is conceivable that the Samoan child is not only handled more gently by its culture but that it is also better equipped for those difficulties which it does meet.

Nevertheless, some aspects of a Samoan child’s early environment may be especially helpful in developing emotional stability. In our civilization, a child from a better home environment may be assumed to have better chances under all circumstances. Similarly, Samoan culture may not only treat its children more gently. Samoan children may also be better prepared for the difficulties they do face.

Such an assumption is given force by the fact that little Samoan children pass apparently unharmed through experiences which often have grave effects on individual development in our civilisation. Our life histories are filled with the later difficulties which can be traced back to some early, highly charged experience with sex or with birth or death. And yet Samoan children are familiarised at an early age and without disaster, with all three. It is very possible that there are aspects of the life of the young child in Samoa which equip it particularly well for passing through life without nervous instability.

This assumption gains support from the experiences young Samoan children seem to pass through unharmed. In our society, such experiences often have serious effects on individual development. Our life histories are full of later difficulties traceable to an early, emotionally intense experience involving sex, birth, or death. Yet Samoan children become familiar with all three at an early age, without disastrous effects. Some aspects of early childhood in Samoa may well prepare children especially well to go through life without emotional instability.

With this hypothesis in mind it is worth while to consider in more detail which parts of the young child’s social environment are most strikingly different from ours. Most of these centre about the family situation, the environment which impinges earliest and most intensely upon the child’s consciousness. The organisation of a Samoan household eliminates at one stroke, in almost all cases, many of the special situations which are believed to be productive of undesirable emotional sets. The youngest, the oldest, and the only child, hardly ever occur because of the large number of children in a household, all of whom receive the same treatment. Few children are weighted down with responsibility, or rendered domineering and overbearing as eldest children so often are, or isolated, condemned to the society of adults and robbed of the socialising effect of contact with other children, as only children so often are. No child is petted and spoiled until its view of its own deserts is hopelessly distorted, as is so often the fate of the youngest child. But in the few cases where Samoan family life does approximate ours, the special attitudes incident to order of birth and to close affectional ties with the parent tend to develop.

With this hypothesis in mind, it is worth examining how young children’s social surroundings differ most sharply from ours. Most of these differences concern family life, which shapes children’s awareness earlier and more intensely than any other surroundings. In almost all cases, the Samoan household’s structure removes many situations believed to produce undesirable emotional patterns. The special positions of youngest, oldest, and only child hardly ever arise. This is because households contain many children, all of whom receive the same treatment. Few children are burdened with responsibility or made domineering and overbearing, as eldest children so often are. Few are isolated, confined to adult company, and denied the social benefits of contact with other children. Only children so often experience this isolation. No child is pampered and spoiled until their sense of what they deserve becomes hopelessly distorted. Yet this is so often the fate of the youngest child. But in the few cases where Samoan family life resembles ours, similar special attitudes tend to develop. These attitudes are associated with birth order and close emotional ties to a parent.

The close relationship between parent and child, which has such a decisive influence upon so many in our civilisation, that submission to the parent or defiance of the parent may become the dominating pattern of a lifetime, is not found in Samoa. Children reared in households where there are a half dozen adult women to care for them and dry their tears, and a half dozen adult males, all of whom represent constituted authority, do not distinguish their parents as sharply as our children do. The image of the fostering, loving mother, or the admirable father, which may serve to determine affectional choices later in life, is a composite affair, composed of several aunts, cousins, older sisters and grandmothers; of chief, father, uncles, brothers and cousins. Instead of learning as its first lesson that here is a kind mother whose special and principal care is for its welfare, and a father whose authority is to be deferred to, the Samoan baby learns that its world is composed of a hierarchy of male and female adults, all of whom can be depended upon and must be deferred to.

In our society, the close bond between parent and child has a decisive influence on so many people. Obeying or defying a parent may become the dominant pattern of a lifetime. This close bond is not found in Samoa. Children grow up in households with half a dozen adult women to care for them and dry their tears. There are also half a dozen adult men, all of whom have recognized authority. So children do not distinguish their parents from other adults as sharply as our children do. The image of a nurturing, loving mother or an admirable father may shape choices about love later in life. In Samoa, this image combines several aunts, cousins, older sisters, and grandmothers, or a chief, father, uncles, brothers, and cousins. A Samoan baby's first lesson is not that a kind mother's special and main concern is the baby's well-being. Nor is the lesson that a father's authority must be respected. Instead, the baby learns that the world consists of a hierarchy of adult men and women. All these adults can be relied on, and all must be obeyed.

The lack of specialised feeling which results from this diffusion of affection in the household is further reinforced by the segregation of the boys from the girls, so that a child regards the children of the opposite sex as taboo relatives, regardless of individuality, or as present enemies and future lovers, again regardless of individuality. And the substitution of relationship for preference in forming friendships completes the work. By the time she reaches puberty the Samoan girl has learned to subordinate choice in the selection of friends or lovers to an observance of certain categories. Friends must be relatives of one’s own sex; lovers, non-relatives. All claim of personal attraction or congeniality between relatives of opposite sex must be flouted. All of this means that casual sex relations carry no onus of strong attachment, that the marriage of convenience dictated by economic and social considerations is easily born and casually broken without strong emotion.

Affection is spread throughout the household, leaving little room for feelings focused on particular people. The separation of boys and girls further reinforces this lack of individual attachment. As a result, a child sees children of the opposite sex as relatives subject to taboos, regardless of individuality. Or the child sees them as current enemies and future lovers, again regardless of individuality. Forming friendships based on family relationships rather than personal preference completes the process. By puberty, the Samoan girl has learned to put certain categories ahead of personal choice when choosing friends or lovers. Friends must be relatives of her own sex. Lovers must not be relatives. All personal attraction or compatibility between relatives of opposite sexes must be rejected. All these practices mean that casual sexual relationships carry no burden of strong attachment. Marriages of convenience, dictated by economic and social considerations, are easily accepted and casually ended without strong emotion.

Nothing could present a sharper contrast to the average American home, with its small number of children, the close, theoretically permanent tie between the parents, the drama of the entrance of each new child upon the scene and the deposition of the last baby. Here the growing girl learns to depend upon a few individuals, to expect the rewards of life from certain kinds of personalities. With this first set towards preference in personal relations she grows up playing with boys as well as with girls, learning to know well brothers and cousins and schoolmates. She does not think of boys as a class but as individuals, nice ones like the brother of whom she is fond, or disagreeable, domineering ones, like a brother with whom she is always on bad terms. Preference in physical make-up, in temperament, in character, develops and forms the foundations for a very different adult attitude in which choice plays a vivid rôle. The Samoan girl never tastes the rewards of romantic love as we know it, nor does she suffer as an old maid who has appealed to no lover or found no lover appealing to her, or as the frustrated wife in a marriage which has not fulfilled her high demands.

