Baptized a Feminist: On names, belief, and becoming a psychotherapist

by Deborah Luepnitz

What’s in a name?
In the fall of 1952, my Italian-American mother walked into the sacristy of her parish in Cleveland, Ohio to register for the baptism of her first baby. The pastor tossed her paperwork on the table. "Why would you name a child ‘Deborah’? That's not a Christian name. That's a Hebrew name; it's Jewish." It was the same year that a 'colored' family tried to enroll in the school, and he was having none of it. Why couldn't this woman just name her baby “Margaret” or “Catherine”?

There has never been a rule saying Catholic children must have saints' names. My mother, a high school graduate, was intimidated by men in robes, but held her ground, saying she had found my name in the Bible. On the day of the actual baptism, the priest renewed his pique, making my godmother cry. The two women prevailed, however, because my name is Deborah - not after anyone they knew, but after a prophetess in the Book of Judges, chapter 4. I have often wondered if the same scene would have occurred had my tall father with the deep voice been present that day. Like my mother, he was a janitor - that's how we got free rent. He also worked the night shift in a factory for 40 years so there was no time for afternoon meetings at church. And having finished only the 7th grade, he tried to avoid speaking to clergy, in general. One wonders also if an African American baby - even one named Margaret or Mary - would have been christened by that priest at all.

I always believed I became a feminist in high school or college. In my late 30's, however, after telling this story to my analyst, something became obvious: I was baptized a feminist. And now, in the re-telling, it's clear why my understanding of feminism has always included social class, race, and history - intersectionality in today’s idiom - for the baptism story makes less sense without it.

As the French analyst, Jacques Lacan, taught in many ways, over the years: Before we speak, we have been spoken about. Our names are stuffed with expectations, hopes, tributes to the dead, appeals to God or fate. A great deal was reflected in that struggle between my mother and the patriarch over female identity. She was orphaned in adolescence and helped care for her nine - mostly older - brothers. It's no surprise that she would name a daughter after a Biblical figure who was no one's servant - a woman empowered by God.

While it's true that we use language, language also uses us. Helping patients to explore their own names is intrinsic to the way I work. My advice to young therapists: Get to know your names.

I attended Catholic school from 1st to 12th grade; it was the finest education I was to have. Our nuns were not the eraser-throwing kind. Our nuns were true scholars, devoted to teaching and also building our sense of community. They enjoyed doing physical work in the school's garden, but it wasn't the backbreaking work done by my parents, aunts, and uncles. Because we wore uniforms, class differences that show up in mortifying ways in public schools were not visible. You couldn't gang up on a girl for wearing ugly shoes; we all wore the same, ugly shoes. Everyone wanted to be popular, of course, and the way to be popular at Regina High was to be compassionate and helpful, especially to the girls who had trouble studying. It would be decades before I'd meet what are now called "mean girls." The two gifts of high school were: intellectual life and sisterhood.

My best friend, Leone McDermott, taught me the word "feminism" in sophomore year, and she began raising questions in class about women's rights. Leone was the most brilliant girl I had met. While her well-educated father carefully selected a good college for her, my parents assumed all colleges were alike, varying only in cost. I chose Kent State University because of its cheap tuition.

My college years were unhappy, not because Kent State was low on prestige, but because I made the blunder of majoring in psychology. A young person can be forgiven for assuming that since "psychology" comes from Greek words meaning "study of the mind or psyche" the discipline would explore human desire, madness, love, longing, dreams, illness, and healing. That had been true until after World War II when American psychologists opted to get huge government grants by pretending that psychology was a science, like physics or biology. Instead of reading Freud, Jung, Klein, Winnicott, Horney, Binswanger, we read about experiments in which rats were rewarded at different intervals for finding cheese. I took course after course in my major, waiting for it to get better. It never did. It was all “rats and stats.”

There were wonderful courses at Kent State in other departments and I took as much literature, science, philosophy, French, German, and Italian as possible. Just as important, I was exposed to radical politics at Kent. A few weeks after I registered for the fall of 1970, four students were killed by the Ohio National Guard, on May 4th - a tragedy that fueled the students' determination to end the criminal war against the people of Vietnam. Some days we had to choose between discussing Shakespeare indoors and sitting outside Rockwell Hall in protest. The best days were when a professor suggested we sit together on the wall outside Rockwell Hall and discuss Shakespeare. (Especially: Richard II !)

