Handbook of psychology: Developmental Psychology [6, 2 ed.] 9780470619049, 9780470768860, 9781118285374, 9781118282656, 9781118281994

Table of contents :
Cover
Front Matter
Title Page
Copyright
Editorial Board
Contents
Handbook of Psychology Preface
Volume Preface
Contributors
Part I Foundations of Development Across the Life Span
Chapter 1 Developmental Science Across the Life Span: An Introduction
A Brief History of the Life-Span Study of Human Development
The Plan of this Volume
Conclusions
References
Chapter 2 Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development
Developmental Inquiry and the Metatheoretical
Transformation and Variation: A Relational Integration
A Brief History of Past Metatheoretical Worlds: Toward the Birth of Developmental Science
Relationism—A Contemporary Metatheory for Developmental Science
A Methodological Rapprochement: Explanation in a Relational Context
The Relational Developmental Systems’ Embodied Action (Enaction) Approach
Conclusions
References
Part II Infancy and Early Childhood
Chapter 3 Infant Perception and Cognition
Introduction
Methods for Studying Infant Perception and Cognition
Behavioral Methods
Current Topics in Infant Perception and Cognition
Attention
New Models of Infant Learning
Intersensory/Intermodal Processing
Face Processing
Object Perception
Causal Perception
Quantitative Processing
Categorization
Relation of Perception and Lower-Order Components to Higher-Order Cognition
Applications
Conclusions
References
Chapter 4 Social and Emotional Development in Infancy
Introduction
Socioemotional Development in Context
Developing Emotions and Sociability
The Growth of Meaning, Reciprocity, and Regulation in Emotional Development
Developments in Self and Social Understanding
Relationships: The Development of Attachments
Conclusions
References
Chapter 5 The Developmental Psychobiology of Stress and Emotion in Childhood
The Psychobiology of Stress
Psychobiological Studies of Stress and Emotion in Children
Conclusions
References
Chapter 6 Parent-Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context
Introduction
Starting Principles
The Settings and Activities of Development
Modes of Communication
Communicative Accommodation
The Content of Language
Conclusions
References
Part III Childhood
Chapter 7 Language Development
Overview of Theoretical Approaches
Language Development as a Biological Process
Language Development as a Linguistic Process
Language Development as a Social Process
Language Development as Domain-General Learning
Conclusions
References
Chapter 8 Cognitive Development in Childhood: A Contemporary Perspective
Three Revolutions
Cognitive Development as a Separate Field
Main Features of the Piagetian System
Problems with Piaget’s Theory and Efforts to Respond to Them
Contemporary Trends
Future Directions in Cognitive Developmental Theory and Research
Conclusions
References
Chapter 9 Emotion and Personality Development
Introduction
Normal and Abnormal Emotional and Personality Development: A Developmental Psychopathology Perspective
Individual Development of Emotion and Personality
Temperament and Personality
Relational Influences on Emotional and Personality Development
Parent–Child Relationships
Marital Relationships
Familywide Perspective
Cultural, Community, and Political Contexts
Normal and Abnormal Emotional and Personality Development: A Developmental Psychopathology Perspective
Conclusions
References
Chapter 10 Social Development and Social Relationships in Middle Childhood
Social Development and Social Relationships in Middle Childhood
Introduction
Foundations of Social Development
Socialization Processes and Social Relationships
Social Relationships and Social Development: A Domain Approach
Socialization by Parents
Socialization by Peers
Socialization by Siblings
Conclusions
References
Chapter 11 Culture and Child Development
Introduction
Interface Between Culture and Child Development
Culture and Development as Mutually Constitutive
Conclusions
References
Part IV Adolescence
Chapter 12 Puberty: Its Role In Development
Historical Perspective
Puberty: A Brain-Neuroendocrine Event
Timing of Puberty: Its Psychological Significance
Does Pubertal Status or Timing Make a Difference in Psychological Development?
Family Influences on Timing of Puberty and Menarche
Mechanisms Involved in Timing of Puberty and Adjustment
Puberty and Obesity
Puberty and Bone Health
Puberty and Sleep
What Do We Know for Sure About Puberty and Development?
Conclusions
References
Chapter 13 Schools as Developmental Contexts During Adolescence
Level 1: Teachers, Tasks, and Classroom Environments
Level 2: Broader Schoolwide Characteristics
Level 3: District-Wide Policies
Conclusions
References
Chapter 14 Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood: Theory, Research, and Recent Advances
The Transition to Adulthood and the Concept of Emerging Adulthood
Dimensions of Identity: Personal and Cultural
Personal Identity Development in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood: Early Conceptualizations
The Development of the Big Five Dispositions from Childhood to Adulthood
The Role of Agency in Personal Identity Development
Cultural Identity in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood
The Intersection of Personal and Cultural Identity in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood
Areas in Need of Further Research
Conclusions
References
Chapter 15 Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs
PYD as a Developmental Process
The Study of Adolescence Within the Relational Developmental System
Approaches to PYD as a Developmental Process
Richard M. Lerner, Jacqueline V. Lerner, and Colleagues and the Study of Individual ← → Context Relational Processes and PYD
PYD as a Philosophy or Approach to Youth Programming
PYD as Instances of Youth Programs and Organizations
Problems in Integrating the Three Facets of PYD Scholarship
The Integration of Preventive and Promotive Approaches to Youth Development
Conclusions
References
Chapter 16 Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model
Introduction
Adolescents
Parents
Adolescent-Parent Relationships
Friends/Peers
A Typology of Triadic Relations
Future Directions
Conclusions
References
Part V Adulthood and Aging
Chapter 17 Disease, Health, and Aging in the First Decade of the 21st Century
Demographic and Public Health Considerations
Incremental Findings from Review Chapters
Understanding Risk and Predictions of Cognitive and Functional Declines
Medical Self-Management and New Models of Care
End of Life Issues
Predictions for the Future and the Role of Developmental Psychology
Conclusions
References
Chapter 18 Cognitive Development in Adulthood and Aging
Overview of Cognitive Aging: Approaches, Perspectives, and Processes
Intelligence and Memory: Classic Clusters of Processes
Biological and Health Influences on Cognitive Aging
Emotional and Affective Influences on Cognitive Aging
Potential for Sustained Cognitive Health in Aging
Conclusions
References
Chapter 19 Personality Development in Adulthood and Old Age
Historical Background
Theoretical Perspectives on Personality
The Self
Conclusions
References
Chapter 20 Social Relationships and Aging
Life Span and Life Course Theoretical Perspectives
Theoretical Perspectives About Social Relations
Developments in the Science of Social Relations
The Convoy Model as Illustrative of Theoretical Developments
Mechanisms and Contexts
Conclusions
References
Part VI Applied Developmental Psychology Across the Life Span
Chapter 21 Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century
Applied Development Science: Yesterday and Today
Applied Developmental Science and Intraindividual Continuity and Change: Fostering Links Among Theory, Research, and Application
Applied Developmental Science: Multilevel Dynamics in Prevention Research and Practice
Applied Developmental Science, Social Justice, and Sociopolitical Well-being
An Applied Developmental Science for the 21st Century
Conclusion: The Future of Applied Developmental Science
References
Chapter 22 Disabilities and Development
Disabilities and Development
Perspectives on Disability
Children's Development Within the Family Network
Parents' Adaptation and Well-Being
Future Directions
Conclusions
References
Chapter 23 Child Development and the Law
Child Development and the Law
Protecting the Children of Divorce
Children as Victims/Witnesses in Legal Settings
Children as Suspects/Offenders in Legal Settings
Conclusions
References
Chapter 24 Health and Human Development
Health and Human Development
A Developmental Systems Perspective of Human Development and Health
Changing Conceptions of Health
Positive Psychology and Health
Contextual Assets/Affordances That Promote Health and Positive Development
Individual and Contextual Strengths and Assets in Perspective
Methodological Considerations
Conclusions
References
Chapter 25 Successful Aging
Characteristics of Old Age
Successful Aging-Definition and Criteria
Processes Related to Successful Aging
Models of Successful Aging
Conclusions
References
Chapter 26 Developmental Technologies: Technology and Human Development
An Overview
Positive Technological Development
Choices of Conduct in Digital Communities
Conclusions
References
Author Index
Subject Index

Citation preview

HANDBOOK OF PSYCHOLOGY

HANDBOOK OF PSYCHOLOGY VOLUME 6: DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY

Second Edition

Volume Editors

RICHARD M. LERNER M. ANN EASTERBROOKS JAYANTHI MISTRY Editor-in-Chief

IRVING B. WEINER

John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Copyright © 2013 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved. Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey. Published simultaneously in Canada. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978) 646-8600, or on the web at www.copyright.com. Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, (201) 748-6011, fax (201) 748-6008. Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best efforts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or extended by sales representatives or written sales materials. The advice and strategies contained herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where appropriate. Neither the publisher nor author shall be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damages, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages. This publication is designed to provide accurate and authoritative information in regard to the subject matter covered. It is sold with the understanding that the publisher is not engaged in rendering professional services. If legal, accounting, medical, psychological or any other expert assistance is required, the services of a competent professional person should be sought. The contents of this work are intended to further general scientific research, understanding, and discussion only and are not intended and should not be relied upon as recommending or promoting a specific method, diagnosis, or treatment by physicians for any particular patient. The publisher and the author make no representations or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this work and specifically disclaim all warranties, including without limitation any implied warranties of fitness for a particular purpose. In view of ongoing research, equipment modifications, changes in governmental regulations, and the constant flow of information relating to the use of medicines, equipment, and devices, the reader is urged to review and evaluate the information provided in the package insert or instructions for each medicine, equipment, or device for, among other things, any changes in the instructions or indication of usage and for added warnings and precautions. Readers should consult with a specialist where appropriate. The fact that an organization or Web site is referred to in this work as a citation and/or a potential source of further information does not mean that the author or the publisher endorses the information the organization or Web site may provide or recommendations it may make. Further, readers should be aware that Internet Web sites listed in this work may have changed or disappeared between when this work was written and when it is read. No warranty may be created or extended by any promotional statements for this work. Neither the publisher nor the author shall be liable for any damages arising herefrom. Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. In all instances where John Wiley & Sons, Inc. is aware of a claim, the product names appear in initial capital or all capital letters. Readers, however, should contact the appropriate companies for more complete information regarding trademarks and registration. For general information on our other products and services please contact our Customer Care Department within the United States at (800) 762-2974, outside the United States at (317) 572-3993, or via fax at (317) 572-4002. Wiley publishes in a variety of print and electronic formats and by print-on-demand. Some material included with standard print versions of this book may not be included in e-books or in print-on-demand. If this book refers to media such as a CD or DVD that is not included in the version you purchased, you may download this material at http://booksupport.wiley.com. For more information about Wiley products, visit www.wiley.com. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Handbook of Psychology / Irving B. Weiner, editor-in-chief. — 2nd ed. v. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN: 978-0-470-61904-9 (set) ISBN: 978-0-470-76886-0 (cloth : v. 6) ISBN: 978-1-118-28537-4 (ebk) ISBN: 978-1-118-28265-6 (ebk) ISBN: 978-1-118-28199-4 (ebk) 1. Psychology. I. Weiner, Irving B. BF121.H213 2013 150—dc23 2012005833 Printed in the United States of America 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Editorial Board

Volume 1 History of Psychology

Volume 5 Personality and Social Psychology

Donald K. Freedheim, PhD Case Western Reserve University Cleveland, Ohio

Howard Tennen, PhD University of Connecticut Health Center Farmington, Connecticut

Volume 2 Research Methods in Psychology

Jerry Suls, PhD University of Iowa Iowa City, Iowa

John A. Schinka, PhD University of South Florida Tampa, Florida

Volume 6 Developmental Psychology

Wayne F. Velicer, PhD University of Rhode Island Kingston, Rhode Island

Richard M. Lerner, PhD M. Ann Easterbrooks, PhD Jayanthi Mistry, PhD Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Volume 3 Behavioral Neuroscience

Volume 7 Educational Psychology

Randy J. Nelson, PhD Ohio State University Columbus, Ohio

William M. Reynolds, PhD Humboldt State University Arcata, California

Sheri J. Y. Mizumori, PhD University of Washington Seattle, Washington

Gloria E. Miller, PhD University of Denver Denver, Colorado

Volume 4 Experimental Psychology

Volume 8 Clinical Psychology

Alice F. Healy, PhD University of Colorado Boulder, Colorado

George Stricker, PhD Argosy University DC Arlington, Virginia

Robert W. Proctor, PhD Purdue University West Lafayette, Indiana

Thomas A. Widiger, PhD University of Kentucky Lexington, Kentucky

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Editorial Board

Volume 9 Health Psychology

Volume 11 Forensic Psychology

Arthur M. Nezu, PhD Christine Maguth Nezu, PhD Pamela A. Geller, PhD Drexel University Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Randy K. Otto, PhD University of South Florida Tampa, Florida

Volume 10 Assessment Psychology

Volume 12 Industrial and Organizational Psychology

John R. Graham, PhD Kent State University Kent, Ohio

Neal W. Schmitt, PhD Michigan State University East Lansing, Michigan

Jack A. Naglieri, PhD University of Virginia Charlottesville, Virginia

Scott Highhouse, PhD Bowling Green State University Bowling Green, Ohio

Contents

Handbook of Psychology Preface Irving B. Weiner

xi

Volume Preface xiii Richard M. Lerner, M. Ann Easterbrooks, and Jayanthi Mistry Contributors

I

xv

FOUNDATIONS OF DEVELOPMENT ACROSS THE LIFE SPAN 1

1

DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE ACROSS THE LIFE SPAN: AN INTRODUCTION Richard M. Lerner, M. Ann Easterbrooks, and Jayanthi Mistry

2

METATHEORIES, THEORIES, AND CONCEPTS IN THE STUDY OF DEVELOPMENT 19 Willis F. Overton and Ulrich M¨uller

II 3

INFANCY AND EARLY CHILDHOOD

59

INFANT PERCEPTION AND COGNITION

61

John Colombo, Caitlin C. Brez, and Lori M. Curtindale

4

SOCIAL AND EMOTIONAL DEVELOPMENT IN INFANCY 91 M. Ann Easterbrooks, Jessica Dym Bartlett, Marjorie Beeghly, and Ross A. Thompson

5

THE DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOBIOLOGY OF STRESS AND EMOTION IN CHILDHOOD 121 Camelia E. Hostinar and Megan R. Gunnar

6

PARENT–INFANT COMMUNICATIVE INTERACTIONS IN CULTURAL CONTEXT 143 Catherine S. Tamis-LeMonda and Lulu Song vii

3

viii

Contents

III CHILDHOOD 7

171

LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT

173

Laura Wagner and Erika Hoff

8

COGNITIVE DEVELOPMENT IN CHILDHOOD: A CONTEMPORARY PERSPECTIVE 197 David Henry Feldman

9

EMOTION AND PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT

215

E. Mark Cummings, Julia M. Braungart-Rieker, and Tina D. Du Rocher Schudlich

10

SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT AND SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS IN MIDDLE CHILDHOOD 243 Joan E. Grusec, Maria Paula Chaparro, Megan Johnston, and Amanda Sherman

11

CULTURE AND CHILD DEVELOPMENT

265

Jayanthi Mistry, Mariah Contreras, and Ranjana Dutta

IV ADOLESCENCE 12

287

PUBERTY: ITS ROLE IN DEVELOPMENT

289

Elizabeth J. Susman and Lorah D. Dorn

13

SCHOOLS AS DEVELOPMENTAL CONTEXTS DURING ADOLESCENCE

321

Jacquelynne S. Eccles and Robert W. Roeser

14

IDENTITY DEVELOPMENT, PERSONALITY, AND WELL-BEING IN ADOLESCENCE AND EMERGING ADULTHOOD: THEORY, RESEARCH, AND RECENT ADVANCES 339 Seth J. Schwartz, M. Brent Donnellan, Russell D. Ravert, Koen Luyckx, and Byron L. Zamboanga

15

POSITIVE YOUTH DEVELOPMENT: PROCESSES, PHILOSOPHIES, AND PROGRAMS 365 Jacqueline V. Lerner, Edmond P. Bowers, Kelly Minor, Michelle J. Boyd, Megan Kiely Mueller, Kristina L. Schmid, Christopher M. Napolitano, Selva Lewin-Bizan, and Richard M. Lerner

16

ADOLESCENTS, PARENTS, FRIENDS/PEERS: A RELATIONSHIPS MODEL Marc H. Bornstein, Justin Jager, and Laurence D. Steinberg

V

ADULTHOOD AND AGING

435

17

DISEASE, HEALTH, AND AGING IN THE FIRST DECADE OF THE 21ST CENTURY 437 Ilene C. Siegler, Hayden B. Bosworth, Adam Davey, and Merrill F. Elias

393

Contents

18

COGNITIVE DEVELOPMENT IN ADULTHOOD AND AGING 451 Roger A. Dixon, G. Peggy McFall, Bonnie P. Whitehead, and Sanda Dolcos

19

PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT IN ADULTHOOD AND OLD AGE

475

Rosanna M. Bertrand, Eileen Kranz Graham, and Margie E. Lachman

20

SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS AND AGING

495

Toni C. Antonucci, Kira S. Birditt, and Kristine J. Ajrouch

VI APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY ACROSS THE LIFE SPAN 515 21

APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE: CONTRIBUTIONS AND CHALLENGES FOR THE 21ST CENTURY 517 Celia B. Fisher, Nancy A. Busch-Rossnagel, Daniela S. Jopp, and Joshua L. Brown

22

DISABILITIES AND DEVELOPMENT

547

Penny Hauser-Cram, Amanda M. Cannarella, Miriam Tillinger, and Ashley C. Woodman

23

CHILD DEVELOPMENT AND THE LAW

571

Michael E. Lamb and Lindsay C. Malloy

24

HEALTH AND HUMAN DEVELOPMENT

595

Fred W. Vondracek and Ann C. Crouter

25

SUCCESSFUL AGING

615

Alexandra M. Freund, Jana Nikitin, and Michaela Riediger

26

DEVELOPMENTAL TECHNOLOGIES: TECHNOLOGY AND HUMAN DEVELOPMENT 639 Marina Umaschi Bers and Elizabeth R. Kazakoff

Author Index

659

Subject Index

711

ix

Handbook of Psychology Preface

Two unifying threads run through the science of behavior. The first is a common history rooted in conceptual and empirical approaches to understanding the nature of behavior. The specific histories of all specialty areas in psychology trace their origins to the formulations of the classical philosophers and the early experimentalists, and appreciation for the historical evolution of psychology in all of its variations transcends identifying oneself as a particular kind of psychologist. Accordingly, Volume 1 in the Handbook , again edited by Donald Freedheim, is devoted to the History of Psychology as it emerged in many areas of scientific study and applied technology. A second unifying thread in psychology is a commitment to the development and utilization of research methods suitable for collecting and analyzing behavioral data. With attention both to specific procedures and to their application in particular settings, Volume 2, again edited by John Schinka and Wayne Velicer, addresses Research Methods in Psychology. Volumes 3 through 7 of the Handbook present the substantive content of psychological knowledge in five areas of study. Volume 3, which addressed Biological Psychology in the first edition, has in light of developments in the field been retitled in the second edition to cover Behavioral Neuroscience. Randy Nelson continues as editor of this volume and is joined by Sheri Mizumori as a new coeditor. Volume 4 concerns Experimental Psychology and is again edited by Alice Healy and Robert Proctor. Volume 5 on Personality and Social Psychology has been reorganized by two new co-editors, Howard Tennen and Jerry Suls. Volume 6 on Developmental Psychology is again edited by Richard Lerner, Ann Easterbrooks, and Jayanthi Mistry. William Reynolds and Gloria Miller continue as co-editors of Volume 7 on Educational Psychology.

The first edition of the 12-volume Handbook of Psychology was published in 2003 to provide a comprehensive overview of the current status and anticipated future directions of basic and applied psychology and to serve as a reference source and textbook for the ensuing decade. With 10 years having elapsed, and psychological knowledge and applications continuing to expand, the time has come for this second edition to appear. In addition to wellreferenced updating of the first edition content, this second edition of the Handbook reflects the fresh perspectives of some new volume editors, chapter authors, and subject areas. However, the conceptualization and organization of the Handbook , as stated next, remain the same. Psychologists commonly regard their discipline as the science of behavior, and the pursuits of behavioral scientists range from the natural sciences to the social sciences and embrace a wide variety of objects of investigation. Some psychologists have more in common with biologists than with most other psychologists, and some have more in common with sociologists than with most of their psychological colleagues. Some psychologists are interested primarily in the behavior of animals, some in the behavior of people, and others in the behavior of organizations. These and other dimensions of difference among psychological scientists are matched by equal if not greater heterogeneity among psychological practitioners, who apply a vast array of methods in many different settings to achieve highly varied purposes. This 12-volume Handbook of Psychology captures the breadth and diversity of psychology and encompasses interests and concerns shared by psychologists in all branches of the field. To this end, leading national and international scholars and practitioners have collaborated to produce 301 authoritative and detailed chapters covering all fundamental facets of the discipline.

xi

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Handbook of Psychology Preface

Volumes 8 through 12 address the application of psychological knowledge in five broad areas of professional practice. Thomas Widiger and George Stricker continue as co-editors of Volume 8 on Clinical Psychology. Volume 9 on Health Psychology is again co-edited by Arthur Nezu, Christine Nezu, and Pamela Geller. Continuing to co-edit Volume 10 on Assessment Psychology are John Graham and Jack Naglieri. Randy Otto joins the Editorial Board as the new editor of Volume 11 on Forensic Psychology. Also joining the Editorial Board are two new co-editors, Neal Schmitt and Scott Highhouse, who have reorganized Volume 12 on Industrial and Organizational Psychology. The Handbook of Psychology was prepared to educate and inform readers about the present state of psychological knowledge and about anticipated advances in behavioral science research and practice. To this end, the Handbook volumes address the needs and interests of three groups. First, for graduate students in behavioral science, the volumes provide advanced instruction in the basic concepts and methods that define the fields they cover, together with a review of current knowledge, core literature, and likely future directions. Second, in addition to serving as graduate textbooks, the volumes offer professional psychologists an opportunity to read and contemplate the views of distinguished colleagues concerning the central thrusts of research and the leading edges of practice

in their respective fields. Third, for psychologists seeking to become conversant with fields outside their own specialty and for persons outside of psychology seeking information about psychological matters, the Handbook volumes serve as a reference source for expanding their knowledge and directing them to additional sources in the literature. The preparation of this Handbook was made possible by the diligence and scholarly sophistication of 24 volume editors and co-editors who constituted the Editorial Board. As Editor-in-Chief, I want to thank each of these colleagues for the pleasure of their collaboration in this project. I compliment them for having recruited an outstanding cast of contributors to their volumes and then working closely with these authors to achieve chapters that will stand each in their own right as valuable contributions to the literature. Finally, I would like to thank Brittany White for her exemplary work as my administrator for our manuscript management system, and the editorial staff of John Wiley & Sons for encouraging and helping bring to fruition this second edition of the Handbook , particularly Patricia Rossi, Executive Editor, and Kara Borbely, Editorial Program Coordinator. Irving B. Weiner Tampa, Florida

Volume Preface

Contemporary developmental science is framed by theoretical models—termed relational developmental systems theories—that stress that dynamic, integrated relations across all the distinct but fused levels of organization comprising the ecology of human development are involved in human life. The relations among these levels constitute the basic process of development. The levels include biology/physiology; individual psychological and behavioral functioning; social relationships and institutions; and the natural and designed physical ecology, culture, and history. Indeed, from the beginning of the last century to the present one, the history of the study of human development has been marked by an increasing interest in the role of history. Scholars have been concerned with how temporal changes in the familial, social, and cultural contexts of life shape the quality of the trajectories of change that individuals traverse across their life spans. Scholars of human development have incorporated into their causal schemas about ontogenetic change a nonreductionist and synthetic conception about the influence of context—of culture and history—on ontogenetic change. In contrast to models framed by a Cartesian split view of the causes of change, current thinking in developmental science has altered its essential ontology. The relational developmental systems view of being that now defines the field’s cutting edge has required epistemological revisions as well. Both qualitative and quantitative methodologies have been legitimized as scholars have sought an integrated understanding of the multiple levels of organization comprising the ecology of human development. The integrated relations studied in contemporary scholarship are embedded in the actual ecology of human development. As a consequence, policies and programs derived from this scholarship represent both features of the cultural context of this ecology and methodological tools

for understanding how variations in individual–context relations may impact the trajectory of human life. As such, the application of developmental science (through policy and program innovations and evaluations) is part of—is synthesized with—the study of the basic, relational processes of human development. Since the first edition of this Handbook , some of this “translational work” (using evidence from theory-predicated developmental science to frame policy and program applications) has progressed in its presence and impact, especially in regard to program innovations across the life span. It is interesting to contemplate whether this progress will continue through the second decade of the 21st century, and whether this translational work will be expanded significantly in regard to policy innovations. In essence, then, as we pursue our scholarship about human development in the 21st century, we do so with an orientation to the human life span that is characterized by (a) relational developmental systems models of human life that integrate biological/physiological-through-physical ecological influences on human development in nonreductionist manners; (b) a broad array of qualitative and quantitative methodologies necessary for attaining knowledge about these fused, biopsychoecological relations; (c) a growing appreciation of the importance of the cultural and historical influences on the quality and trajectory of human development across the course of life; and (d) a synthesis of basic and applied developmental science. These four defining themes in the study of human development are represented in contemporary relational developmental systems theories. We believe that the chapters in this volume reflect and extend this integrative view of basic and applied developmental scholarship. Part I of this volume, “Foundations of Development Across the Life Span,” describes the ontological and epistemological features of this synthetic approach to xiii

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Volume Preface

developmental science. The following four parts of the volume provide evidence, within and across successive portions of the life span, of the rich scholarship conducted to describe and explain complex and mutually influential relations between developing individuals and changing contexts. The final part of the volume, “Applied Developmental Science Across the Life Span,” extends the age-specific discussions of basic person–context relational processes to multiple portions of the life span. Chapters in this section focus on the use of concepts and research associated with relational developmental systems thinking in applied efforts aimed at enhancing integrative processes and promoting positive, healthy developmental trajectories across course of life. In sum, by focusing on the four themes of contemporary developmental science, chapters in this volume reflect and offer a foundation for continued contributions to developmental scholarship about the dynamic relations between individuals and contexts. As we believe is persuasively demonstrated by the chapters in this volume, contemporary developmental science provides rigorous and important scholarship about the process of human development and applications across the life span. Together, these advances in the scholarship of knowledge generation and knowledge application serve as an invaluable means for advancing science and service pertinent to people across the breadth of their lives. There are numerous people to thank in regard to the preparation of this book. First and foremost, we are indebted to the volume’s contributors. Their scholarship and dedication to excellence and social relevance in developmental science and to its application enabled this work to be produced. The contributions serve as models of how scholarship may contribute both to knowledge and to the positive development of people across their life spans. We also owe a

great debt to Editor-in-Chief Irving Weiner, both for giving us the opportunity to edit this volume of the Handbook and for his unflagging support and sage scholarly advice and direction throughout the entire project. Patricia Rossi, our publisher at Wiley, was a constant source of excellent advice, encouragement, and collegial support, and we are pleased to acknowledge our gratitude to her. We are also grateful to Jarrett M. Lerner, Managing Editor at the Institute for Applied Research at Tufts University, for his superb editorial work. His commitment to quality and productivity, and his resilience in the face of the tribulations of manuscript production, are greatly admired and deeply appreciated. We are grateful as well to our families for the love and support given to us during our work on this volume. They remain our most cherished developmental assets. We also appreciate enormously the National 4-H Council, the Altria Corporation, the John Templeton Foundation, the Thrive Foundation for Youth, the National Science Foundation, and the Massachusetts Children’s Trust Fund for supporting our work during the development of this project. Finally, we dedicate this volume to John R. Nesselroade. He has been a scholarly giant of developmental science across the last third of the 20th century and the first decade of the 21st. He has been a key intellectual and professional force involved in establishing and enabling the flourishing of theory, methodology, and research in developmental science. His intellect, leadership, generosity, and generativity have enriched and continue to enhance developmental science. Richard M. Lerner M. Ann Easterbrooks Jayanthi Mistry Medford, MA

Contributors

Kristine J. Ajrouch Department of Sociology, Anthropology, and Criminology Eastern Michigan University Ypsilanti, Michigan

Marc H. Bornstein Child and Family Research Eunice Kennedy Shriver National Institute of Child Health and Human Development Bethesda, Maryland

Toni C. Antonucci Life Course Development Program University of Michigan Ann Arbor, Michigan

Hayden B. Bosworth Center for Health Services Research in Primary Care Durham VAMC Durham North Carolina Departments of Medicine, Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences, and School of Nursing Duke University Durham, North Carolina

Jessica Dym Bartlett Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts Marjorie Beeghly Department of Psychology Wayne State University Detroit, Michigan

Edmond P. Bowers Institute for Applied Research in Youth Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Marina Umaschi Bers Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Michelle J. Boyd Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Rosanna M. Bertrand Associate Abt Associates Inc. 55 Wheeler Street Cambridge, Massachusetts

Julia M. Braungart-Rieker Department of Psychology University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana

Kira S. Birditt Life Course Development Program University of Michigan Ann Arbor, Michigan

Caitlin C. Brez Schiefelbusch Life Span Institute University of Kansas Lawrence, Kansas

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Contributors

Joshua L. Brown Department of Psychology Fordham University Bronx, New York

Roger A. Dixon Department of Psychology University of Alberta Edmonton, Alberta

Nancy A. Busch-Rossnagel Graduate School of Arts and Sciences Fordham University Bronx, New York

Sanda Dolcos Department of Psychology University of Alberta Edmonton, Alberta

Amanda M. Cannarella Applied Developmental and Educational Psychology Boston College Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

M. Brent Donnellan Department of Psychology Michigan State University East Lansing, Michigan

Maria Paula Chaparro Department of Psychology University of Toronto Toronto, Ontario

Lorah D. Dorn Cincinnati Children’s Hospital Medical Center and the University of Cincinnati College of Medicine Cincinnati, Ohio

John Colombo Department of Psychology Schiefelbusch Life Span Institute University of Kansas Lawrence, Kansas Mariah Contreras Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts Ann C. Crouter College of Health and Human Development The Pennsylvania State University University Park, Pennsylvania E. Mark Cummings Department of Psychology University of Notre Dame Notre Dame, Indiana Lori M. Curtindale Department of Psychology University of Kansas Lawrence, Kansas Adam Davey Department of Public Health Temple University Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

Ranjana Dutta Department of Psychology Saginaw Valley State University University Center, MI M. Ann Easterbrooks Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts Jacquelynne S. Eccles Department of Psychology Institute of Social Research University of Michigan Ann Arbor, Michigan Merrill F. Elias Department of Psychology and Graduate School of Biomedical Sciences The University of Maine Orono, Maine David Henry Feldman Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts Celia B. Fisher Center for Ethics Education and Department of Psychology Fordham University Bronx, New York

Contributors

xvii

Alexandra M. Freund Department of Psychology University of Zurich Zurich, Switzerland

Eileen Kranz Graham Department of Psychology and Education Mt. Holyoke College South Hadley, Massachusetts

Joan E. Grusec Department of Psychology University of Toronto Toronto, Ontario

Margie E. Lachman Department of Psychology Brandeis University Waltham, Massachusetts

Megan R. Gunnar Institute of Child Development University of Minnesota Minneapolis, Minnesota

Michael E. Lamb Department of Social and Developmental Psychology University of Cambridge Cambridge, United Kingdom

Penny Hauser-Cram Applied Developmental and Educational Psychology Boston College Lynch School of Education Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

Selva Lewin-Bizan Institute for Applied Research in Youth Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Erika Hoff Department of Psychology Florida Atlantic University Davie, Florida

Jacqueline V. Lerner Department of Applied Developmental and Educational Psychology Boston College Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

Camelia E Hostinar Institute of Child Development University of Minnesota Minneapolis, Minnesota

Richard M. Lerner Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development and Institute for Applied Research in Youth Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Justin Jager Child and Family Research Eunice Kennedy Shriver National Institute of Child Health and Human Development Bethesda, Maryland

Koen Luyckx Faculty of Psychology and Educational Sciences Catholic University of Leuven Leuven, Belgium

Megan Johnston Department of Psychology University of Toronto Toronto, Ontario

Lindsay C. Malloy Department of Psychology Florida International University Miami, Florida

Daniela S. Jopp Department of Psychology Fordham University Bronx, New York Elizabeth R. Kazakoff Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

G. Peggy McFall Department of Psychology University of Alberta Edmonton, Alberta Kelly Minor Department of Applied Developmental and Educational Psychology Boston College Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

xviii

Contributors

Jayanthi Mistry Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Robert W. Roeser Department of Psychology Portland State University Portland, Oregon

Megan Kiely Mueller Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Institute for Applied Research in Youth Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Kristina L. Schmid Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts

Ulrich Muller ¨ Department of Psychology University of Victoria Victoria, BC Canada Christopher M. Napolitano Eliot-Pearson Department of Child Development Tufts University Medford, Massachusetts Jana Nikitin Department of Psychology University of Zurich Zurich, Switzerland Willis F. Overton Department of Psychology Temple University Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Russell D. Ravert Department of Human Development and Family Studies University of Missouri Columbia, Missouri Michaela Riediger Max Planck Research Group “Affect Across the Lifespan” Max Planck Institute for Human Development Berlin, Germany Tina D. Du Rocher Schudlich Department of Psychology Western Washington University Bellingham, Washington

Seth J. Schwartz Department of Epidemiology and Public Health University of Miami Miami, Florida Amanda Sherman Department of Psychology University of Toronto Toronto, Ontario Ilene C. Siegler Department of Psychiatry and Behavioral Sciences Department of Psychology & Neuroscience Behavioral Medicine Research Center Duke University Durham, North Carolina Lulu Song Center for Research on Culture, Development and Education New York University New York, New York Laurence D. Steinberg Department of Psychology Temple University Philadelphia, Pennsylvania Elizabeth J. Susman Department of Behavioral Health The Pennsylvania State University University Park, Pennsylvania Catherine S. Tamis-LeMonda Department of Applied Psychology Center for Research on Culture, Development and Education New York University New York, New York

Contributors

Ross A. Thompson Department of Psychology University of California, Davis Davis, California

Bonnie P. Whitehead Department of Psychology University of Alberta Edmonton, Alberta

Miriam Tillinger Applied Developmental and Educational Psychology Boston College Lynch School of Education Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

Ashley C. Woodman Applied Developmental and Educational Psychology Boston College, Lynch School of Education Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

Fred W. Vondracek Department of Human Development and Family Studies The Pennsylvania State University University Park, Pennsylvania

Byron L. Zamboanga Department of Psychology Smith College Northampton, Massachusetts

Laura Wagner Department of Psychology Ohio State University Columbus, Ohio

xix

PART I

Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

CHAPTER 1

Developmental Science Across the Life Span An Introduction RICHARD M. LERNER, M. ANN EASTERBROOKS, AND JAYANTHI MISTRY

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE LIFE-SPAN STUDY OF HUMAN DEVELOPMENT 4 THE PLAN OF THIS VOLUME 8

CONCLUSIONS 14 REFERENCES 14

Until the early 1960s, the study of human development was dominated by either descriptions of the behavioral or psychological phenomena presumptively unfolding as a consequence of genetically controlled timetables of maturational change (e.g., see the chapters by Hess and by McClearn in the 1970, 3rd edition of the Handbook of Child Psychology; Mussen, 1970), or by descriptions of the behaviors presumptively elicited in response to stimulation encountered over the course of early life experiences (e.g., see the chapters by Stevenson or by White in the same edition of the Handbook of Child Psychology). Framed within a Cartesian dualism that split nature from nurture (Overton, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume), scientists studying development focused in the main on the generic human being (Emmerich, 1968) and on the earliest years of life or, at most, the years surrounding the stages of pubertal change. These periods were regarded as the portions of ontogeny wherein the fundamental processes of human development emerged and functioned to shape the subsequent course of human life (Brim & Kagan, 1980). Today, the study of development has evolved from a field embedded within the domain of developmental psychology to an area of scholarship labeled developmental science (Bornstein & Lamb, 2010; Lerner, 2010a; Magnusson & Stattin, 2006). Substantively, developmental

science is a field that conceptualizes the entire span of human life as potentially involving developmental change. The possibility of developmental change across life exists because the basic process of development is seen as involving mutually influential relations between an active organism and a changing, multilevel ecology, a relation represented as individual ← → context relations (Lerner, 2006). These relations provide the fundamental impetus to systematic and successive changes across the life span (Brandtst¨adter, 1998; Overton, 1973, 2010; Lerner, 2006). Thus, the contemporary study of human development involves placing post, postmodern, relational models at the cutting-edge of theoretical and empirical interest (Overton, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume). These models consider all levels of organization—from the inner biological through the physical ecological, cultural, and historical—as involved in mutually influential relationships across the breadth of the entire life course (Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006; Riegel, 1975, 1976). Variations in time and place constitute vital sources of systematic changes across ontogeny—even into the 10th and 11th decades of life—and, as such, human life is variegated and characterized by intraindividual change and interindividual differences (Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 2006; Elder, 1980; Elder, Modell, & Parke, 1993; Elder & Shanahan, 2006). Accordingly, because ontogenetic change is embodied in its relation to time and place (Overton, 2010), contemporary developmental science regards the temporality represented by historical changes as imbued in all levels of organization, as

The preparation of this chapter was supported in part by grants from the National 4-H Council, the Altria Corporation, the Thrive Foundation for Youth, the John Templeton Foundation, the National Science Foundation, and the Massachusetts Children’s Trust Fund. 3

4

Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

coacting integratively, and as providing a potential for this systematic change, for plasticity, across the life span. In short, as a consequence of the relational coactions of changes at levels of organization ranging from the biological, psychological, and behavioral to the sociocultural, designed and natural physical ecological, and through the historical (see Gottlieb, 1997; cf. Overton, 2006), processes of development are viewed in contemporary developmental science through a theoretical and empirical lens that extends the study of change across the human ontogenetic span and, as well, through generational and historical time (Elder, 1998; Elder, et al., 1993). The variations in the actions of individuals on their contexts and contexts on individuals integratively propel and texture the course of life (Baltes, Freund, & Li, 2005; Brandtst¨adter, 2006; Freund & Baltes, 2000; Freund, Li, & Baltes, 1999). As a result, the breadth of the life span and all levels of organization within the ecology of human development must be considered in order to fully describe, explain, and optimize the course of intraindividual change and of interindividual differences in such change (Baltes, et al., 2006; Baltes, Reese, & Nesselroade, 1977). There exist both historical (Baltes, 1979, 1983; R. Cairns & Cairns, 2006) and philosophical and theoretical (Lerner, 1984; Overton, 1973, 1975, 2006) accounts of the nature and bases of the evolution of developmental science. These accounts document that the field changed from one dominated by psychological, environmental, or biological reductionist, split, and age-period restricted conceptions of human development processes to become a field focused on relational systems, and life-span developmental models (Lerner, 2010b; Overton, 2010). Edwin G. Boring (1950, p. ix) noted that Hermann Ebbinghaus once remarked that “psychology has a long past, but only a short history.” In many ways, the same statement may be made about the evolution of the study of human development across the life span; that is, of the history of the developmental science of human development. A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE LIFE-SPAN STUDY OF HUMAN DEVELOPMENT Wilhelm Wundt labeled the science he is typically credited with launching as physiological psychology (Boring, 1950). In turn, at the end of his career Wundt sought to understand the science he had launched within the frame of cultural anthropology (Misiak & Sexton, 1966). Even in its early history, then, psychology was a field whose individuallevel scholarship was linked to phenomena at levels of organization either more micro or more macro than its own.

Often, however, mechanistic and reductionist models were used to conceptualize the relations among levels. For example, Homans’s (1961) social exchange theory used principles of operant learning to reduce dyadic relationships to psychogenic terms. Wilson (1975), in turn, reduced instances of (seemingly) moral behaviors (labeled as altruistic) to purported biogenic explanations (involving the concepts of inclusive fitness and gametic potential). The field of developmental science emerged from this general approach in psychology. That is, the origins of developmental science lie in the field of developmental psychology or, even more narrowly, in the field of child psychology when, prior to the 1960s, the portions of the life span beyond early adolescence were markedly understudied by developmental psychologists (e.g., Baltes, 1983; R. Cairns & Cairns, 2006; Dixon & Lerner, 1999). Within these earlier approaches to development there was an orientation to explain the phenomena of one level of organization by reductive reference to terms associated with another level. Bijou and Baer (1961) attempted to explain all phenomena associated with psychological and behavioral development during infancy and childhood by reduction to the principles of classical and operant conditioning. Rowe (1994) sought to reduce parent-child relations and, in fact, all socialization experiences of childhood by reference to genetic inheritance, as represented by estimates of heritability. The attempts by such developmental psychologists to portray the phenomena of one level of organization as primary, or “real,” and others as derivative, or epiphenomenal, were representative of a more general tendency among developmentalists to split apart the components of the ecology of human life and to treat the bases of development as residing in one or another component, for example, nature or nurture (Overton, 1973, 2006, 2010). Indeed, theoretical controversies and associated empirical activity revolved around whether nativist concepts or experiences associated with learning could explain the development of perception, cognition, language, intelligence, or personality (R. Cairns & Cairns, 2006; Dixon & Lerner, 1999). This split also is illustrated by the tendency to reduce human relationships to interactions among members of dyads, or individual interaction sequences. In addition, split conceptions of development framed debates about whether continuity or discontinuity characterized the course of life; for instance, a key issue was whether early experience, split off from subsequent periods of life, was integral in shaping the context of the person’s psychological-behavioral repertoire across ontogeny (Brim & Kagan, 1980).

Developmental Science Across the Life Span: An Introduction

Levels of Integration in Human Development An old adage says that “standing on the shoulders of giants we can see forever.” For scholars of human development— especially contemporary developmentalists who eschew the split conceptions of the past—many of these giants came from the fields of evolutionary biology or comparative psychology (e.g., Gottlieb, 1983, 1997, 2004; Gottlieb, Wahlsten, & Lickliter, 2006; Ho, 2010; Jablonka & Lamb, 2005; Kuo, 1976; Lehrman, 1953; Maier & Schneirla, 1935; Novikoff, 1945a, 1945b; Schneirla, 1957; Tobach, 1981; von Bertalanffy, 1933; and see Hood, Halpern, Greenberg, & Lerner, 2010, for reviews). Through the cumulative impact of the theory and research of such scholars, by the early years of the 21st century scientists studying human development have come to view the reductionist and split conceptions that dominated conceptual debates in developmental psychology during the first seven to eight decades of the 20th century as almost quaint historical artifacts. The few contemporary remnants of these split conceptions (e.g., Plomin, 2000; Rushton, 2000; Spelke & Newport, 1998) are regarded as theoretically atavistic and as conceptually and methodologically flawed (e.g., see Garcia Coll, Bearer, & Lerner, 2004; Hirsch, 2004; Keller, 2010; Lerner, 2006; Overton, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume; Partridge & Greenberg, 2010). Within the context of the contemporary understanding of the theoretical flaws of past and, in some cases, present (e.g., see Ho, 2010; Jablonka & Lamb, 2005; Rose & Rose, 2000, for reviews), contemporary contributions to the literature of human development derive from ideas that stress that an integrative, reciprocal relation, fusion, or dynamic interaction of variables from multiple levels of organization provides the core process of development. These ideas—summarized in the concepts associated with relational developmental systems models of human development (Overton, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume) and in the several instantiations of these models in contemporary developmental science (e.g., Ford & Lerner, 1992; Mistry & Wu, 2010; Sameroff, 2009; Thelen & Smith, 2006)—are found in the theoretical ideas associated with the work of the comparative psychologists and evolutionary biologists just noted. To illustrate, the comparative work of Gilbert Gottlieb (1983, 1997; Gottlieb et al., 2006; and see Hood, et al., 2010, for reviews) has been a central influence on contemporary developmental psychology, providing a rigorous, compelling theoretical and empirical basis for viewing human development as involving changes in a person-context developmental system across the life span.

5

Gottlieb’s scholarship has documented the probabilistic epigenetic character of developmental changes; that is, alterations that result from variation in the timing of the integrated or fused relations—or the coactions—among levels of organization ranging from biology through the macroecological influences of culture and history. Using examples drawn from a variety of species—and involving, for instance, variation in morphological outcomes of development in the minute parasitic wasp; the emergence of enameled molar teeth resulting from chick oral epithelial cells being placed in contact with mouse cell mesenchyme; dominant frequencies in the vocalizations of mallard duck embryos and hatchlings; phenotypic variation in the body builds of human monozygotic twins reared apart; and secular trends from 1860 to 1970 in the age at menarche of European and United States females—Gottlieb (1997, 1999) provided evidence of a probabilistic epigenetic view of bidirectional structurefunction development. This view (Gottlieb, 1997, 1999) may be summarized as: Genetic activity (DNA ←→ RNA ←→ Protein) ←→ Structural Maturation ←→ Function, Activity, or Experience Thus, Gottlieb’s (1983) theoretical work is coupled with rich and convincing empirical documentation that biologyecology coactions provide a basis of plasticity—of the potential for systematic change—across the course of life (e.g., see Gottlieb, 1997). Gottlieb’s (1997, 1999; Gottlieb, Wahlsten, & Lickliter, 1998) scholarship underscores the importance of focusing developmental analysis on the multilevel, integrated matrix of covariation—on the dynamic developmental system—that constitutes human development. Moreover, in forwarding a systems view of human development, this scholarship necessitates that developmental psychologists transcend a psychogenic view of their field. This scholarship leads developmentalists to embrace a perspective that includes contributions from the multiple—biological, behavioral, and social—sciences that afford understanding of the several coacting levels of organization integrated in the developmental system. In a similar vein, scholars building on Vygotsky’s (1978) sociocultural perspective on human development also emphasized the need to transcend the boundaries of psychological science. Cole (1990, 1996) and Werstch (1985, 1991) explicated Vygotsky’s description of the genetic method for the study of human development,

6

Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

stating that a complete theory of human development must be able to explain development at the phylogenetic, sociohistorical, ontogenetic, and microgenetic levels. The assumption is that such an endeavor requires the integration of perspectives from biology, sociology, anthropology, history, and psychology. In short, to understand human development, developmental psychologists became developmental scientists. They became multidisciplinary collaborators seeking to describe, explain, and optimize the changing interlevel relations that constitute the basic process of development within a relational developmental systems perspective (Lerner, 2006; Overton 2010). Scholarly Products and Producers of Relational Developmental Systems Models The work of Gottlieb, other comparative psychologists, and evolutionary biologists emphasizing epigenetics (e.g., Ho, 2010; Jablonka & Lamb, 2005; Rose & Rose, 2000) found a ready audience among many developmentalists across the last three decades of the 20th century. This period was a teachable moment in the field of developmental psychology, because many scholars were struggling to find a theoretically sound means to frame what were anomalous findings by the then-current split theoretical models (e.g., associated with either nature or nurture, mechanistic conceptions or predetermined epigenetic models; see Gottlieb, 1997; Lerner, 2002; Overton, 1973, 1998, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume, for discussion of these split approaches). For example, these findings pertained to cohort or timeof-testing effects on human ontogenetic change, to the role of later life events in altering (creating discontinuities with) the trajectories of individual development, and to the presence of plasticity across life—even in the aged years—regarding biological, psychological, and social functioning (e.g., see Baltes et al., 2006; Brim & Kagan, 1980; Elder, 1998; Elder & Shanahan, 2006; Lerner, 2006). These findings demonstrated that dynamic relations between individual characteristics and critical contextual events or nonnormative historical episodes shaped the character of change across the life span. Several different relational developmental systems theories were developed in regard to such findings (e.g., Brandtst¨adter, 2006; Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006; Csikszentmihalyi & Rathunde, 1998; Elder, 1998; Feldman, 2000; Fischer & Bidell, 2006; Ford & Lerner, 1992; Gottlieb, 1997, 1998, 1999; Lerner, 2006; Magnusson & Stattin, 2006; Overton, 2006, 2010; Thelen & Smith, 2006; Wapner &

Demick, 1998). Across these different formulations, there is a common emphasis on fused person-context relations and on the need to embed the study of human development within the actual settings of human life. Such embeddedness may involve tests of theoretically predicated ideas that appraise whether changes in the relations within the system result in alterations in developmental trajectories that coincide with model-based predictions. Depending on their target level of organization, these changes may be construed as policies or programs, and the evaluation of these actions provides information about both the efficacy of these interventions in promoting positive human development and the basic, relational process of human development emphasized within relational developmental systems models. As such, within contemporary, relational developmental systems theory, there is a synthesis of basic and applied developmental science. That is, by studying integrated person-context relations as embedded in the actual ecology of human development, policies and programs represent both features of the cultural context of this ecology and methodological tools for understanding how variations in individual-context relations may impact the trajectory of human life. Thus, the application of developmental science (through policy and program innovations and evaluations) is part of—is synthesized with—the study of the basic relational processes of human development. The Contemporary Features of Developmental Science As the decade of the 1980s ended, the view of developmental science that Paul Mussen (1970) had put forward at the beginning of the 1970s—that the field placed its emphasis on explanations of the process of development—was both validated and extended. Mussen alerted developmentalists to the burgeoning interest not in structure, function, or content per se, but to change, to the processes through which change occurs, and thus to the means through which structures transform and functions evolve over the course of human life. His vision of and for the field presaged what emerged in the 1990s as the cutting edge of contemporary developmental theory: a focus on the process through which the individual’s engagement with his or her context constitutes the basic process of human development. The interest that had emerged by the end of the 1980s in understanding the dynamic relation between individual and context was, during the 1990s, brought to a more abstract level, one concerned with understanding the

Developmental Science Across the Life Span: An Introduction

character of the integration of the levels of organization comprising the context, or bioecology, of human development (Lerner, 2006, 2010b). This concern was represented by reciprocal or dynamic conceptions of process and by the elaboration of theoretical models that were not tied necessarily to a particular content domain but rather were focused on understanding the broader developmental system within which all dimensions of individual development emerged (e.g., Brandtst¨adter, 2006; Bronfenbrenner, 2005; Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006; Ford & Lerner, 1992; Gottlieb, 1997; Magnusson, 1999a, 1999b; Sameroff, 1983, 2009; Thelen & Smith, 2006). In other words, although particular empirical issues or substantive foci (e.g., motor development, the self, psychological complexity, or concept formation) lent themselves readily as exemplary sample cases of the processes depicted in a given theory (Lerner, 1998), the theoretical models that were forwarded within the 1990s were superordinately concerned with elucidating the character of the individualcontext relational developmental system (Lerner, 2006; Overton, 2010). During the 1980s and 1990s similar concerns with understanding the nature of the integration between individual development and cultural context led to the development of sociocultural perspectives on human development. As already noted, some scholars extended Vygotsky’s (1978) sociohistorical theory to emphasize the study of human development as it is constituted in the sociocultural context (Cole, 1990, 1996; Rogoff, 1990; Wertsch, 1985, 1995). Others conceptualized culture as the meaning systems, symbols, activities, and practices through which people interpret experience (Bruner, 1990; Greenfield & Cocking, 1994; Goodnow, Miller, & Kessel, 1995; Markus & Kitayama, 1991; Mistry & Wu, 2010; Shweder, 1990). By the end of the 20th century, then, the conceptually split, mechanistic, and atomistic views, which had been involved in so much of the history of concepts and theories of human development, had been replaced by theoretical models that stressed relationism and integration across all the distinct but fused levels of organization involved in human life. This dynamic synthesis of multiple levels of analysis is a perspective having its roots in systems theories of biological development (Cairns, 1998; Gottlieb, 1992; Kuo, 1976; Novikoff, 1945a, 1945b; Schneirla, 1957; von Bertalanffy, 1933); in addition, as noted by Cairns (1998), the interest in understanding person-context relations within an integrative, or systems, perspective has a rich history within the study of human development. For example, James Mark Baldwin (1897) expressed interest in studying development in context, and thus in

7

understanding integrated, multilevel, and hence interdisciplinary scholarship (Cairns, 1998). These interests were shared as well by Lightner Witmer, the founder in 1896 of the first psychological clinic in the United States (Cairns, 1998; Lerner, 1977). Moreover, Cairns describes the conception of developmental processes—as involving reciprocal interaction, bidirectionality, plasticity, and biobehavioral organization (all quite modern emphases)—as integral in the thinking of the founders of the field of human development. For instance, Wilhelm Stern (1914; see Kreppner, 1994) stressed the holism that is associated with a relational developmental systems perspective about these features of developmental processes. In addition, other contributors to the foundations and early progress of the field of human development (e.g., John Dewey, 1916; Kurt Lewin, 1935, 1954; and even John B. Watson, 1928) stressed the importance of linking child development research with application and child advocacy—a theme of very contemporary relevance (Lerner, Fisher, & Weinberg, 2000a, 2000b; Lerner, Jacobs, & Wertlieb, 2003; Zigler, 1999). The study of human development has in a sense come full circle in the course of a century. From the beginning of the last century to the beginning of the present one, the history of developmental psychology has been marked by an increasing interest in the role of history—of temporal changes in the familial, social, and cultural contexts of life—in shaping the quality of the trajectories of change that individuals traverse across their life spans. As a consequence of incorporating into its causal schemas about ontogenetic change a nonreductionistic and a synthetic conception about (as compared to a Cartesian split view of) the influence of context—of culture and history—the field of human development has altered its essential ontology. The relational view of being that now predominates in the field has required epistemological revisions in the field as well. Qualitative as well as quantitative understanding has been legitimated as scholars have sought an integrated understanding of the multiple levels of organization comprising the ecology of human development. In fact, relational perspectives embracing the developmental system stress the methodological importance of triangulation across quantitative and qualitative appraisals of multilevel developmental phenomena (Lerner, Dowling, & Chaudhuri, 2005). In essence, then, as we pursue our scholarship about human development in this second decade of the 21st century, we do so with an orientation to the human life span that is characterized by (a) integrated, relational

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

models of human life, perspectives synthesizing biologicalthrough-physical ecological influences on human development in nonreductionistic manners; (b) a broad array of qualitative and quantitative methodologies requisite for attaining knowledge about these fused, biopsychoecological relations; (c) a growing appreciation of the importance of the cultural and historical influences on the quality and trajectory of human development across the course of life; and (d) a synthesis of basic and applied developmental science. These four defining themes in the study of human development are represented in contemporary relational developmental systems theories, perspectives that constitute the overarching conceptual frames of modern scholarship in the study of human development. We believe as well that across the rest of this century the field will advance through the coordinated emphasis on a culturally and historically sensitive science that triangulates quantitative and qualitative appraisals of the relations among the multiple levels of organization fused within the developmental system. In short, there has been a history of visionary scholars interested in exploring the use of ideas associated with relational developmental systems theory for understanding the basic process of human development and for applying this knowledge within the actual contexts of people to enhance their paths across life. Accordingly, the chapters in this volume reflect and extend the diverse theoretical perspectives that emphasize understanding dynamic and integrated developmental processes as they are situated in the varying contexts of people’s lives and circumstances.

THE PLAN OF THIS VOLUME Developmental science in the 21st century has become marked by an explicit integration of philosophy, theory, and method on the one hand and a synthetic understanding of basic developmental processes and applications designed to promote positive human development on the other (Lerner, 2006). In addition to the present chapter, Part I of this volume, “Foundations of Development Across the Life Span,” includes a chapter by Overton and M¨uller. This chapter elaborates a relational developmental systems approach that serves as the basis for integrating the range of concepts that are fundamental to understanding the integrative character of the developmental process, including variational and transformational change, nature and nurture, biology and culture, and explanation and interpretation. Overton and M¨uller identify the notions of person, action, and embodiment as core concepts of

relational developmental systems because these notions overcome the dichotomies that traditionally have characterized developmental theories. The next five sections of the volume (Parts II through VI) provide evidence, within and across successive portions of the life span, of the rich scholarship conducted to describe and explain dynamic relations between developing individuals and their complex contexts. In Part II of the volume, titled “Infancy and Early Childhood,” Colombo, Brez, and Curtindale summarize research in the last decade on the development of perception and cognition in preverbal infants. The chapter begins by placing the current state of the field in its historical context and covers the basic and predominant methodological techniques and paradigms used in the field. The major part of the chapter is spent summarizing progress in eight specific subtopics within the area: attention, learning, intersensory/intermodal processing, face processing, object perception, casual perception, quantitative processing, and categorization. In addition, two integrative sections explore how the study of the development of fundamental perceptual and cognitive functions relates to larger issues in developmental psychology. The first of these sections examines the developmental relationships between lower-order perceptual components and higherorder functions, such as language and executive function. A final section examines the incorporation of research on early perceptual and cognitive development in translational and applied research. These topics include the prediction of later cognition from early cognitive performance, the use of infant perceptual-cognitive measures as dependent or outcome measures in intervention research, and the use of early perceptual-cognitive indicators as markers of developmental delay and disability. In turn, Easterbrooks, Dym Bartlett, Beeghly, and Thompson note that the study of “socioemotional” development reflects the intertwining nature of the processes of social and emotional growth. They focus on social and emotional development of infants and toddlers. They begin by outlining the contextual frames that inform their discussion: psychobiological, relational, and cultural. Emotions have been referred to as the “language of infancy,” and the authors present a profile of early emotional development that focuses on several key aspects of emotions and how they shape, and are shaped by, social interactions; they include discussions of temperament, the importance of face-to-face social interactions, the role of social relationships in emotion regulation, and the growth of self-understanding. In the section that follows, they focus on attachment relationships between infants

Developmental Science Across the Life Span: An Introduction

and their caregivers, addressing central questions related to individual differences in attachment security, and the influence of infants’ attachment relationships on later developmental functioning. The orientation they present highlights that the contours of emotional development in the early years both are informed by, and contribute to, social interactions and relationships. In the next chapter in this section, Hostinar and Gunnar address the issue of the conditions under which stress exposure in childhood induces vulnerability and promotes resilience. They review what is known about the developmental psychobiology of stress systems and articulate the current state of knowledge. They review also the anatomy and physiology of stress systems and some of their complex interconnections, followed by a discussion of what is known about the ontogeny of these systems and the way individual differences in their activity might emerge. They discuss studies of stress reactivity and regulation during each major developmental period between prenatal life and adolescence, and, in turn, review findings related to temperamental, genetic, and caregiving factors that may underlie individual differences in stress reactivity. They conclude with some ideas about the need for basic research examining the development of stress systems at multiple levels of analysis—scholarship that will inform a comprehensive, biologically plausible model of stress and emotion across the life span. In the final chapter of the “Infancy and Early Childhood” section, Tamis-LeMonda and Song examine the sociocultural context of infant development, with primary emphasis on parent-infant communicative interactions. They focus on the cultural context of development, as societies (and local communities) around the world have different sets of views and practices regarding raising children. They focus on infancy, as it involves rapid brain growth and impressive achievements in language and social communication. In addition, they focus also on parent-infant communicative interactions, because infants’ social experiences occur primarily within the family setting and interactions with family members are a core conduit for sharing culture. The chapter presents five principles that guide the authors’ thinking on cultural similarities and differences in parent-infant communicative interactions and show how the everyday settings and activities of families—referred to as daily routines—frame the types of communicative interactions that parents have with their young. They describe as well cultural variations in three aspects of parent-infant communicative interactions: modes of communication (i.e., language, gaze, touch, gesture), parents’ communicative accommodations to infants

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(i.e., support of infants’ expressions and understandings), and the content of interactions (i.e., the functions and topics of communications). Finally, the authors point to next steps in the study of parent-infant interactions in cultural context. The chapters in Part III, “Childhood,” present current perspectives on the dynamic processes of development and multiple influences of context in various domains of children’s development. In the first chapter in this section, Wagner and Hoff review four major theoretical approaches to the study of language development: the Biological, the Linguistic, the Social Pragmatic, and the Domain-General Cognitive. Each approach is described and evaluated with respect to its strengths and weaknesses. Major issues from the field are discussed, including the critical period for language, the poverty of the stimulus argument, nativism, rule abstraction, and statistical learning. Evidence from the domains of phonological, lexical, and syntactic development are considered. The chapter argues that each approach has made important contributions, but none alone has so far been able to account for the entirety of the phenomenon of language acquisition. In the following chapter, Feldman notes that in more than half a century of history, the field of cognitive development has been marked by several revolutionary influences that helped establish it as a distinct specialty. The cognitive revolution, the revolution in language acquisition, and the Piagetian revolution were the most powerful early influences. As the field evolved, Neo-Piagetians and sociocultural perspectives balanced the focus on individual development with contextual and educational contributions. The author notes that toward the end of the last century, efforts at integration of individual and context, biology and culture, and universal and nonuniversal development were the focus of the field. Vygotsky’s sociocultural framework, with its emphasis on guidance and participation, was particularly influential. Finally, the author indicates that in recent decades, emerging trends in comparative studies with primates, dynamic systems frameworks that are grounded in biology, and brain research have invigorated and extended the field of cognitive development in children into new areas. In turn, Cummings, Braungart-Rieker, and Du Rocher Schudlich note that a change in views about the roles of emotions in socioemotional development has taken place. Emotions were once viewed as experiential, intrapsychic events that occurred more or less secondarily, as byproducts of more significant causal processes and phenomena. However, they note that, in recent years, research and theory on the study of emotions have placed much greater emphasis on the significance and role of emotions in social

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

functioning and personality development. Accordingly, the authors review the state-of-the-art in seminal themes for understanding the role of emotions in children’s development: what is known, what is being done, and future directions, including (a) individual differences in the development of emotion and personality in children, (b) relational influences, and (c) a developmental psychopathology perspective. Future directions are discussed for each of these themes of research and theory on emotions and personality development. In the next chapter in this section, Grusec, Chaparro, Johnston, and Sherman point out that in middle childhood, peers become important as children spend more time away from home. Major improvements occur in children’s ability to understand the perspective of others and in their inferences about the psychological attributes of others as well as of themselves. Social development continues to result from a complex interaction between genes and the environment in which children find themselves, and behavior geneticists have studied the role of genetic mediation in social development, and sought specific genes that are involved in various social behaviors. Different children respond to the same socialization intervention in different ways, depending on a host of factors including variables such as age, sex, temperament, and the cultural context in which the intervention takes place. As a result, effective socialization is a function of the way children perceive and respond to a given intervention, rather than a function of a specific action on the part of the socializing agent. Socialization goes on in a variety of domains, with each domain characterized by a different kind of relationship between agent of socialization and child, and the actions of the latter need to be appropriate to the relationship or domain that is currently activated. Although parents, peers, and siblings differ considerably in their characteristics relative to the child being socialized, they all, nevertheless, operate in the same set of domains or relationships. The final chapter in this section, by Mistry, Contreras, and Dutta documents key scholarship in integrating culture and child development in the first decade of the 21st century. The authors argue that there is a twofold challenge for an integration of perspectives from cross-cultural, cultural, and developmental psychology: (1) to resolve continuing debates regarding the conceptualization of culture; and (2) to frame the central questions for culturally inclusive theories of development, such that each subdiscipline has something of value to contribute. To address these challenges, Mistry, Contreras, and Dutta highlight two specific areas of convergences that they view as representing the most significant advances in the integration of culture and

child development. First, they document emerging ideas about the mutually constitutive nature of individual development and culture. They then review constructs that integrate person and culture into a single unit of analysis and argue that these ideas are paving the way for empirical investigations that will advance the development of culturally inclusive theories of human development. Second, Mistry, Contreras, and Dutta argue that a common interest across all three subdisciplines in how developmental processes and changes are situated in context is triggering an integration of approaches. The authors illustrate how addressing the three goals for cultural developmental science—to describe, explain, and interpret the range of cultural variations in human psychological functioning—requires an integration of cross-cultural, cultural, and developmental psychology. The chapters in Part IV, “Adolescence,” all point to the multiple interrelated changes that mark this key transitionary period. In the first chapter in this section, Susman and Dorn present a perspective on the role of puberty in psychological development. They discuss how puberty has intrigued scholars, artists, parents, and adolescents alike for centuries and note that cultures have ritualized puberty to varying degrees. The authors go on to note that puberty’s biological basis has been described comprehensively in scientific journals in the last few decades and that its psychological significance continues to be of great scientific interest. Susman and Dorn consider the neuroendocrinology of puberty and the implications of these endocrine and morphological changes for psychological development. Beginning with a historical and theoretical perspective on the role of puberty in development, the authors then provide a review of the major neuroendocrine changes that occur at puberty and how these changes affect physical morphological characteristics. Then the authors summarize the literature to present an overview of the relations between pubertal status, pubertal timing, and psychological development. Finally, Susman and Dorn make research and intervention recommendations for the future. Next, Eccles and Roeser note that considerable strides have been made in the past decade in recognizing the centrality of the cultural context of schooling to adolescent development. The authors adopt a relational developmental systems conceptualization of the context of schooling and focus on selected new research findings regarding how (a) teachers, curricular tasks, and classroom environments; (b) aspects of the school as an organization; and (c) district policies and practices can influence adolescents’ intellectual and social-emotional development.

Developmental Science Across the Life Span: An Introduction

In the next chapter in this section, Schwartz, Donnellan, Ravert, Luyckx, and Zamboanga review what is known about adolescent and emerging adult identity—including both personal and cultural dimensions of identity. They discuss major approaches to personal identity, including Marcia’s (1966) identity status model and other models that have been developed based on identity status. They also highlight the role of agency and self-direction in the development of identity and how the role of agency differs between Western and non-Western cultural contexts. The authors describe the embeddedness of identity within personality and within the self-narratives that individuals create to make sense of their lives. They discuss also acculturation and other cultural processes as manifestations of identity and highlight the need for integrative work between personal and cultural dimensions of identity given the rapidly increasing ethnic diversity in the United States and other Western nations. Finally, several fruitful areas for future research are reviewed. In the succeeding chapter in this section, by Lerner, Bowers, Minor, Boyd, Kiely, M¨uller, Schmid, Napolitano, Lewin-Bizan, and Lerner, the tripartite conception of positive youth development (PYD) suggested by Hamilton (1999)—as a developmental process, a philosophy or approach to youth programming, and as instances of youth programs and organizations focused on fostering the healthy or positive development of youth—is used to review different theoretical models of the developmental process involved in PYD. In addition, the authors discuss the ideas for, and the features of, youth development programs aimed at promoting PYD and youth development programs seeking to enhance PYD among diverse youth. They note several conceptual and practical problems that must be addressed in order to advance the research, as well as applications pertinent to PYD. In the final chapter in this section, Bornstein, Jager, and Steinberg describe adolescence and salient individualdifference characteristics in adolescents that are germane to their relationships with parents and friends/peers. In turn, the authors provide an analogous discussion of parents and parenting. Then they link adolescents and parents and discuss their special bidirectional, transactional relationships. Bornstein and colleagues then introduce adolescents’ friends and peers, and the salient characteristics that are germane to their relationships with adolescents and adolescents’ parents. They then link adolescents with friends/peers and discuss their special bidirectional, transactional relationships. Finally, the authors move beyond the two dyadic relationships involving adolescents to discuss triadic relationships and to delineate different ways

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that dyadic relationships are influenced by or depend on other dyadic relationships and/or other contributors outside of the dyad. The chapters in Part V, “Adulthood and Aging,” attest to both the potentials for systematic change and, as well, the ways in which engagement of the individual with variables across the relational developmental system moderates transformational and variational change during this portion of the life span. In the initial chapter in this section, Siegler, Bosworth, Davey, and Elias note that most of the ongoing research in developmental health psychology has been incremental, with the emphasis on qualitative changes most prominent at the start of adulthood. Fears about demographic transitions have increased as Baby Boomers (born between 1946 to 1964) began to turn 65 in 2011. Accordingly, the authors review new findings on centenarians, risk and prevention of cognitive decline, and management of multiple chronic disorders in the elderly. They note that major changes in the understanding of the bases of health among aged groups that may occur in the next 10 years will not necessarily come from psychology, but from other disciplines. If, for instance, there are advances in the treatment of Alzheimer’s disease, such work will change later life and the health psychology of aging. In the absence of such advances, however, the authors believe that society will be faced with many dependent older persons with needs for long-term care. In their chapter on cognitive development in adulthood Dixon, McFall, Whitehead, and Dolcos discuss five aspects of cognitive development in adulthood and aging. Specifically, the chapter includes attention to (a) foundational issues in the study of cognitive change over many years of adulthood; (b) two enduring cognitive topics in the field, namely, intelligence and memory; (c) the long-standing but under-studied roles that biological and health conditions play in cognitive aging; (d) the recent and novel topic of emotional and affective influences on cognition throughout adulthood; and (e) the historically intriguing question of whether and how sustained cognitive health can be detected or promoted in normal aging. In the next chapter in this section, Bertrand, Kranz Graham, and Lachman note that personality development in adulthood and old age has been the focus of considerable research over the last several decades, amassing a body of literature that is richly diverse in theoretical and methodological approaches. The authors define and examine the nature of personality in adulthood and old age from diverse perspectives and consider issues of stability, continuity, and change. They focus on the impact of individual differences

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

in personality on health and well-being in multiple domains (e.g., cognitive functioning) throughout the life span and discuss the impact of variations in personality due to such factors as gender, culture, and the antecedents of personality change. In addition, they review theoretical approaches and present current major perspectives in the field, including traits, life-span developmental, contextual, self, and phenomenological approaches. Some of the major findings regarding subjective personality change and personality as a predictor of later life outcomes are discussed. They also examine specific aspects of the self-construct, such as identity, self-efficacy and control, well-being, and emotion regulation. Finally, the authors summarize the current state of the adult personality literature, especially the focus on identifying mechanisms. In the final chapter in this section, Antonucci, Birditt, and Ajrouch trace scientific advancements made in the study of social relations across the life span and over the life course with a particular emphasis on adulthood and aging. The authors begin with attention to traditional social relations theories, including the Convoy Model of Social Relations. Next, Antonucci and colleagues consider empirical investigations to illustrate how increasingly sophisticated developmental theory and methods have led to expanded and more nuanced understandings of social relations in adulthood. Furthermore, the authors provide an overview of the most recent literature available on the convoy model, especially highlighting aspects of social relations that influence stress, health, and well-being. Finally, the authors identify future directions in the study of social relations. The chapters in Part VI, “Applied Developmental Science Across the Life Span,” point to the rich ways in which theory-predicated developmental science is being used to promote positive and healthy individual development, enhance the settings of human life, and further social justice. In the opening, and indeed, “keynote” chapter in this section, Fisher, Busch-Rossnagel, Jopp, and Brown focus on promising directions in applied developmental science in the next decade by charting recent contributions and future potential for new ways of thinking about how the field conceptualizes and optimizes development across the life course, the role of applied developmental science in public and private institutions, and obligations to promote a social justice agenda that contributes to social policies sensitive to diverse developmental challenges and is inclusive in its offering of opportunities for individuals from various cultural, economic, and social positions. This chapter brings together theoretical concepts and frameworks, methodological advances, and emerging themes and controversies that are redefining applied developmental science, highlighting

areas that warrant further exploration and focusing attention on critical issues that should be addressed in future. In turn, Hauser-Cram, Cannarella, Tillinger, and Woodman provide a brief historical perspective on disabilities, followed by a discussion of contemporary issues regarding definitions and classification schemes. The authors include an examination of cultural views on disabilities, as such perspectives provide a wide-ranging understanding of the etiology of disabilities and the use of the term “typical.” They consider theoretical models and empirical evidence emerging from current research on children with developmental disabilities within the network of family relationships. Because parents of children with disabilities often face unique challenges, they consider the processes of resilience in parental adaptation and the role of positive emotions in parental well-being. The authors conclude with a section on future research in which they provide suggestions for expanding the perspective on families of children with disabilities. They propose that several of the scientific endeavors undertaken to understand development in those with disabilities be poised to inform critical issues in developmental science. In the next chapter in this section, Lamb and Malloy focus on three topics regarding which legal practice concerning youth has been at least somewhat responsive to input from developmental scientists. First, they discuss the ways in which research on parent-child relationships and on the effects of divorce can guide professionals making decisions about children’s living arrangements when the children’s parents divorce or separate. Second, they review research on the extent to which children are capable of providing detailed testimony about their experiences of child abuse and illustrate the ways in which developmentally appropriate forensic interview procedures improve the quality of information provided by victims. Third, they discuss the characteristics of alleged juvenile offenders that influence their vulnerability and culpability, highlighting implications for the legal system. The authors demonstrate that “basic” and “applied” research complement one another and that developmental processes can only be understood when we are able to examine youth in experimental, analog, and real-world contexts. In their chapter on health and human development, Vondracek and Crouter note that living a long and healthy life is a universal human aspiration. In fact, in many parts of the world, life expectancies have increased dramatically, primarily due to great progress in the treatment and prevention of disease. This necessary focus on disease has not been accompanied, however, by a corresponding focus on health. Fortunately, there is growing evidence that this situation is

Developmental Science Across the Life Span: An Introduction

changing. Driving this change is an apparent convergence of theoretical frameworks used in human development, developmental psychology, and medicine around the idea that health and positive development are best addressed from a systems perspective that is capable of conceptualizing the whole person-in-context as the proper target of attention. Complementing this theoretical shift has been a vigorous new emphasis on positive psychology, which features an emphasis on personal and contextual strengths as assets that promote health and well-being. Accordingly, the authors review contemporary empirical research that examines these complex relationships. Their discussion confirms that a shift from a disease and deficit model of human development and health toward a more positive and strength-based approach is both timely and warranted (see J. Lerner et al., this volume). The authors note that these developments have important implications for researchers, practitioners, and policy-makers, although it is clear that the extent and precise nature of these implications are just beginning to be explored. In the succeeding chapter in this section, Freund, Nikitin, and Riediger explain that, historically, life expectancy has only recently extended into old age and has dramatically increased over the past 100 years. Early accounts of aging have characterized this phase in life as one of more or less uniform decline and focused on the question of how people can react to and cope with the many losses they encounter. Although this question remains one of the topics of aging research, more recent approaches to the notion of “successful aging” also address the question how older adults proactively shape their own aging process. Accordingly, the authors review the state of research on the topic of successful aging. Early approaches focused on the question “what is successful aging?” by outlining general criteria for aging well. More recent approaches have shifted the focus to the question “how do people age successfully?” These models—e.g., the socio-emotional selectivity theory; the model of selection, optimization, and compensation; the model of assimilative and accommodative coping; or the model of primary and secondary control—emphasize the role of proactive emotional and motivational processes for aging successfully. By setting goals in accordance with one’s resources as well as age-related concerns (e.g., prioritizing emotional goals over the acquisition of information), by adapting goals and standards to the changing availability of resources (e.g., to health-related decline), and by disengaging from unavailable goals, older people can maintain high levels of functioning and subjective well-being. The authors indicate that they hope that the identification of

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processes underlying successful aging will help to enhance the quality of older persons’ lives in the future. In the final chapter in this section, Bers and Kazakoff note that new technologies (computers, social media) are having an impact on young people and we need more research to understand this impact. Young people use computers to communicate with friends, to listen to and exchange music, to meet new people, to share stories with relatives, to organize civic protests, to shop for clothing, to blog, to create videos, to find romantic partners, and to learn new things in new ways. Accordingly, the authors review the role of new technologies with regard to child and youth development. One of the constants of new technologies is that they will always be changing; there will always be newer and faster technologies. It is necessary to understand if and how these technologies support developmental milestones at different ages. Furthermore, due to the ever-changing nature of new technologies, a framework in which to evaluate these new technologies should be used. The authors focus on positive behaviors of children and youth that might be promoted by new technologies; at the same time, they also review potential harmful activities that might accompany or result from the use of these new technologies. The authors propose a framework of positive technological development (PTD) as a way of viewing and understanding this work. In sum, the chapters in this volume contribute significantly to extending more than a third of a century of scholarship aimed at understanding the dynamic relations between individuals and contexts. The present volume brings this scholarship to both an empirically richer and a more theoretically nuanced level, one depicting—for multiple substantive foci of human development and both within and across the major developmental epochs of life—the nature of the reciprocal or dynamic processes of human ontogenetic change, of how structures function, and of how functions are structured over time. The consistency across chapters in the demonstration of the usefulness of relational developmental systems thinking for theory, research, and application indicates that this frame for contemporary developmental scholarship is not tied necessarily to a particular content domain, but rather is useful for understanding the broader developmental system within which all dimensions of individual development emerge (e.g., Ford & Lerner, 1992; Gottlieb, 1998; Overton, 2010; Sameroff, 2009; Thelen & Smith, 2006). In other words, although particular empirical issues or substantive topics (e.g., perceptual development, successful aging, cognition and achievement, emotional behaviors, or complex social relationships) may lend themselves

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

readily as emphases of developmental scholarship within or across developmental periods, the chapters in this volume attest to the importance of focusing on relational, integrative individual-context dynamics to understand the human developmental system. CONCLUSIONS The power of contemporary developmental science scholarship lies in its integrative character—across substantive domains of individual functioning (e.g., biology, emotional, cognition, and social behaviors), across developmental periods, across levels of organization (from biology through culture and history), and across basic and applied interests in regard to understanding and enhancing human life. As represented by the scholarship in this volume, contemporary developmental science is not limited by (or, perhaps better, confounded by) an inextricable association with a unidimensional portrayal of the developing person (e.g., the person seen from the vantage point of only cognitions, emotions, or stimulus-response connections). Today, the developing person is neither biologized, psychologized, nor sociologized. Rather, the individual is systemized; that is, his or her development is conceptualized and studied as embedded within an integrated, relational matrix of variables derived from multiple levels of organization. This relational approach to developmental science is certainly more complex than its organismic or mechanistic predecessors (Lerner, 2006; Overton, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume). However, a relational developmental systems approach is also more nuanced, more flexible, more balanced, and less susceptible to extravagant or even absurd claims (e.g., that nature, split from nurture, can shape the course of human development). Moreover, as elegantly demonstrated by the chapters in this volume, relational developmental systems offer a productive frame for rigorous and important scholarship about the process of human development and applications across the life span. Together, these advances in the scholarship of knowledge generation and knowledge application serve as an invaluable means for advancing science and service pertinent to people across the breadth of their lives. Ultimately, then, such applications of developmental science may contribute to the enhancement of social justice (Lerner & Overton, 2008). REFERENCES Baldwin, J. M. (1897). Mental development in the child and the race. New York, NY: Macmillan. Baltes, P. B. (1979). Life-span developmental psychology: Some converging observations on history and theory. In P. B. Baltes &

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Watson, J. B. (1928). Psychological care of infant and child . New York, NY: Norton. Wertsch, J. V. (1985). Culture, communication, and cognition: Vygotskian perspectives. New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. Wertsch, J. V. (1991). Voices of the mind . Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Wertsch, J. V. (1995). Introduction. In J. V. Wertsch, P. del Rio, & A. Alvarez (Eds.), Sociocultural studies of the mind . New York, NY: Cambridge University Press. White, S. H. (1970). The learning theory tradition and child psychology. In P. H. Mussen (Ed.), Carmichael’s manual of child psychology (3rd ed., 657–701). New York, NY: Wiley. Wilson, E. O. (1975). Sociobiology: The new synthesis. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Zigler, E. (1999). A place of value for applied and policy studies. Child Development, 69, 532–542.

CHAPTER 2

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development ¨ WILLIS F. OVERTON AND ULRICH MULLER

DEVELOPMENTAL INQUIRY AND THE METATHEORETICAL 20 TRANSFORMATION AND VARIATION: A RELATIONAL INTEGRATION 27 A BRIEF HISTORY OF PAST METATHEORETICAL WORLDS: TOWARD THE BIRTH OF DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE 27 RELATIONISM—A CONTEMPORARY METATHEORY FOR DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE 32

A METHODOLOGICAL RAPPROCHEMENT: EXPLANATION IN A RELATIONAL CONTEXT 41 THE RELATIONAL DEVELOPMENTAL SYSTEMS’ EMBODIED ACTION (ENACTION) APPROACH 45 CONCLUSIONS 53 REFERENCES 53

In this chapter, we will focus on some ideas that usually rest quietly in the background when development is explored. Background ideas are not unlike the foundation of a house. A foundation grounds, constrains, and sustains the nature and style of the building that can ultimately be constructed. So, too, do background ideas ground, constrain, and sustain both theory and methods of investigation in any area of inquiry. A foundation is usually ignored by those who live and work in the house, at least until something goes wrong—as, for example, when cracks appear in walls or the house begins to sink into the ground. So, too, are background ideas often ignored by investigators, at least until something goes wrong with theoretical or empirical efforts in the field of study. In this chapter, we will try to bring these ideas from background to foreground and examine how they form the basis for, and impose constraints on, both theory and research in developmental psychology. In scientific discussions background ideas are often termed metatheoretical or metatheories. They transcend (i.e., “meta”) theories, in the sense that they define the context in which theoretical concepts are constructed, just as a foundation defines the context in which a house can be constructed. Further, metatheory functions not only to ground, constrain, and sustain theoretical concepts, but also to do the same thing with respect to methods of investigation.

For convenience, when specifically discussing background ideas that ground methods, we will use the term metamethods. Methodology would also be an appropriate term here, if this were understood in its broad sense as a set of principles that guide empirical inquiry (Asendorpf & Valsiner, 1992; Overton, 2006). The primary function of metatheory—including metamethod—is to provide a rich source of concepts out of which theories and methods emerge. Metatheory also provides guidelines that help to avoid conceptual confusions and, consequently, help to avoid what may ultimately be unproductive ideas and unproductive methods. Theories are about the empirical phenomena in a specific subject area, and methods are the procedures used to generate or capture these phenomena; by contrast, metatheories and metamethods are about the theories and methods themselves. More specifically, a metatheory is a set of rules, principles, or a story (narrative), that both describes and prescribes what is acceptable and unacceptable as theory—the means of conceptual exploration of any scientific domain. A metamethod is also a set of rules, principles, or a story, but this story describes and prescribes the nature of acceptable methods—the means of observational exploration—in a scientific discipline. When metatheoretical ideas—including metamethod—are tightly interrelated and form a coherent set of concepts, the set is often termed 19

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a model or paradigm. These coherent sets can form a hierarchy in terms of increasing generality of application. Thus, for example, a model that contains the basic concepts from which a theory of memory will be constructed is a relatively low-level model, because it applies only to memory. A model such as relational developmental systems (see Lerner & Overton, 2008; Overton, 2010) applies to a number of domains, including social, cognitive, and emotional domains, and hence functions at a higher hierarchical level. The hierarchical dimension of any given set of metatheoretical ideas also forms a coherently interrelated system of ideas, and the model operating at the pinnacle of this hierarchy is termed a world view (Overton, 1984). World views are composed of coherent sets of epistemological (i.e., issues pertaining to the sources and justification of knowledge) and ontological (i.e., issues pertaining to fundamental categories of reality) principles. In this chapter, most of the discussion will concern ideas that have a very high range of application. Metatheories and metamethods are closely interrelated and intertwined. For example, as we will see shortly, when considering the very nature of development, a prevailing metatheory may assert the claim that change of form (transformational change) is a legitimate and important part of the understanding of developmental change. If a prevailing metatheory asserts the legitimacy of transformational change, then theories of development will include some type of stage concept, because “stage” is the theoretical concept that is used to describe transformational change. Further, if transformational change and stage is a part of one’s metatheory, then the related metamethod will prescribe the significance of methods that assess pattern and sequence of pattern that are appropriate to empirically examining the stage concept in any given specific empirical domain. On the other hand, if a metatheory asserts that transformational change is unimportant to our understanding of development, then any theoretical concept of stage will be viewed negatively, and methods of pattern and sequential assessment will be understood to be of marginal interest. Broadly, a metatheory presents a vision of the nature of the world and the objects of that world (e.g., one metatheory might present a picture of the child as an “active agent” “constructing” his/her known world; another metatheory might picture the child as a “recording device” that “processes” information). A metamethod presents a vision of the tools that will be most adequate to explore the world described by the metatheory. Any rich understanding of the impact of the metatheoretical requires an historical appreciation of the emergence of specific alternative metatheoretical approaches

to knowledge. Developmental psychology was born and spent its early years in a curious metatheoretical world. This world, which began in the 17th century, has been called the modern world, or modernity. In the past century, the modern world has undergone major crises, and these form the context for alternative contemporary metatheories. Before describing this history, a brief examination of the broad ways that metatheory colors an understanding of the nature of development deserves some attention. This discussion will establish a developmental framework, serving as a general context for the remainder of the chapter.