Nothing could contrast more sharply with the average American home. There, children are few, and the parents share a close bond that is, in theory, permanent. Each new child’s arrival brings drama, as the youngest child loses the place of the baby. In the American home, a growing girl learns to depend on a few people. She learns to expect life’s rewards from people with certain kinds of personalities. With this early tendency toward personal preferences, she grows up playing with boys as well as girls. She gets to know her brothers, cousins, and schoolmates well. She thinks of boys not as a group but as individuals. Some are nice, like the brother she loves. Others are unpleasant and bossy, like a brother she is always on bad terms with. She develops preferences in physical appearance, temperament, and character. These preferences lay the foundation for a very different adult outlook, in which choice plays a prominent role. The Samoan girl never experiences the rewards of romantic love as we know it. Nor does she suffer as an unmarried woman who has attracted no lover or found no lover attractive. Nor does she suffer as a frustrated wife whose marriage has failed to meet her high expectations.

Having learned a little of the art of disciplining sex feeling into special channels approved by the whole personality, we will be inclined to account our solution better than the Samoans. To attain what we consider a more dignified standard of personal relations we are willing to pay the penalty of frigidity in marriage and a huge toll of barren, unmarried women who move in unsatisfied procession across the American and English stage. But while granting the desirability of this development of sensitive, discriminating response to personality, as a better basis for dignified human lives than an automatic, undifferentiated response to sex attraction, we may still, in the light of Samoan solutions, count our methods exceedingly expensive. The strict segregation of related boys and girls, the institutionalised hostility between pre-adolescent children of opposite sexes in Samoa are cultural features with which we are completely out of sympathy. For the vestiges of such attitudes, expressed in our one-sex schools, we are trying to substitute coeducation, to habituate one sex to another sufficiently so that difference of sex will be lost sight of in the more important and more striking differences in personality. There are no recognisable gains in the Samoan system of taboo and segregation, of response to a group rather than response to an individual. But when we contrast the other factor of difference the conclusion is not so sure. What are the rewards of the tiny, ingrown, biological family opposing its closed circle of affection to a forbidding world, of the strong ties between parents and children, ties which imply an active personal relation from birth until death? Specialisation of affection, it is true, but at the price of many individuals’ preserving through life the attitudes of dependent children, of ties between parents and children which successfully defeat the children’s attempts to make other adjustments, of necessary choices made unnecessarily poignant because they become issues in an intense emotional relationship. Perhaps these are too heavy prices to pay for a specialisation of emotion which might be brought about in other ways, notably through coeducation. And with such a question in our minds it is interesting to note that a larger family community, in which there are several adult men and women, seems to ensure the child against the development of the crippling attitudes which have been labelled Œdipus complexes, Electra complexes, and so on.

We have learned something about directing sexual feelings into particular channels that fit our personality as a whole. So we will tend to judge our solution better than the Samoans’. To reach what we consider a more dignified standard of personal relationships, we are willing to pay a price. We accept sexual coldness in marriage and the enormous toll of childless, unmarried women living unsatisfied lives across America and England. We may agree that a sensitive response to individual personalities is desirable. Such a selective response offers a better basis for dignified human lives than an automatic, indiscriminate response to sexual attraction. But in light of Samoan solutions, we may still consider our methods extremely costly. We strongly disagree with Samoa’s strict separation of related boys and girls and its socially established hostility between pre-adolescent children of opposite sexes. Remnants of these attitudes remain in our single-sex schools, which we are trying to replace with coeducation. We want boys and girls to become familiar enough with one another to overlook differences of sex. The more important and striking differences in personality would then stand out instead. There are no clear gains in the Samoan system of taboos and separation, or in responding to groups rather than individuals. But when we compare the other difference, the conclusion is less certain. What are the rewards of the small, inward-looking biological family, with its closed circle of affection facing a threatening world? What are the rewards of strong parent-child ties that involve an active personal relationship from birth to death? Affection becomes more focused, certainly, but at a price. Many people remain emotionally dependent children throughout their lives. Parent-child ties can prevent children from successfully adapting to other relationships and circumstances. Necessary choices become needlessly painful because those choices become conflicts within an intense emotional relationship. Perhaps these prices are too high for a focusing of emotion that might be achieved in other ways, especially through coeducation. With that question in mind, one observation is interesting. A larger family community, with several adult men and women, seems to protect children from developing certain crippling attitudes. These attitudes have been called Œdipus complexes, Electra complexes, and so on.

The Samoan picture shows that it is not necessary to channel so deeply the affection of a child for its parents and suggests that while we would reject that part of the Samoan scheme which holds no rewards for us, the segregation of the sexes before puberty, we may learn from a picture in which the home does not dominate and distort the life of the child.

Samoan life shows that we do not need to channel a child's affection for their parents so deeply. We would reject the Samoan practice of separating the sexes before puberty, which offers us no benefits. But Samoan life suggests we may learn from a way of living in which the home does not dominate and distort a child's life.

The presence of many strongly held and contradictory points of view and the enormous influence of individuals in the lives of their children in our country play into each other’s hands in producing situations fraught with emotion and pain. In Samoa the fact that one girl’s father is a domineering, dogmatic person, her cousin’s father a gentle, reasonable person, and another cousin’s father a vivid, brilliant, eccentric person, will influence the three girls in only one respect, choice of residence if any one of the three fathers is the head of a household. But the attitudes of the three girls towards sex, and towards religion, will not be affected by the different temperaments of their three fathers, for the fathers play too slight a rôle in their lives. They are schooled not by an individual but by an army of relatives into a general conformity upon which the personality of their parents has a very slight effect. And through an endless chain of cause and effect, individual differences of standard are not perpetuated through the children’s adherence to the parents’ position, nor are children thrown into bizarre, untypical attitudes which might form the basis for departure and change. It is possible that where our own culture is so charged with choice, it would be desirable to mitigate, at least in some slight measure, the strong rôle which parents play in children’s lives, and so eliminate one of the most powerful accidental factors in the choices of any individual life.

In our country, people hold many strong and conflicting views, and parents have enormous influence over their children’s lives. These two forces reinforce each other, creating situations full of emotion and pain. In Samoa, one girl’s father may be domineering and dogmatic, her cousin’s father gentle and reasonable. Another cousin’s father may be lively, brilliant, and eccentric. These differences will affect the three girls in only one way: their choice of where to live. Even that depends on whether any of the three fathers heads a household. But the fathers’ different temperaments will not affect the girls’ attitudes toward sex or religion. The fathers play too small a role in their lives. An army of relatives, rather than one person, teaches the girls to conform to shared standards. Their parents’ personalities have very little effect on this conformity. Through an endless chain of cause and effect, children do not carry on individual differences in standards by adopting their parents’ views. Nor are children pushed into strange, unusual attitudes that might become a basis for breaking away and making changes. In our own culture, where so much depends on choice, perhaps parents’ strong influence over children should be reduced somewhat. Doing so would remove one of the most powerful factors that shape an individual’s choices purely by chance.