The boy I loved was one year ahead of me and had helped burn down the ROTC building - a military training department on campus - on May 2nd. Whenever he went to a meeting that fall, I quivered in my room, torn between my anti-war beliefs and the cruelty of my own family members and neighbors defending the Ohio National Guard: "The Guard should have shot them all!" It was also around that time that I feared I was pregnant and had to seek information about an illegal abortion. I was spared that indignity, but the worries that surrounded sex before Roe v. Wade are hard for some to imagine. Tragically, we will be living this anew now that Roe has been overturned.

On the bright side, I loved discovering new women authors, from Virginia Woolf, Marguerite Duras and Nadine Gordimer to obscure Italian poets of the Renaissance. I longed to major either in theater or literature, but that wasn't something parents like mine understood as important to this world and letting them down after all they'd sacrificed was out of the question. I could no more major in English than commit arson. I decided to go to graduate school in psychology, and this time I can't blame anyone but myself. “Fool me twice, shame on me” as the saying goes. I was simply unwilling to believe my experience; I was sure that the interesting bits were being jealously kept for those, brave enough to attempt a doctoral degree. Off I went for a Ph.D. in rats and stats - I mean: clinical psychology.

Graduate training
My first grad school interview was at the University of Rochester where a kind, young faculty member praised my application - then asked about my reproductive plans. "The reason I ask is that we put a lot of effort into training our female students, and then they get married and have children." I was only 20 years old, nervous about the interview, and thrilled to realize that telling the truth was going to win him over. "Actually, my plan is not to marry or have kids." Awkward silence. Then: "I'm just wondering why a woman who wanted to be a clinical psychologist would not want to marry and have children." It's still unclear what the correct answer to that question was, and of course, none of the young men had to answer it. Although I was accepted to the program, I left after one year, stifled by an atmosphere that was both paternalistic and philistine.

I transferred to the State University of New York at Buffalo, rumored to be less sexist, and it was there I met the love of my life. He was a graduate student in comparative literature - tender, passionate, brilliant, and a lot of fun. We grew each other up. We explored the world of politics together and ended up forming a Marxist study group that met weekly for a decade. We saved every penny and managed to be two of the few Americans of that era who traveled to Cuba after the revolution. We stayed together for almost 10 years, parting ways because he knew he wanted children and I knew I did not. I remain forever grateful to him, and also proud that he did indeed become a wonderful father.

It was at Buffalo that I discovered psychoanalysis - not in the psychology department where it was reduced to illiterate quips about Freud - but in the Women's Studies College. Juliet Mitchell had spent a year in residence, and made a deep impression. In her 1974 book Psychoanalysis and Feminism, she argued that an avoidance of Freud's work would be fatal for feminism. Rather than disavow the existence of the unconscious, we needed to learn those ideas and claim them for our purposes.

The English Department at Buffalo had a program - still in existence - called The Center for the Study of Psychoanalysis and Culture, and I began attending lectures there. It produced two students who were to become celebrated clinicians: Christopher Bollas and Stuart Schneiderman. The person at the Center who made a great and lasting impression on me was Professor Murray Schwartz, a Shakespeare scholar whose course on literature and psychoanalysis was surely one of the best I’ve taken in my life. Murray is a learned man, versed in science as well as literature, with a wide-ranging knowledge of psychoanalytic theory, and an intelligence secure enough to welcome many points of view. In other words, Murray had the background Freud (1926) considered ideal for the practicing psychoanalyst.

In 1977, he assigned our class the “mirror stage” paper of first Winnicott (1971) and then Lacan (1949) and discussed the cogency and appeal of each in literature and life. That experience was the beginning of my career-long interest in a conversation between British and French psychoanalysis, culminating in a paper published 30 years later titled: “Thinking in the Space Between Winnicott and Lacan” (Luepnitz, 2009). Murray is also a brilliant writer (e.g. Schwartz, 2018) and eventually became Editor-in-Chief of American Imago—the field’s premier journal of psychoanalysis and culture, launched by Freud and Hans Sachs.

Back in the Psychology department, the absence of female professors made books by women authors even more important. Phyllis Chesler's Women and Madness awakened us to the fact that women had been medicated and institutionalized for reasons related to their treatment as women - by abusive fathers, husbands, bosses and clergy. She and Susie Orbach (1978), co-founder of the Women’s Therapy Centre, opened our eyes to another truth still difficult for some to grasp. There is no apolitical theory or therapy. All derive from assumptions about what it means to be healthy, normal - and what it means to be gendered (or not). Having heard Dr. Chesler speak while a grad student, I wrote her a letter one day and was thrilled at her warm response. In fact, years later - in the 1980s - I was to work as her assistant, after moving east. She invited me each year to the feminist Seder, attended by twenty of her friends, including Grace Paley and Gloria Steinem. I'm sure the priest from Cleveland was turning in his grave as I sang "Dayenu" and searched for the hidden matzoh.