DEVELOPMENTAL INQUIRY AND THE METATHEORETICAL How should we understand the field of developmental science? While it is clear that change is central in any definition of development, the identification of the specific nature of this change and the identification of what it is that changes in development are shaped by metatheoretical principles. Initially, we might say that developmental science is the study of age changes of living organisms from conception to the end of life. This is often a satisfactory initial working definition, but it involves several conceptual problems. First, age has no unique qualities that differentiate it from time; age is simply one index of time. Second, there is nothing unique or novel about units of age-time, such as years, months, weeks, minutes, and so on (see also Lerner, 2011). Thus, this definition merely states that development is about changes that occur in time. The difficulty with this is that all change occurs “in” time and, as a consequence, the definition is an empty one, merely restating that development is about change. Furthermore, change itself is too broad a notion; it includes phenomena that we would normally not consider development. For example, diurnal rhythms consist of changes, but we would not consider these cyclical changes development. Similarly, we can train a dog to learn a new behavior, and we can then withhold rewards such that the new behavior becomes extinct. Even though this sequence of events involves change, we would be reluctant to describe this change as development. We can, however, further specify this initial working definition by saying that developmental science entails the scientific study of relatively permanent systematic intraindividual changes —from conception to the end of life—of an organism’s behavior, and of the systems and processes that underlie that behavior and those changes. The field encompasses the study of several

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

categories of change, such as ontogenesis (development of the individual across the life span), embryogenesis (development of the embryo), orthogenesis (normal development), pathogenesis (development of psychopathology), and microgenesis (development on a very small time scale, such as development of a single percept). But the field is also comparative in nature and, thus, includes the study of phylogenesis and evolution (development of the species), as well as historical and cultural development. Human ontogenesis/orthogenesis is the most familiar focus of attention of developmental science, and within this series there are a number of age-related areas of study—including infancy, toddlerhood, childhood, adolescence, early adulthood, mature adulthood, and late adulthood. Both within and across areas, developmental scientists explore biological, cognitive, emotional, social, motivational, and personality dimensions of individual development. The field also maintains a strong research focus on individual differences and contextual ecological systems that impact on development, including the family, home, neighborhoods, schools, and peers. Organization, Sequence, Direction, Epigenesis, and Relative Permanence Individual change constitutes the fundamental defining feature of development, but it is important to again emphasize that not all change is necessarily developmental change. Developmental change entails five necessary defining features: (1) organization of processes (also termed “structure” and “system”), (2) order and sequence, (3) direction, (4) epigenesis and emergence, and (5) relative permanence and irreversibility. These features frame two broad forms of change that have traditionally been considered developmental, but have also been considered, under some metatheoretical paradigms, as competing alternative definitions of developmental change—transformational change and variational change (also, Lerner, 2011; Mistry, 2011; Raeff, 2011). A number of these features are illustrated in Figure 2.1. Other features of Figure 2.1 (e.g., embodiment, and Biological, Person, and Sociocultural/Environmental Systems) will be discussed later in this chapter. Understanding the place of transformational and variational change in development requires a type-token distinction, which is also a distinction between structure and content. Perception, thinking, memory, language, affect, motivation, and consciousness are universal psychological processes (types), characteristic of the species as a whole. Any given percept, concept, thought, word,

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memory, emotion, or motive represents a particular expression of a universal process (tokens). Although each form of change is entailed by any behavioral act, transformational change primarily concerns the acquisition, maintenance, retention, or decline of universal processes or operations (types), whereas variational change primarily concerns the acquisition, maintenance, retention, or decline of particular expressions (tokens), and individual differences in expressions. Transformational Change It will be seen in the following descriptions of the defining features of transformational change that each feature represents a necessary component of developmental change itself. In a later section, we will explore the place of these features in variational change and further examine the relation of transformational and variational change to developmental change. Organization. Transformational change is change in the form, organization, or structure of a system. In the case of ontogenesis, the system is the living organism, while subsystems consist of cognitive, affective, and motivational (i.e., psychological) processes, along with their biological correlates. Embryological changes constitute some of the clearest and most concrete examples of transformational or morphological change (Edelman, 1992; Gottlieb, 1992). Through processes of differentiation and reintegration, movement occurs from the single-celled zygote to the highly organized functioning systems of the 9-monthold fetus. Some cognitive and socioemotional phenomena of human ontogenesis have also been conceptualized as reflecting transformational change. For example, sensorimotor action undergoes a sequence of transformations to become symbolic thought, and further transformations lead to a reflective symbolic thought exhibiting novel logical characteristics (Mascolo & Fischer, 2010; M¨uller & Racine, 2010). Memory may reflect transformational changes moving from recognition memory to recall memory. The sense of self and identity (Chandler, Lalonde, Sokol, & Hallett 2003; Damon & Hart, 1988) has been portrayed by some as moving through a sequence of transformations. Emotions have been understood as differentiations from an initial relatively global affective matrix (Lewis, 1993; Sroufe, 1979). Physical changes, such as changes in locomotion, have also been conceptualized as transformational changes (Thelen & Ulrich, 1991). Transformational change has several closely interrelated defining features, and these give further specification to the concept of developmental change.

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

Embodiment Trans-reflective reflective symbolic practical Thoughts, Wishes, Feelings

s) ge (S ta

(Projective-transformexploration) Instrumental

ati on a Ti me l cha ng e

Reflective symbolic practical

Bio-systems rs

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Thoughts, Wishes, Feelings

an sfo rm

2nd order repersentational action systems

Tr

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Expressive/constitutive (Projective-transformation-exploration) Instrumental

Embodiment Symbolic practical

Sociocultural & Physical world

Bio-systems

Thoughts, Wishes, Feelings

Representational action systems

n so

r

Pe

Expressive/constitutive (Projective-transformation-exploratory action) Instrumental

Living body embodiment

Action systems (schemes) (operations)

Empressive/Constitutive

3rd order representational action systems Embodiment

Practical Intentions, Acts, Goals, feeling

on

rs

Pe

Bio-systems n

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o rs

Expressive/constitutive (Projective-transformational-exploratory action = change mechanism) Instrumental Variational change

Biological systems

Figure 2.1 The development of the person: Levels of transformational and variational change emerging through embodied action in a sociocultural and physical world.

System. Transformational change implies an object that is changed. Historically, when reductionist neopositivism and behaviorism constituted the standard metatheory of psychology—when psychology identified itself as a discipline that took substance rather than process as its ontological reality (Bickhard, 2008)—the object changed was simply observable behavior. At the core of neopositivism and behaviorism—and even more recently in what has been termed a “strict” contextualism (i.e., a horizontal cosmology that minimizes the value of hierarchical organization) (Overton, 2007)—observed behavior and its associations with biological and environmental variables

form the bedrock and exclusive context of inquiry. As a consequence, within these metatheoretical frames, it was possible to identify developmental change with a behavioral change that is split off from (i.e., not relationally connected to) any organization of processes. As psychology moved to a more postpositivist and relational stance—becoming a process rather than a substance discipline —it is the living, complex , spontaneously active (i.e., not driven by external or internal forces), self-creating (i.e., autopoietic, see Maturana & Poerksen, 2004), self-organizing (i.e., organizational process leading to increased complexity without guidance or

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

management by an external source), self-regulating and adaptive system of processes that constitutes the object changed. As an inherently and spontaneously active system, the system acts, and its acts (a) express the underlying organization of the system (i.e., any act is expressive in nature); (b) function as the means for communicating with its environments (i.e., any act is communicative); and (c) constitute the change mechanisms that both transform and are transformed by its environments (i.e., any act is relationally or bidirectionally instrumental ). As discussed later in this chapter, it is the complex active psychological system that creates, organizes, and regulates itself through complex and multidirectional relational interpenetrating feedback loops with its biological and cultural environments. In sum, it is what has been termed the relational developmental system (Lerner, 2011; Lerner & Overton, 2008; Overton, 2006, 2010) itself that is the object of transformational change. Order and Sequence. The overt or observable acts of a relational developmental system exhibit variations (e.g., there are many ways to reach for and grasp a cup), and these variations produce sequences. These behavioral sequences are contingent (i.e., under changed conditions they can be different). However, change in the form or organization of the system itself exhibits a necessary order and universal sequence (e.g., the development of “grasping”). Any living system is an adaptive system, and any adaptive system, if it is to live and thrive, necessarily moves from lesser to greater levels of complexity. The transformations from zygote to embryo to fetus, for example, are not contingent; they are universal, and could not be otherwise. Similarly the transformation of a system characterized by sensorimotor functioning to a system characterized by complex reflective thought represents a necessary and universal ordered sequence. Directionality. Any notion of order implies a direction to the change. That is, any ordered system implies an orientation towards a goal or end state. The notion of a goal orientation (telos) has often befuddled and even frightened those developmental psychologists who continue to hold on to the anachronism called neopositivism. To talk of a telos seems to raise the worry of admitting a discredited teleology into the science. This fear is based on competing metatheoretical assumptions and conceptual confusions. One conceptual confusion concerns subjective versus objective teleology. Subjective teleology involves subjectively held “purposes,” “aims,” or “goals” (e.g., “I intend to become a better person”) and is irrelevant to the definition of transformational developmental change.

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Objective teleology, on the other hand, involves the scientific construction of principles or rules designed to explain—in the sense of making intelligible—phenomena under investigation (e.g., “the development of x moves from lack of differentiation to more equilibrated levels of differentiation and hierarchic integration”). The rule so constructed, conceptually “finds,” “discovers,” or “identifies” the sequential order and the end state. Any position that seriously accepts the idea of transformational change necessarily accepts both goal directedness and the fact that the specific goal articulated is a theoretical concept—not a slice of physical nature—designed to illuminate the nature of the transformational change under study. It is simply a conceptual confusion to argue that adequate descriptions are more important than the positing of endpoints (e.g., Sugarman, 1987), or similarly to suggest a movement away from endpoints and towards “a more neutral, person-time-and-situation-geared conception of development” (Demetriou & Raftopoulos, 2004, p. 91). There is no “neutral” standpoint, and no developmental description could possibly occur without a positing of endpoints. The question here is what one would possibly describe if one did not understand development as tending toward some specified end? If one wishes to describe/explain the course of acquiring language, then adult language is, of necessity, the endpoint towards which development moves. No “description” of the language of the child would be possible without this ideal endpoint. In a similar fashion, if one wishes to describe/explain the transformational development of reasoning, or thought, or problem solving, or personality, or anything, a conceptually defined endpoint must serve as the ultimate model. A related feature of this confusion over the positing of developmental endpoints arises from the mistaken notion that positing a goal or endpoint necessarily leads to an “adultomorphic perspective [that] forces one to view earlier behaviors and functions as immature versions of adult functions” (Marcovitch & Lewkowicz, 2004, p. 113). Central to this argument is its faulty assumption that all developmental change, including transformational change, is additive (linear, strict continuity) and, conversely, the failure to recognize that in complex self-organizing adaptive systems, nonlinearity (nonadditivity; discontinuity) is frequently the rule. For example, Piaget’s interest in examining the development of reasoning from a relational developmental systems perspective resulted in his identifying deductive propositional reasoning as the endpoint of inquiry—whether this was a good idea or a poor idea is here irrelevant to the argument. What is relevant is that Piaget described several quite different forms of reasoning

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(e.g., preoperational, concrete operational) that function as discontinuous precursors to this adult form, and these early forms are not simply immature versions of the adult function; rather, they are qualitatively distinct forms of reasoning. A final conceptual confusion is the notion— widespread for many years—that focusing on sequences and positing endpoints introduces rigidity and denies the plasticity of development. This notion is quickly debunked by recognizing that the concept of equifinality (i.e., that there are multiple means to the same end) is a core concept in any relational developmental systems perspective. While each level of organization of the system is a part of the normative sequence moving toward a normative end, there are multiple means or action paths to each system level. From a strictly metatheoretical, especially an epistemological metatheoretical, perspective, the centrality of transformational change—including the relational developmental system, order, sequence, and directional characteristics—is meaningful only to the extent that our understanding of developmental science and scientific method in general, have advanced beyond the neopositivism of what is usually termed “Newtonian mechanical explanation” (Overton, 1991). In that conceptual system, scientific explanation, and hence science, was ultimately reduced to the search for individual and additive observable forces (biological and environmental) that were taken as the causes and hence the explanation of development. In a relational postpositivist scientific world, the identification of dynamic pattern —both momentarily as a “complex self-organizing adaptive system” and temporally as the organized, sequential, directional “relational developmental system”—is logically prior to a detailed analysis of the resources this system employs to grow. From a relational developmental systems perspective, given the system’s characteristics, neither individual nor combined forces cause development; the relational developmental system itself defines the resources and their participation in system change. To consider “genes,” “neurons,” “brain changes,” “cultural objects,” “parents,” “peers,” or “neighborhoods,” to be sets of additive causes that drive development is to miss the point that these are all resources that the relational developmental system employs to grow (Robert, 2004). It is the relational developmental system itself that is the cause of development, and this system enacts its development by engaging in a multitude of complex relational actions with these resources. Classically, these actions have been termed “interactions,” but that term is totally inadequate to describe the

relational interpenetrations of co-acting parts that operate as the developmental system. As Griffiths and Tabery (2008) point out, there have been at least two meanings of the term “interaction.” One of these is the familiar statistical concept (i.e., P × Q), which is based on a linear model (Lewontin, 1974); is fundamentally additive in nature; and applies to population differences (i.e., interindividual differences) rather than to causes of individual development. Thus, for example, in discussions of the nature–nurture controversy, arguments sometimes revolve around the presence/absence of G × E (Gene by Environment) interactions. On the other hand, there is a developmental interaction, which involves analysis of the multiple complex positive and negative feedback action loops that describe the multidirectional relational causes (← →) that are associated with individual development. The focus of this chapter is the developmental interaction, and as a consequence, to capture both the merging (or fusion—Greenberg & Tobach, 1984) of parts into a single identity, while at the same time maintaining their own identity as differentiations, the terms “interpenetration” (merging) and “co-action” (differentiation) (Gottlieb, Wahlsten, and Lickliter, 2006) will be used in this chapter in place of “interaction,” except in those cases that refer to the simple additive combination of elements. “Interpenetration” and “co-action” will also be used in place of “bidirectional causality” (← →), which is often employed by contemporary developmental scientists when discussing the developmental interaction. It should be kept in mind that when others employ “bidirectional causality” they reference the same activity here termed “interpenetration” and “co-action.” While a developmental telos is another necessary feature of transformational change, there is an open and empirical question as to what universal telos most adequately captures the broad course of life-span development. Is it “differentiation and integration” (Mascolo & Fischer, 2010; M¨uller & Racine, 2010) as originally suggested in the seminal works of the eminent 20th-century developmentalist Heinz Werner (1948)? Or might it be some form of the concept “adaptation” (Bundick, Yeager, King, & Damon, 2010), as originally suggested by that other eminent 20th-century developmentalist Jean Piaget (1967)? Or some notion of “balance” (Bialystok & Craik, 2010; Karelitz, Jarvin, & Sternberg, 2010)? Or could it be some notion of an “attractor,” as discussed within systems approaches to the understanding of changes in complex systems operating far from equilibrium (Overton, 1994a; van Geert, 2003)? The most likely answer to this question is that it is an integration of all of these suggestions. That is, any

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

telos is an interpretation designed to bring conceptual order into system change, and posited end points can vary as a function of a specific area of inquiry. Epigenesis and Emergence. The concept of epigenesis was originally introduced in biology as a counterweight to the idea of “preformation” in the explanation of the appearance of increasingly organized complexity, from a relatively undifferentiated egg to a highly differentiated organism. While epigenesis has a long history with several twists and turns (Lickliter & Honeycutt, 2003) today, conceptualized as “probabilistic epigenesis” (Gottlieb, 1992), it designates a holistic approach to understanding developmental complexity (transformational change). Probabilistic epigenesis is the principle that the role played by any part of a relational developmental system—gene, cell, organ, organism, physical environment, culture—is a function of all of the co-acting parts of the system. It is through complex relational bidirectional and multidirectional reciprocal interpenetrating actions (positive and negative feedback loops) among the co-acting parts that the system moves to levels of increasingly organized complexity. Thus, epigenesis identifies the system as being completely contextualized and situated. The contextualization of the system is important, as it points to the necessity of exploring contextual variables as a part of the overall developmental research enterprise (Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006). Epigenesis also points to a closely related feature of transformational developmental change: emergence. Transformational change results in the emergence of system novelty. As forms change, they become increasingly complex. This increased complexity is a complexity of pattern rather than a linear additive complexity. The butterfly emerges from the caterpillar through the differentiation and reintegration of organization, the frog from the tadpole, the plant from the seed; the organism from the zygote. In an identical fashion, higher order psychological structures emerge from lower order structures, and new patterns of organization exhibit novel characteristics that cannot be reduced to (i.e., completely explained by) or predicted from, earlier forms. The novel properties are termed systemic, indicating that they are properties of the whole system and not properties of any individual part. This emergence of novelty is commonly referred to as qualitative change, in the sense that it is change that cannot be represented as purely additive. Similarly, reference to discontinuity in development is simply the recognition of emergent novelty and qualitative change of a system (Overton & Reese, 1981). Concepts of stages

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and levels of development are theoretical concepts, which within a relational developmental systems perspective reference transformational change along with the associated emergent novelty, qualitative change, and discontinuity. Each of the classic grand developmental figures of the 20th century—Piaget (1967), Vygotsky (1978), Werner (1948), and Erikson (1968)—acknowledged the centrality of nonlinearity and emergence; Piaget and Werner, via their ideas of development proceeding through phases of differentiation and reintegration; Erikson, through his epigenetic principle of development; and Vygotsky, in his argument that development is not “the gradual accumulation of separate changes . . . [but] a complex dialectical process characterized by . . . qualitative transformations of one form into another [with an] intertwining of external and internal factors” (1978, p. 73). Systemic emergence is not limited to homogeneous stages such as those offered by the grand theories. Mascolo and Fischer (2010), for example, in discussing skill theory describe development as an “emergent developmental web”: The developmental web represents development in terms of a series of partially distinct pathways that, depending upon developmental circumstances, move in different diverging or converging directions. Higher-order psychological structures emerge from the integration or coordination of lower-level structures that develop along partially distinct trajectories. The splitting and converging of developmental trajectories is not something that can be specified or predicted a priori . —Mascolo & Fischer, 2010, p. 33

Similar positions on the centrality of emergence (Lerner, 2006; Overton, 2006) are expressed by numerous contemporary developmental scientists, including: Greenberg and Partridge (2010) on the origin of mind; Demetriou, Mouyi, and Spanoudis (2010) on the development of levels of mental processing; MacWhinney (2010) on the development of language; Lewis (2010) on the development of self and consciousness; Santostefano (2010) on the development of self; M¨uller & Racine (2010) on the development of symbolic representations; and Carpendale and Lewis (2010) on the transformational lag between neurological and psychological functioning. Relative Permanence and Irreversibility. A final feature of transformational change of a system is that it is not circular, transitory, or willy-nilly reversible. Transformational change—system change—is relatively permanent, relatively irreversible. This feature eliminates sleep, digestion, going to the movies, and any behaviors that

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are readily extinguishable from the list of transformational changes. While this attribute is generally a straightforward feature of transformational change, it sometimes raises issues when the late adult years of human development are considered. It is for this reason that some have argued that it is necessary to distinguish “development” from “aging” (see Overton, 2010, for a full discussion of this issue). Variational Change Variational change refers to the degree or extent that a change varies from a standard, norm, or average. Nesselroade and Molenaar (2010) describe three kinds of comparisons that constitute the most elemental character of variation: (1) comparisons among kinds of entities (e.g., qualitative differences); (2) comparisons of an entity with itself over different occasions (intraindividual differences); and (3) comparisons among entities of the same kind (interindividual differences). The first of these refers to the outcome of transformational change; the second—intraindividual variation—is the focus of this section. The third—interindividual differences—is related to the concept of development only to the extent that the focus is on change of individual differences, and these changes themselves ultimately devolve back into intraindividual variation. The contingent reaching and grasping patterns of the infant’s behavior, the toddler’s improvements in walking precision, the growth of vocabulary, and receiving different grades on different exams are all examples of variational intraindividual change. From an instrumental point of view, intraindividual variational change is about a skill or ability (token) emerging (but not emergent) and becoming more precise and more accurate. Intraindividual variations are generally represented as linear and as additive in nature. As a consequence, this change is generally understood as quantitative and continuous. At any given level of form (i.e., any level of a relational developmental system), there are variants that constitute intraindividual variational changes. If thinking is understood as undergoing transformational change, then at any given transformational level, variational changes are found in variants of thought (e.g., analytic styles and synthetic styles). If emotions are presented as undergoing transformational change, then at any transformational level, variational change is reflected, for example, in differences in the degree of emotionality (more or less anxious, empathic, altruistic, and so on). If identity is thought of as undergoing transformational change, then at any transformational level there is variational change in the type of identity assumed (e.g., individualistic or communal). If the

structure of memory undergoes transformational change, there is variational change in memory capacity, speed of processing, memory style, memory content. Transformational change has been identified with domain-general normative structural issues such as changes that are typical of phyla, species, and individuals. In ontogenesis, for example, normative changes in cognitive, affective, and motivational systems have been the central issue of concern. The focus here is on sequences of universal forms whose movement defines a path or trajectory. Intraindividual variational change has been identified with domain-specific content and skill issues. In this case, interest is focused on local changes that suggest a particularity and a to-and-fro movement or a contingent directionality of change. Concepts of contingent rather than necessary organization and contingent rather than necessary change, and concepts of reversibility, continuity, and cyclicity, are associated with intraindividual variational change. Intelligence represents an example, where fluid intelligence (“for the most part defined by reasoning”; Blair, 2010, p. 6) or “control processes” (Bialystok & Craik, 2010) are associated with transformational features, while crystallized intelligence (i.e., knowledge and specific skills) along with processing speed (Blair, 2010) are associated with variational features of change. Transformational and variational changes have also been associated with different mechanisms of change. Transformational change has been associated with the embodied action-in-the-world characteristic of open complex self-organizing and self-regulating systems. Variational change in, for instance, cognitive functioning, has been associated with information processing mechanisms related to the encoding, storage, and retrieval of information (Klahr & MacWhinney, 1998). We are here faced with a conundrum. Earlier, it was said that developmental change entails five necessary defining features. However, as it turns out, each of those features is associated with transformational change, and none with variational change. Yet it was also said that development entails both transformational and variational change. How do we resolve this apparent contradiction? One proposal for resolving this conundrum identifies transformational change as developmental and variational change as historical change (Mascolo & Fischer, 2010; see also Raeff, 2011). The difficulty with this solution lies in its apparent exclusivity. The study of change with respect to the individual’s acquisition of specific concepts and skills (i.e., variational or historical change) as well as processing mechanisms entailed by those skills has traditionally been housed within the broad study of

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

human development. It would seem prudent to explore whether there might be some principled way in which variational and transformational change might be integrated into a single inclusive relational framework. That is, it would seem prudent to find a way in which a de facto situation—the current field of development science includes scientists who focus their study on each type of change—can be justified in a coherent principled fashion.

TRANSFORMATION AND VARIATION: A RELATIONAL INTEGRATION From a metatheoretical perspective, there are two possible solutions to this sort of conundrum: split and relational. The split solution denies the reality of, or marginalizes, one type of change, thus claiming the other constitutes the really Real development. The relational solution—to be expanded in the chapter section titled “Relationism: A Metatheory”—maintains that the apparent dualism, like any dualism, can better be understood as two interconnected features of the same whole. From the relational perspective, transformation and variation are not alternatives competing for the mantle of “development”; they constitute a whole reflecting two co-equal and indissociable complementary processes. This solution claims a reality in which the processes assume differentiated functional roles, but each process in itself explains and is explained by the other. Put simply, relational developmental systems produce variations, and variations transform the relational developmental system (Overton & Ennis, 2006a). As discussed earlier, relational developmental systems are spontaneously active; they produce acts consistent with the structure of the system (flies produce fly acts; pigeons, pigeon acts; and humans, human acts). Acts are embodied actions-in-the-world, and they succeed or fail to various degrees in attaining their intended goals. Partial success results in variations of the act (exploratory functioning) that feed back to the system. The system, in turn, employs the feedback as a resource in the ongoing process of changing (transforming) the system. The transformed system, in turn, produces further variants of the act. Thus, all development entails cyclical movements between transformation and variation that result in increasing complexity of the system and increasingly refined variants (Gestsd´ottir & Lerner, 2008; Overton, 2006). As Demetriou, Mouyi, and Spanoudis (2010) point out, The relations between the general and the specialized processes are complex and bi-directional. On the one hand, general processes set the limits for the construction, operation,

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and development of the domain-specific systems. On the other hand, specialized processes provide the frame and raw material for the functioning of general processes. —Demetriou, Mouyi, & Spanoudis, 2010, pp. 34–35

The relational solution clarifies the de facto situation that a great deal of research in the field of developmental science currently takes place at one or the other pole of the whole, and it encourages an integrated vision for future study. On the other hand, the relational solution discourages any notion of a systems approach and an information processing approach or a social learning approach as necessarily being competing alternatives. They become competing alternatives only when variational and transformational change are split off from one another and one is held up as the only type of developmental change.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF PAST METATHEORETICAL WORLDS: TOWARD THE BIRTH OF DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE The concept of development presented in the previous pages itself represents the outcome of a broader development. This is a history, not of the individual organism, but of the world views (metatheories) that have contextualized the science of development. An understanding of this history is necessary for the avoidance of conceptual confusions and as a guide for the continuing future growth of developmental science.

The Modern Period Modernity was defined both by a quest for absolute certainty of knowledge (Toulmin, 1990) and by an effort to expand individual freedom, especially freedom of thought. Building knowledge on rational and reasoned grounds, rather than on the grounds of authority and dogma, was understood as the key to each of these goals. The early protagonists who developed the basic tenets of this metatheoretical storyline were Galileo Galilei and his physics of a natural world disconnected from mind; Ren´e Descartes, whose epistemology elevated disconnection or splitting to a first principle; and Thomas Hobbes, who saw both mind and nature in a vision of atomistic materialism. Of the three, Descartes was to have the greatest and most lasting impact on the text and subtexts of this particular metatheoretical story. Descartes major contributions entailed the invention and articulation of splitting and foundationalism as key

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interrelated themes of the story of scientific knowing. Splitting is the formation of a conceptual dichotomy—an exclusive either/or relation—and foundationalism is a claim that one or the other elements of the dichotomy constitutes the ultimate Real or bedrock of certainty. Nature and Nurture; Idealism and Materialism (Form and Matter), Reason and Observation, Subject and Object, Constancy and Change, Biology and Culture, and the like all can be—and under the influence of Cartesian epistemology are—presented as split-off competing alternatives. Choose a background principle as the “Real”—as the foundation —and it follows, under a split metatheory, that the other is mere Appearance or epiphenomenal. It must be cautioned at this point that there is a critical distinction between the use of the term “real” in everyday commonsense life, and the Real of foundationalism. No one argues—or has ever argued—that there is a lack of reality or realness in the experienced everyday world. This is commonsense realism. Commonsense realism accepts the material existence of a real, actual, or manifest world, and all metatheoretical perspectives treat people, and animals, and physical objects as having such a real existence. The metatheoretical issue of the Real with a capital R (Putnam, 1987) is a very different issue. It concerns the current issue of having an absolute base or foundation from which everything else emerges. In this limited sense, the Real is defined as that which is not dependent on something else; that which cannot be reduced to something else. In metaphysical realism, it is even assumed the ultimate material reality exists as an absolute—independent of mind or knower (Searle, 1992). This constituted, as Putnam (1990) has said, the idea of objectivism, “A God’s eye view” that would be independent of the mind of the investigator. Modernity’s foundationalism is identified with a final achievement of absolute certainty and the end of doubt. In this story, even probable knowledge is knowledge on its way to certainty (i.e., 100% probable). This foundation is not simply a grounding or a vantage point, standpoint, or point-of-view, and certainty and doubt are not dialectically related. Descartes’ foundationalism describes the final fixed secure base. It constitutes an absolute, fixed, unchanging bedrock; a final Archimedean point (Descartes, 1969). Cartesian splitting and foundationalism came to operate as a permanent background frame for modernity’s scientific story. However, the specification of the nature of the ultimate foundation remained at issue. It was left to the empiricist branch of modernity to locate the Real within a dichotomy of observation split off from interpretation. Hobbes and later empiricists operated within this frame,

in which subject became split from object, mind split from body, ideas split from matter, and built into it a materialist identification of atomistic matter as the ultimate ontological foundational Real. Further, epistemological empiricists (e.g., David Hume) endorsed the position that the source of all knowledge is sense experience. In the materialist tradition, matter thus came to constitute the ontological Real to which all of commonsense experience would be reduced to arrive at the goal of science; a systematized body of certain empirical knowledge. This materialist foundation was inspired by Newton’s natural philosophy. Central to Newton’s natural philosophy was the redefinition of the nature of matter in a way that conceived of all bodies as fundamentally inactive. Prior to Newton, matter had been understood as inherently active. Matter had been conceived in terms of the relation of being (the static, fixed) and becoming (the active, changing). Newton, however, through his concept of inertia, split activity and matter and redefined matter as inactivity (Prosch, 1964). The redefinition of bodies as inert matter and the assumption of the atomicity of matter (i.e., bodies as ultimately aggregates of elemental matter that is uniform in nature, and in combination, yields the things of the world) were basic for Newton’s formulation of his laws of motion. However, they were also ideas that a later generation generalized into a metaphysical worldview (i.e., a metatheory at the highest level of generality). This worldview identified the nature of the Real as fixed inert matter and only fixed inert matter. This worldview has been called the “billiard ball” notion of the universe, “the notion that basically everything . . . was made up of small, solid particles, in themselves inert, but always in motion and elasticitly [sic] rebounding from each other, . . . and operating mechanically” (Prosch, 1964, p. 66). With these metatheoretical themes at hand—splitting, foundationalism, objectivism, materialism, and empiricism —it was a short step to the formulation of a completely exclusive scientific metamethod termed mechanical explanation that, with relatively minor modifications, has continued to serve to the present day as the metamethod of empiricism. This metamethod has surfaced under various names, including neopositivism (i.e., the position that pristine observational evidence constitutes the sole criterion of scientific knowledge) and later instrumentalism (i.e., the position that theoretical and metatheoretical concepts serve a heuristic function and only a heuristic function in science), and conventionalism (i.e., the position that heuristic theoretical and metatheoretical concepts are explicit or implicit social agreements) (Overton, 2006).

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

Mechanical Explanation The mechanical explanation metamethod continues the splitting process by dichotomizing science into two airtight compartments, description and explanation. There are three steps to mechanical explanation. The first is considered descriptive, and the second and third are considered explanatory. Step 1: Reduction –Description. The first step of mechanical explanation entails addressing the commonsense object of inquiry and reducing it to the absolute material, objective, fixed, unchanging, foundational elements or atoms. Terms like reductionism, atomism, elementarism, and analytic attitude all identify this step. In psychology for many years the atoms were “stimuli” and “responses.” Today they tend to be “neurons” and “behaviors,” or “contextual factors” and “behaviors”— the storyline changes, but the themes remain the same within this metatheory. In keeping with the framework of empiricism and materialism, the broad stricture here is to reduce all phenomena to the visible. Briefly consider one impact of this first step on developmental inquiry. Immediately, “transformational change,” “stages” of development, and the “mental organizations” or “relational developmental systems” that change during development become suspect as being somehow derivative because they are not directly observable. At best under this storyline, transformations, stages, and mental organization can only function as summary statements for an underlying more molecular really Real. In fact, the drive throughout this step is toward the ever more molecular in the belief that it is in the realm of the molecular that the Real is directly observed. This is particularly well illustrated in the enthusiasm for a microgenetic method (e.g., Kuhn, Garcia-Mila, Zohar, & Anderson 1995; Siegler, 1996; Siegler & Crowley, 1991, 1992) as a method that offers “a direct means for studying cognitive development” (Siegler & Crowley, 1991, p. 606, emphasis added). This use of the microgenetic method as an intensive “trial-by-trial analysis” reduces the very notion of development to a molecular bedrock of visible behavioral differences as they appear across learning trials. Interestingly, the term microgenetic method was introduced by the developmental psychologist Heinz Werner. In Werner’s work, the term describes the study of the moment-by-moment formation (Aktualgenese) of percepts in adults, leading from diffuse affective-motoric impressions to an objective perceptual world (M¨uller, 2005; Valsiner & van der Veer, 2000, for a detailed analysis of the differences between Werner’s and Siegler’s understanding of microgenesis).

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It is important to recognize that the aim of Step 1 is to drive out interpretations from the commonsense phenomena under investigation. Under the empiricist theme, commonsense observation is error laden, and it is only through ever more careful neutral observation that science can eliminate this error and ultimately arrive at the elementary bedrock that constitutes the level of “facts” or “data” (i.e., invariable observations). Step 2. Causal Explanation. Step 2 of mechanical explanation begins to move inquiry into the second compartment—explanation. Step 2 consists of the instruction to find the relations among the elements described in Step 1. More specifically, given our objects of study in developmental psychology—behavior and behavior change—this step directs inquiry to locate antecedents. These antecedents, when they meet certain criteria of necessity and sufficiency, are termed causes, and the discovery of cause defines explanation within this metamethod . The antecedents are also often referred to as mechanisms, but the meaning is identical. This point is another place at which to pause and notice an important impact of metatheory. Here, because of the particular metatheoretical principles involved, the word “explanation” comes to be defined as an antecedent– consequent relation, or the efficient/material proximal cause of the object of inquiry. Further, science itself often comes to be defined as the (causal) explanation of natural phenomena. It is critically important to remember here that Aristotle had earlier produced a very different metatheoretical story of scientific explanation. Aristotle’s schema entailed complementary relations among four types of explanation rather than a splitting. To illustrate Aristotle’s different types of explanation, take the example of a piano being out of tune (Spaemann & L¨ow, 1981). In explaining why it is out of tune, one could refer to the fact that it is made out of wood, and, therefore, is warped when exposed to fluctuations in humidity (material cause). One could also refer to the fact that the piano is considered to be out of tune because it is a musical instrument (i.e., has a particular form), which implies the possibility of being out of tune (a simple piece of wood would not be considered to be out of tune). Further, one could refer to the fact that the piano was exposed to humidity (efficient cause), which led to its being out of tune. Finally, a piano can only be said to be out of tune if there is a particular purpose or telos (i.e., final cause) in relation to which the piano is out of tune. The telos of the piano is to produce music, and a piano that is out of tune does not serve its purpose well. Aristotle’s “formal” (i.e., the momentary form or organization of the object of inquiry) and “final” (i.e., the

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end or goal of the object of inquiry) explanations were explanations that made the object of inquiry intelligible and gave reasons for the nature and functioning of the object (Randall, 1960; Taylor, 1995). Today, the structure of the atom, the structure of DNA, the structure of the solar system, and the structure of the universe are all familiar examples of formal pattern principles drawn from the natural sciences. Kinship structures, mental structures, mental organization, dynamic systems, attachment behavior system, structures of language, ego and superego, dynamisms, schemes, operations, and cognitive structures are familiar examples of formal pattern principles drawn from the human sciences. Similarly, reference to the sequence and directionality found in the Second Law of Thermodynamics, self-organizing systems, and the psychological developmental concepts of “equilibration process,” “reflective abstraction,” “orthogenetic principle,” and “probabilistic epigenesis,” are all examples of final pattern principles (Overton, 1994a). Both formal and final pattern principles entail interpretations that make the phenomena under investigation intelligible. Both, within the Aristotelian relational scheme, constitute legitimate explanations. However, within the split story of mechanical explanation, as guided by reductionism, formal and final principles completely lose any explanatory status; explanation is limited to nothing but observable efficient (i.e., the force that moves the object) and material (i.e., the material composition of the object) causes. At best, within the mechanical story formal and final principles may reappear in the descriptive compartment as mere summary statements of the underlying molecular descriptive Real discussed in Step 1. In this way, transformational change and dynamic relational developmental systems become eliminated or marginalized with respect to developmental inquiry. Step 3. Induction of Interpretation-Free Hypotheses, Theories, Laws. Step 3 of mechanical explanation installs induction as the foundational logic of science. Step 3 instructs the investigator that ultimate explanations in science must be found in fixed unchanging laws, and these must be inductively derived as empirical generalizations from the repeated observation of cause–effect relations found in Step 2. Weak generalizations from step 2 regularities constitute interpretation-free “hypotheses.” Stronger generalizations constitute interpretation-free theoretical propositions. Theoretical propositions joined as logical conjunctions (“and” connections) constitute interpretationfree theories. Laws represent the strongest and final inductions.

Deduction later re-enters modernity’s story of empirical science as a split-off heuristic method of moving from inductively derived hypotheses and theoretical propositions to further empirical observations. When later editions of the story introduced a Hypothetico-Deductive Method , it was simply more variation on the same theme. The hypothesis of “Hypothetico” has nothing to do with interpretation, but is simply an empirical generalization driven by pristine data that then serves as a major premise in a formal deductive argument. Similarly, when instrumentalism moved away from the Hypothetico-Deductive stance to the employment of models, models themselves functioned merely as the same type of interpretation-free heuristic devices. Another important variation—but a variation nevertheless—on this same theme was the so-called covering law model of scientific explanation. This concept was introduced by Carl Hempel (1942) and became the prototype of all later explanations formulated within this metatheory. According to the covering law model, an event E (i.e., the explanandum) is explained if E can be derived from a set of laws together with certain factual statements. For example, we might explain the observation that Fido barks from the fact that he is a dog and the general law that all dogs bark. The covering law model was particularly important for developmental inquiry because it treated historical events as analogous to physical events, in the sense that earlier events were considered the causal antecedents of later events (Ricoeur, 1984). Here, then, is the basic outline of the quest for absolute certainty according to the empiricist modernity story of scientific methodology: Step 1, reduce to the objective (interpretation-free) observable foundation. Step 2, find the causes. Step 3, induce the Law. As noted, variations appear throughout history. In fact, it would be misleading not to acknowledge that “probability” has replaced “certainty” as the favored lexical item in the story as it is told today. Indeed, induction is itself statistical and probabilistic in nature. However, as mentioned earlier, this change represents much more style than substance, as the aim remains to move toward 100% probability, thereby arriving at certainty or its closest approximation. This type of fallibilistic stance continues to pit doubt against certainty as competing alternatives rather than understanding doubt and certainty as a dialectical relation, framed by the concept of plausibility. More generally, all of the variations that have been introduced since the origin of Newtonian explanation—including those formulated under the methodological banners of neopositivism, instrumentalism,

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

conventionalism, and functionalism—have changed the basic themes not at all. There is scarcely any doubt that modernity’s empiricist metatheory of “objective certainty” failed. This failure is too long a story to retell here. It has been thoroughly documented in the arena of scientific knowledge by numerous historians and philosophers of science, including Stephen Toulmin (1953), N. R. Hanson (1958), Thomas Kuhn (1970), Imre Lakatos (1978), Larry Laudan (1977), Richard Bernstein (1983), and Bruno Latour (1993). Despite this discrediting, ghosts of modernity’s mechanistic worldview continue to haunt the scientific study of development. Nature (material cause) and nurture (efficient cause) are still presented as competing alternative explanations. Biology and culture still compete with each other as “fundamental” explanations of development (see Lerner, 2002). There are still those who argue that emergence of genuine novel behavior is not possible, and that any apparent novelty must be completely explained by antecedent causal mechanisms. Indeed, the claim is still put forth that if a causal mechanism is not identified, then there is no “real” explanation, only “mysticism” (Elman et al., 1996) or “miracles” (Siegler & Munakata, 1993). This assertion reflects the mechanistically defined argument that there can be no transformational change in development. All change, according to this mechanistic argument, is (i.e., must be) nothing but additive in nature; all qualitative change must be reduced to nothing but quantitative change. There are also those who still argue that development must be explained by causal mechanisms and only causal mechanisms. And, last but not least, there are still those who argue that all scientific knowledge about development must begin and end in a world of interpretation-free pristine observations of what “the child actually does,” a world that exalts the instrumental–communicative and excludes the expressive features of acts. There are probably several reasons for the failure to recognize and accept the demise of modernity’s empiricist metatheory. One of these has to do with socialization. For psychologists who were reared in the strictures of mechanical explanation, these strictures are difficult to abandon, and the values tend to be passed from generation to generation without deep reflection. Indeed, as this metatheory is virtually inscribed with the motto “Don’t think, find out” (Cohen, 1931), it is not surprising that fledgling investigators are often discouraged from taking the very notion of metatheory seriously and, hence, seldom do they evaluate the merits and flaws of alternative background assumptions. Another perhaps more important reason, however,

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has been the apparent lack of viable empirical scientific alternatives and the seeming abyss of uncertainty that is faced when one abandons a secure, rock-solid base. The rise of postmodern thought did nothing to assuage this fear. The Postmodern Period and the Chaos of Absolute Relativity Like its predecessor, postmodernism is identified with the ideal of achieving individual freedom. However, the proponents of the postmodern agenda have approached this ideal almost exclusively through attacks directed at modernity’s rational quest for absolute certainty. This stance has left in place the splitting of categories. The effect of this continued splitting is that postmodern thought has tended to define itself in terms of categories that reflect the opposite of those that defined modernity. Thus, if modernity was “rational,” the postmodern celebrates the “emotional”; if modernity was objectivist “observational,” the postmodern celebrates subjectivist “interpretation”; and if modernity aimed for the “universal,” the postmodern argues for the “particular.” Despite the fact that advocates of postmodernism explicitly reject foundationalism and explicitly reject the notion of metatheory—“meta-narratives,” as they are termed in the postmodern vernacular (Overton, 2006)—splitting into oppositional categories, of necessity, creates a new, if implicit, foundationalism. In this new foundationalism modernity is turned on its head. The Apparent Reality of modernity becomes the Real Foundational Reality of postmodernism. The foundational elevation of “interpretation” over “observation” in some versions of hermeneutics and deconstructivism is illustrative. When interpretation is valued to the exclusion of observation, the end result is a complete (i.e., absolute) relativism. If there is no neutral observational territory to help decide between your judgment and my judgment, then all knowledge is purely subjective and, hence, absolutely relative. But this situation is chaotic, and precludes any stable general base from which to operate. This situation is complete relativity and uncertainty. Given this chaotic alternative, it is little wonder that the generation of developmental psychologists that followed the destruction of neopositivism and instrumentalism tended to cling for support to the wreckage of modernity’s descending narrative. In their split world, the slow death of fading relevance is less terrifying than the fear of chaotic fragmentation. Although much of postmodern thought has moved towards the chaotic abyss, one variant has attempted to establish a stable base for knowledge construction by developing a new scientific metamethod. This position

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emerged from the hermeneutic and phenomenological traditions (Latour, 1993), and has come to operate parallel to and as a reaction against neopositivism’s quest for reductionist causal explanation. This alternative picture champions understanding, in contrast to explanation, as the base of scientific knowledge, at least as this scientific knowledge pertains to the behavioral and social sciences, including the humanities. Broadly, hermeneutics is the theory or philosophy of the interpretation of meaning. Hermeneutics elevates to a heroic role the very concept that mechanical explanation casts as demon error—interpretation. For our purposes, we can pass by the periods of classical, biblical, and romantic hermeneutics, as well as Vico’s historical hermeneutics. Our brief focus here is on the effort that Dilthey (1972) promoted at the end of the 19th century to construct a metamethod for the social sciences. This was Verstehen or understanding. Within this metamethod, “understanding” operates as an epistemological rather than a psychological concept. And, most importantly, interpretation operates as the procedure that results in understanding. As a metamethod of the social and behavioral sciences, understanding is closely related to a relational developmental systems’ embodied action (enaction) perspective. This perspective is a person-centered developmental approach to inquiry into the origin and nature of processes and operations of the meaning generating, living embodied agent (Brandtst¨adter & Lerner, 1999; H. Dreyfus & Dreyfus, 1999; Overton, 1997a, 1997b; Overton, M¨uller, & Newman, 2008). The embodied action perspective stands in contrast to exclusively variable-centered approaches to human behavior, which are externalist and event oriented in their focus. Paul Ricoeur has clearly outlined—in the context of Wittgenstein’s “language-games,” which are themselves metatheoretical background principles—the distinction between variable-centered events and personcentered actions (see also Magnusson & Stattin, 1998), and in this outline he suggests the distinction between mechanical explanation and hermeneutic understanding:

Unfortunately, the creation of a distinct metamethod for the social sciences is yet another example of proceeding within a split background frame. Within the hermeneutic tradition, Verstehen is presented as a competing account of human functioning to that found in the natural sciences. However, the articulation of this dichotomy may also provide a clue to the possibility of its resolution; the possibility of a rapprochement between the futility of a search for absolute certainty and the chaos of absolute uncertainty. Verstehen as a metamethod and a relational developmental systems’ embodied action perspectives as approaches to human functioning are closely related through the intentional quality of action. Intention is never directly observable by a third party. To intend is to do something for the sake of it; it involves direction and order. There is a goal toward which embodied action moves and a sequence of acts lead to that goal. To explain (understand) an act, it is necessary to make interpretative inferences about patterns of embodied acts that make the specific behavioral movement of an act intelligible and give a reason for the movement. For example, the act we term “reaching” in the young infant is only that if the inference is made that the infant intends a particular goal object. Under another inference, the observed movements might be termed “stretching.” Making inferences about action patterns is, in fact, identical to Aristotle’s “formal” and “final” explanations as they were designed to make the object of inquiry intelligible and give reasons for the nature and functioning of the object. Thus, a rapprochement in developmental science between adherents of a “natural science” perspective and adherents of an relational developmental systems embodied action perspective may be found in a metatheoretical perspective that integrates mechanical causal explanation and action pattern explanation.

It is not the same language game that we speak of events [variables] occurring in nature or of actions performed by people. For, to speak of events [variables], we enter a language game including notions like cause, law, fact, explanation and so on. . . . It is . . . in another language game and in another conceptual network that we can speak of human action [i.e., a person-centered frame]. For, if we have begun to speak in terms of action, we shall continue to speak in terms of projects, intentions, motives, reasons for acting, agents, [interpretation, understanding] and so forth.

The historian of science Bruno Latour (1993) has sketched just such a rapprochement in his analysis of the modern agenda and postmodernism. Latour begins by rejecting both modernity and postmodernism. He refers to the latter as “a symptom, not a fresh solution” (p. 46) to the problems of modernity.

—Ricoeur, 1991, pp. 132–133

RELATIONISM—A CONTEMPORARY METATHEORY FOR DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE

It [postmodernism] senses that something has gone awry in the modern critique, but it is not able to do anything but prolong that critique, though without believing in its foundations (Lyotard, 1979). . . . Postmodernism rejects all empirical work

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

as illusory and deceptively scientistic (Baudrillard, 1992). Disappointed rationalists, its adepts indeed sense that modernism is done for, but they continue to accept its way of dividing up time. (p. 46)

While adversaries, both groups have played on the field of identical background assumptions. Latour’s solution is to move from this arena to another much broader field of play where foundations are groundings, not bedrocks of certainty, and analysis is about creating categories, not about cutting nature at its joints. Viewed historically, Latour calls this approach amodernism, a term that implies the denial of both modernity and postmodernism. Viewed as a metatheoretical background, it is termed “relationism” (p. 114), and its identity is defined by a move away from the extremes of Cartesian splits to the center or “Middle Kingdom,” where entities and ideas are represented not as pure forms, but as forms that flow across fuzzy boundaries. As a broad, abstract metatheory, relationism operates at the level of a world view. Because it is a world view, it involves both ontological and epistemological principles. Relationism represents a principled synthesis of what Stephen Pepper (1942) referred to as the contextualist and the organismic world views (Overton, 2007; Overton & Ennis, 2006a, 2006b). The ontology of relationism entails a reality based on process rather than substance (Bickhard, 2008), This ontology has classically been defined as an ontology of Becoming (Allport, 1955; Overton, 1991). It includes process, activity, change, emergence, and necessary organization as fundamental defining categories in contrast to categories of substance, stability, fixity, additivity, and contingent organization, which are characteristics of the mechanistic and strict contextualist world views (Overton, 2007; Witherington, 2007). The ontological dimension of relationism has important implications for both theories and methods of developmental science. For example, in an analysis of the development of consciousness, Lewis (2010) has argued that this development can only make sense in the context of understanding the organism as an active developmental system. And M¨uller and Racine (2010) have drawn out the implications of this understanding for the investigation of the development of representation and concepts. The epistemological base of relationism is equally important to the study of development by developmental scientists. Here we describe these principles in detail. Rejecting Splits and Bedrocks The epistemology of relationism is, first and foremost, a relatively inclusive epistemology, involving both knower

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and known as equal and indissociable complementary processes in the construction, acquisition, and growth of knowledge. It is “relatively” inclusive, because “inclusion” itself—much like Hegel’s (1807) master–slave dialectic—can only be grasped in relation to its complement “exclusion.” Thus, just as “freedom” must be identified in the context of “constraint,” “inclusion” must be identified in the context of “exclusion.” Relational epistemology specifically excludes Cartesian dualistic ways of knowing, because Cartesian epistemology trades on absolute exclusivity; it is a “nothingbut” epistemology that was founded on atomism, where in the last analysis nothing but “atoms” in their additive combination count, regardless of whether the psychological atoms are genes, neurons, responses, or aspects of the sociocultural world. Cartesian dualism claims to cut nature at its joints, dividing up any whole into pure forms that constitute absolutely decomposable pieces (i.e., it “splits” the whole and converts it into an aggregate of elements) resulting in a dichotomy. This “divide-and-conquer” strategy is not simply analysis, but analysis in which the whole is treated as epiphenomenal. For example, subject is split from object, mind from body. Having forced the dichotomy, Cartesian thought makes the epistemological claims that: (a) the natural (material, physical, objective) constitutes the absolute bedrock Real; the ultimate “atoms” on which all else is built. As mentioned earlier, this position has been called foundationalism; (b) one of the pieces of the whole is more Real than the other (the foundation); and (c) therefore, the less Real must be explained (i.e., reduced to) the more Real. As one example among many possible examples of fundamental split dichotomies (see Table 2.1), consider the splitting of subject from object, mind from body. Having made the split, a decision is required as to which constitutes the foundational Real bedrock that will do the explaining and which constitutes the apparent Real that will be explained. If the ontological position is that the physical constitutes the foundational Real—as in all neopositivist and many behavioristic approaches—thinking, reasoning, perception, motivation, affect, and the like must necessarily ultimately be explained by the atoms of biology (genes, neurons), and the sociocultural and physical environment. Because splitting is pervasive in Cartesian epistemology, these “atoms” are themselves treated as split pieces, and attempts to explain specifically how they might come to constitute the whole are necessarily additive. Any behavior or process thus becomes the additive “interaction” of genetic, neurological, and environmental pieces. “Interaction” is

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

TABLE 2.1 Some Fundamental Categories of Analysis Expressed as Either/Or Dichotomies SUBJECT MIND BIOLOGY CULTURE PERSON PERSON INTRAPSYCHIC NATURE STABILITY EXPRESSIVE VARIATION REASON FORM UNIVERSAL TRANSCENDENT ANALYSIS UNITY

OBJECT BODY PERSON BIOLOGY CULTURE SITUATION INTERPERSONAL NURTURE CHANGE INSTRUMENTAL TRANSFORMATION EMOTION MATTER PARTICULAR IMMANENT SYNTHESIS DIVERSITY

here placed in quotation marks to emphasize that this is not an interaction of relational interpenetration or reciprocal bi- or multidirectionality, but an interaction in which the pieces are context free and maintain their split-off identity. The epistemology of relationism heals splits and resolves dualisms—false dichotomies—that in a postpositivist era are recognized as retardants to scientific progress. And, importantly, relationism does this healing in a coherent, principled manner. Efforts at moving beyond Cartesian dichotomies are not new, but since the 19th century’s rejection of Hegel’s metaphysical system, there have been few systematic attempts at accomplishing this healing in a principled fashion. Calls for relational thinking are also not new. Holism was a central characteristic of William James’ work, and Putnam (1995) describes how James’s commitment led to the “obvious if implicit rejection of many familiar dualisms: fact, value, and theory are all seen by James as interpenetrating and interdependent” (p. 7). James (1975) addresses virtually all the traditional dichotomies of split-off traditions, and he, along with Dewey (1925), argues for a relational interpenetrating understanding of universal–particular, inner–outer, subject–object, theory–practice, monism–pluralism, and unity–diversity. However, neither James nor Dewey articulated an explicit set of principles designed to support this argument. In recent times, the scientific significance of thinking relationally has been discussed from the vantage point of several disciplines, including physics (Smolin, 1997: “Twentieth century physics represents a partial triumph of this relational view over the older Newtonian conception of nature.” [p. 19]), anthropology (Ingold,

2000: “How can one hope to grasp the continuity of the life process through a mode of thought that can only countenance the organic world already shattered into a myriad of fragments? . . . What we need, instead, is a quite different way of thinking about organisms and their environments. I call this ‘relational thinking.’ ” [p. 295]); biology (Robert, 2004: “To understand the relationship between genotype and phenotype, we must transcend the dichotomy between them in two ways: we must grasp the phenotype of the gene and we must recognize that the relevant developmental space does not begin nor does it end with the genome-in-context. It begins, instead, with the genetically co-defined primary, initially unicellular, organism.” [p. 66]); social psychology (Good, 2007: “The relational nature of the ecological approach would thus entail a shift away from a focus on just the individual as the object of study and unit of analysis . . . . The growing interest in cognition as embodied and embedded is seen, nevertheless, as guaranteeing the continuing relevance of the ecological approach, with its emphasis on the reciprocity of perception and action and its relational ontology.” [p. 268]) and science studies (Latour, 2004: “Their [the sciences] work consists precisely in inventing through the intermediary of instruments and the artifice of the laboratory, the displacement of point of view. . . . They make it possible to shift viewpoint constantly by means of experiments, instruments, models, and theories. . . . Such is their particular form of relativism—that is, relationism [emphasis added].” [p. 137]). However, again, despite the many calls for a relational approach to science, there has been little in the way of articulating a coherent set of metatheoretical principles that may then serve as a guide for how one actually might do relational thinking. Holism As stated above, relationism is a metatheoretical space, representing a synthesis of contextualism and organicism where foundations are groundings, not bedrocks of certainty, and analysis is about creating categories, not about cutting nature at its joints. In place of a rejected atomism, holism becomes the overarching epistemological first principle. Holism is the principle that the identities of objects and events derive from the relational context in which they are embedded. Wholes define parts and parts define wholes. The classic example is the relation of components of a sentence. Patterns of letters form words, and particular organizations of words form sentences. Clearly, the meaning of the sentence depends on its individual words (parts define whole). At the same time, the meaning

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

of the words is often defined by the meaning of the sentence (wholes define parts). Consider the word meanings in the following sentences: (1) The party leaders were split on the platform; (2) The disc jockey discovered a black rock star; and (3) The pitcher was driven home on a sacrifice fly. The meaning of the sentence is obviously determined by the meaning of the words; but the meaning of each word is determined by context of the sentence it is in. Parts determine wholes; wholes determine their parts (Gilbert & Sarkar, 2000). Holistically, the whole is not an aggregate of discrete elements, but an organized system of parts, each part being defined by its relations to other parts and to the whole. Complexity in this context is organized complexity (Luhmann, 1995; von Bertalanffy, 1968a, 1968b), in that the whole is not decomposable into elements arranged in additive linear sequences of cause-effect relations (Overton & Reese, 1973). In the context of holism, principles of splitting, foundationalism, and atomism are rejected as meaningless approaches to analysis, and “fundamental” antimonies are similarly rejected as false dichotomies. In an effort to avoid “standard’ (i.e., neopositivistic) misunderstandings here, it must be strongly emphasized that nondecomposability does not mean that analysis itself is rejected. It means that analysis of parts must occur in the context of the parts’ functioning in the whole. The contextfree specifications of any object, event, or process— whether it be a gene, cell, neuron, the architecture of mind or culture—is illegitimate within a holistic system. While holism is central to relationism, the acceptance of holism does not, in itself, offer a detailed program for resolving the many dualisms that have framed an understanding of the development of living organisms or fundamental issues in other fields of scientific inquiry. A complete relational program requires principles according to which the individual identity of each concept of a formerly dichotomous pair is maintained while simultaneously it is affirmed that each concept constitutes, and is constituted by, the other. A program is needed in which, for example, both nature and nurture maintain their individual identity while it is simultaneously understood that the fact that a behavior is a product of biology does not imply that it is not equally a product of culture, and the fact that a behavior is a product of culture does not imply that it is not equally a product of biology. This understanding is accomplished by considering identity and differences as three moments of analysis. The first moment is based on the principle of the Identity of Opposites; the second is based on the principle of the Opposites of

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Identity. The third moment is based on the principle of The Synthesis of Wholes. The Identity of Opposites The principle of the identity of opposites establishes the identity among parts of a whole by casting them not as exclusive contradictions as in the split epistemology, but as differentiated polarities (i.e., co-equals) of a unified (i.e., indissociable) inclusive matrix; as a relation. As differentiations, each pole defines and is defined by its opposite. In this identity moment of analysis, the law of contradiction is suspended, and each category contains and, in fact, is its opposite. Further—and centrally—as a differentiation, this moment pertains to character, origin, and outcomes. The character of any contemporary behavior, for example, is 100% nature because it is 100% nurture; 100% biology because it is 100% culture. There is no origin to this behavior that was some other percentage—regardless of whether we climb back into the womb, back into the cell, back into the genome,—nor can there be a later behavior that will be a different percentage. Similarly, any action is both expressive and communicative/instrumental, and any developmental change is both transformational and variational. There are a number of ways of articulating this principle, but a particularly clear illustration is found in considering the famous ink sketch by M.C. Escher titled “Drawing Hands.” As shown in Figure 2.2, a left and a right hand assume a relational posture according to which each is simultaneously drawing and being drawn

Figure 2.2

M. C. Escher’s “Drawing Hands”

Source: M. C. Escher’s “Drawing Hands” ©2012 The M. C. Escher Company, Holland. All rights reserved. www.mcescher.com. Reprinted with permission.

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by the other. In this matrix each hand is identical—thus co-equal and indissociable—with the other in the sense of each drawing and each being drawn. This is a moment of analysis in which the law of contradiction (i.e., Not the case that A = not A) is relaxed and identity (i.e., A = not A) reigns. In this identity moment of analysis, pure forms collapse and categories flow into each other. Here each category contains and is its opposite. As a consequence, there is a broad inclusivity established among categories. If we think of “inclusion” and “exclusion” as different moments that occur when we observe a reversible figure (e.g., a Necker Cube or the vase–women illusion), then in this identity moment we observe only inclusion. In the next (opposite) moment of analysis—to be discussed next—the figures reverse, and there we will again see exclusivity as the hands appear as opposites and complementarities. Within this identity moment of analysis, it is a useful exercise to write on each hand one of the bipolar terms of a traditionally split dualisms (e.g., biology and culture) and to explore the resulting effect. This exercise is more than merely an illustration of a familiar bidirectionality of cause–effects. The exercise makes tangible the central feature of the relational metatheory; seemingly dichotomous ideas that are often thought of as competing alternatives can, in fact, enter into inquiry as co-equal and indissociable. It also concretizes the meaning of any truly nonadditive reciprocal determination (Overton & Reese, 1973) and any “circular causality” in a way that simple bidirectionality cannot. If inquiry concerning, for example, person, culture, and behavior is undertaken according to the principle of the identity of opposites, various constraints are imposed, as constraints are imposed by any metatheory. An important example of such a constraint is that behavior, traits, styles, and so forth cannot be thought of as being decomposable into the independent and additive pure forms of biology and culture. Thus, the notion occasionally put forth by some sociocultural or social constructivist approaches that society and culture occupy a privileged position in developmental explanation is simply a conceptual confusion in the context of relational metatheory. If the principle of the identity of opposites introduces constraints, it also opens possibilities. One of these is the recognition that, to paraphrase Searle (1992), the fact that a behavior implicates activity of the biological system does not imply that it does not implicate activity of the cultural system, and, the fact that the behavior implicates activity of the cultural system does not imply that it does not implicate activity of the biological system.

In other words, the identity of opposites establishes the metatheoretical rationale for the theoretical position that biology and culture, like culture and person, and biology and person, etc., operate in a truly interpenetrating manner. Of course, the identity of opposites also justifies the claim that development is not the transformational change of system, nor the variational change of behavior, but the transformational/system-variational/behavioral change of the organism. This transformation of competing alternatives into complementary partners is illustrated in an exchange of comments concerning research on the topic that social psychology refers to as the “Fundamental Attribution Error.” In this exchange, one group (Gilovich & Eibach, 2001) proceeds from a split position and notes that “human behavior is not easily parsed into situational and dispositional causes” (p. 23) and it is difficult to establish “a precise accounting of how much a given action stems from the impinging stimulus rather than from the faculty or disposition with which it makes contact” (p. 24). In a reply to this comment, Sabini, Siepmann, and Stein (2001) assert that they reject such a position because it reflects confusion between competing and complementary accounts. Reflecting an implicit commitment to the identity of opposites, they argue that the problem with the question of: How much John’s going out with Sue stems from her beauty rather than from his love of beautiful women . . . is not that it is difficult to answer; it is that it is conceptually incoherent. It is incoherent because it construes two classes of accounts that are in fact complementary as if they were competing. The heart of our argument is that one must take this point seriously. All behavior is jointly a product of environmental stimuli and dispositions. —Sabini et al., 2001, p. 43

A similar, but subtler, example is found in a dialogue on spatial development. Uttal (2000) begins this dialogue with a view that seemingly implies the complementary of the development of the organism and the environment and artifacts. Specifically, he contends that his claims about spatial development “are based on the assumption that the relation between maps and the development of spatial cognition is reciprocal in nature” (p. 247). However, in a commentary on Uttal’s article, Liben (2000) raises the question of whether Uttal is, in fact, operating within the context of an identity of opposites, which she proposes as her own approach. As I read his thesis, Uttal seems to be suggesting an independent contribution of maps, positing that exposure to maps

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

can play a causal role in leading children to develop basic spatial concepts. My own preference is to propose a more radically interdependent [emphasis added] role of organismic and environmental factors. —Liben, 2000, p. 272

The Opposites of Identity While the identity of opposites sets constraints and opens possibilities, it does not in itself set a positive agenda for empirical inquiry. The limitation of the identity moment of analysis is that, in establishing a flow of categories of one into the other, a stable base for inquiry that was provided by bedrock “atoms” of the split metatheory is eliminated. With atomism, no relativity entered the picture, all was absolute. Reestablishing a stable—not an absolute fixity, nor an absolute relativity, but a relative relativity (Latour, 1993)—base within relational metatheory requires moving to a second moment of analysis. This is the oppositional moment, where the figure reverses and the moment becomes dominated by a relational exclusivity. Thus, in this opposite moment of analysis it becomes clear that despite the earlier identity, Escher’s sketch does illustrate both a right hand and a left hand. In this moment, the law of contradiction (i.e., Not the case that A = not A) is reasserted and categories again exclude each other. As a consequence of this exclusion, parts exhibit unique identities that differentiate each from the other. These unique differential qualities are stable within any holistic system and, thus, may form relatively stable platforms for empirical inquiry. The platforms created according to the principle of the opposites of identity become standpoints, points-of-view , or lines-of-sight, in recognition that they do not reflect absolute foundations (Latour, 1993). They may also be considered under the common rubric levels of analysis, when these are not understood as bedrock foundations. Again considering Escher’s sketch, when left hand as left hand and right as right are the focus of attention, it then becomes quite clear that—were they large enough—one could stand on either hand and examine the structures and functions of that hand as well as its relation to the other hand. Thus, to return to the nature–nurture example, while explicitly recognizing that any behavior is 100% biology and 100% culture, alternative points-ofview permit the scientist to analyze the behavior from a biological , or from a cultural standpoint. Biology and culture no longer constitute competing alternative explanations; rather they are two points-of-view on an object of inquiry that has been both created by and will only be fully understood through multiple viewpoints. To state

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this idea more generally, the unity that constitutes human identity and human development becomes discovered only in the diversity of multiple interrelated lines of sight. The Synthesis of Wholes: A View from the Center Engaging fundamental bipolar concepts as relatively stable standpoints opens the way, and marks an important first step, toward establishing a broad stable base for empirical inquiry within a relational metatheory. However, this solution is incomplete, as it omits a key relational component, the relation of parts to the whole. The oppositional quality of the bipolar pairs reminds us that their contradictory nature still remains and still requires a resolution. Further, the resolution of this tension cannot be found in the split approach of reduction to a bedrock absolute reality. Rather, the relational approach to a resolution is to move away from the extremes to the center and above the conflict, and to here discover a novel system that will coordinate the two conflicting systems. This is the principle of the synthesis of wholes, and the synthesis achieved will constitute yet another standpoint. At this point, the Escher sketch fails as a graphic representation. While “Drawing Hands” illustrates the identities and the opposites, and while it shows a middle space between the two, it does not describe a coordination of the two. In fact, the synthesis for this sketch is an unseen hand that has drawn the drawing hands and is being drawn by these hands. The synthesis of interest for the general metatheory would be a system that is a coordination of the most universal bipolarity one can imagine. Undoubtedly there are several candidates for this level of generality, but the polarity between matter or nature, on the one hand, and society, on the other, is sufficient for present purposes (Latour, 1993). The Person as Synthesis Matter and society represent systems that stand in an identity of opposites. To say that an object is a social or cultural object in no way denies that it is matter, to say that an object is matter in no way denies that it is social or cultural. And further, the object can be analyzed from either a sociocultural or a physical standpoint. The question for synthesis becomes the question of what system will coordinate these two systems. Arguably, the answer is that it is life or living systems that coordinate matter and society. Because our specific focus of inquiry is the psychological, we can translate this matter–society polarity back into a nature–nurture polarity of biology and culture. In the context of psychology, then, as an illustration, write “biology”

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span Person Standpoint

Biology

Biology Standpoint

Culture Person (a)

Culture Standpoint

Culture Biology (b)

Person (c)

Figure 2.3 Relational standpoints in psychological inquiry: Person, biology, and culture.

on one and “culture” on the other Escher hand, and consider what system coordinates these systems? It is life, the human organism, the person (see Figure 2.3a). Persons—as relational developmental systems (i.e., complex self-creating, self-organizing, self-regulating adaptive system of cognitive, emotional, and motivational processes, and the actions this system expresses) represent a novel level of structure and functioning that emerges from, and constitutes a coordination of, biology and culture (see Magnusson & Stattin, 1998, for an analysis of a methodological focus on the person). This integrative psychophysically neutrality of the concept of the person is well captured in William Stern’s (1917/2010) personalistic thinking: A “person” is an entity that despite the multiplicity of parts form a real, unique and intrinsically valuable unity, and despite the multiplicity of the part functions achieves a unifying, goalstriving self-activation. . . . It is not that there are the physical and the psychological, but rather that there are real persons, that is the primary fact of the world. That these persons can appear both to themselves and to others, thereby producing the distinction between the psychological and the physical, is a fact of secondary order. —Stern, 1917/2010, p. 129

At the synthesis then, there is a standpoint that coordinates and resolves the tension between the other two members of the relation. This provides a particularly broad and stable base for launching empirical inquiry. A person standpoint opens the way for the empirical investigation of universal dimensions of psychological structure–function relations (e.g., processes of perception, thought, emotions, values), their individual differences, and their development (transformational–variational) across the life span. Because universal and particular are themselves relational concepts, no question can arise here about whether the focus on universal processes excludes the particular; it clearly does not, as we already know from the earlier discussion of polarities. The fact that a process is viewed from a universal standpoint in no way suggests that it is not contextualized. The general theories of Jean Piaget (1952), Heinz Werner

(1948), James Mark Baldwin (1895), and William Stern (2010), and the attachment theory and object relations theories of John Bowlby (1958), Harry Stack Sullivan (1953), and Donald Winnicott (1965, 1971), all are exemplars of developmentally oriented relational person standpoints. The Biological as Synthesis It is important to recognize that one synthesis standpoint is relative to other synthesis standpoints. Person and Society are coordinated by Matter, and thus, within psychological inquiry, biology represents a standpoint as the synthesis of person and culture (Figure 2.3b). The implication of this is that a relational biological approach to psychological processes investigates the biological context of psychological structure–function relations. This exploration is quite different from split–foundationalist approaches to biological inquiry, which assume an atomistic and reductionist biological foundationalism. This foundationalist approach is found in various gene-centric theories of the development of the phenotype (see Lickliter & Honeycutt, 2010) as well as in neuroreductionism. A particularly vivid example of the latter occurred in an interview on National Public Radio (April 30, 2011) that focused on an empirical study reporting a relation between the application of a magnetic pulse to the brain and subsequent changes in moral judgments: The fact that scientists can adjust morality with a magnet may be disconcerting to people who view morality as a lofty and immutable human trait, says Joshua Greene, psychologist at Harvard University. But that view isn’t accurate, he says. “Moral judgment is just a brain process,” he says. “That’s precisely why it’s possible for these researchers to influence it using electromagnetic pulses on the surface of the brain.” The new study is really part of a much larger effort by scientists to explain how the brain creates moral judgments, Greene says. The scientists are trying to take concepts such as morality, which philosophers once attributed to the human soul [sic], and “break it down in mechanical terms.” If something as complex as morality has a mechanical explanation, Greene says, it will be hard to argue that people have, or need, a soul (emphasis added).

Compare this biological reductionism to the relational biological approach to the mind–brain–body issue, taken by neurobiologist Antonio Damasio (1994, 1999, 2010; see also Thompson, 2007) concerning his work on the brain-body basis of a psychological self and emotions. Damasio points out: A task that faces neuroscientists today is to consider the neurobiology supporting adaptive supraregulations [e.g., the

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

psychological subjective experience of self]. . . I am not attempting to reduce social phenomena to biological phenomena, but rather to discuss the powerful connection between them. . . . Realizing that there are biological mechanisms behind the most sublime human behavior does not imply a simplistic reduction to the nuts and bolts of neurobiology. —Damasio, 1994, pp. 124 and 125

A similar relational illustration comes from the Nobel Laureate neurobiologist Gerald Edelman’s (1992, see also Edelman, 2006; Edelman & Tononi, 2000) work on the brain–body base of consciousness: I hope to show that the kind of reductionism that doomed the thinkers of the Enlightenment is confuted by evidence that has emerged both from modern neuroscience and from modern physics. . . . To reduce a theory of an individual’s behavior to a theory of molecular interactions is simply silly, a point made clear when one considers how many different levels of physical, biological, and social interactions must be put into place before higher order consciousness emerges. —Edelman, 1992, p. 166

Another biological area that has seen both split foundational and relational approaches is the study of evolution. The neo-Darwinian theory of evolution (the so-called modern synthesis) represented a marriage of Darwinian selection and Mendelian laws of inheritance. This “synthesis” was, however, attained by splitting off individual development from heredity, and privileging heredity. In this split frame, individual development was dismissed as playing any significant role in evolution (Lickliter & Honeycutt, 2010; Robert, 2004). The neo-Darwinian theory was strongly influenced by classic population geneticists (Gottlieb, 2002) who interpreted heredity solely in terms of the transmission of genes. Genes were conceptualized as packages of information that held instruction or information that unidirectionally determined the phenotype and growth (Gottlieb, 2000). Further, evolution was reduced to heritable variation, understood as random mutation and segregation, and natural selection, caused by a split off environment. Important implications of the neo-Darwinian theory were that (a) development was essentially “blackboxed” (Hamburger, 1980) because it was, itself, supposedly determined by genetic activity (Gilbert, 2003; Gottlieb, 2000); (b) the internal (variation) and the external (selection) were independent, split-off processes (see Overton, 2006), and (c) there was space for variational change alone, not for transformational change. A relational alternative to the neo-Darwinian split between evolution/development emerged some time

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ago in developmental biology (Gottlieb, 2002) and has become increasingly prominent due to advances in molecular genetics and evolutionary developmental biology. Specifically, these advances have led to a reconceptualization of the role of genes and have emphasized that genetic activity and environmental events are intrinsically and reciprocally linked at multiple levels in the relational developmental system (Burian, 2010; Charney, in press; Gottlieb, 2002; Greenberg & Partridge, 2010; Ho, 2010; Jablonka & Lamb, 2005, 2007). What this linkage means is that inheritance is epigenetic in character (Meaney, 2010; Jablonka & Lamb, 2007; Jablonka & Raz, 2009). Inheritance is not about split-off genes, it is about any type of resource the relational developmental system uses that stabilizes the reoccurrence of a particular form of life (see Griffiths, 2009, for a general discussion of the meaning of inheritance). The relational synthesis of development and evolution is the basis of a relatively new field of evolutionary developmental biology, or evo-devo (Laubichler, 2010; Pigliucci, 2009; Robert, 2004). A major goal of this field is the reintegration of development and evolution. Although evo-devo itself comprises a variety of approaches, evodevo approaches share the relational perspective in that the reintegration necessarily entails a recognition that the internal and the external, along with variational and transformational change, operate as co-equal and indissociable complementarities, and not as competing alternatives. Evo-devo also takes the relational stance that individual organisms are active, not passive, participants in the evolutionary process (Bateson, 1996; Reid, 2007; Wereha & Racine, 2011). Thus, a recognition has been growing in the field of the value of adopting a relational developmental systems perspective, according to which the relational developmental system itself is a necessary and indissociable feature evolution. As Robert (2002) describes it: Most evolutionary changes are introduced during ontogeny, in the sense that ontogenetic modifications, and modifications in developmental processes, produce evolutionary changes; moreover, developmental mechanisms themselves evolve. —Robert, 2002, p. 599

The Culture as Synthesis A third synthesis standpoint recognizes that Human and Matter are coordinated by Society, and again, granting that the inquiry is about psychological processes, culture represents a standpoint as the synthesis of person and biology (Figure 2.3c). Thus, a relational cultural approach to psychological processes explores the cultural conditions and settings of psychological structure–function relations.

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

From this cultural standpoint, the focus is on the analysis of cognitive, affective, and motivational processes in the context of different cultural settings as complementary to the person standpoint’s focus on how psychological functions constitute cultural processes and institutions (Tomasello, Carpenter, Call, Behne, & Moll, 2005). Essentially, the major problem encountered by cultural theories is how to conceptualize the relation between individual and society (Carpendale & M¨uller, 2004). In this context, three positions can be distinguished: (1) a position that reduces all social phenomena to individuals and their properties—methodological individualism; (2) a position that social phenomena cannot be reduced to individual behavior because they possess the power to exert outside pressure on individuals’ consciousness—dualistic holism or collectivism; and (3) the relational position according to which co-acting, co-constructing systems constitute the primary reality (Berger & Luckmann, 1966). Closely related to these different positions about the relations between individual and society, when viewed from the cultural standpoint, are different conceptualizations of the process according to which society and culture impact the development of the person—a process frequently described in terms of the notion of internalization: “Internalization refers to the process by which material that is held out for the individual by social others is imported into the individual’s intra-psychological domain of thinking and affective processes” (Lawrence & Valsiner, 1993, p. 151). However, the concept of internalization can be interpreted in two different ways (Lawrence & Valsiner, 1993). First, it can be viewed as a unidirectional transmission process in which an expert provides a novice with some prepackaged information that is passively copied or absorbed by the novice. Second, it can be viewed as an active relational process of co-construction, in the course of which the novice transforms the information provided to her. Traditionally, collectivist views of the relation between individual and culture have endorsed a transmission view of internalization. Such a collectivist, split-foundationalist perspective appears to be at work in some cultural psychologies. When, for example, a cultural psychology makes the assertion that social discourse is “prior to and constitutive of the world” (Miller, 1996, p. 99), it becomes clear that this form of cultural psychology has been framed by splitfoundationalist background ideas. Similarly, when sociocultural claims are made about the “primacy of social forces,” or claims arise suggesting that “mediational means” (i.e., instrumental–communicative acts) constitute the necessary focus of psychological interest (see, e.g., Wertsch, 1991), or the argument is made that the sense

of self is “produced in the flow of rhetorical actions” (Stetsenko & Arievitch, 2004, p. 480), the shadows of split-foundationalist metatheoretical principles are clearly in evidence. A recent example of a relational, developmentally oriented cultural standpoint emerges from the work of Valsiner (1998), which examines the “social nature of human psychology.” Focusing on the “social nature” of the person, Valsiner stresses the importance of avoiding the temptation of trying to reduce person processes to social processes. To this end, he explicitly distinguishes between the dualisms of split-foundationalist metatheory and the “dualities” of the relational stance he advocates. Ernst Boesch (1991, 1992) and Lutz Eckensberger (1990, 1995, 2002, 2011) have also presented an elaboration of the cultural standpoint. Drawing on Piaget’s cognitive theory, on Janet’s dynamic theory, and on Kurt Lewin’s social field-theory, Boesch (1991, p. 183) argues that cultural psychology aims at an integration of individual and cultural change, an integration of individual and collective meanings, a bridging of the gap between subject and object. Specifically, Boesch balances a person and a culture standpoint, in that he argues that individuals are not passive in the enculturation process because knowledge “is not simply ‘received,’ absorbed, but assimilated, thereby undergoing multiple processes of selection, transformation and integration into individual systems of action” (1992, p. 93). At the same time, social interaction creates mechanisms of stabilization (e.g., systems of rules) that ward off the dispersion of knowledge and the breakdown of social coordination. Recently Mistry and Wu (2010) have offered an explicitly relational sociocultural perspective on how children from diverse cultural backgrounds negotiate their developing in different cultures: Although the conceptual model was developed based on our interpretation of sociocultural theory, it is highly consistent with contemporary perspectives in developmental psychology that eschew dualisms [Lerner, 2006; Overton, 2006], such as the separation of individual and culture. We suggest that our conceptual model exemplifies a developmentally oriented embodied action metatheory [Overton, 2006] in which embodiment represents the interpenetrating relations between person, biology, and culture. —Mistry & Wu, 2010, p. 22

In a similar vein, Damon offers a vision of the cultural standpoint in his discussion of “two complementary developmental functions, . . . the social and the personality functions of social development” (1988, p. 3). These are presented by Damon as an identity of opposites. The

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

social function is an act of integration serving to “establish and maintain relations with other, to become an accepted member of society-at-large, to regulate one’s behavior according to society’s codes and standards” (p. 3). The personality function, on the other hand, is the function of individuation; an act of differentiation serving the formation of the individual’s personal identity that requires “distinguishing oneself from others, determining one’s own unique direction in life, and finding within the social network a position uniquely tailored to one’s own particular nature, needs, and aspirations” (p. 3). Although others could be mentioned as illustrative (e.g. Grotevant, 1998), it should be noted in conclusion here that Erik Erikson (1968), was operating out of exactly this type of relational standpoint when he described identity as “a process ‘located’ in the core of the individual and yet also in the core of his communal culture” (p. 22). As a general summary to this point, the argument has been made that metatheoretical principles form the ground out of which grow the theories and methods of any domain of empirical inquiry. This view has been illustrated by exploring several issues that frame the field of developmental science. Historically, both the modern and postmodern eras have articulated broad metatheoretical paradigms that have functioned as competing alternatives in the natural and social sciences. The commonality of these paradigms has been that each shares the background assumptions of splitting and foundationalism. A relational paradigm, which begins by rejecting these assumptions, may offer a rapprochement of the alternatives through an elaboration of the principles of holism, the identity of opposites, the opposites of identity, and the synthesis of opposites. The question of the specific nature of this rapprochement remains. A METHODOLOGICAL RAPPROCHEMENT: EXPLANATION IN A RELATIONAL CONTEXT A relational methodological rapprochement between the natural and social sciences emerges by transforming the historically traditional dichotomies of observation versus interpretation and theory versus data into relational bipolar dimensions. Given this movement in grounding, mechanical explanation and hermeneutic understanding become an integrated metamethod in the following manner: Step 1: Relational Analysis—Synthesis Replaces Split Reductionism Clearly, the reduction and atomism of mechanical explanation are split principles and need to be replaced.