The Samoan parent would reject as unseemly and odious an ethical plea made to a child in terms of personal affection. “Be good to please mother.” “Go to church for father’s sake.” “Don’t be so disagreeable to your sister, it makes father so unhappy.” Where there is one standard of conduct and only one, such undignified confusion of ethics and affection is blessedly eliminated. But where there are many standards and all adults are striving desperately to bind their own children to the particular courses which they themselves have chosen, recourse is had to devious and non-reputable means. Beliefs, practices, courses of action, are pressed upon the child in the name of filial loyalty. In our ideal picture of the freedom of the individual and the dignity of human relations it is not pleasant to realise that we have developed a form of family organisation which often cripples the emotional life, and warps and confuses the growth of many individuals’ power to consciously live their own lives. The third element in the Samoan pattern of lack of personal relationships and lack of specialised affection, is the case of friendship. Here, most of all, individuals are placed in categories and the response is to the category, “relative,” or “wife of my husband’s talking chief,” or “son of my father’s talking chief,” or “daughter of my father’s talking chief.” Consideration of congeniality, of like-mindedness, are all ironed out in favour of regimented associations. Such attitudes we would of course reject completely.

A Samoan parent would find it improper and offensive to appeal to a child’s sense of right and wrong through personal affection. “Be good to please mother.” “Go to church for father’s sake.” “Don’t be so disagreeable to your sister, it makes father so unhappy.” Where there is one standard of conduct and only one, thankfully, there is no such undignified mixing of morality and affection. But where there are many standards, all adults struggle desperately to bind their children to the paths they themselves have chosen. In doing so, adults turn to underhanded and disreputable methods. They press beliefs, practices, and ways of acting on children in the name of loyalty to parents. Our ideal is individual freedom and dignity in human relationships. Given that ideal, it is unpleasant to recognize what our form of family life often does. It cripples emotional life and distorts and confuses many individuals’ growing ability to live their own lives consciously. The third element in the Samoan pattern of limited personal relationships and limited affection for particular people concerns friendship. Here, more than anywhere else, people are placed in categories and treated according to those categories: “relative,” or “wife of my husband’s talking chief,” or “son of my father’s talking chief,” or “daughter of my father’s talking chief.” Whether people enjoy each other’s company or think alike is set aside in favor of prescribed relationships. We would, of course, reject such attitudes completely.

Drawing the threads of this particular discussion together, we may say that one striking difference between Samoan society and our own is the lack of the specialisation of feeling, and particularly of sex feeling, among the Samoans. To this difference is undoubtedly due a part of the lack of difficulty of marital adjustments in a marriage of convenience, and the lack of frigidity or psychic impotence. This lack of specialisation of feeling must be attributed to the large heterogeneous household, the segregation of the sexes before adolescence, and the regimentation of friendship—chiefly along relationship lines. And yet, although we deplore the prices in maladjusted and frustrated lives, which we must pay for the greater specialisation of sex feeling in our own society, we nevertheless vote the development of specialised response as a gain which we would not relinquish. But an examination of these three causal factors suggests that we might accomplish our desired end, the development of a consciousness of personality, through coeducation and free and unregimented friendships, and possibly do away with the evils inherent in the too intimate family organisation, thus eliminating a part of our penalty of maladjustment without sacrificing any of our dearly bought gains.

To sum up this discussion, one striking difference between Samoan society and our own concerns how feelings are focused. Among Samoans, feelings, especially sexual feelings, are less focused on particular individuals. This difference undoubtedly helps explain why marriages of convenience involve so few difficulties in adjusting to married life. It also helps explain the absence of frigidity or psychologically caused impotence. This less focused feeling must be attributed to three factors: large households with varied members, separation of the sexes before adolescence, and tightly regulated friendships, chiefly based on kinship. In our own society, we deplore the troubled and frustrated lives that greater selectivity in sexual feeling costs us. Yet we still consider this selective response a gain we would not give up. But examining these three causes suggests another way to achieve our goal of developing an awareness of individuality. We might achieve that goal through educating boys and girls together and allowing free, unregulated friendships. We might also eliminate the harms inherent in an overly close family structure. We could thus remove some of the difficulties we pay for our gains without sacrificing those hard-won gains.

The next great difference between Samoa and our own culture which may be credited with a lower production of maladjusted individuals is the difference in the attitude towards sex and the education of the children in matters pertaining to birth and death. None of the facts of sex or of birth are regarded as unfit for children, no child has to conceal its knowledge for fear of punishment or ponder painfully over little-understood occurrences. Secrecy, ignorance, guilty knowledge, faulty speculations resulting in grotesque conceptions which may have far-reaching results, a knowledge of the bare physical facts of sex without a knowledge of the accompanying excitement, of the fact of birth without the pains of labour, of the fact of death without the fact of corruption—all the chief flaws in our fatal philosophy of sparing children a knowledge of the dreadful truth—are absent In Samoa. Furthermore, the Samoan child who participates intimately in the lives of a host of relatives has many and varied experiences upon which to base its emotional attitudes. Our children, confined within one family circle (and such confinement is becoming more and more frequent with the growth of cities and the substitution of apartment houses with a transitory population for a neighbourhood of house-holders), often owe their only experience with birth or death to the birth of a younger brother or sister or the death of a parent or grandparent. Their knowledge of sex, aside from children’s gossip, comes from an accidental glimpse of parental activity. This has several very obvious disadvantages. In the first place, the child is dependent for its knowledge upon birth and death entering its own home; the youngest child in a family where there are no deaths may grow to adult life without ever having had any close knowledge of pregnancy, experience with young children, or contact with death.

The next major difference between Samoa and our own culture concerns attitudes toward sex and children’s education about birth and death. This difference may help explain why Samoa produces fewer people with emotional difficulties. No facts about sex or birth are considered unsuitable for children. No child has to hide their knowledge for fear of punishment or struggle to understand things they have barely understood. In our culture, secrecy, ignorance, and guilty knowledge are chief flaws in our disastrous approach to protecting children from dreadful truths. So are mistaken guesses that lead to distorted ideas with potentially far-reaching consequences. Children learn the basic physical facts of sex without learning about the excitement that accompanies sex. They learn about birth without learning about labor pains, and about death without learning about decay. All these flaws are absent in Samoa. Furthermore, Samoan children share closely in the lives of many relatives. These children have many different experiences on which to base their emotional attitudes. Our children are limited to one family circle. Such limits are becoming more common as cities grow. Apartment buildings with constantly changing residents are replacing neighborhoods of people who own their homes. Often, our children’s only experience of birth is the birth of a younger brother or sister. Their only experience of death is often the death of a parent or grandparent. Apart from children’s gossip, their knowledge of sex comes from accidentally seeing their parents having sex. This limited experience has several very obvious disadvantages. First, children depend on birth and death occurring in their own homes to learn about these events. The youngest child in a family where no one dies may reach adulthood without any close knowledge of pregnancy. That child may also have no experience with young children or contact with death.