The world of family therapy
In 1980, I began a post-doctoral fellowship at the Philadelphia Child Guidance Clinic to study with some of the very people who had launched the family therapy movement, including Salvador Minuchin. I was engaged enough by the instruction, and by the opportunity of treating poor West Philadelphia families to stay on staff for five years. But my time at the clinic was also deeply disappointing. In graduate school, the discussion of sexual politics and social change had become part of daily life - with our professors and with our partners. I learned that in the world of family therapy, these topics were not even part of the conversation. In fact, no one was talking about mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, at all, but about "dyads," "triads" "coalitions" and "executive subsystems" - the language of the corporation. Not only that, but everyone seemed to believe that it was good “strategy” to enter a consulting room and blame the mother for whatever was going wrong. Fathers were handled gently, and often thanked for coming. Women who had been told by a male therapist to "back off" "grow up" or even "shut up" sometimes didn't return for more sessions, yet this work was presented at conferences as effective (Luepnitz, 1988). I had dreamed in graduate school of leaving my little Midwestern pond for the sophisticated East Coast and what I found was a group of people enacting 1950s’ ideas of father-knows-best. Finally speaking up for feminism was Marianne Walters, who, along with three other brave social workers one generation ahead of mine, founded the "Women's Project in Family Therapy," (Walters et al., 1988) offering workshops that challenged outmoded models. The 1980s became a spirited time of discovering other like-minded women - and some men - who shared outrage over what was passing as acceptable treatment and who were keen to create alternatives.

At first it was a love-fest, and after the honeymoon, came some disillusionment. Immersion in the world of family therapy had not extinguished my interest in psychoanalysis. On the contrary, what Freud (1921) called "group psychology" was being enacted every day in our treatment rooms. Somehow, family therapists got the notion that they had discovered the fact that symptoms serve a purpose - often keeping marriages and families together - this, despite the fact that Freud had been there a half-century earlier. I resumed my study of psychoanalysis, and my book, The Family Interpreted became not only a feminist critique of eight schools of family therapy but also a psychoanalytic critique of the field. Some of the older - and younger - therapists who had never read psychoanalysis and confused it with the American perversion of it (Jacoby, 1983) were heartbroken by my choice, and that, in turn, broke my heart. They felt I had sold out to the dead white European men, and I felt their account of family life and individual desire was sadly reductive. My viewpoint was described as "non-systemic" whereas I thought psychoanalysis was more systemic since it included not only gender, race, class and historical period but also the most commanding - and elusive - system of all - the unconscious. In general, we agreed to disagree, but not before I had come face to face with my first mean girls.

A beloved almost-mentor
Despite having some good teachers, I did not have an actual mentor, and I longed for one. The closest approximation was Dr. Teresa Bernardez, an Argentine psychiatrist who also practiced psychoanalysis. Scores of her own students looked to her for mentoring, and I did understand why she said she preferred to think of me as a friend, not another protégé. We met at Phyllis Chesler's house in Brooklyn and bonded over our love of literature, and our readings of Simone de Beauvoir, Dorothy Dinnerstein, Françoise Dolto and Melanie Klein. She was not surprised to hear that I had learned nothing in seven years of graduate psychology, and she helped me mourn. It was Teresa who encouraged me not to commit allegiance to any one of the American psychoanalytic institutes, which she viewed as both misogynist and anti-intellectual, but instead to put together my own analytic training program - picking and choosing the best course work, personal analysis, and supervision - wherever these could be found. I did so in Philadelphia, New York, and Paris. Teresa was a consummate clinician. Her feminism suffused everything she did, but she never confused therapeutic discourse with the rhetoric of the classroom. She understood that women as a class had been ignored, exploited, and raped, but she also understood the power of internalized misogyny and the ways we take over the role of our abusers. She gave me the best supervision on my analytic patients - mostly by phone from Michigan - before phone sessions were considered normal. We presented together at conferences several times, but the only thing we ever wrote together was something Phyllis had cajoled us into doing in her kitchen one evening before Seder. Phyllis had a writing deadline for the book she was working on and announced: "You two are going to have to do the task for tomorrow: Write a feminist version of the Ten Commandments."

"What?! In 24 hours? Why us?"

We griped and laughed and then managed to write down what we called "The Ten Commitments" on the back of an old envelope. They were read at Seder the following night to great approval, and - I've been told - are still used at many a feminist Seder today.