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Anointing holism as the guiding principle without further comment is not workable, because holism in a split conceptual world is frequently identified with synthesis as reductionism is identified with analysis. A rapprochement requires that analysis and synthesis operate as a relational polarity. Analysis must occur in the context of some integrated whole, the integrated whole operates in the context of its analytic parts. Because a relational metatheory is sometimes, but incorrectly, viewed as less rigorous than mechanical explanation, a major feature of this first step is the affirmation of the importance of analysis and the analytic tools of any empirical science. The provisos here are that it simultaneously be recognized that the analytic moment always occurs in the context of a moment of synthesis, and that the analysis can neither eliminate nor marginalize synthesis. Step 2: Relational Action Pattern—Conditions Explanation Replaces Split Causes As noted earlier, the defining marks of mechanical explanation and hermeneutic understanding have been the “nothing but” reliance on causes and action patterns, respectively. By entering into a relational context, these forms of explanation become integrated. In a relational context, causes are transformed from interpretation-free observed objects or events that produce changes in other objects or events to conditions that are associated with or resources for changes. A cause is interpretation-free only when analysis is split from synthesis; in a relational model conditions—as an analytic moment of inquiry—are understood as functioning under some interpretation, some synthesis (Hanson, 1958). A cause can be a “force” that “produces” or “influences” or “affects” the status or change of an object only in a model that splits system and activity. In a relational model, system and activity are joined as a dynamic structure–function relation, and conditions are identified as necessary and/or sufficient to the occurrence of the phenomenon under investigation (von Wright, 1971). Thus, rather than inquiry into the “causes” of behavior or development, inquiry from a relational perspective examines conditions that are associated with behavior or that can serve as resources for the developmental system. For example, if inquiry concerned the development of a plant, food and water would represent necessary conditions for the plant to grow, but would not be offered as the “cause” of the plant’s development in the sense of producing that development. Similarly, neither nature factors nor nurture factors can be considered the cause of human development; they represent conditions that are associated with

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

that development, resources that serve the relational developmental system. The assertion that causes are best understood as conditions leaves open the question of what, in fact, does produce behavior and change. The issue here is that of mechanisms. As is the case with other key terms, mechanism has several, often incompatible, definitions. In the present case, the meaning is closer to “a process, physical or mental, by which something is done or comes into being” than to “the doctrine that all natural phenomena are explicable by material causes and mechanical principles” (The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language, 2000). Hence, for present purposes, mechanism is defined as an active method or process rather than a cause or set of causes. These mechanisms are found in the dynamic structure–function relations that identify action patterns. Any relational developmental system constitutes a set of dynamic structure–function relations. The system is not a random aggregate of elements; it has a specific organization or architecture (i.e., a structure). Further, this structure is not randomly active; it has a characteristic activity (i.e., a function). Even computers (structure)—when they are turned on—compute (function). However, computers do not change—at least, they do not change in a transformational manner—and for this reason they are rather limited as models of the human mind (Fodor, 2000). The input and output of a computer may change—and this is the basis for traditional and contemporary split “functionalist” approaches to explanation (Overton, 1994a). However, the organization/activity of the computer itself does not undergo transformational change. In contrast, living organisms are relational developmental systems; they are dynamic organizations (structures) that are inherently active (function) and exhibit transformational change. When a relational developmental system is viewed from the standpoint of function, it is the function itself (i.e., the characteristic action of the developmental system) that constitutes the mechanism of behavior and change. Systems change through their characteristic action in the context of external conditions. Thus, the explanation of behavior and change is given by the functioning of the system (see Thelen & Smith, 2006; Witherington, 2007). Further, because of the relation of structure and function, when a system is viewed from the standpoint of structure, structure then explains function. Consequently, both structure and function enter centrally into the explanatory process. Structure and function are central to explanation, but they are also fundamentally interpretative in nature; they are not directly observable. Structure-function relations

are patterns of action, but patterns are never directly observed; they must be inferred. When examined from the structural standpoint, the patterns constitute Aristotle’s formal and final explanations. From the structural standpoint, action patterns make the object of inquiry intelligible and give reasons for the nature and functioning of the object. From the functional standpoint, action patterns explain by presenting the mechanism of behavior and development. Action patterns, however, necessarily operate within the context of material conditions, both internal to the system and external to it. Thus, the introduction of structure–function relations serves to integrate the hermeneutic explanation and the natural science conditions explanation. Both types of explanation are necessary, but each operates from a different standpoint. Developmental science offers several illustrations of this explanatory integration. For example, Bowlby’s (1958) theory of infant–caregiver attachment posits a behavioral attachment system (structure) in relation to actions that serve the adaptive function of keeping the caregiver in close proximity. Piaget’s (1952, 1985) theory presents a more general example. This theory represents an attempt to make sense of (i.e., explain) the development of knowing. Like Bowlby’s, Piaget’s is a relational developmental systems theory that takes seriously the background ideas of dynamic structure–function and conditions. Because the theoretical goal is to explain the person and the development of the knowing person, Piaget takes a person (and epistemic) standpoint rather than a biological or a cultural standpoint. The theory conceptualizes the person as a complex adaptive system of self-organizing action systems operating in a world of biological and environmental resources. Structure and function constitute thesis and antithesis, and the resulting synthesis is transformational change, or stages of new structure-function relations. Structures are the mental organizations that are expressed as patterns of action. On the structural side of the equation Piaget introduces the theoretical concepts schemes, coordination of schemes, operations, groupings, and group. Each explains (i.e., formal explanation)—at successive novel levels of transformation—the cognitive equipment that the infant, toddler, child, and adolescent come to have available for constructing their known world. Theoretical concepts of adaptation, assimilation– accommodation, equilibrium, equilibration, and reflective abstraction, constitute the functional side of the equation. Schemes, coordinated schemes, operations, and the like function; they are active and it is through their action in a world of conditions that they change. Piaget’s is an embodied action theory, and action is the general mechanism

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

of development. Through the organized actions of the person in the world, the person’s mode of knowing the world becomes transformed, and these transformations are adaptive. Embodied action as the mechanism of development becomes more specific through recognition of its biphasic nature. Assimilation is the phase of action that expresses the mental organization. This expression gives meaning to the world; it constitutes the world as known. However, these meanings—including meanings at a presymbolic, preconceptual stage—have an instrumental function as well as the expressive function. When the instrumental function of the action is not completely successful in securing an adaptive goal, variation occurs in the action. For example, an infant may intend (assimilate) the side of the breast as a nipple by sucking it, but when the satisfaction of feeding does not occur, variations arise in the action, and this is exemplified by the infant sucking in various new locations. Variations open up new possibilities that both secure a goal and provide feedback that transforms (differentiations and novel coordinations) the system itself. This action phase of variation and organizational modification is the accommodation phase of any action. Organization explains in the sense of establishing the form (structure) and action yields the explanatory mechanism (function). This relational polarity operates in the context of conditions, such as parents who do or do not provide appropriate opportunities for the adequate exercise of functioning. It is also the case that at the beginning of any stage of novel structure–function relations, the capacity for successful adaptation is limited. This situation is theoretically expressed in the idea that there is more assimilation than accommodation at the beginning of a stage, and hence, there is a lack of balance or equilibrium between assimilation and accommodation. Through action, this imbalance changes, and the two phases of action eventually move into equilibrium within a given stage. Of course, given the relational nature of the theory, equilibrium of assimilation and accommodation also means that the underlying structures have reached a stable state (equilibrium) of differentiation and intercoordination. The movement toward equilibrium of the action phases of assimilation and accommodation describes the development mechanism within a stage. To explain development across stages, Piaget introduces a principle that also has both a structural and a functional face. Structurally, this is the equilibration principle (Piaget, 1985; see Boom, 2009) and it asserts that developmental change is directed toward “improved” states or patterns of the just described equilibrium. “Improved” here is defined in terms of the adaptive

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value of one stage of cognitive structures relative to the adaptive value of other stages of cognitive structures. For example, the formal operational structures associated with adolescence represent an improved equilibrium over the sensorimotor structures associated with infancy, in that the formal operational structures are more stable, more flexible, and describe a much broader range of potential cognitive experiences than sensorimotor structures. The equilibration principle introduces hierarchical organization into the theory and explains sequence, order, and direction in the emergence of novel cognitive abilities, just as the Second Law of Thermodynamics explains sequence, order, and direction with respect to the physical world. It reflects Aristotle’s metatheoretical final explanation, and it is consistent with the structural final explanations offered in other developmental theories, including Heinz Werner’s (1948, 1957) “orthogenetic principle,” and Erik Erikson’s (1968) “epigenetic principle.” The functional face of the mechanism of development across stages is termed reflective abstraction (Piaget, 1985; see Campbell, 2009). Reflective abstraction is action, but it is action that has its own biphasic character consisting of “reflecting,” in the sense of projecting something from a lower to a higher level, and “reflexion,” which is the reorganization of what has been projected. The alternation of the reflecting–reflexion phases produces each new stage of cognitive reorganization. Reflection is similar to the act of generalizing; reflexion is acting from the generalized position to consolidate the gains made through generalizing. What is abstracted in this process is the coordination of the differentiated structures of the lower level of organization. Step 3: Abductive Logic Replaces Split Induction and Deduction The third step towards a relational metamethod or methodology that integrates mechanical explanation and hermeneutic understanding addresses the nature of scientific logic. Modern mechanical explanation split acts of discovery and acts of justification and then identified the former with a foundational inductive logic and the latter with a deductive logic. Interpretation-free induction from interpretation-free data was the vehicle for the discovery of hypotheses, theories, and laws, and interpretation-free deduction the vehicle for their justification. A relational metamethod introduces the logic of abduction as the synthesis of the opposite identities theory (broadly considered, including background ideas) and data. Abduction (also called “retroduction”) was originally described by the

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Foundations of Development Across the Life Span

pragmatist philosopher Charles Sanders Peirce (1992), and the historian of science N. R. Hanson (1958) has argued that it has long been the fundamental, if often invisible, logic of scientific activity. In a contemporary version this logic is termed “inference to the best explanation” (Fumerton, 1993; Harman, 1965). Abduction operates by arranging the observation under consideration and all background ideas (here including specific theoretical and metatheoretical concepts) as two Escherian hands. The possible coordination of the two is explored by asking the question of what must necessarily be assumed in order to have that observation (see Figure 2.4). The inference to—or interpretation of—what must, in the context of background ideas, necessarily be assumed then comes to constitute the explanation of the phenomenon. The abductive process has also been termed the transcendental argument. Abductive inference is illustrated in virtually any psychological work that assumes a centrality of emotional, motivational, or cognitive mental organization. Russell (1996), for example, has discussed the significance of abduction to the area of cognition. Chomsky’s work in language and Piaget’s work in cognitive development are particularly rich in abductive inference. Consider as an illustration of the process the following example, drawn from Piaget: (a) There is the phenomenal observation (O) that it is the case that a certain group of people (children around 6–7 years of age) understands that physical substances maintain the same quantity despite changes in qualitative appearances (i.e., conservation); (b) Given the relational background ideas discussed in this paper, Piaget forms the abductive inference that the explanation of this observation (E) is that a certain type of action system, having specified features including reversibility (i.e., concrete operations), must be available to these people. This inference forms the conditional statement “If Abductive Hypothesis

Background

Figure 2.4

The abductive process

Observation

(E) concrete operational structure, then (O) conservation, is expected”; (c) Given (O), the conclusion is, “Therefore, concrete operational structure explains the understanding of conservation.” This, of course, is not the end of the process, as criteria must be established that allow choice among alternative Es, the “best” E. But this step is not a major hurdle, as many of the criteria for theory-explanation selection that were articulated within traditional modern science can readily be incorporated here. These criteria include the explanation’s depth, coherence, logical consistency, extent to which it reduces the proportion of unsolved to solved conceptual and/or empirical problems in a domain (Laudan, 1977), and, last but not least, scope, empirical support, and empirical fruitfulness. Scope, empirical support, and fruitfulness as partial criteria for choice of a best theory-explanation all demand a return to the observational grounds for empirical assessment. Some of the statistical and research strategies associated with this return are described in detail by Rozeboom (1997). Scope is assessed through testing the abductive explanation in observational contexts that go beyond the context that generated the explanation. For example, conservation may be assessed in the contexts of number, weight, area, volume, or it may be assessed in relation to other skills that should—in the context of the explanation—be associated with it. The assessment of scope also serves the function of establishing that the abductive explanation–observation relation is not viciously circular. The fruitfulness of an explanation is measured in terms of the extent to which the explanation combines with other abductive hypotheses to generate (predict) new observations. Each new abductive hypothesis in the relational triangle (Figure 2.4) becomes a part of background (background ideas—theory) and, thus, creates a new enlarged background (see Figure 2.5). The new background generates novel observations, but these too—because they constitute a background–observation relation—yield opposite identities that require further abductive inferences. Empirical support for an abductive explanation is the outcome of any assessment of scope. Here, another central feature of a relational metamethod needs to be differentiated from the traditional modern split metamethod. Under the rule of split-off induction and deduction, it was assumed that scientific progress moved forward through the deductive falsification of theories (Popper, 1959). The criterion of falsification, however, fell into disrepute through demonstrations by several historians and philosophers of science (e.g., Hanson, 1958; Kuhn, 1970;

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Abductive Hypothesis

Background

Observation

Becomes

Abductive Hypothesis

Background

Observation

Becomes

Abductive Hypothesis

Background

Observation

Figure 2.5 Scientific progress through abduction

Lakatos, 1978; Laudan, 1977; Putnam, 1983; Quine, 1953) that although deductive logic, and hence falsification, is applicable to a specific experimental hypothesis, falsification does not reach to the level of rich theories (i.e., background is abductive in character, not inductive nor deductive). Within a relational metatheory, these demonstrations lead to the principle that falsified experimental hypotheses are important in that they constitute failures of empirical support for the broader abductive explanation, but they are not important in the sense of constituting a refutation of the explanation. Kuhn, Lakatos, and Laudan describe these failures as anomalous instances for the background, and as such they require evaluation; but they do not, in and of themselves, require abandonment of the abductive explanation (see Overton, 1984, 1994a). To this point, a relational metatheory and an integrative metamethod have been described, and the manner in which these ground, constrain, and sustain various

developmentally relevant issues, theories, and methods has been illustrated. The next and final section of this chapter will present a broad illustration of the application of relational metatheory to developmental inquiry.

THE RELATIONAL DEVELOPMENTAL SYSTEMS’ EMBODIED ACTION (ENACTION) APPROACH As repeated throughout this chapter, a relational metatheory for the development of living organisms establishes the defining context for a specifically developmental science perspective that is generally termed a relational developmental systems perspective. This perspective is broadly characterized as a conceptualization of the organism—including both its internal environment (biology) and its external environment (physical, cultural) as a

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developmental system. This system is itself identified as being adaptive, complex, inherently active, self-creating, self-organizing, and self-regulating. As mentioned earlier, when the psychological person is the center of inquiry, it is the embodied active psychological system that creates, organizes, and regulates itself through complex and multidirectional relational interpenetrating feedback loops with its internal and external environments.

Relational Synthesis: Embodied Action A major assertion of relationism is that objects and events derive their meaning from their relations as parts of a whole, and not as split-off elements of nature. As Colombetti (2010) recently remarked, “meaning is always relational ” (148). A mind without a human living body actively engaged in the world is inconceivable, as is the engaged human living body inconceivable without a mind. From this relational stance, embodiment is not about a split-off, disengaged agent defined by its movements; nor is it about a moving agent peeking at a preformed world and drawing meaning directly from that world. Nor is embodiment about a set of genes causing behavior, or a split-off brain causing, or being, the mind (e.g., brainin-a-vat), or a split-off culture imprinting itself on mind and behavior. Embodiment is a concept of synthesis (see Figure 2.6), a bridge that joins broad areas of inquiry into a unified whole (i.e., the biological, the phenomenological, the sociocultural and environmental) as relative standpoints that together constitute the whole. Thus, embodiment references not merely physical structures, but the body as a form of lived experience, actively engaged in and with the world of sociocultural and physical objects. The body as form references a biological standpoint, the body as lived experience actively engaged references a phenomenological or psychological person standpoint, and Person Embodiment

the body actively engaged in and with the world points to a contextual social, cultural, and environmental standpoint. Until recently, the role of the lived body in cognitive and socioemotional development was largely ignored (Barsalou, 2008a, 2008b; M¨uller & Newman, 2008). This omission is due to a variety of reasons. Among others, in the tradition of Descartes and behaviorism, the body was viewed as a physical object and not as a lived body that is actively engaged with the world and, in this process, creates meaning and, in effect, constructs the world as known. Furthermore, under the spell of the computer metaphor, cognition was viewed as computational process that operates on amodal symbols (Barsalou, 2008a). However, contemporary theorizing (Gallagher, 2005; Gallese & Lakoff, 2005; Johnson, 2008), neuropsychological evidence (e.g., Chao & Martin, 2000; Engel, 2010; Garbarini & Adenzato, 2004; Jackson & Decety, 2004) and psychological evidence (e.g., Bub, Masson, & Cree, 2008; Mounoud, Duscherer, Moy, & Perraudin, 2007; Tucker & Ellis, 2001, 2004) strongly suggests that mind (i.e., a relational developmental system composed of three interrelated subsystems—the cognitive, the affective, and the conative) is grounded in embodied action (i.e., embodied experience). Three Relational Standpoints on Embodiment A relational synthesis of standpoints is broadly unfamiliar to those raised in a Cartesian scientific culture; as a consequence, the following sections will briefly explore each and present examples (see Figure 2.7). For contrast, this approach to inquiry should be compared with a variable-centered approach discussed earlier and illustrated in Figure 2.8. It is critical to note that the relational developmental systems perspective of developmental science does not in any way dismiss the notion or importance of conceptualizing foci of interest in terms of variables; it objects to variables conceptualized as split-off causes, even as causes of the kind that might be considered in the traditional notion of split-off interactions. Biological Standpoint on Embodiment

Biological Embodiment

Figure 2.6

Embodiment as synthesis

Cultural Embodiment

The biological standpoint on embodiment stands in contrast with typical Cartesian biological reductionism, which places explanation at, and only at, the level of brain mechanisms, genes, and DNA. The neurobiologists Antonio Damasio (e.g., 1994) and Joseph LeDoux (1996), exploring the neurological dimension of emotions, as well as the Nobel Laureate Gerald Edelman (1992, 2006; see also Edelman & Tononi, 2000), exploring the neurological dimensions of consciousness, all support an embodied approach

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Living body Embodiment Person-level Cognition (knowing) Conation (wishing) Emotion (feeling) Sub-person-level agency Self-organizing action systems

on

rs Pe

Instrumental Actions Expressive/Constitutive Actions

Biological systems

Sociocultural and Physical world

Inquiry focus (Standpoints) A. Person-centered B. Sociocultural-centered C. Biology-centered

Figure 2.7 The relational developmental systems approach to inquiry: Three standpoints on embodied action.

Reflection of culture and biology (Conceptualized as person factors)

Cause (Correlate) (Risk factor) (Predictor)

Instrumental behavior

Sociocultural and Physical world

Cause (Correlate) (Risk factor) (Predictor) Biological factors

Inquiry factors

Figure 2.8 A variable approach to psychological inquiry

to biological–psychological inquiry. In addition, all argue that the cognitive, affective, and motivational meanings that define the mind can no longer be thought of as the direct expression of genetic modularities (as nativists such as Steven Pinker, 1997, would claim). Nor can they be thought of as a functionalist piece of software, nor even as merely a function of brain processes. Rather, they argue, these meanings must be considered in a fully embodied context. As Damasio said, “Mind is probably not conceivable without some sort of embodiment” (p. 234), and further, commenting on contemporary perspectives on mind,

Similarly, Edelman (2006) has argued, “We must not lose sight of one set of facts. The brain is embodied and the body is embedded” (p. 25). And:

This is Descartes’ error: the abyssal separation between body and mind. . . . The Cartesian idea of a disembodied mind may well have been the source, by the middle of the twentieth century, for the metaphor of mind as software program. . . .

The mind is embodied. It is necessarily the case that certain dictates of the body must be followed by the mind. . . . Symbols do not get assigned meanings by formal means; instead it is assumed that symbolic structures are meaningful

[and] there may be some Cartesian disembodiment also behind the thinking of neuroscientists who insist that the mind can be fully explained in terms of brain events, leaving by the wayside the rest of the organism and the surrounding physical and social environment—and also leaving out the fact that part of the environment is itself a product of the organism’s preceding actions. —Damasio, 1994, pp. 249–250

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to begin with. This is so because categories are determined by bodily structure and by adaptive use as a result of evolution and behavior. —Edelman, 1992, p. 239

Other authors who have recently considered biological features of embodiment include Colombetti and Thompson (2008), Engel (2010), Thelen (2008), Thompson (2007), and Voneche (2008).

Sociocultural and Environmental Standpoint on Embodiment Broadly moving to the sociocultural and the environmental (i.e., physical world), the Cartesian framework privileges these as split-off elements, and thus argues that, as mentioned earlier, social discourse is “prior to and constitutive of the world” (Miller, 1996, p. 99), or claims a “Primacy of Cultural Mediation” (Cole & Wertsch, 1996, p. 251). Increasingly, however, social constructivists such as Csordas (1999), Good, (2007), Harre (1995), Ingold (2000), and Sampson (1996) have argued for embodied action as a relational anchoring to the relativism of any split-off discourse or split-off cultural analyses. Sampson, for example, has argued for “embodied discourses,” as these “refer to the inherently embodied nature of all human endeavor, including talk, conversation and discourse itself” (p. 609; see also Overton, 1997b). Perhaps the most fully articulated contemporary employment of embodiment in a developmentally oriented cultural psychology can be found in the work of Boesch (1991). Boesch’s presentation of “the I and the body” is a discussion of the centrality of embodiment for a cultural psychology. Thus, he stated, “The body, obviously, is more than just an object with anatomical and physiological properties: it is the medium of our actions [italics added], it is with our body that we both conceive and perform actions” (p. 312). Recently, as mentioned earlier, Mistry and Wu (2010) have been developing and testing a sociocultural theory that is deeply embedded in a relational framework. As such, it is strongly committed to embodiment: “Our conceptual model exemplifies a developmentally oriented embodied action metatheory [Overton, 2006] in which embodiment represents the interpenetrating relations between person, biology, and culture” (p. 22). The idea of situated cognition or situated learning— when freed from its Cartesian strict contextualist moorings, which splits object from subject and privileges the former—is tightly intertwined with the environmental and sociocultural embodied standpoint. It should be

recalled that the relational meaning of embodiment as a body actively engaged in and with the world necessitates that not only cognition and learning, but all psychological functions, including motivations and emotions, are co-constituted by the sociocultural and environmental context. With respect specifically to the environment (i.e., the actual world), Sanders (1999) describes a framework for transforming the Cartesian split between subject and object into a relational embodied joining through a concept of the environment as a system of “affordances” (Gibson, 1979). Sanders begins from a relational perspective on the contrast between organism and environment: For any way of characterizing the contrast, the important feature to be noted is that neither contrasted pole [i.e., pointof-view] can be characterized independently of the other. “Environments” just are organism-indexed parts of the world. “Organisms” are just part of the world distinguished, for particular purposes (whatever they may be), from what they are embedded in. —Sanders, 1999, p. 133

Defining affordances as “opportunities for action in the environment of an organism” [resources] (p. 129), Sanders goes on to argue, The perceptual readiness or theoretical set with which we frame particular experiences varies not only from time to time and from culture to culture, it varies from moment to moment in any individual’s life as a function of interest, purpose, desire, and the like. It is relative to this changing background that the world gets cast in terms of opportunities and risks—in terms, that is, of affordances. (p. 135)

Sanders completes his affordances argument by describing the role they play in embodiment: Affordances serve . . . as analytical units of embodiment. This is not an embodiment that is merely physical, the language of affordances relativizes ontology not simply to the physical body, but to what an agent can do. The “environment” within which affordances may be deployed is not only the perceptual environment but also the entire universe of potential action. What it is comprised of and how it is parsed will be a function of affordances. The embodied agent is “embodied” precisely insofar as the agent’s capacities and functions are understood as deriving in vital part from activity, rather than from an a priori gift of passive assimilation of external messages . . . . Affordances thus help to elucidate both the theoretical insight and the dynamic implications of the idea of embodiment and engaged agency. (p. 135)

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

Good (2007) elaborates on this relational intertwining of the ecological approach, embodiment, and affordances for social knowing. The elaboration itself is explicitly formulated within a metatheoretical perspective that is closely related to relational perspective that Good terms “mutualist”: I employ the term “mutualist” to describe a perspective which has its source in Hegel and in the anti-mechanistic philosophy of Romanticism. . . . From this perspective mind, body and environment cannot be understood in isolation, but are constructions from the flow of purposive activity in the world. —Good, 2007, p. 269

Phenomenological and Person-Centered Developmental Standpoint on Embodiment If embodiment entails, in part, the body as lived experience actively engaged, then a phenomenological and personcentered standpoint of relational synthesis becomes a necessary vantage point (see Person cube in Figure 2.7) for understanding embodiment as a whole. This point of synthesis maintains a theoretical and empirical focus on the psychological processes and changes that constitute the psychological subject and the development of the psychological subject. The single most important value of recognizing a person-centered standpoint as a necessary point of synthesis—along with the biological and sociocultural points of synthesis—is that it rescues psychology generally, and developmental psychology specifically, from becoming a mere adjunct to biology (including genetics and neuroscience), or to culture, discourse, narrative, or computer science. Psyche initially referenced “soul,” and later, “mind”; if psychology is not to again lose its mind—as it did in the days of the hegemony of behaviorism—keeping the psychological subject as the center of action is a necessary guard against explanatory reduction to biology, culture, discourse, and so forth. The person-centered point of view entails five interrelated concepts: (1) person, (2) subpersonal system, (3) action, (4) experience, and (5) person–embodiment. Person–Subpersonal System. Person and subpersonal system are complementary levels of analysis of the same relational developmental system whole. The person level is constituted by genuine psychological concepts (e.g., thoughts, feelings, desires, wishes) that have intentional qualities, are open to interpretation, and are available to consciousness (Shanon, 1993), or in other words, have psychological meaning. The subpersonal level (Dennett, 1987;

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Hurley, 1998; Russell, 1996) refers to action systems or the relational developmental system that provide explanatory mechanisms for person-level concepts. Schemes, operations, ego, and attachment behavioral system are some of the systems that function at the subpersonal level. Taken as a whole, the person–subpersonal, when framed by a relational context, entails engaged human agency (Bandura, 2006; Taylor, 1995) and forms the nucleus of a psychological metatheory of mind. As mentioned earlier, from this perspective, mind is defined as a relational developmental system composed of three subsystems of meanings: (1) the cognitive (knowings, beliefs), (2) the affective-emotional (feelings), and (3) the conative or motivational (wishes, desires) subsystems, along with procedures for maintaining, implementing, and changing these meanings. Importantly, it must be stressed that a personcentered metatheory of mind endorses a perspective that examines the rich interplay among emotions, wishes, desires, and cognition; it does not support the idea that cognition is an encapsulated module. Further, there is no question about where mind is “located.” Mind emerges from a relational biosociocultural activity matrix. In the present context, mind is a person-centered concept because the approach being described takes the person standpoint. As a person-centered concept, mind bridges naturally to both the biological and the sociocultural. Action, Intention, Behavior. The personal– subpersonal as a relational developmental system is the source of action, which is itself a necessary feature of engaged human agency. Action is fundamental to what have traditionally been termed “action theories of psychological functioning and development” (Brandtst¨adter, 1998; Brandtst¨adter & Lerner, 1999; Eckensberger, 2011; M¨uller & Overton, 1998a, 1998b; Overton & Ennis, 2006a). At the subpersonal level, where it is not necessary to limit a definition to the human organism, action is defined as the characteristic functioning of any complex adaptive self-creating and system-organizing system. For example, a plant orients toward the sun. Weather systems form high- and low-pressure areas, and move from west to east. Engaged human systems organize and adapt to their biological, sociocultural, and environmental worlds. At the person level, action is defined as “intentional activity” (i.e., meaning-giving activity). Intentionality, however, is not to be identified solely with consciousness. While all acts are intentional, only some intentions are conscious or self-conscious. In a similar fashion, intention is not to be identified solely with a symbolic or reflective level of knowing. Following Brentano (1973), all acts, even those

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occurring at early sensorimotor levels of functioning, intend some object. Action is often distinguishable from behavior, as the action of the person implies a transformation in the intended object of action, while behavior often simply implies movement and states (e.g., the classically defined “response” was understood as specific movement in space and time, a behavior, see von Wright, 1971, p. 199). When the infant chews (act) something that from a sociocultural standpoint is called a “basket,” the infant is, from a person-centered standpoint, transforming this part of her known world into a practical action (i.e., the object is something “chewable”). Piaget’s cognitive developmental theory is a good example of a child-centered relational developmental systems theory, where the metatheoretical “action” becomes translated into specific theoretical concepts. Thus, Piaget’s basic subpersonal theoretical concepts of “function,” “assimilation,” “accommodation,” “scheme,” “operation,” and “reflective abstraction” all reference action. Piaget repeatedly affirms the centrality of action throughout his writings: “I think that human knowledge is essentially active. To know is to assimilate reality into systems of transformations. To know is to transform reality. . . . To my way of thinking, knowing an object does not mean copying it, it means acting upon it” (Piaget, 1967, p. 15); “To know an object . . . is to act on it so as to transform it” (Piaget, 1977, p. 30); “Nothing is knowable unless the subject acts in one way or another on the surrounding world” (Piaget, 1980, p. 43). Action serves at least three major functions in the development of mind. First, action of engaged human agency expresses cognitive/affective/ conative meaning. Here, it is important to recognize that meaning, like many other basic concepts, has relational complementary definitions that are determined by the standpoint being taken (Overton, 1994b). “I mean” and “it means” operate in a relational matrix. The former is concerned with person-centered meanings, the latter with sociocultural meanings and reference. From a person-centered standpoint, the focus of analysis is on “I mean,” and secondarily, on how “I mean” becomes associated with “it means.” Considered as expressive, action entails the projection of person-centered meanings, thus transforming the “objective” environmental world (e.g., an object point of view) into an “actual” world as known, felt, or desired. “World” here is another relational bipolar concept. The actual world—the world of meanings constructed by the person; the known world. The environmental or objective world is the world of reference, examined from a sociocultural or environmental standpoint.

The second function that action serves is the instrumental function of communicating and adjusting personcentered meanings. Communication, dialogue, discourse, and problem solving all call attention to the relational toand-fro movement between the expression of the relational developmental system and instrumental adaptive changes. Completely adapted (e.g., successful) action entails only the projection of meaning onto the world (e.g., If I intend this object before me to hold water as a “cup,” and I successfully drink from it, no change occurs in my conceptual system). Partially adapted (e.g., partially successful) action results in exploratory action, or variations (e.g., If the intended “cup” leads to water leaking onto my shirt, I vary my actions, such as putting my finger across a crack in the object). Exploratory action that is adaptive (e.g., the finger placement permits successful drinking) entails reorganization of the system (transformational change) and hence, new meanings (e.g., cup is an object without cracks). Experience and Action. This general cycle of projected action and exploratory variational action in the face of encountered resistances, constitutes the third and most general function of action: Action defines the general mechanism of all psychological development. From a person-centered developmental action standpoint, all development is explained by the action of the subject. Again, however, this metatheoretical concept will be translated into specific theoretical concepts at the level of theory itself (e.g., Piaget’s concepts of “assimilationaccommodation” and “equilibration” identify action mechanisms of development). In claiming that action is the general mechanism of all development, it is necessary to recognize that within a relational developmental systems perspective, action and experience are identical concepts. Consequently, the claim that action is the mechanism of development is identical to the claim that experience is the mechanism of development. All development occurs through experience. In this definition, however, it should be clear that experience as action excludes neither the biological nor the sociocultural and environmental. In fact, experience understood as action of the person-agent represents a synthesis of these points of view. Experience is itself, however, yet another concept that acquires complementary meanings depending on whether the focus is from the person-agent or actual environmental standpoint. From each perspective, experience is identified as the co-constitution of the act and the environment, but each has a distinct emphasis regarding the locus of this coconstitution. From the person-agent standpoint, experience

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is the action of exploring, manipulating, and observing the world, while from an environmental standpoint, experience is an objective event or stimulus present in the context of the act. Further, as understood from the person-agent standpoint, when experience is described as feeling or qualia, the reference here is the person-centered felt meaning of the observational, manipulative, and exploratory action. In a similar fashion, to speak of “perceptual experience” is to speak of the felt meanings of the observational, manipulative, and exploratory action. When experience is understood as entailing the developmental action cycle of projection and transformation (of the known world) and exploration-transformation (of the system), experience also becomes the psychological bridge between biological and cultural systems. There is no sense here of an isolated, cut-off, solitary human psyche. Person-centered experience emerges from a biosociocultural relational activity matrix (see, for example, Gallese, 2000a, 2000b; Suomi, 1999), and this experience both transforms the matrix and is transformed by the matrix. Person development is neither a split-off nativism, nor a split-off environmentalism, nor an additive combination of the two. The neonate is a relational developmental system of practical action meanings. These meanings represent the outcome of nine months of the co-constituting action of biology-environment, and this co-constituting stretches all the way down to DNA (Gottlieb, 2002; Lewontin, 2000). Finally, it is important to repeat that the idea that biology and environment (including the sociocultural environment) play an integral part in this explanation. The fact that development is explained by experience does not deny that development is explained by biology and that development is explained by the sociocultural. What is denied is the absolute exclusivity of any of these standpoint explanations.

This differentiation leads to a novel coordination or reorganization, and through continuing transformations to the adapted level of conscious practical action found in the neonate. Consciousness is a person-level systemic property of this emergent action system as it operates in the world. The initial adapted practical consciousness entails a minimum awareness of the meaning constituted by an act (Zelazo, 1996). Consciousness cannot be reduced to or “squeezed out of” lower stages; it is the result of organism–environment transformations. Similarly, further developmental differentiations and coordinations of actions—described as “higher” levels of consciousness— emerge through the co-constitution of conscious action and the sociocultural and physical worlds it encounters. Symbolic meaning and the symbolic representational level of meanings (M¨uller & Overton, 1998a, 1998b) describe forms of consciousness that arise from the coordination of practical actions. Reflective and transreflective meanings (reflective symbolic understandings of reflective symbolic understandings) describe further developmental advances in the coordination of action systems. To summarize to this point, the nucleus of a personcentered, relational developmental system of mind has been described, where mind is conceptualized as a relational developmental system composed of subsystems of cognitive (knowings, beliefs), emotional (feelings), and conative or motivational (wishes, desires) meanings or understandings, along with procedures for maintaining, implementing, and changing these meanings. Mind, through expressive projections, transforms the world as known, and through adaptive instrumental exploration, transforms itself (e.g., develops); however, this set of ideas remains a nucleus and only a nucleus, because it lacks the critical necessary feature of person embodiment.

Development of the Relational Developmental System. Psychological development of the person– subpersonal—and hence, engaged human agency— entails the epigenetic stance that novel forms emerge through the co-constituting actions of the target system, as well as the resistances the target system encounters in both the actual and objective sociocultural and physical environment. It is through co-constitutive actions that the system changes and, hence, becomes differentiated; however, differentiation of parts implies a novel coordination of parts, and this coordination itself identifies the emergence of novelty. Thus, as suggested earlier, the neurological action system becomes differentiated through the co-constitutive actions of neurological–environmental functioning.

Relational Developmental System Engaged Embodied Actions. Person–subpersonal is the source of acts, and acts are the source of meaning; but these acts are themselves necessarily embodied. As described earlier, embodiment is defined, in part, as the body as lived experience actively engaged . Person embodiment is the claim that the person’s perception, thinking, feelings, desires—the way the person experiences or lives the world—is contextualized by persons being active agents with this particular kind of body. At the subpersonal level, embodiment specifies the physical nature that is the condition of the activity of any living system (e.g., the world of the fly is necessarily shaped by the nature of the fly’s physical body). At the person level, embodiment affirms

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that, from the beginning, bodily acts constrain and inform the nature of intentionality (Margolis, 1987). Intentionality is not limited to a symbolic, reflective, or transreflective system of psychological meanings; intentionality also extends to a system of psychological meanings that characterize practical, embodied actions operating at the most minimum level of consciousness (see M¨uller & Newman, 2008). These most basic meanings and all others “come from having a body with particular perceptual and motor capabilities that are inseparably linked” (Thelen, Schoner, Scheier, & Smith, 2001, p. 1); that is, they arise, as Piaget repeatedly insisted, from the sensorimotor functioning that represents a concrete instantiation of embodied actions engaged with the world. Varela, Thompson, and Rosch (1991) sketched a general outline for an embodied theory of cognition, which they termed enaction. More recently, this program has been elaborated by a number of investigators (e.g., Barsalou, 2008a, 2008b; Noe, 2004; Stewart, Gapenne, & Di Paolo, 2010), and it has come to stand as viable relational alternative to cognitivism’s computational or representational theory of mind. But the centrality of embodiment and enaction is not limited to the cognitive subsystem. The significance of embodiment for emotions and motivations has been explored by Colombetti (2010; Colombetti & Thompson, 2008), and Santostefano (1995, 2010) has detailed the developmental emotional, motivational and cognitive dimensions of practical, symbolic, and reflective embodied meanings. Furthermore, many who have studied personality development and psychopathology, from R. D. Laing (1960) to Donald Winnicott (1965) and Thomas Ogden (1986), have argued that disruptions in the embodied actions of the person-agent are central to an understanding of the development of severe forms of psychopathology (see also Overton & Horowitz, 1991) The proprioceptive and exteroceptive systems have become a central focus in explorations of the development of practical actions or prereflective knowing (see, e.g. Bermudez, 1998; Freeman, 1999; Gallagher, 2005; Gapenne, 2010; Noe, 2004; O’Shaughnessy, 2000). Gapenne reviews a large body of research in support of the argument that the coordination of these bodily sensory flows—termed the “kinesthetic function”—constitutes the fundamental embodied basis for the organism’s developing construction of a sense of self and a sense of an external world of objects; “perception is essentially relational and . . . this relation simultaneously codetermines both the subject and the object (Gapenne, 2010, p. 194). Bermudez’s (1998) perspective that late-emerging forms of meaning found in symbolic and reflective consciousness develop

from—and are constrained by—embodied self-organizing action systems available to the infant, follows a similar line of argument. For Bermudez, most importantly, these early systems entail person-level somatic proprioceptive and exteroceptive systems. As these person-centered processes interpenetrate the physical and sociocultural worlds, proprioception operates as the differentiation mechanism for the emergence of a self-consciousness action system, and exteroception operates as the differentiation mechanism for the emergence of an object-consciousness system. Hence, over the first several months of life basic practical action systems associated with “me” and “object world” are constructed by the infant, which through further embodied action in the world become transformed into the symbolic “me” and “object world” of early toddlerhood. The work of Sheets-Johnstone (2010) on the role of the “tactile-kinesthetic body” also illustrates the importance of embodiment at the level of practical actions. As she says in a summary of her work: “We build our perceptions and conceptions of space originally in the process of moving ourselves, in tactile-kinesthetic experiences that in fact go back to prenatal life where the movement that takes a thumb to a mouth originates” (p. 174). Similarly, Thelen’s (2008, see also Smith, 2005) focus on movement generally, and specifically “body memory” in infant cognitive functioning, extends the field of inquiry into the significance of embodiment at the prereflective level of cognition. Langer’s (1994) empirical studies represent important demonstrations of the intercoordination of embodied action systems, as these intercoordinations move development from the practical to the symbolic plane of meaning. Earlier work by Held and his colleagues (e.g., Held & Bossom, 1961; Held and Hein, 1958, 1963), on the other hand, illustrates the significance of voluntary embodied action at all levels of adaptation (see also Noe, 2004). Acredolo’s research (e.g., Goodwyn & Acredolo, 1993) on the use of bodily gestures as signs expressing practical meanings in older infants suggests the expressive and instrumental value of embodied practical gesture. Other work has elaborated the significance of bodily representations at the symbolic and reflective levels of meaning. For example, while the use of fingers for counting is well documented (Gelman & Williams, 1998), Saxe’s (1981, 1995) research has shown cross-culturally that other bodily representations enter into counting systems. Further, earlier research by Overton and Jackson (1973) and more recently by Dick, Overton, and Kovacs (2005) has demonstrated that bodily gestures support emerging symbolic representations at least until the level of reflective meanings is attained.

Metatheories, Theories, and Concepts in the Study of Development

At the levels of symbolic, reflective, and transreflective conceptual functioning, the writings of Lakoff and Johnson (1999) (see also, Johnson, 2008; Lakoff, 1987) are well known for their detailed exploration of the significance of embodiment. For Lakoff and Johnson, embodiment provides the fundamental metaphors that shape meanings at all levels of functioning. In a parallel but distinct approach, Kainz (1988) has described how the basic laws of ordinary logic (i.e., the law of identity, the law of contradictions, and the law of the excluded middle) can be understood as emerging from the early embodied differentiation of self and other. Finally, Liben’s (1999, 2008) work on the development of the child’s symbolic and reflective spatial understanding presents a strong argument for an understanding of this development in the context of an embodied child rather than in the context of the disembodied eye that traditionally has framed discussions in this domain. CONCLUSIONS This chapter has explored background ideas that ground, constrain, and sustain theories and methods in psychology generally, and developmental psychology specifically. An understanding of these backgrounds presents the investigator with a rich set of concepts for the construction and assessment of psychological theories. An understanding of background ideas also helps to prevent conceptual confusions that may ultimately lead to unproductive theories and unproductive methods of empirical inquiry. The importance of this function has been forcefully articulated by Robert Hogan (2001) who, under the title “Wittgenstein was right,” notes with approval Wittgenstein’s (1958) remark that “in psychology there are empirical methods and conceptual confusions (p. 27),” and then goes on to say Our training and core practices concern research methods; the discipline is . . . deeply skeptical of philosophy. We emphasize methods for the verification of hypotheses and minimize the analysis of the concepts entailed by the hypotheses. [But] all the empiricism in the world can’t salvage a bad idea. —Hogan, 2001, p. 27

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PART II

Infancy and Early Childhood

CHAPTER 3

Infant Perception and Cognition JOHN COLOMBO, CAITLIN C. BREZ, AND LORI M. CURTINDALE

INTRODUCTION 61 METHODS FOR STUDYING INFANT PERCEPTION AND COGNITION 61 BEHAVIORAL METHODS 62 CURRENT TOPICS IN INFANT PERCEPTION AND COGNITION 67 ATTENTION 67 NEW MODELS OF INFANT LEARNING 68 INTERSENSORY/INTERMODAL PROCESSING 69 FACE PROCESSING 71

OBJECT PERCEPTION 72 CAUSAL PERCEPTION 73 QUANTITATIVE PROCESSING 74 CATEGORIZATION 76 RELATION OF PERCEPTION AND LOWER-ORDER COMPONENTS TO HIGHER-ORDER COGNITION 77 APPLICATIONS 79 CONCLUSIONS 80 REFERENCES 81

INTRODUCTION

the comprehensive content of this field in a chapter of limited length. As such, we will attempt to identify and address basic issues under investigation and present them to the reader with concise summaries and suggestions as to where one might seek further information. As might be evident from the introductory paragraph above, however, the study of infant perception and cognition is driven in large part by methodological advances and progress. As such, before engaging the content of the field, we will briefly review the techniques and approaches that characterize investigation within it.

The study of infant perceptual and cognitive development dates back to the early 20th century. Scientists observed that certain stimulus properties (e.g., color, form, and motion) naturally attracted infants’ visual attention; these systemic preferences and reactions allowed some limited inferences about infants’ basic sensory capacities (Blanton, 1917; Chase, 1937; McDougall, 1908; Segers, 1936; Stirnimann, 1944; Valentine, 1913). The strategy of using differential looking was eventually exploited by Robert Fantz (1956, 1957, 1958a, 1958b, 1958c, 1961a, 1961b; Fantz & Ordy, 1959) who sought to demonstrate visual pattern perception in young infants, and by Donald Berlyne (1958) who sought to identify motivational bases for early visual preferences and curiosity. Soon after these initial studies, the field featured reports from other laboratories on early color and form perception (Berlyne, 1958; Brennan, Ames, & Moore, 1966; Hershenson, 1964; Spears, 1966). With the observation that stimulus novelty also differentially attracted infants’ visual attention (Fantz, 1964; Saayman, Ames, & Moffett, 1964), studies of more complex perceptual and cognitive abilities in infants began to proliferate. Our charge in this chapter is to summarize and present the state of infant perception and cognition. Given the burgeoning activity in this area over the past 50 years, any attentive reader will recognize the folly in representing

METHODS FOR STUDYING INFANT PERCEPTION AND COGNITION In the sections that follow, we briefly review basic research methods on perceptual and cognitive functions in infancy. This research presents major methodological challenges to the developmental scientist. Owing to the rigor of the scientific method and the nature of the subject population under study, the techniques or procedures necessary to work in this field must allow for incisive conclusions or inferences, and they must necessarily be noninvasive. The more traditional techniques in the field of infant perception involve the use of a behavioral response to a stimulus. This response may be a naturally occurring orientation to 61

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a stimulus or a set of stimuli, or it may involve purposeful training or shaping of a response to such stimuli. A second class of techniques involve the monitoring of a biological or physiological response to a stimulus or to a set of stimuli; these are labeled psychophysiological methods here.

BEHAVIORAL METHODS Simple Preferential Looking As noted above, the most fundamental method for studying infant perceptual and cognitive development is to monitor those stimuli or stimulus properties to which infants preferentially attend. To accomplish this, the infant is typically presented with a stimulus (a two-dimensional picture or slide, a three-dimensional object, or a dynamic event), and an observer records the duration or number of the infant’s looks to the stimulus. Over the years, it has been shown that the determination of infant looking is not difficult and that infant looking is a variable that can be very reliably measured; in low ambient light, such judgment can be facilitated by monitoring whether the reflection of the stimulus in the infant’s cornea falls over the pupil. Preferences can be evaluated by presenting a sequence of single stimuli at the infant’s midline (e.g., Greenberg & Blue, 1977). Here, infants’ looking toward each stimulus can be compared in turn, although one must then control for order effects between subjects. Alternatively, one might choose to present two visual stimuli on either side of midline simultaneously (e.g., Miranda, 1976; Slater & Sykes, 1977; Spears, 1966). This allows for a direct (within-subject) comparison of infants’ looking toward the stimuli in question, but here the lateral position of the stimuli must be counterbalanced. This may be counterbalanced within subjects or between subjects (but see Watson, 1968). The logic of preferential looking has also been extended to infants’ preferences for auditory stimuli, where presentation of auditory stimuli is made contingent upon fixation of a visual target (Colombo & Bundy, 1981; Horowitz, 1975; see also Ramey, Hieger, & Klisz, 1972). If different auditory stimuli are delivered contingent upon looking toward two identical visual targets, and auditory tracks are properly counterbalanced across lateral position, any difference in looking must be attributable to properties of the auditory stimuli. This procedure was refined and extended in a number of subsequent studies (Colombo, 1985; Colombo & Bundy, 1983) and has been used most extensively in the literature examining infants’ attention to infant-directed speech (Colombo & Horowitz, 1986; Cooper, 1993;

Cooper, Abraham, Berman, & Staska, 1997; Cooper & Aslin, 1990, 1994; Kaplan, Goldstein, Huckeby, & Cooper, 1995). Uses of Preferential Looking This technique is useful only if infants show systematic preferences for some properties over others. Despite this limitation, the paradigm has yielded important information on a variety of topics, including visual acuity (e.g., Teller, 1983), contrast sensitivity (Banks & Salapatek, 1981), face perception (Dannemiller & Stephens, 1988), and cross-modal matching (Meltzoff, 1979). Systemic preferences may be attributed to properties within the stimulus per se, or may be due to the interaction between stimulus properties and the particular state of the infant; for example, different visual stimuli are preferred by infants tested at different levels of arousal (Gardner & Karmel, 1984; Geva, Gardner, & Karmel, 1999). Familiarization-Based Techniques As noted, simple preferential looking is useful when systematic preferences exist. Many stimuli, however, are quite discriminable to infants but are not preferred over one another. A methodological trick is necessary to produce a differential response: Familiarize the infant with a stimulus and then use this familiarization to elicit the infant’s tendency to attend to a novel stimulus. This was first described by Fantz (1964), who simultaneously provided two visual stimuli to infants, one each to the infant’s left and right, for multiple trials. Across those trials, one stimulus was always different (“novel”), and the other one was always the same (“familiar”). Over trials, infants progressively distributed their looking away from the familiar stimulus and toward the novel one. Here, Fantz (1964) demonstrated the technique of familiarization, a process through which the infant is provided with an opportunity to learn or encode a stimulus. After familiarization, the infant can be tested to assess the product of the infant’s encoding. Familiarization Techniques There are many variants of familiarization. The infant may be presented with a stimulus for some brief amount of time, irrespective of the infant’s visual behavior (Andersson, 1996; Fagan & Detterman, 1992), or until the infant has accumulated some predetermined amount of looking to it (e.g., Colombo, Mitchell, & Horowitz, 1988). These simple familiarization techniques are easy to administer but may not be sensitive to individual or developmental differences in the rapidity or efficiency of infant encoding

Infant Perception and Cognition

(e.g., Colombo, Mitchell, Coldren, & Freeseman, 1991). Instead, one may choose to familiarize the infant using habituation , a technique in which familiarization continues until the infant has presumably processed the stimulus more fully. One may administer a set of discrete, repetitive trials with a stimulus to an infant; each trial has a fixed duration and a fixed intertrial interval (e.g., Colombo, Frick, & Gorman, 1997), or one can attempt to adjust for individual differences in the rate at which infants may habituate to (i.e., process or encode) the stimuli in question. This latter problem is addressed by infantcontrolled habituation (Horowitz, Paden, Bhana, & Self, 1972), where trials continue until the infant has reduced his/her looking to some criterion. The criterion may be absolute (e.g., sessions are ended when infants look for no more than 3 seconds), but more often the criterion is relative (e.g., a reduction in looking of 50% from initial levels). There are various parametric (Colombo & Horowitz, 1985) and autoregressive (Colombo & Mitchell, 1990) issues in administering infant-controlled procedures (see Colombo & Mitchell, 2009 for a recent review). Test Techniques The “preference” for the novel stimulus reported by Fantz (1964) was quickly seized upon as an index of visual discrimination or recognition (e.g., Friedman, 1972; Pancratz & Cohen, 1970; Saayman, Ames, & Moffett, 1964). In many forms, this response still drives much research on infant cognition. The response to novelty may be assessed by presenting a novel stimulus after familiarization. If the infant has been habituated, the increase in looking to the novel stimulus has been called recovery or dishabituation, although several controls (e.g., see Bertenthal, Haith, & Campos, 1983) are necessary to ensure that an observed increase in looking is not due to regression to the mean, or that the lack of an increase in looking is not due to simple fatigue or sensory adaptation. Another means of testing infants following familiarization is to evaluate infant looking to multiple presentations of single novel stimuli after familiarization, and determine which of the novel displays elicits more or less response relative to the familiarized standard; this form is often used in studies of categorization (Cohen & Strauss, 1979), infants’ perception of ambiguous displays (Johnson, Bremner, Slater, Mason, & Foster, 2002), or even in the evaluation of what infants might regard as feasible events (e.g., Baillargeon, Spelke, & Wasserman, 1985), given either prior (presumed) experience with real-world events or with pretest familiarization. Finally, postfamiliarization tests may be conducted by simultaneously presenting the familiarized standard and

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a novel stimulus (usually to the left and right of the infant’s midline, with the lateral position of the novel and familiar balanced within subjects), and allowing the infant to choose between them. One advantage for this test is that, under the conditions described here, the a priori value for chance or random responding is 50%, and one need not employ additional groups or participants to control for spontaneous regression to the mean. Novelty and Familiarity Preferences An enduring problem with the use of systemic preferences after familiarization is that the direction of the preference is not always consistent. Although it is clear that infants differentially attend to novelty under conditions of sufficient familiarization and moderate-to-low cognitive load, a preference for stimulus familiarity may be the response when familiarization is less than complete (e.g., Bahrick & Pickens, 1995; Greenberg, Uzgiris, & Hunt, 1970; Richards, 1997b; Wagner & Sakovits, 1986), or when stimuli are relatively complex and cognitive demand is increased (e.g., Hunter, Ames, & Koopman, 1983). In digesting this point, it is worth noting further that the evaluation of “sufficient familiarization” and “cognitive load” will necessarily vary with age, making this a particularly difficult and vexing problem to resolve. An added problem is that research has shown over the years that the direction of preferences for complex stimuli appears to be quite dynamic. For example, one might expect that once a stimulus is encoded to the point that a novelty preference has been elicited, the discriminative response with respect to that stimulus will always be in the direction of a novel stimulus; this appears not to be the case. For example, over the course of long-term memory assessments in infants (e.g., here, across weeks), the direction of the preference has been shown to change as either the status of the representation or stage of retrieval for the stimulus changes (Bahrick, HernandezReif, & Pickens, 1997; Courage & Howe, 1998). When stimuli may be characterized by variation in more than one property (e.g., global and local levels of processing), the direction of infants’ preferences may vary as they proceed through the processing of those different properties (Frick, Colombo, & Allen, 2000). It has also been observed that infants will respond to stimuli as single entities at one age, while apparently treating stimuli as an exemplar of a larger stimulus class at other ages; for example, the same set of face discriminations that elicit novelty preferences at 4–5 months of age do not elicit novelty preferences at 8–9 months of age (Colombo, Shaddy, Richman, Maikranz, & Blaga, 2004).

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Behavioral Paradigms and Complex Perceptual-Cognitive Functions Investigators in this field have long been noted for their ability to extend behavioral paradigms to tap into cognitive functions that extend well beyond simple perceptual discrimination and recognition memory. Several examples of these extensions of behavioral paradigms are described in the following paragraphs. Categorization Paradigms Historically, the first such example is the use of behavioral paradigms to document the formation of concepts, or stimulus classes (i.e., categorization) in infancy (Cohen & Strauss, 1979). In this case, infants are familiarized with multiple stimuli that share some perceptual feature or some higher-order abstraction; that is, the infant is shown multiple exemplars of a particular perceptual or conceptual category. After sufficient familiarization with this stimulus set, the infant is generally presented with a novel exemplar of the category implied during familiarization, and attention to this novel exemplar is compared to that seen for a novel, out-of-category stimulus. If infants have formed a representation of the category from familiarization, infants should find the out-of-category stimulus more novel than the novel exemplar, and look more toward it. This strategy has been used successfully for over three decades (see Categorization section below). Violation-of-Expectation Paradigms Based on the assumption that infants will disproportionately attend to novel stimuli or occurrences, another use of behavioral (e.g., looking) measures is to examine infants’ attention to events that in some way are discrepant with previous experiences. It is assumed that infants will attend more or look longer to events that are at odds with previous experience. Such experience may be provided within a familiarization period that precedes the test; in other cases, familiarization may be assumed to have occurred through everyday experiences (e.g., events may violate certain physical laws), and merely the test phase is administered (Wang, Baillargeon, & Brueckner, 2004). This approach has been used to study infants’ reactions to “impossible events” (e.g., Baillargeon, 2004), and to discern infants judgments’ of others’ intentions (Baldwin & Baird, 2001). In nearly all cases of such uses, the stimuli used are dynamic events, which complicate measurement and interpretation. With dynamic stimuli, care must be taken in how looks are defined and counted. In addition, it is important to control for lower-order perceptual preferences that might not be intuitively obvious (Rivera, Wakeley, & Langer, 1999;

Schilling, 2000). Furthermore, as noted above, attempts to familiarize infants with complex displays raise issues of whether the observed systematic response represents a familiarity preference (i.e., represents a response to what has been seen previously) or a novelty preference (i.e., represents a response to what has not been seen previously). As a result, some findings obtained through the use of such paradigms have generated controversy and criticism (Bogartz, Shinskey, & Speaker, 1997; Cohen, 2004; Houston-Price & Nakai, 2004; Oakes, 2010). Visual Cueing Cueing paradigms take advantage of the fact that infants’ attention and visual regard is typically attracted to the location of a sudden appearance of stimuli in the visual field (Richards, 1997a). Measures of simple ocular reaction time have been used widely in the study of infant cognition, particularly for assessing simple forms of attention and attention shifting (Atkinson, Hood, Braddick, & WattamBell, 1988; Atkinson, Hood, Wattam-Bell, & Braddick, 1992; Dannemiller, 1998; Ross & Dannemiller, 1999) Gap/Overlap Techniques In the gap-overlap technique (Blaga & Colombo, 2006; Frick, Colombo, & Saxon, 1999; Hood & Atkinson, 1993), the infant’s fixation is drawn to a centrally located stimulus, and then a stimulus is presented at a location to the right or left of midline. The infant’s ocular reaction time or latency to move toward the peripheral stimulus is then measured. The central stimulus may overlap with the appearance of the peripheral stimulus, or it may be withdrawn briefly before (producing a temporal gap between) the appearance of the peripheral stimulus. The presence of an overlap requires the infant to first disengage attention from the central stimulus in order to move fixation to the peripheral stimulus; the presence of the gap obviates the involvement of such a mechanism. This technique has proven valuable in studying various forms of infant attention, especially those processes involved in visual-spatial orienting. Eye Tracking The methods described above involve the monitoring of infants’ looking in a fairly straightforward but also fairly coarse way; one judges whether infants are looking at the stimulus or not. The use of eye tracking systems allows researchers to assess infants’ behavior and fixations on a much finer and detailed level of analysis. By calibrating the position of the infant’s pupil relative to the position

Infant Perception and Cognition

of a stimulus in the viewing field, infants’ eye movements can be monitored through the use of infrared or corneal reflection methodology within rapid time frames. The greatest advantage of eye tracking is in the accuracy and speed with which one can assess infants’ looking behavior. In contrast to a standard habituation task, where researchers might reliably code whether the infant is looking at a stimulus (or not) and for how long, eye tracking systems can determine precisely at what part of the stimulus the infant is looking (this is usually accurate from 1◦ to 3◦ of visual angle, correcting for error), and can do so on a much finer time scale. Analyses from eye trackers can determine changes in infants’ gaze in terms of milliseconds (Adler & Orprecio, 2006). This level of temporal resolution allows for more direct comparisons to be made between infant and adult studies of perception and cognition. Studies of infant eye-tracking have been conducted since the 1960s (Haith, 1969; Salapatek & Kessen, 1966). Early studies used the corneal reflection technique (Haith, 1969), which determines the location of an infant’s gaze by triangulating the distance between the infant’s pupil and the reflections of three infrared light sources reflecting off of the infant’s cornea. In these early experiments, film photography was used to record infants’ eye movements at a rate of about 1–2 Hz (Haith, 2004). Additionally, because the infrared lights were visible, they could sometimes distract infants from the target stimuli. Thanks to improvements over the last 40 years, eye tracking procedures are faster, more precise, and interfere less with infant behavior (Haith, 2004; Hayhoe, 2004). Infrared sources are now filtered to eliminate visible wavelengths (Salapatek, 1968); images of the infant’s eye are recorded digitally and are sampled at much higher (60–200 times) rates (Haith, 2004). Although eye tracking provides more precision and automaticity in the measurement of infant behavior, eye tracking sessions can be longer than those using other traditional behavioral paradigms. In part, this additional time is due to the fact that some eye trackers require longer times to properly calibrate the infant’s eye position relative to the stimuli being presented. Eye tracking also seems to engender higher rates of data loss (Haith, 2004). This is occasionally due to calibration, but more often data is lost because the infant turns his/her head, blinks, or looks away from the stimulus presentation area. Such loss of data can be considerable; Johnson, Slemmer, and Amso (2004) used both observer-coded looking behavior and an eye tracking system to measure visual regard in infants, and were able to collect eye tracking data for only 20.4% of total looking time to stimuli. This is not unusual;

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typically only 50% of participants in an eye tracking study offer usable data (Haith, 2004). With advances in technology in the decade to come, there is considerable promise for alleviation of this problem. The use of eye tracking has expanded in the past decade, and has begun to supplant the use of coarser, less precise measures of infant visual behavior. Researchers have been using this method recently to study such traditional topics as infants’ perception of shapes (Salapatek, 1968), visual search (Adler & Orprecio, 2006; Johnson, et al., 2004), feature integration (Baker, Tse, Gerhardstein, & Adler, 2008), infants’ perception of action sequences (Hunnius & Bekkering, 2010), face perception (Frank, Vul, & Johnson, 2009; Hunnius & Geuze, 2004), and categorization (McMurray & Aslin, 2004; Quinn, Doran, Reiss, & Hoffman, 2009). Traditional Learning Paradigms Traditional learning paradigms (i.e., instrumental and respondent conditioning) have typically been wellrepresented in the field of early cognition in past decades (e.g., Colombo, Mitchell, Coldren, & Atwater, 1990; Fagen, Ohr, Singer, & Fleckenstein, 1987), but there has been little work published using them in the new millennium, perhaps due to the availability of simpler behavioral methods and measures that are more closely tied to brain function. One exception is the continued use of the conjugate reinforcement foot-kick paradigm for the study of various parameters of infant long-term memory (e.g., DeFrancisco & Rovee-Collier, 2008), and work with eyeblink conditioning (Herbert, Eckerman, Goldstein, & Stanton, 2004) which showed learning deficits in preterm infants that were not attributable to arousal or attentional effects. Psychophysiological Measures Measures of infant autonomic function, such as heart rate (HR), respiration, pupillometry, and galvanic skin response, have a long history in the study of infant perception and cognition. Two measures in particular have been widely used or show increasing promise in the last decade. Heart Rate (HR) The use of HR as a measure for studying infant cognition extends back more than 40 years (Berg, Berg, & Graham, 1971; Clifton, 1972; see Von Bargen, 1983 for an early review). In recent years, infant HR has been used primarily in two ways. First, in the form of HR variability as a measure of central nervous system (CNS)

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integrity (DiPietro, Hodgson, Costigan, Hilton, & Johnson, 1996; Linnemeyer & Porges, 1986) or reactivity (DiPietro, Ghera, & Costigan, 2008). More germane to the topic of this chapter is the use of HR as a convergent measure of attention, especially when taken in concert with behavioral measures. It has long been noted that looking may not always truly reflect visual processing in the human infant (Greenberg & Weizmann, 1971; Stechler, 1964; Stechler & Latz, 1966; Weizmann et al., 1971). Richards (e.g., Richards, 1989; Richards & Casey, 1990, 1991, 1992) has demonstrated that the degree of infants’ active processing varies systematically greatly within a look, and that looks may be parsed into distinct “phases” of visual attention based on normally occurring patterns of HR change that occur across the course of the fixation itself. Of most relevance is the phase of sustained attention, which is proposed to occur during the period during which HR decelerates, and during which the infant presumably engages in maximal attention and stimulus processing. These measures have been used profitably in many studies of infancy, particularly in examinations of individual differences (Colombo, Richman, Shaddy, Greenhoot, & Maikranz, 2001; Colombo et al., 2004). Pupillometry The use of pupillary changes in responses to stimulus processing or cognitive load has a considerable history within the field, but has been used only sparingly. Fitzgerald (1968) published a widely cited study of infants’ pupillary responses to faces, and others have used the measure to address questions about infants’ basic visual skills (Cocker, Moseley, Bissenden, & Fielder, 1994; Munsinge & Banks, 1974). Jackson and Sirois (2009) recently have called for increased use of the measure in studies of infant cognition. With the advent of eyetracking systems that automatically provide pupillary data, this methodology will likely see increased use in the near future.

Electrophysiological Methods Electroencephalogram (EEG) The EEG reflects the summed activity of a large number of neurons, measured through the detection of electrical activity recorded at various locations on the scalp. The EEG is a measurement of neural activity that is not necessarily time-locked or synchronized with the

occurrence of an external stimulus or event, so data from this measure are typically obtained across relatively longer periods of time. Data are represented by reducing the overall electrical activity with mathematical algorithms (e.g., Fourier analysis), which quantify the spectral power of neural rhythms (oscillations) at various frequency bands or hemispheric asymmetries (de Haan, 2007; Thomas & Casey, 2003). Although classic oscillatory EEG rhythms have attracted some recent attention, the use of EEG in infant studies has increased in recent years, perhaps due to interest in gamma-band oscillations (Benasich, Gou, Choudhury, & Harris, 2008), which is thought to reflect neural synchrony engendered by learning or cognitive processing (Niebur, Hsiao, & Johnson, 2002; Roy, Steinmetz, Hsiao, Johnson, & Niebur, 2007), and the overall measure of coherence (the degree of correlation across EEG recording sites; e.g., Bell & Wolfe, 2007), which is thought to reflect integrated neural function. Event-Related Potentials (ERPs) ERPs represent electrical brain responses like those measured in EEG, but the responses are time-locked to particular stimuli or events in the infant’s environment. Differences in the presence, magnitude, or timing of particular components of the evoked response may be used to demonstrate discrimination or processing of stimuli in question; the fact that this represents a direct measure of brain activity makes such indices useful, as researchers seek to make statements about the actual neural bases of cognitive activity. The use of ERPs in infant research has grown in popularity over the last decade (Csibra, Kushnerenko, & Grossmann, 2008), owing largely to increased familiarity with the measure, increased availability of high-density systems, and improved systems for measurement and analysis of ERP data with infants. At this point, investigators are observed using ERPs to study varied topics, including color vision (Clifford, Franklin, Davies, & Holmes, 2009), the perception of speech segmentation (Goyet, de Schonen, & Nazzi, 2010), category formation (Quinn, Doran, Reiss, & Hoffman, 2010), quantitative processing (Ruusuvirta, Huotilainen, Fellman, & N¨aa¨ t¨anen, 2009), language processing (Friedrich, Herold, & Friederici, 2009), and the perception of socioemotional signals (Hoehl & Striano, 2010), One specific advance of note is the development of methods for cortical source localization in human infants based on high-density ERP measures and the use of sophisticated modeling techniques (Reynolds, Courage, & Richards, 2010; Reynolds & Richards, 2009).

Infant Perception and Cognition

Summary Improvements in behavioral, psychophysiological, and electrophysiological measures of infant cognition and perception have advanced the field and allowed researchers to address new and interesting questions that previously were difficult to assess with older, more traditional measures. Additionally, these advances as well as the increased availability and ease of using some of the newer methods have allowed researchers to address topics from multiple levels of analysis.

CURRENT TOPICS IN INFANT PERCEPTION AND COGNITION In the following sections, we address and review specific content areas under study in the realm of early perceptualcognitive development. As we have been asked to provide a broad survey of a field within the constraints of a chapter, we cannot be exhaustively comprehensive, so the choices for coverage will represent the authors’ view of the area. In addressing this task, we have chosen to present areas of work that have been particularly active in the last decade, or where there is current controversy. We have also attempted to provide some continuity with past editions of this volume by using the previous chapter from this series as a starting point. The content topics are organized in terms of complexity, starting with lowerorder cognitive components and building to higher-order skills and abilities.

ATTENTION Attention is a condition or a state through which the organism selects certain objects or events in the environment for special emphasis or processing (James, 1890). A critical question for scientists who study the development of perception and cognition is how these selection processes develop in infancy, as attention may be considered to lay the foundation for other cognitive abilities. Within the context of developmental processes, several categories of phenomena have been classified within the construct of attention (Colombo, 2001a, 2002); these include the attentional state, visuospatial orienting, and endogenous or voluntary attention. The attentional state is characterized by receptivity and alertness. It is likely mediated by ascending brainstem systems that modulate higher-order structures in the brain

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through specific neurotransmitters (Robbins & Everitt, 1995) and also mediate other vital and autonomic functions (cardiac, pupillary, respiratory systems, and the modulation of sleep/wake cycles). It is for this reason that this form of attention is commonly linked with the concept of arousal (Pribram & McGuinness, 1975), and it is why attention is often reflected through autonomic function (Colombo, Richman, Shaddy, Greenhoot, & Maikranz, 2001; Richards & Cameron, 1989). During the attentional state, representations of the attended-to stimulus or event are enhanced or amplified (Blaser, Sperling, & Lu, 1999; Treue, 2001), perhaps through the dampening of other CNS activity (Dosher & Lu, 2000). In addition, the attentional state appears to be associated with increases in coordinated neural activity (Niebur et al., 2002; Roy, Steinmetz, Hsiao, Johnson, & Niebur, 2007; Steinmetz et al., 2000) that may represent the fundamental neural basis for many forms of associative learning (Eckhorn, Gail, Bruns, Gabriel, Al-Shaikhli, & Saam, 2004; Grossberg & Versace, 2008). For many years, attention was studied in infants through behavioral measures such as looking; more recently measures of looking have been augmented with psychophysiological indices such as heart rate and respiration (Richards, 1985). The use of heart rate allows one to parse looking into various phases of attention, as infants’ heart rate typically slows, or decelerates (Graham & Clifton, 1966). A preponderance of evidence indicates that the infant is engaged in meaningful cognitive activity during the decelerative period (Richards & Casey, 1992), which suggests that it reflects the attainment of the attentional state. Visual-spatial orienting is a second type of attention that is specific to vision, although it is suspected that there is a similar system for orienting to sound. Research on this phenomenon in adults has identified a pathway involving the visual cortex, superior colliculus, and the parietal cortex (Creem & Proffitt, 2001; Posner & Petersen, 1990) which is generally thought to detect the presence of a visual stimulus in a location, move (shift) the eyes to that location, engage attention at that locus, and disengage attention from that locus or stimulus when appropriate (Colombo, 1995). Measuring this system in preverbal infants generally employs the gap-overlap technique (see above), where it is routinely reported that infants younger than 6 months are less able to disengage attention than older infants. For infants at 3 and 4 months, ocular reaction time in the overlap condition is positively correlated with duration of looking (Blaga & Colombo, 2006; Frick et al., 1999), suggesting that a portion of the variance in longer looking seen in younger infants to visual stimuli

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(Colombo & Mitchell, 1990) is attributable to difficulties in disengagement. The previous two forms of attention are often manifest in forms that might be characterized as reactive or passive (see Greenberg & Weizmann, 1971; Stechler, 1964; Stechler & Latz, 1966; Weizmann, Cohen, & Pratt, 1971). However, as the infant approaches the second postnatal year, attention appears to be deployed or allocated in a more voluntary fashion. We have elsewhere (Colombo & Cheatham, 2006) argued that this more endogenous (i.e., internally driven) form of attention represents a major advance in the emergence of cognitive skills later in childhood; “voluntary” or “executive” attention may well occur as a result of the maturation of neural pathways that integrate various lower-order cognitive processes with attention. Consider the results of a study of distractibility in infants (Oakes, Kannass, & Shaddy, 2002). Here, 9- to 10-month-old infants took longer to turn to the distractor while examining novel toys in a free play session, relative to their examination of familiar toys; younger infants (6–6.5 months), however, were equally distractible with a novel toy as they were with a familiar toy. These results (shown in two experiments) suggest that the attention of older infants is allocated in the service of an internal (endogenous) cognitive process (i.e., memory for the toy). The results from younger infants, on the other hand, are consistent with a pattern in which attention and memory are less well integrated. The emergence of this endogenous form of attention may well represent a first step or precursor to the development of executive function (see section below). In accord with this, direct measures of EEG coherence in older infants are related to performance on various types of executive-function tasks in infancy (Bell & Wolfe, 2007; Mundy, Fox, & Card, 2003). Summary Attention may best be considered as a construct composed of several dissociable and independent cognitive processes. These processes develop at different times during infancy, and the performance of the infant within this domain may be best conceptualized in terms of the different levels of maturity of these various functions.

NEW MODELS OF INFANT LEARNING Although the use of traditional operant and classical learning paradigms in infancy research has waned in recent years, the last 15 years have seen the topic of infant

learning return to a focal position in the field. This work is based on a model that learning is fundamentally associational, and is driven by the association of predictable (statistical ) regularities in the environment. This statistical learning occurs through experience without explicit instruction (Aslin & Newport, 2009), and shares principles with Hebbian theory (Hebb, 1949), connectionism (Elman, Bates, Johnson, Karmiloff-Smith, Parisi, & Plunkett, 1999) and phenomena such as perceptual binding (Singer, 1993), and strongly de-emphasizes the role of reinforcement in the forging of such learned associations. Research in this area has proliferated over the last decade, and this work shows that infants are remarkably sensitive to probability and frequency information from auditory and visual patterns (Kirkham, Slemmer & Johnson, 2002; Saffran, Aslin & Newport, 1996; Saffran, Johnson, Aslin & Newport, 1999). The Role of Statistical Learning in Language Acquisition The study of statistical learning in infancy was first applied to language acquisition. Saffran et al. (1996) noted that, within natural speech, there are statistical regularities that make it possible to differentiate sound sequences that contain words from the sound sequences that define word boundaries (Harris, 1955; Hayes & Clark, 1970). Specifically, the probability between sounds is higher for two adjacent sounds within a word, compared to sounds occurring between words or at word boundaries. To determine the role of experience-dependent factors in language acquisition, Saffran and her colleagues (1996) investigated the ability of 8-month-old infants to segment words in an artificial speech stream using statistical information. Infants were familiarized with a synthesized speech stream consisting of four, 3-syllable “words” presented in a random order for two minutes. Transitional probabilities between syllable pairs were the only cues to word boundaries, specifically there were higher probabilities within words than between words. Following familiarization, test trials were presented to determine infant discrimination in two conditions: “words” versus “non-words” and “words” versus “part-words”. Non-words contained the same syllables presented during familiarization, but in a different order and part-words were composed of the last syllable of one word and the first two syllables of the next word. Overall, infants looked longer at non-words and part-words, suggesting that infants were able to discriminate between words and the other stimuli based on the transitional probabilities. Over the past 15 years, researchers have continued to explore

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the crucial role of statistical learning in a variety of topics related to language acquisition including, but not limited to: word segmentation unrelated to frequency counting (Aslin, Saffran & Newport, 1998), acquisition of artificial grammar (Gomez & Gerken, 1999), the benefits of prior experience in language acquisition (Lany & G´omez, 2008), and the acquisition of lexical categories (Lany & Saffran, 2010).

The demonstration of powerful implicit learning mechanisms that are present very early in the life span provide an important context for claims made about, for example, the innate basis of language (Chomsky, 1965; Gleitman & Wanner, 1982) or object properties (e.g., Carey, 1999; Spelke & Van de Walle, 1993; Wynn, 1998).

Domain-General Statistical Learning

INTERSENSORY/INTERMODAL PROCESSING

Early studies of statistical learning in language acquisition gave rise to questions about whether statistical learning represented a domain-specific or domain-general phenomenon. In a study of statistical learning with nonlinguistic auditory stimuli, Saffran et al. (1999) found that 8-month-old infants were able to detect transitional probabilities of tone sequences. These results indicate that statistical learning in the auditory domain is not limited to language acquisition. In addition to generalizing to other auditory stimuli, research suggests that infants are also able to detect statistical information in the visual domain. Infants are able to detect lower-order statistical regularities in visual input as early as 2 months of age (Kirkham et al, 2002), while higher-order visual features are learned by 9 months of age (Fiser & Aslin, 2002). One final aspect of domain-general statistical learning is intuitive statistics. Initially, studies of statistical learning focused on learning through frequency or distributional probabilities. However, recent work by Xu and Garcia (2008) introduced infants as “intuitive statisticians” who have the ability to make statistical inferences based on samples or populations. The results of a violation-ofexpectation task indicate that infants are able to use small amounts of information to make inductive inferences about larger populations, as well as using information about a population to make predictions about small samples.

Most human perceptual experiences involve events and objects that are multimodal ; that is, they consist of experiences in several sensory domains (e.g., stimuli may be seen, heard, and/or felt). Although multimodal information arrives simultaneously through separate sensory channels, such stimuli or objects are experienced as a stable and coherent perception. A fundamental issue in the developmental literature is how multimodal stimulation is processed and integrated into such a unitary perception. Historically, research on the development of this ability was driven by two opposing theoretical positions of intersensory perception, which have been labeled early integration versus late integration by some investigators (Robinson & Sloutsky, 2010) or integration versus differentiation by others (Bahrick & Pickens, 1994; Lewkowicz, 1994, 2000). According to the early integration view, intersensory perceptual abilities are at least to some degree present at birth. An extreme version of the early integration view argues for a completely merged sensory system at birth, from which infants must learn to differentiate different modalities (Bower, 1974; Werner, 1973). A less extreme form of this is E. J. Gibson’s (1969; see also J. J. Gibson, 1966) invariance detection theory, which holds that invariant or amodal properties of events or objects are detected from birth. Characteristics that are represented redundantly across different modalities (e.g., synchrony, rhythm, tempo, intensity) are considered amodal . With experience or maturation, infants become able to differentiate finer and more complex information (Bahrick & Pickens, 1994). In contrast, the late integration view (Birch & Lefford, 1963, 1967; Friedes, 1974; Piaget, 1952) holds that the sensory systems are independent at birth. As a result of this independence, young infants are unable to process intersensory stimulation. Over time, the senses are gradually integrated as infants and young children learn to process and coordinate multimodal input. The intensity hypothesis (Lewkowicz & Turkewitz, 1980; Schneirla, 1959, 1965; Turkewitz, Lewkowicz, & Gardner, 1983) is a position that takes aspects of both

Other Issues in Statistical Learning Recent research has begun to reach beyond the initial demonstration of the statistical learning phenomenon and determine the degree to which this type of learning interacts with organismic and environmental constraints. For example, Xu and Denison (2009) sought to clarify the relationship between infants’ initial knowledge state and the learning mechanisms used to compute statistical information from the environment. The results suggest that although infants are experienced statistical learners by one year of age, they use domain-specific information when making statistical computations.

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views. During early development, infant responses in all modalities are driven by the quantity of the stimulation, including characteristics like duration, rate, size, brightness, etc. However, infants do not begin differentiating more qualitative properties, such as melody, rhythm, shape or texture, until 4 to 6 months of age (Lewkowicz, 1991, 1994). Empirical results largely support the early integration view, in that young infants appear to be sensitive to intermodal relations. Many of the extant studies have focused on intersensory processing in the auditory and visual domains, demonstrating that infants can detect equivalence based on intensity (Lewkowicz & Turkewitz, 1980), rhythm (Allen, Walker, Symonds & Marcell, 1977; Mendelson & Ferland, 1982), synchrony (Bahrick, 1987; Lewkowicz, 1992), and duration/synchrony (Lewkowicz, 1986). Such outcomes have been observed within affective (Flom & Bahrick, 2007) and linguistic contexts (Kuhl & Meltzoff, 1982). Infants can also detect correspondences between number in the auditory and visual domains (Starkey, Spelke, & Gelman, 1983), between their own movements and video displays of those movements (Morgan & Rochat, 1997; Rochat, Morgan, & Carpenter, 1997; Rochat & Morgan, 1995), voice and face movements (Bahrick, Netto, & Hernandez-Reif, 1998; Patterson & Werker, 1999), visual and auditory distance (Morrongiello & Fenwick, 1991; Walker-Andrews & Lennon, 1985) and voice with the appropriate gender (Walker-Andrews, Bahrick, Raglioni, & Diaz, 1991). In addition to intersensory processing in auditory and visual modalities, the study of cross-modal transfer has focused on infants’ visual recognition of an object they have previously only touched (Rose, 1994). The general findings indicate that infants are able to transfer tactual-visual information as early as 6 months (Rose, Gottfried, & Bridger, 1981), with individual differences in infants’ performance on transfer tasks being related to later cognitive outcomes (Rose & Wallace, 1985; Rose & Feldman, 1995; Rose, Feldman, & Wallace, 1992; Rose, Feldman, Futterweit, & Jankowski, 1998; Rose, Feldman, Wallace, & McCarton, 1991). Intersensory Redundancy Hypothesis Infants’ ability to detect invariant information has provided a common guiding theme within the literature on the development of intersensory/multimodal processing (Bahrick, Lickliter, & Flom, 2004; Lewkowicz, 2000; Spelke, 1979). Recently, Bahrick and Lickliter (2000) have proposed the intersensory redundancy hypothesis

(IRH ) to explain infants’ acquisition of amodal information from the environment. In IRH , the presentation of spatially coordinated and temporally synchronous information across two or more senses (intersensory redundancy), directs attention and perception of multimodal stimulation; that is, during early development, infants selectively attend to redundant, amodal information rather than nonredundant, modality-specific information. IRH makes four predictions about multimodal processing in infancy; each has garnered at least some empirical support. First, processing and learning of amodal information is facilitated when information is multimodal, rather than unimodal (Bahrick, Flom & Lickliter, 2002; Bahrick & Lickliter, 2000; Flom & Bahrick, 2007; Lickliter, Bahrick & Honeycutt, 2002, 2004). Second, processing and learning of modality-specific information is facilitated when information is unimodal compared to multimodal (Bahrick, Lickliter & Flom, 2006; Flom & Bahrick, 2010). Third, as perceivers become more experienced, perceptual processing becomes increasingly flexible, allowing for the detection of both amodal and modality-specific properties in unimodal and multimodal presentations (Bahrick & Lickliter, 2004; Flom & Bahrick, 2007; Lickliter, Bahrick & Markham, 2006). Recently, Bahrick, Lickliter, Castellanos, and Vaillant-Molina (2010) proposed a fourth prediction: intersensory redundancy is most pronounced when cognitive load or task difficulty is high and perceiver expertise is low. Auditory Dominance While there is much support for the claim that infants have a variety of intersensory capabilities, some types of multimodal processing do not occur naturally or automatically. For example, arbitrary auditory-visual pairings (e.g., pairing the word “dog” with a visual representation of dog) can be difficult for infants particularly, when the visual stimuli are static (Gogate & Bahrick, 1998; Slater, Quinn, Brown & Hayes, 1999). To account for the relative difficulty in processing and coordinating such auditory and visual information, Robinson and Sloutsky (2004, 2010; Sloutsky & Napolitano, 2003) have proposed that the dynamic nature of auditory information makes auditory input more salient (auditory dominance) for infants. When information is presented in both visual and auditory domains, attention tends to be focused more on auditory input over visual input; an implication of this hypothesis is that infants’ processing of visual information is more effective when visual information is presented unimodally.

Infant Perception and Cognition

Other Issues in Intersensory Processing Recent research may be characterized as recognizing the importance of both integrative and differentiation processes and their interaction during development (Botuck & Turkewitz, 1990; Lewkowicz & Lickliter, 1994; Lickliter & Bahrick, 2000; Robinson & Sloutsky, 2010). In general, research with infants has found that different intersensory abilities emerge at different times and intersensory processing depends on the type of information infants need to coordinate and how the information is presented (Bahrick & Hollich, 2008; Lewkowicz, 2000; Robinson & Sloutsky, 2010). Learning is often facilitated when amodal or invariant information (synchrony, rate, intensity, etc.) is presented in multiple modalities. However, learning may be inhibited when modality-specific information (color, pitch, etc.) is presented in multiple modalities (Robinson & Sloutsky, 2010).

FACE PROCESSING The study of whether humans are born with a special proclivity to seek out and respond to faces has motivated a great deal of research in this field. The idea that humans might be preprogrammed to seek out or attend to faces is bolstered by humans’ remarkable facility at recognizing and remembering faces and by the fact that, in adults, there appears to be a specific region in the human brain that is normally active when viewing faces (Nachson, 1995). On the other hand, it has also been suggested that humans are good at face recognition simply as a result of extensive experience, and that brain areas devoted to face processing merely represent regions recruited to represent well-practiced visual forms (Bukacha, Gauthier, & Tarr, 2006). Faces are a rich source of visual stimulation, and it is widely known that infants prefer to look at rich and complex visual displays (Kleiner, 1987; Wilcox, 1969). However, the results of a number of recent studies (Easterbrook, Kisilevsky, Muir, & Laplante, 1999; Easterbrook, Kisilevsky, Hains, & Muir, 1999; Johnson, 1992, 1999; Johnson, Dziurawiec, Bartrip, & Morton, 1992; Maurer & Barrera, 1981; Mondloch et al., 1999; Morton & Johnson, 1991) suggest that the newborn baby may be specifically drawn to displays that resemble faces, even when the level of stimulation is well controlled. Although it is tempting to attribute this to an innate preference, the basis for this preference is still uncertain. It has been suggested that this preference is attributable to preferences for stimuli with more

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elements in the upper than in the lower half (Cassia, Turati, & Simion, 2004); others have alternatively claimed that this preference arises from the development of visual channels involved in processing movement and coarse visual patterns (de Heering, Turati, Rossion, Bulf, Goffaux, & Simion, 2008; Johnson, 2005). Others engaged in the development of computer models of brain function and brain development report that it is possible for pathways that prefer and recognize faces to develop simply as the result of experiencing simple types of organized stimulation (Bednar & Miikkulainen, 2003; Dailey & Cottrell, 1999). Effects of Early Face Preferences Whatever the basis for infants’ attraction to simple, facelike stimuli might be, recent work suggests that the early experience with faces seems to trigger the development of more sophisticated face processing. By 6 to 12 weeks after birth, infants show a clear preference for all sorts of face stimuli, irrespective of level of complexity or stimulation in the visual display (Dannemiller & Stephens, 1988). Babies become sensitive to the spatial arrangements among facial elements between 3 and 5 months of age (Bhatt, Bertin, Hayden, & Reed, 2005). Interestingly, face recognition is severely impaired if infants are deprived of very early exposure to visual input. One study of infants with congenital cataracts (Geldart, Mondloch, Maurer, de Schonen, & Brent, 2002) showed that infants who had cataracts during the first 7 weeks of life showed clear deficits in face recognition as older children and adults. In addition, when presented with faces later on, they processed faces in an abnormal manner, relative to typical adults (Le Grand, Mondloch, Maurer, & Brent, 2004). Finally, it appears that early face preferences contribute to the strategy of attending to the eyes of others (Batki, Baron-Cohen, Wheelwright, Connellan, & Ahluwalia, 2000), which may be important for social learning and social interactions. Other Issues in Infant Face Perception Some studies indicate that newborns recognize their own mothers’ faces (Bushnell, 2001; Pascalis, de Schonen, Morton, & Deruelle, 1995), even after very little exposure (Bushnell, 2001). Several studies suggest that the basis for recognition may to be the external contour of the mother’s face (Pascalis et al., 1995; Maurer & Salapatek, 1976). Furthermore, very young infants prefer faces that adults rate as attractive over faces that adults rate as less attractive (Langlois et al., 1987; Slater et al., 1998). This implies

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that babies may share some aesthetic tastes with adults, perhaps based on principles such as facial symmetry and archetypal structure (Rubenstein, Kalakanis, & Langlois, 1999). Finally, although infants show early preferences for faces, infants’ recognition of facial expressions (such as happy, sad, surprise, and disgust) develops quite slowly, with only a rudimentary knowledge of facial emotion present by the end of the second year (Nelson, 1987). Summary Face perception remains an active area of research in the field of infant perception and cognition because of the ubiquitousness of faces as well as the potential for understanding infant perception and cognition, in general.