A host of ill-digested fragmentary conceptions of life and death will fester in the ignorant, inexperienced mind and provide a fertile field for the later growth of unfortunate attitudes. Second, such children draw their experiences from too emotionally toned a field; one birth may be the only one with which they come in close contact for the first twenty years of their lives. And upon the accidental aspects of this particular birth their whole attitude is dependent. If the birth is that of a younger child who usurps the elder’s place, if the mother dies in child bed, or if the child which is born is deformed, birth may seem a horrible thing, fraught with only unwelcome consequences. If the only death bed at which one has ever watched is the death bed of one’s mother, the bare fact of death may carry all the emotion which that bereavement aroused, carry forever an effect out of all proportion to the particular deaths encountered later in life. And intercourse seen only once or twice, between relatives towards whom the child has complicated emotional attitudes, may produce any number of false assumptions. Our records of maladjusted children are full of cases where children have misunderstood the nature of the sexual act, have interpreted it as struggle accompanied by anger, or as chastisement, have recoiled in terror from one highly charged experience. So our children are dependent upon accident for their experience of life and death; and those experiences which they are vouchsafed, lie within the intimate family circle and so are the worst possible way of learning general facts about which it is important to acquire no special, distorted attitudes. One death, two births, one sex experience, is a generous total for the child brought up under living conditions which we consider consonant with an American standard of living. And considering the number of illustrations which we consider it necessary to give of how to calculate the number of square feet of paper necessary to paper a room eight feet by twelve feet by fourteen feet, or how to parse an English sentence, this is a low standard of illustration. It might be argued that these are experiences of such high emotional tone that repetition is unnecessary. It might also be argued if a child were severely beaten before being given its first lesson in calculating how to paper a room, and as a sequel to the lesson, saw its father hit its mother with the poker, it would always remember that arithmetic lesson. But what it would know about the real nature of the calculations involved in room-papering is doubtful. In one or two experiences, the child is given no perspective, no chance to relegate the grotesque and unfamiliar physical details of the life process to their proper place. False impressions, part impressions, repulsion, nausea, horror, grow up about some fact experienced only once under intense emotional stress and in an atmosphere unfavourable to the child’s attaining any real understanding.

Many poorly understood, half-formed ideas about life and death will fester in an ignorant, inexperienced mind. These ideas will provide fertile ground for harmful attitudes to develop later. Second, such children gain their experiences in settings too charged with emotion. They may closely encounter only one birth in the first twenty years of their lives. And their whole attitude toward birth depends on the chance circumstances of that particular birth. The newborn may be a younger sibling who takes the older child’s place. The mother may die in childbirth, or the baby may be born with physical deformities. If any of these things happen, birth may seem horrible, bringing only unwelcome consequences. If someone has watched only their mother die, death itself may carry all the emotion of that loss. That emotional impact may last forever, far outweighing the impact of particular deaths encountered later in life. And seeing sexual intercourse only once or twice may lead a child to any number of false assumptions. This is especially so when the people involved are relatives toward whom the child has complicated feelings. Our records of children with adjustment problems are full of cases in which children have misunderstood sex. They have seen it as a struggle involving anger, or as punishment. They have recoiled in terror from one highly charged experience. So our children depend on chance for their experience of life and death. And the experiences they do have occur within the close family circle. These family experiences are therefore the worst possible way to learn general facts without developing particular, distorted attitudes toward them. One death, two births, and one encounter with sex would be a generous total for a child raised this way. These are living conditions we consider consistent with an American standard of living. And consider how many examples we think necessary when teaching a child to calculate wallpaper requirements. We show how to calculate the square feet of paper needed for a room measuring eight by twelve by fourteen feet. Or consider how many examples we use to teach children to analyze the grammar of an English sentence. By comparison, we provide very few examples of life and death. One might argue that these experiences are so emotionally intense that repetition is unnecessary. One might also argue that a child would always remember an arithmetic lesson under certain conditions. Suppose the child was severely beaten before a first lesson in calculating how much wallpaper a room needs. Suppose that, after the lesson, the child saw their father hit their mother with a fireplace poker. But how much the child would understand about the actual calculations needed for wallpapering is doubtful. One or two experiences give the child no perspective. The child has no chance to put the grotesque and unfamiliar physical details of life’s processes in their proper place. False and partial impressions, disgust, nausea, and horror develop around something experienced only once under intense emotional stress. And the surrounding atmosphere works against the child gaining any real understanding.

A standard of reticence which forbids the child any sort of comment upon its experiences makes for the continuance of such false impressions, such hampering emotional attitudes, questions such as, “Why were grandma’s lips so blue?” are promptly hushed. In Samoa, where decomposition sets in almost at once, a frank, naïve repugnance to the odours of corruption on the part of all the participants at a funeral robs the physical aspect of death of any special significance. So, in our arrangements, the child is not allowed to repeat his experiences, and he is not permitted to discuss those which he has had and correct his mistakes.

A rule of silence that forbids children from commenting on their experiences keeps such false impressions and limiting emotional attitudes alive. Questions such as, “Why were grandma’s lips so blue?” are quickly hushed. In Samoa, where bodies begin to decompose almost immediately, everyone at a funeral shows an open, simple disgust at the smell of decay. This shared reaction strips the physical side of death of any special significance. So, under our customs, children are not allowed to repeat their experiences. Nor are they allowed to discuss the experiences they have had and correct their misunderstandings.

With the Samoan child it is profoundly different. Intercourse, pregnancy, child birth, death, are all familiar occurrences. And the Samoan child experiences them in no such ordered fashion as we, were we to decide for widening the child’s experimental field, would regard as essential. In a civilisation which suspects privacy, children of neighbours will be accidental and unemotional spectators in a house where the head of the household is dying or the wife is delivered of a miscarriage. The pathology of the life processes is known to them, as well as the normal. One impression corrects an earlier one until they are able, as adolescents, to think about life and death and emotion without undue preoccupation with the purely physical details.

For the Samoan child, the experience is profoundly different. Sex, pregnancy, childbirth, and death are all familiar events. And Samoan children do not experience these events in any planned order. We would consider such an order essential if we decided to broaden children’s firsthand experience. In a society that distrusts privacy, neighbors’ children may happen to witness events in another household without an emotional reaction. The head of the household may be dying, or his wife may be having a miscarriage. The children know about complications in these life processes as well as their normal course. Each new impression corrects an earlier one. By adolescence, they can think about life, death, and emotion without focusing too much on purely physical details.

It must not be supposed, however, that the mere exposure of children to scenes of birth and death would be a sufficient guarantee against the growth of undesirable attitudes. Probably even more influential than the facts which are so copiously presented to them, is the attitude of mind with which their elders regard the matter. To them, birth and sex and death are the natural, inevitable structure of existence, of an existence in which they expect their youngest children to share. Our so often repeated comment that “it’s not natural” for children to be permitted to encounter death would seem as incongruous to them as if we were to say it was not natural for children to see other people eat or sleep. And this calm, matter-of-fact acceptance of their children’s presence envelops the children in a protective atmosphere, saves them from shock and binds them closer to the common emotion which is so dignifiedly permitted them.

However, we should not assume that simply exposing children to birth and death would prevent undesirable attitudes from developing. The attitudes of their elders probably matter even more than the many facts the children encounter. These elders see birth, sex, and death as natural, inevitable parts of life. They expect even their youngest children to share in that life. We so often say that “it’s not natural” to let children encounter death. To these elders, that comment would seem as strange as saying children should not see other people eat or sleep. And the elders’ calm, matter-of-fact acceptance of their children’s presence surrounds the children with a protective atmosphere. That acceptance shields the children from shock. It also draws them closer to the shared feelings they are allowed to experience with such dignity.