Can we please dis-invite the Surgeon General?
With Teresa, and with many other kindred clinicians - including Molly Layton, Kerrie James, Harriet Goldhor Lerner, and Virginia Goldner - I discussed what was feminist about our way of working, and we brought the feminist critique to many conferences. One day in 1987, I opened the mail only to find that the American Association of Marriage and Family Therapists (AAMFT) had chosen as its featured speaker the presiding U.S. Surgeon General, part of whose agenda was to make abortion illegal again. The AAMFT would be giving him its "Distinguished Service to Families" award. Teresa said, " I told you: family therapists don't believe that women are really members of families." Marianne Walters was in London for the year, but I phoned her to ask if she thought we should call for a boycott of the conference. "Oh no!" she said. "Why cede our national meeting to the other side?" She told me to call the AAMFT leadership and demand that the Surgeon General be un-invited. "Right!" I said.

Wait - what??

I called the AAMFT and was told by a very sympathetic man that they would be more mindful next time, but that, of course, they couldn't dis-invite President Reagan's Surgeon General. Dr. Koop had taken brave and salutary stands on smoking and AIDS but opposed abortion in all cases. I said that, of course, I understood. We would not boycott or heckle their distinguished guest. However, since we know that anti-choice laws don’t eliminate abortion, only safe abortion, one hundred of us would stand quietly in the last row, holding coat hangers. He said he would get back to me.

Three days later, he called, offering to add something to the already printed program - a panel about women's issues - and even to fly out the President of the National Organization for Women (NOW) as our distinguished guest.

Deal.

We leafleted the conference, inviting people to attend a panel called, "Reproductive Choice: A Critical Issue for Families." NOW President Judy Goldsmith gave an informative and rousing talk. We used that meeting to sign people up for what we called "Family Therapists For Choice" and later marched together in demonstrations in Washington.

Before the internet and e-mail, those national meetings offered the best hope of exchanging ideas with others interested in feminist therapy. We agreed that the techniques of the old guard, such as insulting mothers, attacking them to "unbalance" the system, and calling them "Mom" instead of their names - could not be part of feminist therapy. Nor was the solution to start attacking fathers. Did feminist therapy mean nothing more than a refusal to insult one’s patients? The older generation had truly set a low bar! Most traditional therapists maintained that we were politicizing the work, whereas theirs was apolitical. (I remembered Simone de Beauvoir saying in The Mandarins something like: Did you ever notice how people who claim to be “apolitical” turn out to be reactionary?) My position was that we couldn't simply call this work "good, humanistic treatment" as some suggested. A helpful analogy at the global level came a decade later, when a Chinese dissident denounced the upcoming United Nations Conference on Women for being held in China. No one, he said, should enter China at all - unless they were going there to discuss human rights. It took Hillary Clinton - no revolutionary - to show up at that conference and say: "Women's rights are human rights." To many that was a revelation - although the year was 1995!

New activist waves
The U.N. conference in Beijing was a highlight of my life. (Luepnitz, 1996 ). The American women in attendance were “second-wave” feminists, who came of age in the 1960s and ‘70s. Younger American feminists have grown up in a different world, but their heroes are now heroes to us all: Malala Josefi, Greta Thunberg, Mo'né Davis. Their touchstone books include Kate Bornstein's, Gender Outlaw (2016), Chimimande Adiche's We Should All Be Feminists (2014) and Mikki Kendall’s (2020) Hood Feminism. Another writer we admire is Alison Bechdel (2012) who claims she “fell in love” with Winnicott during her own analysis. Her graphic memoir Are You My Mother? - which describes coming out as lesbian - brilliantly introduced a generation of young people to psychoanalytic ideas. I never teach Winnicott without Bechdel, these days.

What psychoanalysis has always had over the family therapy movement is the requirement that trainees undergo their own treatment. Some master family therapists actually went to great lengths to insist that one's own therapy has nothing to do with one's clinical skills and could be proudly refused. We cannot know what it is like to entrust our emotional life to a therapist if we ourselves have never done so. Whether we identify as gay, lesbian, straight, bisexual, cis-gender, trans, intersex, she-male, two-spirit, non-binary, quasbian, or gender-queer - wherever we are in what I call the sexual diaspora (Luepnitz, 2021) - we must have had the chance to examine both our choices and what we experience as given, if we are to help others explore their embodied subjectivity.