OBJECT PERCEPTION A fundamental issue in the field of infant perception is how infants construct the presence of visual objects in their environment. Without the ability to parse and segment our environment into discrete objects, one’s daily experience of the world would be necessarily disorganized and chaotic. The question of how this ability develops in infancy motivated some of the original research in this field (Salapatek & Kessen, 1966), and is still relevant to researchers today (Granrud, 2006; Smith, Johnson, & Spelke, 2003; Woods & Wilcox, 2010). Researchers who study object perception address questions about whether infants can distinguish items as independent from each other (Johnson, Slemmer, & Amso, 2004; Kellman & Spelke, 1983; Leslie & Kaldy, 2001; Needham, 2001; Slater, Johnson, Brown, & Badenoch, 1996), how they tell whether an object is the same or different from one seen previously (Krojgaard, 2004; Leslie, Xu, Tremoulet, & Scholl, 1998; McCurry, Wilcox, & Woods, 2009; Wilcox & Baillargeon, 1998; Xu, Carey, & Quint, 2004), whether infants attend to parts of an object versus the whole object (Pauen, 2002), and whether infants can tell if the object retains constancy even if the orientation of the object or distance between the infant and object change (Granrud, 2006). For the purposes of this chapter, we will focus on the two major topics in this field: object unity and object individuation. Object Unity Object unity is the ability to perceive an object as a single, coherent entity even when part of the object is

hidden behind another object or not in view. For example, consider the viewing of a large tree from two adjacent but separate windows in a house; one may see part of the tree through one window and part of the tree through the other. However, one perceives the tree as a perceptual whole or unit, even though it is seen only in variously occluded parts. While adults easily solve these perceptual challenges, how this challenge is met through development is not entirely clear. The classic study of object unity is Kellman and Spelke’s (1983) study using a rod-and-box display. In their study, 4-month-old infants were habituated to a rod that moved laterally behind an opaque box (i.e., an occluder). Therefore, only the ends of the rod were visible to the infant as it moved behind the box. During the test phase, infants were shown two displays—either a solid rod (without occluder) or the two end pieces of the rod (again without the occluder). If infants responded based upon the perceptual input they received (i.e., two rod pieces moving across the display), then they should dishabituate to the complete rod, which would be novel because they never actually saw a complete rod during habituation. However, if infants perceived the rod as being one complete unit despite being hidden by the box, then they should look longer at the two rod pieces. Kellman and Spelke found that 4-month-old infants looked longer at the broken rod pieces suggesting that they do perceive the unity of the rod. Additional studies using this same methodology have found that newborns are not able to perceive object unity (Slater, Johnson, Brown, & Badenoch, 1996; Slater et al., 1990). By 2 months of age, infants can perceive object unity under certain conditions (Johnson & Aslin, 1995). Twomonth-old infants can perceive object unity if the box is smaller, thus revealing more of the rod, or if there are gaps in the box such that infants can get brief glimpses of the rod as it passes through the occluder (Johnson & Aslin, 1995). Thus, the period before 4 months is an important period of development of this ability. Furthermore, Johnson and colleagues (2004) conducted a study with 3-month-old infants using eye tracking methodology to address oculomotor behavior during this critical period of perceptual development. At 3 months, infants who perceived object unity in the rod-and-box display spent more time looking at the visible rod pieces during habituation and scanned horizontally following the trajectory of the rod pieces more often than those infants that did not perceive object unity (Johnson, et al., 2004). This study strongly suggests that this perceptual ability develops across infancy and that input (based on that part of the stimulus to which the infant is attending) influences

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infants’ perception of the task. Other recent studies on infant perception of object unity have investigated the roles of Gestalt principles such as common motion and alignment (see Johnson, Davidow, Hall-Haro, & Frank, 2008; Smith, et al., 2003). Object Individuation Object individuation refers to the ability to determine whether an object in view is the same or different object as one seen previously; it requires tracking individual objects across events or time. In one of the earlier studies of object individuation, Xu and Carey (1996) used a violation-ofexpectation paradigm to test whether or not infants could track individual items using either spatiotemporal information (i.e., object location) or featural information (e.g., color, shape, etc.). Infants saw a screen with one object (e.g., a truck) that moved out from the left and then returned behind the screen; and then a second object (e.g., a duck) that moved out from the other side and returned behind the screen. This series of actions was repeated several times during the familiarization phase. When the screen was lifted during the test phase, the infant either saw one truck and one duck (the expected outcome) or one truck (the unexpected outcome). If infants are able to track both the truck and duck, then they should look longer at the unexpected outcome—one truck. However, if infants are unable to individuate the objects, then they should look longer at the expected outcome or show no preference. Xu and Carey (1996) found that 10-monthold infants could use spatiotemporal cues to individuate objects, but not featural information. By 12 months of age, infants can use both spatiotemporal and featural information to individuate objects. Further studies have elaborated on this developmental finding. Using slightly different methods that require less cognitive demands, researchers have found that infants younger than 10 months of age are able to individuate objects (Needham, 2001; Wilcox, 1999; Wilcox & Baillargeon, 1998; Woods & Wilcox, 2010). Infants at 4.5 months of age can individuate objects using shape and size (Woods & Wilcox, 2010). By 7.5 months, they can use pattern differences, such as stripes versus dots, as well as color and luminance together to individuate objects (Woods & Wilcox, 2010). By 11.5 months, infants can individuate objects using either color or luminance, independent of the other (Woods & Wilcox, 2010). Taken together, these findings indicate that many changes occur over the first year of life in the development of object individuation.

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Summary The study of object perception has a long history within the field of infant perception; some would, in fact, argue that it gave rise to the field. Currently, as the topic is approached by many investigators with many different techniques and through various theoretical perspectives, it is difficult to generate a concise and coherent summary of the entire area. This may be taken by some to reflect the need for a new unifying theoretical model, or that the study of individual processes within object perception may be evolving into stand-alone areas of inquiry on their own.

CAUSAL PERCEPTION Another important topic in infant cognition and perception is infants’ understanding of causality. The ability to understand cause-and-effect relationships is vital to understanding actions, events, and relationships that the infant encounters on a daily basis. However, this field is also very broad; the notion of causality can be found in topics such as imitation (Meltzoff, 2007), statistical reasoning (Sobel & Kirkham, 2007), and animacy (Rakison, 2005). Given the page limitations of the current chapter, we will focus this discussion of causality on infants’ understanding of launching events. Leslie performed the first studies addressing infants’ understanding of causality in the 1980s (Leslie, 1982, 1984; Leslie & Keeble, 1987). Leslie and Keeble (1987) showed infants a simple launching event in which a red square would move across the screen from left to right, make contact with a green square in the middle, and then the green square would continue to move to the right. In this event, it appears to adults as if the red square is “causing” the green square to move. In a noncausal event, the red square would either not make contact with the green one (while the green square still moved to the right) or the red square would make contact, but there would be a delay before the green square moved off to the right. In the test phase, infants viewed the reversal of both a causal and a noncausal event. Leslie and Keeble found that 6.5-montholds dishabituated to the reversal of the causal event but not the noncausal event, suggesting that infants are responding to causality (Leslie & Keeble, 1987). In a series of studies, Cohen and his colleagues built on Leslie’s findings to investigate the development of infants’ understanding of causality (Cohen & Amsel, 1998; Cohen & Oakes, 1993; Cohen, Rundell, Spellman, & Cashon, 1999; Oakes & Cohen, 1990; Rakison,

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2005). In the first of these studies, Oakes and Cohen (1990) used toy objects instead of squares during the launching events and found that 6-month-olds did not respond to causality, whereas 10-month-olds were able to respond to the causality of the events. In a followup study, Cohen and Oakes (1993) showed 10-month-old infants simple launching events in which the agent (i.e. the object which causes the event) and the recipient (i.e. the second object in the event) varied. In this more complicated event, 10-month-olds were unable to respond to the causality of the events; but rather they responded based on the spatial and temporal features. Additionally, they found that 10-month-olds are able to associate the agent with the type of event (causal or noncausal), but they do not associate the recipient with the event type (Cohen & Oakes, 1993). These data suggest that infants may first process simple perceptual features of the task, such as the object, as demonstrated by the data from the 6-month-olds. They can then begin to understand the relation between the objects and the type of event by 10 months of age (for an alternative view, see Saxe & Carey, 2006). To extend these findings, Cohen, Rundell, Spellman, & Cashon (1999) habituated infants to causal chain sequences. Instead of Object A hitting Object B, which moves off to the right, they added an extra step, such that Object A hit Object B, which hit Object C, which caused Object C to pop up. In this more complicated procedure, 10-month-olds were no longer able to perceive the causality, but just looked longer when there was a change in the first object. In contrast, 15-month-olds were able to detect causality and they looked longer when there was a change in the causal agent. These studies suggest that infants can understand causality in simple launching events with simple stimuli at 6 to 7 months of age. With more complicated, lifelike stimuli, infants have to be 10 months of age before they can discriminate events based upon causality. In even more complex, causal chain events, infants do not respond to the causality of the events until 15 months of age. Also important to note is that infants between 10-15 months of age not only perceive causality, but they can associate the agent with causality. Rakison (2005) conducted a study to investigate whether the distinction between animate and inanimate objects played a role in infants’ understanding of causality. In the real world, there is a strong correlation between agency, animacy, and motion. Most often, agents are animate objects that move, and recipients are inanimate objects that do not move. Rakison was interested in determining whether infants’ ability to associate agency with motion and animacy was something that is learned

prior to coming to the lab or whether this association was formed online throughout the course of the experiment. Rakison habituated 12- to 16-month-old infants to simple launching events with simple geometric figures that had an extra part on top that either moved (animate) or did not move (inanimate). Rakison (2005) found that 12-month-olds are not able to associate animacy with agency. The 14-month-olds can associate animacy and agency, but this appears to be learned online during the testing procedure because they will also learn to associate an inanimate object with agency. In contrast, 16-month-olds associate animacy and agency, but their knowledge seems to be constrained by real-world experience because they fail to associate an inanimate object with agency suggesting that this contradicts their existing knowledge about objects, animacy, and agency (Rakison, 2005).

Summary The field of causal perception has advanced from the early launching event studies, and researchers are addressing more sophisticated questions regarding how infants process causality in more dynamic and naturalistic contexts.

QUANTITATIVE PROCESSING Another important topic in the field of infant perception and cognition is infants’ understanding and processing of numerical information. While several related issues could be included in this discussion, we will only review three of the major topics within this field: discrimination, ordinality, and addition and subtraction.

Number Discrimination The study of infants’ number discrimination ability began in the early 1980s with a study by Starkey and Cooper (1980). They habituated 5.5-month-old infants to arrays of either two or three dots. Infants were tested on both the familiar and novel quantities. In another condition, infants were habituated to either four or six dots. It was found that infants could discriminate the smaller quantities (2 versus 3 dots), but not the larger quantities (4 versus 6). This study is important because it was one of the first demonstrations that infants can discriminate numerical quantities and it was also one of the first

Infant Perception and Cognition

studies to find a distinction between how infants process small quantities (less than four items) and large quantities (greater than four items). Evidence for infants’ discrimination of number comes from numerous studies from newborns (Antell & Keating, 1983) through 14.5month-olds (Feigenson & Carey, 2003). However, some researchers have argued that infants are not discriminating number, but relying on variables of continuous extent, such as area or contour length, to make these discriminations (Clearfield & Mix, 1999, 2001). More recent studies have argued against this proposal, suggesting that infants indeed are discriminating number in these tasks (Cordes & Brannon, 2008a). Feigenson (2005) reported a double dissociation in infants’ processing of numerical arrays such that infants discriminate arrays based upon numerical information when the objects in the array vary in identity, but infants discriminate based upon continuous extent when the objects in the array are identical. Thus, it is important to evaluate the design of studies of numerical discrimination in infants, because varying certain features of the stimuli can influence infants’ behavior in these tasks. In addition to the features of the stimuli, another important aspect of tasks of number discrimination is the quantity of the sets being presented. As briefly mentioned earlier, a distinction exists between the processing of small (less than four) and large numbers (greater than four). The approximate number system, which represents larger quantities, is an imprecise system used by infants, adults, and primates (Halberda, Mazzocco, & Feigenson, 2008; Libertus & Brannon, 2009). Numerical discrimination in this range follows Weber’s Law; the ratio between quantities, not the absolute value, determines whether or not infants can discriminate. In this larger number range, 9-month-old infants can discriminate quantities when the ratio between them is 2:3, but for 6-monthold infants the ratio must be at least 1:2 (Cordes & Brannon, 2008b; Xu & Spelke, 2000). In contrast, the exact number system represents smaller quantities and appears to be much more precise (Feigenson & Carey, 2003). The exact number system aligns well with findings from studies of adults’ subitizing (Peterson & Simon, 2000; Trick & Pylyshyn, 1994). Subitizing is the process in which enumeration for small numbers (less than four) is rapid and occurs in parallel. However, with quantities greater than four, enumeration may occur by counting which is a serial process that requires more time. Just as with adults, infants show a similar division in that they can easily and accurately represent small quantities, but

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demonstrate less accuracy in their representation of larger quantities.

Ordinality Ordinality is the ability to process and understand the relationships between numbers, more specifically greaterthan and less-than relationships. The ability to process ordinal relationships between quantities is more advanced than simply discriminating between quantities. In order to understand the ordinality, one must be able to process the relationship between the quantities to determine which one is more. Elizabeth Brannon has led the field in studying how infants process ordinal information. In her 2002 paper, she discussed a series of experiments that show that ordinal knowledge develops between 9 and 11 months of age. In this study, she habituated infants to a sequence of squares that either increased in number (e.g., 2 squares, 4 squares, 8 squares) or decreased in number (e.g. 8, 4, 2). During the test phase, infants saw either a familiar sequence or a novel sequence. Brannon found that 11-month-old infants dishabituated to the change in ordinality, but there was no difference in looking time for the 9-month-olds (Brannon, 2002). To rule out any confounding variables that may be aiding in 11-montholds’ processing of ordinality, Brannon ran a second study in which the size, surface area, and density of the shapes were all controlled. Again, she found that 11-month-olds successfully discriminated the sequences based on ordinal information, but 9-month-olds did not show any difference in their looking times to the familiar and novel displays. Brannon and her associates tried several manipulations to account for 9-month-olds’ inability to process ordinality (Suanda, Tompson, & Brannon, 2008). They found that while 11-month-olds can use cues such as area or number to process ordinal relations, 9-month-olds are unable to and require multiple, overlapping cues to successfully complete these tasks.

Addition and Subtraction The most complex numerical skill that researchers study in infancy is the ability to add and subtract. This requires the ability to discriminate quantities and the ability to process the relationships between quantities, but furthermore, requires infants to manipulate the quantities to solve these simple arithmetic problems. The question of infants’ ability to add and subtract is a widely debated issue that continues into the present day.

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Wynn (1992) was the first to suggest that infants could add and subtract, based on her findings from a violation-ofexpectation study with 5-month-olds. In her study, infants were familiarized to either an addition or subtraction event. In the addition event, one doll was placed on a stage in front of the infant. A screen was raised, obstructing the infant’s view of the stage. Next, a second doll was placed on the stage behind the screen. When the screen was lowered, the infant either saw two dolls on the stage (possible event) or one doll on the stage (impossible event). The subtraction event followed the same basic procedure, except that the trial began with two dolls on the stage and one doll was removed. Wynn found that in both the addition and subtraction events, 5-month-old infants looked longer at the impossible events (Wynn, 1992). This corresponds with the predictions of a violation-of-expectation paradigm; infants should look longer at the result that is unexpected. This finding has been replicated using cross-modal stimuli (Kobayashi, Hiraki, Mugitani, & Hasegawa, 2004) and supported with brain data (event-related potentials; Berger, Tzur, & Posner, 2006). Although Wynn’s (1992) the study has been replicated numerous times, her conclusions about infants’ mathematical abilities have been criticized by several researchers who contend that her findings might be explained by simpler perceptual mechanisms (Clearfield & Westfahl, 2006; Cohen & Marks, 2002; Moore & Cocas, 2006). These researchers suggest that infants are responding to the test trials based upon familiarity with the stimuli which happens to coincide with the impossibility of the event in the design of the study. Infants tend to look longer at a familiar stimulus early in familiarization before they have had time to habituate. In Wynn’s study, infants only saw six familiarization trials, so it is reasonable to expect infants to show a familiarity bias, especially due to the complex nature of the stimuli (multistep events involving several different components, including the hand moving in and out and the screen raising and lowering; Cohen & Marks, 2002). Clearfield and Westfahl (2006) conducted a study in which they gave infants several familiarization trials prior to the test trials. These familiarization trials were of either the impossible or possible outcome. When familiarized to the impossible outcome, infants looked longer during the test at the possible outcome, which was the opposite of Wynn’s (1992) finding. Finally, when the infants were first familiarized to the possible outcome, they then looked longer at the impossible event in the test. Taken together, these findings suggest that the case for infants’ ability to process addition and subtraction events is still unsettled.

Summary While the debate over infants’ abilities to add and subtract continues, researchers are focusing on other topics of infants’ quantitative development to better understand how these fundamental skills develop and how they relate to numeracy abilities in early childhood and school-aged children.

CATEGORIZATION Categorization is the grouping of discriminable sets of objects together to form a stimulus class (Cohen & Younger, 1983; Murphy, 2010); the internal representation of that class may theoretically be characterized as a concept. Categorization is an important skill for infants, as it facilitates processing, learning, and the organization of knowledge. Studies of categorization have been conducted for over 30 years (for a summary of early categorization studies, see Cohen & Younger, 1983). Using methodology described earlier in this chapter, researchers have investigated how infants categorize many different types of objects and stimulus parameters. These include common object categories such as animals (Colombo, O’Brien, Mitchell, Roberts, & Horowitz, 1987; Quinn, Doran, Reiss, & Hoffman, 2009) faces (Bornstein & Arterberry, 2003; Cohen & Strauss, 1979), and vehicles (Rakison & Butterworth, 1998); stimulus properties such as motion (Rakison & Poulin-Dubois, 2002), shape (Colombo, McCollam, Coldren, Mitchell, & Rash, 1990), and spatial relationships (Casasola & Bhagwat, 2007; Casasola & Cohen, 2002); and dynamic and complex stimuli such as music (Hannon & Johnson, 2005). Collectively, this body of research has shown that infants can form similarity-based categories quite early in life (for a review of this literature, see Younger, 2010). When presented with multiple exemplars from a category, infants form a representation based upon the shared or similar characteristics (i.e., a prototype). Infants use this prototype to distinguish between the novel category member and the non-category member presented during the test phase. This ability to group sets of objects has been demonstrated in infants as young as 3 to 4 months of age (Quinn, Slater, Brown, & Hayes, 2001), although the stimuli being categorized were simple forms (e.g., squares, circles, crosses). It has been argued that infant categorization progresses from broad to narrow such that they can first categorize broad categories (e.g., circles vs. squares; animals vs. furniture) and across development,

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these categories get finer and more specific (e.g. closed circles vs. open circles; dogs vs. cats; Quinn & Johnson, 2000; Quinn, Doran, Reiss, & Hoffman, 2010). However, others have argued for the dominance of basic-level categories earlier in development (see Younger, 2010). A second important characteristic of infant categorization is infants’ ability to attend to the correlation among attributes of the exemplars (Younger & Cohen, 1983, 1986). In a seminal study in this field, Younger and Cohen (1983) habituated 4-, 7-, and 10-month-old infants to two categories of imaginary animals that varied in five features or attributes, three of which were perfectly correlated. They found that 4- and 7-month-olds were unable to respond to the correlation between attributes, but the 10-montholds were sensitive to these relationships and formed categories based upon these correlations (Younger & Cohen, 1983). In a further study, Younger and Cohen (1986) found that 7-month-olds can attend to the correlation between attributes when all of the features are perfectly correlated; thus demonstrating developmental changes in this important ability. While a full discussion of the findings, debates, and issues in this area is not possible within the page limits of this chapter, four important issues are currently being addressed in this field. The first is the role of prior experience in infants’ categorization; it is not clear whether infants’ performance in categorization tasks reflects their processing of stimuli presented throughout the experiment or whether prior experience with these objects and concepts influences their behavior (Bornstein & Mash, 2010; Furrer & Younger, 2008). A second related topic of discussion is the distinction between conceptual and perceptual categorization. On one side of this debate is Mandler (2004a), who has argued that infant categorization is based upon the conceptual features of the stimuli (i.e., the abstract representation, or “meaning” of the objects); on the other side, however, are many researchers who contend that categories are based on simple perceptual features such as shape, color, and size (for further discussion of this issue see Mandler, 2003, 2004a,b; Oakes and Rakison, 2003; Rakison & Poulin-Dubois, 2002). A possible resolution of this debate may be that perceptually-based categorization occurs earlier in infancy (e.g., during the first year), whereas more conceptually-based categories predominate later (e.g., during the second year and beyond). Evidence showing that categorization during the second year is fully integrated with infants’ word learning and broader concepts (e.g., Booth & Waxman, 2002; Waxman & Booth, 2003) is consistent with this possibility.

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This provides a convenient segue into the third focus of recent discussions among research in this area: the role of language in categorization (Cohen & Brunt, 2009; Ferry, Hespos, & Waxman, 2010; Gliozzi, Mayor, Hu, & Plunkett, 2009; Plunkett, Hu, & Cohen, 2008). Waxman and her colleagues (e.g., Ferry et al., 2010) have suggested that labels promote categorization based on findings that infants will form categories when objects are paired with labels, but they will not form categories when objects are paired with nonword tones. Using both behavioral and computational modeling data, Plunkett and his colleagues have argued against Waxman’s claims suggesting that labels are not always beneficial for categorization (Plunkett et al., 2008) and that labels serve as an additional feature of the stimuli to be categorized (Gliozzi et al., 2009). The last recent development in this area is methodological; researchers have begun to explore the use of computational modeling to better understanding the development of categorization. While computational models have widely been used to study adult categorization (Love & Tomlinson, 2010), the extension of this path of inquiry has only recently been extended to developmental questions (Gliozzi, et al., 2009; Gureckis & Love, 2004). Computational models are helpful for trying to understand the mechanisms underlying infant categorization, addressing issues that may be difficult to answer using behavioral data, and for generating testable hypotheses regarding infant behavior in these tasks. Categorization is an important skill for developing infants, and while a vast amount of research has been conducted in this field, exciting new questions and developments are moving this field forward.

RELATION OF PERCEPTION AND LOWER-ORDER COMPONENTS TO HIGHER-ORDER COGNITION A fairly recent area of focus in the study of early perception and cognition has been on the manner in which more basic cognitive components contribute to the development of more complex skills. Two specific topics in which this study has been emphasized in recent years are language (or, more specifically, the development of word learning/vocabulary and semantic organization) and the cognitive construct of executive function (integrated higherorder processes that have traditionally included inhibition, rule-learning, planning, and strategic responding). In the brief sections that follow, we discuss recent developments in both of these areas.

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Language The abilities and mechanisms discussed earlier in this chapter provide the building blocks for higher-order cognitive processes such as language; indeed, this line of inquiry formed the topic of a recent volume that sought to link early perceptual-cognitive measures and processes with language outcome (see Colombo, McCardle, & Freund, 2009). The ability to understand language is a complex phenomenon and requires many of the basic skills described earlier, such as visual perception, attention, object individuation, statistical learning, and categorization. Although infants do not begin producing words until around 12 months of age (Waxman, 2009), they are discovering properties of words and sounds and associating words and concepts well before their first birthday (Jusczyk & Aslin, 1995; Saffran, Aslin, & Newport, 1996; Waxman, 2009; Werker & Tees, 1984). When it comes to language-related skills, infants have some rather sophisticated abilities. At 6 months of age, infants are able to differentiate all phonemes even in their nonnative language—an ability that children and adults lack (Jusczyk & Aslin, 1995; Werker & Tees, 1984). Infants lose the ability to differentiate phonemes from their nonnative language at the end of the first year of life (8–12 months of age; Werker & Tees, 1984). By 7.5 months of age, infants are able to differentiate whole words (Jusczyk & Aslin, 1995). Another sophisticated ability of infants is their capacity to segment speech sounds based solely on transitional probabilities (see earlier section in this chapter), which they are able to do by 8 months of age (Saffran, et al., 1996). Infants are successful at segmenting speech sounds after a relatively brief exposure to the words (two minutes) and without reinforcement of the statistical relationships (Saffran, 2009; Saffran, et al., 1996). Once infants can parse individual speech sounds and words from the incoming speech stream, they must learn to associate word meanings with objects. Infants begin by learning nouns and then adjectives and verbs before learning other parts of speech (Waxman, 2009). Waxman argues that words and concepts are linked well before infants associate nouns and labels (see earlier discussion of word learning and categorization; Waxman, 2009). A vast amount of research has addressed how infants begin to map labels to objects, and a brief overview will be provided here. While other explanations for early word learning exist, we will focus on approaches highlighting constraints and social interaction. Constraint theories argue that basic cognitive heuristics or principles can account for infants’ early word learning (Hollich et al., 2000). Statistical learning is

one example of a potential constraint on infants’ word learning. Other examples are the whole object constraint, taxonomic constraint, and mutual exclusivity constraint (Mather & Plunkett, 2010; Mayor & Plunkett, 2010). The whole object constraint states that when shown an object, infants will assume the label refers to the whole object and not a part or feature of the object or the background (Mayor & Plunkett, 2010). The taxonomic constraint refers to infants’ bias to assume a label refers to the type of the object or its basic-level category (refer to the section of this chapter on categorization for further discussion and references). Finally, mutual exclusivity is a principle that suggests that infants only assign one label to each object. If presented with a novel label, infants will assume it applies to a novel object rather than one for which they already have a label (Mather & Plunkett, 2010; Mayor & Plunkett, 2010). While several of these constraints are usually studied in toddlers who have a larger vocabulary, researchers are addressing the use of these constraints in infancy (see Mather & Plunkett, 2010). Another line of research in this field focuses on how social interactions influence language development (see Meltzoff & Brooks, 2009). While infants are capable of learning about language from exposure to it in their environment without any reinforcement (Saffran, 2009), their interactions with caregivers and others often highlight properties of language and objects. For example, motherese is often credited with teaching infants the properties of language. Motherese, or infant-directed speech, is characterized by exaggerated prosody, a slower tempo, simplified syntax, and hyperarticulation (Cooper, Abraham, Berman, & Staska, 1997; Meltzoff & Brooks, 2009). Motherese helps to bring attention to features of words and speech, which can aid in the association of words and objects. Other examples of social interactions that promote word learning are gaze following and pointing (for further discussion see Baldwin & Markman, 1989; Meltzoff & Brooks, 2009). Language skills improve and change over many years, but infancy is an important period of development as infants are laying the groundwork for building a rich vocabulary and understanding grammar. Infant Cognition and Executive Function The term executive function refers to what is generally considered to be higher-order cognitive performance, as manifest in activities or tasks involving inhibition, goal-directed behavior, planning, or reasoning; we have discussed some of this literature within the context of endogenous attention (see preceding section on Attention). The precursors

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of what might be considered to be executive function in infancy, such as means-end (e.g., Willatts, 1999) and manual search (e.g., Diamond, 1985) tasks have been studied for some time, and have generated a sizeable literature. However, the recent articulation of specific models underlying executive function (e.g., Banich, 2009; Fuster, 2002; Miller & Cohen, 2001) has provided a basis for an understanding of its development. Colombo and Cheatham (2006) have suggested that controlled or volitional forms of cognitive performance are merely the product of the integration of lower-order components with memory (predominantly working memory), and that such integration emerges as a function of the maturation of neural pathways that allow for such components to be integrated. Indeed, the notion that working memory forms the basis for executive forms of cognition has been posited within the adult literature (Engle, 2002; Kane & Engle, 2002, 2003). This model implies that executive function may be more profitably characterized as a construct than a specific component or module in and of itself; the degree to which such a construct coheres in infancy and toddlerhood is yet to be determined. The evidence (reviewed by Colombo & Cheatham, 2006 and Colombo, Kannass, Walker & Brez, 2011; see also the preceding section on endogenous attention) suggests that emergent forms of executive function appear late in the first year, but then rapidly become predominant in the second and third years. This evidence largely supports the notion that lower-order components typically included in discussions of infant perception and cognition strongly contribute to the emergence of executive function in early childhood; it seems likely that this line of research will clarify the nature and degree of how executive function develops in the near future. APPLICATIONS As we write this, research on infant perception and cognition can be traced back over 50 years of work. For the most part, this research has been driven by questions from philosophy or by theoretically generated perspectives derived from cognitive or developmental psychology. In recent years, however, the principles of the field have enlisted in work that has potential clinical or interdisciplinary application to problems of societal importance. In the brief sections that follow, we outline progress in three specific areas.

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language outcomes in childhood has addressed several critical issues in the last decade. The initial correlations reported in this arena (see Bornstein & Sigman, 1986; Fagan & Singer, 1983) were strong enough to engender some degree of optimism that measures of attention and memory might provide for clinically significant levels of prediction (Colombo, 1993). This optimism has long been tempered by findings showing that although reports of prediction routinely attain levels of statistically significant prediction (e.g., Colombo, Shaddy, Richman, Maikranz, & Blaga, 2004; Colombo, Shaddy, Blaga, Anderson, & Kannass, 2009; Colombo, Shaddy, Blaga, Anderson, Kannass, & Richman, 2009; Rose, Feldman, & Jankowski, 2003), the magnitude of such prediction has proven to be relatively modest at best, and individual differences tapped by these measures likely contribute indirectly to a developmental cascade that determines individual childhood cognitive and language outcomes (Bornstein, Hahn, Bell, Haynes, Slater, Golding, & Wolke, 2006). This conclusion is in contrast to previous hypotheses that the measures directly represented (Fagan, 1984) or directly determined (Colombo, 1993) such outcomes themselves. Infant Perception and Cognition Measures as Early Intervention Outcomes Owing in part to the modest degree to which measures of infancy contribute to later cognitive outcomes, the tasks involved in assessing infant perception and cognition have been chosen for dependent measures in more applied studies. Among the areas in which this strategy has been adopted is early intervention, specifically in the area of early nutrition (see Cheatham, Carlson, & Colombo, 2006; Colombo, 2001b; Wainwright & Colombo, 2006). Infant nutritional status has been shown to be related to measures of looking time (Carlson & Werkman, 1996; Colombo et al., 2004), language processing measures (Innis, Gilley, & Werker, 2001), performance on means-end tasks (Willatts, Forsyth, DiModugno, Varma, & Colvin, 1998), and free-play attention measures (Kannass, Colombo, & Carlson, 2009). It has been argued elsewhere (Colombo et al., 2011) that applied researchers might make use of such indices more frequently as early markers of the efficacy of interventions that seek to improve later outcomes.

Use of Measures to Predict Childhood Outcomes

Infant Perception and Cognition Measures as Markers for Developmental Disorders

The literature on the use of measures of infant perceptualcognitive development as predictors of later cognitive and

Finally, with increased interest in the early detection of intellectual and developmental disabilities, measures of

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infant perception and cognition have been employed as potential markers for later disorders. Within the field of infant studies, indicators for cognitive performance do not rely on the participant to understand and follow instruction, nor do they require verbal responses; as a result, such measures or indicators have been employed in screening studies or in studies of infant siblings of individuals with particular disorders. Many of the exemplars of such work come from the area of autism, where diagnosis has for so long been based on language indicators but where it has long been suspected that prelanguage identification is a distinct possibility. In this area, attempts to identify or discriminate individuals for risk have employed assessment of early visual preferences (Pierce, Conant, Hazin, Stoner, & Desmond, 2011) and face processing (McCleery, Akshoomoff, Dobkins & Carver, 2009), or have employed various measures of attention to social and nonsocial stimuli, including simple behavioral responses, or eye tracking (Anderson, Colombo & Shaddy, 2006; Elsabbagh et al., 2009; Hoehl, Reid, Parise, Handl, Palumbo, & Striano, 2009; Klin & Jones, 2008; Merin, Young, Ozonoff, & Rogers, 2007; Young, Merin, Rogers, & Ozonoff, 2009). Finally, one recent study has employed methods for assessing disengagement of attention similar to those discussed above in the section on visual orienting (Ibanez, Messinger, Newell, Lambert, & Sheskin, 2008). Less common but also with considerable potential are studies that seek early identification of dyslexia from infancy. Because of the relationship to language, these studies tend to use auditory or speech stimuli; for example, there are several studies of speech perception in populations at risk (Richardson, Leppanen, Leiwo, & Lyytinen, 2003; van Leeuwen, Been, van Herten, Zwarts, Maassen & van der Leij, 2008), and several studies (e.g., van Leeuwen, Been, Kuijpers, Zwarts, Maassen, & van der Leij, 2006) employ electrophysiological measures to language stimuli. Given the current translational focus of much of developmental science, we expect that the trend for using such indicators in the near future will increase, and that the range of disorders investigated in this way will be broadened.

CONCLUSIONS A review of an entire field such as this necessarily presents authors with unenviable choices in topic coverage and the balance between breadth and depth. We have attempted to provide a survey of the major paradigms within the field, as well as a summary of current topics under investigation. It is inevitable that in this attempt we have given short

shrift to some topics or programs of research that should have been mentioned, if not highlighted. For this, we apologize in advance. The task of deriving cohesive themes or principles from the extant literature reviewed here also presents us with a daunting challenge. Perhaps 50 years ago, research in this area might have been organized under guiding theoretical perspectives (e.g., differentiation versus integration models, top-down versus bottom-up approaches, direct versus constructivist theories). While nearly all of the research reviewed here may be broadly conceptualized as being hypothesis-driven, we believe that the influence of major or overarching theoretical positions has diminished in modern psychology as a whole and in the field of perceptual development specifically. As a result, we see the progress in this field largely as being phenomenondriven at this time, rather than driven by any particular theoretical perspective. An exception to this statement with respect to the field, however, is the lingering of the nature-nurture debate, which has motivated research in a good number of topics covered here (e.g., object perception, face perception). There is considerable disagreement over the utility of the perpetuation of this question (e.g., Smith, 1999; Spelke, 1999). In our view, if research from developmental psychobiology (e.g., Gottleib, 1992, 1997) or connectionist modeling (Elman et al., 1999) published over the last two decades has taught us anything, it is that any attempt to partition these influences or identify independent contributions to behavioral or developmental outcomes is futile. As noted above, the last two decades have shown even very young infants to possess powerful mechanisms for implicit and incidental learning that are efficient, effective, and rapid in their execution. In this context, demonstrations that of the presence of a capacity or ability very early in infancy no longer bear definitively on the issue of whether such a capacity or ability is innate or acquired. In the absence of clear criteria for evidence that definitively addresses the issue, it is unclear how continuation of this debate contributes to further progress in the field, or is useful in translational contexts. While basic questions about the early development of perceptual and cognitive abilities still motivate much of the research done in the field, we also note that assessments of such abilities have found a place in the cutting edge of developmental outcome research and in the study of early forms of developmental disabilities and disorders. The translational applications of this work, especially in the current societal and economic context, bode well for the preservation of inquiry in the field for the foreseeable future.

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CHAPTER 4

Social and Emotional Development in Infancy M. ANN EASTERBROOKS, JESSICA DYM BARTLETT, MARJORIE BEEGHLY, AND ROSS A. THOMPSON

INTRODUCTION 91 SOCIOEMOTIONAL DEVELOPMENT IN CONTEXT 92 DEVELOPING EMOTIONS AND SOCIABILITY 98 THE GROWTH OF MEANING, RECIPROCITY, AND REGULATION IN EMOTIONAL DEVELOPMENT 103

DEVELOPMENTS IN SELF AND SOCIAL UNDERSTANDING 105 RELATIONSHIPS: THE DEVELOPMENT OF ATTACHMENTS 108 CONCLUSIONS 113 REFERENCES 114

INTRODUCTION

experiences set in motion a “developmental cascade” of effects (positive or negative) that spreads across developing systems and time (Lewin-Bizan, Bowers, & Lerner, 2010; Masten & Cicchetti, 2010)? How far is the reach of experiences encountered in the first years of life? These questions have been fodder for debate among developmental scholars for decades (Kagan, 1984; Shonkoff & Phillips, 2000). An organizational approach to development (Sroufe, 1979) suggests that how infants negotiate salient developmental tasks at each phase of development will influence the quality of successive adaptations. For example, children who thrive in infancy establish a good foundation for positive development in later years; conversely, children who face early developmental challenges may be derailed from healthy developmental trajectories (Erikson, 1950; Shonkoff, Boyce, & McEwen, 2009). Asking questions about the reach of early experiences highlights the continuum of viewpoints that range from relative invulnerability (Anthony & Cohler, 1987) to exquisite susceptibility to environmental influences; “development in the early years is both highly robust and highly vulnerable . . . because it sets either a sturdy or fragile state” that impacts development going forward (Shonkoff & Phillips, 2000, pp. 4–5). Exploring social and emotional development in infancy focuses on understanding developing capacities for experiencing, expressing, understanding, and regulating emotions and for developing interpersonal relationships and a sense of self and others. Increasingly, we understand the

Begin at the beginning . . . —Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

When applied to infancy, this very phrase presents somewhat of a puzzle for developmental scientists. Just what is the beginning (or the end) of infancy? The word infancy, a term that has been used since the 15th century, is derived from Latin, meaning “without speech.” But even before birth, infants are communicative social beings, embedded in a network of social relationships that begins in the prenatal period. In this chapter, we explore aspects of social and emotional development in the first years of life, focusing on the first two years, but touching also on developments in the prenatal period. However delimited, infancy is a time of origins—the emergence of individuality, personality, and social relationships. Because infancy represents “the beginning,” students of this developmental period ask key questions about processes of development. Queries about the relative contributions of “nature” versus “nurture” have moved beyond the simple dichotomy to questions about how the nurturing environment helps to shape the effects of genetic and prenatal contributions, and how nature influences susceptibility to nurturing influences (Bakermans-Kranenburg & van IJzendoorn, 2011; Meaney, 2010). How stable are early temperamental characteristics, and do they retain their form into childhood? Under what circumstances do early 91

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extent to which the developmental course of emotional development is inextricably embedded within social relationships and social contexts. We begin by placing infancy in context. First, we consider the psychobiological context and how genetic and epigenetic factors contribute to phenotypic variations in temperament and other dimensions of individuality that shape early emotions, emotion regulation, state regulation, and patterns of relating to others. The chapter by Hostinar and Gunnar (this volume) addresses many of these issues in depth. We also consider the contexts of family and culture that shape, and are shaped by, children’s biopsychosocial characteristics and their early experiences. Early emotional development is profiled next, with special attention to the importance of face-to-face interactions, the role of social relationships in emotion regulation, and the growth of self and other understanding. In the section that follows, we focus on attachment relationships between infants and their caregivers, a topic of significant research interest during the past 40 years. Two central questions are highlighted: (1) how individual psychobiological and caregiver factors contribute to the development of different patterns of attachment behavior in these relationships and (2) the potentially enduring consequences of variations in attachments during infancy. SOCIOEMOTIONAL DEVELOPMENT IN CONTEXT Because the young of the human species cannot thrive outside a relational context (Tobach & Schnierla, 1968), in order to understand infant socioemotional development, one must understand also the broader caregiving context. This sentiment, illustrated by Winnicott’s celebrated statement that “there is no such thing as an infant” (Winnicott, 1960), sets the framework for this chapter. By its very definition, socioemotional development invokes relationships. In particular, the infant-mother relationship is central to popular and scientific images of social and emotional development in infancy. This focus stems from cultural and theoretical traditions emphasizing that maternal sensitivity, warmth, and responsiveness shape infants’ initial, and in some conceptualizations continuing, social dispositions and expectations for others. This view is especially prominent in Western cultures, whereas a broader cultural frame includes the multiple relationships that characterize an infant’s social world from the very beginning (Mistry, Deshmukh, & Easterbrooks, 2007; Rogoff, 2003). Later in this chapter we examine research concerning relationships between infants and their primary caregivers, especially

using the lens of attachment theory. It is important first to establish a broader framework for our discussion of early socioemotional development by considering how social and emotional responding and the relationships that develop are shaped by the biopsychosocial context of neurological development and temperament, as well as by the broader social contexts of family and culture. Psychobiological Context To set the stage for understanding the development of relationships in infancy and later social and emotional adaptation, we consider how the psychobiological context impacts the development of the relational context from the time of its prenatal origins, These influences are bidirectional due to person–context interactions; thus, we consider the interplay between neurobiological and socieomotional processes. Neurobiological Underpinnings Infancy is a period of rapid physical and neurological growth, second only to the prenatal months in the scope and pace of development. To some, the first few months after birth are even conceptualized as the “fourth trimester” (Jennings & Edmundson, 1980). This has significant implications for the changes that occur in infants’ emotional and social responding and for the meanings attributed by scientists and caregivers to these developments. Emotional development is predicated on the growth of richly interconnected brain structures and hormonal influences that organize the arousal-activation and regulatory-recovery interplay of emotional behavior (Fox, Levitt, & Nelson, 2010; Lewis, 2010). Perhaps because emotions are biologically essential features of human functioning (i.e., they are critical to the very survival of infants from the earliest postnatal days), they are based on regions of the human nervous system that develop very early during the prenatal period, including structures of the limbic system and the brain stem. Newborns’ capacity to exhibit distress, excitement, and rage reflects the early emergence of these deeply biologically-rooted emotional brain systems. Both brain structures and emotions, however, undergo dramatic postnatal changes (Fox, Henderson, Rubin, Calkins, & Schmidt, 2001; Meaney, 2010). Developmental changes in the first two years, including neurobiological changes in regulation of adrenocortical and parasympathetic systems and the extended developmental growth trajectory of the prefrontal cortex (Hostinar & Gunnar, this volume; Pechtel & Pizzagalli, 2011), contribute to infants’ emerging regulation of emotional expressions.

Social and Emotional Development in Infancy

This development helps to account for the ontogeny of the newborn, whose unpredictable swings of arousal can be disconcerting to neonate and caregivers alike, into the emotionally more nuanced and better regulated toddler. These developmental changes occur within the context of social relationships with caregivers, who both influence and are influenced by infants’ increasingly organized regulatory systems (Brownell & Kopp, 2007; Schore, 2001; Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). Infants enter this world highly dependent on caregivers, and caregivers play a central role in the infant’s psychobiological organization. Sander (1964), for example, proposed that the first role of caregivers was to aid infants in achieving physiological regulation. Mother-infant close physical contact after birth helps to regulate multiple aspects of infant physiology and behavior, including temperature, respiration, and crying (Winberg, 2005). Furthermore, maternal sensitivity in interaction impacts infant cortisol recovery to stressors both routine (Albers, RiksenWalraven, Sweep, & de Weerth, 2007) and acute (Gunnar & Davis, 2003; Hostinar & Gunnar, this volume). Caregiver behavior, even in the prenatal period, affects the structure and functioning of an infant’s brain and behavior during the neonatal period and well beyond (Fox et al., 2010; Hay, Pawlby, Waters, Perra, & Sharp, 2010). This research suggests that development of the physiological systems managing stress reactivity, emotion regulation and coping may be facilitated when caregiver–infant dyads are able to manage everyday stressors that occur routinely in social interactions (Hane, Henderson, ReedSutherland, & Fox, 2010; Tronick, 2006) or may be impaired by experiences of chronic stress when the caregiver is either the source of stress or fails to buffer it, such as when mothers are seriously or chronically depressed (Dawson & Ashman, 2000). Prenatal Influences on Socioemotional Development Research on “fetal programming” (Boyce & Ellis, 2005) demonstrates that experiences even prior to birth influence postnatal development. Susceptibility to disease, for example, can be affected by prenatal experience that is not necessarily genetic in origin (Gluckman & Hanson, 2005). The study of infancy is predominantly focused on the months following birth, yet new evidence suggests that experiences during the prenatal period also shape social and emotional development. For example, some research has shown that maternal stress and anxiety during pregnancy are associated with children’s emotional and behavioral organization and problems in middle childhood

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(O’Connor, Heron, Golding, & Glover, 2003). Other environmental conditions also directly impact the developing fetus, although the effects are probabilistic—that is, prenatal environments heighten (but do not ensure) the odds of particular outcomes. Some environmental factors may be highly detrimental (e.g., alcohol, drugs, tobacco, lead, disease), particularly if experienced during key periods of fetal development; other experiences and conditions (e.g., micronutrients, sensory stimulation, adequate gestation time) are vital to normal development (Shonkoff & Phillips, 2000). Technological advances in fetal observation (e.g., ultrasound) and assessment of neurobehavior (e.g., heart rate, motor activity, behavioral state, responsiveness to external stimuli) now allow for more precise explanations of the impact of various environmental or maternal conditions (Lester & Tronick, 2004; Salisbury, Fallone, & Lester, 2005). Maternal stress during pregnancy influences features of prenatal development related to subsequent socioemotional functioning (Goodman & Brand, 2009; O’Connor et al., 2003; Wadhwa et al., 2002). For example, fetal exposure to stress hormones (i.e., cortisol) predicts increased fussiness, fearfulness, and reactivity in infancy (Gutteling, de Weerth, & Buitelaar, 2005). In addition to compromising nervous system development, maternal stress may impair infants’ immune system functioning, leaving them more vulnerable to stress and disease (Mattes, McCarthy, Gong, van Eekelen, Dunstan, Foster, & Prescott, 2009; Shonkoff et al., 2009). The behavior, biochemical makeup, and physiological functioning of fetuses and neonates of depressed mothers also differ from those of nondepressed mothers (Field, 2010). Expectant mothers who experience depression are at risk for delivering their babies prematurely and at lower birthweights than are nondepressed pregnant mothers (Field et al., 2004). Moreover, their fetuses are more likely have elevated heart rates and to demonstrate heightened physiological reactivity (Allister, Lester, Carr, & Liu, 2001; Monk et al., 2004). Newborns of mothers who displayed clinical symptoms of depression during pregnancy also may be less active and attentive, more irritable, and show fewer facial expressions than newborns of women without depressive symptoms (Field, 2010). Research also suggests that aspects of maternal-fetal attachment, such as maternal experiences of early bonding and perceptions of fetal personality characteristics, are related to social development in infancy (C. Zeanah, Zeanah, & Stewart, 1990). For instance, pregnant women who had a relatively balanced and realistic view of the fetus had infants who were more likely to be securely

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attached at 12 months than infants of mothers who had more distorted perceptions, or than mothers who were disengaged (Benoit, Parker, & Zeanah, 1997). The science is not yet clear with regard to the particular ways in which maternal biopsychosocial characteristics affect development of the fetus. But, as DiPietro (2010) observed, because neural connections do not exist between pregnant women and their fetuses, “all observed associations must be mediated by other pathways” (p. 32). One possibility is that maternal stress leads to elevated levels of cortisol, a common index of stress reactivity (Hostinar & Gunnar, this volume) that can cross the placenta and may, in turn, damage the hippocampal area of the brain and result in neuroregulatory dysfunction (Goodman & Brand, 2009; Uno et al., 1994). Another possibility is that maternal distress reduces uterine blood flow and interferes with the transmission of nutrients to the fetus (Glover, 2011). While we are uncertain about the mechanisms of prenatal impact, we now understand that infant development is determined not only by the interplay between genetics and postnatal environments, but also by contributions of prenatal developmental contexts. There is growing scientific consensus regarding continuity between prenatal and postnatal development and the importance of the fetal milieu (Fifer, Monk, & GroseFifer, 2004). Studies have identified links between maternal psychological states in pregnancy and children’s socioemotional well-being later in childhood, even when controlling for the effects of postpartum environments (Bergman, Sarkar, O’Connor, Modi, & Glover, 2007; Gutteling et al., 2005). Thus, prenatal environments begin to shape ontogenetic pathways that continue to develop in postnatal social and cultural context. Interplay of Socioemotional and Neurobiological Processes Socioemotional development and neurobiological processes are interdependent from the earliest stages of life (Cicchetti & Tucker, 1994; Curtis & Cicchetti, 2003; Hostinar & Gunnar, this volume). Early relational experiences, in particular, help shape the human mind. As Daniel Siegel (1999) succinctly stated, “Human connections create neural connections” (p. 85). Thus, caregivers who hold, soothe, and feed newborns, who are emotionally available and responsive, also support the emergence of mature infant brains, capable of increasingly complex social and emotional functioning. Conversely, studies of severe deprivation and abuse suggest that harsh or neglectful caregiving environments compromise infant

development, and specifically the functioning of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis, a key system responsible for stress regulation (Hostinar & Gunnar, this volume; National Scientific Council on the Developing Child, 2005). Growth-promoting attachment experiences have a positive and long-lasting impact on the stress response systems of the brain (Gunnar, 2000), yet healthy development does not depend on flawless relationships between infants and their caregivers. Despite intense and prolonged dependence on adult care, infants do not usually require unmitigated protection from stress to support the neurobiological processes required for psychosocial growth. There is evidence that moderate amounts of stress actually may be beneficial to early childhood development. The National Scientific Council on the Developing Child (2005) concluded that stress that causes brief, moderate physiological responses (i.e., increased heart rate and blood pressure, mild elevations in cortisol), termed positive stress, “is an important and necessary aspect of healthy development that occurs in the context of stable and supportive relationships, which help to bring levels of cortisol and other stress hormones back within a normal range and assist the child to develop a sense of mastery and self control” (p. 10). Experiences of positive stress (e.g., short separations from a loved one, engaging in highly arousing social interactions, adult limit setting, immunizations) that provide a positive growth catalyst can be contrasted with two other types: tolerable stress and toxic stress. Tolerable stress is triggered by significant threats (e.g., the death of a loved one, a natural disaster, parental divorce, an act of terrorism) that may have long-term consequences, yet are tolerable when time-limited and when the effects are reduced through protective connections with supportive adults. On the other hand, toxic stress occurs in response to extreme conditions (e.g., chronic neglect, severe poverty, repeated exposure to family or community violence) that are associated with protracted activation of the stress management systems in the body and that occur in absence of a supportive relationship with an adult who might help the child’s physiological reaction to threat return to baseline level. Encounters with toxic stress early in life exceed infants’ internal and external resources, thereby increasing risk for limited brain size, mental health problems, physical illness, and maladaptive behaviors (Shonkoff et al., 2009). Relational Context Because most experiences of infants occur in the context of relationships with caregivers, these interactions constitute one of the most salient influences on neurological

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organization. Contrary to traditional maturationist views (e.g., Gesell, 1940), infants are psychobiologically constituted by early experiences as well as by heredity. This is one reason for interest in early caregiving relationships that sensitively accommodate to infants’ temperamental qualities and offer support for the unfolding of positive emotional and social dispositions. In the past decade, there has been a growing body of research on developmental epigenetics, reflecting the ways in which the environment alters gene expression (Belsky & Pluess, 2009; Meaney, 2010). Indeed, the relative influence of environmental influences may be particularly strong early in life (infancy and early childhood) as opposed to later in childhood or adolescence (Bakermans-Kranenburg & van IJzendoorn, 2007). The research evidence reviewed in the chapter by Hostinar and Gunnar (this volume) suggests that genetic and epigenetic factors and other neurobiological systems governing emotion and coping with stress can be affected by abusive or neglectful care, by the caregiver’s serious depression, and possibly by other chronic experiences not yet studied. This contributes further to an appreciation of the importance of these relationships for healthy psychobiological growth. To illustrate, results of a recent meta-analysis showed that young children at genetic risk (i.e., those with less efficient dopamine-related genes) had worse outcomes when reared in negative caregiving environments compared to children at lower genetic risk, yet they also profited more when reared in positive caregiving environments (Bakermans-Kranenburg & van IJzendoorn, 2011). Later in this chapter we discuss research on face-to-face interactions that characterize early mother-infant play and on infant attachment relationships; both bodies of investigation highlight the importance of infant-caregiver interactions and emotional ties for socioemotional development. The social context of infancy extends far beyond relationships with primary caregivers, most often mothers, to include other family members, including fathers and siblings. Although early relationships with these partners have been studied much less than have infant-mother relationships, infants develop qualitatively distinct modes of interaction with their fathers and siblings that arise from the unique social experiences that they have with each (Dunn, 1993; Lamb, 1997; McGuire & Shanahan, 2010). For example, Kaplan (1978) observed that “Fathers have a special excitement about them that babies find intriguing . . . an infant counts on his mother for rootedness and anchoring. He can count on his father to be just different enough. . . . Fathers embody a delicious mixture of familiarity and novelty . . . without being strange or

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frightening” (p. 138). Infant-father interactions are characterized by exuberant, emotionally animated physical play, which helps to account for infants’ excitement in their father’s presence (Lamb, 1997, 2010). These characteristics of many father-infant play interactions may foster infants’ ability to regulate their emotions, highlighting the importance of the father-child relationship in emotional development (Gottman, Katz, & Hooven, 1997; Morris, Silk, Steinberg, Myers, & Robinson, 2007). Father-infant interaction also may be particularly important in developing the capacity to engage in social relations with strangers (Ferber, 2010) and fostering socioemotional competence. Compared to mother-infant interactions, father-infant interactions show greater arousal and unpredictability that engages the stress response system and gives infants practice in co- and self-regulation of stress within the safety of the father-infant relationship. Experiencing episodes of positive stress is thought to be growth enhancing, affording the child practice in developing coping skills that may be used in interactions with strangers and others outside the boundaries of close relationships. Indeed, Ferber (2010) reported that toddlers’ social proficiency and co-regulation in interactions with their fathers (but not their mothers) predicted greater social engagement with strangers. At the same time, the quality of paternal behavior with infants appears to be important. For instance, research has shown that behavioral style (warmth, sensitivity) of paternal involvement in the early years is linked to positive outcomes for children, whereas amount of involvement is not (Easterbrooks & Goldberg, 1985; Lamb, 2010). Siblings also are unique, salient growth-promoting sources of infants’ social and emotional understanding, as young children carefully observe, interpret, and inquire about their sibling behavior (Conger & Kramer, 2010; Dunn, 1998, 2007). In fact, given the special nature of these relationships, sibling relationships may play a very important role in the emotional and social development of infants. Notable for their emotional intensity, sibling interactions provide ample opportunities for observing, experiencing, and interpreting both positive and negative emotions, which supports infants’ emerging perspective-taking and negotiation skills and early theory of mind (Dunn, 2007). Although sibling rivalry may be accompanied by intense competition and negative emotions, parents also state that siblings most often can induce positive mood in infants. Compared to infant-parent relationships, sibling relationships have unique features (e.g., competition, negative as well as positive emotions, conflict, role structure) that may serve as catalysts for developmental growth

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in infants’ social and emotional repertoire. In part, this may reflect the demands of sibling relationships, which may encourage infants to stretch emotionally in ways that relationships with parents or other adult caregivers do not (Conger & Kramer, 2010). Whereas the direct interactions between infants and their family members are recognized as important, far less attention has been devoted to the indirect effect of other relationships, in terms of both their influence on infant development and the ways in which they are influenced by a developing infant. For example, it is well-documented that positive marital relationships are associated with sensitive parent-infant interactions, and this is likely because marital harmony provides support for the sometimes-difficult tasks of parenting (Goldberg & Easterbrooks, 1984; Gottman et al., 1997). Conversely, marital conflict is associated with less optimal parent-infant interaction and infant adjustment (e.g., poorer emotion regulation, insecure attachment); and, young children’s responses to marital conflict may compromise the functioning of the marriage (Cummings & Davies, 1994; Schermerhorn, Cummings, DeCarlo, & Davies, 2007). The social ecology of infancy extends beyond the family, of course, to include interactions and relationships with adults and peers in out-of-home care and other venues. This means that early social and emotional development is shaped not only by the quality of relationships with family members but also by social congress with a range of partners of varying developmental status and characteristics who are encountered in numerous social contexts (Belsky et al., 2007; Hay, Caplan, & Nash, 2009; Howes, 1999), such as child care providers and peers. Zimmerman and McDonald (1995) reported, for example, that infant emotional availability was distinct with mothers than with other adult caregivers (e.g., fathers, day care providers). Findings from the NICHD Study of Early Child Care and Youth Development (Belsky et al., 2007) suggest that although parenting exerts stronger influences on children’s functioning than does child care, both qualitative and quantitative aspects of early child care may affect development in positive and negative ways (e.g., language development, teacher-reported externalizing behavior problems). Moreover, familial and nonfamilial relationships may have overlapping or independent influences on early psychosocial growth. Recognizing these patterns undermines any assumption that an infant’s social and emotional dispositions arise from social encounters with the mother alone, despite the primary emphasis of research on the mother-infant relationship or other close family

relationships. Indeed, understanding the unique, overlapping, or potentiating influences of different social partners and social contexts on early socioemotional growth is one of the significant research challenges in this field. Macro/Cultural Context All humans are biologically cultural (Rogoff, 2003). That is, sociomotional development is situated within particular cultural contexts that influence patterns of values, beliefs, and practices, both explicitly and implicitly. These practices are partially responsible for interesting cultural variations in infants’ social and emotional development, such as who will become their primary attachment figures, when peer interactions are thought to be appropriate, and how emotions are socialized. Cultural values define the needs and characteristics of infants, the roles and responsibilities of caregivers, and the goals of child development, which are based on the mature attributes that are consensually valued (see chapter by Mistry, Contreras, & Dutta in this volume). Mistry, Deshmukh, & Easterbrooks (2007) noted that three basic assumptions can be applied to the study of development in infancy: (1) individuals and their culture are inseparable (and mutually influential), (2) participation in “communities of practice” informs development, and (3) the developmental immaturity of infants across cultures organizes regular patterns of cultural variations and similarities in caregiving. Cultural beliefs and values guide the behavior of caregivers, family members, and others in the community with an interest in young children and, in doing so, shape the ecology of infant care (LeVine et al., 2008; New, 2001). For example, among the Efe, a small foraging community in the forests of the former Zaire, infants receive care from birth by many adults besides the mother, and this intense social contact leads to strong connections with many people in the small community, most of whom are biologically related (Morelli & Tronick, 1991). This cultural pattern of infant care not only ensures that young children are protected by accommodating to the wideranging foraging activities of men and women, but also incorporates nonparental adults into infant care and socializes infants into the intrinsically interactive, cooperative features of the community. Culture is not synonymous with nationality. Within the United States and other heterogeneous nations, multiple cultural communities exist with distinct beliefs, values, and practices related to the rearing, care, and behavior of young children. General cultural attitudes inform specific parental child-rearing beliefs, or ethno-theories, and

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practices (Small, 1998). One of the most important values related to the care and socialization of children that transcends specific national norms is the emphasis placed on the independence versus interdependence of infants with their caregivers and community (derived from Triandis’ 1995 distinction between individualist and collectivist cultures). The extent to which cultural values emphasize the socialization of independence or interdependence affects early socioemotional growth through its impact on infant care practices. In the United States, for example, the majority of infants sleep in their own beds, often in separate rooms from their parents within the first few months after birth. Moreover, parents in the United States are often very concerned about the establishment of reliable sleeping patterns and report a large number of sleeping problems in their offspring (Morelli, Rogoff, Oppenheim, & Goldsmith, 1992). In contrast, the majority of Japanese, African, and Mayan infants sleep with their mothers until toddlerhood; their sleeping patterns are determined by the sleeping rhythms of those around them and variations in infants’ sleep are not viewed as problematic (Small, 1998). In those contexts, infants who awaken are more easily and quickly comforted, fed, and returned to sleep (Harkness, 1980; Morelli et al., 1992). Similarly, the constant carrying of infants by mothers among the !Kung hunter-gatherers of the Kalahari desert permits reliable physical contact and regular feeding; infant fussing is responded to and soothed more quickly before it escalates (Barr, Bakeman, Konner, & Adamson, 1987; Hunziker & Barr, 1986). In contrast, in the United States, the cries of infants often escalate because soothing is delayed by the physical distance between infants and their mothers. In addition, caregivers, including mothers and child care providers, may wish to foster infants’ capacity for self-soothing (LeVine et al., 2008). Cultural emphasis on independence or interdependence also influences other aspects of mother-infant interaction, including feeding practices, verbal stimulation, and provision of play materials. In one comparative observational study of Puerto Rican mothers and U.S. mothers, Puerto Rican mothers were found to be more likely to restrain their infants, physically position them, and issue direct commands to them, each of which was consistent with a maternal emphasis on interdependence and beliefs about the infant’s need for guidance. In contrast, U.S. mothers offered more suggestions to and praised their offspring more than did Puerto Rican mothers (Harwood, Scholmerich, & Schulze, 2000). In another study, Japanese mothers responded in a more animated

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fashion when infants’ attention was directed toward them, whereas U.S. mothers were more responsive when infants were looking at objects rather than at them (Bornstein, Toda, Azuma, Tamis-LeMonda, & Ogino, 1990). These differences reflect the contrasting cultural values in the two groups; namely, Japanese values regarding the importance of establishing close mother-infant intimacy, and U.S. values regarding the importance of individualism and independence. Cultural differences in normative patterns of social interaction not only affect early social and emotional responding but also compel developmental scientists’ attention to the use of culturally sensitive assessments of early social interaction and relationships. Researchers cannot assume that caregiving practices and infant behavior that are normative for middle-class families in North America are standard worldwide, nor even within different cultural communities inside North America. Nor can they assume that the differences between cultures outweigh the cultural similarities. Thus, early socioemotional development must be viewed within the context of the specific cultural values and goals that guide childrearing practices within particular families. Recently, Bornstein and his colleagues (2010) examined “culture-common and community-specific” aspects of infant-mother emotional availability in three cultures countries: Argentina, Italy, and the United States. This study documented both culture-specific and variable patterns within and across cultures. The authors concluded that “adaptive emotional relationships appear to be a culturecommon characteristic of mother-infant dyads near the beginning of life, but this relational construct is moderated by a community-specific (country and regional) context” (p. 1). Even when cultural practices vary, there also may be some features (e.g., the importance of maternal sensitivity) that are universal across cultures. Similarly, the ways in which parenting behaviors are related to infant development may show relative consistency across cultural communities (e.g., maternal sensitivity predicting infant attachment; van IJzendoorn & Sagi-Schwartz, 2008). An important challenge to students of socioemotional development, therefore, is how to study broadly generalizable processes of social and emotional growth while respecting cultural differences in how these processes are realized (see, e.g., Rothbaum, Weisz, Pott, Miyake, & Morelli, 2000). Summary Taken together, the psychobiological context of infant development and the contexts of culture and relationships

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offer reminders that early socioemotional development occurs within a broader network of influences than that commonly portrayed by researchers. Although the majority of the research reviewed in this chapter focuses on developmental influences in the context of close relationships, these bonds do not develop in isolation. Rather, they are influenced by infants’ rapid neurobiological maturation, as well as by the values, beliefs, and practices of family and other members of the shared culture. These cultural and familial beliefs and practices about infancy often focus on infants’ emotions (e.g., the power of infant distress) and social behaviors (e.g., the social smile) and their emergent properties.

DEVELOPING EMOTIONS AND SOCIABILITY Emotions play a central role in social relationships in infancy. Indeed, emotions have been referred to as the language of infancy, and infants as “emotion detectors” (Campos, Barrett, Lamb, Goldsmith, & Stenberg, 1983; Tronick, 2001). Infants use their emotions to signal needs and desires; and emotions indicate evidence of emerging social discriminations (witness the power of the first “social smiles” of infancy). Increasingly during the early months, infants indicate their social preferences according to which partners can most readily evoke smiles and cooing, and in turn, adults become increasingly engaged in reciprocal social play with infants because of the animated, exuberant responses that they receive. Similarly, caregivers attune to the preemptory sound of their infants’ cries and the perceived hunger, pain, or startled fear they reflect. Yet the emotional lives of infants and caregivers consist of more than adult responsiveness to infant emotions. Constitutional aspects of temperament characterize interactions even in the earliest days, and infants’ developing sensitivity to the emotional expressions of others reflects an emerging understanding of people. In short, the study of “socioemotional” development reflects the degree to which the processes of social and emotional growth are interwoven. Temperament Temperamental individuality emerges and flourishes during infancy. The construct of temperament, the “how” of behavior, has eluded firm definition. Scientists enumerating the dimensions that comprise the domain of temperament have reported from three to nine dimensions

(Chess & Thomas, 1986; Rothbart & Bates, 2006) including, in one scheme, effortful control (e.g., attention and inhibitory control), negative affectivity (e.g., fear, frustration, sadness, soothability), and extraversion/surgency (e.g., affiliation, smiling & laughter, activity) (Rothbart, 2007). Some of the most distinctive temperamental attributes that characterize infants at birth are based on their emotional response tendencies, whether they concern mood, adaptability, soothability, or reactivity to stress or novelty. In general, most theorists agree that aspects of temperament involve biologically based, heritable response tendencies that manifest as qualitative differences among infants in emotionality, activity, attentional, and selfregulatory behavior that emerge early in life and are relatively stable across time and context (Kagan, 1998; Rothbart & Bates, 2006; see also chapter by Cummings, Braungart-Rieker, & Du Rocher Schudlich, 2004). Variations in temperament have implications for social interactions and relationships. Young children who are behaviorally inhibited (or high-reactive) when confronted with new people or situations, for example, are displaying a temperamental attribute that is emotional in quality (i.e., fearful), self-regulatory (i.e., withdrawn), and attentional (i.e., vigilant), with profound implications for the child’s social functioning (Kagan, 1998; Kagan & Snidman, 2004). In contrast, children who are behaviorally uninhibited (or low-reactive) in temperament tend to approach novel people and situations boldly and exuberantly, without fear. Such variations in reactivity and self-regulation are based on early-emerging differences in neuroendocrine functioning, the reactivity of subcortical or sympathetic nervous system structures, variability in parasympathetic regulation, and other nervous system processes (Rothbart & Bates, 2006). However, as we discuss below, there is a bidirectional relation between temperamental manifestations and the social environment. Temperament, Social Interactions, and Relationships Not only does temperament affect individuality in emotional expression, it also influences social relationships. A young child’s temperamental profile significantly influences social interactions in at least two ways. Temperamental qualities tend to evoke certain reactions from others (e.g., a temperamentally positive infant naturally elicits smiles and engages others, paving the way for the development of mutually satisfying relationships), and they shape children’s preferences for certain partners, settings, and activities (e.g., temperamentally uninhibited

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children tend to approach rather than retreat from unfamiliar social situations) (Kagan & Snidman, 2004). Thus, temperamental qualities influence social and emotional growth because they channel children’s early experiences in particular ways. This interactional stance implies that early socioemotional growth can be significantly affected by how well children’s temperamental profiles accord with the requirements of their social settings, a concept known as goodness of fit (e.g., Chess & Thomas, 1986). Temperamentally shy children are likely to be happier and become less withdrawn, for example, when their parents are tolerant and accommodating to their children’s need for greater support and time with new partners (Kagan & Snidman, 2004). Thus, parents of inhibited infants may want to invite a potential sitter into their home on several occasions while they remain at home before they leave their infant alone with the new caregiver. By contrast, even temperamentally easygoing children will have difficulty in settings where social demands are excessive and developmentally inappropriate. Because of this, variations in social experiences can considerably modify the behavioral manifestations of temperamental qualities that infants exhibit in the first weeks after birth. The interactions, or transactions, between children’s constitutional makeup and their social “surround” necessitate a more dynamic view of temperament than previously was recognized (e.g., Lerner, 2002). Indeed, research conducted during the past decade showed that children with varying temperamental styles are differentially susceptible to environmental influences. Kochanska and her colleagues (e.g., Kochanska, Aksan, & Joy, 2007), for example, reported how temperamentally fearful toddlers who received more supportive and encouraging parental discipline, rather than power assertive discipline, exhibited greater effortful control during challenging tasks, were more compliant, and were more advanced in aspects of their moral development. Results of a large study of Dutch 1- to 3-year-olds indicated that temperament moderated the relation between maternal discipline and externalizing behavior problems (van Zeijl et al., 2007). In this study, children with difficult temperaments were more susceptible to both negative and positive discipline than were children with easy temperaments. Belsky and colleagues (Belsky, 2005) have argued that children with difficult, or highly reactive, temperaments are more susceptible to both positive and negative environmental influences in general. Citing data from several different lines of research, Belsky and Pluess noted that young children who were highly fearful, difficult, or reactive

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showed greater sensitivity to aspects of the environment (conditions of either high stress or positive parenting or child care quality) than did children with low reactive, or less difficult temperaments. In light of this differential susceptibility to environmental influences, and in view of the remarkable psychobiological advances of the early years, it is perhaps unsurprising that temperamental characteristics in infancy are only modestly predictive of later temperament, or of other behavior in the years that follow (Rothbart & Bates, 2006). Stronger associations between temperament and later behavior are evident beyond the second birthday and particularly after the age of three (see review by Roberts & DelVecchio, 2000). This likely is the case because many of the neurobiological foundations of temperament, in dynamic transaction with familial and cultural influences, have consolidated after infancy (although some continue to mature throughout childhood). Further, while the biological bases of temperament may be universal across cultures, there are cultural differences in how temperament is expressed and the ways in which temperamental characteristics are related to developmental functioning (Rothbart, 2007). Measurement artifact also may partially explain the modest stability in measures of temperament from infancy to later childhood, given that it is more difficult to measure appropriate manifestations of temperament in the early years. The stronger continuity in temperament measures noted after infancy also may reflect advances in older children’s greater self-awareness, which likely includes perceptions of temperamental qualities and associated behavioral responses. Thus, infants’ temperamental qualities may not always foreshadow their adult personalities, although they are significant in shaping the quality of infants’ social interactions with others. Although temperamental qualities, in general, may not show strong stability from early infancy, certain aspects of temperament show greater continuity than do others. For example, research on the constellation of biological and behavioral factors comprising temperamental shyness or behavioral inhibition and the construct of temperamental difficulty demonstrates relatively greater continuity than is the case among other qualities (Kagan & Snidman, 2004). Behavioral inhibition, which is associated with a unique physiological pattern including high and stable heart rate, elevated baseline cortisol, right frontal electroencephalograph (EEG) activation, and negative emotional and motor reactivity to the unfamiliar (e.g., Calkins, Fox, & Marshall, 1996; Kagan, Reznick, & Snidman, 1987), has been identified early in infancy (see Kagan & Snidman, 2004).

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Some work shows that the extremes of inhibition, and the opposite end of the continuum, exuberance or uninhibited behavior, demonstrate considerable continuity from early infancy into toddlerhood and childhood (Fox et al., 2001; Kagan & Snidman, 2004). Despite this relative stability, there also is lawful discontinuity in the behavioral manifestations of this pattern, with more early-inhibited children later showing decreased inhibition than early lowreactive or uninhibited children moving toward behavioral inhibition. Multiple factors may be implicated by this pattern of findings. Culturally specific norms of desired behavior (e.g., positive affect, independence, sociability) may influence caregivers to socialize their infants’ behaviors toward the biosocial norm, which may affect infants’ expression of negative affect and behavioral manifestations of inhibition, or indeed expressions of positive emotionality. Kagan and Snidman (2004) noted that infants in their longitudinal study who were inhibited, or high reactive, might “evolve” into adolescents who manifest their fear and concern about social situations privately, stating that “temperament makes a more substantial contribution to feeling tone than to the public personality during adolescence and adulthood” (p. 218). Both family and nonfamily environmental factors may play an additional role in the development of strategies for coping with temperamental inhibition. Fox et al. (2001) reported that infants who became less inhibited over time had “significant” (in terms of quantity of hours) out-of-home care experiences during the first two years. It may be that experiences with multiple caregivers, peers, and environments contribute to decreases in behavioral inhibition; it also may be that differences in parent personality or child temperament affect families’ decisions regarding whether to place children in out-of-home care or to expose children to other contexts or experiences that would interact to alter manifestations of early temperament. The construct of “temperamental difficulty” (Chess & Thomas, 1986) or negative emotionality, also demonstrates some measure of continuity. Temperamental difficulty is a constellation of qualities that includes negative mood, frequent and intense negative emotional behavior, irregularity, poor adaptability, and demandingness. Temperamental difficulty also may exhibit cascade effects, impacting the development of the mechanisms necessary for effortful control of behavior (e.g., attention, inhibition) to create an escalating cycle of difficulty (Calkins & Degnan, 2006; Stifter & Spinrad, 2002). According to Stifter & Spinrad (2002), negative affect (excessive crying) in infancy can interfere with the development of self-regulation.

Some research links infant temperament with later behavior problems in childhood. Infants who fall at the extreme end of behavioral inhibition continuum may be more likely to develop later internalizing behavior problems, including panic disorder in adulthood (see Kagan & Snidman, 2004). Similarly, a considerable amount of research links early negative emotionality, or temperamental difficulty, to the development of externalizing behavior problems (see reviews by Eisenberg, Fabes, Guthrie, & Reisner, 2000; Rothbart & Bates, 2006), perhaps due to difficulties in emotion regulation. As was suggested by the research on temperamental inhibition, the interaction, or transaction, of temperamental characteristics and environmental characteristics aids prediction of long-term continuity or developmental adaptations. Difficult temperament in infancy is significantly more prognostic of later psychosocial difficulties because this constellation of characteristics is more likely to create and maintain problems in early social interactions, and to color many aspects of early experience, compared to other temperamental configurations (Rothbart, 2007; Rothbart & Bates, 2006). The Social Nature of Emotional Development Although emotions commonly are viewed as disorganizing, unregulated influences on infant behavior, emotions are both organizing and disorganizing (for infants as well as adults) (Lindquist & Barrett, 2008). Emotions can serve an alerting and coordinating role. Consider the stress response in which infants’ sympathetic nervous system is activated to energize active distress behaviors (e.g., full wakefulness, crying) that result in drawing their caregivers close to minister to their needs. Positive emotions also can be salutary for learning. The image of a 3-monthold in a raging, uncontrollable tantrum must be joined with the image of the same child who has been motivated to learn how to make a crib mobile spin because of the interest and pleasure it evokes. Even a toddler’s angry conflict with a parent or peer can motivate and organize new understanding of another’s thoughts, feelings, or motives (Brownell & Kopp, 2007; Thompson & Goodwin, 2007). Thus, emotions are an integral part of the fabric of complex relationships, not simply sensations to be regulated. Emotions, in fact, “are apt to be a sensitive barometer of early developmental functioning in the child-parent system” (Emde & Easterbrooks, 1985, p. 80). Most recent conceptualizations of early socioemotional development place the social nature of emotions as a centerpiece of early development.

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Face-to-Face Social Interaction An important early social context in which the organizing influence of emotions is apparent is face-to-face social interaction with an adult partner. En face social interactions occur frequently during routine caregiving activities such as feeding, diapering, or bathing, and (especially for Western parent-infant dyads) during social play. This type of social play typically involves short but intense episodes of focused interaction between an infant and an adult in which each partner entertains the other with smiling, vocalizing, animated facial expressions, and other social initiatives and responses. Such interactions fuel a mutualreward system for both partners, and a primary goal of this activity is the establishment and maintenance of wellcoordinated exchanges that elicit mutual pleasure. Parent-infant en face social interactions become prominent by the time infants are 2 to 3 months of age, when they are more capable of sustained alertness and display preferential responses to familiar people. Typically, they continue to be prevalent until about 6 or 7 months of age. During the latter half of the first year, however, “triadic” (infant-adult-object) interactions and more active kinds of infant-parent exchanges become more prevalent, made possible by advances in infants’ attentional, intersubjectivity, and representational skills (Mundy & Newell, 2007; Trevarthen & Aitken, 2001, see also chapter by Columbo et al., this volume), and the onset of independent locomotion (Campos et al., 2000). According to the Mutual Regulation Model, infants and their caregivers form a dyadic communication system during en face social interactions in which they coregulate their interactions by responding moment-to-moment to each other’s affective and behavioral displays (Beeghly & Tronick, 1994; Tronick, 1989; see also Beebe et al., 2010). In early work, en face social interactions were described as a well-coordinated, highly synchronous “dance” between parent and infant, one characterized by a high proportion of shared positive affect and low levels of negative affect (Brazelton, Koslowski, & Main, 1974; Stern, 1985). Subsequent microanalytic research, however, has not supported this view (Tronick, 1989). Synchronous exchanges during en face interactions occur only about 30% of the time or less (Gianino & Tronick, 1988). Moreover, en face parent-infant interactions move rapidly from coordinated states of matching positive affect to miscoordinated, asynchronous states, and back to matching states, via an active dyadic reparatory process (Tronick, 1989; Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). In many cases, these dyadic “missteps” are repaired quickly, and likely elicit “positive stress,” which may promote the growth of infants’ self-regulatory skills

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and socioemotional competence. In one study, motherinfant mismatches were repaired 70% of the time in the next interactive step, with new reparations occurring about every 3 to 5 seconds (Gianino & Tronick, 1988). Characteristically, infants tend to exhibit negative affect, dysregulation, and disengagement during periods of dyadic mismatching, and positive affect and social engagement during periods of dyadic matching (Tronick, 1989). When dyadic mismatches are repaired quickly, they are thought to be growth-promoting for infants. During dyadic reparations, infants gain experience in managing their emotional arousal. They also learn the “rules” of communication with specific adult partners, preferred interactive tempo and intensity, and new ways of converting negative emotional states to neutral or positive ones (Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). These short interactive mismatches allow infants to develop self-regulatory skills—ways of expressing negative affect without becoming disorganized, and ways of remaining in the interaction even when there are bumps in the road. Moreover, developing a successful reparatory history with a specific person during repeated interactive exchanges (e.g., everyday caregiving routines, social play) leads to an implicit preverbal “knowing” by infants that “we can repair mismatches” (Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). In turn, this contributes to infants’ emerging mental representations of self-efficacy and basic trust (Brazelton, 1992; Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). On the other hand, prolonged disruptions in affective communication in which repair or re-regulation does not take place have been linked to the development of disorganized attachment behavior and representations (Lyons-Ruth, Bronfman, & Parsons, 1999) and to disruptions in children’s emotional availability in childhood (Easterbrooks, Bureau, & Lyons-Ruth, in press). Not all dyads are equally skilled at repairing interactive mismatches. The success or failure of their mutual regulation during social interaction depends on how clearly and effectively each partner is able to signal his or her own meaning and intent, as well as to perceive and understand the other’s meaning and intent (Beeghly, Fuentes, Liu, Delonis, & Tronick, 2011). Four reciprocal processes affect the quality of infant-parent communicative processes: (1) infants’ ability to self-organize and control their physiological states and behavior; (2) the integrity and maturation of sensorimotor, attentional, and social emotional elements of infants’ communicative system (e.g., gaze shifting, affective displays, gestures); (3) parents’ ability to apprehend and correctly interpret their infant’s communications; and (4) parents’ capacity and motivation to respond to their infant contingently and appropriately in

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order to facilitate their infant’s regulatory efforts (Beeghly et al., 2011). Even very young infants have a repertoire of behaviors (e.g., gaze-shifting, reaching, vocalizing, touching, crying) and homeostatic mechanisms (e.g., psychobiological stress systems) that help them self-regulate and signal emotional states to their social partners (Braungart-Rieker & Stifter, 1996; Fox & Calkins, 2003; see also chapter by Hostinar and Gunnar, this volume). New research suggests that infant-caregiver dyads mutually regulate physiological processes, such as vagal tone, during social interactions and that this mutual regulation is linked to longer periods of dyadic positive engagement and may also mediate the relations between parenting style and changes in infants’ self regulation across development (see Propper and Moore, 2006, for a review). Face-to-face interactions, therefore, provide opportunities that support emergent skills and behaviors, under the watchful eye of the caregiver. Initially, adults take the lead in these interactions by scaffolding their initiatives in accordance with their infants’ tolerance for excitement and coping skills (Kaye, 1982). With increasing age, infants’ self-regulatory skills improve and extend, and they rely less on crying, fussing, and self-soothing to achieve their goals (Braungart-Rieker & Stifter, 1996; Raikes, Robinson, Bradley, Raikes, & Ayoub, 2007). For instance, older infants are better able to use selective attentional processes (e.g., gaze avoidance) to limit negative arousal from novel persons or distressing situations (Raikes et al, 2007), and with the onset of independent locomotion, they can also physically move away from stressful stimuli (Campos et al., 2000). Moreover, with increasing representational capacities, older infants and toddlers can communicate their needs and intentions to caregivers more clearly using gestures or words (Bretherton & Beeghly, 1982; Cicchetti, 1996). They also begin to internalize and develop mental representations of their social experiences and relationships with caregivers, as well as their own sense of agency and self-efficacy with others. Gradually, these mental representations come to act as superordinate regulators of their emotional and attentional states and increasingly influence how they cope with stressful situations, regulate emotions, and respond to others (Bretherton & Munholland, 2008). When these self- and dyadic- regulatory mechanisms function well, infants are able to engage the world of people and things effectively, and over time these active transactions contribute to positive developmental outcomes (Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). Difficulty in establishing or maintaining mutual regulation can undermine infants’ self-regulatory capacities. Dysregulated infants must use

their energy to self-regulate and achieve physiological homeostasis; consequently, they spend less time exploring the social and object worlds. When dysregulation is chronic, problems in mutual regulation can undermine the parent-infant relationship (e.g., positive affect sharing and attachment) (Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). Although the regulatory capacities of infants and toddlers are impressive, young children cannot maintain stable states of positive engagement on their own for sustained periods of time and must rely on caregivers for additional regulatory support (Beeghly et al., 2011; Bernier, Carlson, & Whipple, 2010; Lindsey, Cremeens, Colwell, & Caldera, 2009). Sensitive caregivers can help infants regulate attention and emotions by adjusting their own behaviors contingent upon their infants’ changing communicative displays. However, in order to apprehend, interpret, and respond appropriately to their infants, they must be able to regulate their own attentional and emotional states effectively, which in turn are affected by factors both within the interaction (e.g., the infant’s level of arousal and dysregulation) as well as those that are more longstanding (e.g., their own mood and depressive symptomatology). Thus, infantcaregiver mutual regulation of social interaction is the most critical component of the young child’s regulatory system (Beeghly et al., 2011). Assessment of En Face Interactions Research using the still-face paradigm (Tronick, Als, Adamson, Wise, & Brazelton, 1978) illustrates both how infants respond to episodes of unresponsive caregiving, as well as the processes by which parents and infants repair dyadic mismatches (see Adamson & Frick, 2003; Mesman, van IJzendoorn, & Bakersmans-Kranenburg, 2009, for reviews). The traditional still-face paradigm consists of three successive en face episodes progressing from (1) “typical” play, followed by (2) caregiver “stillface” (unresponsive, not touching, talking, or interacting), and then (3) “reunion” (resumption of normal social interaction). Infants typically respond to their caregiver’s still-face with a robust set of affective and behavioral responses known as “the still-face effect” (Adamson & Frick, 2003). In their meta-analytic review, Mesman et al. (2009) showed that infants’ positive affect and social engagement with the mother during the first play episode decreases markedly during the still-face, and their negative affect and gaze aversion increases (Mesman et al., 2009). Infants typically respond with social elicitations that are quickly followed by sobering and gaze aversion, followed by repeated attempts to re-engage the mother. When the still-faced

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mother continues to be unresponsive, infants are likely to engage in more intense displays of withdrawal, negative affect, and self-comforting behavior, and may exhibit autonomic stress indicators and/or loss of postural control (Cohn & Tronick, 1983; Tronick & Beeghly, 2011). These behavioral indicators are mirrored at a physiological level, for instance with a decrease in respiratory sinus arrhythmia (RSA) and increase in cortisol (Moore & Calkins, 2004; Moore et al., 2009). Infants also may show a “reunion effect” (see Mesman et al., 2009, for a review). Specifically, infants exhibit a carry-over of negative affect and gaze aversion from the still-face, but also a rebound of positive affect and social engagement, reflecting the renewed regulatory support from the caregiver. Despite these general patterns, individual differences in both maternal and infant behavior are marked. For example, maternal sensitivity during the first episode is associated with subsequent infant positive and negative affect (Mesman et al., 2009). In turn, infants’ positive affect during the still-face episode is linked to attachment security at one year of age (Mesman et al., 2009). Summary Taken together, these behaviors suggest that even within the first 6 months after birth, infants are learning about the behavioral propensities of others and the rules of social interaction, and they are developing a rudimentary awareness of their own efficacy in evoking responses from other people. Infants also are developing expectations and rudimentary representations of the quality and reliability of their caregivers’ responses and, especially, in the efficacy of the dyad’s ability to repair interactive errors (“mismatches”). These early social expectations also shape emotional responding, because an awareness of the contingency between one’s actions and another’s responses is a highly reliable elicitor of positive emotions (e.g., smiling and laughter) and can contribute to the alleviation of distress (Watson, 1979). Consequently, infants’ early experiences during face-to-face play and the relief of distress contribute significantly to their social expectations and positive emotional responses to caregivers, which, in turn, set the stage for the development of attachment relationships. THE GROWTH OF MEANING, RECIPROCITY, AND REGULATION IN EMOTIONAL DEVELOPMENT Throughout the first year, infants develop an increasingly acute sensitivity to the emotions of others as they

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are expressed in vocal intonation, facial expression, and other behavior. Because these various modes of emotional expression typically co-occur during social interactions, infants have many opportunities to learn about the behavioral propensities of someone with, say, an angry vocal tone, or the facial expressions that accompany the sound of laughter. An awareness of the emotions of others in circumstances that evoke emotion in the infants themselves contributes to a growing realization that other people, like themselves, are subjective human entities. Recent research on mirror neurons (Iacoboni, 2005; Rizzolatti, 2005) may help to explain this phenomenon of empathic intersubjectivity and the links between emotional responsiveness, imitation, and empathy. Later in the first year, the growth of self-produced locomotion (e.g., crawling, creeping, and walking) introduces new challenges to parent-infant interaction and infants’ socioemotional growth (Biringen, Emde, Campos, & Appelbaum, 1995; Witherington, Campos, Harriger, Bryan, & Margett, 2007). On the one hand, the onset of self-produced locomotion changes infants themselves, who, with the capacity to move independently, also become more capable of goal attainment, as well as of wandering away from the parent, acting in a dangerous or disapproved manner, and experiencing the varieties of emotion and feelings of self-efficacy that these activities inspire. Parents commonly report that this developmental transition is accompanied by increases in their children’s expressions of affection as well as anger and frustration, and children also become more adept at monitoring the parents’ whereabouts (Campos et al., 2000). At the same time, infants’ self-produced locomotion also changes parents, who must now more actively monitor their children’s activity, using prohibitions and sanctions and expecting greater compliance to their requests. The testing of wills that ensues from self-produced locomotion not only is a challenge to the emotional quality of the parent-child relationship, but also provides a catalyst to infants’ early realization that others may have different goals and mental states from their own. Other watershed developmental advances co-occur with the onset of self-locomotion. By 9 to 10 months of age, infants have a dawning awareness of the mental states of others (secondary intersubjectivity) (Trevarthen & Aitken, 2001), which they begin to display in various ways. For example, they strive to achieve joint visual attention with those with whom they are communicating, and their protocommunicative acts (e.g., gestures, vocal appeals) and imitative activity each increase in frequency and sophistication. Taken together, infants, during the second half of the first year, are beginning to understand that others are

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intentional agents with potentially shared subjective orientations toward objects and events that are worth understanding. This emerging psychological understanding changes how they interact with others and their interpretations of why people act as they do; it also alters how people respond to infants and their behavior (Bretherton & Beeghly, 1982; Tomasello & Carpenter, 2007). In turn, infants’ increased attention to the goal-directed actions of others in the latter half of the first year foreshadows the emergence of metacognitive skills such as a theory of mind in early childhood (Aschersleben, Hofer, & Jovanovic, 2008).