As in every case, it is here impossible to separate attitude from practice and say which is primary. The distinction is made only for our use in another civilisation. The individual American parents, who believe in a practice like the Samoan, and permit their children to see adult human bodies and gain a wider experience of the functioning of the human body than is commonly permitted in our civilisation, are building upon sand. For the child, as soon as it leaves the protecting circle of its home, is blasted by an attitude which regards such experience in children as ugly and unnatural. As likely as not, the attempt of the individual parents will have done the child more harm than good, for the necessary supporting social attitude is lacking. This is just a further example of the possibilities of maladjustment inherent in a society where each home differs from each other home; for it is in the fact of difference that the strain lies rather than in the nature of the difference.

Here, as in every case, we cannot separate attitudes from practices or say which comes first. We make the distinction only to apply it in another society. Individual American parents who believe in practices like the Samoan ones are building on sand. These parents let their children see adult human bodies and learn more about how the human body works. Such experience goes beyond what our society usually allows. As soon as children leave the protective circle of home, however, they face a harshly opposing attitude. Society regards such experience in children as ugly and unnatural. The parents’ efforts are as likely as not to do their children more harm than good. The social support needed for these practices is missing. This is another example of the potential for adjustment problems in a society where every home differs from every other. The strain comes from the differences themselves, rather than from what those differences are.

Upon this quiet acceptance of the physical facts of life, the Samoans build, as they grow older, an acceptance of sex. Here again it is necessary to sort out which parts of their practice seem to produce results which we certainly deprecate, and which produce results which we desire. It is possible to analyse Samoan sex practice from the standpoint of development of personal relationships on the one hand, and of the obviation of specific difficulties upon the other.

As Samoans grow older, they build an acceptance of sex on their quiet acceptance of life's physical facts. Again, we need to distinguish between practices that produce results we clearly disapprove of and those producing results we want. We can analyze Samoan sexual practices from two perspectives: how personal relationships develop and how specific difficulties are avoided.

We have seen that the Samoans have a low level of appreciation of personality differences, and a poverty of conception of personal relations. To such an attitude the acceptance of promiscuity undoubtedly contributes. The contemporaneousness of several experiences, their short duration, the definite avoidance of forming any affectional ties, the blithe acceptance of the dictates of a favourable occasion, as in the expectation of infidelity in any wife whose husband is long from home, all serve to make sex an end rather than a means, something which is valued in itself, and deprecated inasmuch as it tends to bind one individual to another. Whether such a disregard of personal relations is completely contingent upon the sex habits of the people is doubtful. It probably is also a reflection of a more general cultural attitude in which personality is consistently disregarded. But there is one respect in which these very practices make possible a recognition of personality which is often denied to many in our civilisation, because, from the Samoans’ complete knowledge of sex, its possibilities and its rewards, they are able to count it at its true value. And if they have no preference for reserving sex activity for important relationships, neither do they regard relationships as important because they are productive of sex satisfaction. The Samoan girl who shrugs her shoulder over the excellent technique of some young Lothario is nearer to the recognition of sex as an impersonal force without any intrinsic validity, than is the sheltered American girl who falls in love with the first man who kisses her. From their familiarity with the reverberations which accompany sex excitement comes this recognition of the essential impersonality of sex attraction which we may well envy them; from the too slight, too casual practice comes the disregard of personality which seems to us unlovely.

We have seen that Samoans have little appreciation of differences in personality and a limited understanding of personal relationships. Their acceptance of promiscuity undoubtedly contributes to this attitude. Several sexual experiences may overlap, each lasting only a short time. People deliberately avoid emotional ties and cheerfully take advantage of favorable opportunities. For example, they expect any wife to be unfaithful if her husband is away from home for long. All these practices make sex an end in itself rather than a means to something else. Sex is valued for its own sake and disapproved of when it tends to bind one person to another. Whether this disregard for personal relationships depends entirely on the people’s sexual habits is doubtful. It probably also reflects a broader cultural attitude that consistently disregards personality. But in one respect, these very practices allow a recognition of personality often denied to many in our civilization. Because Samoans thoroughly understand sex, its possibilities, and its rewards, they can judge its true worth. And if they do not prefer to reserve sex for important relationships, neither does sexual satisfaction make relationships important. A Samoan girl may shrug at the excellent technique of some young Lothario. She comes closer to recognizing sex as an impersonal force with no inherent significance than does a sheltered American girl. The American girl falls in love with the first man who kisses her. Familiarity with the responses that accompany sexual excitement gives Samoans this recognition of sexual attraction’s essentially impersonal nature. We may well envy them that recognition. But sexual practices that are too fleeting and too casual produce a disregard for personality that seems unattractive to us.

The fashion in which their sex practice reduces the possibility of neuroses has already been discussed. By discounting our category of perversion, as applied to practice, and reserving it for the occasional psychic pervert, they legislate a whole field of neurotic possibility out of existence. Onanism, homosexuality, statistically unusual forms of heterosexual activity, are neither banned nor institutionalised. The wider range which these practices give prevents the development of obsessions of guilt which are so frequent a cause of maladjustment among us. The more varied practices permitted heterosexually preserve any individual from being penalised for special conditioning. This acceptance of a wider range as “normal” provides a cultural atmosphere in which frigidity and psychic impotence do not occur and in which a satisfactory sex adjustment in marriage can always be established. The acceptance of such an attitude without in any way accepting promiscuity would go a long way towards solving many marital impasses and emptying our park benches and our houses of prostitution.

We have already discussed how their sexual practices reduce the possibility of neuroses. They reject our label of perversion for sexual practices, reserving it for the occasional person they consider psychologically perverse. By doing so, they rule out a whole range of possible neuroses. Masturbation, homosexuality, and statistically unusual forms of heterosexual activity are neither banned nor formally established as social practices. The wider sexual range these practices allow prevents obsessive guilt, which so often causes psychological difficulties in our society. The greater variety of permitted heterosexual practices protects individuals from being penalized for their particular conditioning. Accepting a wider range as “normal” creates a cultural atmosphere where sexual unresponsiveness and psychologically caused impotence do not occur. In this atmosphere, a satisfying sexual relationship can always be established in marriage. Adopting such an attitude, without in any way accepting promiscuity, would go far toward resolving many marital deadlocks. It would also go far toward emptying our park benches and brothels.

Among the factors in the Samoan scheme of life which are influential in producing stable, well-adjusted, robust individuals, the organisation of the family and the attitude towards sex are undoubtedly the most important. But it is necessary to note also the general educational concept which disapproves of precocity and coddles the slow, the laggard, the inept. In a society where the tempo of life was faster, the rewards greater, the amount of energy expended larger, the bright children might develop symptoms of boredom. But the slower pace dictated by the climate, the complacent, peaceful society, and the compensation of the dance, in its blatant precocious display of individuality which drains off some of the discontent which the bright child feels, prevent any child from becoming too bored. And the dullard is not goaded and dragged along faster than he is able until, sick with making an impossible effort, he gives up entirely. This educational policy also tends to blur individual differences and so to minimise jealousy, rivalry, emulation, those social attitudes which arise out of discrepancies of endowment and are so far-reaching in their effects upon the adult personality.