Insight for all
A big part of my self-definition as a feminist these past two decades has been doing low-fee and pro bono work. In 1999, I began volunteering at Philadelphia's Project HOME - an extremely successful organization for lifting people out of homelessness. Even in simple tasks such as serving food or riding in the outreach van, my psychoanalytic training was useful. In 2005, I asked the director, Sister Mary Scullion, for permission to bring psychoanalytic therapy to Project HOME. When she gave the green light, I began recruiting colleagues for a program we call Insight For All (IFA). To speak of psychoanalysis and homelessness together seems odd to those who believe that introspection is a luxury for the worried well. And didn't Freud say that a high fee helped the patient feel invested in the treatment? He did say that early on, but it's clear that he had changed his mind by 1918, and advocated free treatment for the poor. As a result, ten free psychoanalytic clinics sprang up in seven European countries, treating farmers, factory workers, chambermaids and the unemployed. This story is beautifully told in a book by feminist Elizabeth Danto (2005) titled, Freud's Free Clinics: Psychoanalysis and Social Justice 1918-1938. The clinics flourished until the Nazis, who hated Freud's "Jewish Science" took over the Polyklinik in Berlin in 1936.

IFA has one psychoanalyst - Violet Little - who works with homeless people who are still living on the street. She sees some individuals occasionally, and others, three times per week. The rest of us treat individuals, groups and families who are trying their best to live indoors at Project HOME - which offers permanent - not temporary - housing. At first, the analyst meets the patient onsite, but some graduate to our office - and a few even prefer lying down on the analytic couch. We have conducted sessions in conference rooms, on long walks through the park, and even inside tents during the glorious months known as "Occupy Philly." We rely on the insights of other feminist psychoanalytic thinkers, like Gabrielle Brown (2019) who are committed to serving unhoused adults.

Many members of IFA are associated with the Institute for Relational Psychoanalysis of Philadelphia (IRPP) where I am on the faculty. Relational psychoanalysis is explicitly feminist, realising that feminism and psychoanalysis are needed to bring out the radical potential in each other (e.g. Benjamin, 1988). I trust the feminist sensibility of the IRPP analysts who identify as male, such as Dennis Debiak, as much as that of those who identify as female or non-binary. When I think of how far this is from the therapy world of the 1980s, I am ineffably grateful.

Towards a new independent tradition?
Psychoanalytic ideas that are outside the Relational world continue to influence my thinking and practice, in particular those of Jacques Lacan. In the past few decades, a number of analysts, working independently, have discovered the advantages of learning from both Lacan and Winnicott - enough to fill two edited volumes. (Vanier & Vanier, 2010; Kirshner, 2011). Contributors hold very different ideas about how to bring these seemingly incompatible theories into contact, of course. In the 1940s, analysts like Winnicott who learned from both Melanie Klein and Anna Freud, and refused to swear allegiance to one or the other, came to be called the “Independents,” or the “Middle Group.” It has occurred to me that we might be on our way to a new independent tradition or new Middle Group - this time, between Winnicott and Lacan. The risk involved is diluting one or both streams of thought. However, there are risks also in not titrating Lacan with Winnicott, Winnicott with Lacan, as I have described elsewhere (Luepnitz, 2015; 2018).

In conclusion
A colleague invited me to write a paper about my professional journey, just weeks after my mother died. I was tempted to decline out of sheer exhaustion, then realized it might help me navigate a difficult time. Although I never submitted the paper, drafting it did help me reflect not only on professional but also on family vicissitudes.

My mother and I had more than one relationship, and I have needed to grieve each one. There is no question that she helped make me a feminist. She was incredibly smart and funny, loved words, and would have made a brilliant teacher, had she only had the chance. She was a loving listener. When, as a young woman, I told her that I didn't see myself marrying or having children, she remarked that there were many ways to live a happy life. She seemed really happy for me when I told her the church of which I am now a member is Protestant. Her own mother was illiterate and had to make an “X” at the bank because she couldn't even write her own name. In contrast, Doris raised a daughter who loves to read and write books. One of those books, The Family Interpreted, is dedicated to my grandmothers. Another - Schopenhauer's Porcupines - has been translated into seven languages including my ancestral languages of Italian and German. The freedom - as well as the troubles - that some of us have today would be incomprehensible to earlier generations.

As my mother lay dying, I sang to her, prayed with her, and thanked her for many things, including giving me a beautiful name. Deborah in the Bible was: a judge, prophetess, soldier, adviser.

You set the bar high for me, Ma. Way too high. And thanks.

Deborah Anna Luepnitz, Ph.D is on the faculty of the Institute for Relational Psychoanalysis of Philadelphia. She is the founder and director of Insight For All, a project that connects psuchoanalysts willing to work pro bono with homeless and formely homeless adults in Philadelphia. She can be connected at dalue@webtv.net

References

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IAHIP 2023 - INSIDE OUT 99 - Spring 2023