(Stipek, 1995). In these ways, infants’ emerging awareness of subjectivity in others, as well as their interest in understanding these mental states, transforms their social understanding and self-awareness. Because social and emotional capabilities develop in concert, these emerging capacities are mutually influential. Emotional connections to familiar people provide a foundation for developing attachments and social understanding, and early social experiences cause the generalized emotional systems of early infancy to become more discretely and functionally organized (Saarni, 2010; Saarni et al., 1998).

Social Referencing Another reflection of infants’ growing realization that others have mental states is the emergence of social referencing. When confronted with ambiguous or novel events, objects, or persons, infants begin to reference the emotional expressions of significant others to help them decide how to feel or act (Campos & Stenberg, 1981; Saarni, Mumme, & Campos, 1998). A caregiver’s reassuring smile makes infants more likely to approach the event or person, whereas a caregiver’s fearful facial expression and other behaviors causes infants to be less likely to approach and more likely to withdraw. This is similar to the way in which adults take their cues from others nearby when responding to unexpected or uncertain situations. The apprehension of others’ negative emotions, in particular, conveys salient messages to infants that are encoded in the brain for later retrieval in similar situations (Carver & Vaccaro, 2007). Social referencing is important for socioemotional development, because it indicates that infants are competent at obtaining and enlisting emotional information from others into their own responses to events, and it reflects infants’ growing awareness of accessible subjective states in others. During the second year, social referencing permits toddlers to compare their own evaluation of events with those of others, enabling them to begin to understand conflicting, as well as shared, mental states. Somewhat later, social referencing becomes an important avenue for conscience development as behavioral standards are conveyed through the parent’s nonverbal affective reaction to approved or disapproved activity. These reactions may be apprehended by toddlers even prior to their acting in a disapproved way, such as when toddlers watch their parent’s face carefully while reaching for a forbidden object (Emde & Buchsbaum, 1990; Emde, Johnson, & Easterbrooks, 1987). Social referencing can also promote feelings of pride and self-confidence (e.g., when children consult their parent’s approving expressions after succeeding at a difficult task)

Emotion Regulation The interwoven nature of social and emotional development also is reflected in how emotions become enlisted into social competence. One way this occurs is through the growth of emotion regulation skills (Gross & Thompson, 2007; Thompson, 1994). Gross and Thompson (2007) described five processes of emotion regulation: (a) situation selection, (b) situation modification, (c) attentional deployment, (d) cognitive change, and (e) response modification. Each process changes across the course of development. Although the emotion regulation of young children is always reliant on caregiver support, certain processes shift from being more reliant on caregiver support to being more under children’s own control. Early in infancy, caregivers assume the prominent role in managing the emotions of offspring. They do so by directly intervening to soothe or pacify their child, as well as by regulating the emotional demands of familiar settings like home or child care (e.g., by creating predictable routines), attempting to alter how their infant or toddler construes an emotionally arousing experience (e.g., by smiling reassuringly when a friendly but unfamiliar adult approaches), and later by actively coaching young children on the expectations or strategies of emotion management. Moreover, young children’s emotion regulation is supported by the security or confidence that they derive from their relationships with caregivers, as illustrated by infants’ anticipatory soothing to the sound of their caregiver’s approach or voice. Ainsworth and colleagues (Ainsworth, Blehar, Waters, & Wall, 1978) noted that the same infants whose mothers were more contingently responsive to their distress in the early months of life were less likely to cry in the latter part of the first year, and more likely to rely on other, more positive, modes of communication. Infants and toddlers who can anticipate reassurance from the arrival of their caregivers learn that, with their caregivers’

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assistance, emotions are neither uncontrollable nor unmanageable (Cassidy, 1994; DeCorcia & Tronick, 2011; Nachmias, Gunnar, Mangelsdorf, Parritz, & Buss, 1996). Even young infants are developing rudimentary means of managing their own emotions. As we described earlier, during experiences of “positive stress”—for example, while hungry infants wait to be fed, or during affective mismatches occurring in face-to-face play—caregivers provide opportunities for infants to “try out” different coping strategies, leaving just the “right amount” of time for the infant to practice self-regulatory behaviors before stepping in with assistance (Thompson & Meyer, 2007). Young children increasingly appreciate that they can manage emotions by making active efforts to avoid or ignore emotionally arousing situations, such as gaze aversion or locomoting away from the situation (Braungart & Stifter, 1991; Calkins & Johnson, 1998; Kopp, 2009). These emotion regulatory skills are built on slowly maturing brain regions (e.g., frontal lobes) that contribute to young children’s increasing capacities to engage in effortful control, inhibit impulsivity, and to engage in rule-governed behavior (Diamond, Werker, & Lalonde, 1994; Rothbart, Posner, & Boylan, 1990). Moreover, individual differences in temperamental inhibitory control emerge early, are scaffolded by parenting, and are related to later conscience development (Kochanska, Murray, & Coy, 1997). Not surprisingly, therefore, the growth of emotion regulation is part of a constellation of developing capabilities that emerge in a relational context and are associated with the growth of social competence and behavioral self-control. Moreover, the experience of successful emotional and behavioral regulation (coping) with daily stressors experienced in ordinary caregiving contexts contributes to the increasingly independent regulation of infants’ stress reactivity (Hane & Fox, 2006) and their “regulatory resilience” (DiCorcia & Tronick, 2011).

(Shaw, Keenan, & Vondra, 1994; see Eisenberg, Hofer, & Vaughan, 2007 for a review.) These difficulties are rightfully conceptualized as relationship problems rather than as individual difficulties (Zeanah & Boris, 2000), reminiscent of Winnicott’s (1960) maxim that no infants exist outside a social system. The presence of clear disturbances in emotion regulation during infancy and the toddler years is a reminder of the importance of establishing effective relationships with others, which in turn foster children’s social and emotional competencies and are foundational for psychosocial health in the years that follow.

Summary

The Emergent Self

Caregivers assume a significant role in supporting the development of infants’ emotion regulation, which fosters infants’ ability to enlist their emotions constructively to accomplish social goals (Calkins & Hill, 2007; DeCorcia & Tronick, 2011; Hane & Fox, 2006; Saarni, 1999, 2010). Unfortunately, some children with temperamental vulnerability experience poor caregiver support, which puts them at double jeopardy for developing emotionrelated difficulties in the early years, including problems related to sad, depressed affect (Cicchetti & SchneiderRosen, 1986), anxious fear, and angry behavioral problems

Stern (1985) defined the emergent self as infants’ presymbolic perception of self-sameness over time in states of arousal, behavior, and feelings. Even late-term fetuses appear to have a rudimentary awareness of their bodies stemming from intermodal sensory inputs and their own movements in the womb. Using 4D-ultrasound, MyowaYamakoshi and Takeshita (2006) observed that late-term fetuses open their mouths in anticipation of meeting their own hand as it moves toward their mouth. Following birth, newborns continue to exhibit a rudimentary sense of self-awareness and self-familiarity stemming from their

DEVELOPMENTS IN SELF AND SOCIAL UNDERSTANDING Infants do not develop and elaborate an understanding of themselves, of others in their social networks, and of the interactions and relationships between them in a vacuum. Rather, they do so through the repeated experience of expressing emotions of pleasure and distress in relational contexts, such as during social interactions with caregivers and others that nurture and amplify positive emotions and down-regulate negative emotions, and via observations of others’ emotions through social referencing. Young infants are more aware of themselves and others than was previously thought, and the increasing complexity of their self-awareness reflects their expanding psychological sophistication (Thompson, 2010). Several conceptual and organizational approaches to self development have been proposed (e.g., Fogel, 1993, 2011; Neisser, 1991; Stern, 1985), each using different terminologies to describe phases or aspects of the development of understanding of self and other. We refer, here, to these phases or aspects of the self as emergent, ecological, subjective, existential, and categorical.

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repeated experiences of these intermodal bodily sensations and feelings (Fogel, 2011; Rochat, 2003). Rochat and Hespos (1997) observed that newborns exhibit a stronger rooting reflex in response to an adult’s finger stroking their cheek than to self-stimulation, which suggests they are able to differentiate their own from others’ touch. As infants increasingly watch and feel their limbs move, hear and feel themselves cry or vocalize, and feel their own and others’ touch, their awareness that their own body is separate from other bodies and objects in the environment grows and is elaborated. The Ecological Self Related to the description of the emergent self, early in infancy, babies begin to exhibit an ecological self —that is, a more elaborated sense of self in relation to the environment, the ability to recognize one’s own movements, and to distinguish one’s feelings and movements from those of others (Fogel, 1993; Neisser, 1991; Stern, 1985). Four basic aspects of the ecological self have been proposed, based on research in infant perception and cognition: self-agency (sense of the relationship between one’s action and its effect on the environment), selfcoherence (sense of being a whole physical entity with boundaries and limitations, such as touching versus being touched), self-affectivity (sense of one’s emotions as experienced in the company of another feeling person, and selfhistory (sense of enduring, of acting and feeling similarly with familiar people or in familiar situations (see Fogel, 2011, for a review). Results of one study (Rochat, 1998) using a habituation-novelty paradigm in which researchers presented 3-month-old infants with paired video images of the infants’ own kicking legs viewed from different perspectives demonstrate this knowledge. Infants looked longer at images that were unexpected (novel), suggesting that they have a sense of their body as a distinct entity. An important, but often neglected, component of the ecological self (and illustration of the inseparability of self-other development) stems from infants’ participation in co-regulated social interactions with others (Feldman, 2003). This social experience gives the infants information about the self in relation to other persons, which supports a growing sense of intersubjectivity (Trevarthen & Aitken, 2001). Notably, the quality of this intersubjectivity is specific to different social partners (e.g., mother, father, daycare providers) and contributes to infants’ emerging meaning-making about themselves, their caregivers, and their specific dyadic relationships (Tronick & Beeghly, 2011).

The Subjective Self As infants mature developmentally, their ecological self expands as they combine and integrate the repeated experiences of their own intermodal bodily perceptions, their own and others’ emotional expressions and vocalizations, and their growing history of social interactions with others. These advances culminate in the onset of the capacity for secondary intersubjectivity during the second half of the first year (Trevarthen & Aitken, 2001). Infants now exhibit a subjective self (Stern, 1985), and engage in intentional communication, such as using gestures (i.e., pointing or showing) to share experiences and make requests. They also increasingly engage in triadic (infant-object-adult) forms of social interactions, or joint attention (Mundy & Newell, 2007). During episodes of joint attention, for instance, infants respond to changes in adults’ direction of gaze, and learn that their own goals and intentions do not necessarily match those of others. Adults also follow their infants’ line of vision and comment on what their infants see, and the infants learn the self can be the focus of others’ intentions and emotional reactions. Such experiences of “shared intentionality” are thought to provide a foundation for language learning, cooperative/prosocial behavior, and cognitive development (Landry, Smith, & Swank, 2006; Nichols, Fox, & Mundy, 2005; Tomasello & Carpenter, 2007). From 12 to 18 months, toddlers’ expressions of the subjective self continue to grow and elaborate, and they become increasingly more active in expressing themselves. Around this time, toddlers begin to engage in pretend play, which portrays actions and experiences in real life. They also begin to imitate increasingly complex sequences of adults’ actions (e.g., Daddy’s actions and vocalizations while talking on the phone). In addition to looking to others for positive affirmation, they begin to exhibit selfaffirming behaviors (mastery pride), such as smiling and clapping, after successfully accomplishing tasks. Toddlers also begin to “play with” their growing understanding of others’ feelings, intentions, and expectations by engaging in teasing or coy behavior. Results from this body of research have practical implications, in that caregivers can use toddlers’ ability to engage in social referencing and to understand the intentionality of others to teach them how they wish them to react in everyday situations. The Existential Self By 18 months, most infants have made significant progress toward integrating these diverse self-experiences and forming a representational image of the self, which can be

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distinguished from other people (Fogel, 2011). An early manifestation of this self-awareness is children’s reactions to their mirror images (visual self-recognition). As toddlers become increasingly aware of their own physical features, they may act coy, embarrassed, or playful when placed in front of a mirror (Bullock & Lutkenhaus, 1990). Although visual self-recognition is often considered to be a primary indicator of toddlers’ self-representations (“me”) (Lewis, 2010), this may pertain primarily to infants in Western societies with access to mirrors (Rogoff, 2003), and may reflect, in part, the relative presence of parental contingency behavior in various societies (Keller, Kartner, Borke, Yovsi, & Kleis, 2005). Mental Representations of Self and Other During the second year and beyond, toddlers use their burgeoning symbolic skills to represent their growing understanding of self and others in language and symbolic play (Beeghly, 1998; Tamis-LeMonda, Shannon, Cabrera, & Lamb, 2004; Tamis-LeMonda & Song, this volume). Language also is used by toddlers to assert their competence, independence, and responsibility as autonomous agents by insisting on “doing it myself” (Bullock & Lutkenhaus, 1990; Stipek, Gralinski, & Kopp, 1990; Tamis-LeMonda & Song, this volume). This may go along with the emergence and prominence of “social emotions,” such as pride, shame, and guilt, during this developmental period (Mascolo & Fischer, 2007). By 24 months, toddlers begin to label their own and others’ internal states (feelings, perceptions, volitions, physiological states, and cognitions), and by 30 months, toddlers can discuss the causes and consequences of these internal states with caregivers (Bretherton & Beeghly, 1982). When children are taught nonverbal signs for their first feelings and intentions, these capacities emerge somewhat earlier (Goodwyn, Acredolo, & Brown, 2000; Vallotton, 2008). Also by the end of the second year, most toddlers can describe age and sex differences (“that’s a baby,” “I’m a big girl”), self-competencies (“I can’t,” ‘I am smart”), and pronounce moral judgments (“Daddy was mean to Mommy,” “me a good girl”) (Bretherton & Beeghly, 1982; Stipek, Gralinski, & Kopp, 1990), indicating categorical thinking. Although their social categories are still limited, toddlers increasingly use them to organize their behavior. Ruble and colleagues showed that toddlers who could label their own gender (Ruble, Martin, & Berenbaum, 2006) and had greater knowledge of gender categories (Zosuls et al., 2009) were more likely to exhibit gender-stereotyped toy

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preferences and play (e.g., boys chose to play with trucks and cars; girls with dolls and tea sets) compared to toddlers who could not yet label their own gender. Social Aspects of the Development of Self, Conscience, and Self-Concept Caregivers, older siblings, and other family members do much to support toddlers’ developmental advances in self and social awareness. By labeling and describing the internal states of their children, themselves, and toys during joint pretend play, by elaborating the child’s utterances, and by asking questions about the causes and consequences of internal states, more developmentally mature individuals scaffold infants’ developments (Beeghly, Bretherton, & Mervis, 1986). Both a history of sensitive caregiving and more time spent in caregiver-child joint attention activities such as shared play during infancy are linked to more advanced self development during toddlerhood and early childhood. For instance, in longitudinal research Feldman and Greenbaum (1997) showed that greater mother-infant synchrony and attunement in early infancy independently predicted more mother-toddler internal state talk and greater symbolic competence during toddlerhood. Nichols, Fox, and Mundy (2005) showed that 18-month-olds who engaged in joint attention activities more often with their caregivers were more advanced in visual self-recognition in the rouge paradigm (i.e., an experiment in which a dot of rouge is placed on the nose of an infant who is observing his or her reflection in a mirror; the infant’s visual self-recognition ability is inferred from the infant touching his or her nose) (Lewis & Brooks-Gunn, 1979). In other research, infants with a history of secure attachment exhibited greater knowledge of their own, and their parents’, physical features, as manifested in body part labeling, and more complex selfrelated actions during pretend play (Pipp, Easterbrooks, & Brown, 1993; Pipp-Siegel, Easterbrooks, Brown, & Harmon, 1995). In contrast, toddlers with a history of child maltreatment (especially those with insecure attachment) were less likely to describe the internal states of self and others during mother-child free play, compared to nonmaltreated toddlers (Beeghly & Cicchetti, 1994; Coster, Gersten, Beeghly, & Cicchetti, 1989). Young children’s emergent self- and social awareness contributes to other aspects of their development, such as their effortful control , or ability to inhibit impulses, to focus and shift attention, and to manage negative emotions and behavior in socially acceptable ways (Rothbart, 2003; Rothbart & Bates, 2006), as described earlier. Both selfawareness and effortful control play an important role in

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young children’s ability to comply with their caregivers. Although toddlers often assert their autonomy by resisting their caregivers’ directives, compliance is actually the more common response (Kochanska, Murray, & Harlan, 2000), suggesting that toddlers are beginning to internalize their caregivers’ directives as their own. Notably, there are striking individual differences in compliance during toddlerhood, which are associated with both temperamental characteristics and the quality of caregiving the child received during the first two years of life. In longitudinal research by Kochanska, Aksan, and Carlson (2005), 7-month-olds who were prone to distress and anger, yet who had gentle, responsive mothers, grew into toddlers who eagerly complied with their caregivers. In contrast, anger-prone infants who had harsh, insensitive mothers became uncooperative, defiant toddlers. Toddlers’ willingness to cooperate with their parents also stems from secure attachment relationships, combined with toddlers’ emerging capacities for self control (Lindsey et al., 2009) and a developing sensitivity to the violation of behavioral standards (Kagan, 1984). These emergent capacities transact dynamically and are foundational to children’s later conscience development in early childhood as young children increasingly internalize or resist the expectations of parents (Emde et al., 1987; Kochanska, Aksan, Knaack, & Rhines, 2004; Kochanska, Koenig, Barry, Kim, & Yoon, 2010). The emotional repertoire of infancy also expands considerably during toddlerhood to include self-referential emotions like pride, guilt, shame, and embarrassment that reflect the young child’s growing awareness of, and sensitivity to, the evaluations of others (Lewis, 1993; Tangney & Fischer, 1995). And with their burgeoning understanding of the mental and emotional states of others, young children begin to enlist this more extensive emotional repertoire in more competent social interaction, whether this consists of negotiating with parents, teasing a sibling, or achieving personally meaningful goals (e.g., being able to play with a new toy after dinner).

RELATIONSHIPS: THE DEVELOPMENT OF ATTACHMENTS Freud (1940/1963) described the infant-mother relationship as “unique, without parallel, established unalterably for a whole lifetime as the first and strongest loveobject and as the prototype of all later love-relations” (p. 45). Although the typical conditions of early care in

Western cultures have changed significantly since Freud’s day (i.e., fathers, childcare providers, babysitters, and extended family members now share infant care with mothers), Freud’s famous assertion draws attention to the importance of the initial attachments infants develop to their caregivers and to their potentially enduring significance. Erikson (1950), too, emphasized how infants’ relationships with their mothers are a primary source of “basic trust” that fosters later competence in developmental tasks. An attachment can be described as an enduring affectional bond that unites two or more people across time and context, and the development of attachment relationships between infants and their caregivers is one of the hallmarks of early socioemotional growth (Ainsworth et al., 1978; Bowlby, 1969/1982). Attachment is, by its very nature, a relational construct. While the language that we use to describe attachment relationships may characterize an attachment as “belonging to” an individual, Bowlby (1969, 1973, 1982) theorized that attachments were a result of a mutual regulatory processes established between parents and infants that emerge from the time of birth, and are rooted in evolutionary history. According to this view, infant-caregiver attachments are evolutionarily advantageous because they ensure the survival of the young of the species and promote the family lineage (Simpson & Belsky, 2008). For instance, when distressed or fearful, infants are biologically “wired” to cry or to seek proximity with caregivers, and these attachment behaviors are effective in keeping caregivers close. In turn, biologically based caregiving behaviors (e.g., soothing, comforting, holding) complement infants’ attachment behaviors. The dyadic regulation of negative emotions figures prominently in the formation and quality of attachment, since the balance between infants’ exploratory and fear-wariness behavioral systems shifts toward attachment behaviors under conditions of fear, stress, or perceived danger (Cassidy, 2008). Developmental Aspects of Attachments Except in highly unusual conditions of extreme neglect and deprivation (DeKlyen & Greenberg, 2008), virtually all infants develop close emotional ties to those who care for them. These initial attachments are as biologically basic to infants as are learning to crawl and talk; they have been crucial to the protection, nurturance, and development of infants throughout human evolution (Gould, 1977). Bowlby (1969/1982) placed special emphasis on the role of distress-relief sequences as key contexts for

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the development of attachments, with attachment behaviors eliciting caregivers’ proximity and care for their vulnerable, dependent infants. Attachment theorists believe that these mutually regulatory infant-caregiver behaviors address two fundamental needs of infants (see Ainsworth et al., 1978; Cassidy & Shaver, 2008). First, a caregiver’s support reduces a young child’s fear, distress, or anxiety in novel or challenging situations and enables the child to manage negative emotions and return to exploring the world with confidence (Ainsworth et al., 1978). This is commonly reflected in secure base behavior, by which infants maintain reassuring psychological contact with the caregiver (through looks and smiles from a distance and occasionally returning to the adult for affection) while exploring and playing. Second, caregivers’ sensitive and prompt responding to their infant’s needs and signals strengthens children’s sense of competence and efficacy, especially in obtaining assistance from others. Attachment relationships begin to develop very early on and become consolidated between 6 and 12 months of age as infants become gradually aware of the psychological qualities of other people, acquire expectations for their behavior, and develop trust in certain caregivers upon whom they rely for this kind of assistance and support (Ainsworth et al., 1978). The term internal working models (Bowlby, 1969/1982) refers to the mental representations that infants form about the self, other people, relationships, and the world that influence affect, cognition, and behavior. Individual Differences in Attachments Although the vast majority of infants become attached to their caregivers, not all attachments exhibit characteristics that attachment theorists define as “secure” (Ainsworth et al., 1978). The markers of a secure attachment include infants’ confident exploration and secure base behavior in the caregiver’s company, as well as the ability to be readily soothed when upset or fearful. Although the majority of infants in all cultures studied to date exhibit secure attachment, a minority of infants develop attachments that reflect uncertainty or distrust regarding the responsiveness of the parent, childcare provider, or other caregiver. Infants with these insecure attachments are not so easily soothed by their caregivers; they may continue to express anger, fear, sadness, or bland affect in the presence of their attachment figure, and their exploratory play may be better characterized either by lack of affect sharing

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with the caregiver or by anxious dependency on the adult (Ainsworth et al., 1978; Thompson, 1998). An insecure attachment is not, however, equivalent to the absence of attachment. Even young children who are uncertain about the caregiver’s nurturance derive important emotional support from the caregiver’s presence that is not gained from the company of someone to whom the child had no attachment at all. Even so, attachment relationships characterized by insecurity provide young children with a weaker psychological foundation for the growth of social competence, emotion management, and self-other understanding than do secure attachments (Berlin, Cassidy, & Appleyard, 2008; Thompson, 2008). On the other hand, organized insecure attachments characterized by avoidance or ambivalence do not, of necessity, presage or accompany the development of psychopathology. All attachments are best conceptualized as adaptations to particular caregiving circumstances; however, sometimes these particular adaptations become maladaptive outside of the particular relationship. There is “suggestive but inconclusive” evidence linking “avoidant attachment and later externalizing problems and between ambivalent attachments and internalizing disorders” (DeKlyen & Greenberg, 2008, p. 656). Stronger evidence exists for the claim that disorganized attachments (where children lack a coherent strategy for accessing and utilizing caregiver support in the face of stressors) are a “potent risk factor for disorder” (p. 657). Lyons-Ruth and Jacobvitz (2008) stated that “disorganized attachment behavior is one of the few predictors of later psychopathology that have been identified as early as infancy” (p. 689). As DeKlyen and Greenberg noted in their review of the relations between attachment and psychopathology, however, insecure attachments are “unlikely to be either a necessary or a sufficient cause of later disorder” (p. 657). This may be due, in part, to links between disorganized attachments and high-risk environmental conditions that themselves are associated with later psychopathology (DeKlyen & Greenberg, 2008; Dozier, Stovall-McClough, & Albus, 2008; Lyons-Ruth & Jacobvitz, 2008; MacDonald et al., 2008; Sroufe, 1997). Given the importance of secure attachment, it is critical to ascertain what characteristics of care contribute to its creation. Ethological attachment theory states that, while human infants are biologically predisposed to display behaviors that promote the development of specific attachment bonds, variation in aspects of the caregiving environment, particularly caregiver sensitive responsiveness to infant distress signals, fosters individual differences in

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the quality of these relationships (Bowlby, 1969/1982). Although variations in child temperament may sometimes be influential, a key determinant of whether infants develop secure or insecure attachment is the caregiver’s sensitivity to infants’ needs and intentions during the first year of life (DeWolff & van IJzendoorn, 1997; Thompson, 1998). Sensitivity can be described as responding promptly and appropriately to infants and being available to help distressed infants soothe and self-regulate. The word “appropriately” is key here, because the quickest response is not necessarily the most sensitive, particularly beyond early infancy. Appropriate timing of sensitive responsiveness allows older infants opportunities to develop competent self-regulation of emotions and coping strategies. Sensitive responding thus addresses the two fundamental needs of the infant described earlier: It helps to manage children’s distress, which allows infants to return to confident exploration, and it consolidates young children’s sense of efficacy, both in the self and in soliciting the support of others, and the expectation of an effective response. Sensitive care—and its opposite, whether conceptualized as unresponsiveness, uninvolvement, rejection, or psychological unavailability—is influenced by many features of caregivers’ life experiences (see Weinfield, Sroufe, Egeland, & Carlson, 2008, for a review). The amount and nature of social stress and support that caregivers experience; caregivers’ personality and childhood history, including their own attachment relationships; competing demands, beliefs, and values; and many other factors can influence the sensitivity shown to young children at any moment (Easterbrooks & Graham, 1999; Fonagy, Steele, & Steele, 1991; Holden, 1995). Moreover, this capacity to respond sensitively and contingently to infants also is affected by the psychosocial well-being of caregivers, which may be undermined by the presence of parental depression or other forms of mental illness (Bureau, Easterbrooks, & LyonsRuth, 2009; Seifer & Dickstein, 1993). In turn, infants’ own characteristics, such as temperamental difficulty, the presence of developmental delay, or other qualities, can also influence how caregiver sensitivity is expressed in the relationship with the infant (e.g., Brazelton et al., 1974; Dozier & Rutter, 2008). Thus, sensitivity and attachment are best conceptualized as dyadic constructs embedded in a unique sociocultural context (Beeghly et al., 2011). Variations in caregiver sensitivity can also affect infants’ perceptions of their caregivers’ responsiveness, their internal working models (Bretherton & Munholland, 2008; Seifer, Schiller, Sameroff, Resnick, & Riordan,

1996; van den Boom, 1989). In addition to general sensitivity, specific caregiver behaviors have been identified as critical in attachment formation, particularly with regard to disorganized attachments (Lyons-Ruth, Bronfman, & Parsons, 1999). Specifically, maternal negative affect (e.g., hostility, withdrawal, dissociation) and related dyadic affective communication errors are particularly salient. Some of this work draws parallels to the research on en face interactions described earlier. Disrupted affective communication, especially when it is prolonged, is highly problematic, not only for the development of positive coping strategies and emotion regulation, but also for attachment formation. In addition to behavioral manifestations of sensitive responsiveness, caregivers’ own mental states, or representations (“internal working models”), influence the character of young children’s attachments (Bretherton & Munholland, 2008). Adults’ “state of mind with respect to attachment” (Main, Kaplan, & Cassidy, 1985) may be communicated through multiple channels (voice, face, gesture) that convey attitudes, cognitions, and beliefs about attachments as havens of security, as sources of pain, confusion, and conflict, or as unimportant. Other mental representations that are related to adults’ states of mind regarding attachment, such as “mind-mindedness” (Meins et al., 2002), “reflective functioning” (Slade, 2005), and “insightfulness” (Oppenheim & Koren-Karie, 2002), include variations in the ability to take the child’s point of view, and to recognize and reflect on internal states. Taken together, caregivers’ mental representations and behaviors communicate important information about emotions, particularly negative emotions (e.g., tolerance levels, regulatory strategies), about relationships (e.g., reciprocity, mutuality), and about self-efficacy or agency. Recent research has show how variations in children’s caregiving environments interact with their genetic potential to influence child–caregiver attachments. For example, Bakermans-Kranenburg, and van IJzendoorn (2006) found that infants with the DRD4 7-repeat gene polymorphism, which is associated with impulsive, hyperactive behavior in children, were more likely to develop insecure-disorganized attachment when they were raised by mothers who showed negative parenting characteristics. Similar results with polymorphisms of the serotonin transporter gene (5-HTTLPR), which has been associated with negative emotionality and undercontrol, have also been reported (Barry, Kochanska, & Philibert, 2008). These studies point to the interaction of “nature and nurture” in the development of attachment security.

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Multiple Attachment Relationships The idea that attachment is universal across cultural contexts has received broad empirical support (see review by van IJzendoorn & Sagi-Schwartz, 2008). Yet culture does put its imprimatur on specific aspects of attachment with respect to adaptations to particular cultural niches. This includes particular configurations of attachment behaviors that, in one context, may be considered atypical or insecure, but in another context may be considered normative in promoting particular adaptations (van IJzendoorn & SagiSchwartz, 2008). An oft-reported cultural variation is that of multiple attachments. Infants develop amid a network of relationships, including those with nonparental caregivers, relatives, siblings, age-mates, and neighbors. Although understudied, nonparental individuals often serve care and protective roles, contexts for the development of attachments. Indeed, Bowlby (1969) noted that in the “environment of evolutionary adaptedness” multiple caregivers and attachments would be considered normative. Similarly, in typical conditions of contemporary care, infants develop attachments to many caregivers, including mothers and fathers at home, childcare providers, preschool teachers, and sometimes also grandparents and other adults (Berlin & Cassidy, 1999; Howes, 1999). Howes and Spieker (2008) pointed out that multiple caregiving (with the potential for multiple attachments) has been the norm historically for “families outside the dominant culture (particularly people of color, immigrant families, and families living close to poverty”) (p. 317). Having multiple attachment figures likely provides an evolutionary advantage in many contexts, as attachments serve to protect the young from danger and foster open exploration of the environment, both external and internal. Scientists in Western societies have had a “love affair” with the idea of the primacy of maternal love and attachments, which may have stifled a full recognition of the adaptive advantages of nonmaternal attachments, and of having multiple attachment figures. Infants’ attachments with each of these caregivers are unique and can be either secure or insecure based on the history of their experiences with that caregiver, and largely independent of the security of their relationships with the other people who care for them. Attachments with multiple people (e.g., two parents) also may be similar in security category, however (e.g., secure, avoidant, resistant); concordance in attachment relationships often is related to shared childrearing practices and attitudes and to temperamental (e.g., goodness of fit) contributions to attachment (van IJzendoorn & DeWolff, 1997).

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Although secure attachments with multiple figures are optimal, research suggests that a secure attachment to just one may be sufficient to support healthy psychosocial growth, even if relationships with others are insecure. Early socioemotional development is, in short, affected by a variety of relationships, not just the mother-infant bond, although in most societies the mother-infant relationship remains most prominent, and predictive, for most children (Easterbrooks & Goldberg, 1990; Main, Hesse, & Kaplan, 2005; NICHD Early Child Care Research Network, 1997; Suess, Grossman, & Sroufe, 1992). Issues of Stability and Continuity in Attachments Relationships are not static. They change and grow in concert with the developing child and the changing social contexts in which children live. Parents and the quality of care that they provide also change over time. This means that the security of an attachment can change over time in lawful ways; that is, when changes occur in the caregiver’s sensitivity, in family circumstances, or for other reasons (Thompson, 1998). Changes in attachment security occur because of common changes in family circumstances, such as alterations in childcare arrangements, the birth of a new sibling, or family stress (like marital discord), which cause a reorganization of familiar patterns of interaction with caregivers that may lead caregivers to become more (or less) sensitively responsive (Grossman, Grossman, & Waters, 2005; Sroufe, Coffino, & Carlson, 2010; Weinfield, Sroufe, & Egeland, 2000). In fact, changes in caregiving contexts are predictably associated with changes in attachment (either toward or away from security, depending on the nature of the changes). For example, when depressed mothers receive treatment or acquire social supports that are associated with remission of the depression, their behavior with their children often becomes more sensitive, and a child’s insecure attachment may move toward security. Children with an insecure attachment in infancy, therefore, may later have opportunities to develop greater confidence in the same caregiver. Similarly, children who begin with a secure attachment are not safeguarded against the possibility of developing later insecure attachments if the caregiving context changes in ways that promote caregiver insensitivity. At the same time, research suggests that the quality of early infant-caregiver bonds may exert a more potent influence than those formed later in childhood (Shonkoff et al., 2009; Sroufe, Egeland, & Kreutzer, 1990). There is no guarantee, then, that the quality of child– caregiver attachments will remain stable over time, or

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that the influence of early attachment security will endure, unless that environmental caregiving support and ensuing security are maintained in the years that follow via the continuing sensitivity of parental care and a supportive developmental context (Thompson, 2008). Therefore, one of the most important long-term consequences of a secure attachment in infancy is that it inaugurates a positive relationship with a caregiver that heightens the child’s receptiveness to the adult and that supports, but does not ensure, continuing parental sensitivity (Kochanska & Thompson, 1997). If this positive relationship is maintained over time, it contributes to the development of mutual trust and responsiveness between parent and child and “working models” of self and other that promote children’s sense of selfefficacy and motivation to accept and adopt the parent’s instruction, guidance, and values. Such a relationship provides not only a secure base for confident exploration in infancy but also support in early childhood for a young child’s emerging conscience and sense of moral responsibility, emotional understanding, positive sense of self, and motivation to achieve (Kochanska et al., 2004; Kochanska & Thompson, 1997). In short, a secure attachment in infancy is important because it reflects a positive parentchild relationship and inaugurates processes of trust and mutual positive regard that can support healthy socioemotional growth in the years that follow (Erikson, 1950). Indeed, research has shown that secure attachment in infancy predicts later socioemotional competencies (see Berlin et al., 2008; and Thompson, 2008 for reviews). Children with secure attachments to parents (typically mothers) develop more positive, supportive relationships with peers, teachers, neighbors, friends, camp counselors, and others whom they come to know well. Their positive social skills and friendly approach to those with whom they develop new relationships seem to evoke closer friendships with others. There is also evidence that securely attached infants have stronger social skills in their initial encounters with unfamiliar adults, perhaps because they generalize the positive sociability that they acquire in their relationships with caregivers. Attachment relationships are important because of how they influence young children’s emergent understandings of who they are and of what other people are like. Secure or insecure attachments are associated with a child’s developing conceptions of self, others, and relationships that constitute some of their earliest representations of the social world (Bretherton & Munholland, 2008). Securely attached infants, for example, have a more complex and sophisticated understanding of themselves and their mothers compared to insecurely attached infants

(Pipp, Easterbrooks, & Harmon, 1992; Toth, Rogosch, Sturge-Apple, & Cicchetti, 2009). In early childhood, when representations of self and the social world begin to develop more fully, the influence of secure attachments on the “self” becomes more apparent (Thompson, 2000). Securely attached young children have more positive views of the self (Cassidy, 1988; Verschueren & Marcoen, 1999), a more easily accessed or balanced self-concept (Cassidy, 1988; Easterbrooks & Abeles, 2000), a richer and more flexible lexicon for describing internal states of self and other (Beeghly & Cicchetti, 1994), a more sophisticated grasp of emotion (Laible & Thompson, 1998), more positive understandings of friendship (Kerns, 1996), and more advanced conscience development (Kochanska & Thompson, 1997) compared with insecurely attached young children. Attachment theorists argue that this arises not only because of the continuing influences of sensitive parental care but also because attachment security provides important lessons about what self and others are like in close relationships, including how rewarding or painful these relationships might be. Positive notions lend confidence in the self and guide young children’s understanding and expectations in their encounters with new relational partners (Sroufe & Fleeson, 1986). Summary The body of research on attachment that we just summarized adds credence to traditional views, expressed in Freud’s famous maxim, and echoed by Erikson’s model of the genesis of basic trust, that infant-caregiver relationships have enduring effects on children’s psychosocial development. Especially when the caregiver sensitivity that initially led to a secure attachment is maintained into early childhood, attachment security contributes to the growth of a positive orientation toward others, emotional and moral awareness, and self-understanding that are crucial aspects of healthy psychological development. However, dynamic changes can occur that promote or undermine the quality of caregiving and thus attachment security. This reminds us that the effects of early attachment are provisional; that is, they are contingent on the enduring quality of these relationships in the years to come. Moreover, early attachment does not solely determine the course of children’s later socioemotional growth and is only one of many biopsychosocial factors that influence the trajectories of children’s early psychological development in dynamic and complex ways. This means that, in order to understand the course of early development, it is important to take a developmental

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contextualist view (Lerner, 2002) and to consider, along with attachment security, other influences on children’s socioemotional growth (e.g., temperamental attributes, biological characteristics, the parent’s stresses and supports, the marital relationship, the demands or opportunities associated with socioeconomic status, and other influences). On the other hand, security of attachment is important to consider in and of itself, not only for its direct influences on early socioemotional development, but also because it may be an important intervening variable, either buffering or potentiating the impact of risk factors on children’s healthy biopsychosocial growth.

CONCLUSIONS The close of infancy and the beginning of early childhood bring remarkable advances in psychological growth that arise, in part, from the flourishing of emotion expression and regulation, attachments, self- and social-awareness, and representational capacities that evolve in the context of supportive relationships. Socioemotional development in infancy reflects the confluence and interplay of biopsychosocial elements—of genetic potentials expressed as they interact with the particular environmental niches of individuals, families, and cultures. In this chapter, we have discussed how emotions and their regulation are essential components of human functioning that are critical to the survival of the individual and the species. As infants develop, emotional expressions become better-organized and -regulated, in part as a result of caregivers’ supportive ministrations. Attachment relationships, a hallmark of socioemotional development in infancy, develop and consolidate, and are influenced (both positively and negatively) by the emotional lives of caregivers and infants. Illustrating the intertwining of infant socioemotional development and the social contexts that provide the frame for development, we also discussed the variable nature of stressful experiences. “Positive” stressful experiences may be growth-promoting by giving infants practice in developing and using coping strategies that enhance adaptive emotion regulation. This is the case when stressors are experienced in the context of a supportive caregiving context (for example, one that promotes secure attachments). In contrast, the absence of a supportive caregiving relationship may lead to “toxic stress” that hampers, or stunts, adaptive emotional growth. Social relationships, then, are at the center of emotional growth. These relations, of course, are bidirectional. Emotional characteristics of infants, manifest in temperament, also

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influence social relationship, both evoking reactions from others and shaping infants’ preferences. In this way, infants with various temperamental profiles show differential susceptibility to environmental influences. Hand-in-hand with the development of emotion expression and regulation are remarkable developments in infants’ understanding of themselves and others. Across the developmental course of the infant and toddler years, young children become increasingly capable of understanding their own, and others’, emotions, engaging in intentional communication and sharing intentionality with others, and the workings of relationships. Gradually, then, they interact with others in ways that take into account the perspectives, emotions, and intentions of other people. Throughout this period, young children’s close relationships with caregivers remain central to the growth of these representational working models through the warmth and sensitivity of adult care and the extent to which adults are thoughtful and reflective about their emerging toddlers’ experiences, intentions, and goals. When caregivers exuberantly applaud their child’s accomplishments, focus their young child’s attention on the consequences of misbehavior, acknowledge shared intentions, work to repair affective mismatches, or talk to their child about emotions, they act as relational catalysts, fostering their child’s socioemotional growth and helping to refine their child’s representations of who they are, what other people are like, and how relationships are negotiated. During the past several decades, we have witnessed an explosion of interest in infancy, within both scientific and popular milieu. Technological advances in understanding the development and functioning of the fetal and infant brain have gone hand in hand with public engagement campaigns highlighting the importance of the early years of life for fostering children’s positive social and emotional, as well as cognitive, development. This period of early child development has enjoyed currency in major media outlets and among politicians and entertainers. The market is filled with infant products (e.g., toys, videos, music, smartphone applications) extolling the amazing skills of infants, each aimed at convincing caregivers about the value of making their babies “more stimulated,” “smarter,” or “better attached.” In a chapter written for an earlier edition of this handbook (Thompson, Easterbrooks, & Padilla-Walker, 2003) we encouraged researchers and academics to tackle the “so what?” question (Brady, Jacobs, & Lerner, 2002) and consider how best to translate advances in the scientific knowledge base about early social and emotional development into policies and practices that promote young children’s

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positive development (e.g., secure attachments, emotional competence, curiosity, self-confidence, cooperation, and conflict resolution). We end this chapter with a call to renew and expand our commitment to applying our science toward enhancing the lives of children, their families, and their communities.

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van IJzendoorn, M. H., & Sagi-Schwartz, A. (2008). Cross-cultural patterns of attachment: Universal and contextual dimensions. In J. Cassidy & P. R. Shaver (Eds.), Handbook of attachment (2nd ed., pp. 880–905). New York, NY: Guilford Press. van Zeijl, J., Mesman, J., Stolk, M. N., Alink, L. R. A., van IJzendoorn, M. H., Bakermans-Kranenburg, M. J., Juffer, F., & Koot, H. M. (2007). Differential susceptibility to discipline: The moderating effect of child temperament on the association between maternal discipline and early childhood externalizing problems. Journal of Family Psychology, 21 (4), 626–636. Verschueren, K., & Marcoen, A. (1999). Representation of self and socioemotional competence in kindergarteners: Differentials and combined effects of attachment to mother and to father. Child Development, 70, 183–201. Wadhwa, P. D., Glynn, L., Hobel, C. J., Garite, T. J., Porto, M., ChiczDeMet, A., Wiglesworth, A., & Sandman, C. A. (2002). Behavioral perinatology: Biobehavioral processes in human fetal development. Regulatory Peptides, 108, 149–157. Watson, J. S. (1979). Perception of contingency as a determinant of social responsiveness. In E. B. Thoman (Ed.), Origins of the infant’s social responsiveness (pp. 33–64). Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Weinfield, N., Sroufe, L. A., & Egeland, B. (2000). Attachment from infancy to young adulthood in a high risk sample: Continuity, discontinuity, and their correlates. Child Development, 71, 695–702. Weinfield, N., Sroufe, L. A., Egeland, B., & Carlson, E. (2008). Individual differences in infant-caregiver attachment: Conceptual and empirical aspects of security. In J. Cassidy & P. R. Shaver (Eds.), Handbook of attachment (pp. 78–101). New York, NY: Guilford Press. Winberg, J. (2005). Mother and newborn baby: Mutual regulation of physiology and behavior—A selective review. Developmental Psychobiology, 47 (3), 217–229. Winnicott, D. W. (1960). The theory of the parent-infant relationship. International Journal of Psychoanalysis, 41, 585–595. Witherington, D. C., Campos, J. J., Harriger, J. A., Bryan, C., & Margett, T. E. (2007). Emotion and its development in infancy. In J. G. Bremner & T. D. Wachs (Eds.), Handbook of Infant Development (2nd ed., Vol. 1, pp. 427–464). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley-Blackwell. Zeanah, C. H., & Boris, N. W., (2000). Disturbances and disorders of attachment in early childhood. In. C. H. Zeanah (Ed.), Handbook of infant mental health (2nd ed., pp. 353–368). New York, NY: Guilford Press. Zeanah, C. H., Zeanah, P. D., & Stewart, L. K. (1990). Parents’ constructions of their infants’ personalities before and after birth: A descriptive study. Child Psychiatry and Human Development, 20, 191–206. Zimmerman, L., & McDonald, L. (1995). Emotional availability in infants’ relationships with multiple caregivers. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 65, 147–152. Zosuls, K. M., Ruble, D. N., Tamis-LeMonda, C. S., Shrout, P. E., Bornstein, M. H., & Greulich, F. K. (2009). The acquisition of gender labels in infancy: Implications for gender-typed play. Developmental Psychology, 45 (3), 688–701.

CHAPTER 5

The Developmental Psychobiology of Stress and Emotion in Childhood CAMELIA E. HOSTINAR AND MEGAN R. GUNNAR

THE PSYCHOBIOLOGY OF STRESS 122 PSYCHOBIOLOGICAL STUDIES OF STRESS AND EMOTION IN CHILDREN 126

CONCLUSIONS 136 REFERENCES 136

There is increasing evidence that childhood adversity exposes individuals to an elevated risk of physical and mental health conditions and that these deleterious effects are mediated, at least in part, by the activity of biological stress systems (Shonkoff, Boyce, & McEwen, 2009). Thus, there are important societal and public policy implications for studying stress and emotion in childhood with the goal of ultimately promoting stress resilience through well-designed interventions (Gunnar, Fisher, & The Early Experience, Stress, and Prevention Network, 2006). Advancing this goal requires moving beyond correlational studies of early life stress and maladaptive biobehavioral outcomes in adulthood. For instance, findings in human epigenetics have begun to shed light on some of the mechanisms through which early life experiences become biologically embedded (Meaney, 2010). Discovering evidence that early caregiving experience is associated with the epigenetic regulation of gene expression provides support for the hypothesis that early life stress has programming effects on the organism, shaping its future psychological and physiological reactivity, and thus its vulnerability to physical and mental illness. While these advances brought about by the genomic era have suggested new biological mechanisms for the interplay between genes and environmental inputs, stress research has yet to fully explain pervasive individual differences in stress reactivity (Gunnar & Quevedo, 2007). It is an empirical reality that some individuals succumb while others thrive when confronted with similar challenges. Explaining these individual differences forms the core of developmental research on stress. The previous

edition of this chapter (Gunnar & Davis, 2003) reviewed research that attempted to explain these individual differences by studying temperament (constitutional differences in stress reactivity) or the role of early experience (e.g., attachment history), as well as studies that were beginning to examine the interaction between the two (Nachmias, Gunnar, Mangelsdorf, Parritz, & Buss, 1996). In the past decade, the focus on temperament as a set of behavioral predispositions with putative constitutional bases has morphed to include an increased attention to genetic polymorphisms that may confer heightened susceptibility to developmental context resulting in increased vulnerability in harsh contexts (Caspi, Hariri, Holmes, Uher, & Moffitt, 2010) or better functioning in supportive ones (Belsky & Pluess, 2009). Research on the relationship between the quality of early care and later stress reactivity has continued to grow, garnering an ever-growing evidence base from animal models (Sanchez, 2006) as well as from human studies (van der Vegt, van der Ende, Kirschbaum, Verhulst, & Tiemeier, 2009). Newer investigations are also beginning to examine the interactions between genetic variants and early caregiving experience that may predict later stress reactivity (e.g., Luijk et al., 2010). Gene-by-environment studies often point to statistical interactions, but the challenge for the field will be to create developmental models that incorporate the functional activity of genes and deconstruct environmental influences into their relevant components in order to capture bidirectional causal interactions between genes and environment. The developmental psychobiological systems perspective (Gottlieb, Wahlsten, & Lickliter, 1998) 121

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outlined in the previous edition of this chapter remains pertinent; indeed, it is the only framework that accurately captures the dynamic, self-organizing nature of biological systems. Stress neurobiology is a prime example of these constant self-organizational efforts that aim to maintain homeostasis and sustain life by mobilizing resources to respond to acute challenges (Dallman, 2007). The functioning of stress systems also illustrates the principle that the history of the organism constantly impinges on its current ability to function and adapt. However, past exposure to stress has complex, nonlinear relationships with current responses (Sapolsky, 2003), which makes predictions based on the organism’s history a challenge. On one hand, chronic exposure to stress has deleterious consequences at multiple levels of functioning that result in wear and tear across biological systems–a phenomenon called “allostatic load” (McEwen, 2008). On the other hand, ever since Levine’s landmark studies of early handling in rat pups (Levine, 1957), it has also become evident that exposure to mild stress can enhance regulation of stress-sensitive physiological systems and decrease fearfulness. The question thus becomes: under what conditions (intrinsic or extrinsic to the organism) does stress exposure induce vulnerability, and when does it promote resilience? The developmental timing and the duration of stress exposure, as well as the interactions between experience and the genetic characteristics of the organism are likely to be equally important determinants of an individual’s stress response (Lupien, McEwen, Gunnar, & Heim, 2009). Context and the availability of coping resources (whether internal or external –e.g., social support) are also likely to play a decisive role in determining the magnitude and nature of the current stress response, as well as recovery from it. In this chapter we review what is known about the developmental neurobiology of stress systems, aiming to articulate the current state of our knowledge on some of the factors that foster stress vulnerability or resilience. We begin with an overview of the anatomy and physiology of stress systems and some of their complex interconnections. This is followed by a discussion of what is known about the ontogeny of these systems and about the way individual differences in the activity of these systems might emerge. We will review research findings related to temperamental, genetic, and caregiving factors that have been associated with stress indices. We conclude with some thoughts about the need for basic research examining the development of stress systems at multiple levels of analysis, hopefully informing a comprehensive, biologically plausible model of stress and emotion across the

lifespan. We begin, however, with a general discussion of the concept of stress as it is used in the psychobiological literature.

THE PSYCHOBIOLOGY OF STRESS Stress is sometimes defined as a “real or interpreted threat to the physiological or psychological integrity of an individual that results in physiological and/or behavioral responses” (McEwen, 2000, p. 508), while others use the term to refer to the subjective experience or biological responses to the threatening situation. As Levine (2005) eloquently discussed, there are three types of constructs that are usually subsumed by the concept: the inputs (i.e., the challenges), the systems that process them, and the outputs or responses. To distinguish between these three potential connotations of the term, we will refer to events that trigger stress reactions as stressors (similar to Selye, 1975), and the outputs of this cascade will be called stress responses. We will refer to the biological and psychological systems that process the challenging inputs as stress mediators or simply stress systems. Stress results when the demands of internal or external events exceed immediately available resources. These demands can be very diverse, ranging from temperature challenges, to infections, to real or perceived psychological threats. Despite the nonspecific nature of agents that can trigger a stress response (Selye, 1936), different biological pathways have been identified for two major classes of stressors: systemic stressors involve a physical change in functioning that threatens viability and activates stress biology via spinal cord or brainstem reflexes, whereas processive/psychogenic stressors recruit forebrain processing and elaboration (Herman et al., 2003). Within each major class of stressors, different pathways converging on the paraventricular nucleus of the hypothalamus can be further differentiated. Despite these recent nuances, Hans Selye’s first description of the General Adaptation Syndrome (Selye, 1936) is still relevant, postulating three stages to each stress response: alarm, resistance, and exhaustion. It must be emphasized that acute stressors that challenge the organism but do not persist sufficiently to cause exhaustion can sometimes be beneficial. The relationship between stress level and overall functioning has been described as an inverted U-shape curve, where medium-level stimulation is optimal (Sapolsky, 2003). These nonlinear effects are rooted in the neurobiology of stress and its control and feedback systems, which will be described in more detail below.

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The stress response is multifaceted, encompassing neuroendocrine, autonomic, immune, and metabolic changes (Lupien et al., 2009). Stress responses executed by each of these systems interact in a dynamic fashion, allowing the organism to adapt to challenges and restore homeostasis. However, the integrated nature of these systems also guarantees that chronic challenges to the organism will have widespread effects across multiple domains, making it difficult to isolate any single causal process. The challenge of understanding the interactions between neuroendocrine, autonomic, immune, and metabolic systems will only be met by adopting a systems framework (Gottlieb et al., 1998) that acknowledges the complex, nonlinear, and self-organizing nature of biological systems. However, complex multicausal models will not be possible without a deeper understanding of the role played by each system in the stress response. Thus, in this section we review the anatomy and physiology of the limbichypothalamic-pituitary-adrenocortical (L-HPA) axis and the sympathetic-adrenomedullary (SAM) system, as the primary orchestrators of the mammalian stress response, followed by a discussion of the impact of limbic and frontal brain regions on the activity of these systems. We will not review the immune and metabolic changes associated with psychological stress here, as they are beyond the scope of this chapter, but recent reviews provide a useful introduction to these topics (for relations between stress, immunity and health, see Glaser & Kiecolt-Glaser, 2005; Miller, Chen, & Cole, 2009; for links between stress and metabolism, see Dallman, 2010; Holmes, Ekkekakis, & Eisenmann, 2010). The Limbic-Hypothalamic-Pituitary-Adrenocortical (L-HPA) System The detection of threat triggers a neurohormonal cascade that results in the secretion of glucocorticoids (GCs; cortisol in humans, corticosterone in rodents) through the activation of the limbic-hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis. Neurons in the medial parvocellular region of the paraventricular nuclei of the hypothalamus (PVN) secrete corticotrophin-releasing hormone (CRH) and arginine vasopressin (AVP) into the hypophyseal portal system, traveling to the anterior pituitary and causing the release of adrenocorticotropic hormone (ACTH) into the general circulation (Gunnar & Vazquez, 2006). ACTH subsequently binds to its receptors in the cortex of the adrenal glands, leading to the release of GCs. Circulating hormones bind to receptors distributed throughout the brain and the body, and also exert negative feedback inhibition at multiple

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levels of the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenocortical (HPA) axis (Cone, Low, Elmquist, & Cameron, 2003). Additionally, current evidence also suggests that negative feedback involves GC receptors in other areas outside the HPA axis, including but not limited to the prefrontal cortex and limbic structures like the hippocampus and amygdala (Oitzl, Champagne, van der Veen, & de Kloet, 2009). We will discuss the role of these limbic and cortical areas in more detail in a subsequent section on Limbic and Cortical Regulation. The interconnections between limbic regions and the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis are what led the field to sometimes refer to it as the “limbichypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis” to emphasize the important role played by these structures in its activation or inhibition. We preserve this nomenclature here. Once the GCs bind to their receptors, the activated receptors then enter the nucleus of the cell, where they regulate the transcription of genes with GC-responsive regions, ultimately leading to protein synthesis (Sapolsky, Romero, & Munck, 2000). This genomic pathway adds a significant lag to the effects of glucocorticoids, ranging from 20 minutes to hours and days, but recent evidence shows that GCs can also exert rapid nongenomic effects—e.g., increasing the cellular excitability in some hippocampal cells (Jo¨els, 2008). Furthermore, some studies indicate that GCs can exert fast negative feedback on the HPA axis through nongenomic mechanisms, which can occur instantaneously or with a very short latency after endogenous GC exposure (Evanson, Tasker, Hill, Hillard, & Herman, 2010). This is likely mediated by endocannabinoid signaling at the level of the PVN (Evanson et al., 2010). Activating the HPA axis has widespread effects throughout the body, including a mobilization of energy to muscles, enhanced cardiovascular tone, a stimulation of immune function, inhibition of reproductive physiology, decreased feeding and appetite, sharpened cognition, and increased local cerebral glucose utilization (Sapolsky et al., 2000). It must be noted that GCs are not only produced in response to stressors, but are released in pulses across the day to ensure basal levels of hormones that are necessary for energy, motivation, and optimal functioning overall. Both excessive and deficient basal levels of glucocorticoids can impair behavioral and physical functions, potentially leading to pathological conditions (Chrousos, 2009). The release of basal GCs follows a circadian clock, with higher levels in the morning for humans (approximately 30 minutes after wake-up, which has been named the cortisol awakening response and has been associated with numerous psychological and physical health outcomes—for a

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review, see Fries, Dettenborn & Kirschbaum, 2009) and decreasing production throughout the day, reaching minimum levels at night. Glucocorticoids bind to glucocorticoid receptors (GR) and mineralocorticoid receptors (MR) differentially when they are released in response to a stressor versus their basal circadian release. GCs have 10 times higher affinity to MRs and occupy them first before acting on the GRs (Oitzl et al., 2009). Thus, MRs are almost entirely occupied when GCs are in the basal ranges, and GRs only become occupied when stressors elevate GC concentration above basal levels. Evidence is accumulating for the hypothesis that the balance of MR:GR is crucial for an effective regulation of the stress response and for resilience to psychiatric disorders (Oitzl et al., 2009). Recent research has shown that individual differences in the expression of MR and GR are not entirely due to genetic diversity, but their distribution is also affected by environmental factors, through epigenetic mechanisms. Recent work shows epigenetic modifications associated with early life abuse in rodents, for instance the increased methylation of glucocorticoid receptor (GR) genes, which are associated with enhanced stress reactivity in adulthood (Kaffman & Meaney, 2007). Furthermore, childhood abuse has been associated with epigenetic alterations in genes regulating GR expression in the hippocampus of human suicide victims (McGowan et al., 2009), and depressed maternal mood during pregnancy is also associated with methylation patterns that correlate with heightened stress reactivity in the newborn (Oberlander et al., 2008). Future research will likely continue to explore the epigenetic mechanisms involved in the transduction of early life experiences into long-lasting patterns of stress reactivity. The Sympathetic-Adrenomedullary System Although the L-HPA system now figures prominently in research on stress, the older focus on the SAM system has not been lost in developmental research (Gunnar & Quevedo, 2007). The catecholamines epinephrine (EPI) and norepinephrine (NE) are the major outputs of the SAM system. EPI is produced by the adrenal medulla and then released into general circulation. EPI acts as a stress hormone, whereas NE produced at synapses is a neurotransmitter. Both EPI and NE act to energize and mobilize the organism for what has been termed the fight/flight responses. Neurons of the hypothalamus and other cell groups within the brain stem are the central coordinators of the sympathetic nervous system (SNS). In the brain,

NE-producing neurons originating in the locus coeruleus (LC) and in other cell groups in the medulla and pons project widely throughout the cortex. Animal studies suggest that NE release in limbic forebrain regions (central and medial amygdala, lateral bed nucleus of the stria terminalis, medial prefrontal cortex, and lateral septum) mediate anxiety-like behaviors (Morilak et al., 2005). It must be noted that NE has modulatory effects at the synapse, operating on both excitatory and inhibitory inputs that the target cells receive (Morilak et al., 2005). In addition, LC neurons project to the CRH-producing cells in the hypothalamus, serving as a primary stimulus of increased CRH production and sensitization in response to emotional stressors. Although the SAM system has long been associated with stress, its activity is not specific to threatening or aversive events. Instead, because of the role of the sympathetic system in supporting rapid energy mobilization, its activity tends to track conditions requiring effort and information processing more generally, rather than those involving distress and uncertainty about outcomes more specifically (e.g., Frankenhaeuser, 1979). Despite this, frequent mobilization of the sympathetic system, particularly in the presence of elevated cortisol, can threaten physical health. The SAM system forms one arm of the autonomic nervous system (ANS). The other arm of this system is the parasympathetic nervous system (PNS). Unlike the SAM system, which is sometimes referred to as a diffuse or mass-discharge system, the PNS tends to be more fine-tuned, having discrete effects on the organ systems that it innervates (Hugdahl, 1995). Similar to the healthpromotive effects of MRs for the L-HPA system, the PNS primarily promotes anabolic activities concerned with the conservation and restoration of energy (Porges, 1995). The presence of PNS terminals on most organs and tissues innervated by the SAM system allows the PNS to serve as a major regulator of sympathetic effects. Although both the PNS and SAM systems have been viewed as efferent systems that carry out work dictated by the brain, both systems also have afferent projections to the brain. These afferent projections not only inform the brain about the status of organs and tissues in the periphery, but also allow autonomic regulation of the central nervous system. Parasympathetic neuronal projections leave the brain through several cranial nerves, including the 10th cranial, or vagus, nerve, which has been the focus of most of the psychophysiological research relating activity of the PNS to stress and emotion (Porges, 2009). The primary fibers of the vagus nerve originate in two nuclei in the medulla: the dorsal motor nucleus of the vagus, which regulates

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visceral functions, and the nucleus ambiguus, which regulates functions associated with communication and emotion. In addition, a third medullary nucleus, the nucleus tractus solitarius, receives many of the afferent projections traveling through the vagus from peripheral organs. In his polyvagal theory, Porges (2009) argues that these three nuclei (and their corresponding vagal branches) serve distinct evolutionary functions: social communication, mobilization (e.g., fight/flight) and immobilization. The myelinated vagus, originating in the nucleus ambiguus, inhibits sympathetic input to the heart and fosters calm states, also decreasing the activity of the HPA axis (Porges, 2009). This state of physiological calm is theorized to facilitate social interaction and attention. Higher baseline vagal tone has sometimes been considered to be reflective of effective stress regulation, as it allows for a dampening of stress responses or a swift sympathetic activation when the vagal input is suspended. Limbic and Cortical Regulation The L-HPA and SAM systems do not operate in isolation. Rather, their activation is the result of a fine-tuned cascade of neural events that involve a large number of brain regions and neurotransmitters, creating a true “neurosymphony of stress” (Jo¨els & Baram, 2009). Limbic and cortical regions (e.g., the amygdala, hippocampus, the prefrontal cortex) relay information about threats that can activate or terminate stress responses. In this section we review some of the major limbic and cortical structures that modulate stress responses, and what is currently known about the circuitry that integrates this diversity of inputs. The amygdala is one of the most important limbic structures modulating neuroendocrine and autonomic functions. Animal models have established its role in emotional learning and conditioning, particularly fear learning. Research has dedicated special attention to the central nucleus of the amygdala (CEA) as a principal orchestrator of fear behaviors (Ulrich-Lai & Herman, 2009). In this regard, it is noteworthy that CRH-producing cells do not reside exclusively in the hypothalamus but are also present in many brain structures that are involved in associating fear and anxiety with activation of the stress system, including the CEA and the prefrontal cortex (Bale & Vale, 2004). CRH acts on two types of receptors, which have different regional distributions and functional properties, with CRF1 mediating acute stress reactions via the activation of the HPA axis and CRF2 being involved in poststressor recovery and dampening of the HPA response (Korosi & Baram, 2008).

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Evidence from rodent research suggests that the CEA activates the HPA axis in response to systemic stressors and integrates autonomic responses to psychogenic stressors, whereas the basolateral and the medial nuclei of the amygdala play a preferential role in activating the HPA axis in response to psychological stressors (UlrichLai & Herman, 2009). The amygdala not only acts on the HPA axis but is itself influenced by glucocorticoid release. In rodents, stress-induced glucocorticoid release permits amygdala activation and facilitates fear learning (Moriceau, Roth, & Sullivan, 2010). Fear learning is central for adaptation, as the activation of stress circuitry is energetically demanding, and thus the ability to distinguish threatening from harmless stimuli is essential for survival. The bed nucleus of the stria terminalis (BNST) is another structure that is important in modulating HPA axis responses, though different subdivisions of the BNST seem to have contrary effects: anteroventral regions seem to have excitatory effects on the axis, whereas posterior regions may be inhibitory (Choi et al., 2007). The hippocampus is another major limbic structure that has inhibitory control of the HPA axis, through projections to the PVN, and it also influences the ANS (decreasing heart rate, blood pressure, etc.), most likely through indirect medial prefrontal cortex projections (Ulrich-Lai & Herman, 2009). GR and MR expressed in the hippocampus play a crucial role in negative feedback of the HPA axis, and it is likely due to changes in the activity of these receptors that chronically elevated circulating GCs have been linked to deficits in hippocampally-based abilities, such as declarative memory (Sapolsky, 2003). Limbic structures are regulated by and communicate with frontal cortical regions, and their bidirectional connections impinge on the activity of the HPA and SAM systems. For instance, the degree and breadth of interconnectivity between the amygdala and frontal cortex in primates have been one of the surprising findings of the last two decades (Emery & Amaral, 2000). Perhaps especially in primates, the frontal cortex appears to play a central role in stress reactivity and regulation. The prefrontal cortex (PFC) plays a crucial role in what has been termed executive function, or the top-down control of thought and action that includes working memory, inhibitory control, rule shifting, and executive attention (Zelazo, Carlson, & Kesek, 2008). These higher-order processes are crucial for the development of emotion regulation, compliance with norms, as well as intelligent planning of behavior. The PFC is organized into distinct topographical regions, which serve divergent and

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specialized regulatory functions. Ventral and medial areas are thought to primarily regulate emotions, having extensive connections with the amygdala, the nucleus accumbens, and the hypothalamus, whereas regions located more dorsally and laterally are thought to regulate thoughts, attention, and actions and have important projections to sensory and motor areas (Arnsten, 2009). The prefrontal cortex not only plays a role in regulating the activity of stress systems, but it also receives bottomup inputs from them, and its activity can be impaired by acute or chronic stress exposure (Arnsten, 2009). Even though some experimental studies with squirrel monkeys suggest that stress-inoculating experiences (i.e., stressors that are not overwhelming in either duration of magnitude) can enhance prefrontally mediated cognitive skills that are instrumental for emotion and stress regulation (Lyons & Parker, 2007), multiple studies in humans show that both acute and chronic exposure to stressors can actually impair these higher-order processes that rely on the PFC (Arnsten, 2009). Indeed, chronic stress induces alterations in both cortical and limbic regions, such as dendritic atrophy and decreased GR expression in the medial PFC and the hippocampus (which typically have inhibitory control over the HPA axis) and increased dendritic branching in the basolateral amygdala and enhanced CRH expression in the CEA (Ulrich-Lai & Herman, 2009). Over time, these alterations are likely to impair the capacity for negative feedback of the HPA axis, as well as to decrease the available PFC-based cognitive resources for coping with stressors. The effects of stress on brain development and the sculpting of cortico-limbic circuits across the lifespan are likely mediated by both circulating GCs and by the extra-hypothalamic CRH system (Korosi & Baram, 2008).

plausible models, which can explain human developmental processes and serve as a starting point for interventions. In the next section, we discuss major findings relating to the early development of stress and emotion systems in humans.

Summary

Stress reactivity and regulation undergo marked changes from the prenatal period through adolescence. Although there are no agreed-upon divisions of development in which to consider these changes, in this section we identify six periods to analyze: prenatal, early postnatal, toddler, preschool, middle childhood, and adolescence. These periods take us from the emergence of an HPA response to stressors during the fetal period through to increases in stress reactivity and basal levels that are observed in early adolescence. Our analysis also raises questions about the calibration and recalibration of stress responses during development, in accord with the stresses and challenges experienced by different children at different points in their ontogeny.

The neurobiology of stress and emotions is extremely complex. While the field is beginning to develop a much deeper understanding of the neurobiological bases of both emotions and stress, most of the work has yet to be conducted with humans. Furthermore, we know the least about infants and young children. Animal models have the advantage of increased experimental control and the ability to use more invasive procedures (e.g., to examine molecular processes that underlie neural function), but the challenge of translating findings across species is not negligible. Nonetheless, combining information from animal and human studies is likely to yield more nuanced and

PSYCHOBIOLOGICAL STUDIES OF STRESS AND EMOTION IN CHILDREN Research incorporating biomarkers of stress and emotion has burgeoned in the past decade due to an increased recognition of the dynamic interplay between psychological functioning and biology. Since the 1980s, technological advances that allowed the salivary assay of cortisol (Kirschbaum & Hellhammer, 1989), electrophysiological measures of the autonomic nervous system (Porges, 1995), or neuroimaging (Nelson, de Haan, & Thomas, 2006) have also expanded the opportunities to study the neurobiology of stress and emotion at multiple levels of analysis. Despite these advances, ethical and practical constraints have limited the ability to probe at some levels of analysis and to have a high degree of experimental control in studies with children. Thus, animal research remains important for the development and testing of theoretical models that can then be translated to humans. In this section, we review the current state of human research studies that have investigated the early development of stress reactivity, addressing major developmental periods in chronological order, but we will also refer to animal studies to draw inferences or in areas where human research is entirely absent. Developmental Periods of Stress Reactivity and Regulation

The Developmental Psychobiology of Stress and Emotion in Childhood

Prenatal Origins Prenatal development is a period of great plasticity. The developing fetus receives nutrients and biochemical signals from the mother and, through her, from the environment. These signals are theorized to have long-lasting programming effects that may translate into risk factors for later disease (Barker, 1998). Furthermore, fetal HPA axis activity is important in its own right, impacting the future development of the organism. By gestational week 8, fetal adrenal glands have developed into morphologically distinct zones, and pituitary cells that produce ACTH can be identified (Kempna & Fluck, 2008). Furthermore, the fetus mounts a cortisol response to painful stimuli (e.g., intrauterine transfusion) beginning around week 20, and this response is independent from maternal cortisol levels or her responses to the medical procedure, supporting the idea of an endogenous fetal stress response (Gitau, Fisk, Teixeira, Cameron, & Glover, 2001). Maternal stress has been the focus of many studies of fetal programming (Gunnar & Davis, under review). There is convincing evidence from both animal models (Kapoor, Dunn, Kostaki, Andrews, & Matthews, 2006) and human studies (reviewed in Talge, Neal, Glover, & the Early Stress Translational Research Prevention Science Network, 2007) that exposure to maternal stress is associated with altered biobehavioral outcomes in the offspring, including heightened stress reactivity. One pathway through which maternal cortisol may influence the fetus’s developing stress system is via effects on placental CRH production (Wadhwa, Sandman, & Garite, 2001). During gestation, the placenta produces a large number of hormones and peptides, including CRH, which maintain the integrity of the fetal-maternal-placental unit. As the placenta enlarges during pregnancy, CRH levels increase. Placental CRH binding protein (a molecule that traps CRH) and the anticortisol effects of rising estrogen levels protect both the mother and fetus from activation by stress hormones. CRH-binding protein during early pregnancy and the latter part of the third trimester stimulates fetal HPA maturation and contributes to the initiation of labor and delivery. Nonetheless, whereas the CRH molecule is necessary for healthy development of the fetus, it may also provide a mechanism through which maternal stress can influence the development of the infant’s stress system. Another pathway that can mediate the relationship between maternal stress and infant reactivity involves the placental enzyme 11β-HSD2. The typical activity of this enzyme is to inactivate maternal cortisol, thus protecting the fetus during development. Rodent studies show that under conditions of experimentally-controlled maternal

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stress, the activity of 11β-HSD2 in the placenta is downregulated, thus failing to buffer the fetus from the potentially harmful levels of maternal cortisol (Mairesse et al., 2007). In addition, there is now evidence that maternal depression and anxiety during the third trimester is associated with increased methylation of fetal glucocorticoid receptor genes and elevated salivary cortisol responses in the infant at three months postnatal (Oberlander et al., 2008). Thus, epigenetic changes in stress-regulatory pathways provide yet another mechanism through which fetal programming of stress reactivity may take place. These recent findings provide proof of principle for the fetal programming hypothesis and begin to dispel the objection that the fetus (or infant) and the mother both display heightened stress reactivity due to shared genetics, not due to prenatal processes such as maternal exposure to stress. While this is certainly a possibility, there are four lines of evidence supporting fetal programming effects. Animal models (Kapoor et al., 2006), where experimental control of the stressor and random assignment are possible, show elevated stress reactivity for dyads assigned to the stressful condition. Secondly, some studies in humans have been able to approximate random assignment by enrolling subjects exposed to random natural disasters—for instance, infants of mothers who were pregnant during the World Trade Center attacks on September 11 had smaller birth weights and more blunted cortisol profiles compared to controls (Yehuda et al., 2005). Thirdly, pharmacological exposure to stress hormones prenatally induces HPA-axis alterations in animals (Seckl & Meaney, 2004) and in preterm human infants— for example, prenatal treatment with betamethasone leads to a blunted cortisol response to a heel-stick blood draw stressor (Davis et al., 2004). Lastly and perhaps most convincingly, a recent human study involving in vitro fertilization showed similar effects of maternal stress, even when the mother and the baby were genetically unrelated (Rice et al., 2010). Investigations of the biobehavioral outcomes of exposure to antenatal maternal stress have also accumulated, with several prospective studies documenting these effects across several domains of functioning (for reviews, see Talge et al., 2007; Wadhwa, 2005). Notable outcomes include increased negative emotionality and fearfulness during infancy (Davis et al., 2007), attention and hyperactivity problems (O’Connor, Heron, Golding, Beveridge, & Glover, 2002), as well as deficits in general cognitive development (studies reviewed by Talge et al., 2007). While the term programming suggests that effects are permanent, emerging evidence suggests that postnatal

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experiences modify or ameliorate prenatal stress impacts. Some studies show that infant-mother attachment moderates the relationship between prenatal stress and negative cognitive and socioemotional outcomes (Bergman, Sarkar, Glover, & O’Connor, 2008, 2010), with securely attached infants being protected from some of these deleterious effects. Maternal sensitivity and responsiveness interact with antenatal maternal psychiatric symptoms to predict infant cortisol levels, highlighting the crucial role of early social inputs as they may mitigate the effects of prenatal stress exposure (Kaplan, Evans, & Monk, 2008). We will discuss additional research involving the role of caregiving in shaping HPA axis reactivity in the section titled Stress and Caregiving Relationships, but these findings are important reminders that development is probabilistic and there is continuing plasticity during postnatal development. Early Postnatal Development Animal models (especially in rodents) have suggested the existence of a stress hyporesponsive period for the HPA axis in neonates (Rosenfeld, Suchecki, & Levine, 1992), when animals have lower basal corticosterone and respond minimally to stressors. In humans, however, for the first two to three postnatal months, the HPA system is highly reactive to stimulation; in addition, because the liver is immature the baby produces less cortisol-binding protein; thus even small increases in cortisol production result in greater circulating levels of the unbound and thus biologically active hormone (for a review, see Gunnar & Quevedo, 2007). During this early period, even seemingly small perturbations like a physical exam or being taken from a warm bath produce HPA stress responses in most healthy infants (see for review Gunnar, Talge, & Herrera, 2009). The systems influencing stress reactivity and regulation undergo rapid maturation during the early months of life (see for review, Gunnar & Donzella, 2002; Gunnar & Quevedo, 2007). Three months of age has been described as a qualitative turning point in early infancy from which the infant emerges prepared to engage and sustain a broader range of interactions with the environment. By 3 months the elevations in cortisol that have characterized neonatal responses are no longer observed, on average, to handling stressors. Fussing and crying become increasingly dissociated from activity of the HPA system. Vagal tone increases, and some infants show increased competence in using vagal regulation to sustain attention and engagement during challenging stimulation. In addition, more clearly established day-night rhythms may facilitate

the regulation of behavioral and physiological responses to potentially stressful stimulation. Unfortunately, we need to know much more about the integration of these various components of the stress system through this developmental period. Beginning in the early postnatal period, there are a variety of biobehavioral regulatory mechanisms that modulate stress responding. Sleep is critical to stress regulation throughout life (Dahl, 2007). Quiet sleep appears to serve restorative functions in the newborn, similar to the restorative functions it serves at later stages of the life cycle. This has been equated with the concept of a stimulus barrier in early infancy that protects the newborn from overwhelming stimulation (e.g., Tennes, Emde, Kisley, & Metcalf, 1972). Indeed, stressors alter sleep in the newborn, increasing the ratio of quiet to active sleep (for discussion, see Gunnar, 1992). In animal models, the shift into sleep following stress has been shown to be facilitated by the rise in cortisol and other stress biochemical that increase in response to noxious stimulation (e.g., Born, de Kloet, Wenz, Kern, & Fehm, 1991). Thus it may be that stressors stimulate elevations in stress biochemicals that, in turn, facilitate the shift to quiet sleep supporting a return to homeostasis. In addition to sleep, components of nursing serve stressregulatory functions (e.g., Blass, 1996). Sucking, even when nonnutrient, produces calming through nonopioid pathways; pathways that may involve the vagal system (e.g., Porges, 1995). In contrast, the calming and analgesic effects of fats and sweet tastes appear to be opioid mediated. Thus, rat pups given a sucrose-flavored liquid are slower to remove their paws from a hot plate, and this effect is blocked if the pups are first pretreated with an opioid antagonist. Similar sucrose-mediated calming effects, even in the context of painful stimuli, have been demonstrated in human newborns (e.g. Stang et al., 1997). In addition, sweet tastes also produce facial expressions of positive affect and increase left-sided anterior EEG activity (Fox & Davidson, 1986). Although it is unlikely that this EEG activity reflects frontal lobe generators in the neonate, it may reflect activity of deeper structures such as the amygdala that also show asymmetric organization and are rich in opioid receptors (Pitkanen, Savander, & LeDoux, 1997). Finally, tactile stimulation (rubbing, patting, massaging) has a multitude of beneficial effects on infant development, including the facilitation of calm states as indicated by reductions in serum levels of norepinephrine and epinephrine, as well as in urinary cortisol levels, and the regulation of sleeping patterns through increases in levels of melatonin (for a review, see Underdown, Barlow, & Stewart-Brown, 2010).

The Developmental Psychobiology of Stress and Emotion in Childhood

The regulatory roles for feeding, sucking, and tactile stimulation have led some (e.g., Blass, 1996) to argue that the mother serves as a shield to buffer the infant from pain and facilitate the restoration of growth processes following periods of stress system activation. However, different components of parental stimulation may impact different aspects of the stress system (see Hofer, 1987). Those that impact crying (feeding, holding) seem less clearly capable of buffering heart rate responses to painful stimulation and have no apparent impact on cortisol responses to either painful or nonpainful stressors (Gunnar & Donzella, 1999). With development, however, the mother’s presence and behavioral interventions become more potent buffers of multiple stress-mediating systems (Felt et al., 2000). The Toddler Period It has been suggested that there are two periods of marked change in biobehavioral organization during the first year of life (Emde, Gaensbauer, & Harmon, 1976). We have just discussed the first one, between birth and three months; the second is during the latter half of the first year, when the emergence of independent locomotion appears to produce dramatic neurobehavioral reorganization (e.g., Campos, Kermoian, & Witherington, 1996; Fox & Bell, 1993). This latter period is also associated with the emergence and organization of secure base behavior (e.g., Bowlby, 1969) and inhibition of approach to novel or strange events and people (e.g., Bronson, 1978). This period is also associated with marked changes in stress reactivity and regulation. Elevations in cortisol to inoculation procedures are roughly comparable at 4 and 6 months of age; however, by the second year of life (i.e., 12, 15, 18 and 24 months), on average, infants do not exhibit elevations to these procedures (this point and others below are reviewed in Gunnar, 2000, Gunnar & Quevedo, 2007; see also a recent study by Davis & Granger, 2009). Similarly, maternal separation, stranger approach, unfamiliar and arousing events, and frustrating tasks do not readily provoke increases in cortisol in children older than 12 months. Whether this decrease in cortisol reactivity emerges gradually or abruptly has not been determined, nor have the processes accounting for this change been wholly identified. What has been shown is that there are individual differences in whether the infant exhibits an inhibition of the cortisol response to stressors by the end of the first year. Examination of cortisol increases at 6 and 15 months using the inoculation paradigm revealed that while most infants failed to elevate cortisol at 15 months, some showed increases that were as large or larger than those typically observed at 6 months.

