psychology dector

Memory is not an exact, camera-like, permanent process.   “Neuroscience, which has undergone extraordinary breakthroughs over recent years, tells us there are reasons to distrust what we are certain we remember,” Jonathan Kozol writes towards the end of his new memoir, The Theft of Memory:  Losing my Father One Day at a Time (Crown, 2015).   Age and illness often have their way with us.   The worst is the scourge of Alzheimer’s disease which robs its victims of their memories and decimates their personalities while caregivers must bear witness to the destruction.   In spare, clear prose, Kozol takes us through the final years of caring for his parents, one of whom, his father, suffers from Alzheimer’s.   It is a heartbreaking, yet unfortunately not uncommon, story. Kozol is best known for his chronicles of poverty and educational deficiencies , especially for children of color, in American society.   His books Death at An Early Age (Plume, 1985), The...

During the outbreaks of Bubonic Plague , better known as the Black Death, many devout Christians believed that the prophecy inherent in the book of Revelation was about to be realized.   The disease came after drought and famine, and as the bodies began to pile up, people desperately tried to find a rhyme or reason as to why some were infected and some avoided getting sick.   Ships arrived in port with every sailor sick and dying, and in at least a few cases, the vessels ran aground because everyone on board was already dead.   At night, people reported strange fires and mists that seemed to carry pestilence and immediate death.   All day in the sweltering heat of summer, the pope kept huge fires burning in the papal apartments at Avignon, believing that aromatic wood would ward off infection.   Those days of fire did nothing to keep Death at bay. The plague took three forms:   a lymph infection causing buboes, apple-sized swellings that became purple or b...

Album cover shoot for Alladin Sane , 1973. Photo by Brian Duffy . Copyright Duffy Archive* Mr. Bleck was my fifth grade language arts teacher.   He dressed in rumpled suits that often made him look a bit heavier than he actually was.   His wit was dry and caustic, and I did not understand his jokes at times.   What I did notice were his long, elegant fingers stained with nicotine, and once when I passed the faculty room on some errand for another teacher, I heard his cackling laughter as the door swung open.   I turned in the direction of the sound to catch a glimpse of the man, his head thrown back, and a cigarette between those fingers gracefully emitting a trail of smoke that collected in the small room.   Then the door closed. Because of his disheveled elegance, I sensed something off about him.   He could sneer and be catty at times in the classroom, and often when I sought praise and affirmation, he responded with a sarcastic aside that made the who...

Before you cross the street Take my hand Life is what happens to you While you’re busy making other plans…            John Lennon   “Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy)” In the fall of my seventh year, my parents bought their first home and I was forced to switch schools a month into second grade.   I loved my old school, even though I did try to run away when I was in first grade .   I have never made friends easily, and have always been a bit of a loner.   My original school was the school of my father, mother, and dozens of aunts and uncles, some only a few years older than me.   There was family tradition and history in the red brick walls of Our Lady of Peace Catholic School, and I had to leave it all behind. There was nothing inviting about my new school.   Now I was a complete outsider—no friends, no connections, no joy.   I arrived in Mrs. Vinette’s class a stranger in a strange land.   She was ...