Family structure and attitudes toward sex undoubtedly matter most in producing stable, well-adjusted, robust individuals in Samoan life. But we must also note the general approach to education, which discourages early achievement and pampers slow, struggling, unskilled children. In a society with a faster pace, greater rewards, and more energy spent, bright children might show signs of boredom. But the climate dictates a slower pace, and society is contented and peaceful. Dance also offers an outlet through its bold display of individuality at an early age. Such displays release some of the bright child’s discontent. Together, these factors keep any child from becoming too bored. And a child who learns slowly is not pushed and dragged along faster than he can manage. He is not driven to give up entirely by the strain of an impossible effort. This educational approach also tends to blur individual differences and so reduce jealousy, rivalry, and efforts to outdo others. These social attitudes arise from differences in natural ability and have far-reaching effects on adult personality.

It is one way of solving the problem of differences between individuals and a method of solution exceedingly congenial to a strict adult world. The longer the child is kept in a subject, non-initiating state, the more of the general cultural attitude it will absorb, the less of a disturbing element it will become. Furthermore, if time is given them, the dullards can learn enough to provide a stout body of conservatives upon whose shoulders the burden of the civilisation can safely rest. Giving titles to young men would put a premium upon the exceptional; giving titles to men of forty, who have at last acquired sufficient training to hold them, assures the continuation of the usual. It also discourages the brilliant so that their social contribution is slighter than it might otherwise have been. We are slowly feeling our way towards a solution of this problem, at least in the case of formal education. Until very recently our educational system offered only two very partial solutions of the difficulties inherent in a great discrepancy between children of different endowment and different rates of development. One solution was to allow a sufficiently long time to each educational step so that all but the mentally defective could succeed, a method similar to the Samoan one and without its compensatory dance floor. The bright child, held back, at intolerably boring tasks, unless he was fortunate enough to find some other outlet for his unused energy, was likely to expend it upon truancy and general delinquency. Our only alternative to this was “skipping” a child from one grade to another, relying upon the child’s superior intelligence to bridge the gaps. This was a method congenial to American enthusiasm for meteoric careers from canal boat and log cabin to the White House. Its disadvantages in giving the child a sketchy, discontinuous background, in removing it from its age group, have been enumerated too often to need repetition here. But it is worthy of note that with a very different valuation of individual ability than that entertained by Samoan society we used for years one solution, similar and less satisfactory than theirs, in our formal educational attempts.

This is one way to handle differences between individuals, and it suits a strict adult world extremely well. The longer children remain subordinate and unable to take initiative, the more they absorb their culture’s general attitudes. They then become less of a disruptive force. Furthermore, given enough time, even slow learners can learn enough to form a solid body of conservatives. The burden of civilization can safely rest on their shoulders. Giving titles to young men would reward exceptional ability. Giving titles to men of forty, who have finally gained enough training to hold them, ensures that the usual continues. This practice also discourages brilliant people, making their contribution to society smaller than it might otherwise have been. We are slowly finding our way toward a solution to this problem, at least in formal education. Until very recently, our educational system offered only two very incomplete solutions. These addressed the difficulties caused by large differences in children’s abilities and rates of development. One solution allowed enough time for each educational stage so that all children except those with intellectual disabilities could succeed. This method resembled the Samoan approach, but without the dance floor that offered compensation. Bright children were held back, doing unbearably boring tasks. Unless they were lucky enough to find another outlet for their unused energy, they were likely to turn to truancy and general delinquency. Our only alternative was “skipping” children from one grade to another, relying on their superior intelligence to bridge the gaps. This method suited American enthusiasm for rapid rises from canal boat and log cabin to the White House. Its drawbacks have been listed too often to need repeating here. It gave children a patchy, disconnected educational foundation and separated them from their own age group. But one point deserves attention. We valued individual ability very differently from Samoan society. Yet for years, our formal education used one solution similar to theirs, but less satisfactory.

The methods which experimental educators are substituting for these unsatisfactory solutions, schemes like the Dalton Plan, or the rapidly moving classes in which a group of children can move ahead at a high, even rate of speed without hurt to themselves or to their duller fellows, is a striking example of the results of applying reason to the institutions of our society. The old red school-house was almost as haphazard and accidental a phenomenon as the Samoan dance floor. It was an institution which had grown up in response to a vaguely felt, unanalysed need. Its methods were analogous to the methods used by primitive peoples, non-rationalised solutions of pressing problems. But the institutionalisation of different methods of education for children of different capacities and different rates of development is not like anything which we find in Samoa or in any other primitive society. It is the conscious, intelligent directing of human institutions in response to observed human needs.

Experimental educators are replacing these unsatisfactory solutions with methods like the Dalton Plan or fast-moving classes. In these classes, groups of children can advance at a fast, steady pace without harming themselves or their slower classmates. These methods offer a striking example of what happens when reason is applied to our society’s institutions. The old red schoolhouse developed almost as haphazardly and accidentally as the Samoan dance floor. The schoolhouse was an institution that grew out of a vaguely felt need that no one had examined closely. Its methods resembled those used by primitive peoples: solutions to urgent problems developed without systematic reasoning. But establishing different teaching methods for children with different abilities and rates of development is unlike anything found in Samoa. Nor do we find anything like it in any other primitive society. Such an approach consciously and intelligently guides human institutions in response to observed human needs.

Still another factor in Samoan education which results in different attitudes is the place of work and play in the children’s lives. Samoan children do not learn to work through learning to play, as the children of many primitive peoples do. Nor are they permitted a period of lack of responsibility such as our children are allowed. From the time they are four or five years old they perform definite tasks, graded to their strength and intelligence, but still tasks which have a meaning in the structure of the whole society. This does not mean that they have less time for play than American children who are shut up in schools from nine to three o’clock every day. Before the introduction of schools to complicate the ordered routine of their lives, the time spent by the Samoan child in running errands, sweeping the house, carrying water, and taking actual care of the baby, was possibly less than that which the American school child devotes to her studies.

Another factor in Samoan education that leads to different attitudes is the role of work and play in children’s lives. Samoan children do not learn to work by learning to play, as children in many traditional societies do. Nor are Samoan children allowed a period without responsibilities, as our children are. From the age of four or five, Samoan children carry out specific tasks suited to their strength and intelligence. But these tasks still have a purpose within society as a whole. Having these responsibilities does not mean Samoan children have less time to play than American children. American children are kept in school from nine to three every day. Before schools were introduced, complicating the orderly routine of Samoan children’s lives, their chores possibly took less time. Running errands, sweeping the house, carrying water, and actually caring for the baby possibly took less time than American schoolchildren spent studying.