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These highly cortisol-reactive infants tended to be the ones with an insecure attachment relationship to the parent who accompanied them during the exam-inoculation procedure. The role of relationships in the development of individual differences in stress reactivity and regulation will be discussed more fully below. Here we only note that these data suggest that the organization of securebase behavior in the latter part of the first year may play a significant role in the developmental changes in cortisol reactivity observed during this age period. The Preschool Period The development of frontal regions of the brain should allow increasing control over emotional behavior and physiological stress responses (Dawson, Panagiotides, Klinger, & Hill, 1992). Indeed, marked increases in self-control of negative emotionality develop between 1 and 3 years (e.g., Kopp, 1989). Studies focusing on individual differences have shown correlations between expressive language development and regulation of negative emotions and social engagement and between both of these domains and cardiac vagal tone (e.g., Bornstein & Suess, 2000). The study of emotion regulation has dominated research on emotional development in the last decade, despite problems in definition and operationalization (Thompson, 1994). The research and theorizing of Posner and Rothbart (e.g., 2000) provided much needed focus in this area. They argued that maturation of the anterior attentional network permits effortful regulation of behavior, including emotional behavior. In line with these predictions, Kochanska, Murray, and Harlan (2000) have shown that children who perform better on tasks designed to assess effortful control also are better at suppressing both positive and negative emotional expressions. Effortful regulation of behavior, nonetheless, undoubtedly involves multiple neural systems; thus, these studies provide only the first insights into the neural bases of self-regulation and its development. Presumably, as the child develops an increasing ability to regulate emotions, she should also become increasingly capable of regulating physiological stress reactions (Stansbury & Gunnar, 1994). This assumption is speculatively based on several arguments. First, with the development of the anterior attentional network, the child should be able to engage the cognitive component of the anterior cingulate cortex, thus suppressing activity of the emotional component (Bush, Luu, & Posner, 2000). This should help inhibit and constrain the reactivity of limbic components of the stress system. Second, to the extent that emotion regulation also involves increased activity in the left prefrontal

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cortical regions, the child should become increasingly capable of using positive affect and approach-oriented behavioral strategies for managing potentially stressful situations (Davidson & Irwin, 1999). Third, the ability to regulate negative emotions should foster social competence and better social relationships with peers and adults. This ability, in turn, should enhance the child’s opportunities to use positive and supportive social relationships to cope with stressful situations. Social competence should also reduce the likelihood that the child’s behavior will create stressful interactions with others (for review, see Gunnar, 2000). There is growing evidence in support of the above hypotheses in research involving preschool-aged children (for review, see Gunnar, 2000). However, consistent with the role of the HPA axis in energy mobilization, studies report both positive and negative associations between cortisol levels and reactivity as a function of the context of measurement. When cortisol is measured while children engage in challenging tasks that require effortful regulation of behavior, moderate increases in cortisol followed by a rapid return to baseline have been positively associated with measures of executive function and teacher reports of the child’s self-regulatory competence (Blair, Granger, & Razza, 2006). In this study, executive functioning scores mediated the relation between cortisol reactivity and self-regulatory competence, and it was children who showed falling levels of cortisol over the assessment period who exhibited both poor self-regulatory competence and lower executive functioning scores. Similar positive correlations were obtained between parent reports of children’s attention focusing and inhibitory control with preschoolers’ cortisol responses to a frustrating task in which an adult fails to share candy equally with the child (Spinrad et al., 2009). On the other hand, there is also evidence that when acutely challenging tasks are not involved and predictions are to the regulation of cortisol under more chronic conditions, higher scores on measures of effortful control (i.e., attention focusing and inhibitory control) tend to be associated with a more modulated, less frequently activated HPA axis among preschoolers (e.g., Dettling, Gunnar, & Donzella, 1999) and a more mature diurnal cortisol rhythm (Watamura, Donzella, Kertes, & Gunnar, 2004). What we still need are studies examining developmental changes in cognitive and behavior regulatory processes and the young child’s ability to modulate activity of stress-mediating systems under different conditions of challenge. The prenatal period and early childhood years are critical in the organization of stress and emotion systems, as

the organism is receiving a multiplicity of inputs from the environment, ranging from intrauterine exposure to glucocorticoids to complex social exchanges with caregivers. We have discussed evidence that some of these experiences may have programming effects and shape certain patterns of reactivity later in life. However, we must emphasize that the organization of stress and emotion systems does not end in early childhood. In the next two sections, we discuss the recalibration of stress and emotion systems during middle childhood and adolescence, under the influence of cortical and hormonal transformations. While these later developmental periods are not the main focus of this chapter, they are important to mention in order to maintain perspective on the massive opportunities for retuning stress and emotion systems later in life. Middle Childhood Based on evolutionary theory, Del Giudice, Ellis and Shirtcliff (2010) recently proposed the Adaptive Calibration Model of stress responsivity, according to which middle childhood should be a period during which the stress system is recalibrated in accordance to differential life history strategies for males and females. In part, the argument is based on the rise in adrenal androgens in middle childhood, which, they argue, underlies the increasing sexual differentiation of both the nature of what provokes stress responses and the physiological and behavioral systems that regulate stress-mediating systems. While set in place during middle childhood, they argue that puberty will further enhance these differences. This provocative theory promises to stimulate focus on middle childhood, adrenal androgens, and sex differences in stress reactivity and regulation. As yet, however, these studies await being conducted. Most of what we know about stress reactivity and regulation in middle childhood comes from studies examining relations between stress responding and children’s behavioral and emotional problems. Of particular note are an increasing number of studies examining both sympathetic and HPA activity. These studies suggest that by middle childhood these systems have become coordinated such that SNS activity serves to moderate relations between cortisol and behavior problems (see Bauer, Quas, & Boyce, 2002). For example, in one study of 8- and 9-year-old children (El-Sheikh, Erath, Buckhalt, Granger, & Mize, 2008), higher basal cortisol levels were associated with more internalizing and externalizing problems, but this was among children with higher but not lower SNS activity. Notably, no sex differences were noted along with this pattern.

The Developmental Psychobiology of Stress and Emotion in Childhood

Adolescence Adolescence—and more specifically puberty—has been recognized as a period of radical social, emotional, and physical changes, which are also accompanied by an increased vulnerability to stress, mental disorders, and risk-taking behaviors (Dahl & Gunnar, 2009). Adolescence is also a sensitive period for brain development, when synaptic pruning occurs at a higher rate and corticolimbic circuits reorganize, under the influence of gonadal and adrenal hormones, as well as that of psychosocial stressors (Andersen & Teicher, 2008). The protracted development of the PFC, which plays a key role in the regulation of emotion but which does not reach full maturity until mid-20s, combined with an increased emotional reactivity during adolescence, may lead to behavioral and mood dysregulation during this period. Specifically, the dramatic increase in the prevalence of depression, particularly in females, has drawn a lot of attention to the study of stress reactivity during this period (Andersen & Teicher, 2008). Several studies have used experimental laboratory stressors to examine physiological reactivity during the pubertal transition, and they all provide evidence of increased stress reactivity from childhood to adolescence. Using a social-evaluative task (the Trier Social Stress Test for Children), Gunnar, Wewerka, Frenn, Long, and Griggs (2009) found an increase in cortisol output in response to social threat between the ages of 9 and 15, with cortisol increases being marginally correlated with sexual maturation. Furthermore, Stroud et al. (2009) also found an increase in cortisol responses to the same social stress task, but these responses were not reflected in the activity of the SAM system, as indexed by salivary alpha amylase. Despite a consistent pattern of results, the effects reported in these studies were relatively modest. Based on a similar study of 9- to 17-year-olds undergoing a public speaking task, Sumter, Bokhorst, Miers, Van Pelt, and Westenberg (2010) provided evidence that differences in cortisol production during the prestressor anticipatory period are stronger than differences in levels measured during the task. Stress reactivity during the anticipatory period increased with age and pubertal stage, as well. Future research should examine the meaning of these increased differences during the anticipation period. Researchers speculate that cognitive maturity may be an important component of the observed differences between children and adolescents. Furthermore, few studies have tried to disentangle age and puberty in the examination of stress and emotion during adolescence (for an exception, see Quevedo, Benning, Gunnar, & Dahl, 2009). Given the

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public health implications of adolescent behavioral and mental health problems, more research is needed to clarify the origins of these developmental changes in stress and emotional reactivity. Individual Differences Developmental research has made tremendous progress in moving beyond simple nature-versus-nurture conceptualizations of the origins of individual differences in stress reactivity. It is now recognized that temperamental predispositions, early experience, and genetic or epigenetic characteristics of the organism all interact dynamically with the current context, resulting in adaptation or maladaptation. This view regards differences not as entities that reside within individuals, but as differential patterns that emerge from the interaction between a person and the context. With respect to individual differences in stress reactivity, two recent theories—Biological Sensitivity to Context Theory and Differential Susceptibility Theory (Ellis, Boyce, Belsky, Bakermans-Kranenburg, & van IJzendoorn, 2011)—converge on the argument that the valence of stress reactivity is not necessarily negative. Rather, different patterns of physiological responses to stressors are adaptive in different contexts. While empirical evidence for the fact that high stress reactivity can be beneficial in certain contexts still needs to be amassed, the theory does emphasize the importance of the match or mismatch between individual characteristics and context. In this section we discuss research addressing individual characteristics (e.g., temperamental predispositions or genetic makeup) and contextual factors such as caregiving relationships that may shape stress reactivity throughout development, with a special emphasis on studies that highlight person × context interactions. Stress and Temperament Studies of stress and temperament have often focused on behavioral inhibition (shyness) as a potential diathesis for anxiety disorders and overactive stress physiology. Behaviorally inhibited children display strong fear reactions to unfamiliar stimuli, and this has been hypothesized to be due to heightened excitability of limbic circuits, particularly the CEA (Kagan & Snidman, 1991). Recent evidence has provided support for this theory, with one study showing greater fMRI (functional magnetic resonance imaging) amygdala activation to novel versus familiar faces in adults who had been identified as behaviorally inhibited in infancy (Schwartz, Wright, Shin, Kagan, & Rauch, 2003). Nevertheless, given the integrated nature of cortico-limbic

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circuits, it is not clear whether variations in amygdala function are necessarily causal to the behaviorally inhibited phenotype. For instance, one recent study has linked variations in the CRH gene to behavioral inhibition and risk for panic disorder in children (Smoller et al., 2005), suggesting that other brain regions containing CRH receptors may also function differently in behaviorally inhibited children and that amygdalar CRH may not be the only pathway to a fearful temperament. Understanding the biological underpinnings of behavioral inhibition has benefited from studies incorporating measures of heart rate, cortisol, startle amplitude, and EEG in children displaying this behavioral profile (Fox, Henderson, Marshall, Nichols, & Ghera, 2005). Some studies show shorter heart periods (higher heart rate) and stronger heart rate acceleration in response to stressors in this population (Fox et al., 2005), but this profile is not always reliably found. It has been suggested that studies selecting the most extremely inhibited and uninhibited children may be more likely to show these effects (Fox et al., 2005). With respect to cortisol levels, findings are also more nuanced and mixed than the straightforward prediction that behaviorally inhibited children would show higher cortisol reactivity. Some researchers found behavioral inhibition to be related to high basal cortisol (Kagan, Reznick, & Snidman, 1987), and social reticence at age 4 to be related to higher early morning cortisol (Schmidt et al., 1997), whereas others found that an increased cortisol response to starting preschool was associated with more assertive, angry, or aggressive behavior (de Haan, Gunnar, Tout, Hart, & Stansbury, 1998). These mixed findings could be understood by taking context and self-regulatory strategies into consideration: Children who are inhibited may disengage during activities that would elicit cortisol elevations (e.g., by withdrawing from social interactions), but show higher cortisol responses compared to their less fearful counterparts if they must participate (Gunnar, Tout, de Haan, Pierce, & Stansbury, 1998). Another pathway from temperamental predispositions to HPA axis activation has implicated peer relations, with evidence that exuberant and under-controlled children may be more likely to experience peer rejection and cortisol elevations (Gunnar, Sebanc, Tout, Donzella, & van Dulmen, 2003). Thus, behavioral inhibition is not necessarily in a linear relationship with HPA axis activation, as both fearful and exuberant children can reach the same physiological endpoint. Furthermore, a recent study showed that behavioral inhibition and cortisol elevations in day care interact to predict later internalizing symptoms in preschoolers, such that behaviorally inhibited children that exhibit cortisol elevations in day care express

more internalizing symptoms over time, but decreasing levels of symptoms if they have lower cortisol activity (Gunnar, Kryzer, van Ryzin & Phillips, 2010). In attempts to understand the underlying neurobiological differences between extremely inhibited and uninhibited children, researchers have also examined more direct indices of the forebrain systems presumably involved in fearfulness and negative emotionality. To this end, startle amplitude, a measure presumably mediated by the CEA, has been employed in several studies. At 9 months, infants selected at 4 months for extreme negative reactivity have been shown to exhibit larger startle reactions during stranger approach. Tested again at 4 years, however, larger startle amplitudes were not found for these children, although at this older age only baseline startle was examined, and this might not reflect the same underlying neural circuits (Schmidt et al., 1997). Additionally, several studies have linked behavioral inhibition and negative emotionality to asymmetrical frontal EEG activation—specifically, to decreased alpha power in the right frontal region, which signifies increased activation of withdrawal systems (Fox et al., 2005). More broadly, individual differences in baseline asymmetry in activation have been linked to dispositional affective style (Davidson, 2002). It must also be noted that children who show longitudinal continuity in extreme behavioral inhibition are also the ones most likely to display and retain EEG asymmetry over time (Fox, Henderson, Rubin, Calkins, & Schmidt, 2001), whereas children who become less inhibited over time may not show this pattern. Overall, none of the physiological biomarkers of stress reactivity discussed above bear one-to-one relationships with specific temperamental profiles or emotions. Oftentimes, behavioral states and biological stress markers become dissociated (Quas, Hong, Alkon, & Boyce, 2000). We suggest that this is because context and the resources children need to cope with challenge are moderators of the relations between temperament and the activity of these stress-sensitive physiological systems. Furthermore, children who may look similar in terms of behavioral indices of temperament may differ dramatically in their genetic characteristics, which interact with environmental inputs to shape unique stress response profiles. In the next section, we discuss some of the recent findings examining candidate genes that may modulate stress reactivity, a line of research that has burgeoned in the past decade. Genetic Polymorphisms and Stress Reactivity The search for genes that may confer vulnerability for mental disorders in psychiatry has resulted in an increased

The Developmental Psychobiology of Stress and Emotion in Childhood

attention to genetic diversity in developmental science as well. Perhaps because main effects of genes have proven difficult to find, basic scientists have begun to explore gene-by-environment interactions and to envision developmental trajectories to maladaptive outcomes, rather that deterministic models of disorder. The activity of stress systems has long been associated with the development of psychopathology (e.g., a vast 40-year literature linking depression to altered HPA axis activity, reviewed in Pariante & Lightman, 2008). Thus, the search for genes that may influence stress reactivity has been a logical starting point for many gene-by-environment studies attempting to understand the development of psychopathology. However, the future challenge will be to integrate geneenvironment studies with neuroscience and psychology (Caspi & Moffitt, 2006) and to create developmental theories of how specific environmental risk factors and genotype variations interact over time to produce alterations in brain and behavior function. The most highly studied genetic polymorphisms purportedly associated with behavioral outcomes have been those linked to the gene coding for the serotonin transporter (5-hydroxytryptamine, 5-HT)—a protein that regulates the serotonin concentration in synaptic clefts and extrasynaptic sites, which was first linked to anxiety behaviors in humans by Lesch et al. (1996) and has since been associated with a wide variety of psychological outcomes, such as depression, anxiety, aggression, and the like (Murphy et al., 2008). Caspi and associates’ (2003) seminal findings (and similar results in Eley et al., 2004, Kaufman et al., 2004) that variations in the promoter region of the serotonin transporter gene moderate the relationship between stressful life events and adult depression have been revolutionary, but recent meta-analyses also highlight failures to replicate the initial findings (Munafo, Durrant, Lewis, & Flint, 2009; Risch et al., 2009). However, animal models suggest that the relationship between serotonergic function, early adversity, and maladaptive outcomes in adulthood should not yet be dismissed. Rhesus monkeys with a functionally equivalent version of the human short 5-HTTLPR allele who experience poor early care (peer rearing) have been shown to produce higher levels of ACTH in response to stress (Barr et al., 2004). There are currently two competing theories of the role of the serotonin transporter gene. One theory views it as a vulnerability factor that acts by conferring altered sensitivity to stress (Caspi et al., 2010), whereas Way and Taylor (2010) have advanced the serotonergic social sensitivity hypothesis, suggesting that 5-HTT modulates receptivity to both positive and negative social experiences, since

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they showed that individuals with the short allele and positive social experiences were less likely to develop depressive symptomatology than individuals with the long/long combination. Few studies have tested these theories empirically, but one recent finding provided support for the vulnerability position, showing that children with at least one short allele were more likely to develop insecure attachment in an environment with low parental sensitivity, whereas children homozygous for the long allele seemed to develop secure attachment under both high and low sensitivity conditions (Barry, Kochanska, & Philibert, 2008). However, this was a small and low-risk sample, which also tended to have higher than average maternal sensitivity. No main effect of the 5-HTT gene on attachment security has been identified in studies thus far (Gervai, 2009), and future studies will be needed to begin to test these competing theories. The serotonin transporter gene may interact not only with environmental factors, but also with other genes. It has also been suggested that the brain-derived neurotrophic factor (BDNF) gene may sensitize individuals to a risk for depression, if both maltreatment and at least one short copy of the serotonin transporter gene are also present (Kaufman et al., 2006). This finding has failed to replicate in a larger sample of adolescents (Nederhof, Bouma, Oldehinkel, & Ormel, 2010), suggesting caution in prematurely accepting G × E results. Additionally, a functional polymorphism in the promoter region of the monoamine oxidase A (MAOA) gene, which results in low levels of the MAOA enzyme, has been shown to moderate the relationship between childhood maltreatment and the development of conduct disorder or antisocial personality disorder, providing an explanation for the diversity of outcomes observed in cases of childhood physical abuse (for a meta-analysis, see KimCohen et al., 2006). The genetic polymorphisms described above all interact with life stressors to predict negative outcomes, but the role of the HPA axis in the underlying pathways is not always clear, as these genes do not directly control the structure and function of the axis (though they shape neural circuitry that communicates with the axis). There is, however, a growing body of research that investigates genetic polymorphisms that directly affect components of the L-HPA axis. For instance, a recent study showed that the single-nucleotide polymorphism (SNP) FKBP5 rs1360780, which modulates GR sensitivity and plays an important role in negative feedback, interacts with insecure-resistant attachment to predict heightened cortisol reactivity in infants (Luijk et al., 2010). Furthermore,

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Binder and associates (2008) found that this SNP moderated the relationship between childhood abuse and the development of adult posttraumatic stress disorder. Additionally, the CRH receptor gene (CRH-R1) moderates the relationship between childhood maltreatment and the development of adult depression (Grabe et al., 2010). The large number of genes regulating the activity of the HPA axis may all play a role in shaping psychological outcomes. Thus future studies will need to incorporate increasingly complex models that include interactions between several genes, as well as dynamic models of the activity of the axis under the genetic control of these diverse influences. The G × E and G × G × E interaction effects discussed above are remarkable, but several questions remain to be answered by future research, such as a) what is the activity of these genes, and what are the specific mechanisms through which they influence brain function and structure? b) how do psychosocial factors like maltreatment infiltrate the body and interact with molecular processes? c) how do various genes operate in relation to each other? d) are there critical periods during which these genes–environment interactions trigger the maladaptive outcomes, or is the process not time- and development-sensitive? and finally, e) are the negative psychological outcomes investigated in these G × E studies reversible? Stress and Caregiving Relationships Animal models have shown that maternal caregiving behavior shapes the infant’s stress reactivity by influencing the development of neural systems that underlie stress responses (Caldji et al., 1998; Meaney & Szyf, 2005). It is likely that early parental behavior influences stress reactivity through several mechanisms. One of these is that caregiving behavior seems to have direct stressregulatory effects. In rodents, dams that show high levels of licking and grooming have rat pups that display fewer fearful behaviors in adulthood, compared to low-licking and grooming dams. A number of neurobiological changes accompany these differences in fear reactions, including more rapid containment of the HPA stress response, less evidence of CRH activity in the CEA, BNST, and LC, and decreased NE in response to psychosocial stressors (Caldji et al., 1998). At a molecular level of analysis, these changes have been linked to an increased methylation of GR genes in the hippocampus in pups with low-licking and grooming mothers (Meaney & Szyf, 2005). Methylation of GR genes in the hippocampus leads to a less efficient negative feedback of the HPA axis, as circulating glucocorticoids typically bind to these receptors in the

hippocampus and trigger an inhibition of HPA axis activity. What is remarkable about these findings is that natural variations in maternal care seem to be sufficient to cause these alterations in stress reactivity. There are many other pathways through which parental behavior impacts stress reactivity. For instance, it can be a source of chronic stress, as in the case of early abuse models. Thus, parents can potentially program stress neurobiology through more general mechanisms, such as exposing their offspring to repeated, uncontrollable stressors. Conversely, parental caregiving behavior can prevent infants from experiencing stressors in the first place, by providing contingent responses to their basic needs. The importance of this indirect buffering mechanism is evident in cases where it is absent—for example, chronic parental neglect, both in human and animal models. Before reviewing childhood studies of early caregiving and stress function, a brief glance at the adult literature is necessary to highlight some of the intriguing findings that will require a developmental explanation. Social support has long been recognized as a moderator of life stress and a protective factor against physical and psychological illness in adulthood (Cobb, 1976; Taylor, 2007). Epidemiologists have acknowledged the crucial role of social and community ties in predicting longevity and overall health, above and beyond specific disease risk factors (Berkman & Syme, 1979). More recent research has started to investigate the psychological processes and neurobiological mechanisms that may underlie this social buffering effect in adults, with evidence that social support may protect individuals from the activation of stress systems (Heinrichs, Baumgartner, Kirschbaum, & Ehlert, 2003; Kirschbaum, Klauer, Filipp, & Hellhammer, 1995; Taylor et al., 2008). Experimental studies have shown that the presence of a supportive significant other can dampen the production of cortisol in response to a socialevaluative stressor (Kirschbaum et al., 1995), an effect that is amplified by the intranasal administration of oxytocin (Heinrichs et al., 2003). This effect has also been demonstrated in children, with one recent study showing that physical or phone contact with the mother increases oxytocin production and decreases cortisol reactivity to a similar laboratory stressor in girls aged 7–12 (Seltzer, Ziegler & Pollak, 2010). Social support seems to not only dampen neuroendocrine stress responses through the anxiolytic effects of oxytocin, but throughout development it may also become an internalized resource that promotes self-esteem and effective coping with stressors. In an MRI study of individuals undergoing a similar type of social-evaluative threat, psychosocial resources (defined

The Developmental Psychobiology of Stress and Emotion in Childhood

as positive self-esteem, optimism, and extraversion) predicted lower cortisol reactivity, which was mediated by lower amygdala activation during a different threat regulation task (Taylor et al., 2008). Furthermore, individuals high in psychosocial resources displayed greater right ventro-lateral PFC activation during this task. Future research will need to elucidate the relationship between social support, psychosocial resources, and the more effective containment of stress responses through increased PFC activity and decreased amygdala activation. The social regulation of stress response systems more likely begins very early in life (Gunnar & Donzella, 2002). As early as 3 months after birth, maternal sensitivity and cooperation during a mild everyday stressor like a bathing routine predicts infants’ poststressor cortisol recovery (Albers, Riksen-Walraven, Sweep, & de Weerth, 2008). In young children, studies of the quality of mother-infant attachment have yielded evidence that secure attachment relationships function to regulate the activity of stress-sensitive systems (see review by Gunnar, 2000). For instance, attachment security moderates the relationship between behavioral inhibition and cortisol responses to a novel stimulus in 18-month-old infants (Nachmias et al., 1996). Furthermore, behavioral indices of distress or inhibition appear to be associated with heightened cortisol responses only when infants and toddlers are tested in the presence of a parent with whom they have an insecure attachment relationship (e.g., Spangler & Schieche, 1998). Other evidence indicates that securely attached children are buffered from cortisol elevations during an adaptation phase (having mother present) in the transition to child care (Ahnert, Gunnar, Lamb, & Barthel, 2004). Even though all children show elevations in cortisol when entering child care, it is informative that mother’s presence has a protective role for the infant in the context of having a secure attachment history. It is important to note that attachment insecurity may interact with the genetic characteristics of the child to create an increased vulnerability to stress. For instance, having the short allele for the 5-HTT gene or the CC allele for the GABRA6 gene interacts with insecure attachment to predict higher salivary alpha amylase levels (an index of sympathetic nervous system activity) during a Strange Situation procedure (Frigerio et al., 2009). Attachment insecurity is not the only variation in caregiving that is associated with less than optimal stress reactivity patterns. Recent evidence indicates that attachment disorganization is also associated with increased cortisol output during the Strange Situation compared to play episodes (Bernard & Dozier, 2010).

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Assessing attachment beyond the infant and toddler years is challenging, but some studies suggest that the patterns observed in infancy continue later in childhood. For instance, 5-year-old children who experience negative parent-child interactions not only produce stories deemed “insecure” when using parent and child doll props, but they also show cortisol elevations during these tasks (Smeekens, Riksen-Walraven, Van Bakel, & de Weerth, 2010), suggesting that their symbolic play may recapitulate some of the stress they experience in the home due to parent unavailability and unresponsiveness. The findings above illustrate the fact the normal variations in caregiving are sufficient to create differences in the regulation of stress systems. In addition to these findings, animal models of early adversity (Sanchez, 2006) and studies in humans (Cicchetti & Valentino, 2007) also show that neglect, deprivation, or maltreatment influence the developing stress systems. We first review evidence from studies of children experiencing severe deprivation of adequate caregiving early in life, then discuss processes related to maltreatment. The absence of adequate parental care early in life has been associated with atypical or dysregulated patterns of stress reactivity. Both institutionalized and foster care children have been shown to display disturbances in HPA axis function. Carlson and Earls (1997) were the first to report that toddlers living in an institution in Romania had exceptionally low early morning cortisol levels and a flatter cortisol slope across the day, which seemed counterintuitive at first. It is now understood that blunted cortisol patterns are often a signature of chronic stress, since chronic elevations in GCs lead to down-regulation over time. The same findings have also been observed for children in a Russian orphanage (Gunnar, 2001). However, by 6–7 years after being adopted into benevolent families, children from this population tend to exhibit elevated basal cortisol levels (Gunnar, Morison, Chisholm, & Schuder, 2001). It is not clear that the absence of adequate caregiving is the only operative factor, since early deprivation co-occurs with many other prenatal and postnatal risk factors. However, animal models discussed above can be used as converging evidence that caregiving is at least one of the factors that contribute to abnormal patterns of stress reactivity. Similar disturbances in the cortisol rhythm have been reported in several recent studies of infants and preschoolers in foster care. Dozier et al. (2006a) found disturbances of basal cortisol rhythms in up to 65% of infants in foster care, with many of these children exhibiting abnormally low morning levels. Additionally, preschoolers entering a

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new foster placement have been shown to exhibit similar patterns, with review of their records showing that the severity of experienced neglect predicts this atypical diurnal pattern (Bruce, Fisher, Pears, & Levine, 2009). In both instances, interventions designed to enhance parenting by foster parents appears to either normalize cortisol levels (Dozier et al., 2006b) or prevent the development of atypical diurnal patterns (Fisher, Stoolmiller, Gunnar, & Burraston, 2007). Of course, the situations that result in maltreatment and foster placement are complex. Any of a number of factors beyond caregiver-infant interaction, including lack of adequate stimulation, malnutrition, and inadequate medical care might be involved in producing alterations in the development of the stress system. Nevertheless, research has begun to isolate and identify the dysregulating effects of different types of maltreatment on neuroendocrine and behavioral systems (Cicchetti & Valentino, 2007). Experiencing early physical and sexual abuse is associated with higher levels of internalizing symptoms, as well as flatter diurnal cortisol slopes (Cicchetti, Rogosch, Gunnar, & Toth, 2010). Furthermore, studies of adult international adoptees that have experienced early life neglect or abuse also show blunted levels of morning cortisol and flatter diurnal slopes (van der Vegt et al., 2009). These altered hormonal patterns, as well as the mood and anxiety symptoms present in this population have been theorized to be linked to alterations in CRH and GC activity (Heim & Nemeroff, 2001). However, not all prior findings report evidence of blunted HPA axis activity. Several studies found evidence of elevated cortisol production in maltreated children who have developed posttraumatic stress disorder subsequent to their trauma (Carrion et al., 2002; De Bellis et al., 1999). It may be the case that concurrent trauma in childhood is associated with elevations in cortisol production, but with time and development, blunted patterns of reactivity may emerge due to down-regulation at several levels of the HPA axis, which would explain some of the patterns observed in adults who experienced early life abuse or neglect (e.g., van der Vegt et al., 2009 discussed above). Despite these speculations, there is a significant unexplained gap between the maladaptive patterns observed with maltreated/neglected children and those noted with adult survivors of these unfortunate experiences. Future work in this area will need to study children who experience abuse or neglect in a continuous longitudinal fashion, in order to clarify the development of these dysregulated neuroendocrine and biobehavioral patterns.

CONCLUSIONS The last several decades have seen tremendous advances in our understanding of the neurobiology of the human stress system. Research on the development of stress reactivity and regulation in infants and children has burgeoned in recent years due largely to the development of noninvasive measurement techniques. However, we are still far from understanding the processes through which individual differences in stress responses become organized. Repeatedly throughout this review we have noted where basic information is lacking. Much of this information involves normative data on the organization of stress reactivity and regulation at different points during early development. As in the study of emotional development more generally, we have much more information about individual differences in stress reactivity than we do about normative patterns of development and change. However, unless we develop this latter body of knowledge, it will be difficult to explicate the origins of individual differences in stress reactivity and regulation. Recent research investigating interactions between variations in genotype and environmental characteristics is beginning to shed light on some of the origins of individual differences in stress reactivity. Future work will need to use multiple levels of analysis (genetic, neuro-hormonal, behavioral, etc.) to elucidate the functional roles of genes and how they specifically impact neurobehavioral development. Meanwhile, studies of caregiver-child interactions indicate that qualities of care, including sensitivity and responsiveness, are related to reactivity and regulation of the stress system in infants and young children. Social support is a powerful natural stress buffer, and future interventions aiming to promote stress resilience or to reduce stress vulnerability will likely involve the effective deployment of social relationships, perhaps most effectively in early childhood. Understanding the underlying neurobiology of the stressbuffering effects of social support will be a powerful tool for advancing child welfare, as well as for promoting physical and mental health across the lifespan.

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CHAPTER 6

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context CATHERINE S. TAMIS-LeMONDA AND LULU SONG

INTRODUCTION 143 STARTING PRINCIPLES 144 THE SETTINGS AND ACTIVITIES OF DEVELOPMENT 146 MODES OF COMMUNICATION 153

COMMUNICATIVE ACCOMMODATION THE CONTENT OF LANGUAGE 161 CONCLUSIONS 165 REFERENCES 166

INTRODUCTION

new skills—such as independent sitting, object play, first steps, receptive language, and the effective use of gestures and words in social interactions (Bloom & Tinker, 2001). Emerging skills, in turn, open up a world of opportunities that enable infants to engage their environments in new ways (Karasik, Tamis-LeMonda, & Adolph, 2011) yet also trigger a host of unique challenges that infants must now tackle. Infants by no means navigate these challenges alone. Notions of the infant as a “solitary scientist” have long been abandoned in recognition of development as a culturally embedded process. The course of infant development reflects transactions between infants’ emerging abilities and changing social affordances. Infants can only explore the objects made available to them; they will only produce the words they hear; and their social engagements will be limited to the people around them. In this regard, parents—as primary participants in infants’ social experiences—are key agents of developmental change. Parents usually are nearby, ready and willing to channel infants’ behaviors toward what is considered typical and desirable in the local community (Tamis-LeMonda, 2003). Parents do so through the use of cultural tools (Heath, 1982), including artifacts and language, which form the basis of everyday lessons that are essential to a successful developmental journey. In this chapter, we examine the sociocultural context of infant development, with primary emphasis on parent–infant communicative interactions. We focus on

We are both creators and performers in the cultural invention of the child. —Kessen, 1979, p. 820

From the moment of birth, infants embark on a developmental journey characterized by continual transformations in the ways they act in and reflect upon their worlds. Infants must adapt to challenges in their environments from moment to moment, day to day, and month to month, including how to maintain balance while reaching for a toy; use objects in functional ways; move across the floor to join a sibling; effectively elicit mothers’ attention; enter ongoing conversations; decipher what others are doing and saying; communicate intentions with gestures and language; and figure out what is appropriate to say and when to do so. The serendipitous consequence of these daily adaptations is the development of Catherine S. Tamis-LeMonda and Lulu Song are at New York University’s Center for Research on Culture, Development, and Education, and acknowledge funding by NSF BCS grant #021859 and NSF IRADS grant #0721383. We thank our colleagues and staff at the Center and NYU who contribute to our thinking about culture and development on a daily basis: Karen Adolph, Diane Hughes, Ronit Kahana Kalman, Lana Karasik, Yana Kuchirko, Diane Ruble, Niobe Way, Irene Wu, and Hiro Yoshikawa. Finally, we are grateful to the hundreds of mothers, fathers, and children who have participated in our research over the years. 143

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the cultural context of development, as societies (and local communities) around the world provide “a great laboratory of child development” reflecting different sets of “experimental conditions” in their views and practices around raising children (LeVine et al., 1994; Mead, 1930). We focus on infancy, as it is a period of dependency on caregivers for survival (Hrdy, 1999), rapid brain growth, and impressive developmental achievements, including advances in language and social communication. We focus on parent–infant communicative interactions because infants’ social experiences occur primarily within the family setting (Dunn, 1988) and interactions with family members are a core conduit for sharing culture, including conventions around language and other forms of communication, the pragmatics of conversing, and the content of talk that is socially appropriate (LeVine et al., 1994; Tamis-LeMonda, 2003). We begin with five starting principles that guide our thinking on cultural similarities and differences in parent–infant communicative interactions. We then show how the everyday settings and activities of families— referred to as daily routines—frame the types of communicative interactions that parents have with their young. We next describe cultural variations in three aspects of parent–infant communicative interactions: modes of communication (i.e., language, gaze, touch, gesture), parents’ communicative accommodations to infants (i.e., support of infants’ expressions and understandings), and the content of interactions (i.e., the functions and topics of communications). We conclude with take-home messages and next steps in the study of parent–infant interactions in cultural context.

STARTING PRINCIPLES Several starting principles are foundational to the topic of infant development in sociocultural context, and we therefore lay out our cards at the outset. First, we do not privilege within- or between-group studies: Culture permeates all behaviors in all communities, and descriptive portrayals of social interactions in a single group are as valuable as those conducted across groups. Studies of parent–infant play in middle-income, European American households provide rich information on cultural practices within a specific community, as does the study of interactions in rural Kenya, or studies contrasting practices in the two. The tendency, however, is to overlook cultural forces when studying developmental processes and parenting in European Americans in the United States. This oversight

contains the dual assumptions that observed behaviors are: (1) a-cultural and (2) representative and generalizable. The reality is that culture infuses the theories that come to frame studies, the behaviors that are chosen for investigation, the analyses applied to data, the behaviors observed in infants and parents, and which aspects of those data will be stressed versus ignored (McFadden & TamisLeMonda, in press). Thus, the U.S. emphasis (and associated findings) on the development of infant autonomy, exploration, intention and goal directedness, and parental responsiveness—as select examples—are all reflections of topics deemed to be worthy of study in the U.S. context (see Tamis-LeMonda & McFadden, 2010). Even milestone charts and developmental scales considered to be the gold standards of developmental achievements (e.g., Gesell, Bayley) are “slaves” to culture. Choices about the behaviors to include on such charts reflect the whims of scientists, who then apply their “picks” to the study of a select group of U.S. infants, and develop normative templates that come to be reified as universal progressions (Adolph, Karasik, & Tamis-LeMonda, 2009). In short, cultural forces are always at play in developmental science—whether the focus is on a cultural community within the United States, outside the United States, or in cultures across the globe. Second, and relatedly, we rebuke artificial dichotomies between cultural universality (or generalizability) and cultural specificity. When comparing parent–infant interactions across cultural communities, similarities and differences always exist, and do so at nested levels of nuance. Some researchers emphasize cultural similarities in biologically shared foundations and learning processes: Visual, auditory, tactile, olfactory, and gustatory stimuli are the fodder for learning and development in all infants, and basic learning processes, such as imitation and learning by doing, are universal. Others emphasize variation in inputs and processes (e.g., more frequent tactile stimulation of infants in certain cultures than others; emphasis on learning through observation versus direct tutoring; Keller, 2007; Rogoff, 2003). However, these emphases are synergistic rather than mutually exclusive. Even when universals exist in human capacities, they do not compel specific behaviors (LeVine et al., 1994). For example, the human capacity for lactation is universal, yet its expression depends on context: All Gusii mothers breastfeed their infants due to few survival alternatives, whereas a large proportion of mothers in the United States choose not to breastfeed their infants because of personal, family, and work conditions (LeVine et al., 1994). Similarly, human survival rests on the universal capacities

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of parents to care for their young, and parents from around the globe engage in four superordinate categories of caregiving—nurturant, social, didactic, and material (Bornstein, 2002). Nonetheless, noteworthy variation is seen in the frequencies, forms, and functions of these caregiving practices. Thus, whether to direct the beam of light on cultural universals or cultural specifics is always a choice; it is not privileged illumination of the developmental process. Assumptive generalizations across groups ignore the role of culture in the developmental process. However, at the other extreme, dismissal of all research findings as developmentally inconsequential beyond the specific group studied is akin to “throwing out the baby with the bathwater.” A constant challenge is to strike balance between cultural sensitivity and eternal cultural relativism (Tamis-LeMonda & Cabrera, 2002). Third, we underscore the importance of clarity of terms in cross-cultural investigation. The failure to distinguish among developmental constructs such as timing, sequence, trajectory, and form, as well as between statistical comparisons of mean levels versus associations can lead to onesided portrayals of culture and seeming contradictions in the literature. Infants from different communities may display similarities and/or differences in when they achieve particular skills (timing), the ordering of skills (sequence), the shape and path of change (trajectory), and/or the ultimate structure of skills (form) (Adolph et al., 2009). Additionally, there may exist differences in the mean levels of specific behaviors across cultural communities, but cultural similarities in patterns of association. For example, parents and infants in community A might express fewer word types than those in community B (a mean level cultural difference), yet parents’ word types might predict infants’ word types equally in the two communities (a correlational cultural similarity). Mean levels are independent of correlations, and take-home messages depend on analytic approach. Clarity of terms therefore precludes gross misinterpretations that developmental processes are either similar or different. Fourth, we caution against broad-sweeping generalizations of any given cultural community, and highlight the importance of attending to within-group variation. Parents and infants living within the same cultural community operate under different constraints and pressures, and their actual behaviors reflect a balance between enacting the cultural “scripts” of their communities and attending to their personal views and circumstances (LeVine et al., 1994). Thus, expectations, preferences, belief systems, and practices are rarely shared or expressed by all individuals in a community. Although the recognition of within-group

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variation is obvious in more complex societies, it is often overlooked in descriptions of lesser-known communities (Ochs, 1986). Studies of young children’s language, for example, typically draw upon evidence that speaks to what is common across individuals, thereby masking variation among members of a society (Ochs, 1986). In reality, the group “average” represents a central tendency rather than the behaviors of any individual. As such, the child or parent can get lost in the reporting. Finally, and related to all the points above, we caution against the tenacious quest for statistical significance. In many ways, this caution reflects disciplinary notions about what is valuable to study (and how) and what is worthy of report (and how to do so). Cultural anthropologists, for example, typically adopt a grounded approach to the study of culture, presenting rich descriptions of human behaviors and social settings through the use of ethnographic methods. Focus is on the physical characteristics, views, and practices of a cultural community at a particular point in time from an emic perspective. In contrast, developmental psychologists are concerned with documenting and explaining processes of change in individuals and social settings within and across nested time frames. Their methods and analytic tools are typically based in the scientific method: A priori expectations are tested through the application of statistics aimed at rejection of the null hypothesis. As a consequence, comparative studies of developmental processes across sociocultural contexts require identifying cultural differences, as those are where significance lies. Cultural similarities, in contrast, are construed as a “failure” to reject the null. This quest for significance, if not balanced by attention to cultural similarities, may lead to distorted narratives regarding cultural practices. To illustrate this point, consider the hypothetical data presented in Figure 6.1, representative of four “communicative strategies” used by infants from the imagined Mefyrst and Grpfyrst communities. Within the tradition of developmental psychology, a MANOVA would be the statistical tool of choice to address the question: Do infants of the Mefryst and Grpfyrst differ in their communicative strategies? Based on the hypothetical figures, this analysis would yield a significant strategy × cultural group interaction, with follow-up analyses indicating that infants of the Grpfyrst community use Strategy 2 twice as often as infants in the Mefyrst community, and that Strategy 4 is only seen in the Mefyrst community. These “differences” will now be highlighted in publications and become the fodder for developmental psychologists interested in culture. Scholarly audiences will repeat them in talks and

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Infancy and Early Childhood Mefyrst Cultural Community

Figure 6.1

Grpfyrst Cultural Community Strategy 1

Strategy 1

Strategy 2

Strategy 2

Strategy 3

Strategy 3

Strategy 4

Strategy 4

Hypothetical distributions of communicative strategies in two cultural communities

literature reviews (often as secondhand renditions), and they will eventually become the accepted characterizations of infant communicative strategies in the Mefyrst versus Grpfyrst communities. Forever lost in translation is the reality that Strategy 1 is the dominant form of communication in infants from both communities. As seen in this example, the quest for statistical significance places pressure on the report of cultural differences to the neglect of cultural similarities. There is therefore scientific responsibility to present both sides of the story when considering development in cultural context. Meaningful information resides as much in patterns that are not statistically significant as in those that are.

THE SETTINGS AND ACTIVITIES OF DEVELOPMENT Many of the most powerful socializing messages are implicit and unintended . . . . They are conveyed through tacit routine organizations of time and space, with their associated routines and distributions of social actors. —Shweder et al., 1998, p. 890

With the previously described principles providing a backdrop to this chapter on parent–infant communicative interactions, we turn to the everyday settings and activities of infancy, termed daily routines. Infants around the world participate in routines that are universally shared (e.g., grooming) and those that are culturally specified (e.g., nursery school). Even routines that are necessary to human survival (e.g., feeding) contain numerous stamps of cultural uniqueness—for example, whether an infant is fed during quiet, shared time with mother or simultaneous with mother’s engagement in household chores. As such, daily routines represent cultural backdrops to the study of parent–infant communicative interactions: Goals and practices inherent in daily routines will largely affect infants’ social and language experiences. The cultural emphasis on daily routines can be traced to the seminal Six Culture Study of the Whitings (Whiting,

1963; Whiting, B., & Whiting, 1975). Through the use of repeated, naturalistic observations of children in their everyday behavior settings, the Whitings offered the scientific community a fresh methodological approach to the study of human development in cultural context. Their vivid portrayals of the customary practices of parents in Mexico, India, Kenya, New England, Okinawa, and the Philippines inspired a new genre of developmental studies focused on naturalistic observations of parent–infant interactions during routines of feeding (Bornstein, TamisLeMonda, & Haynes, 1999; Harwood, Miller, Carlson, & Leyendecker, 2002), bathing/exercise (Hopkins, 1976), play (G¨onc¨u, Mistry, & Mosier, 2000; Tamis-LeMonda & Bornstein, 1994; Tamis-LeMonda, Bornstein, Cyphers, Toda, & Ogino, 1992), literacy activities (Heath, 1982; Ninio & Bruner, 1978), and sleep (Keller, 2007). These studies highlight the significance of daily routines for developmental pathways: Daily routines provide infants with opportunities to participate in culturally specified activities; these activities require and therefore promote the development of skills valued in local communities; and through regular repetition of those skills, children become cultural experts and active contributors to their communities (Tamis-LeMonda, 2003; Weisner, Matheson, Coots, & Bernheimer, 2005). For example, involvement in drawing and writing activities, including access to materials such as markers, crayons, and coloring books, supports children’s control of tools for the effective notation of graphics. Daily bookreading expands children’s lexicons and literacy skills, largely because parents’ language during bookreading is more varied, dense, and responsive than language in other settings (Bradley, Corwyn, McAdoo, & Coll, 2001; Heath, 1982; Raikes et al., 2006; Tamis-LeMonda, Song, Leavell, Kahana-Kalman, & Yoshikawa et al., in press). In contrast, exercise and massage routines, as observed in African, Indian, and Caribbean cultures, support earlier onsets of sitting and walking (Adolph et al., 2009). Everyday routines also convey cultural norms regarding the appropriate participants of activities. Thus, routines are organized not only around what (is being done)

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

but also around who participates (in the activity)—who is the person(s) to care for, play with, read to, or teach the infant or young child? Many firstborn infants from nuclear, middle-income U.S. families spend their days in the presence of a primary caregiver, typically mother or someone who has been carefully selected for surrogate care while mother works. In other cultural communities and family constellations, multiparty care situations are the norm. Thus, the social configurations of daily routines also promote cultural competencies. Children must come to recognize and draw inferences about social activities and the people who are involved in those activities, and they must learn to act in ways sensitive to those contexts and people (Ochs, 1986). How does the study of daily routines advance an understanding of communicative interactions specifically? At the broadest level, language is a primary tool of enculturation and therefore central to the process of integrating children into everyday activities. Parents often talk with children and others involved in ongoing activities, thereby providing meaningful information about the behaviors of community members. This talk can take the form of explicit instruction (“Look at how I hold the pencil”), ongoing commentary (“I burnt the toast!”), and evaluative stances (“It is upsetting to me when you don’t share your toys”). Parents also use gaze, touch, and gesture to communicate, such as when a mother guides her child’s hands through the process of weaving. As she closely monitors her child’s actions, she will adjust the pressure of her touch, length of string, and bodily proximity, behaviors that subtly communicate how the child is doing. Second, different activities inherent in daily routines call upon different language content and forms; if, for example, a parent is directing a child to eat versus sharing a personal narrative. The encouragement of eating will call for brief, direct commands (“Have more”; “Don’t play with the food”) meant to steer children toward a clear end state (finishing the meal). In contrast, personal narratives, in which parents and children co-construct stories of the past, often take thematic detours, marked by frequent questions and turn taking (“Do you remember when . . . ?” “What happened next?”). Finally, norms regarding the participants of daily routines will affect the type of language children hear and the ways they themselves communicate. The language offered by siblings will certainly differ from that of adults, and mothers versus fathers may differ in what they choose to talk about with their young children, and how. For these reasons, the study of daily routines is a hallmark of developmental study from a cultural perspective, and provides a valuable window onto parent–infant

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communicative interactions more specifically. Here, we present three select examples of daily routines that are emblematic expressions of culture: literacy, play, and exercise/massage routines. Literacy Routines Literacy practices are cultural expressions. Virtually all communities boast a tradition of literacy, whether reflected in the classic genres of fictional and nonfictional prose or in cultural markings/drawings on clay, pottery, or walls to depict community events, moral lessons, and quantify everyday trade transactions, for example. In the United States and other industrialized societies, literacy is defined as skills related to the creation and use of printed and written materials (The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization [UNESCO], 2004) which are foundational to children’s success in school. In infancy and early childhood, before formal literacy skills of reading and writing are acquired, researchers focus on developmental precursors to literacy, referred to as emergent literacy. These precursors span skills including language, concepts and knowledge, articulation, phonological awareness, attitudes toward learning, and early forms of writing such as scribbles and drawings (Ferreiro & Teberosky, 1982; Homer & Nelson, 2005; Whitehurst & Lonigan, 1998). Many of these emergent literacy skills develop in the context of parent–infant interactions. Parents in the United States (as in most schooled societies) are eager recipients of cultural messages about the importance of literacy activities for early learning and development, and consequently incorporate literacy routines into their daily activities with infants. In other cultural communities, the development of skills around oral traditions of storytelling, or routines around humor and teasing, may be commonplace and contain greater cultural import than writing and reading. Bookreading Parent–infant bookreading is a widely adopted daily routine in virtually all industrialized societies, including the United States (e.g., Bradley et al., 2001; Raikes et al., 2006). Children growing up in schooled societies are “expected to develop habits and values that attest to their membership in a ‘literate society,’ and early enculturation with written materials are emblematic of such expectations” (Heath, 1982, p. 51). As one notable example, bedtime stories, which often take the form of sharing books, are a common experience for many children

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that establishes long-lasting patterns of literacy behaviors (Heath, 1982). Indeed, 85% of non-poor European American parents read stories to their children from birth to 3 years (Bradley et al., 2001), and many regularly incorporate bookreading into bedtime routines (Rodriguez et al., 2009). The importance of bookreading has also reached families from different ethnic/racial and income backgrounds, although rates of bookreading are lower in poorer families than in middle-income families. In one study, 48% of families from the Early Head Start national study, for example, reported engaging in bookreading daily already with their 14-month olds; by the time children were 2-years of age, that rate had increased to 55% of families (Raikes et al., 2006). Experiences with bookreading in turn, are associated with infants’ development of a specialized set of behaviors. Infants are quick to learn the “rules of literacy” (Heath, 1982). As early as 6 months of age, infants keenly attend to books and accept book-related activities as entertainment. During the second year, as language develops, infants acknowledge and answer simple questions posed to them during bookreading. Over time, they grow to recognize their role as listener, waiting for adult cues regarding appropriate times to speak. By age 3 years, infants use their knowledge of what books do to suspend reality and depart from the truth with pretend or fantasy stories (Heath, 1982). Parents modify their behaviors during bookreading in response to children’s changing skills and understandings. To illustrate these developmental adjustments, we longitudinally documented the types of questions mothers asked when their children were 14 months, 2 years, 3 years, 4 years, and 5 years of age. At the two earlier ages, when language was emerging, mothers asked rhetorical questions in which they provided information to children while prompting for acknowledgment (e.g., “Is this a cat?”; “It’s blue, right?”). As children’s lexicons expanded, mothers asked questions that elicited labels and descriptors (e.g., “What’s that?”; “What color is this?”). At later ages, mothers’ questions required children to follow the story line, draw inferences, and reason about causes and consequences (e.g., “What will happen next?” “Why did he do that?”) (Garcia, Kuchirko, Liang, Fernandez, ChakofskyLewy, 2011). To what extent do early bookreading experiences fulfill their implicit objective of arming children with skills foundational to school success? Studies of cultural communities that engage in organized literacy activities such as bookreading indicate benefits in hypothetical reasoning, modes of categorization, and memorization (Schieffelin

& Ochs, 1986a). Moreover, these influences are evident early in development. Infants and toddlers who participate in frequent bookreading activities are more advanced in their language and cognitive skills compared to their peers who are rarely read to by their parents, and regularity of bookreading in infancy has long-term implications for school success (Bus, van IJzendoorn, & Pellegrini, 1995; Duursma et al., 2007; Patterson, 2002; Payne, Whitehurst, & Angell, 1994; Raikes et al., 2006; Scarborough & Dobrich, 1994; S´en´echal & LeFevre, 2002; Whitehurst et al., 1994). For example, our research indicates the importance of literacy routines broadly defined for the cognitive development of toddlers from low-income backgrounds in the United States. In a longitudinal study of 1,046 Englishspeaking low-income families, home visits were conducted at 14, 24, and 36 months of the children’s age (Rodriguez et al., 2009). Each visit included a parent interview, assessments of children’s language and cognitive abilities (e.g., Bayley MDI; Bayley, 1993; Dunn & Dunn, 1997; Peabody Picture Vocabulary Test, PPVT), and a semistructured videotaped observation of mother–child play. During interviews, mothers reported the frequencies they engaged their children in three literacy activities: shared bookreading, storytelling, and singing nursery rhymes. Additionally, they reported on the availability of learning and literacy materials for children (e.g., books to read). Finally, their cognitive stimulation and responsiveness to children were coded from the videotaped interactions of mother–child play. These three features of parenting were summed into a composite score and related to various outcomes in children within and across time. Participation in literacy activities predicted children’s cognitive skills and vocabulary size at all ages after controlling for children’s gender, birth order, maternal age, education, employment, father residency, and family ethnic background. In a follow-up of the same children in preschool, children who experienced consistently high levels of literacy activities across four ages (14 months, 24 months, 36 months, and preschool) had substantially stronger language and cognitive skills than children with consistently low levels of activity or even children with fluctuating activity patterns across development (Rodriguez & Tamis-LeMonda, in press). Others also find that parent reading to preschoolers promotes language development beyond socioeconomic influences (Bus et al., 1995); and children exposed to more reading at home during the kindergarten years display better reading skills (e.g., receptive language, phonological awareness) in 3rd grade (S´en´echal & LeFevre, 2002).

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

Various mechanisms of influence underlie the positive associations between bookreading routines and children’s language and cognitive development. First, bookreading expands children’s lexicons and support children’s achievement of labeling (Ninio & Bruner, 1978) by exposing children to new words and concepts not otherwise encountered in daily life. Mothers use more words and a greater diversity of words (word types) when sharing books with children. For example, in one study, working-class and upper-middle-class mothers were videotaped interacting with their 18- to 29-montholds in four settings—mealtime, dressing, bookreading, and toy play (Hoff-Ginsburg, 1991). Several properties of maternal speech were coded and analyzed, including mean length of utterance (MLU) and the number of utterances, word roots, topic-continuing replies, conversationeliciting utterances, and behavior directives. Across both social classes, mothers’ word types (roots), MLU, and topic-continuing replies were higher during book reading than during the other three settings. The heightened use of certain forms of language during bookreading is also seen in mothers from diverse ethnic backgrounds in the United States. In our work, we videotaped mothers from Mexican, Dominican, and African American backgrounds interacting around different tasks with their infants of 14 months and 2 years of age. Mothers’ language was contrasted as they shared wordless books or shared beads and string with their children. During booksharing, mothers of the three ethnicities used more “referential language” (i.e., statements that provided information about objects, events, and activities, using specific nouns, adjectives, and adverbs) during booksharing than beadstringing. In contrast, during beadstringing mothers used more “regulatory language” (i.e., statements that directed children’s attention and actions; e.g., “Look here”; “Put it there”), which contained high proportions of pronouns rather than nouns and descriptors (Tamis-LeMonda et al., in press). Bookreading also promotes infants’ learning of turntaking in social interactions. During reading cycles, even before children are 2 years of age, mothers socialize their infants on ways to participate in initiation-replyevaluation sequences by asking questions, awaiting replies, and then providing feedback. Such sequences are a central structural feature of classroom lessons, and therefore arm children with interactive strategies for classroom participation (Sinclair & Coulthard, 1975). Teachers ask questions of children while holding prespecified answers in mind, and children who are able to effectively engage

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in question-reply-evaluate dialogues are better poised for school success. Storytelling and Oral Routines Although bookreading is a common routine across many cultural communities, language/literacy routines can take different forms in cultures where schooling is less common. As one example, the tradition of oral storytelling, rather than emphasis on printed text, is common in the Australian aboriginal communities, such as the Pitjantjatjara people (Klapproth, 2004). Although literacy was introduced to the Pitjantjatjara people during the colonizing process, oral storytelling has remained at the heart of sociocultural life as the main means of transmission of cultural knowledge and the negotiation of personal and social identity. The forms of storytelling range from everyday activities among small groups of women and children to formal sacred ritual ceremonies. Rather than utilizing decontextualized printed text and symbolic pictures, the storytelling of the Australian aboriginal people often takes place in particular environments and places with connections to the story. In one example, several adults and children of mixed ages were observed participating in a storytelling event. The place they chose for the storytelling, a waterhole on their homeland, was associated with the story. When telling the story, the adults pointed at the markings in the ground and the rocks to explain how they evidenced the truthfulness of the story and illustrated the importance of looking after their land so as to preserve their cultural identity. Oral narratives or storytelling is also an important part of young children’s socialization in communities in Africa or those of African heritage. For example, Botswana infants often accompany their mothers to court, church meetings, and cultural events and listen to speeches and praise-poetry with prolonged alertness and unusual lack of restlessness (Geiger & Alant, 2005). In an African American community in the southeastern United States, children rarely have children’s books and do not request literacy-based materials (Heath, 1982). Further, adults do not read to their children; nor do they expect younger children to sit still and listen when older children try to read to them or “play school” with them. However, when engaging preschoolers in oral conversations, adults ask children a great number of analytical questions that call for comparisons (“What’s that like?”), origin of information (“Where’d you get that from?”), or reasons for actions (“How come you did that?”) (Heath, 1982). By asking these questions, adults do not tutor the children

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on facts but rather urge children to independently reach understandings in various contexts. Another example of the oral tradition is documented in the routines of verbal exchange in the Kaluli society, where teasing and shaming are two prominent speech acts of verbal interactions (Schieffelin, 1986). Kaluli children are socialized through teasing and shaming from infancy. As early as 6 months of age, adults tease and shame infants by calling them by short names such as “retard fruit,” after which they usually laugh or smile. Although adults are always gentle with infants, teasing and shaming become more serious when children reach the age of around 3 years. For example, a child may be called “extended stomach” for eating too much. Children are teased across a range of situations, but most frequently when eating or sharing food, especially when the child is not behaving as the adult expects. In such contexts, Kaluli adults may use a variety of linguistic devices such as rhetorical questions, formulaic expressions, and sarcastic statements to tease and shame children. However, teasing and shaming are not used to traumatize or hurt children, but instead promote children’s acquisition of a culturally salient practice that will be important to their adulthood. Play Routines Play is a cultural routine seen in societies across the globe. All children engage in play, and play is even evidenced in the interactions of nonhuman primates (Power, 2000). Nonetheless, what children play with, when they play, and with whom they play vary within and across cultural communities. Play routines influence the amount, functions, and types of language heard by infants, depending on whether play partners are parents, siblings, or peers (Bornstein & Tamis-LeMonda, 2006; Tamis-LeMonda & Bornstein, 1993). These variations reflect differences in the goals, practices, and economic structures of communities and more specifically the extent to which parents and adults consider play to be a valued context for learning and development. In certain cultural communities, play is intentionally incorporated into children’s daily routines. Many parents in the United States regularly schedule play into their children’s days, beginning in infancy. This reflects the widely accepted view that play promotes children’s development and learning, a perspective that can be traced to the separation of adult and child worlds in technological societies (Morelli, Rogoff, & Angelillo, 2003). Parents in the United States participate in a specialized industrial and technological market economy, and the early years of

development are a time for preparing children for school. To become skilled members of the labor market, children require intensive, prolonged training in schooling institutions. The delayed entry into the adult world also provides children with ample time for play (LeVine et al., 1994), and parents view this time as one in which children acquire foundational skills. Research on the importance of play for early learning (Hirsh-Pasek, Golinkoff, Singer, & Berk, 2009; Singer, Golinkoff, & Hirsh-Pasek, 2006) has further solidified the U.S. commitment to incorporating play into children’s daily routines. Consequently, toy manufacturing is a major industry in the United States, and toy stores are popular venues for parents and children. Parents covet and invest substantial resources in toys that claim to promote infant learning. Infants have mirrors in their cribs to explore their reflections; mobiles and other contraptions that respond to their actions; large and small manipulables they can twist, strike, and rotate; blocks, puzzles, and shape sorters for categorizing, juxtaposing, and constructing; cars, trucks, and trains for pushing; and household replicas of phones, food, cups, plates, utensils, dolls, animals, and blankets for pretending. Parents structure their infants’ days in ways that promote opportunities to play with these stimulating toys: They lay infants under jungle gyms; attach toys to highchairs, strollers, and bouncers; and prop their young infants up with pillows so that their hands are free to reach the colorful array of toys that encircle them. As a consequence, much of U.S. infants’ days are spent interacting with objects in their surrounds. In one short-term longitudinal study, we videotaped infants for an hour in the naturalistic setting of their homes when they were 11and 13-months of age (Karasik et al., 2011). At both ages, infants’ time spent in object play was assessed. On average, infants spent half the observation time playing with toys and other objects. Toys and objects for manipulation were abundant and available to them, and mothers often participated in their infants’ play activities. In a crosscultural investigation of younger, 5-month-old infants in the United States and other cultures across the globe, mother–infant dyads were again videotaped during an hour of naturalistic interaction at home. U.S. infants spent much time manipulating and exploring objects and toys, particularly when mothers placed them in a sitting position that enabled infants to freely use both hands. Mothers surrounded their infants with reachable objects and toys, and consequently, infants spent half their time interacting with objects while seated (Karasik, Adolph, Tamis-LeMonda, & Bornstein, 2010; Karasik & Bornstein, 2010).

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

Beyond fostering time for infants to engage in solitary play, parents in the United States promote infants’ sharing of toys with others (including parents) as a pathway to learning and social competencies. Parents frequently enter their infants’ world of play and scaffold their infants to higher levels of performance. Parents’ own play is keenly attuned to the level of infant play. This attunement is illustrated in our naturalistic observations of mothertoddler play (Melstein, Tamis-LeMonda, & Bornstein, 1996). Mothers and their 21-month-olds were videotaped during play at home with a standard set of toys. Four play types (i.e., off task, exploratory play, nonsymbolic play, and symbolic play) were coded in both infants and mothers, enabling us to examine the sequencing of dyadic play activities in real time. Analysis of infant-mother play sequences revealed tight alignment in dyads, with mothers attempting to raise their children’s play sophistication in responsive ways. When infants were off task, mothers encouraged them to explore objects; when infants explored objects, mothers encouraged them to engage in nonsymbolic play (e.g., placing a block in a shape sorter); when infants engaged in nonsymbolic play, mothers responded by elaborating on the nonsymbolic play; when infants used toys to “pretend,” mothers extended the play scenarios by encouraging further story development (e.g., responding to the infant’s “drinking” from a toy cup with a request for infant to feed the dolly). By venturing into the world of play with their toddlers, mothers adopted the role of “peer,” and used the context of play to impart knowledge and help infants attain higher levels of play than spontaneously enacted. Others have shown that mothers accommodate their speech to facilitate children’s participation in play scenarios while providing children with “cultural lessons” that are responsively focused on children’s interests and attention (Haight & Miller, 1993; Heath, 1982; Nucci & Weber, 1995; Rogoff, 1990; Schieffelin & Ochs, 1986b; Snow, 1977; Tamis-LeMonda & McFadden, 2010; Whiting et al., 1988). In terms of play as a pathway to social competence, many parents in the United States schedule time for their young children to play informally with peers through play dates. They sign their children up for classes so that they may interact with other children in structured play settings (e.g., “Gymboree,” “Mommy and Me”) as a preview to formal school contexts. For the most part, play dates and structured play sessions are stratified by child age—infants play with infants; toddlers with toddlers; preschoolers with preschoolers—mirroring the age segregation that children will later encounter in the school setting.

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The intentionality and structure seen in U.S. play routines can be contrasted with settings in which play is spontaneously enacted over the course of a child’s day, rather than purposefully scheduled. In many cultural communities, parents neither encourage nor supervise play, and children are left to figure out which available objects are fit for play. Children play with raw materials (mud and sticks) or household objects, with little or no access to manufactured toys. For example, Baka hunter-gatherer children, who live in the African tropical forest, mostly play at hunting, gathering, house, and music and dance (Kamei, 2005). Parents rarely participate in play with their children, as play is deemed to be a “frivolous activity” that detracts from other essential activities, such as household chores. In an African American community in southeastern United States, children routinely play with household items safe for them, and only at Christmas do they play with special toys for young children (Heath, 1982). Moreover, in many cultural communities, children’s play partners are siblings, relatives, and other children who vary in their ages, rather than being chronologically “matched” through parental interventions (KahanaKalman, Way, Hughes, Tamis-LeMonda, & Niwa, 2007). These cultural differences in play routines are exemplified in a study of middle-class U.S. mothers, middleclass Turkish mothers, and Mayan Indian mothers (G¨onc¨u et al., 2000). When interviewed about their views regarding play, middle-class U.S. and Turkish parents viewed themselves as play partners for their children and, consistent with such views, participated in frequent pretend play with their children. In contrast, Mayan Indians considered play to be exclusively a child’s activity, and in line with this belief Mayan parents engaged in little or no pretense with their children. Cultural differences in play routines also are illustrated in a study comparing U.S. parent–child interactions with interactions in non-American indigenous societies (Morelli et al., 2003). The authors looked at two middle-class European American communities, one outside Boston, the other Salt Lake City. These communities were compared to the Efe foragers of the Democratic Republic of Congo (formerly Zaire) and San Pedro (a Mayan town in Guatemala). In both Efe and Mayan communities, but not in the U.S. ones, children begin to participate responsibly in the work activities of their communities by age 5 (Morelli & Verhoef, 1999). In the two U.S. groups, adults participated in high levels of play with children of 2 to 3 years and also involved them in more conversations with adults. U.S. parents often engaged children in child-directed topics by asking questions about children’s activities and feelings,

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such as “Tell me what you did in preschool today?” or “Did you have a nice time playing on the swings?” In contrast, parents did not engage in child-focused questioning in the Efe and San Pedro communities, they did not actively play with children, and teaching was rarely observed. The authors attributed these findings to differences in the social structures of the respective communities. They argued that it would be superfluous for parents to use specialized childfocused activities to prepare children for a world in which they already participate. Similarly, a study comparing U.S. and Mexican mothers of 18- to 36-month olds revealed contrasting views and practices around play (Farver & Howes, 1993). Mothers were asked open-ended questions about what they considered to be the value of play as well as the extent to which they considered play to be important to their infants. The majority of U.S. mothers believed that play provided invaluable educational benefits to their infants. In contrast, the majority of Mexican mothers valued play for the amusement it provided infants, but did not consider play to be important cognitively. In line with these views, most U.S. mothers reported being their infants’ most common play partners. Mexican mothers reported that siblings were infants’ most common play partners. In turn, observations of mother-child play in these two cultures indicated that U.S. mothers used more implicit guidance, more often supported children’s efforts, and more often suggested fantasy than did Mexican mothers. In turn, U.S. children engaged in more symbolic play and cooperative pretend play than did Mexican children. As another example, differences were also observed in the social play behavior (playing with one or more partners) of 12- to 24-month-olds from middle-class communities in the United States (Salt Lake City) and Turkey (Kecioren) and from rural communities in Guatemala (San Pedro) and India (Dhol-Ki-Patti) during caregiver interview and caregiver and toddler interactions in the home (G¨onc¨u et al., 2000). Although all children engaged in social play, higher numbers of the toddlers in the two rural communities played with other children than did the toddlers in the two urban, middle-class communities. Many of the toddlers in the two middle-class communities did not have other children available as potential play partners. On the other hand, the toddlers from the two urban, middle-class communities had more social play episodes and engaged in dyadic play (social play of two partners) with adult partners more frequently than those from the rural communities. Further, the toddlers also differed in the extent to which they engaged in different types of play in different activity contexts. For example,

during a semistructured activity involving novel objects and unstructured free activities, higher numbers of toddlers from the middle-class communities in the United States and Turkey engaged in pretend play, language play, and games than did toddlers from the rural communities in Guatemala and India. In our research, we documented cultural differences in play routines at even earlier ages in development. In a cross-cultural investigation of 5-month-old infants in the natural setting of their homes, U.S. infants’ object play was compared to that of infants from a variety of cultures. As reported earlier, U.S. infants engaged in frequent object play when placed in an upright, sitting position. In contrast, infants from rural Kenya (as one example) spent dramatically less time manipulating objects, even though they had more opportunities to sit and were more skilled at sitting. These infants had little access to toys or manipulable objects while seated, and instead spent their time watching their mothers attend to daily chores of preparing firewood and cooking (Karasik & Bornstein, 2010; Karasik et al., 2010). Exercise and Massage Routines As indicated above, daily routines around literacy and play are seen in communities around the world, yet vary in their forms and functions based on culturally valued skills. Although researchers in the United States have dedicated much attention to these culturally valued routines, they have attended substantially less to daily routines around exercise and massage, which are common practice in cultures that seek to promote infants’ physical development and motor skills. For example, in African and Caribbean cultures, infant bath time includes ritualized exercise and massage (see Adolph et al., 2009, for review). Infants’ limbs, joints and back are tapped, pulled, and extended, and infants are massaged with special oils (Adolph et al., 2009; Hopkins, 1976; Hopkins & Westra, 1988). During these bathing routines, mothers and grandmothers hold their infants under their arms, around their heads, or upside down by the ankles, vigorously suspending, shaking, and swinging their infants. Mothers do not appear to be perturbed by their infants’ wails of distress, and only later swaddle and calm their infants when the bathing ritual has ended (Adolph et al., 2009; Bril & Sabatier, 1986; Rabain-Jamin & Wornham, 1993). Mothers from African and Caribbean cultures also engage in routines that facilitate infant sitting and walking. They hold their newborns upright on their laps to support sitting (Kilbride, J., & Kilbride, P., 1975; P. Kilbride,

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

1980), and place their 3-month-old infants in a hole in the ground, on mounds of sand, or in basins where infants are propped up by cushions or cloth (Ainsworth, 1967; Konner, 1977; Super, 1976). Kenyan Kipsigi mothers hold infants in a standing position and bounce them on their laps (Super, 1976). Infants respond with stepping movements, sometimes “walking” up their mothers’ body (Hopkins, 1976). Mothers prop their infants against stools once infants can support their own weight (Bril, 1986), and hold their hands as infants are encouraged to take steps (Hopkins, 1976). Jamaican infants who have not begun walking by 1 year are buried to their knees in sand at the beach with the goal of enticing them to walk in response to incoming waves (Hopkins & Westra, 1988). In Bali, infants are provided with bamboo rails to practice independent walking (Mead & Macgregor, 1951). Massage/exercise routines reliably predict the onsets of target skills such as sitting and walking (Adolph et al., 2009), but do not provide the direct verbal communications found to support children’s development of communicative skills. Rather, caregivers are relatively silent during these activities, thereby presenting infants with dramatically different communicative opportunities than seen during bookreading and play routines. Summary Daily routines constitute the settings and activities during which infants gain skills that are essential for successful integration into their cultural communities. We presented three examples of cultural routines—literacy, play, and exercise/massage—which contain different goals and therefore norms around parent–infant communication. In the U.S. context, parent–infant bookreading and play are prevalent, and both routines are ripe with opportunities for children to hear language and acquire communicative skills later needed in school. During bookreading, parents label, describe, explain, and ask questions. During play, parents provide toys for exploration, position infants so that they can access toys and objects, take on the role of peer, encourage pretense, and intentionally structure time for infants to interact with adults and peers in informal and formal settings. Both types of experiences support infants’ lexical development, familiarize infants with conversational skills of turn-taking, promote exploration of objects, and provide infants with opportunities to learn social norms of engagement. These routines can be contrasted with practices in other cultural communities, where oral storytelling is common (e.g., Pitjantjatjara of Australia), parents rarely play with their infants

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(e.g., Mayans), and/or exercise and massage are practiced to promote infants’ motor development (e.g., Kenyan Kipsigi). In the following sections, we shift focus to a closer examination of parent–infant communicative interactions during everyday activities. We show how the quantity, content, and form of parent–infant communications reflect and further reinforce culturally valued behaviors and skills.

MODES OF COMMUNICATION In a sense, every form of expression is imposed upon one by social factors, one’s own language above all. —Sapir, 1931

Parent–infant communicative interactions are multimodal. Parents use a variety of modalities (language, gaze, touch, and gesture) to engage their infants for different purposes, and respond to multimodal signals from their infants to gauge babies’ needs (Beebe & Gerstman, 1984; Bornstein, Tamis-LeMonda, Hahn, & Haynes, 2008; Hsu & Fogel, 2003; Koester, Papouˇsek, H., & Papouˇsek, M., 1989; Tamis-LeMonda et al., in press). Language is a universal, culturally organized feature of social life (Shweder et al., 1998) and a primary vehicle for enculturation (Nelson, 1996). Mothers from societies across the globe use language to socialize infants and verbally respond to infants’ bids for attention, most notably their distress and nondistress vocalizations. However, beyond language, parents rely on touch, gaze, and gestures to communicate with their young, although there exist individual and cultural differences in the relative emphases placed on these modes of communication. These emphases reflect different goals, opportunities, and constraints of families and local communities. Proximal and Distal Modes of Communication Research on parent–infant interactions around the world indicates impressive cultural variation in parents’ use of proximal (e.g., touch) versus distal (e.g., language) forms of communication (Keller, 2008). This distinction is illustrated in Keller’s (2007) research on parent–infant interactions around the globe. For example, caregivers from the rural Nso balanced their use of touch and vocalizations during face-to-face interactions with their infants. In contrast, middle-income mothers from Berlin and Los Angeles used vocalizations more than touch. These differences have been attributed to varying cultural orientations around independence and connectedness. In cultural

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communities with a predominantly interdependent sociocultural orientation (e.g., rural Nso), proximal modes of communication play a greater role than in communities with a predominantly independent sociocultural orientation (e.g., Berlin, Los Angeles), where distal components of parenting are emphasized more (Keller, 2007). The differential emphasis on proximal versus distal forms of communication is also exemplified by the work of LeVine and colleagues, who compared mother–infant interactions in the Gusii of Kenya to dyads from Boston, United States (LeVine et al., 1994). Until the 1960s, the Gusii were subsistence farmers, with each household being responsible for growing its own food for survival. Children were expected to assist with household labor, cultivation, food-processing, and household chores from an early age so that mothers could spend time in the fields. Family sizes and maternal workloads were large (LeVine, 1990). In this ecological context, child obedience and responsibility were highly valued (and expected), as these child characteristics aided survival and permitted mothers to complete their chores. Thus, maternal strategies were aimed at preventing crying and arousal in their infants by dampening infant excitement. Mothers provided their infants with little verbal stimulation, but spent relatively more time feeding, holding, and lulling infants to sleep than did mothers in Boston. For example, when compared with mothers of the Gusii, mothers in Boston spent two to three times as much time talking with their 3- to 4-, 6- to 7-, and 9- to 10-month-old infants as mothers of the Gusii did. Specifically, across the three ages, mothers in Boston spoke between 25% and 29% of the session, whereas mothers in the Gusii spoke between 11% and 12% of the time (LeVine et al., 1994). In contrast, mothers of the Gusii spent virtually all their time in proximal contact with their infants, holding them between 93% and 100% of the time at the three ages, compared to mothers in Boston who held their 3to 4-month-olds 54% of the time, but decreased holding to only 30% and 25% of the time when infants were 6–7 months and 9–10 months respectively. The Gusii mothers’ holding of infants was an effective strategy for calming their babies; Gusii infants cried 81 times on average during a 4-hour observation period, whereas Boston infants cried more than twice as often (191 times). Variation in parents’ verbosity is also evidenced in societies commonly referred to as technologically and economically advanced (Shweder et al., 1998). For example, U.S. middle-income mothers talk more and more directly to their infants than do Japanese mothers (Azuma, Kashiwagi, & Hess, 1981; Caudill &Weinstein, 1969;

Morikawa, Shand, & Kosawa, 1988). When engaged with their 3-month-olds, U.S. mothers elicit more vocalizations, produce more expressions of positive affect, and are more likely to speak while looking at their babies and when babies are alert and happy, as compared to Japanese mothers (Morikawa et al., 1988). Thus, many cross-cultural investigations of mother–infant communicative interactions suggest that U.S. mothers rely on distal modes of communication to a greater extent than do mothers in other communities. Gaze Cultural differences have also been documented in the use of gaze as a mode of communication and learning. In some cultures, mothers neither talk to their babies nor gaze at them, but rather encourage their infants to observe others around them. For example, Kaluli mothers and infants do not gaze into each others’ eyes. Instead, mothers face their babies outward when carrying them so that the infants can observe other members of the social group (Ochs & Schieffelin, 1984). Similarly, LeVine and colleagues’ comparisons of Bostonian mothers with those of the Gusii indicated differences in the looking behaviors in the two groups of mothers (LeVine et al., 1994). Whereas Boston mothers spent between 40% and 43% of interaction time looking at their infants, Gusii mothers merely spent between 1% and 12% of their time looking at their infants. Cultural differences in looking might reflect different styles of teaching and learning. In the mainstream U.S. context, teaching includes direct tutoring of infants and children (sometimes referred to as “assembly-line” teaching; Rogoff, 2003), with parents often checking infants’ faces with brief glances to see if they are attending. This style can be contrasted with cultural communities that rely on more guided apprenticeship and children’s keen observation as a form of learning (Rogoff, 2003). Indeed, in various cultural communities, children become quite adept at learning through observation, rather than through parental intervention (e.g., Geiger & Alant, 2005; Paradise & Rogoff, 2009). For example, young rural Senegalese children observed other people more than twice as often as middle-class European American children (Bloch, 1989). Navajo students quietly observed teachers more than twice as often as Caucasian students in the same classroom (Guilmet, 1979). U.S. Mexican-heritage children, whose mothers had little experience with Western schooling, were more likely to observe without requesting further information, compared

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

with both U.S. Mexican-heritage and European-heritage children whose mothers had extensive experience with schooling (e.g., Mej´ıa-Arauz, Rogoff, & Paradise, 2005). In turn, keen observation or attention to the actions of others is an effective strategy for learning culturally valued skills. Mexican-heritage children of less educated parents are better skilled at learning through observing their siblings than children of more educated parents from both Mexico and the United States (Silva, Correa- Ch´avez, & Rogoff, 2010). In one study, albeit of older children than is the focus of this chapter, Mexican-heritage sibling pairs (aged 5–11 years) were invited to play sessions in which one sibling was instructed on how to make an origami figure while the other sibling waited for his/her turn to make a different toy in the same room but at a separate table about 1 m away. The nonaddressed sibling was kept occupied with a toy while waiting. About half of the pairs had mothers who had received basic schooling (0–9 years) from their hometown in rural Mexico and little Western schooling (i.e., the “Pueblo Basic Schooling” group); the other half of the pairs had mothers who had graduated from high school in either the United States or Mexico (i.e., the “Mexican Hi Schooling” group). The nonaddressed siblings from the Pueblo Basic Schooling group showed more sustained attention (40% of the time) toward the construction happening at the other table than did the siblings from the Mexican Hi Schooling group (24% of the time). The difference was clear even when they occasionally had to strain to observe. Furthermore, when children were asked, a week later, to construct the toy their siblings had previously completed, a task they had not anticipated, the children from the Pueblo Basic Schooling group required less help than did those from the Mexican Hi Schooling group (Silva et al., 2010). Gesture Gestures are a primary means for communicating and regulating others’ actions. Toward the start of the second year, infants use gesture (e.g., point) to request adult assistance (protoimperatives) and/or direct adult attention (protodeclaratives) (Bigelow, MacLean, & Proctor, 2004; Carpenter, Nagell, & Tomasello, 1998). Mothers use gestures to elicit infant attention and mark referents for infants, who attend to and learn new actions by observing adults’ actions (Hay, Murray, Cecire, & Nash, 1985; Rowe & Goldin-Meadow, 2009a, b). The coupling of gestures with verbalizations is more effective in eliciting infant attention than are maternal verbalizations alone (Pel´aezNogueras, Field, Hossain, & Pickens, 1996; Stack &

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Muir, 1992), and gestures facilitate infants’ word learning (Matatyaho & Gogate, 2008; Rowe & Goldin-Meadow, ¨ ¸ aliskan, & Goldin-Meadow, 2008; 2009a; Rowe, Ozc Zukow-Goldring & Arbib, 2007; see also Acredolo & Goodwyn, 1988). For example, gestural combinations in both Italian and U.S. infants predict the age of onset of two-word speech (Iverson, Capirci, Volterra, & Goldin-Meadow, 2008), and different aspects of 18-month-olds’ gestures predict later lexical skills and sentence complexity (Rowe & Goldin-Meadow, 2009b). Nonetheless, despite the universal significance of gestures, the relative emphases mothers and infants place on this form of communication vary across socioeconomic strata as well as cultural communities. Observations of parent–infant interactions in U.S. families of diverse SES backgrounds have shown that both parents and children of higher SES produce a greater variety of gestures than their counterparts of lower SES backgrounds (Rowe & Goldin-Meadow, 2009a). Similarly, parents’ and infants’ use of gestures varies across cultures. In Italy, children are exposed to a gesturerich culture as they interact with others (Kendon, 2004), and consequently display a richer variety of gestures than children from the United States. Between the onset of first words and two-word combinations, Italian toddlers have a greater repertoire of representational gestures (e.g., bringing empty hand to lips for eat) compared to U.S. children (Iverson et al., 2008). The greater use of representational gestures may complement the smaller expressive vocabularies of Italian children compared to American children (Iverson et al., 2008). An investigation of mother-child interactions in the United States and Taiwan also indicated more frequent gesturing in Chinese than U.S. mothers (Goldin-Meadow & Saltzman, 2000). Specifically, mothers were observed interacting with their 3- or 4-year-old hearing or deaf children with toys and books. Chinese mothers were three times more likely than U.S. mothers to produce gestures when interacting with their hearing or deaf children. For example, when looking at a picture of a doctor examining a patient, a Chinese mother produced two gestures—pounding on the chest as a doctor might and pantomiming using a stethoscope—in addition to verbal utterances, whereas a U.S. mother only talked to her child and produced no gestures. In our research, we observed mother–infant dyads from three ethnic backgrounds (Mexican, Dominican, and African American) in the United States interacting with books and toys when their infants were 14 months and 2 years of age (Tamis-LeMonda et al., in press). At the

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14-month assessment, Mexican mothers gestured most frequently, but by the 2-year assessment, Dominicans caught up in their gesturing. African American mothers, who were at least third-generation U.S. citizens, remained relatively low in their gesturing at both ages compared to the two Latino groups. Although ethnic differences were not seen in infant gestures as they interacted with their mothers, Mexican infants showed greater task-specificity in their use of gestures. Specifically, Mexican infants gestured most when sharing books and least during beadstringing, a pattern that paralleled the task specificity their mothers demonstrated in gesturing in the two situations. Moreover, cultural variation in mothers’ and infants’ use of gesture was associated with specific cognitive skills at age 2 years. Mexican infants diplayed the highest scores on assessments of later gestural sequencing and imitation (e.g., copying line drawings; placing blocks and pegs in sorters in imitation), tasks that required infants to use their hands to communicate and manipulate objects (TamisLeMonda et al., in press). African American infants were lowest when tested on these skills, yet displayed larger expressive language skills than Mexican and Dominican infants, in line with African American mothers’ greater proportion of referential language during bookreading. Summary Across cultural communities, mother–infant interactions are multimodal. Mothers and infants use language, gaze, touch, and gesture to communicate with one another. However, different cultural communities place different emphases on these various modes of communication. For example, proximal modes of communication are more prevalent in certain cultures (e.g., rural Nso in Africa), whereas distal modes of communication are more prevalent in others (e.g., the United States, Germany). Cultural communities also vary in the extent to which parents directly tutor their young children, through largely verbal instruction and questioning versus expect children to learn by observing others. For example, children from cultures that value learning through observation (e.g., Mayan children of less educated parents) are more likely to spontaneously monitor sibling and peer activities than are children from mainstream U.S. families, and in turn learn more from those observations. Finally, variation in the use of gestures is seen across socioeconomic strata and cultural communities, and these differences map to specific cognitive skills in children. We next turn to discussion of parents’ communicative accommodations to infants, which refers to the extent

to which parent–infant interactions are child focused or situation focused.

