The Human Givens Institute
| Ethics and professional conduct policy | ||
Section 1: An interest in dealing with the dilemmas of human behaviour is as old as history. (The word 'ethics' comes from the Greek word ethikos, which means 'dealing with human nature'.) Currently our knowledge of how human nature works comes from the scientific study of Nature's endowment to us all — the human givens — and direct experience. The starting point for such a study should be, therefore, that Nature endows each healthy human conception with a wonderful array of living genetic 'templates' – that infinitely rich treasure house of pre-programmed patterns for which we instinctively seek completion in the environment throughout our lives. Babies, for instance, are capable of copying some of the non-verbal behaviours of their mothers, such as facial expressions or sticking out their tongues, within just an hour of birth. They also rehearse instinctive behaviours, such as breathing and swallowing, while in the womb, in readiness for being born. Such patterns are largely expressed as emotional needs, so that we are driven to seek their fulfilment (babies need to create a connection with their main caregivers to ensure their survival). Nature is doubly generous in that she also brings us into the world with the means to help us get our needs met. It is precisely the way these needs are met, through the individual circumstances of our lives, that determines our individual nature, character and mental health. Throughout life this process is in a state of continuous ebb and flow, refinement and adaptation. Only when the environment a child finds itself in healthily fulfils its innate needs can it mature into an independent, fulfilled and socially integrated adult. Recent discoveries about how the mind/body system works now give us greater insight into this process. The brain is a plastic, problem-solving organ that needs challenges in order to enable it to grow. Children therefore have to be stretched by their experiences of life if they are to develop well. Mastering any skill, whether riding a bike or learning the violin, takes time and effort — a combination of being drawn forward by the teacher and pushing oneself. There are also certain times when the brain is best equipped to learn — for instance, foreign languages are best absorbed before the age of 10. Taking advantage of such knowledge could powerfully improve the way we bring up and educate children. Indeed, we might need to question now whether it is ethical to leave language learning as largely the province of secondary school teaching, or to call the random imposition on children of ideologies, facts and procedures which do not whet their appetites for discovery and mastery 'education'. Or, as Thom Hartmann challengingly asserts in his Complete Guide to ADHD, is it ethical to dismiss as troublesome no-hopers, a huge number of children whose talents and behaviours are different from those of the majority, but which have significant value nevertheless? The importance of shared perceptions Of the many obstacles which stand in the way of ethical decision making, perhaps the most important, is the illusion that we share perceptions. This serves to hide ignorance, protect territory, deceive or manipulate, and is largely the result of the language we use. And nowhere is it more easy to see than in the abstract words used to discuss ethical behaviour. Most people assume ethics is concerned with truth, aspirations, justice, equality, loyalty, fairness, values, principles, morals, etc. But all these words are abstractions. Philosophers call such words ‘reifications' but they are now more commonly known as 'nominalisations': the term used in linguistics for an abstract noun usually produced by converting a verb into a noun. For instance, when the process of enlightening somebody about something is turned into 'enlightenment' it becomes an abstraction, a word that pretends to be something concrete. All such words lack specific, essential information; namely who is doing precisely what to whom. The problem for ethics is that, because these words mean nothing in themselves, they are always going to mean different things to different people. We may think we understand the need, ethically speaking, to have principles, but it is dangerous to assume we hold principles in common. One person might believe, for instance, that seniority takes precedence over youth, while another holds that ability takes precedence over age. Because nominalisations are abstractions, when we hear one, we have to fill in the missing gaps in the information ourselves. Our brain, as a pattern-matching organ, is forced to search its memories to identify from its own experiences what it believes to be the meaning that gives reality to these words. If, for example, a politician says, 'I am going to put more resources into education', everyone will tend to applaud and support him. But putting resources into education will mean something quite different to every teacher, child or parent. They will each unconsciously go on an inner search to assign a personal meaning to these abstractions. One person might think the politician means that he is going to instigate research into the best way to educate children. Others might think he is going to pay teachers more; or build better schools; or reduce class sizes; or make schools safer; or have more exams; or have fewer exams; or improve the curriculum; or train teachers better, and so on. The politician tries to win support and credit by using these abstract terms to appeal to the different individual concerns of all those listening. He is creating an illusion and not promising anything specific at all. It is impossible to 'supply', 'give' or ‘input' an abstract noun like education. What we actually do is educate. And what people are educated about, why, how, where and by whom, are the questions that must be addressed in detail. To deal with nominalisations, the first requirement is to learn to spot them. We can tell if a word is an abstract noun by asking ourselves, 'Can I pick this up and carry it away?', or 'Can I touch it or feel it or see it?' or 'Can I buy this off the shelf?' In other words, does it have some kind of substance? If it doesn't, it is a nominalisation. Secondly, we need to challenge them. This can be simply done by turning them back into the verbs they came from. For instance, if a boss says, 'My expectations must be met', we are more likely to be able to achieve this if we find out exactly what it is that he or she expects, rather than acting on our own assumptions of what the expectations might be. If someone tells us they are full of anger, we have no real idea of their experience at all unless we ask, 'What exactly is making you angry?' (People do not have anger. It is not a substance in them like blood. In the same way, people do not have depression or fear. They are depressed by something or afraid of something.) Because there are no precise, commonly shared perceptions about the meaning of nominalised words, they readily confuse us and make us vulnerable to self-deception and manipulation. That is why they are beloved of politicians, preachers and anyone else with something to sell or an ideology to promote. Although it is our nature to operate through metaphor and generalisations, and this can be a great advantage to us and increase our capacity for conceptualisation, it is also a vulnerability. This is because we are social creatures and, unless we have perceptions more or less in common with
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