The difference lies not in the proportion of time in which their activities are directed and the proportion in which they are free, but rather in the difference of attitude. With the professionalisation of education and the specialisation of industrial tasks which has stripped the individual home of its former variety of activities, our children are not made to feel that the time they do devote to supervised activity is functionally related to the world of adult activity. Although this lack of connection is more apparent than real, it is still sufficiently vivid to be a powerful determinant in the child’s attitude. The Samoan girl who tends babies, carries water, sweeps the floor; or the little boy who digs for bait, or collects cocoanuts, has no such difficulty. The necessary nature of their tasks is obvious. And the practice of giving a child a task which he can do well and never permitting a childish, inefficient tinkering with adult apparatus, such as we permit to our children, who bang aimlessly and destructively on their fathers’ typewriters, results in a different attitude towards work. American children spend hours in schools learning tasks whose visible relation to their mothers’ and fathers’ activities is often quite impossible to recognise. Their participation in adults’ activities is either in terms of toys, tea-sets and dolls and toy automobiles, or else a meaningless and harmful tampering with the electric light system. (It must be understood that here, as always, when I say American, I do not mean those Americans recently arrived from Europe, who still present a different tradition of education. Such a group would be the Southern Italians, who still expect productive work from their children.)

The difference is not in how much time children spend in supervised activities and how much time they spend freely. Rather, the difference is in attitude. Education has become a profession, and industrial work has become specialized. These changes have taken away the variety of activities once done in individual homes. As a result, our children do not feel that their supervised activities have a practical connection to adult life. Although this lack of connection is more apparent than real, it still strongly shapes the child’s attitude. The Samoan girl who tends babies, carries water, or sweeps the floor has no such difficulty. Neither does the little boy who digs for bait or collects coconuts. The need for their work is obvious. Children are given tasks they can do well. They are never allowed to fiddle childishly and inefficiently with adult equipment. We, however, allow our children to bang aimlessly and destructively on their fathers’ typewriters. These different practices produce a different attitude toward work. American children spend hours in school learning tasks with often no recognizable connection to their mothers’ and fathers’ activities. Children take part in adult activities either through toys, such as tea sets, dolls, and toy cars. Or their involvement consists of pointless and harmful fiddling with the electrical system. (Here, as always, when I say American, I do not mean Americans who have recently arrived from Europe. These Americans still follow a different educational tradition. Southern Italians, for example, still expect their children to do productive work.)

So our children make a false set of categories, work, play, and school; work for adults, play for children’s pleasure, and schools as an inexplicable nuisance with some compensations. These false distinctions are likely to produce all sorts of strange attitudes, an apathetic treatment of a school which bears no known relation to life, a false dichotomy between work and play, which may result either in a dread of work as implying irksome responsibility or in a later contempt for play as childish.

So our children divide life into false categories: work, play, and school. Work is for adults, and play is for children’s pleasure. School is a nuisance with no clear purpose, though it offers some benefits. These false distinctions are likely to produce all sorts of strange attitudes. Children may become indifferent to school because it seems unrelated to life. The false division between work and play may lead them to fear work because it brings burdensome responsibilities. Or it may lead them, later in life, to look down on play as childish.

The Samoan child’s dichotomy is different. Work consists of those necessary tasks which keep the social life going: planting and harvesting and preparation of food, fishing, house-building, mat-making, care of children, collecting of property to validate marriages and births and succession to titles and to entertain strangers, these are the necessary activities of life, activities in which every member of the community, down to the smallest child, has a part. Work is not a way of acquiring leisure; where every household produces its own food and clothes and furniture, where there is no large amount of fixed capital and households of high rank are simply characterised by greater industry in the discharge of greater obligations, our whole picture of saving, of investment, of deferred enjoyment, is completely absent. (There is even a lack of clearly defined seasons of harvest, which would result in special abundance of food and consequent feasting. Food is always abundant, except in some particular village where a few weeks of scarcity may follow a period of lavish entertaining.) Rather, work is something which goes on all the time for every one; no one is exempt; few are overworked. There is social reward for the industrious, social toleration for the man who does barely enough. And there is always leisure—leisure, be it noted, which is not the result of hard work or accumulated capital at all, but is merely the result of a kindly climate, a small population, a well-integrated social system, and no social demands for spectacular expenditure. And play is what one does with the time left over from working, a way of filling in the wide spaces in a structure of unirksome work.

The Samoan child’s distinction between work and play is different. Work consists of the necessary tasks that keep social life going. These include planting, harvesting, preparing food, fishing, building houses, making mats, and caring for children. They also include gathering property to recognize marriages, births, and succession to titles, and to entertain strangers. These are life’s necessary activities, and every community member, down to the smallest child, has a part in them. Work is not a way to gain leisure. Every household produces its own food, clothes, and furniture. There is little fixed capital, such as buildings and equipment. High-ranking households are distinguished simply by working harder to meet their greater obligations. Under these conditions, our whole picture of saving, investment, and postponed enjoyment is completely absent. (There are not even clearly defined harvest seasons that would bring especially abundant food and feasting. Food is always abundant, except in a particular village where a few weeks of scarcity may follow lavish entertaining.) Instead, work goes on all the time for everyone. No one is exempt, and few are overworked. Society rewards hardworking people and tolerates the man who does barely enough. And there is always leisure. This leisure, it should be noted, does not come from hard work or accumulated capital at all. It comes simply from a mild climate, a small population, and a well-integrated social system. It also comes from the absence of social demands for extravagant spending. And play is what people do with the time left over from work. Play fills the wide gaps in a pattern of work that is not burdensome.

Play includes dancing, singing, games, weaving necklaces of flowers, flirting, repartee, all forms of sex activity. And there are social institutions like the ceremonial inter-village visit which partake of both work and play. But the distinctions between work as something one has to do but dislikes, and play as something one wants to do; of work as the main business of adults, play as the main concern of children, are conspicuously absent. Children’s play is like adults’ play in kind, interest, and in its proportion to work. And the Samoan child has no desire to turn adult activities into play, to translate one sphere into the other. I had a box of white clay pipes for blowing soap bubbles sent me. The children were familiar with soap bubbles, but their native method of blowing them was very inferior to the use of clay pipes. But after a few minutes’ delight in the unusual size and beauty of the soap bubbles, one little girl after another asked me if she might please take her pipe home to her mother, for pipes were meant to smoke, not to play with. Foreign dolls did not interest them, and they have no dolls of their own, although children of other islands weave dolls from the palm leaves from which Samoan children weave balls. They never make toy houses, nor play house, nor sail toy boats. Little boys would climb into a real outrigger canoe and practise paddling it within the safety of the lagoon. This whole attitude gave a greater coherence to the children’s lives than we often afford our children.

Play includes dancing, singing, games, making flower necklaces, flirting, witty exchanges, and all forms of sexual activity. And social institutions like ceremonial visits between villages combine work and play. But there is a striking absence of certain distinctions between work and play. Work is not seen as something people must do but dislike, and play as something they want to do. Nor is work seen as the main business of adults, and play as the main concern of children. Children’s play resembles adults’ play in its activities, its appeal, and the proportion of time spent on play versus work. And the Samoan child has no desire to turn adult activities into play, or to turn one sphere into another. I had a box of white clay pipes sent to me for blowing soap bubbles. The children knew about soap bubbles, but their traditional way of blowing bubbles was much less effective than using clay pipes. For a few minutes, the children delighted in the unusual size and beauty of the bubbles. But then one little girl after another asked if she could please take her pipe home to her mother. Pipes were meant for smoking, not playing. Foreign dolls did not interest the children, and they have no dolls of their own. Yet children on other islands weave dolls from the same palm leaves that Samoan children use to weave balls. Samoan children never make toy houses, play house, or sail toy boats. Little boys would climb into a real outrigger canoe and practice paddling within the safety of the lagoon. This whole attitude gave the children’s lives a greater sense of unity than we often give our own children’s lives.

The intelligibility of a child’s life among us is measured only in terms of the behaviour of other children. If all the other children go to school the child who does not feels incongruous in their midst. If the little girl next door is taking music lessons, why can’t Mary; or why must Mary take music lessons, if the other little girl doesn’t take them. But so sharp is our sense of difference between the concerns of children and of adults that the child does not learn to judge its own behaviour in relationship to adult life. So children often learn to regard play as something inherently undignified, and as adults mangle pitifully their few moments of leisure. But the Samoan child measures her every act of work or play in terms of her whole community; each item of conduct is dignified in terms of its realised relationship to the only standard she knows, the life of a Samoan village. So complex and stratified a society as ours cannot hope to develop spontaneously any such simple scheme of education. Again we will be hard put to it to devise ways of participation for children, and means of articulating their school life with the rest of life which will give them the same dignity which Samoa affords her children.

In our society, a child’s life makes sense only in relation to how other children behave. If all the other children go to school, the child who does not feels out of place among them. If the little girl next door takes music lessons, why can’t Mary? Or why must Mary take music lessons if the other little girl doesn’t? But we draw such a sharp line between children’s concerns and adults’ concerns that children miss an important connection. They do not learn to judge their own behavior in relation to adult life. So children often learn to see play as inherently undignified. As adults, they then make a sorry mess of their few moments of leisure. But the Samoan child measures every act of work or play against the life of her whole community. Each action gains dignity through its recognized connection to the only standard she knows: life in a Samoan village. A society as complex and layered as ours cannot hope for such a simple approach to education to develop naturally. Again, we will struggle to find ways for children to participate and to connect school life with the rest of life. Those connections must give children the same dignity that Samoa gives its children.

Last among the cultural differences which may influence the emotional stability of the child is the lack of pressure to make important choices. Children are urged to learn, urged to behave, urged to work, but they are not urged to hasten in the choices which they make themselves. The first point at which this attitude makes itself felt is in the matter of the brother and sister taboo, a cardinal point of modesty and decency. Yet the exact stage at which the taboo should be observed is always left to the younger child. When it reaches a point of discretion, of understanding, it will of itself feel “ashamed” and establish the formal barrier which will last until old age. Likewise, sex activity is never urged upon the young people, nor marriage forced upon them at a tender age. Where the possibilities of deviation from the accepted standard are so slight, a few years leeway holds no threat for the society. The child who comes later to a realisation of the brother and sister taboo really endangers nothing.

The last cultural difference that may affect a child’s emotional stability is the lack of pressure to make important choices. Children are urged to learn, behave, and work. But they are not urged to rush the choices they make for themselves. This attitude first appears in the taboo between brothers and sisters, a central rule of modesty and decency. Yet the exact age when the taboo should begin is always left to the younger child. When the younger child becomes mature enough to understand, the child will naturally feel “ashamed”. The child will then establish the formal barrier that will last until old age. Likewise, young people are never urged to become sexually active or forced to marry at an early age. Where there is so little room to depart from accepted standards, allowing a few extra years poses no threat to society. A child who takes longer to recognize the taboo between brothers and sisters really puts nothing at risk.

This laissez faire attitude has been carried over into the Samoan Christian Church. The Samoan saw no reason why young unmarried people should be pressed to make momentous decisions which would spoil part of their fun in life. Time enough for such serious matters after they were married or later still, when they were quite sure of what steps they were taking and were in less danger of falling from grace every month or so. The missionary authorities, realising the virtues of going slowly and sorely vexed to reconcile Samoan sex ethics with a Western European code, saw the great disadvantages of unmarried Church members who were not locked up in Church schools. Consequently, far from urging the adolescent to think upon her soul the native pastor advises her to wait until she is older, which she is only too glad to do.

This hands-off attitude has carried over into the Samoan Christian Church. Samoans saw no reason to pressure young unmarried people into major decisions that would spoil some of their fun. There would be time enough for such serious matters after marriage, or even later. By then, young people would be quite sure of their decisions and less likely to fall from grace every month or so. The missionary authorities recognized the value of taking things slowly. They also struggled greatly to reconcile Samoan sexual ethics with a Western European moral code. The authorities saw serious drawbacks to having unmarried Church members who were not shut away in Church schools. So, far from urging an adolescent girl to think about her soul, the Samoan pastor advises her to wait until she is older. She is only too glad to wait.

But, especially in the case of our Protestant churches, there is a strong preference among us for the appeal to youth. The Reformation, with its emphasis upon individual choice, was unwilling to accept the tacit habitual Church membership which was the Catholic pattern, a membership marked by additional sacramental gifts but demanding no sudden conversion, no renewal of religious feeling. But the Protestant solution is to defer the choice only so far as necessary, and the moment the child reaches an age which may be called “years of discretion” it makes a strong, dramatic appeal. This appeal is reinforced by parental and social pressure; the child is bidden to choose now and wisely. While such a position in the churches which stem from the Reformation and its strong emphasis on individual choice was historically inevitable, it is regrettable that the convention has lasted so long. It has even been taken over by non-sectarian reform groups, all of whom regard the adolescent child as the most legitimate field of activity.

But we strongly prefer appeals to young people, especially in our Protestant churches. The Reformation, with its emphasis on individual choice, rejected the Catholic pattern of church membership accepted without question through habit. Catholic membership brought additional sacramental gifts but required no sudden conversion or renewal of religious feeling. But the Protestant approach delays the choice only as long as necessary. As soon as children reach what may be called the “years of discretion,” the church makes a strong, dramatic appeal. Parental and social pressure reinforce this appeal. Children are told to choose now and to choose wisely. This approach was historically inevitable in churches that grew out of the Reformation and its strong emphasis on individual choice. Still, it is regrettable that the practice has lasted so long. Even reform groups without religious affiliations have adopted the practice. All these groups regard adolescents as the most appropriate focus for their work.

In all of these comparisons between Samoan and American culture, many points are useful only in throwing a spotlight upon our own solutions, while in others it is possible to find suggestions for change. Whether or not we envy other peoples one of their solutions, our attitude towards our own solutions must be greatly broadened and deepened by a consideration of the way in which other peoples have met the same problems. Realising that our own ways are not humanly inevitable nor God-ordained, but are the fruit of a long and turbulent history, we may well examine in turn all of our institutions, thrown into strong relief against the history of other civilisations, and weighing them in the balance, be not afraid to find them wanting.

In all these comparisons between Samoan and American culture, many points serve only to highlight our own solutions. Others offer possible ideas for change. Whether or not we envy other peoples’ solutions, considering how others have faced the same problems must broaden and deepen our outlook. We must recognize that our own ways are neither inevitable for human beings nor ordained by God. Instead, our ways grew out of a long and turbulent history. With this understanding, we may examine all our institutions in turn, comparing them with the history of other civilizations. As we weigh our institutions, we need not be afraid to find them lacking.