COMMUNICATIVE ACCOMMODATION Children who are learning language have available a sample of speech which is simpler, more redundant, and less confusing than normal adult speech. —Snow, 1972, p. 549

Research on parents’ communicative accommodation can be traced to the writings of Schieffelin and Ochs (Ochs, 1982; Ochs & Schieffelin, 1984; Schieffelin, 1979; Schieffelin & Ochs, 1986a), who distinguished two forms of communicative accommodation—situations in which adults assist infants to get their intentions across and situations in which adults help infants understand the intentions of others. Their theoretical work was based on observations of parents’ communications with infants before 2 years of age in European American middle-class, Kaluli, and Samoan families. The authors conceptualized communicative accommodation along a continuum. At one end, highly child-centered communications are characterized by adult attention to topics of interest to the infant, the use of infant-register in speech, and engaging infants as conversational partners. At the other extreme are situationcentered communications, in which the onus is on infants to figure out what is going on around them and to take responsibility for entering ongoing activities and conversations. In situation-centered communications, parents talk about what they deem to be relevant, rather than the interests of infants, and they use adult register when addressing infants. The idea that parents’ accommodation falls along a continuum is reflected in the findings that different cultural communities emphasize child- or situation-centered interactions to varying degrees (including blending of the two), differ in the times in development at which they emphasize the two orientations, and/or differ in their support of children’s communicating intentions or understanding of others (Schieffelin & Ochs, 1986a). Additionally, within a given community, parents vary in the extent to which they display accommodative behaviors (within group variation), and any given parent might display accommodation in certain settings (e.g., during parent–infant play) but not others (e.g., cooking) (intra-individual variation). In general, Ochs and Schieffelin (1984) documented a tendency toward child-centered communications in European American middle-class caregivers but a tendency toward situation-centered communications in Kaluli

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

and Samoan families. Specifically, European American middle-class caregivers often engage their young infants in dyadic exchanges, treat them as conversational partners, respond and try to interpret their verbal and nonverbal behaviors through questions and expansions, and accommodate infants’ understanding by using a specific speech register—referred to as “baby-talk,” “motherese,” or infant-directed speech—characterized by exaggerated intonation as well as lexical and grammatical simplifications. On the other hand, Kaluli and Samoan infants live in an environment where triadic or multiparty communication is the norm and mothers rarely directly address their infants. Kaluli and Samoan mothers also do not attempt to interpret infants’ utterances, nor do they simplify their language as European American middle-class mothers do when interacting with their infants. Here, we present additional cultural examples of the two forms of accommodation described by Schieffelin and Ochs (1986a): those that support infants’ conveying of intentions and those that support infants’ understanding of others. These examples focus on differences in group tendencies or averages, and describe interactions in middle-income U.S. groups as well as parents from cultures around the globe. Accommodating to Infants’ Communicative Behaviors U.S. parents treat their infants as “intentional agents” or conversational partners soon after birth. They are quick to ascribe meaning to infant looks, head turns, swipes, and grunts; they view these spontaneous behaviors as infants’ attempts to communicate their needs. According to parents, infants avert their gaze because they are bored, annoyed, or unhappy, and they coo to express their likes and dislikes; parents in turn acknowledge these efforts through verbal and nonverbal replies. Thus, in a U.S. context, parental accommodation to infants’ presumed intentions drive social exchanges: a parent’s task is to figure out what the infant is attempting to communicate and to respond accordingly (Tamis-LeMonda & McFadden, 2010). Catherine Snow (1977) was the first to document U.S. parents’ treatment of infants as “conversational partners” based on her observational study of feeding and play interactions in two mother-daughter pairs. Dyads were videotaped approximately every 2 to 3 weeks from 3 months to 1 year 8 months of child age. Early on, mothers interpreted babies’ behaviors as meaningful signals and tried to elicit specific responses (e.g., coos and smiles) from them. For example, at 3 months, long before infants

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could communicate intentionally, 100% of both daughters’ burps, yawns, sneezes, coughs, coo-vocalizations, smiles, and laughs were responded to verbally by mothers (e.g., “Oh, what a nice little smile!”), with even nonvoluntary behaviors such as burps often being interpreted as intentional. Both mothers continually talked about their infants’ needs, wishes, and intentions (e.g., “Are you finished? Yes?” (removing bottle) “Well, was that nice?”). In our laboratory, we have documented mothers’ accommodations to their 9-month-old infants’ prelinguistic affective and emotional signals. As infants smiled, whined, flailed their arms in distress, repeatedly banged objects in gleeful enthusiasm, and the like, mothers responded with behaviors that matched the gradient features or affective valence of their infants’ displays (Nicely, Tamis-LeMonda, & Bornstein, 1999; Nicely, TamisLeMonda, & Grolnick, 1999). For example, an infant might forcefully bang a block three times, and the infant’s mother would respond with three loud claps or by shouting, “Yes! Yes! Yes!,” thereby signaling that she “shared” her infant’s excitement. Mothers’ attunements to infants’ emotional signals in turn predicted infants’ language development in the second year, after controlling for infants’ emotionality (Nicely et al., 1999). Indeed, even earlier in infancy, infants and their caregivers engage in what is called the protoconversation (Bateson, 1975; Stern, 2002; Trevarthen, 1993). When a mother places her 6-week-old infant in a face-to-face situation, a protoconversational cycle begins when the infant orients to the mother. The baby focuses on the mother’s face, expresses concentrated interest, and gathers information about the mother’s presence and expressions (Trevarthen, 1993). In the next phase, the infant expresses a “statement of feeling” through movement of the body, a smile, a pleasure sound, or a cry. The mother reacts in a complementary manner through behavioral adjustments such as smiling and whispering back to her cooing baby. Such a protoconversational cycle is analogous to a musical duet, in which the mother and the infant, like two musical performers, “create together a melody that becomes a coherent and satisfying narrative of feelings” (Trevarthen, 1993, p. 139). There is also evidence that newborns, even prematurely born infants, might engage in protoconversation with their caregivers (see Trevarthen, 1993, for a review). Other researchers have also described efforts by U.S. mothers to interpret (and thus accommodate) the otherwise ambiguous messages of their infants (e.g., Golinkoff, 1983). As infants develop in their abilities to communicate,

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parents and infants enter cycles of negotiation that further infants’ communicative skills. For example, during a negotiation episode, the infant first signals a desire through a nonverbal gesture, gaze, or simple utterance. The caregiver tries and fails to interpret the message, and the infant in turn attempts to communicate more clearly by augmenting or substituting cues of the message. The caregiver then modifies the interpretation of the revised message, and the cycle continues. In this process, the infant must call forth available communication tools to get the meaning across. The caregiver, who sometimes deliberately fails to comprehend, takes the opportunity to up the ante—requiring a more complete and clearer message from the infant (Golinkoff, 1983). These cycles of negotiation highlight the role of “responsiveness” in parents’ communicative accommodations. Responsiveness refers to a parent’s prompt, contingent, and appropriate reaction to an infant’s behavior, as reflected in the three-term sequence of “infant act—parent react—effect on child” (Bornstein et al., 2008). Middleincome mothers in the United States display responsiveness by “waiting” for their infants to vocalize, look at, touch, or manipulate an object, and then “following” infants’ lead with timely and supportive actions and words (e.g., demonstrating how a toy works; remarking “You like the rattle?”). Nonetheless, parents within and across cultural communities display great variation in the “target” behaviors to which they respond (i.e., what they deem to be an infant signal worthy of attention) and their “types” of responding (i.e., how they choose to reply to infant signals) (Bornstein et al., 2008; Tamis-LeMonda & Baumwell, in press; TamisLeMonda & Bornstein, 2002; Tamis-LeMonda, Bornstein, & Baumwell, 2001). In terms of the targets of parental responsiveness, U.S. middle-income parents frequently respond to infants’ nondistress vocalizations. In our research, middle-income mothers from New York City responded to 54% of infants’ vocalizations when infants were 10 months old; that number increased to 61% of vocalizations by the time infants were 21 months (Bornstein et al., 2008). This relatively frequent responding to infant vocalizations would be expected in a cultural community that values the early development of language and literacy skills. In another cross-cultural investigation, we compared the responsiveness of middle-income mothers from the United States, Japan, and France during naturalistic, home observations with their 5-month-olds (Bornstein, TamisLeMonda, Tal, & Ludemann, 1992). Although mothers from the three societies displayed several similarities in

their patterns of responsiveness, they differed in the extent to which they keyed into infants’ dyadic (i.e., infants’ looking at mothers) versus extradyadic (i.e., infants’ looking at objects) attention. Mothers in Japan responded more often to infants’ dyadic attention (54% of the time) than did U.S. and French mothers (20% of the time), whereas U.S. mothers responded more to infants’ extradyadic attention (12% of the time) compared to Japanese mothers (3% of the time). These findings indicate that different infant behaviors may be more or less salient to mothers in ways that map onto the behaviors valued in and expected of infants. U.S. mothers’ responsiveness to extradyadic attention aligns with the U.S. emphasis on infant play and exploration as a vehicle toward autonomy and learning about the outside world. Japanese mothers’ relatively high rates of responding to infants’ dyadic attention aligns with goals of connectedness in the mother–infant relationship (Tamis-LeMonda & McFadden, 2010). Other researchers have also documented cultural specificity in the target infant behaviors to which mothers respond. For example, LeVine and colleagues (described earlier in the chapter, 1994) contrasted the responsiveness of mothers in Boston, United States, to those of the Gusii in Kenya to infants’ nondistress and distress vocalizations. Boston mothers were highly attuned to their infants’ vocalizations, responding to 20% of vocalizations with speech when infants were 9–10 months old. In contrast, mothers of the Gusii only responded to infant vocalizations 5% of the time. However, Gusii mothers responded to infant cries and frets quickly with physical care and breastfeeding. Similarly, like the Gusii, Japanese mothers place much effort in calming distressed infants, seemingly concerned about not letting infants cry (Morikawa et al., 1988). Compared to U.S. mothers, Japanese mothers are more attuned to infant signs of distress, viewing distress as a signal to which they must respond (Bornstein, Azuma, Tamis-LeMonda, & Ogino, 1990). Mothers from different backgrounds also differ in their responsiveness to infants’ gestures. In one study of U.S. families from Mexican, Dominican, and African American backgrounds (described earlier in the chapter), Mexican mothers not only gestured more frequently when interacting with their 14-month-olds than Dominican and African American mothers, but also differed in the extent to which they responded in real time to their infants’ gestures. Specifically, we assessed the frequencies of mothers’ referential language (e.g., “That’s a ball.”) within 2 seconds of infants’ gestures (Tamis-LeMonda et al., 2011). Mexican mothers produced significantly more referential language that was contingent on infant gestures than both

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

Dominican and African American mothers. This suggests that Mexican mothers viewed infants’ gesturing as an opportune time to teach their infants’ about the world, by labeling or describing the objects or events their infants signaled (Tamis-LeMonda et al., 2011). In terms of types of responsiveness, mothers in Boston, United States, also differed from mothers of the Gusii of Kenya in the behaviors they displayed when responding to their infants (LeVine et al., 1994). Gusii mothers’ displayed more frequent physical contact, such as carrying, aimed at soothing and quieting babies, whereas Bostonians relied more on distal forms of communication (looking and talking) that aimed to stimulate infants. Sequential analysis indicated that carrying behaviors effectively comforted infants. Specifically, the conditional probabilities of infant crying reduced in the presence of maternal holding/carrying. Gusii 3- to 4-month-old infants cried 81 times on average during the 4-hour observation period, whereas infants in the Boston sample cried 190 times. European American mothers and mothers from Nagoya and Tokyo, Japan, also display different forms of realtime responding to infant cues, even though they do not differ in their overall (average) levels of responsiveness (Bornstein et al., 1992; Fogel, Toda, & Kawai, 1988). European-American mothers displayed facial expressions and vocalizations in response to infants’ gazes, smiles, and vocalizations, whereas Japanese mothers reacted more by leaning close to and touching their infants (Fogel et al., 1988). Moreover, in a cross-cultural study of the real-time sequencing of mothers’ responses to their 5month-old infants’ dyadic versus extradyadic attention, Japanese mothers, but not U.S. mothers, responded to infants’ extradyadic attention by encouraging infants to also attend to mothers (i.e., a “dyadic” response to an “extradyadic” focus). Thus, mothers incorporated themselves into infants’ learning about the outside world (Melstein et al., 1996). Finally, in our research on U.S., Japanese, and French mothers, European and American mothers were more likely to respond to their infants extradyadically (by directing their infants’ attention to properties, objects, or events in the environment), whereas mothers from Tokyo were more likely to respond dyadically (by directing their infants’ attention to themselves) (Bornstein et al., 1992). Accommodating Infants’ Understanding Parents within and across cultural communities also vary in the extent to which they facilitate infants’ understanding of others’ communicative intentions. Two prominent

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ways that parents accommodate their infants’ understanding is by modifying their actions and modifying their language. Adults modify their actions when interacting with babies versus with other adults through exaggerations of movement, referred to as motionese or infant-directed action (Brand, Baldwin, & Ashburn, 2002; Brand, Shallcross, Sabatos, & Massie, 2007; Koterba & Iverson, 2009). For example, when middle-class, European American mothers of infants were asked to demonstrate how to use novel objects (e.g., a neon green “twisty” that could form different shapes and be taken apart and put back together) to either their babies or another adult they had a close relationship with (e.g., partner, friend, or mother), their demonstrations were qualititively different depending on partner. Mothers’ demonstrations to their infants were closer, more interactive, enthusiastic, repetitive, simpler and included a greater range of motion compared to their demonstrations to adults (Brand et al., 2002). The authors hypothesized that this motionese was likely to maintain infants’ attention and highlight the structure and meaning of action. In a more recent study, infants sustained longer looking times when their primary caregivers moved a novel object (e.g., a toothbrush case) with either high amplitude or high repetition or both—the two parameters on which infant-directed action differs from adultdirected action signficantly (Brand et al., 2002)—than when they moved the object with both low amplitude and low repetition (Koterba & Iverson, 2009). Adults also modify their vocalizations (or language) to accommodate infants’ understanding. Modifications to language include alterations to the prosody, content, and structure of speech, referred to as motherese or infantdirected speech (e.g., Snow, 1977; see Ma, Golinkoff, Houston, & Hirsh-Pasek, in press, for a recent review). First, adults in many cultures tend to use a different register of speech when addressing infants and young children compared to their normal speech to other adults. This special register is characterized by a slower rate, a higher pitch, exaggerated prosodic contours, and longer vowels and pauses. Further, when mothers talk with infants and young children, they almost always focus on the hereand-now, referring to objects and people that are present (e.g., Snow et al., 1976). In addition, words that adults use when addressing infants tend to be concrete (Phillips, 1973), phonologically simple (Ferguson, 1964), and contain a remarkably high rate of questions (Tamis-LeMonda, Baumwell, & Cristofaro, in press). Finally, and not unrelated to the modifications in language content, adults modify the structure of their language. Infant-directed

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speech contains shorter and simpler sentences as reflected in smaller MLU, fewer subordinate clauses (Longhurst & Stepanich 1975; Phillips 1973), and a higher redundancy as reflected in type-token ratios (Phillips, 1973). Studies of a number of European, U.S., and Asian linguistic communities have documented similar features of adult speech directed to young children (e.g., Blount & Padgug, 1976; Ferguson, 1964; Grieser & Kuhl, 1988; Kelkar, 1964). The signing of caregivers to infants involves slow and highly repetitive and exaggerated movements (Masataka, 1992), suggesting that infant-directed speech is not restricted to the hearing population. Although most work on infant-directed speech is based on mothers, we have generalized these findings to the study of father-infant communicative interactions. Specifically, we transcribed the language observed during mother–child and father–child play interactions when children were 2 years of age. Mothers’ language and fathers’ language were both attuned to the language skills of their infants as reflected in strong parent-child associations in grammatical complexity, word types, and communicative diversity (i.e., different types of language functions used, e.g., labels, questions, commands). Thus, fathers as well used fewer words, and less grammatically complex and less diverse language with less linguistically competent infants (Tamis-LeMonda, et al., in press). However, although adult modification of speech has been observed in many cultural communities, its prevalence and forms are by no means universal. For example, Quich´e Mayan speech to children does not contain a higher pitch, exaggerated intonation, or simplifying features, though it does have other alterations compared to the speech to adults (Pye, 1986). In other cultural communities, few if any modifications of adult speech are observed (e.g., Ochs, 1982; Ochs & Schieffelin, 1984; Schieffelin, 1979). For example, Kaluli parents in Papua New Guinea do not use motherese and rarely address their infants directly until the infants say two words, mother and breast (Schieffelin, 1979). Instead, Kaluli mothers often speak “for” their infants in a special high-pitched, nasalized voice while holding the infants up to face other people as if the infants are talking to people (Ochs & Schieffelin, 1984). In the Samoan society, although young infants are addressed in the form of songs or rhythmic vocalizations in soft, high pitch in the first few months, as soon as infants can locomote, the pitch drops to the level used in adult-to-adult interactions and voice quality becomes loud and sharp. Samoan caregivers also do not simplify their language to infants either lexically or syntactically (Ochs & Schieffelin, 1984).

Although parents of many cultures accommodate infants’ understanding by modifying their actions and/or language, such accommodations are likely not necessary for infants to learn language. In the United States and many other industrialized settings, the norm is for parents to engage in one-on-one (dyadic) interactions with their infants in which they monitor infant behaviors and modify their own communications accordingly. However, in some cultural communities, dyadic communication bears far less significance; instead, infants are often placed in an environment full of multiparty talk and interactions. For example, there are no internal or external walls in traditional Samoan houses. Therefore, Samoan children are routinely surrounded by multiparty conversations. Further, since many family members are often present simultaneously with the infants, mothers tend not to respond to infants’ appeals directly but direct older children to soothe or satisfy the infants (Ochs, 1982). Thus, young Samoan children engage in far more triadic or multiparty exchanges than dyadic exchanges with their adult caregivers. Similarly, in Kaluli homes, preverbal infants are present during all ongoing household activities and thus surrounded by adults and older children who talk a great deal to one another (Ochs & Schieffelin, 1984). Rather than growing up in an impoverished verbal environment as a result of lack of dyadic exchanges, Kaluli infants observe rich and varied multiparty conversations. Further, Kaluli infants’ own ongoing activities are often important topics of the conversation in the household. Thus, the infants may learn from these social contexts and come to understand the meanings of conversations even though they are not engaged in direct dyadic exchanges. Similarly, in some working-class African American communities, infants eat and sleep in the midst of constant human communication from birth (Heath, 1982). Adults do not help infants understand by simplifying their language, separating out elements from the environment for infants to attend to, responding to infants’ babbling, or labeling items for them. Instead, infants are left to learn from the multiple-channeled stream of stimuli through repetition and practice. Even in cultures where dyadic communication between parent and child is common, many children, especially second- and later-borns, learn through overheard conversations. In fact, experimental research has confirmed that European American and Canadian 2-year-olds can learn pronouns and novel words by listening to conversations between other adults (Akhtar, 2005; Oshima-Takane, 1988). The learning takes place even in the context of a potentially distractive activity, suggesting its robustness (e.g., Akhtar, 2005).

Parent–Infant Communicative Interactions in Cultural Context

Summary Communicative accommodation refers to caregivers’ behavioral modifications in the interest of supporting infants’ communications with others. Parents within and between cultural communities vary in the extent to which they display communicative acccommodation to support infants’ expressions and understanding versus situation-centered communications, in which children are responsible for figuring out what is taking place around them. Variation in communicative accommodation might be explained by differences among families (and cultural communities) in both views and practices, including the structuring of daily routines. For example, more child accommodation is likely to be seen in parent-child bookreading and play as well as in “private settings” that are often characterized by dyadic interactions. In contrast, there may be fewer accommodations during household chores and in public settings, where multiple participants, such as fathers, siblings, and relatives (rather than mothers) are key partners to infants (Schieffelin & Ochs, 1986a). To what extent do parents’ communicative accommodations support children’s own language and communicative developments? On the surface, the above review presents what might appear to be conflicting findings regarding the benefits of parents’ communicative accommodations to infants for communicative development. On the one hand, there is ample evidence that infants benefit from responsive verbal interactions with caregivers (e.g., Tamis-LeMonda & Bornstein, 2002; Tamis-LeMonda & Baumwell, in press); that infants are more attentive to exaggerated movements and infant-directed speech (e.g., Fernald, 1985; Koterba & Iverson, 2009); and that simplified speech, repetitions, and verbal accommodations in adult language support infants’ language development and learning (e.g., Kuhl et al., 1997; Liu, Kuhl, & Tsao, 2003; Ma et al., in press; Rowe, 2008; Singh, Nestor, Parikh, & Yull, 2009; Thiessen, Hill, & Saffran, 2005). Nonetheless, these adult accommodations may not be universal, and infants learn language across a wide range of diverse language environments, including those in which infants primarily learn language through overheard conversations (e.g., Akhtar, 2005). These seemingly contrasting findings, however, should be considered in the context of the guiding principles laid out at the start of the chapter—notably that mean level differences are independent of individual variation and parent-child associations. Thus, even if levels of didactic, responsive communicative interactions

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vary in their prevalence across cultural communities, their benefits at the individual level are likely universal. For example, rich, diverse, responsive language that is attuned to infants’ signals and supports infants’ linking of words to their meanings promotes infants’ attention, lexical development, and language skills across all communities. Moreover, studies of infants’ language learning from overheard conversations are typically based on infants older than 2 years of age. At younger ages, infants may depend more on caregivers’ support and cues to decipher meanings from ongoing conversations (Hollich, Hirsh-Pasek, & Golinkoff, 2000). Indeed, infants’ preference for infant-directed speech declines over development (e.g., Cooper & Aslin, 1994) and older children rely less on infant-directed speech in learning novel words under experimental conditions than young infants (Ma et al., in press). Consequently, take-home messages will differ based on infant age as well as outcomes being assessed—for example, whether focus is on the developmental “timing” of certain language skills; measures of overall vocabulary size; or broader measures of children’s social integration into the communicative norms of their communities.

THE CONTENT OF LANGUAGE Linguistic forms necessarily embody content, or meaning because language is always about something. . . . Language will never be acquired without engaging in a world of persons, objects, and events—the world that language is about and in which language is used. —Bloom & Tinker, 2001, p. 14

The content of language refers to what parents choose to talk about with their young. Parents everywhere refer to a finite set of semantic relations that are building blocks to sharing meanings with others: Language expresses concepts that are universal to the human experience. In all languages, individuals refer to actors, actions, instruments, and objects of action, possession, etc. (Brown, 1973). However, in the context of pragmatic universals, parents from different cultural communities differ in the topics they choose to talk about and on their relative emphases on different parts of speech (e.g., nouns versus verbs). In this way, the content of language conveys a world view to children regarding what everyone knows and should know (Schieffelin & Ochs, 1986a). Here, we present select examples of different cultural emphases in the content of communicative interactions between parents and infants.

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Referential vs. Regulatory Communications At the broadest level, parents’ communications with infants serve two core functions: Parents teach infants “about the world” (referential function) and they teach infants “how to act in the world” (regulatory function) (Tamis-LeMonda et al., in press; Tamis-LeMonda et al., 2011). For example, while sharing a meal, a U.S. father might direct his child to “Eat,” “Come on, you need to eat,” “Use your spoon” (regulatory), and then pause to introduce new words, “Those are peas. Green peas” (referential). During booksharing, a mother might refer to objects and events—“See the moon?” “What’s teddy doing?” (referential) and then instruct her child to “Turn the page” (regulatory). Gestures also serve referential and regulatory functions. Parents point and use manual gestures to specify object properties (e.g., drawing the forefinger and thumb together to indicate that an object is small) and use gestures to indicate or guide action (e.g., patting a chair to direct an infant to sit) (Dimitropoulou, Tamis-LeMonda, Adolph, & Alibali, 2005). Referential and regulatory communications are seen in the interactions of parents and infants around the world, although the relative emphasis parents place on each depends on both culture and context. Middle-income U.S. parents often direct referential language toward their infants with the purpose of imparting knowledge to them. During everyday activities, parents label and describe objects (Bornstein & Tamis-LeMonda, 1990), repeat novel words (e.g., “Balloon. Balloon. Balloon.”), imitate and expand on infants’ attempts to produce words (Masur, Flynn, & Eichorst, 2005), and encourage their infants to repeat words or phrases (“Can you say ball?”) (Tamis-LeMonda, Baumwell, & Cristofaro, in press). Observations of mother–infant interactions in middle-income U.S. families indicate a high prevalence of these “didactic” behaviors already by the time infants are 2 months of age, and these behaviors are stable across infancy (Bornstein & Tamis-LeMonda. 1990). However, the preponderance of referential communications seen in middle-income U.S. families is by no means universal. In cultures throughout the world, there is little intentional labeling and describing of objects to infants. Instead, parents more typically use language to regulate infant behavior and actions (Tamis-LeMonda et al., in press). For example, the verbal communication between caregivers and young children in Botswana consists mostly of short commands, often relating to children’s safety, such as “Stop that” and “Don’t touch the dog” (Geiger & Alant, 2005).

Differential emphasis on referential versus regulatory communications may also account for documented differences in the proportions of nouns and verbs expressed by mothers and young children from different communities. Cross-linguistic analyses of spontaneous speech between caregivers and children indicate that U.S. English–speaking caregivers emphasize nouns over verbs when speaking to their toddlers (in line with the referential emphasis described above), but Chinese and Korean caregivers emphasize verbs over nouns (Choi & Gopnik, 1995; Tardif, Shatz, & Naigles, 1997). For example, when asked to play with a standard set of toys with their toddlers, Korean mothers engaged in more activityoriented discourse (e.g., “What are you doing? You put the car in the garage!”) than object-oriented discourse or labeling (e.g., “What is it? That’s a ball!”). Korean mothers also engaged in more activity-oriented discourse than U.S. mothers, whereas U.S. mothers engaged in more labeling than did Korean mothers (Choi & Gopnik, 1995). Consequently, Korean mothers produced significantly fewer object nouns and more action verbs than U.S. mothers. Their toddlers in turn showed the same patterns in their speech as their mothers. Thus, the dominance of nouns seen in the early lexicons of English-speaking children in the United States (as well as in many of the world’s languages; Bornstein et al., 2004; Fenson et al., 1994; Gentner, 1982) may be culturally influenced, rather than a universal feature of early language development. Compared to Englishlearning children, Chinese and Korean children have verbs in their vocabulary at earlier points in development and thus display more balance in the numbers of nouns and verbs in their early lexicons (Choi & Gopnik, 1995; Tardif, 1996).1 Beyond cultural influences, context greatly influences the content of parent–infant communications. In one crosscultural study of mother–toddler interactions in China and the United States, the types of language mothers used in both cultures depended on the task. When engaging their toddlers in three different activities—bookreading, playing with mechanical toys, and playing with regular 1

Structural differences in languages may also contribute to cultural differences in parents’ and children’s expressions of nouns and verbs (e.g., Tardif, 1996). For example, in Chinese, Korean, and Japanese, both the subjects and objects are often dropped from the sentence (e.g., answering “Ate rice” in response to the question, “What did you eat for dinner?”). In Korean and Japanese, verbs also appear in the salient sentence-final position. These structural features can have implications for the prevalence of nouns versus verbs in children’s lexicons.

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toys—both Chinese- and English-speaking mothers produced more noun types during bookreading and more verb types during the two toy play activities, although English-speaking mothers produced more noun types during bookreading than Chinese-speaking mothers in the same context (Tardif, Gelman, & Xu, 1999). Mirroring mothers’ input, both groups of children produced more nouns than verbs, although the noun bias was larger in English-speaking than Chinese-speaking children. Studies of mother–infant interactions in our laboratory reify the powerful influence that context has on the content of mothers’ language. In one study, we contrasted middle-income U.S. mothers’ language interactions with their 21-month-old toddlers in different situations. Mothers were more didactically responsive to their infants during play than during mealtime, in accordance with the U.S. perception of play as a context for learning (Bornstein, Tamis-LeMonda, & Haynes, 1999). Others also find that mothers display more encouraging and directive responsive language to their infants during play than during mealtime (Flynn & Masur, 2007). In another investigation, U.S. middle-income mothers of 12- and 18-month olds interacted with their infants in a laboratory context of motor risk (i.e., encouraging or discouraging their infants from walking/crawling down slopes of varying slants). In this situation, mothers rarely used referential language to describe the situation (“It’s steep”); instead, they most often used general commands (“Walk down”; “Come on”; “Stop”) to regulate their infants’ locomotion (Karasik, Tamis-LeMonda, Adolph, & Dimitropoulou, 2008). In a recent longitudinal study of mother–infant language interactions in dyads from diverse ethnic backgrounds in the United States (i.e., African American, Mexican, Dominican), mothers of 14- and 24-month-old infants shifted in the type of language they used depending on task (i.e., sharing of books or sharing of beads and a string). Although Mexican and Dominican mothers displayed more regulatory language than did African American mothers overall, all mothers expressed more regulatory language during beadstringing but more referential language during booksharing (Tamis-LeMonda et al., in press). As infants’ development proceeded, mothers increased in their use of referential language as well. Agency and Relatedness Distinguishing between referential and regulatory language (including the associated emphasis on nouns and verbs) represents only one way of analyzing the content of language expressed during parent–infant interactions.

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Parent–infant communications are also replete with messages regarding children’s development of self (“agency”) and connection to others (“relatedness”). These messages are expressed in subtle ways, such as in a parent’s choice of pronouns to direct a child’s behaviors (e.g., “Don’t you put your feet on the table” versus “We don’t put our feet on the table”), or the framing of statements regarding a child’s experiences (“You loved the monkeys at the zoo today!” versus “Your cousins had fun with you at the zoo today!”). In particular, shared parent-child narratives present a valuable setting for studying parents’ messages around agency and relatedness. A number of cross-cultural investigations document intriguing differences in the narrative content of North American (Canadian and U.S.) versus Asian (Korean and Chinese) mothers (Choi, 1992; Mullen & Yi, 1995; Wang, Leichtman, & Davies, 2000). Overall, North American mothers more frequently refer to past events than do Asian mothers when conversing with their 3-year-old children (Mullen & Yi, 1995), and place greater emphasis on personal agency. Specifically, when reminiscing the past, North American mothers talk more about children’s feelings, opinions, and desires as well as children’s personal attributes. In contrast, Asian mothers talk more about the norms of social behavior and facts (Mullen & Yi, 1995; Wang, 2001; Wang et al., 2000). Additionally, North American mothers encourage young children to be active participants in conversations about the past. For example, Canadian mothers often expand on what their children say and encourage their children to contribute unique ideas. Mothers adopt the role of conversational partner rather than director. In contrast, Korean mothers expect children to follow mothers’ conversational leads and prompt children to confirm that they understand what mothers have said (Choi, 1992). Similar to Canadian mothers, U.S. mothers pose open-ended “wh” questions and elaborate on children’s responses more often than Chinese mothers (Wang, 2001; Wang et al., 2000). In contrast, Chinese mothers pose and repeat factual questions and, like Korean mothers, rarely allow children to change the direction of the conversation. This is not to say that the child is “absent” from the narratives of parents in Asian cultures. Children may very well be the topic of conversations in these cultures, but for a purpose other than highlighting the child’s unique characteristics, feelings, and experiences. Rather, Chinese parents talk about their children’s transgressions as a way to communicate rules of behavior. For example, both when

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telling personal stories with and about their 2-year-olds, Chinese caregivers from Taipei were more likely than their European American counterparts from Chicago to focus on the child’s past transgressions (Miller, Fung, & Mintz, 1996). Specifically, all of the most lengthy and elaborate stories narrated by Chinese caregivers were those in which children’s rule violations were the main storyline, whereas almost none of the most lengthy and elaborate stories by European American caregivers referred to violations. In the rare instances in which European American caregivers focused on a child’s past transgressions, they told the stories in a consistently humorous, nonserious manner. The European American child was portrayed as a mischief maker, rather than a transgressor. European American parents’ practice of portraying the child in a favorable light may be a way of protecting the child’s self-esteem (see also Ng, Pomerantz, & Lam, 2007). Moreover, there is evidence that differences in the topics of personal narratives extend to narratives constructed while sharing books (Liang, Garcia, Kuchirko, Christie, & Wu, 2011). Mother-child interactions in dyads from Chinese, Mexican, Dominican, and African American backgrounds were videotaped as they shared the wordless book Frog, Where Are You?. Although all mothers resided in the U.S., they differed in what they chose to talk about with their preschoolers. As one example, Chinese mothers were more likely than mothers of the other ethnicities to talk of the negative consequences of behaviors (e.g., bees chasing a dog when their hive was bothered; boy falling into the lake and getting wet), whereas African American mothers were more likely to talk about the character’s persistence (e.g., the boy’s continued attempts to look for the frog). Different cultural orientations are also reflected in the ways that parents communicate about the here-and-now with their infants. For example, traditional characterizations suggest that Japanese mothers emphasize closeness and interdependence in the dyad, whereas Americans encourage environmental interest, are more informationoriented in their verbal interactions, promote autonomy, and organize interactions so as to foster physical and verbal assertiveness in children (e.g., Befu, 1986; Caudill, 1973; Chen & Miyake, 1986; Doi, 1973; Hess et al., 1986; Kojima, 1986; Miyake, Chen, & Campos, 1985; Toda, Fogel, & Kawai, 1990). A sequential analysis of naturalistic exchanges in American versus Japanese dyads showed that when Japanese infants attended to aspects of the environment, Japanese mothers tended to re-engage infants toward themselves, thus incorporating themselves into the interaction around objects. In contrast, during extradyadic

bouts, American mothers further encouraged their infants toward the environment, thus reinforcing an extradyadic focus and exploration in their babies (Bornstein, Toda, Azuma, Tamis-LeMonda, & Ogino, 1990). A comparison of infant base-rates, that is the frequencies in which infants vocalized, looked at their mothers, and looked and/or touched objects, in the two cultures, showed that infants behaved similarly, providing mothers with equivalent starting points (e.g., Bornstein et al., 1990). Thus, the different emphasis by mothers in the two cultures is not an epiphenomenon of differences in infant behaviors. In another study on the play interactions of American and Japanese mothers and their 13-month-olds, we documented different maternal emphases on themes of agency versus relatedness in the play actions that were prompted by mothers and in turn enacted by infants. Specifically, we compared the play of American and Japanese toddlers and compared American and Japanese mothers on their demonstrations and solicitations of play when toddlers were 13 months old (Tamis-LeMonda et al., 1992). In general, the overall frequencies of play types were similar in the two cultures. Children and mothers in both cultures engaged in more nonsymbolic play than symbolic play, and they engaged more frequently in lower levels of symbolic play (e.g., pretending to drink from a toy cup) than they did in more sophisticated levels (e.g., pretending to drink from a block symbolizing a cup). Profile analysis was also used to compare the “shapes” of toddlers’ and mothers’ play distributions across levels of play in the two societies. These analyses identified differences between American and Japanese toddlers in play and between American and Japanese mothers in their play demonstrations and play solicitations. The differences in overall shape primarily reflected the tendency of Japanese toddlers to engage in greater other-directed single acts of pretense. For example, Japanese mothers were more likely to encourage their infants to make the dolly “bow” or “greet” others, and in turn, their infants were more likely to engage in pretend actions that expressed social connection. By comparison, American mothers attempted to solicit nonsymbolic play from their toddlers and encouraged infants to engage in more independent play than Japanese mothers. It appears that, for Americans, play and the toys used during play were more frequently the topic or object of communication. For Japanese dyads, play and associated toys functioned to support dyadic communication and social interactions. Finally, the grammatical structures of languages might also contribute to messages around agency and

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relatedness, beyond messages inherent in the content of language (and play) exchanges. For example, English gives linguistic prominence to the individual, as evidenced in statements such as “I have a temperature.” In contrast, in the Japanese language, the same statement would take the form “As for me, there is a temperature” (see discussion by Shweder et al., 1998), which functions to suppress an emphasis on human agency. Similarly, the mandatory subject placement at the start of English sentences, as seen in the prominent grammatical structure of subject-verb-object, also makes salient the actors of events (“I ate pasta”, “Joey, eat your pasta!”). In other languages, subjects are optional, and instead marked in the verb form (e.g., “Mangio la pasta”). Summary Parents within and across cultural communities use language to serve a variety of universal pragmatic functions and commonly refer to actors, actions, objects of action, and so forth, in their conversations with children. Nonetheless, parents from different cultural communities simultaneously differ in the content of their talk, as reflected in the pragmatic functions of parents’ statements, the specific word types used, and emphases on self and other during narrative exchanges. To illustrate, we reviewed cultural findings in: (a) mothers’ use of referential versus regulatory language; (b) the prevalence of nouns versus verbs in mothers’ talk to children; and (c) mothers’ emphasis on agency or relatedness when sharing personal narratives with young children. These findings indicate both cultural and contextual variations in parents’ orientations toward teaching infants about the world versus how to act in the world; use of nouns versus verbs in play and bookreading; and in narrative themes around the self and personal action versus connection to others and social rules.

CONCLUSIONS Parent–infant communicative interactions constitute infants’ first lessons on culture. During everyday exchanges with their parents, infants come to learn cultural norms about when to communicate, how to communicate, with whom to communicate, and the topics that should be shared. Moreover, these lessons are structured by, and occur within, the context of daily routines. As was shown, parents and infants from cultural communities across the globe simultaneously display similarities and

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differences in their communicative interactions. They commonly rely upon language, gaze, touch, and gesture to share intentions, yet differ in their relative emphases on these various modes of communication. Virtually all parents modify their behaviors in response to infants’ signals, yet they vary in what they deem to be worthy of response, how they respond, and the extent to which they behaviorally accommodate to their infants’ understandings and expressions. Finally, parents and infants everywhere communicate about objects, events, actions, and the experiences of self and others, using grammatical forms (e.g., nouns and verbs) that map onto fundamental, universal concepts. However, they vary in the content (i.e., topics) of their communicative interactions, as seen for example in parents’ differential use of language as a tool to impart knowledge to novice infants versus a tool to regulate infants’ behaviors. Together, these findings indicate that both the “forms” (structure and content) and “functions” (purpose) of parent–infant communications are products of culture and context. In closing, we return to the five principles laid out at the start of the chapter as a guide to future developmental research. First, culture permeates all behaviors in all communities. Thus, communicative exchanges observed in a relatively homogenous group of mother–infant pairs are ripe with cultural meaning, as for example in the patterns of verbal responsiveness described in middleincome, European American mothers living in New York City. Reflections on the cultural meanings of everyday behaviors should be a core component of all developmental research—whether laboratory- or home-based, experimental or naturalistic. Second, parent–infant interactions around the globe contain shared and unique forms and functions at nested levels. Mothers from the Gusii of Kenya; Boston, U.S.; Berlin, Germany; and Nso of the Cameroon all display high responsiveness to infants’ vocalizations, yet differ in their relative attunements to infants’ distress versus nondistress signals and whether they respond with proximal (e.g., touch, breastfeeding) or distal (e.g., language) forms of behavior. Third, and relatedly, take-home messages about shared and unique features of parent–infant interactions depend on the unit of assessment—for example, if focus is on developmental timing versus behavioral sequencing, mean levels of behaviors versus patterns of association, etc. For example, parents from different communities differ in how frequently they label and describe events in the environment, but their didactic behaviors predict children’s lexical development to the same magnitude. Fourth, within-group variation is often overlooked in favor of

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between-group differences, which are more likely to result in headline news. However, parents and infants living within the “same cultural community” face different life events, constraints and opportunities, and have different characteristics (e.g., personality) that will result in substantial variation in their interactions. Thus, parent–infant communications reflect a dynamic synergy between individualized experience and broader cultural norms. Finally, we end with a caution against the over-reliance on statistical significance as a reflection of scientific integrity. The file drawers of innumerable researchers likely contain worthy yet unpublished studies that “failed” to reveal expected differences in developmental processes across cultural groups. In reality, the absence of group differences highlights shared enactments and processes in parenting and/or child development, and therefore serves as a reminder of commonalities in the human experience. REFERENCES Acredolo, L. P., & Goodwyn, S. (1988). Symbolic gesturing in normal infants. Child Development, 59 (2), 450–466. Adolph, K. E., Karasik, L. B., & Tamis-LeMonda, C. S. (2009). Motor skills. In M. Bornstein (Ed.), Handbook of cultural developmental science (pp. 61–88). New York, NY: Taylor Francis. Ainsworth, M. D. S. (1967). Infancy in Uganda: Infant care and the growth of love. Oxford, UK: Johns Hopkins Press. Akhtar, N. (2005). The robustness of learning through overhearing. Developmental Science, 8 (2), 199–209. Azuma, H., Kashiwagi, K., & Hess, R. D. (1981). The influence of attitude and behavior upon the child’s intellectual development. Tokyo: University of Tokyo Press. Bateson, M. C. (1975). Mother–infant exchanges: The epigenesis of conversational interaction. In D. Aronson R. W. Rieber (Eds.), Developmental psycholinguistics and communication disorders. Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences (Vol. 263). New York, NY: New York Academy of Sciences. Bayley, N. (1993). Manual for Bayley Scales of Infant Development (2nd ed.). San Antonio, TX: Psychological Corporation. Beebe, B., & Gerstman, L. (1984). A method of defining “packages” of maternal stimulation and their functional significance for the infant with mother and stranger. International Journal of Behavioral Development, 7 (4), 423–440. Befu, H. (1986). The social and cultural background of child development in Japan and the United States. In H. W. Stevenson, H. Azuma, K. Hakuta (Eds.), Child development and education in Japan. A series of books in psychology (pp. 13–27). New York, NY: W. H. Freeman/Times Books/Henry Holt Co. Bigelow, A. E., MacLean, K., & Proctor, J. (2004). The role of joint attention in the development of infants’ play with objects. Developmental Science, 7 (5), 518–526. Bloch, M. N. (1989) Young boys’ and girls’ play in home and in the community. A cultural ecological framework. In M. N. Bloch and A. D. Pellegrini (Eds.), The ecological context of children’s play (pp. 120–154). Norwood, NJ: Ablex. Bloom, L. & Tinker, E. (2001). The intentionality model and language acquisition: Engagement, effort, and the essential tension. Monographs of the Society for Research in Child Development, 66 (Serial No. 267).

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PART III

Childhood

CHAPTER 7

Language Development LAURA WAGNER AND ERIKA HOFF

OVERVIEW OF THEORETICAL APPROACHES 173 LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS A BIOLOGICAL PROCESS 175 LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS A LINGUISTIC PROCESS 179 LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS A SOCIAL PROCESS 184

LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS DOMAIN-GENERAL LEARNING 188 CONCLUSIONS 193 REFERENCES 193

Somehow in the span of just a few years, newborn infants who neither speak nor understand any language become young children who comment, question, and express their ideas in the language of their community. The transition from the stage of the prelinguistic infant to the linguistically competent 4-year-old follows a predictable developmental course. First, newborns’ cries give way to coos and babbles. Then, infants who coo and babble start to show signs of comprehension, such as turning when they hear their name. Infants then become toddlers who say byebye and all gone and start to label the people and objects in their environment. As their vocabularies continue to grow, children start to combine words. Children’s first word combinations, such as all gone juice and read me, are short and are missing parts found in adults’ sentences. Gradually, children’s immature sentences are replaced by longer and more adult-like sentences. As children master language, they also become masters at using language to serve their needs. One-year-olds, who can only point and fuss to request something, become 2-year-olds who say please; later they become 4-year-olds capable of the linguistic and communicative sophistication of the child who excused himself from a boring experiment by saying, “My mother says I have to go home now” (Keller-Cohen, January 1978, personal communication). This course that language development follows is the result of concurrent processes of development in the several domains that together constitute adult knowledge of language. In acquiring language, children master a system

for combining sounds into units of meaning (phonology) and a system for combining units of meaning into well-formed words and sentences (morphology and syntax). Together these systems constitute the grammar of language. In addition to grammar, a speaker/hearer of a language has acquired a lexicon—a repository of words with their meanings and grammatical categories. Normally, speaker/hearers of a language use that language to communicate. Thus, adult-like language competence includes pragmatic or communicative competence as well as knowledge of a grammar and lexicon. The goal of this chapter is to describe the current state of the scientific effort to explain how these changes take place and how children end up knowing a language. The content of this chapter will not be a description of language development; those are readily available elsewhere (e.g., Hoff, 2009). Rather, this chapter will describe the basic theoretical positions in the field and show how each has contributed to our understanding of children’s language development.

OVERVIEW OF THEORETICAL APPROACHES All of the varied theoretical approaches in the field agree about what the central question of the field is: What is the nature of the human capacity to acquire language? One way to conceptualize this question (following the work of Noam Chomsky, e.g., Chomsky, 1965) is in the following manner: The human capacity for language resides in the human brain; it takes as its input certain information from 173

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Input (Information from the environment)

Figure 7.1

The human language capacity

Output (Linguistic competence)

The language acquisition process

the environment and produces as its output the ability to speak and understand a language. As this conceptualization makes clear, any account of the language acquisition process must be consistent with two sets of facts: (1) the input children receive, and (2) the competence they acquire (that is, a productive knowledge of the adult language), as shown in Figure 7.1. The differences among the theoretical approaches in the field depend on the relative emphases they place on different parts of the question. All approaches agree that input is critical, because children quite reliably acquire the particular language to which they are exposed: Their output is importantly like their input. Similarly, all approaches agree that children are born with some sort of innate internal capacity for language; even the most extreme proponents of domain general learning in this area do not believe that children are blank slates. The critical points of dispute concern the relative richness of the input and of the internal capacity, and there is a natural trade-off between these two components. To the extent that the input is itself a rich source of information about linguistic structure, the internal capacity that operates on it can be quite simple and general. Alternatively, to the extent that the input does not provide sufficient information for the generalizations found in the output, the internal capacity must include more detailed and specific tools to compensate. In addition, all theoretical approaches are constrained by the actual processes of language development, such as the fact that children create (for the most part) an adult-like output before the age of 5 years, and they do so on the basis of the specific input they receive. Theoretical Approaches to Discovering How Language Is Acquired Current research on language development can be broadly divided into two camps. The nativist camp argues that the innate internal language capacity is composed of information-rich, language-specific elements. Within this camp, there are two main theoretical approaches: the biological and the linguistic. These approaches are largely compatible with each other, but they focus on different

parts of the problem. The biological approach views the innate language capacity as part of our biological heritage as humans. It investigates the degree to which language and language development share the hallmark features of other biological processes, such as universality, heritability, and critical periods; and it studies the anatomical structures and physiological processes that underlie language development. The linguistic approach is the only one that emphasizes the output stage of the process: It focuses on the specific linguistic content that the child must learn. This approach has argued forcefully that the complex, abstract system that is adult linguistic competence could not be arrived at by any general learning mechanism operating over the input children receive. The solution to this problem, known as the logical problem of language acquisition (Baker & McCarthy, 1981), is to propose that substantial language specific knowledge and language-specific learning mechanisms are part of the equipment that the child brings to the language learning task. The task for research is to describe that innate knowledge (Crain, 1991). The alternative camp resists attributing innate linguistic knowledge to the child and instead seeks a description of how children learn language from their input using learning mechanisms that are not specific to language. Within this camp, there are also two main theoretical approaches: the social and the domain-general cognitive. These two approaches are not wholly compatible with each other (social learning abilities are specific and quite distinct from domain-general cognition), but both share a commitment to the idea that language learning does not depend on language specific innate knowledge. The social approach views language as essentially a social phenomenon and language development as a social process. It focuses on social aspects of interaction as the input experience relevant to language acquisition and on the social-cognitive abilities of the child as the relevant learning capacities. The domain-general cognitive view argues that children learn language much as they learn any other sort of information. On this view, the internal language capacity is nothing more than our general learning abilities applied to linguistic input. This approach investigates how general learning mechanisms can acquire language, and also works to closely document the rich structure that is present within the input itself. The goal of this chapter is to present each of these four approaches: the biological , the linguistic, the social , and the domain-general cognitive. None of these presentations is comprehensive. Rather, for each approach the aim is to illustrate the nature of the research and theoretical argument it generates and to evaluate its contribution to explaining

Language Development

how children learn to talk. Given the heterogeneity of language itself, it is little surprise that each of the theoretical approaches has made important contributions to our understanding of some dimension of the language capacity.

LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS A BIOLOGICAL PROCESS If we begin by thinking of the language capacity as a biological entity and its operation as a biological processes, we are led to investigate the degree to which language acquisition shares hallmark features of other biological processes and to investigate how the anatomical structures and physiological processes that accomplish language acquisition actually do their work. The hallmark features of biologically based characteristics include species universality and species specificity, an invariant course of development that is robust over varying environmental circumstances, a critical period for development, heritability, and a typical neurological instantiation. To the extent that human language and language acquisition meet these criteria, language and the capacity for language acquisition would seem to be an innate part of human biology. The Species Universality and Species Specificity of Language All humans have language, and no other species has a communication system that shares all the features of human language. Language is universal among the human species: All normal children in anything remotely like a normal environment learn to talk. Moreover, in the absence of a language to learn, humans will create one. For example, it has been widely observed that deaf children in hearing families invent systems of signs with which to communicate. These systems have the equivalent of syntax, morphology, a lexicon in which different words belong to different grammatical categories, and the system as a whole is used for the same sort of communicative purposes as established languages; it thus demonstrates the basic features of all human languages. Because children invented rather than learned these home sign systems, it has been argued that these features reflect the aspects of language that are built into the human mind (Goldin-Meadow, 2003). To be fair, language is not something that individual children simply create on their own. In the first place, socially isolated children do not invent languages (Shatz, 1994). Language creation appears to require an important social communicative component, and whenever people

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come together, language emerges. Pidgins are languages that emerge when circumstance puts together people who share no common language. Pidgins tend to be morphologically simple languages, lacking markers of subject-verb agreement, tense, and so on. With time, and with the birth of children who acquire these pidgins as their native language, they evolve into creoles, which have more elaborate grammatical morphology. It has been argued—although not universally accepted (e.g., Jourdan, 1991)—that children play a crucial role in the process of creolization. One very clear example of the critical role of children in language creation comes from Nicaraguan Sign Language (see the following section). More generally, the structural similarities found among creole languages of independent origins suggest the work of the human capacity. In the absence of a full-blown language to learn, it reveals itself as the human capacity for language creation (Bickerton, 1981; 1984). The other side of the species universality coin is species specificity. The literature on species specificity is large and messy, and there is not the space to adequately review it here. Suffice it to say that neither examination of the naturally occurring communicative systems of other species, nor the several attempts to teach a language to another species, have found human-like language capacities outside the human mind. The criterion on which most other systems and the most nearly successful training efforts clearly fail is syntax (Kako, 1999; Tomasello, 1994). It has also been suggested that other animals, specifically chimpanzees, lack the social interest in other members of their species that a human-like communication system requires both for invention and acquisition (Premack, 1986; Tomasello, Call, Nagell, Olguin, & Carpenter, 1994). The Invariance and Robustness of Language Development Beyond the general fact that language is universal across the species, the course of language development is, in broad outline, constant across varying environments. The invariance of the timing combined with the general insensitivity to environmental differences has suggested to many researchers that language development is fundamentally a maturational process, the course and timing of which is determined by the unfolding of a genetic blueprint (Gilger, 1996; Gleitman, 1981; Lenneberg, 1967). Alternatively, it could be that the universal time course of language acquisition is the result of universal features of human environments. All learning environments appear to provide two sources of support for language acquisition: they show children that language is used to communicate with other

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people, and they deliver to children, through speech, data that the children use to figure out the underlying linguistic system (Lieven, 1994). Even if the acquisition process is maturationally constrained, it is still the case that specific languages must be learned from specific input, and differences in children’s input can lead to subtle (and occasionally, not so subtle) differences in the time course of children’s acquisition. Across cultures, there are differences in children’s environments in terms of how they provide the two sources of support just noted and in how much speech children hear. For example, in some environments children are talked to directly from birth; in others children observe and overhear conversations among others but are not engaged participants from an early age. There are consequences for language development of this difference. Children who are more experienced overhearing others’ conversations appear particularly precocious in the development of skills for joining others’ ongoing conversations (Bernicot & Roux, 1998; Dunn & Shatz, 1989; Hoff-Ginsberg, 1998), and they may be better at learning language from overheard speech (Schneidman, Buresh, Shimpi, Knight-Schwarz, & Woodward, 2009). Children whose data is in the form of speech among others appear to begin talking by producing rote learned chunks of speech, and they only later analyze these chunks into their structural and lexical components. Children who hear more speech addressed directly to them rely less on memorized but unanalyzed wholes (Lieven, 1994). These are effects on the style of the course of language development. There are also effects on rate. Although it appears to matter more for lexical development than for grammatical development, children who hear more speech addressed to them develop language more rapidly than children exposed to less data (Hart & Risley, 1995; Hoff, 2006; Hoff & Naigles, 2002; Huttenlocher, Haight, Bryk, Seltzer, & Lyons, 1991; Huttenlocher, Waterfall, Vasilyeva, Vevea, & Hedges, 2010), and children who hear two languages can acquire them at different rates—each as a function of how much they hear of that language (Hoff et al., in press; Place & Hoff, in press). These demonstrated effects of the nature and amount of environmental support for language acquisition make it clear that the process of language acquisition depends not only on children’s biological capacities, but also on the input they receive. The Critical Period Hypothesis Many examples of species-specific, biologically based learning have the characteristic that the learning must occur during a biologically determined window if it is to be

successful. Regarding language development as a biological phenomenon, therefore, suggests the hypothesis that there is a critical period for language acquisition. Seemingly supportive evidence is obvious and widely available: Every typically developing child acquires a language in a few years, while many adults struggle with any attempt to acquire a second language. Further, when families immigrate to a new language community, it is commonly and reliably observed that the young children in the family acquire the new language well and eventually are indistinguishable from native speakers, while older children and adults acquire the language less well, and typically never achieve native-like proficiency (for example, they may always speak with an accent) (Abrahamsson & Hyltenstam, 2009). Young children recover from aphasia following brain damage more rapidly and more completely than older children and adults. There is also the case of “Genie,” a child who was kept isolated and thus deprived of language until the age of 13 (Curtiss, 1977). Despite both exposure and training after her discovery, Genie never achieved normal language. Lastly, there appear to be differences in how and where the brain processes language depending on the age at which the language is acquired (Kim, Relkin, Lee, & Hirsch, 1997; Weber-Fox & Neville, 1996), although differences in proficiency may be an alternative explanation. If such phenomena have a biological explanation, it should be found in some biological event. Puberty is often proposed as that event: The hypothesis is that the onset of puberty closes the window on the period during which the brain is best able to acquire language. Recent evidence for the critical period of language development—as well as for the human child’s capacity to create language—comes from the study of Nicaraguan Sign Language (NSL). This language has emerged in just the last 25 years, following the opening of the first public schools for the deaf in Nicaragua in 1978. When they entered the school, the deaf children typically had only their own idiosyncratic home sign systems and no shared language, but in the school setting a new sign language began to develop. Studies of changes in this language over time reveal that the language has moved from a structurally simpler language to a structurally more complex language (Senghas, 1995, 2003; Senghas & Coppola, 2001). It also appears that the differences in structural complexity are found primarily in the signing of those who begin to learn the language at an early age. For example, the early form of NSL contained few verb inflections; the more recent form has grammatical devices for marking subject-verb agreement. The development of this element of NSL was not only driven by younger speakers, but older learners exposed to

Language Development

the newer form of the language do not typically master the verb inflections. This result and others like it suggest that the changes that have occurred in NSL over time depend on young children acquiring the language. Those who are within the critical period seem to play a unique role in creating languages with the complex grammatical systems that characterize fully developed languages. There are two main criticisms that have been leveled at the biological account of the critical period. The first argues that the critical period does not have a rigid boundary and that language development is possible past puberty (Birdsong, 1999) and perhaps throughout the lifespan. One study examined the reported second language abilities from millions of second-language speakers using census data (Hakuta, Bialystok, & Wiley, 2003). Their results found a decline in second language ability with age, but the decline was graceful throughout the lifespan (at least through age 60). There was no abrupt shift in ability as the critical period hypothesis would predict. Moreover, the acquisition of a second language can actually change the phonology of that person’s first language (Mennen, 2004). Thus, there appears to be no single biological age after which language development is completely fixed or stops completely. The second criticism takes issue not with the basic finding that children acquire language more easily and better than adults do, but with the notion that there is a biological reason for this. For example, Newport (1990) argued that the critical period was essentially a by-product of children’s more limited processing abilities; ironically, children’s inability to remember long strings and analyze the complexity of their input forces them to build a system in line with linguistic grammars. Indeed, although the younger learners ultimately achieve a higher proficiency overall, older learners actually make more rapid progress than younger learners during the first year in a new language community—provided the opportunities are roughly equal (Snow & Hoefnagel-Hohle, 1978). Related arguments also come from a more social perspective. Younger and older arrivals in a new language community differ not only in their biological state, but also in the way they interact with their new environment. Children attend school in the new language, whereas adults must do work that their limited language skills allow, thus limiting their exposure to the new language. Additionally, older children and adults have stronger first language skills and are more likely to continue to read material in their first language than young children. A study of Chinese immigrants to New York City found that younger children were more exposed to English than older children during their first year in the United States,

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and by the end of the year those younger children had switched from Chinese being their preferred and dominant language to English. The older children, in contrast, were exposed to English less, and at the end of their first year their preferred and dominant language was still Chinese (Jia & Aaronson, 1999). The critical period for language acquisition, therefore, may be based not in the biological differences between children and adults, but in the radical cognitive and social differences between the age groups. The Heritability of Language Among children who acquire language normally, there are individual differences in the rate of language acquisition, and some children acquire language quite slowly and with difficulty. Although some of these individual differences can be attributed to differences in experience, there is also evidence that both normal individual differences and some cases of language impairment have a genetic basis. Twin studies that have looked at children past the age of 3 years using standardized tests of children’s verbal IQ, vocabulary, and reading ability find that about 50% of the variance among children on these measures can be attributed to genetics (Stromswold, 2001). Receptive and expressive language skills up to 24 months of age show lower heritiablity—between 1% and 38% of the variance, depending on the measure (Reznick, Dorley, & Robinson, 1997). Ganger, Pinker, Chawla, and Birk (2007) used the twin study method to assess the heritability of individual differences in the timing of the achievement of two milestones of language development: the achievement of a 25-word productive vocabulary and the production of first word combinations. They found, as did earlier studies, that the heritability of vocabulary was low. In this study, 11% of the variance was attributable to genetics. In stark contrast, they found that the timing of syntactic development was highly heritable—82% of the variance was attributable to genetics. Another, larger scale twin study also found that the heritability of grammatical development was higher than the heritability of lexical development, although that study found lower heritability of grammatical development (39%) and higher heritability of lexical development (25%) (Dale, Dionne, Eley, & Plomin, 2000). Evidence of environmental effects on language development provides converging evidence for the greater heritability of grammatical than lexical development. Hoff-Ginsberg (1998) found grammar to be minimally susceptible to environmental influence and vocabulary development more so. The method of studying the influence of the environment was, in this case, to investigate

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the effects of family socioeconomic status (SES) and child birth order on language development. It is well-established that children in higher SES families hear more speech than children in middle SES families (Hoff, Laursen, & Tardif, 1995), and it is reasonable to assume that firstborn children have more opportunity for one-to-one speech with adults than later-born children. Thus, these two variables serve as proxies for language experience. Vocabulary development was strongly affected by both birth order and family SES, with firstborn children and children from high SES families showing larger vocabularies; grammatical development was affected only by birth order, again, with firstborns showing more advanced language (Hoff-Ginsberg, 1998). It appears that grammatical development, more than lexical development, may be the result of the unfolding of a genetic blueprint; vocabulary development is more paced by environmental factors. Evidence that impairment of the normal ability to acquire language has a genetic basis includes findings that language impairment runs in families, that monozygotic twins are more likely to be concordant for language disorders than dizygotic twins, and that adopted children with language-impaired biological relatives are more likely to be language impaired than adopted children with no language impairment among their biological relatives (Eley et al., 1999; Stromswold, 1998). In one well-studied family, 16 out of 30 family members are seriously language impaired, and the inheritance patterns suggest that a single dominant gene is responsible (Gopnik & Crago, 1991). In sum, although it is clear that differences in the environments children experience contribute to the observed individual differences in language development (Hoff, 2006), the work on the genetics of language development makes a strong case for a genetic contribution as well—both within the normal range of variation and, even more so, in cases of atypical development. Syntax seems to fit the biological model of language better than other aspects of language development, particularly the acquisition of the lexicon. Although this work establishes that there is something genetically based that determines various aspects of language development, it is still unknown precisely how specific genes are linked to language ability or even how domain specific those links are. The Neurological Underpinnings of Language and Language Development In making the argument that language is biologically innate, Chomsky has referred to a “language organ” in the

brain. If there is such a thing, it would seem to be located in the left cerebral hemisphere. It has been known since the 19th century that damage to the left side of the brain disturbs language functions, whereas damage to the right side typically does not. This is true even for deaf signers. Although the right hemisphere is primarily responsible for processing visual-spatial information, if that information is linguistic information, it is handled predominantly by the left hemisphere. A wealth of other sources of data also suggest the conclusion that language is predominantly a left-hemisphere function. Patients with a split corpus collosum can label objects put in their right hand or presented to their right visual field, but they cannot label objects in their left hand or left visual field (e.g., Gazzaniga, 1983). Dichotic listening tests with normal, intact adults show a consistent right ear advantage for speech stimuli (Springer & Deutsch, 1981). Research that uses scalp electrodes to measure event-related potentials or brain imaging techniques to measure cortical activity also has found greater left-hemisphere activity associated with language processing (e.g., Mazziotta & Metter, 1988). Although the left hemisphere is clearly critical for language processing, the right hemisphere has also been found to play important functions. Right hemisphere–damaged patients have difficulty understanding jokes, sarcasm, figurative language, and indirect requests (Weylman, Brownell, & Gardner, 1988). They have difficulty understanding linguistic units that have more than one meaning, and they fail to use broad contextual information in the interpretation of connected discourse (Chiarello, 1991). The literature provides a couple of suggestions for how to describe the contributions of the right and left hemispheres to language. Studies of event-related potentials in intact patients show that the right hemisphere is activated by semantic processing, whereas the left is activated primarily by syntax processing (Neville, Nicol, Barss, Forster, & Garrett, 1991). Studies of the language abilities of patients who have had their left hemispheres entirely removed (because of severe pathology) similarly suggest that the right hemisphere can support many language functions but that the left hemisphere is necessary for fully normal syntax (Curtiss & Schaeffer, 2005). Together the findings suggest that for adults, the right hemsiphere is involved in semantics and pragmatics but that syntax is the province of the left hemsiphere. The story becomes a little more complicated if we look at children. The right hemisphere seems to be more important for language acquisition than for language processing once language is acquired. If brain damage is suffered in infancy, prior to language acquisition, right hemisphere damage is more detrimental to future language

Language Development

acquisition than is left hemisphere damage (Stiles, Bates, Thal, Trauner, & Reilly, 1998). Although the left hemisphere is primarily responsible for language, it may not be the case that it is dedicated specifically to language. It has been suggested that the left hemisphere is specialized for executing well-practiced routines, and language is simply a common example of such a routine (see Mills, Coffey-Corina, & Neville, 1997). The finding that experienced musicians show a right-ear (i.e., left hemisphere) advantage for music stimuli, whereas na¨ıve listeners show a left-ear (i.e., right hemisphere) advantage for music stimuli (Bever & Chiarello, 1974) is consistent with this hypothesis. There is additional evidence that the relation between brain localization and language has to do with practice in the findings from children and adults that the neural representation of a bilingual’s two languages differs as a function of language proficiency (Conboy & Mills, 2006; Perani et al., 1998). Summary and Conclusions If we ask to what degree language development demonstrates hallmark features of a biological process, we are led to conclude that language is indeed an intrinsic part of human nature. Language is certainly universal in the species and specific to our species; it is robust across a large range of environments and is subject to critical period effects. Moreover, it is genetically heritable and linked to specific areas of the brain. The human language capacity clearly has its roots in our biology. However, there must be some limits on this conclusion. First, the claim to biological origins is much stronger for some elements of language (such as syntax or grammar) than others (such as the lexicon). Syntax in particular appears to be more genetically heritable, more subject to the critical period, more robust across environmental influences, more closely linked to specific brain structures, and even more species-specific than the lexicon. Vocabulary development (that is, the lexicon) appears to be more influenced by access to input and it is completely unaffected by the critical period—there has never been any doubt that people learn new words throughout their lives. A second limitation to the biological approach is that most of the documented phenomena have explanations that do not depend on language-specific biological origins. In the case of the heritability of language, we simply lack the necessary data to make comprehensive claims about the links between genes and linguistically specific abilities. In other cases, specific alternative explanations exist. For example, as noted above, researchers have argued that the critical period effects for language

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may arise from social and cognitive differences between children and adults rather than from biologically maturational differences. Similarly, researchers have found that variation in the input does in fact influence language development and the general robustness may merely reflect the general similarity across children’s input. Finally, we note that being social animals is an important part of our biological heritage. Social influences are not typically included in biological models, but languages are in fact only acquired or created when people have the opportunity for social interaction with other humans. This is not to say that language is entirely a social process—that issue will be taken up in later sections—but simply to note that our innate social nature must be considered to understand the language capacity.

LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS A LINGUISTIC PROCESS The linguistic approach to language development is the only approach that focuses on the output of the human language capacity: What is it that children learn? Proponents of this approach very often have training in the field of linguistics, and they start by identifying the complexity of the linguistic forms used by speakers, whether they are adults or young children. Consequently, this approach emphasizes the size of the gap between children’s input and their output: As the output becomes more sophisticated, it becomes difficult to explain how it is a direct reflection of the input. To bridge the gap, this approach posits a very informationally rich and language-specific human language capacity that is capable of creating our sophisticated language skills from sparse input. The Linguistic approach is strongly associated with nativism, but note that children’s input still has a critical role to play: The human language capacity must operate over something. But because of the richness of the innate capacity, this approach expects that the output will go beyond the specific input (that is, children will make generalizations that go beyond what they have heard before) and moreover, that sophisticated outputs will be created quickly. Research in this approach typically focuses on syntax and, to some extent, lexical acquisition, but a good example of how this approach is supposed to work can be found in the domain of Phonology. Human infants are born with an auditory system that perceives speech sounds categorically (Eimas, Siqueland, Jusczyk, & Vigorito, 1971). That is, although speech sounds themselves vary along continuous acoustic dimensions (such as hertz), we hear individual

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sounds as belonging to specific categories (such as [b] or [p]), effectively creating discrete breaks within the continuous space. We share this ability with other mammals (Kuhl & Miller, 1975), and it is clearly part of our biology. Over the first year of life, however, we change how we perceive speech sounds in response to our native language (Kuhl, Williams, Lacerda, Stevens, & Lindblom, 1992; Werker & Tees, 1984). At the age of 6 months, infants are capable of hearing categorical breaks among a wide variety of sounds, including sounds that are not part of their native language. For example, English 6-month-olds can hear the difference between [t] and [t.] although this is not used to contrast words in English (it is used in Hindi); similarly Japanese 6-month-olds can hear the differences between [r] and [l], although that difference is not used to contrast words in Japanese. By 12 months of age, things have changed, and infants can only discriminate among sounds that are relevant for meaning contrasts in their native languages. Japanese 12-month-olds no longer discriminate between [r] and [l] (although English babies still do), and English 12-montholds fail to discriminate between [t] and [t.] (although Hindi babies still do). This accomplishment is remarkable for three reasons. First, it reflects a narrowing of our abilities: 12-month-olds are limited—or perhaps one should say, specialized—in a way younger infants are not. The human language capacity is not simply about becoming better in a general sense—it is about becoming better at language. Second, this specialization happens very quickly and with no conscious effort; the mechanism that accomplishes it appears to be well-suited and directed for this purpose. Interestingly, the mechanism does appear to have a social component. Infants only become specialized for sound contrasts they have heard used by live people; videotaped speech does not lead to equivalent learning (Kuhl, Tsao, & Liu, 2003). Finally, the specialization depends on information that infants apparently have very little explicit access to, namely, which sounds contrast word meanings in their native language. The acoustic sounds corresponding to [r] and [l] still exist in Japanese, they just don’t serve the linguistic function that they do in English of differentiating words (such as rag vs. lag). The receptive vocabulary of 12-month-old infants is fairly small, and yet infants have been able to systematically analyze it to determine which sound contrasts are worth preserving categorically. Input is obviously critical to the development of phonology—English and Japanese babies acquire different phonological repertoires—but the focus of the linguistic approach is on the capacity that is able to achieve this kind of specialization so quickly. The sections below will focus on syntax and the lexicon, which dominate the

research from the linguistic approach. We explicate the notion of a Universal Grammar (UG), which has played a central role in linguistic accounts of children’s (and adults’) syntax, and consider how UG interacts with the developmental processes of language acquisition. Finally, we consider how innate constraints have been researched in the area of lexical acquisition. Universal Grammar Universal Grammar (UG) is the term used by Chomsky (1981) for the set of principles that are true for all languages. All grammars, no matter how different they appear on the surface, adhere to these principles and can be understood in terms of them. According to the linguistic approach, UG is a critical component of the human language capacity. Children are born with this knowledge about how grammars work, and they use it to facilitate their learning process. In addition to specifying the ways in which all languages are alike, UG also specifies the parameters along which languages can vary. For example, in some languages, such as English, sentence subjects must be expressed, whereas in other languages, such as Italian, they need not be. In Italian, one can say the equivalent of Goes to school , whereas in English it would be necessary to say He goes to school. Languages that allow systematic subject omission (or pro-drop, as it is called) also allow sentences that are the equivalent of Raining, whereas in English one would need to say It’s raining. Because some languages allow pro-drop and others do not, this is a parameter in UG, and children must determine based on their input which way the parameter is set. One important prediction of the linguistic approach is that children should never produce sentences that are inconsistent with universal language principles. It is possible (even likely) that children will not initially have all the parameters of their grammar set correctly for their input language, and we therefore expect that children will make mistakes. But those mistakes are still subject to UG and should be consistent with the way some other specific language is parameterized. For example, children acquiring English frequently do omit the subjects of their sentences (Hyams & Wexler, 1993; Valian, 1991). This omission is a mistake for English, but would be appropriate for a prodrop language like Italian. Children need to learn their specific native language (such as English, or Italian), but by hypothesis, they do not need to learn how language itself works. The notion of UG has come under a great deal of criticism from many quarters. Some researchers find UG to be

Language Development

unduly limiting, as it has no role for social interaction and no explanation of the social and communicative elements of language. While true, this criticism does not undermine the linguistic approach in any meaningful way: UG was hypothesized to account for grammatical development, not to account for the full range of our language behaviors. A more trenchant criticism comes from the domain-general learning approach to language. This approach will be discussed in more detail in later sections, but in brief, this approach denies the very problem that motivates UG in the first place—the inadequacy of the input. To the extent that the input is much richer than the linguistic approach imagines, there is less of a need for an innate body of specific knowledge. Moreover, the specificity of the knowledge in UG, particularly for defining parameters, has been especially problematic. For example, the pro-drop parameter discussed above could distinguish between English and Italian. However, there are more than two ways that languages can opt to require subjects. Mandarin, like Italian is a pro-drop language (that is, it allows subject omission), but unlike Italian, Mandarin verbs do not agree with their subjects, and the conditions for subject omission are largely driven by discourse concerns. Similarly, Hebrew allows subject omission, but only in some tenses; and Finnish allows subject omission, but only for some kinds of subjects. To have a UG that specified the true variation allowable by languages—even for just this single parameter—a very large amount of knowledge would need to be encoded. Even for researchers who are open to the possibility that language-specific information is innately encoded, it does not seem biologically plausible that this level of detail is innate. The alternative is that children’s input is much richer than the linguistic approach supposes, and can support the generalizations found in the output with far more minimal (or perhaps no) innate assistance. Developmental Change An examination of how children’s knowledge of language changes over time has not been a traditional focus of the linguistic approach. Researchers working from a strong parameter-setting perspective have been more concerned with the structure of the learning problem (the learnability problem) than with how children actually solve it. Linguistic input is seen as providing specific triggers that allow children to set their UG parameters, but formally, only a single trigger is required for each parameter. For example, for the pro-drop parameter discussed above, it has been proposed that the sentence It’s raining —that is, a sentence

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containing a subject that has no semantic meaning—is the trigger that allows children to set the parameter to the English setting in which subjects are required for all sentences. However, the notion that a single sentence of input would serve as a trigger for setting a parameter requires that input be error free (cf. Maratsos, 1998), and it certainly is not. Furthermore, this formal account predicts that the amount of input should not matter a great deal to the acquisition of any parameterized aspect of language. Contrary to this prediction, however, at least one such aspect (that-trace phenomena) does in fact appear to be acquired earlier by children with more language experience and later by children with less (Gathercole, 2002). There is clearly more to the practical problem of language learning than is spelled out in learnability theory. To address the practical fact that children’s language development requires a fair amount of input and that it does involve a variety of kinds of mistakes, two solutions have been proposed. One solution, which draws its inspiration from the biological approach, is the Maturation Hypothesis: Some elements of UG become available only later in development. Like permanent teeth and secondary sexual characteristics, these elements of grammar are provided innately, but they are not manifest until their developmental time arrives (Wexler, 1999). A second solution is the Continuity Hypothesis (Pinker, 1984), which proposes that all of UG is in the child’s grammar from the beginning. Children’s errors stem from extra-grammatical factors, such as pragmatic knowledge or processing limitations. To illustrate how these hypotheses play out in a particular case, consider the acquisition of Binding Principle B. The Binding Principles are among the general principles of UG, and they refer to constraints on how we link referents within a sentence. For example, in the sentence Grover is patting himself , the pronoun himself must refer to Grover. This general fact is covered by Binding Principle A, which states that reflexive pronouns must refer to another noun within their clausal domain, and they must be c-commanded by it (c-command is a technical linguistic term that describes a particular hierarchical relationship among elements in a sentence). By contrast, in the sentence Grover is patting him, the pronoun him cannot refer to Grover. This fact is covered by Binding Principle B, which states that nonreflexive pronouns cannot refer to another noun which c-commands it in its local domain. The exact details of how these Binding Principles are defined is not important; what is important is that these principles guide the understanding of pronoun and reflexive pronoun interpretation across languages. They are Principles of UG.

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The binding principles have generated a great deal of research, because although Principle A is learned quite quickly, children have difficulties with Principle B up to a very advanced age—as old as 8 years (Thorton & Wexler, 1999). Throughout this time, children will happily accept that the him in Grover is patting him does in fact refer to Grover. Since the linguistic approach argues that universal language principles are innate, this kind of significant delay in competence requires a special explanation. The Maturational Hypothesis explains the delay in Principle B acquisition by asserting that Principle B matures later than Principle A. Many researchers find this kind of explanation to be extremely unsatisfying. After all, the theoretical motivation for UG is that it can guide children’s learning from input; it is unclear why such a theory would predict that a central element of grammar would mature after most of children’s language learning is complete. It is similarly unclear what the mechanism for linguistic maturation is—it is not linked to any known biological features. Even worse, researchers have found that children’s success with Principle B depends on the particular situations in which it is used. For example, if the children interpret a sentence such as The cow is scratching her to mean the cow is scratching herself because of ignorance of Principle B, then they also should interpret Every cow is scratching her to mean many cows are all scratching themselves. Children do not do that, however. In the latter sentence, children correctly believe that her must refer to someone not mentioned in the sentence (Crain & Thornton, 1998). This uneven pattern of performance—success in some sentences and failure in others—suggests that children’s essential knowledge did not change. Instead, it could be that the processing demands of the task make it difficult for children to apply their grammatical knowledge, or that the task itself is pragmatically difficult in some way (Grimshaw & Rosen, 1990; Grodzinsky & Reinhart, 1993). The Continuity Hypothesis embraces these sorts of explanations. Appropriate language use and sophisticated language understanding depend not only on a child’s knowledge of linguistic principles and their own language’s specific instantiation of those principles, but also on a variety of cognitive and social skills that are only tangentially related to linguistic knowledge per se. The Continuity Hypothesis argues that our default position should be to assume that children do have the requisite knowledge in place, and to search for the source of children’s difficulties in the processing and pragmatic realms. Support for the idea of continuity has grown over the years, as research methods have improved to better investigate the

competence of young children. For example, Tomasello has found, and documented repeatedly (Tomasello, 2000, 2003), that in children’s early speech, they show little evidence for knowing abstract linguistic rules. Instead, it appears that children make use of a limited set of constructions and organize their speech around specific instances of words. Even simple abstractions such as the fact that the subjects of English sentences tend to be agentive, or that transitive sentences (She kissed her) signal that two participants are likely involved in a causal event, are argued to be comparatively late developments in children’s understanding (coming in around age 4 years). Tomasello’s conclusions depend on close analyses of what children say, both in their spontaneous speech and in the laboratory. His conclusions, however, have been challenged by researchers testing children’s comprehension of these structures using looking-time measures (Gertner, Fisher, & Eisengart, 2006; Naigles, 1996; Wagner, 2010). These comprehension measures place many fewer processing demands on the children and have shown that children have made some language-specific abstractions before their second birthday. For example, Gertner and colleagues showed 21-month-old-infants pairs of movies. In one movie, a duck pushed a bunny and in the other, a bunny pulled a duck. Children heard the movies described with a nonsense word, to ensure that they were not using verb-specific memorized knowledge. Some children heard a sentences with the duck in the subject position and others heard sentences with the bunny as the subject: The duck/bunny is gorping the bunny/duck . The children reliably looked at the matching movie—for instance, when the duck was the subject, they looked at the movie where the duck did the pushing. Results like these suggest that even if children cannot produce evidence of their abstract knowledge in their speech, they can still demonstrate it in their understanding—when the testing caters to their processing limitations. Obviously, no researchers argue that children are born knowing the specific abstractions of English; however, the younger the children are who possess the grammatical knowledge of their native language, the more likely it is that they had innate guidance to learn it. Innate Lexical Constraints The theory of UG applies specifically to syntactic understanding, but there is a parallel learnability approach to the development of children’s lexicons. The starting point for this approach is a famous thought experiment made by the philosopher Quine (1960), in which he showed

Language Development

that the input alone could not support the learning of word meanings. Imagine you are a linguist studying a newly discovered tribe. A rabbit runs across the field and a tribesman shouts Gavagai . How do you decide what Gavagai means? It could mean “running thing,” “whiteness,” “furriness,” “dinner if we’re lucky,” “animal,” “mammal,” or even “rabbit.” In principle, there are an infinite number of things that the word might mean, and the process of hypothesis-testing each of these possibilities against a variety of situations cannot be done. Despite this principled problem, children are good at learning words. By the time children are 6 years old they have vocabularies of up to 14,000 words. Assuming that word learning begins at about 12 months, that works out to a word learning pace of nearly 8 words per day. Furthermore, experimental work has demonstrated that very few exposures to a novel term are sufficient for children to form at least a partial entry in their mental lexicons (Dollaghan, 1985; Woodward, Markman, & Fitzsimmons, 1994). Thus, somehow, the infinite possible meanings of a new word in context that bothered Quine do not bother young language-learning children. To solve the problem of how children arrive at meanings readily when the environment does not clearly indicate those meanings, it has been proposed that children come to the word learning task with innate constraints on the kinds of hypotheses they consider. A great deal of research has been aimed at discovering just what those constraints are. One constraint, or principle, that appears to guide children’s inferences about the meanings of newly encountered words is the whole-object principle. This leads children to assume that words, particularly count nouns, refer to whole objects rather than to a part of property of an object. Thus, when a child first hears Gavagai , she is unlikely to assume it means “white” or “furry” and much more likely to expect that it means “rabbit,” “animal,” or “pet.” The existence of such an assumption is supported both by evidence from word learning experiments (Markman & Wachtel, 1988; Waxman & Markow, 1995) and by errors young children make. For example, it is not uncommon for very young children to think that hot is the label for “stove,” given the common experience of hearing Don’t touch it; it’s hot in reference to the stove. Another proposed word learning principle is the taxonomic principle, according to which count nouns refer to things that are of the same kind. This assumption helps the child figure out what else, other than the particular whole object being labeled, is included in the meaning of the new word. When the child hears the dog in the presence of a dog (and assumes that it is the whole dog that’s being referred to, thanks to the whole-object principle), then the taxonomic

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principle leads the child to think that dog will also refer to other dogs, but not to things that are thematically related to dogs, such as collars, leashes, or bones. Again, the evidence for this assumption is that in spontaneous production, children tend to correctly extend the meanings of the words they learn, and also from experimental demonstrations. In experiments, despite a general preference to form thematically related categories, when children are presented with a new word, a sud , with a picture—for example, a picture of a dog—and asked to find another one that is the same as this sud , children pick another picture of a dog. When simply asked to find another one that is the same—without a new word being introduced—preschool children are more inclined to pick a thematic match, such as a picture of dog food (Markman & Hutchinson, 1984). A third principle, mutual exclusivity, refers to an expectation that children seem to have about how lexicons work. All things being equal, each word will refer to a unique item, and each item will have its own label. In tests of this principle, children are presented with a pair of objects—one of which they know the name of (such as a bottle) and one of which is unfamiliar to them (such as a whisk, or an odd tool from a hardware store). When children are asked to give the experimenter the dax , they pick out the unfamiliar object. That is, they assume that the new word is not a synonym for the word they already know, and therefore must refer to the new thing (Markman & Wachtel, 1988; Mervis & Bertrand, 1994). These principles work in concert so that the mutual exclusivity assumption provides a basis for overriding the whole object principle, which children must do in order to learn terms for parts and properties of objects. A child who knows the word rabbit and hears the word furry will not take furry to be a synonym for rabbit but will look for something else to be the referent of the new term. There is relatively little controversy about whether children obey these word learning constraints, but there is a great deal of debate about why they do so. On the linguistic approach, these constraints are part of our language-specific innate human language capacity. Researchers coming from other perspectives, however, have argued that each of these constraints has its origins in other parts of cognition. For example, the whole object bias may be something that is learned through experience (Smith, Jones, Landau, Gershkoff-Stow, & Samuelson, 2002). Because nouns that describe whole objects (e.g., cat, dog, bottle, ball ) are learned early, are highly frequent, and comprise a fairly large portion of our noun vocabularies, children come to expect that any newly encountered noun will also describe a whole object. Indeed, children who are encouraged to focus on whole object shape in a word learning task quickly

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rely on that focus both within and outside the laboratory. A similar sort of argument can be made to explain children’s adherence to the taxonomic constraint. Mutual exclusivity has received its most compelling alternative explanations from the social domain (Clark, 1997; Diesendruck & Markson, 2001). Children’s assumption that a new word will label an unfamiliar object may not reflect their understanding of the lexicon so much as their expectation about what coherent conversations are like. For example, in the word learning study described above, children may assume that the dax doesn’t describe the bottle because that would be socially quite odd: If a knowledgeable adult wants to be given the bottle, surely she would use the word that is commonly used for bottles; the use of the novel word is a signal of the speaker’s social intentions. The social approach to word learning will be taken up in the next section. Summary and Conclusions The distinctive feature of the linguistic approach is its focus on the complexity of the output. Language is a complicated thing, whether one is considering phonological organization, grammatical rules, or the range of word meanings we can express. Although there are lively debates in the field about children’s acquisition of lexical meanings and the argument structure of verbs, when it comes to examining the grammatical domain—such as the binding rules or quantifier interpretation—the linguistic approach is the only one undertaking serious investigations. Largely, this is a result of the fact that syntactic phenomena are articulated primarily within the arena of linguistic theory and require technical linguistic terminology to even receive an appropriate description. Nevertheless, there have been some recent attempts to explore syntactic phenomena from other approaches (e.g., Ambridge & Lieven, 2011; Ambridge, Rowland & Pine, 2008), and these are likely to increase in the future. Overall, the main strength of the linguistic approach is that it takes seriously the difficulty of the learning problem: Children’s output is very sophisticated, and there is no clear way that the input can directly lead children to the complex generalizations of their native language. An additional strength of this approach is that it has driven researchers to document early grammatical knowledge—often showing that children’s speech underestimates their competence because producing speech requires adjunct competencies such as memory and pragmatic understandings, which may be limited for them. The major weakness of this approach can be thought of as a failure of imagination.

The linguistic approach has argued for a rich, languagespecific innate learning capacity (such as UG) that guides children through the language learning process to account for the impossibility of deriving the output from the input more directly. However, other approaches, as we shall see in the following sections, have imagined that nonlinguistic capacities can solve much of the learning problem (such as social abilities), and have also imagined more creative ways that general learning mechanisms could make use of the input. These alternative approaches essentially argue that the linguistic approach has dramatically underestimated the power of the rest of cognition in solving a learning problem—even a learning problem as complex as language learning.

LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS A SOCIAL PROCESS The approach that considers language as a social phenomenon and language development as a social process begins with very different assumptions from the previous two approaches. The social-pragmatic approach argues first of all that children’s input is much richer than the nativist approaches assume it is. In particular, the input contains critical social information. On this approach, language is learned in the context of interaction with others, in routines such as feeding and dressing and, in some cultures, interactive games, bookreading, and more. The significance of these repeated routines is that they create a shared referential context within which the language of the adult makes sense to the prelinguistic child (Carpenter, Nagell, & Tomasello, 1998). This approach also argues that the output of language development is far less complex and is grounded in functional communication (Tomasello, 1992, 2000). Researchers from the linguistic approach typically subscribe to some variant of the theory of generative grammar, which considers language as a complex, abstract system, many of whose properties are unrelated to the communicative function of language and are not apparent in the surface form of sentences. By contrast, researchers from the social-pragmatic approach typically subscribe to some variant of cognitive or functional linguistic theory, which considers grammatical devices to be directly related to functional meaning. The social-pragmatic approach views the human language-learning capacity to be simply an example of what Tomasello has termed cultural learning (Tomasello, 2000; Tomasello, Kruger, & Ratner, 1993). Cultural

Language Development

learning involves imitating others, but it is not uncomprehending mimicry. Rather, cultural learning consists of learning to reproduce the behavior of others for the purpose of achieving the same goal or performing the same function that the learner understands to have been the goal or intended function when that behavior was produced by another. Cultural learning is possible only after around 9 months of age, when children develop the capacity for secondary intersubjectivity, which allows them to coordinate their attention with both the person who is talking to them and the objects or events that are being talked about. This is a prerequisite to cultural learning, because only with this capacity can children share another’s perspective on the world, thereby gaining nonlinguistic access to the communicative intentions of others. Learning language, on this view, is learning to express one’s communicative intentions with sequences of sounds that one has previously heard uttered by others to express those same communicative intentions. This approach occupies an interesting intermediate ground between the two previous approaches, which both propose that the human language capacity includes an innate, language-specific component, and the domain general learning approach, which proposes that our capacity for language arises simply from our general learning abilities. The social-pragmatic approach shares with the domain general learning approach the idea that our learning mechanism contains no language-specific information; we are not specialized for language per se. However, the social-pragmatic approach does contain a strong innate component, namely, the specialized social skills which children bring to the language learning problem. On the social view, humans are not biologically predisposed for language. Instead, language is a by-product of our biologically innate social abilities. A Social-Pragmatic Account of Grammatical Development The social-pragmatic account focuses on the functional and communicative elements of language. In fact, this approach argues that the output that children create can be defined in just these terms; this puts it in radical opposition to the linguistic approach, which treats the adult language system in a much more formal and computationally oriented way. For the social-pragmatic account, the adult system is an inventory of constructions that relate to specific communicative functions. Some of these constructions are very specific: for example, the phrase Hi, how are you? has a fixed linguistic form and a particular

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communicative function involved with greeting people. Other constructions are more general: for example, the phrase I want X has one open slot (the X can be replaced by any number of things) and communicates an expressed desire; even more generally, the plural marker –s can be seen as a construction with a dependent form (it must be attached to a noun) and a very general communicative function of specifying that one is speaking about multiples of the attached noun. Importantly, all the units of language structure correspond to communicative functions and, therefore, to our social understanding of communication situations. As this approach sees the adult state as a collection of (more or less abstract) constructions, it sees the child’s learning task as finding these constructions in their input. The big difference between the adult and child grammars is in the number of constructions they have and in the level of abstraction that the constructions reach. Adults have abstract constructions, such as the plural –s, that can be used in a very general and productive fashion. Children, by contrast, initially have only very concrete constructions that revolve around specific lexical items. As a consequence, children are far less able (and initially, not able at all) to make generalizations from their constructions into new forms. Children learn these lexically specific constructions directly from their input, and they use them just as they have heard them used. Children’s early speech is essentially a very sophisticated form of imitation in which children recreate the forms and communicative functions of their input. Evidence in support of this view comes from close examinations of children’s speech. One investigation looking at children’s use of verbs in their spontaneous speech found that initially they do not use the verbs they know in all their possible structures. Instead, they have a strong tendency to restrict each verb to just the constructional frame in which they heard their mothers use it (Theakston, Lieven, Pine, & Rowland, 2001). Similarly supportive findings were found in the lab. In several experiments in which children were taught new verbs and then encouraged to use those verbs in different sentence structures, 3-year-old children did not typically use their new verbs in sentence frames that went beyond the way they had heard those verbs used by the experimenters (Tomasello, 2000). As children learn more language, they are able to draw analogies among their constructions and create the more abstract kinds of constructions of the adult state. This process depends in part on the complexity of the linguistic form of the construction as well as on the complexity of the communicative function; verbs are complex on both fronts, and it therefore takes children a comparatively long time to generalize their

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usage (in contrast to nouns, which children are able to use in new combinatorial structures much earlier). There are a variety of arguments against the socialpragmatic view of grammar development. Many researchers disagree that the output of language development can be adequately characterized completely in functional communicative terms, and argue that this approach underestimates the complexity and functionally independent nature of morphosyntax (Maratsos, 1998; Shatz, 1992). To the extent that the output does not directly serve a communicative function, social knowledge will not help children find it in the input, and additional content to the human language capacity will be required. Perhaps the most extreme example of this problem comes from the domain of phonology: there simply is no social-pragmatic account of how children acquire their native language’s sound system. At a minimum, the social-pragmatic account must be combined with one of the other accounts to explain children’s acquisition of the full range of linguistic elements. A more practical kind of argument against the socialpragmatic view comes from alternative analyses of children’s language knowledge. As discussed in the previous section, children are able to understand linguistic abstractions even if they don’t produce them. If we consider children’s comprehension as reflecting their linguistic competence, then it is simply not the case that it takes children years to move from lexically localized constructions to broad linguistic generalizations: they make the leap very quickly, on the basis of comparatively little input data. Moreover, it is also not clear that children’s own speech is quite as restricted as the social-pragmatic view would suggest. For example, diary data on the first uses of 34 common verbs by eight different children show that many verbs do appear in multiple structures within children’s first ten uses of those verbs, suggesting they do have some early productivity (Naigles, Hoff, & Vear, 2009). In addition, although children do tend use main verbs in the particular syntactic structures in which they have heard those verbs used (deVilliers, 1985; Theakston et al., 2001), this is not the case for auxiliary verbs. One of the most robust inputacquisition relations in the literature is that the frequency of questions containing preposed auxiliaries (e.g., Can you eat your breakfast now?) in children’s input is related to children’s acquisition of auxiliaries. However, when children use auxiliaries, they do not use them in the input construction, but instead use them first in declarative forms (e.g., I can do it.) (Newport, Gleitman, & Gleitman, 1977; Shatz, Hoff-Ginsberg, & MacIver, 1989). This example illustrates not only how children’s early speech may not in fact be a direct reflection of their input, but also shows how children

can use the same elements of language in a communicatively flexible manner as well (in this case, linking auxiliary use in a question function to a declarative function). Social-Pragmatic Approach to Lexical Development The social-pragmatic approach has fared far better in explaining children’s lexical development and has documented how children use social knowledge to help them acquire new vocabulary. Early formulations of the social-pragmatic proposal argued that the recurrent social interactions between mother and child establish each participant’s intentions through a given routinized activity, allowing the child to predict “where the adult’s attention is currently focused and where it is likely to be focused next. Therefore, any language the adult may use in such a context is likely to be immediately meaningful to the child . . . ” (Tomasello & Todd, 1983, p. 199). Additionally, if, in nonroutinized interaction, mothers talk about the aspect(s) of the activity on which the child is focused, then the meaning(s) the child is harboring should be consistently expressed. Thus, the social-pragmatic argument is that by virtue of either routinization or maternal attentiveness, children know what their mothers are saying without understanding the language, and they can use that nonlinguistically acquired knowledge to figure out the meaning of the language they hear. The social-pragmatic proposal has also focused on the social cognitive abilities and inclinations of children (Akhtar & Tomasello, 2000; Baldwin, 2000). Children are not at the mercy of adults’ following their attentional focus in order for word meaning to be made transparent. Rather, children have the ability to discern their mothers’ communicative intentions. According to this view, word learning begins once children understand others as intentional agents, assume there is some communicative intention behind the vocalizations others make, and successfully figure out what those communicative intentions are. Although the earlier and later formulations differ in whether it is the mother or the child who contributes the requisite social-pragmatic skill, both formulations include mutual engagement or joint attention as a prerequisite to word learning. The sort of empirical findings cited in support of this view include findings that maternal responsiveness is positively associated with child vocabulary development (Tamis-LeMonda, Bornstein, Kahana-Kalman, Baumwell, & Cyphers, 1998), that mothers who follow their child’s leads have children with larger vocabularies (Akhtar, Dunham, & Dunham, 1991; Harris, Jones, Brookes, & Grant,

Language Development

1986; Tomasello & Farrar, 1986), and that the proportion of time mothers and children spend in joint engagement predicts vocabulary growth (Carpenter et al., 1998; Tomasello & Todd, 1983). Another important piece of this argument is evidence that children have the ability to use nonverbal cues such as eye gaze to determine a speaker’s focus of attention, and they infer that speakers are talking about their own focus of attention, even when it differs from the child’s (Baldwin, 1993). In fact, children who are more precocious in developing the ability to follow eye gaze are also more precocious in language development (Brooks & Meltzoff, 2005). The foregoing arguments address how children can correctly map a newly encountered word onto its intended referent. There is also a pragmatically based argument for how children learn multiple terms for the same referent (Clark, 1997). That is, the same creature can be the dog, our pet, or Rover, depending on the purpose for which one is labeling him. Children are disinclined to take these different labels to be exact synonyms because they have the Principle of Contrast—that is, the pragmatic understanding that if a speaker chooses a different word then it indicates a different meaning. The innate constraints approach explains the same behavior with reference to the mutual exclusivity principle. There is evidence consistent with both views. Absent any pragmatic information, children are reluctant to accept new labels for an already labeled referent (Merriman & Bowman, 1989); however, very young children can learn multiple labels for the same referent if they understand the multiple communicative purposes or perspectives that lead to different word choices (Clark, 1997). Adults also provide help to the word learner through pragmatic directions. To illustrate, Clark offers a hypothetical example in which some birds are flying overhead and the adult speaker first says, Look at the birds, and then points to one bird followed by another, saying, This one is a sparrow; this one here is a crow. By first not individuating and later individuating the referents, the speaker indicates to the child the perspective shift that accompanies the shift in the hierarchical level of the label provided. Although this example is hypothetical, there are data to the effect that mothers indicate when they are talking about a group labeled by a superordinate category and simple labeling tends to be used with basic level or subordinate categories (Callanan, 1985). There are also spontaneous speech data from very young children attesting to their use of multiple labels for the same item (e.g., food and cereal, animal and tiger) (Clark, 1997).

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The quarrel some have with the social-pragmatic approach to lexical development is similar to the exception taken with respect to social-pragmatic accounts of grammatical development. The problem is one of sufficiency. Although children may well use their social skills to infer speaker intent in episodes of mutual engagement, an analysis of published studies of mother–child interaction suggests that only about 20% of the time mothers and children spend in conversation is characterized by the mutual understandings upon which the social-pragmatic view of acquisition depends (Hoff & Naigles, 2002). Furthermore, there is more to building a lexicon than mapping newly encountered words onto referents. Before that initial mapping, words must be identified as such in the speech stream, and after the initial mapping there is still more for children to figure out to complete the lexical entry. The sort of information that would contribute to those other parts of the word learning task and the sort of learning abilities that would use that information are ignored in the social-pragmatic account. Nevertheless, the social-pragmatic account has established that in some contexts, children can and sometimes do use their understanding of social cues to learn word meanings. Acquiring the Social Uses of Language Thus far we have been discussing socially based accounts of the acquisition of what are considered the “core” aspects of language: grammar and the lexicon. The extent to which social processes can explain those developments is very much at issue. In contrast, there are other aspects of language development for which a socially based explanation is the most obvious choice. Language development includes language socialization—learning to use language as adult members of one’s social group do. This refers to everything from learning to be polite to learning to tell a coherent story. These skills must depend on the social context in which language is acquired, because what constitutes both politeness and a coherent story vary depending on culture (Clancy, 1986; Minami & McCabe, 1995). More direct evidence for the role of social context in these aspects of language development are findings that within a culture, differences in the environmental support provided by other speakers are related to the rate of development of the ability to produce narratives (Fivush, 1991; McCabe & Peterson, 1991; Reese & Fivush, 1993). Socially based accounts of development have little competition with respect to explaining the acquisition of communicative competence. While there are requisite and perhaps biologically based cognitive developments, it is

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clear that acquiring communicative competence depends on social experience. There is a large body of work that describes children’s development of communicative competence and that seeks explanations in terms of social development, cognitive development, and experience in language interaction (see, for example, Ninio & Snow, 1999). From a distance, however, this sort of research seems not to be the main stage event in the search for an explanation of how children learn to talk. The main stage is occupied by the study of grammar and the lexicon. Summary and Conclusions There is no disagreement from any quarter that language is used to communicate or that it is acquired in the context of communicative interaction. Thus, there is most certainly a social basis to language development (Shatz, 1992). At issue is the explanatory power of this social basis. The claim made by advocates of the social-pragmatic view, that learning language is merely a matter of learning to produce the sounds that express the intentions that you have heard others produce to express those same intentions is not particularly revolutionary. If intentions are meanings, and it seems they must be, then this statement is simply a paraphrase of a statement in every linguistics textbook: Language is a system for relating sound to meaning. The question is, what is the nature of that system and what does it take to learn it? According to the social-pragmatic approach, the system is fairly simple and based in the communicative functions of language. Thus, learning the system is a natural consequence of children’s social-cognitive abilities to understand others’ intentions, their desire to communicative their own intentions, and their ability to imitate the means of communicating intentions they see modeled by others. To the extent that language is complex and has structural properties not grounded in the communicative functions of language, it will require more to be learned than social understandings and a capacity to imitate the goal-directed behavior of others.

LANGUAGE DEVELOPMENT AS DOMAIN-GENERAL LEARNING It is possible, in principle, that substantial aspects of linguistic knowledge are neither innate nor achieved in the manner described by the social-pragmatic approach. Linguistic knowledge could be learned via the application of asocial and domain-general learning procedures to

language input. The work in this vein does not come from a single theoretical orientation but rather comprises a variety of approaches that have in common a rejection of the assumptions that language is too complex, the input too impoverished, and the child’s learning mechanisms too weak to account for language acquisition without stipulating innate linguistic knowledge. Some, but not all, domain-general proposals also entail a description of the adult linguistic knowledge that differs from the generative linguistics account. The domain-general learning approach differs also from the social-pragmatic approach in locating the information used by language learners in the speech stream itself and in the nonlinguistic context accompanying speech rather than in socially achieved understandings. Information about utterance or word meaning that children derive through their understandings of other speakers’ intentions may be useful, but it has no special status that is different from other sources of information. Furthermore, the mechanisms for learning are more than the mechanisms of cultural learning referred to by the socialpragmatic approach. The argument for a domain-general approach to language development is made primarily with four sources of evidence: (1) Principled arguments demonstrating the necessity of using domain-general learning to acquire specific linguistic forms; (2) Studies of infants showing that language learners do indeed have powerful learning mechanisms available to them; (3) Data that children’s language learning uses domain-general processes and is sensitive to input; (4) Computer implementations of connectionist models of language acquisition. Principled Arguments for the Necessity of Domain-General Learning in Language Development The argument that language development is at least partly the result of general cognitive processes can be made on the basis of an analysis of the task itself (see Maratsos, 1998). Every language is comprised of specific linguistic forms that simply must be learned—from the specific sounds used in the phonological system to the specific forms of the lexical items. Consider, for example, how children acquiring Turkish learn that a particular suffix, -u, indicates patienthood of the noun to which it is attached [note, this is a simplified version of Turkish morphology]. Children will hear sentences in which a noun has –u as a suffix, but they need to figure out from the universe of possibilities what that suffix indicates. Even accepting that there are some innate constraints on the possibilities considered (as Maratsos does), languages vary enough in what meanings

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are grammaticized that even an innately constrained list of possibilities would be quite long. The child would need many examples of the –u suffix being used in order to figure out what meaning reliably co-occurs with –u. This process of figuring out requires general cognitive skills, including remembering co-occurring pairs of forms and meanings, comparing these pairs to find relevant similarities, and filtering out noise from competing forms and meanings. These skills are not language specific: We remember and compare things in a variety of domains. Nor are they social in nature (even if our initial access to the meanings might be); even much of the input is asocial, such as the form of the suffix itself. Language-specific learning depends on internal data analytic processes that sift through a lot of asocial input. To make the problem harder, languages are not perfectly regular, and speech is not completely errorfree. This leads to the inevitable conclusion that the internal data-sifting mechanism must be able to detect probabilistic patterns in the environment. Newport and Aslin (2000) have, in fact, documented children’s abilities to detect the regularities in less-than-perfect input, and they argue that this importantly enables language acquisition. The ability to exploit probabilistic information is useful to most species in many domains because, as Kelly and Martin (1994) have put it, “the structure of the environment itself is often probabilistic” (p. 105). Thus, we are led to the conclusion that the acquisition of morphology depends on massive language data which feed data analytic abilities that are domain-general. The Nature of Infants’ Learning Mechanisms Recent attention to infant learning mechanisms began with a study demonstrating that 8-month-old babies can learn the statistical regularities in a stream of sounds presented for only 2 minutes (Saffran, Aslin, & Newport, 1996). The babies listened to a tape-recording that presented four different three syllable “words” (e.g., tupiro, golabu) combined in random order in an uninterrupted stream. After 2 minutes of exposure, the babies were tested on the same words in isolation, or on “non-words” created by recombining the same syllables but in a different order that violated the integrity of the former “words.” Eightmonth-old babies could tell the difference. They learned the distributional regularities in the first sequence, that is that ro always follows pi , which always follow tu, whereas tu can follow any of three different word-final syllables. The implications for language learning were clear: infants could use small amounts of asocial input to segment words from running speech. Moreover, the basis

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for this segmentation was a simple statistical algorithm and not a complex linguistic analysis. Additional studies have shown that before 2 years of age, infants can detect a variety of linguistically useful statistical regularities from listening to streams of disembodied speech, including regularities that are parallel to linguistic elements, such as agreement morphology (Gerken, Wilson, & Lewis, 2005; Lany & Saffran, 2010). Moreover, infants can extract implicit syntactic structures from listening to such streams. For example, Gomez and Gerken (1999) created an artificial language composed of nonsense words that complied to a series of syntactic ordering rules. For example, one word followed an adjective-like rule and could optionally precede a class of words which followed noun-like rules. The artificial grammar contained dozens of nonsense words and several rules for combining them. Twelve-month-old infants listened to a series of “sentences” composed of strings of nonsense words that followed the rules. Afterwards, they were tested with new sentences that either followed the rules or violated the rules. As with the word segmentation case, infants could tell the difference. One of the key components of the infancy studies is that the experimenters define what is to be learned—the input to the infants is created to contain particular statistical regularities, and success in the task means that the infants have been able to extract those regularities. Because the regularities have been defined a priori, we can be confident of the basis for their extraction; in effect, we know which statistics the infants must use to find the information. This is a powerful argument for the domaingeneral learning approach, because it proves that infants have a powerful, asocial, nonlinguistically based learning mechanism that operates very efficiently over input. However, some researchers have argued that caution is warranted when interpreting these data. Two issues are relevant. The first concerns the ability of these statistical tools to “scale-up” to real language learning. Many of these studies have used small, artificial languages that are much simpler than what infants face in the real world—for example, infants do not hear the same four words over and over again as they did in Saffran and colleagues’ (1996) word segmentation study. Infants’ statistical tools might not be so effective when faced with the complexity of natural languages. This objection loses ground, however, when we consider the fact that the artificial language learning studies generally make the learning task far more difficult than it is in the real world. In these studies, infants’ exposure to the language is extremely limited (they hear it for a matter of minutes), it is asocial and usually context-free (infants

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listen to it over speakers, and not in the course of a human conversation), and it is often stripped of natural speech cues such as prosody and emphasis. There are good reasons to believe that the real world may in fact be an easier learning environment than these lab studies are. The second issue is more difficult to overcome. Statistical tools, no matter how powerful or domain general, must operate over specific entities. In the studies just discussed, they operated over syllables or words—both linguistic units. But how does the infant know which entities are important, or which entities are best served by a particular statistical algorithm? A study from Bonatti and colleagues (2005) makes this point especially clearly. This word segmentation study also asked infants to use their statistics to find coherent nonsense words in a continuous stream. However, these nonsense words were distinctive in not being defined as collections of syllables. In one study, the words were defined as they are in semitic languages like Hebrew and Arabic—by discontinuous consonants. Thus, batuki and butoka were the same word because they had the same ordering of b-t-k. Infants were able to find these kinds of words much as they had in previous work. However, when the words were defined by discontinuous vowels (batuki would be the same as kabuti because they have the same a-u-i ordering), infants failed at the task. It appears that when it comes to word segmentation, infants’ statistical tools work better over consonants than vowels. This fact is very difficult to explain on the domain-general approach, which predicts that infants will perform similarly across all domains of input. Instead, Bonatti’s data suggests that even domain-general processes are guided by language-specific constraints. Empirical Data That Children’s Language Learning Uses Domain-General Learning Processes Beyond the infancy data, there is also a wealth of empirical data that older children use domain-general learning processes to learn various aspects of language. In the domain of phonology, research on children’s production of phonemes suggests children engage general problem-solving strategies. The data to be accounted for are: (a) that initially there is variability across words in how sounds are produced, (b) that sometimes words are pronounced accurately at first and then less accurately at some later point, (c) that there are individual differences among children in their transitional phonological systems, and (d) that children seem to avoid words that they cannot produce. The problem that requires a solution by the child is how to match the target language given the child’s articulatory constraints.

According to the problem-solving model (Ferguson & Farwell, 1975; Macken & Ferguson, 1983), children figure out how to use their limited articulatory abilities to approximate the target language using their general capacities for perception, production, and problem solving. Initially children do this on a word-by-word basis, which explains the inconsistency of sounds across words. Later, children arrive at a system for mapping individual sounds in the target language onto a set of sounds that they can produce. This results in consistency, but occasionally in regression for sounds that were produced accurately in only some words. Because different children hit upon different solutions to the problem, there will be individual differences among children in the phonological systems achieved. In the domain of lexical development, current research and theory suggest that the process of word learning consists of at least the following three, ordered, components: (1) word segmentation, (2) an initial fast mapping of the new word onto a referent, and (3) a longer, extended process of completing the lexical entry. Only the domain-general learning approach offers any account of word segmentation or the internal data-sifting processes that must be involved in completing a lexical entry. Moreover, there is substantial evidence that the amount and nature of input contribute to the child’s lexical development. Huttenlocher and colleagues (1991) found that the amount of speech mothers produced was a significant, positive predictor of their children’s rates of vocabulary growth over the course of 10 to 12 months. Studying the vocabulary of bilingual children, researchers have found that the relative sizes of preschool children’s vocabularies in each of the languages they were acquiring was related to the relative amount of input in each language (Hoff, Core, Place, Rumiche, Se˜nor, & Parra, 2012; Pearson, Fernandez, Lewedeg & Oller, 1997). With respect to word segmentation, there is evidence that stress patterns, prosody, and repetition of words in combination with a variety of different words all contribute to the ease with which infants can find word forms (see references in Aslin, Saffran, & Newport, 1999; Morgan & Demuth, 1996). With respect to mapping a word form to its meaning, computer simulations (Siskind, 1996) have demonstrated that the use of partial linguistic knowledge to constrain hypotheses, combined with the ability to extract commonalities across different situations of use, can result in lexical acquisition by a system that has no access to speaker intentions. To illustrate, if a child already knows the word ball , then the learning device can use its knowledge about how balls are used in the world to deduce that a novel word combined with ball in an utterance is more likely to mean roll than eat.

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Turning to the domain of syntax—which has played a central role in the nativist approaches to language development—the patterns of children’s learning show the hallmarks of domain-general processes. Evidence for such processes has been found in studies looking at the relation between the amount and properties of mothers’ child-directed speech and their children’s syntactic development. Studying bilingually developing children, Hoff and others (in press) found that the relative amount of input the children heard in each language predicted the age at which the children began to combine words and the grammatical complexity of their speech in each language. Huttenlocher and colleagues have found that children’s grammatical development is related to the proportion of their parents’ and teachers’ utterances that contain complex structures (Huttenlocher, Vasilyeva, Cymerman, & Levine, 2002). There is also evidence for effects of specific properties of input on grammatical development. For example, the frequency with which mothers ask questions with preposed auxiliaries, produce partial expansions of child speech, and produce partial self-repetitions and expansions have all been found to predict the rate at which children develop particular aspects of grammar (Baker & Nelson, 1984; Hoff-Ginsberg, 1990, 1986; Newport et al., 1977). Hoff-Ginsberg (1985) argued that these features of input are useful because they make the phrase structure of language salient to a distributional learning mechanism. The mechanisms that drive this salience are familiar across cognition, such as the fact that items that are first in a list (or an utterance, as preposed auxiliaries are) are learned faster and more easily. Importantly, the properties of input that provide this sort of information are unrelated to the functions to which the speech is put. That is, the relationship between (maternal) input and the child’s output (syntactic knowledge) isn’t mediated by any social-communicative function. Thus, although the use of question forms is of course related to the expression of questioning as a communicative intent, it is not clear what the functional basis would be of questions that involve preposed auxiliaries. Mothers’ use of partial selfrepetitions and expansions has been found to be unrelated to the functions of maternal speech (Hoff-Ginsberg, 1986, 1990, 1999). There is also evidence connecting the syntactic and lexical domains that supports children’s use of domain-general processes. Children use syntax as a source of information in their lexical development. Studies of correlations between properties of input and measures of lexical development find, for example, that the diversity of syntactic frames in which a verb appears predicts its order of acquisition

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(Naigles & Hoff-Ginsberg, 1998) and, more generally, that the syntactic complexity of maternal speech (indexed by mean length of utterance) is positively related to children’s vocabulary development (Bornstein, Haynes, & Painter, 1998; Hoff & Naigles, 2002). Evidence that humans can make inferences about word meaning from syntactic information comes from Gillette and colleagues’ (1999) simulation of word learning with human (adult) participants. The learners in this case were shown a series of silent videoclips of real mother–child interactions during which a specific verb had been spoken by the mother. The participants were provided with various “clues” to the identity of the verb, including (a) just the videoclips; (b) the videoclips plus the nouns in the mother’s utterance; (c) just the nouns in the utterance; (d) just the syntactic frames in which the verb was placed; (e) the syntactic frames plus the nouns; or (f) the videoclips, the frames, and the nouns. With only the videoclip information, the participants made correct identifications of the target verbs only 7.7% of the time. Each additional bit of information raised this level of accuracy significantly, until those with complete information, i.e., condition (f), reached 90.4% correct. Beyond such simulations, there is also substantial evidence from studies of children’s performance in experiments showing that young children make use of syntactic information when figuring out what a newly encountered word means (Goodman, McDonough, & Brown, 1998; Prasada & Choy, 1998; Waxman, 1999; and see Woodward & Markman, 1998 for a summary). For example, Naigles (1990) found that given a scene in which multiple interpretations of a novel verb are possible, 2-yearolds make systematically different conjectures depending on whether they hear The duck is gorping the rabbit or The duck and the rabbit are gorping (see also Naigles, 1996). Despite the clear evidence that domain-general processes are used by children in acquiring their native language, researchers have pointed out that they are not the only processes that children use. Consider the previous example, in which children use syntactic frames as an informational cue to help them learn the meanings of new words. This process is domain-general insomuch as children’s knowledge of the syntactic frames depends on getting salient distributional examples in their input, and children use syntax as a cue, weighting it along with other relevant cues to meaning. But social-pragmatic information is also incorporated into this process. Among the cues that children weigh along with syntax is the direction of the speaker’s gaze, such as whether they look at the agent or patient of the utterance, as well their interpretation of the intentions of the actors being described (Gleitman,

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Cassidy, Nappa, Papafragou, & Trueswell, 2005; Nappa, Wessel, McEldoon, Gleitman, & Trueswell, 2009). Moreover, the fundamental principles encoded by the syntactic frames—such as the idea that there is a one-to-one correspondence between actors in the event and arguments in the sentence—appears to require very little input (Naigles, 1990; Yuan & Fisher 2009) and in fact, may require no input at all. Investigations of the communication systems created by deaf children with no exposure to any language at all have found that they respect this property of language, among others (Goldin-Meadow, 2003; Goldin-Meadow & Mylander, 1998). Some core properties of language, therefore, appear to be provided innately by the child. Connectionist Models of Language Acquisition Connectionism is the main domain-general challenge to linguistic nativism, and there have been computer implementations of connectionist models of aspects of the development of phonology (e.g., Plaut & Kello, 1999), of morphology (e.g., Markkovic, MacDonald, & Seidenberg, 2005) of syntax (e.g. Elman, 1993), and of lexical development (e.g., Siskind, 1996) (see Brent, 1997; Plunkett, 1998 for comprehensive treatments). The basic learning mechanism is that of establishing and setting weights on the connections among units. The strength of the connection between two units increases each time the stimuli that activate those two units are presented together. Thus, like old-fashioned associationism, connectionist learning is a function of the contiguity of stimuli in experience. Unlike older models, however, connectionist models contain a complex internal structure that mediates between experience and learning, with the result, it is claimed, that what is learned is greater than the sum of the learner’s experiences. The strongest claim of connectionism is that it offers an alternative to the trade-off between finding the structure of language in the input or building the structure into the acquisition mechanism. Instead, structure emerges from the effect of input on the connectionist network (Plunkett, 1998; see also MacWhinney, 1999, for a more complete treatment of the notion of emergence). Explicit models are an important piece of evidence because they provide an existence proof that a certain piece of language can in fact be learned with domain-general processes—and without social-pragmatic components or innate domain-specific knowledge. Another attraction of connectionist models is that they seem closer to biology than symbolic models, because we know that the brain is a set of interconnected neurons. If cognitive processing could be modeled in a system that is closer to the “wetware” of the brain, the hope is

that the problem of determining how the brain represents symbols and rules could be eliminated. Although connectionism has generated a great deal of excitement as a potential new way to explain both how language is learned and how the brain accomplishes this feat, there are many researchers who remain skeptical. The objections to these models span a wide range. These include concerns about the relevance to what children actually do: For some models, neither the input to the model nor the output of the model tracks very well with what children actually hear or actually learn; similarly the timecourse of model learning does not always track with real development. Also, connectionism may not be an alternative to a system of symbols and rules if it is merely an implementation of symbols and rules. According to Marcus (1998), many connectionist models—particularly the ones that successfully mimic some aspect of language acquisition—actually contain within them nodes that stand for variables. If the connectionist model merely implements a symbolic processor, then the problem of explaining symbolic processing and the attendant problems of explaining the acquisition of symbols and rules are not solved. Furthermore, the analogy between connectionist models and the brain has been criticized as illusory. Not only are nodes not neurons, but also no one knows how the neurons in the human brain represent what humans know. For that reason, connectionism does not bring us closer to knowing how the brain represents or acquires linguistic knowledge (Fodor, 1997). Finally, it is unclear how truly domain-general these models are. Although many aspects of language development have been modeled, most models account for only a single dimension of the learning problem; each of these models has somewhat different properties—usually properties that make it well-suited to the particular learning task. This range of models is similar to the range of statistics that infants can use in a particular task, and a parallel problem arises in this case: How do we know which model to use without knowing beforehand the structure of the element to be learned? Summary and Conclusions Domain-general processes are clearly used in the process of language acquisition. Moreover, the evidence reviewed in this section argues that they may be a more important part of the process than the nativist approaches to language development have suggested. Nevertheless, as was the case for the social-pragmatic approach, the problem of sufficiency remains. Thus far, it appears that domain-general processes alone cannot account for children’s language development.

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CONCLUSIONS In this chapter, we have reviewed the theoretical and empirical arguments that address the nature of the capacity that underlies language development. We have considered the four main theoretical approaches that have investigated this question: the biological, the linguistic, the socialpragmatic, and the domain-general cognitive approaches to the study of language development. No approach seems sufficient alone, and each approach makes some contribution to the current understanding of how children learn to talk. The implication is that nature has innately equipped children with language-specific constraints; social inclinations and abilities; and asocial computational processes, all of which contribute to children’s language development. If this is true, then an important goal for researchers in the field of language development must be not only to further specify the nature of each source’s contribution but also to specify how these factors interact in the course of language development. REFERENCES Abrahamsson, N., & Hyltenstam, K. (2009). Age of onset and nativelikeness in a second language: Listener perception versus linguistic scrutiny. Language Learning, 59, 249–305. Akhtar, N., Dunham, F., & Dunham, P. J. (1991). Directive interactions and early vocabulary development: The role of joint attentional focus. Journal of Child Language, 18, 41–50. Akhtar, N., & Tomasello, M. (2000). The social nature of words and word learning. In R. Golinkoff & K. Hirsh-Pasek (Eds.), Becoming a word learner: A debate on lexical acquisition. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press. 115–135. Ambridge, B., & Lieven, E. V. M. (2011). Child language acquisition: Contrasting theoretical approaches. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ambridge, B., Rowland, C. F., & Pine, J. M. (2008). Is Structure Dependence an innate constraint? New experimental evidence from children’s complex question production. Cognitive Science, 32, 222–255. Aslin, R. N., Saffran, J. R., & Newport, E. L. (1999). Statistical learning in linguistic and nonlinguistic domains. In B. MacWhinney (Ed.), The emergence of language (pp. 359–380). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Baker, C. L., & McCarthy, J. J. (Eds.). (1981). The logical problem of language acquisition. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Baker, N. D., & Nelson, K. E. (1984). Recasting and related conversational techniques for triggering syntactic advances by young children. First Language, 5, 3–21. Baldwin, D. (1993). Infants’ ability to consult the speaker for clues to word reference. Journal of Child Language, 20, 395–419. Baldwin, D. (2000). Interpersonal understanding fuels knowledge acquisition. Current Directions in Psychological Science, 9, 40–45. Bernicot, J., & Roux, M. (1998). La structure et l’usage des e´ nonc´es: Comparison d’enfants uniques et d’enfants second n´es. In J. Bernicot, H. Marcos, C. Day, M. Guidetti, J. Rabain-Jamin, V. Laval, & G. Babelot (Eds.), De l’usage des gestes et des mots chez les enfants (pp. 157–178). Paris, France: Armand Colin.

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CHAPTER 8

Cognitive Development in Childhood A Contemporary Perspective DAVID HENRY FELDMAN

THREE REVOLUTIONS 197 COGNITIVE DEVELOPMENT AS A SEPARATE FIELD 199 MAIN FEATURES OF THE PIAGETIAN SYSTEM 201 PROBLEMS WITH PIAGET’S THEORY AND EFFORTS TO RESPOND TO THEM 204

CONTEMPORARY TRENDS 206 FUTURE DIRECTIONS IN COGNITIVE DEVELOPMENTAL THEORY AND RESEARCH CONCLUSIONS 210 REFERENCES 210

As a distinct subfield of developmental psychology, cognitive development has about a 60-year history. Prior to the 1950s, psychology had few specialists in cognitive development. A related area, the study of learning in children, goes back to the beginnings of the field (e.g., see Thorndike, 1914; Watson, 1913), but the theoretical frameworks within which the study of learning was carried out differ sharply from those that came to prominence after about the middle of the 20th century. Learning had been conceptualized primarily in terms of behavioral principles and association processes, whereas cognitive development emerged from the cognitive revolution, the revolution in psycholinguistics, and especially Piaget’s work on children’s reasoning about a myriad of subjects like space, time, causality, morality, and necessity (Kessen, 1965; Piaget, 1967, 1970). Therefore, although superficially similar, research and theory on learning versus research and theory on cognitive development represent very different histories and very different perspectives. The present chapter deals mainly with broader theories that have been devised to try to explain how the mind grows and transforms from less powerful into more powerful instruments for thinking and reasoning. Its time frame extends from about the middle of the 20th century to the present time. It does not deal directly with related topics in cognitive psychology such as learning, perception, attention, motivation, and memory; these are

seen as more properly belonging to the larger field of cognition, of which cognitive development represents a broader, more molar subspecialty (Flavell, 1977). The chapter also does not address the topic of language development, found in a separate chapter in this Handbook (see Wagner and Hoff, this volume). Language development has emerged as a substantial research area in its own right, and although it is closely related to more general issues in cognitive development, it is now a specialty area large enough to merit separate treatment. Its roots are separate as well, springing from the debates between behaviorism and nativism as explanations for language acquisition. Indeed, there are specialists in cognitive development who may not know a great deal about language development, and (although less likely) vice versa. In the last section of the chapter, some of the most recent influences on the field of cognitive development will be briefly reviewed, and major trends emerging in the field will be identified.

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THREE REVOLUTIONS The field of cognitive development became a separate area of developmental psychology largely as a consequence of three sets of related events that all occurred around the middle of the last century: the cognitive revolution (Bruner, 1986; Gardner, 1985; Miller, 1983), the language 197

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revolution (Chomsky, 1957), and the Piagetian revolution (Flavell, 1963; Piaget, 1970). All three of these revolutions had the quality in common that they opened up the black box, so to speak, of the mind and set as a goal the exploration of its internal working. Prior to these revolutions, psychology (at least on the North American continent) was largely dominated by behavioristic and positivistic perspectives that eschewed what they viewed as speculation about the inner workings of the mind (Boring, 1950; Gardner, Kornhaber, & Wake, 1996). As the combined effects of the three new approaches accumulated, the study of mental processes, how they work, and how and why they develop became central to the field of developmental psychology. Thus emerged the new specialty of cognitive development with its focus on thinking, reasoning, and higher mental processes. Each of the three revolutions had important influences on the form that the field of cognitive development would take. Although there were other influences, it is fair to say that by the end of the 1960s the shape and contour of cognitive development as a field of study was largely set. Although any one of the three might have been sufficient to inspire a new specialty in cognitive development, it is the synergistic impact of the three that gives the field its distinctive form. From 1960 through the end of the century and beyond, hundreds of scholars were trained in and pursued research careers in cognitive development, largely because of the excitement and challenge of the work done by Piaget and his collaborators in Geneva. Although three revolutions gave rise to the field of cognitive development, one of them (the Piagetian revolution) has been so far the most influential and most enduring. After briefly reviewing some of the main features of the other two primary sources of inspiration for the field of cognitive development, a more detailed review of the Piagetian system, its features, and its problems, is presented. The Cognitive Revolution From the newly emerging field of cognition, the assumption that there are important mediating processes that internally organize and direct behavior was integrated into the study of cognitive development from the start. The study of cognition focused on control of motor processes, perception, attention, association, and memory— processes too fine-grained for most cognitive developmentalists. But topics like problem-solving strategies, hypothesis formation, skill acquisition, skill sequences,

classification, and hierarchical organization processes have been of great interest to researchers and theorists in the field (e.g., Brainerd, 1978; Case, 1972; Fischer, 1980; Flavell, 1977; Klahr, 1984; Siegler, 1981, 1996). The field rapidly broadened its reach to embrace some more socially and culturally weighted topics like social cognition, moral reasoning, and theory of mind (e.g., Ainsworth, 1973; Kohlberg, 1973; Miller, 1983; Wellman, 1992). The hallmark of virtually all research inspired by the study of cognition has been its emphasis on identifying, describing, and explaining the inner workings of thought, the ways in which thought evolves, and how knowledge and understanding are achieved. These issues are prominent in most research and theory in cognitive development. The Revolution in Language Acquisition The influence of the revolution in language was essentially twofold: It showed that mentalistic approaches to speech were necessary; also, it proposed that linguistic structures were innate and required no special environmental circumstances for them to appear. With Chomsky’s publication of Syntactical Structures (1957), the identification of a set of mental rules that guide the production of an infinity of speech forms helped transform the study of language from a behaviorally oriented to a mentally oriented enterprise. Chomsky’s debates with Skinner and others (e.g., Chomsky, 1972) cracked the hold that behavioral analysis held on the field of research on language and successfully questioned the adequacy of association rules to account for the diversity of speech forms. The second major influence of cognitive linguistics was less immediate in its impact, but no less important. A central assumption of the approach of Chomsky and his followers was that linguistic rules are native and natural to human beings. It assumed that human beings come into the world equipped with a language acquisition device or language module that contains all the information necessary for each individual to become a user of human speech (barring organic deficit, of course; Bruner, 1986; Chomsky, 1957; Piattelli-Palmarini, 1980). With the nativist assumption as its inspiration, the seeds were planted for two important strains of work to germinate. One attempted to specify the nature of innate modules for various forms of human thought beyond speech (e.g., face recognition, space, music, dance, time, quantity) and the rules that underlie each module (Carey, 1985; Fodor, 1980, 1983; Gardner, 1983; Keil, 1984, 1989). Another strain set out to establish the existence of abilities and

Cognitive Development in Childhood: A Contemporary Perspective

skills, including theories and ontological distinctions present even in the earliest months of life (e.g. Gelman, 1998; Gopnik & Meltzoff, 1997; Spelke & Newport, 1998). Thus, along with a set of core domains and privileged content areas, the field began to seek a set of core cognitive capabilities, some of which are quite sophisticated, natural to human minds from the outset (Bates, Thal, & Meacham, 1991; Gelman, 1998; Greenfield, 2001; Spelke, 2001). These lines of work in turn were challenging to the Piagetian tradition and led to reaction and response from both sides (see Piattelli-Palmarini, 1980). Intelligence and Artificial Intelligence Although not quite as influential, two other areas of research—one that predates the field of cognitive development and the other appearing at about the same time—need to be mentioned to complete the picture of the main ingredients of the field until the 1990s. The study of intelligence (usually expressed as IQ or G for general intelligence) dates from at least the beginning of the 20th century and has provided a foil against which other approaches to cognitive development have railed. The effort to simulate cognitive processes using computer programming techniques has in turn provided a demanding criterion against which claims for the adequacy of accounts of cognitive development have often been evaluated. The field of artificial intelligence has added a degree of rigor and precision to many of the efforts to study particular instances of problem solving or skill acquisition (e.g., Siegler, 1981, 1984). Essentially, if a team of researchers is successful in getting a computer to behave in ways that support their claims for a thinking and learning process of a particular kind, their claims are supported by the accomplishment. More recently, the study of simulated neural networks has provided a challenge that is (in certain respects) even more demanding than efforts to explain transformation and change in cognitive structures through computer simulation (Elman et al., 1996; J. A. Feldman, 1981; Plunkett & Sinha, 1992). The Piagetian Revolution When Piaget began his career in the early 1920s, he worked as an assistant in the laboratory of T. H. Simon, the French researcher who was the co-inventor of the standardized intelligence test (Bringuier, 1980; Gardner et al., 1996). Piaget found the psychometric approach to intelligence deeply problematic and quite intentionally set out to define intelligence in a very different way. Rather

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than finding out whether children know the right answers to standard questions, Piaget believed that children’s reasoning and the ideas that they generated were of greater interest than was the correctness of their responses. He also found the set format of psychometric procedures to be confining and constrained what could be discovered about the child’s mind (Gardner et al., 1996). Piaget’s efforts to redefine intelligence as the development of cognitive structures has not been completely successful; most people—professional and nonprofessional alike—would still say that intelligence is the quality estimated by IQ tests (Neisser et al., 1996), but it set into motion a radically different approach to the study of intelligence. As John Flavell (1996) has written of Piaget (quoting another source), estimating the influence of Piaget on developmental psychology is like trying to estimate the influence of Shakespeare on English literature. In other words, Piaget’s impact was (and in many respects still is) incalculable. For the study of cognitive development, three Piagetian influences have been particularly important for the direction in which the field has gone: (1) the emphasis on the development of universal cognitive structures, (2) the claim that all cognitive structures are constructed by the individual child (neither taught by others nor innate), and (3) the need to explain novel structures through processes that account for transitions from earlier and less powerful to later and more powerful forms of reasoning (Beilin, 1985; Overton, 2006; Piaget, 1963, 1970, 1971b). Other important influences attributed to Piaget and the Genevan research enterprise include the increasing emphasis on explaining changes in logical reasoning as the central goal of the work, the tendency to study scientific reasoning (space, time, causality, necessity) over other possible topics (e.g., learning school subjects, artistic areas, physical development), and a tendency to deemphasize the importance of language and thus separate mainstream cognitive development work from work on language acquisition.

COGNITIVE DEVELOPMENT AS A SEPARATE FIELD The field of cognitive development split off from the field of psychometric intelligence virtually from its beginnings in Geneva. Each approach to intelligence was pursued largely without regard to the other. By the late 1960s or early 1970s, most people in the field of cognitive development would not have considered psychometric studies of

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intelligence as part of their field—and vice versa for those whose work was primarily psychometric. Most psychometricians would identify themselves as belonging to the field of individual differences or differential psychology. Only during the most recent decades have there been serious efforts to bring the two approaches to intellectual development into a productive relationship (e.g., Elkind, 1976; Fischer & Pipp, 1984; Gardner, 1983, 1993; Kanazawa, 2010; Sternberg, 1990). Piaget’s work, along with the work of his many colleagues and collaborators, was well known before the 1950s. Piaget’s first five books, written during the 1920s and 1930s, were widely read and often quoted. It was not until the publication of John Flavell’s influential text on Piaget appeared in 1963, however, that a major shift in orientation occurred. Psychometrics was influential in the applied areas of education, business, the military, and civil service, but—as mentioned previously—was largely seen as a separate field from the study of learning and problem solving. Although there were no doubt other influences, Flavell’s book on Piaget seemed to catalyze a dramatic shift from behavioral theory to cognitive constructivism as the consensus paradigm for the emerging field (Flavell, 1963). In arguing that Piaget’s work deserves the most serious study, Flavell (1963) warned against dismissing the theory too hastily: Piaget’s system is susceptible to a malignant kind of premature foreclosure. You read his writings, your eye is drawn at once to its surface shortcomings, and the inclination can be very strong to proceed no further, to dwell on these. . . A case could be made that Piaget’s system has suffered precisely such a fate for a long time, and that only recently has there been any sustained effort to resist the siren of criticism in favor of trying to extract underlying contributions. —Flavell, 1963, p. 405

Partly through efforts like those of Flavell and partly because of the joint influence of the other shifts in fields like linguistics and cognition, the field of child development rushed toward Piaget and the Genevan school with great energy, both positive (e.g., Ginsburg & Opper, 1988; Green, Ford, & Flamer, 1971; Murray, 1972; Tanner & Inhelder, 1971) and negative (e.g., Bereiter, 1970; Brainerd, 1978; Gelman, 1969; Trabasso, Rollins, & Shaughnessy, 1971). The 1960s and 1970s saw a veritable torrent of studies, reviews, books, and articles replicating, extending, challenging, and attempting to apply Piagetian theory and research. In the 1970 edition of Carmichael’s Manual of Child Psychology (Mussen, 1970), Piaget had

his own chapter, the only instance in which a contemporary figure wrote about his or her own work (Piaget, 1970). Piaget was cited 96 times in the index of the volume, with a number of the citations being several pages long—a far greater representation than that for any other single figure; Freud was cited 20 times, all single-page citations, and Erik Erikson was cited twice. Jerome Bruner, who helped establish the influence of Piaget with his own brand of constructivist cognitive development, was cited 60 times in the Manual. By the next edition of the Handbook of Child Psychology (Mussen, 1983), an entire volume was devoted to cognitive development (with John Flavell as one of its editors), and Piaget’s citations had increased to 113, with the word passim added 22 times (compared with none in 1970). Clearly, Piaget’s importance in the field of cognitive development was very evident in how the field responded to his work. Six of the 13 chapters in the 1983 Manual were directly based on work done in or inspired by Genevan research and theory. A separate field within child development had been established largely based on Piaget’s work. In the most recent editions of the Handbook of Child Psychology (Damon, 1998; Damon & Lerner, 2006), the number of citations of Piaget is still high, but there are fewer than in the previous editions; this may be for several reasons, but it is fair to say that Piaget’s work had been shaken from its place at the center of the field, until it recently has returned to greater prominence. More generally, the field of cognitive development itself has shown some signs of diminished visibility. In the current decade, cognitive development has had a tendency to show signs of waning as a major subfield of developmental psychology, perhaps because more specialized areas like brain development, neonativist frameworks, language development, cultural influences, artificial intelligence, and dynamic systems approaches have moved toward center stage, as will be discussed in the last sections of this chapter. Piaget’s enormous influence began to lessen after his death in 1980, when Vygotsky’s more sociocultural approach to development began to eclipse Piaget’s as the century moved toward its final decade (Bruner, 1986). Although still arguably a cognitive developmentalist perspective, Vygotsky’s framework could also be appropriately thought of as social, cultural, historical, and educational (Glick, 1983; Vygotsky, 1978). More recently, Genevan work has been gaining attention again in the field as efforts to explain, extend, elaborate, and—where necessary—modify Piaget’s theory have shown increasing momentum (e.g., Beilin, 1985; Case, 1991; Feldman, 1994, 2000, 2004; Fischer, 1980;

Cognitive Development in Childhood: A Contemporary Perspective

Flavell, 1996; Gelman, 1979; Papert, 1999). Examining how the theory has waxed and waned is a productive way to follow the movements of the field of cognitive development.

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and the necessary equipment to build a set of cognitive structures that are the equal of any ever constructed by human minds. Invariant Sequence

MAIN FEATURES OF THE PIAGETIAN SYSTEM The features of Piaget’s system that found their way to wide acceptance in the study of cognitive development are too numerous to mention, but five seem particularly important. These are (1) an emphasis on universals in the development of cognitive structures; (2) an assumption that there are invariant sequences of stages and substages in cognitive development; (3) transitions between stages and substages must be explained, particularly given the assumption that there are a number of broad, qualitative advances in reasoning structures; (4) the main goal of cognitive development is to acquire a set of logical thought structures that underlie reasoning in all domains, including space, time, causality, number, and even moral judgment; and (5) that all new structures are constructed by the individual child, who seeks to understand the world in which she or he lives, rather than imposed from the outside by the environment or expressed as a direct function of biological growth. Universals The study of child development has tended to focus on normative and general qualities of children as they grow up, but that tendency did not extend to intellectual development until Piaget’s work became prominent. Partly to develop an antidote to what he considered to be an unhealthy emphasis on differences between and among individual children, Piaget wanted to build a theory of cognitive development that would show the common patterns of intellectual development that are shared by all—regardless of gender, ethnicity, culture, or history. By choosing to study universals, Piaget and his group showed that every human being is a naturally curious and naturally active learner, sufficiently well equipped to construct, over time, all of the essential cognitive structures that characterize the most powerful kind of mind our species is capable of building. In other words, Piaget sacrificed the ability to shed light on differences between and among individuals (see Bringuier, 1980) in order to shine a beam on those qualities that are distinctive to the growing human mind generally. In Piaget’s world, all children are blessed with the necessary motivation

The assumption of invariant sequence gives direction and order to cognitive development. The idea that a child must always begin with an initial set of challenges in a given area and then move, in order, through to the last set of challenges was a powerful claim that generated a great deal of research and reaction. There were (and are) even some within the Genevan inner circle who began to back away from the strong form of this claim (e.g., Karmiloff-Smith, 1992), especially when data from studies around the world cast doubt on the accuracy of the claim that all children go through a sequence of four large scale stages from sensorimotor (ages 0–18 months), to preoperational (2–6 years), to concrete operations (6–12 years), to formal operations (about 12 years onward). Less controversial—but still very important to the theory—are a number of sequences that describe progress of certain more limited concepts, such as the object concept, seriation, and many others (Bringuier, 1980; Ginsburg & Opper, 1988; Piaget, 1977). Although some Genevans retreated from the stronger claims of the sequence of stages of the theory (see Cellerier, 1987; Karmiloff-Smith & Inhelder, 1975; Sinclair, 1987), it appears that Piaget never relaxed his claim that all normal children go through the four large-scale stages, reaching the final stage sometime during adolescence (Feldman, 2000). In a film made a few years before he died, Piaget mentioned stages and sequences more than a dozen times (Piaget, 1977). Transitions Perhaps the most controversial feature of Piagetian theory has been its mechanism for explaining movement from one stage to another. For this purpose, Piaget borrowed and adapted ideas primarily from the fields of biology and physics. His main goal in proposing the so-called equilibration model was to offer a plausible account of qualitative change in the structures underlying the child’s reasoning that were neither strictly environmental nor strictly innate in origin (e.g., see Piattelli-Palmarini, 1980). For Piaget, the only kind of transition process that made sense was one that put an active, curious, goal-oriented child at the center of the knowledge-seeking enterprise— a child who would make sustained efforts to build

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representations and interpretations that became veridical representations of and more adaptive to the objects in the world (Bringuier, 1980). Piaget assumed that a child seeks to build accurate representations of the objects important to her or him and to build ever more powerful systems of interpretation to better understand these objects and their relationships to one another (Feldman, 2000). The notions of equilibrium and systems dynamics from physics were integrated with notions of adaptation and organization from biology to form a mechanism for recognizing and adjusting to relevant new information (accommodating), and interpreting information using already available categories, rules, hierarchies, and conceptual properties (assimilating). Change in the available instruments for knowing the world come about when existing ways to interpret things are recognized to be inadequate and an understanding occurs that better ones must be constructed. The readiness of a growing cognitive system to undergo change is assumed to include some maturational changes that enable the system to transform, along with sustained efforts on the part of the child to bring about changes in mental structures essential to achieving a better understanding of the world. Piaget’s theory assumed that the equilibration process is a lifelong effort to construct more or less stable outcomes of efforts at organization and adaptation, the inherent goals of all cognitive structures. The effort is never complete; rather, it moves through a sequence of four systemwide transformations, resulting finally in a set of formal organizational structures that provide the most powerful means of understanding the world available to human minds. It should be noted that Piaget was never fully satisfied with his efforts to account for transitions (e.g., see Bringuier, 1980; Piaget, 1975). One of the last projects he took on was his revision of the equilibration model, an indication of just how vital he felt this aspect of the theory was to its success.

Logical Structures For Piaget, the ability to use the rules and principles of logical reasoning was the hallmark and the highest goal of human cognitive development. He did not necessarily mean by logical reasoning the set of formal algorithms and techniques of the professional logician. Closer to his meaning would be to describe the goal of cognitive development to be a mind that functions like a well-trained natural scientist—with widespread use of

systematic, hypothetico-deductive reasoning: hypothesis testing, experimental design, appropriate methods for gathering information, and rigorous standards of proof. It is not too great a distortion of Piaget’s intent to describe the end of his cognitive developmental model as the mind of a biologist, mathematician, chemist, or physicist. Later in his career, Piaget began to believe that he had overly emphasized formal logic as an appropriate reference for the kinds of cognitive structures his last stage represented (see Beilin, 1985; Ginsburg & Opper, 1988). He explored a number of alternative processes and frameworks that might better capture his image of what the formal operations stage is about (e.g., Ginsburg & Opper, 1988; Inhelder, de Caprona, & Cornu-Wells, 1987; Piaget, 1972). Thus the term logical for the final stage in Piaget’s system may be less well-chosen than he originally thought, but what seems clear is that Piaget never abandoned his belief that all children achieve a functioning version of formal operations. He thought this in spite of the fact that many scholars—including some within his own inner circle—began to doubt this claim (e.g., see Beilin, 1985; Commons, Richards, & Ammons, 1984; Feldman, 2000; Karmiloff-Smith, 1992; Inhelder et al., 1987). Constructivism If there has been a triumph of the Genevan school, it is no doubt its emphasis on constructivist explanations of cognitive development. Prior to Piaget, most approaches to mind were either empiricist or rationalist in nature. That is to say, either it was assumed that the child’s mind was a function of the specific history of experiences that formed it, including recurring events in the environment (e.g., sunrise and sunset), purposeful efforts to shape the mind (e.g., teaching, discipline, etc.), or chance events (e.g., accidents, earthquakes, war, etc.); or it was assumed that the mind was formed through a deterministic process, such as genetic endowment, supernatural intervention, reincarnation, beyond the control of the individual. Piaget rejected both of these long-standing sources of explanation; instead, he proposed that mind is constructed as an interaction between a mind seeking to know and a world with certain inherent affordances (Gibson, 1969) that give rise to certain kinds of knowledge. The idea of interaction is intended to go beyond a vacuous invocation that both nature and nurture are involved in development (Gottlieb, 1992), and to try to propose a rigorous set of processes that explain the construction of cognitive structures (see the previous section

Cognitive Development in Childhood: A Contemporary Perspective

of this chapter, entitled “Transitions”) through logicalmathematical and physical-empirical experience (often labeled operative and figurative in Piagetian theory; see Milbrath, 1998). Although Piaget’s version of constructivism is not universally accepted, there are few major streams of current cognitive developmental research and theory that do not have constructivist assumptions of one sort or another. Piaget’s then-revolutionary assumptions of a curious, active, knowledge-seeking child, a child who wants to know and understand the world around her or him, is now a feature of virtually all major frameworks in the field of cognitive development (e.g., see Damon, Kuhn, & Siegler, 1998; Kuhn & Siegler, 2006; Liben, 1981). Taken together, the five features of Piagetian theory just described have transformed and in a real sense created the landscape of the study of cognitive development. In addition to these features, many other contributions have had substantial impact. In addition to the major strands of the framework, several other features of Piaget’s approach to cognitive development have made their way into the field. Methodologically, Piaget tended to favor small, informal, exploratory forays into new areas. For these purposes, Piaget and his colleagues developed what is now called the clinical method , based as it is on one-on-one interviews that are common in clinical psychology. Over time, the clinical method of the Geneva school evolved into a highly subtle and carefully articulated set of flexible techniques for guiding dialogue between an inquiring researcher and a participating child (Ginsburg & Opper, 1988). Although not without its own limitations, the clinical method has gained considerable credibility within cognitive developmental research. Many studies use a version of the interview method, often complemented with other more traditional methods such as experiments, correlational and cross-sectional studies, and longitudinal research. Piaget tended to be skeptical of statistics and large-scale sampling (see Bringuier, 1980), favoring the more interpretive and analytic approach to research. As part of the effort to reduce the clinical method’s dependence on speech and language abilities, the Genevans invented many ingenious activities and tasks designed to reveal the structures being acquired and the processes used to respond to the challenges posed to children without depending upon the child’s verbal response. Several of these activities (e.g., a balance beam task with weights on either side of a fulcrum) have become almost domains of their own, with dozens and dozens of studies done with them both inside and outside

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the Genevan framework (e.g., Siegler, 1981, 1996). A task requiring children to take different perspectives on a geographical landscape (the three mountains task) is another example of a clever activity that has been used for many different purposes (Piaget & Inhelder, 1967). As is often the case when an approach to research has great influence, its methodological proclivities and its techniques for gathering special information prove to be as (and often more!) important than its broad theoretical or empirical claims. Many other influences emanated from the Genevan school. Some of these have become so well integrated into the field that specific citations for Piaget have lessened as a consequence. This has been particularly true in the study of infant cognitive development, a specialty area that has exploded since Piaget first showed that babies were active, curious, and surprisingly competent (Gopnik, Meltzoff, & Kuhl, 1999; Piaget, 1967). For someone currently just entering the field, it would be difficult if not impossible to trace the Genevan origin of many of the research topics and techniques in this area. In spite of the pervasive influence that Piaget and his many followers around the world had from the 1960s to the 1980s, as the century moved into its final decades it appeared that Piaget’s central place in the field was waning—perhaps partly because le patron himself died in 1980, or perhaps because the field needed to move forward in different directions. Works that criticized Piaget’s theory and that questioned the empirical findings of the Genevan school had been part of the literature for decades, to be sure, but the weight of the criticism seemed heavier after about 1980. Jerome Bruner, one of the founders of the cognitive revolution and one of the first cognitive developmentalists, as well as an admirer of Piaget, wrote about the rising influence of the Russian Vygotsky: So, while the major developmental thinker of capitalist Western Europe, Jean Piaget, set forth an image of human development as a lone venture for the child, in which others could not help unless the child had already figured things out on his own and in which not even language could provide useful hints about the conceptual matters to be mastered, the major developmentalist of socialist Eastern Europe set forth a view in which growth was a collective responsibility and language one of the major tools of that collectivity. Now, all these years later, Vygotsky’s star is rising in the Western sky as Piaget’s declines. —Bruner, 1986, p. 96

There are several themes in this quote that we will discuss in more detail later in the chapter, but at this point

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it is sufficient to note that one of the leaders in the field of cognitive development seemed in 1984 to be announcing the end of one era (Piaget’s) and the beginning of another (Vygotsky’s). This view was widely accepted at the time, although it now appears to have waned (Flavell, 1996; Papert, 1999).

PROBLEMS WITH PIAGET’S THEORY AND EFFORTS TO RESPOND TO THEM Criticisms of various aspects of Piaget’s theory and research program ranged from outright dismissal (e.g., Atkinson, 1983; Brainerd, 1978) to general acceptance but with a need for modification (e.g., Case, 1984; Feldman, 1994, 2004; Fischer, 1980; Fischer & Pipp, 1984). There were also vigorous defenses of Genevan positions (e.g., Elkind, 1976; Inhelder & Chipman, 1976; Inhelder et al., 1987). The main problems of the theory can be summarized as follows: • The theory claimed that cognitive development was universal but did not specify the role that maturation plays in the process, making it difficult to determine how universality could be achieved (Beilin, 1971; Case, 1984; Fischer, 1980; Fischer & Pipp, 1984; Fischer & Bidell, 2006). • The theory proposed that each stage of cognitive development was a complete system—a structured whole available to the growing child as she or he moved into that stage. Yet empirical results indicated again and again that children were unable to carry out many of the tasks characteristic of a given stage, leading to charges that the theory invoked an “immaculate transition” that happened but could not be seen (see Siegler & Munakata, 1993). • Related to the previous point is that other than proposing a six-phase substage sequence for sensorimotor behavior, the following three large-scale stages of the theory had little internal order. This problem gets progressively worse because each stage increases in duration—from about 2, to 4, to 6, to at least 8 years (see Feldman, 2004). • Formal operations, the final stage of the theory, seemed to be not achieved by many adults (see Commons et al., 1984; Piaget, 1972). • A number of researchers claimed that stages beyond formal operations exist and needed to be added to the theory (e.g., Commons et al., 1984; Fischer, 1980).

• There was widespread dissatisfaction with the equilibration process as an explanation for qualitative shifts from stage to stage (e.g., Brainerd, 1978; Case, 1984; Damon, 1980; Feldman, 1980, 1994; Fischer & Pipp, 1984; Keil, 1984, 1989; Piattelli-Palmarini, 1980; Snyder & Feldman, 1977, 1984). • The theory seemed to depend too much on logic as both a framework for describing cognitive structures and as an ideal toward which development was supposed to be aimed (e.g., Atkinson, 1983; Ennis, 1975; Gardner, 1979; Gardner et al., 1996). Areas of development that were not centrally logical (art, music, drama, poetry, spirituality, etc.) seemed to be largely beyond the theory’s compass. • The methods that the Genevan school favored, although appropriate for exploratory research, lacked the rigor and systematic techniques of traditional experimental science (e.g., see Bringuier, 1980; Gelman, 1969; Ginsburg & Opper, 1988; Klahr, 1984). Its claims were made at such a broad and general level that it was often difficult to put them to rigorous test (Brainerd, 1978; Case, 1999; Klahr, 1984; Siegler, 1984). • The theory did not deal with emotions in any systematic way (Bringuier, 1980; Cowan, 1978; Feldman, 1994; Langer, 1969; Loevinger, 1976). • The theory did not deal with individual differences, individuality, or variability (Bringuier, 1980; Case, 1984, 1991; Fischer, 1980; Fischer & Pipp, 1984; Siegler, 1996; Turiel, 1966). • The theory implied that progress is a natural and inevitable function of cognitive development, an assumption that seemed to be more and more a relic from the 19th-century preoccupation with progress (Kessen, 1984; Piaget, 1962). • The theory gave little role to cultural, social, technological, and historical forces as major influences on cognitive development (Bruner, 1972; Bruner, Olver, & Greenfield, 1966; Cole & Scribner, 1981; Rogoff, 1990; Shweder & LeVine, 1984; Smith, 1995). In particular, it seemed to paradoxically both inspire educational reform and at the same time offer no important role for educators (Feldman, 1980, 1994). • As a theory that aims to be suitable for formal analysis, Piaget’s framework was found to have serious flaws conceptually, logically, and philosophically (Atkinson, 1983; Bereiter, 1970; Ennis, 1975; Fodor, 1980, 1983; Oyama, 1985, 1999; Piaget, 1970, 1971b; PiattelliPalmarini, 1980).

Cognitive Development in Childhood: A Contemporary Perspective

These and other criticisms of Piaget’s great edifice weakened its hold on the field and allowed other perspectives to emerge or reemerge. As Case (1999) suggested, Piaget’s theory was so powerful that for several decades it seemed to overwhelm everything else. The empiricistlearning tradition that preceded it in influence was all but swept aside, while the cultural-historical-social tradition inspired by the writings of Marx and Engel was unable to gain a foothold in North American scholarly discourse. As the century drew to a close, however, the field began to engage (or in the case of empiricism, reengage) topics raised in these and other approaches to the growing young mind. Neo-Piagetian Contributions The dilemma facing the field in the post-Piaget period, as Case (1999) pointed out, was to somehow transcend the major weaknesses of the theory while preserving its considerable strengths. A number of divergent paths were taken to try to achieve these ends, of which the so-called neo-Piagetians were the earliest and closest to the original Genevan approach. The two most prominent neo-Piagetian theories were those of Robbie Case (1984, 1991, 1999) and Kurt Fischer (1980; Fischer & Kennedy, 1997; Fischer & Pipp, 1984). These theories had much in common but also certain distinct features. Both Case and Fischer tried to preserve a version of Piaget’s stages but added features that made them less problematic. In both theories, there is a systematic role for biological, maturational processes—processes that prepare the brain and central nervous system for the kinds of changes in structure that the theories then propose. Here, they were trying to reduce the miraculousness of the stage transition process by invoking physical changes in the central nervous system as part of the transition process. Both theories also dropped the structures as a whole requirement for stages, making movement from stage to stage both a more gradual and more variable process. The shift from stage to stage could take place in a number of different content domains and in a variety of molecular sequences. Finally, both Case’s and Fischer’s theories installed a recursive within-stage sequence to help deal with the disorder that was found within Piaget’s stages, particularly those beyond sensorimotor sequences in the stage architecture. Although different in detail, both theories proposed a recurring four-phase within-stage sequence in each of the major stages (four major stages in Case’s theory and three in Fischer’s). The final phase of each

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large-scale stage overlaps with the first phase of its more advanced neighbor, becoming integrated into a new kind of organization as the system proceeds forward. This feature helps make transitions less abrupt by showing how elements from a former stage become integral to a more advanced succeeding stage. Thus two major problems in the Piagetian formulation are addressed using recursiveness in phases: the lack of order within the large-scale stages and the lack of plausibility of the explanation of how a child moves from large-scale stage to another largescale stage (Case, 1984, 1991, 1998, 1999; Feldman, 2000, 2004; Fischer, 1980; Fischer & Bidell, 1998). In these ways (and others), neo-Piagetian theories demonstrated that some of the most intractable problems of Piaget’s formulation could be transcended while still preserving most of the major features of the theory. To accomplish these goals, however, both theories focused on more specific contents and narrower sets of processes, losing some of the grandeur and overall sweep of the original. Case’s theory dealt primarily with solving ever more complex and challenging problems through a natural ability to process more kinds of information and construct more complex rules for doing so. Fischer’s theory prescribed a sequence of more and more complex skills that when acquired would allow the child (or young adult) to deal with more and more challenging situations. As Case (1999) noted, both his and Fischer’s theories explicitly attempted to integrate the broader approach of Piaget with some of the features of the empiricallearning tradition that had been so influential up until the 1960s in North America, with the result that a more variegated, fine-grained pattern could capture each child’s movement through the sequence of broad stages that the theories proposed. Both theories also allowed for greater impact from forces in the child’s environment, thus restoring a major role in cognitive development for parents, caregivers, teachers, and technologies that seemed to have been largely lost in Piaget’s framework (Feldman, 1976, 1981). Vygotsky and Sociocultural Theories While neo-Piagetians and others who identified with the rational ststructuralist tradition attempted to work from within the Piagetian edifice, others were sufficiently disillusioned with the limitations of Genevan theory that they looked elsewhere for inspiration. Partly in response to broader historical and cultural changes (e.g., the end of the Cold War, the civil rights movement, feminism, reactions to excessive greed in the 1980s, etc.), the works of

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the great Russian developmentalist Lev Vygotsky began to make their way into the mainstream of the field of cognitive development following the translation and publication of his seminal book Thought and Language (sometimes translated as Thinking and Speech; Vygotsky, 1962). Jerome Bruner (1962) wrote a warm and appreciative foreword to Thought and Language, and Piaget himself (1962) also wrote a set of comments about the work, a rare tribute from Geneva (Piaget, 1962). Michael Cole, Sylvia Scribner, and other scholars (e.g., Cole, Gay, Glick, & Sharp, 1971; Scribner & Cole, 1973) began to promote the work of Vygotsky and other Russian scholarship as having importance for cross-cultural research on intelligence and other topics. The importance of guided assistance from others and the greater role of the social context in promoting or impeding cognitive development were themes of these works, and they resonated with great force in the field (e.g., Rogoff, 1990, 2003). The combination of increasing impatience with some of the limitations and constraints of Piagetian theory, along with the refreshing insights into learning based on the wider circle of influence in the Russian work, started a groundswell of interest in that work and also inspired new approaches based on Soviet research and theory. Connections heretofore not easily made began to form across disciplines such as anthropology, comparative linguistics, history of science, and cognitive development (e.g., Cole & Means, 1981; Rogoff & Lave, 1984; Shweder & LeVine, 1984). Everyday activities like counting and tailoring that would have seemed irrelevant to cognitive development were suddenly of intense interest (e.g., T. Carraher, Carraher, & Schliemann, 1985; Saxe, Guberman, & Gearhart, 1987). A major new area of research and theory had been launched and would threaten to eclipse the Piagetian hegemony. The main features of the Vygotskyan-Russian revolution are an emphasis on shared participation in culturally valued activities as the main impetus for learning and development, as recognition that cultures vary in the types of skills and abilities that are valued, the importance of culturally constructed and preserved tools and technologies as catalysts for cognitive development, and—in striking contrast to Piaget—the absolutely central role in human cognitive development of language (Cole & Means, 1981; Rogoff & Lave, 1984; Shweder & LeVine, 1984; Vygotsky, 1962, 1978). This last feature of the sociocultural revolution—the placement of language at the theoretical center of the study of cognitive development—helped make yet another connection that

had been waiting to happen since the earliest days of the cognitive revolution. Chomsky (1957, 1972) had claimed that speech was an innate ability, whereas Piaget had claimed that language was no more important than any other symbolic system to be used in constructing cognitive structures (Bringuier, 1980; Piaget, 1970). According to Piaget, speech structures were constructed using the same principles and processes as other symbol systems and were based on the same general procedures created during the first 18 months of life. These two powerful claims were apparently sufficient to keep the study of language development largely separate from the rest of the field of cognitive development during most of the 60-year period in which it has been systematically studied (Brown, 1973; Tomasello, 1992). It was one of Piaget’s strongest convictions that general procedures for constructing cognitive structures were applied to the challenge of speech as they were applied to the challenge of number, causation, space, time, and many other topics (see Bringuier, 1980). This claim helped support Piaget’s view that human cognitive development shared many of its principles and processes of change with those of other creatures, placing human cognitive development as one among many examples of biological adaptation, neither superior to nor fundamentally different from other biological adaptations (Piaget, 1971a, 1971b). Although this view acknowledged that human cognitive development is distinctive in certain respects (including features like the acquisition of speech and logical reasoning), these features did not set our species above the rest of the organic world. The particular forms that adaptation took in human evolution and individual development represented specific examples of general processes: birdsong and echolocation would be other instances found in other species (Bringuier, 1980; Carey & Gelman, 1991; Piaget, 1971a, 1971b).

CONTEMPORARY TRENDS As a new century begins, there seems to be less need in the field to insist that humans and other species represent fundamentally similar forms of adaptation to the challenges of survival. Neo-Piagetian theories have proposed systematic biological contributions to the processes of cognitive development without compromising the constructivist core of their frameworks (Case, 1984, 1999; Fischer, 1980; Gelman, 1998). There is less of an eitheror quality to the discussion about the role of nature versus

Cognitive Development in Childhood: A Contemporary Perspective

nurture in development (Gottlieb, 1992; Overton, 1998, 2006; Sternberg & Grigorenko, 1997). It is also more widely accepted that biological aspects of learning and development must be understood as vital to the process of cognitive development (Gardner, 1983). At the same time, the Piagetian assumption that humans construct their own systems for representing and understanding the world and their experience of it is ever more widely accepted (Carey & Gelman, 1991; Gelman, 1998). There are increasing numbers of examples of healthy cross-fertilization between the fields of cognitive development and language development. The acquisition of speech is now understood to be a remarkable human adaptation, the investigation of which is central to understanding human cognitive development. It is also understood that language, with its powerful evolutionary and biological underpinnings, is constructed through a complex set of processes that are at once biological, individual, social, cultural, and contextual (Cole & Cole, 1993). Researchers in language development such as the late Elizabeth Bates (Bates et al., 1991), Michael Tomasello (1992), and Susan Goldin-Meadow (2000) reflect the trend to draw upon several traditions (Piagetian, Vygotskyan, evolutionary, nativist, computational) to build their frameworks for interpreting language development. Universal Versus Individual Cognitive Development The field of cognitive development for most of its history has been concerned with those sequences of changes that are likely to occur in all children during the course of the first decade or two of life (Feldman, 1980, 1994; Gelman, 1998; Strauss, 1987). A consequence of this preoccupation with universals is that the variations caused by group or individual differences have tended to be of less interest to the field (Thelen & Smith, 1998). Piaget reflects this view in his response when asked about the individual: Generally speaking—and I’m ashamed to say it—I’m not really interested in individuals, in the individual. I’m interested in the development of intelligence and knowledge. —Piaget, in Bringuier, 1980, p. 86

As the field has moved beyond its focus on universals in cognitive development (Feldman, 1994), the importance of culture in cognitive development and how it is shared have become topics of great interest (Cole, 1996; Tomasello, 1999). Although part of psychology for virtually all of its history, a recent renewed interest in studies of higher primates has contributed new insights to the

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field of cognitive development, particularly with respect to the question of what makes human mental development unique, a topic of great interest decades earlier to Vygotsky (1962, 1978). Much of this newer comparative work has centered about issues of the creation and transmission of culture (Tomasello, 1999). Findings from this line of research have suggested, for example, that other primates may occasionally create artifacts, as humans do, but our species appears to be the only one that actively and systematically accumulates, preserves, and transmits culture from generation to generation. It also appears to be true that ours is the only species that teaches its young with the same intensity, intentionality, and use of technology as humans do. We appear to be the species that teaches (Gopnik et al., 1999; Strauss, Ziv, & Stein, 2002). Efforts at Integration Several more recent theories have tried to integrate the well-known general sequences of large-scale changes in cognitive development with more modular or domainspecific approaches to mind. The late Robbie Case (1998, 1999; Case & Okamoto, 1996) proposed that general stage-like structures of the Piagetian sort were part of the story of cognitive development, but not all. Playing off these universal structures were a series of more content-specific modules of mind, each of which is particularly sensitive to and built to process specific contents. Following from Chomsky’s work in language (1957), a number of modular theories have been proposed, usually with several specific kinds of content domains proposed (e.g., Fodor, 1980, 1983; Gardner, 1983, 1993; KarmiloffSmith, 1992; Keil, 1984, 1989). Examples of proposed modules other than speech that appear in one or more modular theories are music, space, gesture, number, face recognition, and self–other understanding. In Case’s version of an integrated framework, domainspecific knowledge (as it is often labeled) interacts with systemwide principles and constraints to form what are labeled central conceptual structures. The content-specific nature of the structures is designed to help explain how broad, systemwide structures can be formed without resorting to a radical nativist interpretation (Case & Okamoto, 1996). Rather than being formed as a consequence of the interaction of a child’s general structures with the objects of the world, central conceptual structures are formed as a consequence of the child’s concern with certain content areas such as narrative, number, and

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space, each of which has distinct constraints and distinct opportunities for learning. Because of the many ways in which the central conceptual structures may be assembled, Case and his colleagues argued that their theory includes room for variation and individuality in the actual course of development (Case & Okamoto, 1996). A second effort at a more integrated theory is that of Karmiloff-Smith (1992). In Karmiloff-Smith’s theory, general, systemwide structures are abandoned altogether in favor of a set of content modules that are universal: language; the physical world and how it works; quantity; thought and emotion; and symbolic representation. What remains constant across modules is a set of processes of representing and rerepresenting that gives the child the ability to bootstrap from level to level, transcending the constraints that each module poses for the developing child. Using concepts from connectionist modeling in artificial intelligence and dynamic systems approaches (e.g., see Thelen & Smith, 1998), Karmiloff-Smith (1992) has proposed a theory that has both general processes for change and specific-content domains within which such changes take place. Her assumptions are that there are natural, content-specific constraints on development, but that children construct their understanding of the world through progressive efforts to represent and reinterpret their representations of the knowledge in each domain: One can attribute various innate predispositions to the human neonate without negating the roles of the physical and socio-cultural environments and without jeopardizing the deep-seated conviction that we are special. . . —Karmiloff-Smith, 1992, p. 5

A third approach concerns itself with the range and variety of content domains that have been established by cumulative human effort without taking a stand one way or another on the issue of modularity (Feldman, 1980, 1994, 1995). This approach attempts to specify the distinctive markers for categories of domains ranging from universal to unique (see Figure 8.1). The main goal of the theory is to specify the qualities that mark domains in each region of the universal to unique continuum of domains. It aims to show that there is vast developmental territory that is not universal, but which is nonetheless developmental in an important sense (i.e., important to individuals, groups, societies, and cultures; Feldman, 1994). Nonuniversal theory (as Feldman’s theory is called) aims to provide a framework for knowledge and knowing that encompasses Piaget’s universalist framework and places it into a context of other less universal

Universal_Pancultural_Cultural_Discipline-Based_Idiosyncratic_Unique

Figure 8.1 domains

The universal to unique continuum of knowledge

developmental domains. By describing the levels of various domains in each of the regions of the universalto-unique continuum, some of the commonality across domains and some of the distinctiveness of each region and each domain are revealed (van Geert, 1997). An even more recent effort at integration is to be found in the work of Patricia Greenfield (2001, 2004). In this framework, the kind of cognitive developmental theory that best explains how children learn and develop is a function of the cultural context and historical circumstances within which the processes and activities of learning and development take place. Based on studies in several distinct cultural settings in the United States, Mexico, and Central America, Greenfield and her colleagues have proposed that a more Piagetian framework is most appropriate in cultural contexts in which economic constraints on learning are minimal, whereas a Vygotskyan framework better captures learning and development when there is pressure to acquire particular skills and techniques to ensure economic well-being. For Greenfield and her colleagues, there is not a single theory that is a best fit to every cultural context. Rather, different theories will better capture the experience of learning and development depending upon the kinds of constraints imposed by the social, historical, and cultural contexts that surround them. The theories just described have in common that they attempt to preserve some of the useful features of approaches like Piaget’s that emphasize universals in cognitive development, while at the same time trying to build into their architecture important variations within and across individuals, groups, societies, and cultures. Case’s approach focuses on how individuals use modules of specified content to construct universal conceptual structures, with the primary aim being to account for general, systemwide change better than do previous frameworks. Karmiloff-Smith abandons general, systemwide stages in favor of more domain-specific development, but with sequences of processes of change that can be found across domains. Thus, her theory also aims primarily to account for universals in development, but does so in ways that reconcile nativist and constructivist perspectives. Nonuniversal theory is primarily intended to illustrate the diversity in developmental domains that may engage the energies of individuals. While recognizing that there

Cognitive Development in Childhood: A Contemporary Perspective

are some domains that are universal or nearly so, as Piaget proposed, the theory proposes that many other domains of knowledge and skill can be conceptualized as developmental in the sense that they are built on sequences of developmental levels and are achieved through change processes that include qualitative shifts in organization and functioning. By drawing attention to common as well as distinct features of various domains, some of which are universally achieved and others of which may be achieved only by members of a species, a culture, a discipline, an avocation, or even an individual, the range of topics of concern to developmentalists is greatly expanded. Theories like Piaget’s and Vygotsky’s—in the context of the universal-to-unique continuum of developmental domains—can be better understood as dealing with different domains from different regions of the universal to unique continuum: Piaget’s theory is about universals, and Vygotsky’s is about pancultural and cultural domains (Feldman & Fowler, 1997). Therefore, trying to determine which theory is right and which is wrong misses the essential point that they are about different aspects of cognitive developmental change. Nonuniversal theory is therefore useful in helping make conceptual and theoretical distinctions between and among various theories of cognitive development, but does not focus as much on how qualitative change occurs as do Case’s and Karmiloff-Smith’s theories (van Geert, 1997). Greenfield’s (2001, 2004) approach is intended less to integrate various theoretical frameworks into a single framework, but rather to add a set of broader social, historical, and cultural considerations to the discussion. In Greenfield’s work, theories are seen less as competing explanations for a single truth, but rather exist as possible sources of truth, understanding, enrichment, and guidance, depending upon the context within which they are used (Greenfield, 2001, 2004).

FUTURE DIRECTIONS IN COGNITIVE DEVELOPMENTAL THEORY AND RESEARCH With more than six decades of productive work behind it, the field of cognitive development seems well-established as a specialty area within developmental psychology. Although dominated by the Genevan approach for much of its history, the field has recently reengaged some of its traditional areas of emphasis, such as experimental learning studies and sociocultural-historical research (Brown, 1990; Case, 1999). It has also spawned some cross-disciplinary efforts to better deal with the challenges

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of explaining systematic, qualitative change, which is the heart of the matter for cognitive developmentalists. There have been two major recent developments, neither in cognitive development itself, which have had major impact on the field. Revolutions might be too strong a word to use to describe them, especially when compared with the three revolutions already discussed, but they have had and will continue to have significant impact on the field. These two developments are: (1) a strong turn toward systems explanations for developmental phenomena, including cognitive developmental phenomena (cf. Lerner, 2006; Overton, 2006); and (2) a dramatic increase in brain imaging research, especially in areas of cognitive deficit and/or dysfunction. Drawing on work done in systems theory and connectionism from artificial intelligence, a number of contemporary researchers have tried to build frameworks that are complex enough to allow for many levels of description to interact with each other to produce major change (Fischer & Bidell, 1998; Thelen & Smith, 1998; van Geert, 1991, 1997). Efforts to model qualitative change using dynamic systems (Lewis, 2000; Thelen & Smith, 1998; van Geert, 1991) and chaos theory (van der Maas & Molenaar, 1992) have shown promise as sources of explanation for stagelike shifts. By working at a fine-grained level of detail, dynamic systems and other approaches take a further step toward trying to integrate general and specific, universal and unique, commonality and variation, and description and explanation (Lerner, 1998, 2006). Similarly, research and theory from newly emerging disciplines like evolutionary robotics and artificial life simulations have become important sources of ideas for research and theory in cognitive development (Feldman, 2004; Norman, 1993; Varela, Thompson, & Rosch, 1993; Wilensky & Resnick, 1999). Starting with simple sensorimotor processes, detailed histories of interactions between and among levels of activity provide rich sources of information about change, including large-scale changes that can occur without changing the simple processes that gave rise to the emergent layers of activity in the system and that sustain it (Bedeau, 1997; Thompson & Fine, 1999). It is often true in science that a breakthrough in technology, technique, or methodology is responsible for important changes in a field of study. This has certainly been true of the field of cognitive development in its brief history, and it is now true again as a result of dramatic advances in brain imaging technologies and techniques (Gopnik et al., 1999). As these technologies become more refined and can be more

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productively used with children, the number of studies looking for brain-based sources of explanation for cognitive functions or dysfunction, as well as relatively largescale changes in capability (the “stage like” changes that have been so important in the field), will undoubtedly increase (Gottlieb, Wahlstein & Lickliter, 2006; Johnson, 1998). The thrust of work in these areas is fully consistent with the direction of other current approaches in being interdisciplinary, systems oriented, interactive, and constructivist (Lerner, 1998, 2006). The interactive relations between brain and behavior—each influencing the development of the other within the context of other systems emerging and changing—reflects the growing consensus within the field that all levels of description, from the molecular to the whole organism in context, will be necessary aspects of efforts to explain cognitive development.

CONCLUSIONS We may conclude this brief summary of the field of cognitive development by noting that the boundaries and borders between and among aspects of human development, including cognitive development, have become more permeable (Lerner, 1998, 2006). It is increasingly recognized that important influences on cognitive development may come from emotions, motivations, challenges, and environmental events (Bearison & Zimiles, 1986; Feldman, 1994). Although it seems likely that a field called cognitive development will continue to exist within developmental psychology, the range of topics, the variety of phenomena encompassed, and the degree of interaction with other specialties are all likely to change in the decades to come. It is reasonable to predict that in the future, there will be a more integrated field, with brain, behavior, function, and process encompassed within the field of cognitive development in the context of other areas of development. The need to specify contextual constraints and special environmental conditions will be a regular part of the field of inquiry. Finally, the need to construct theoretical accounts that include universal cognitive developmental changes as well as nonuniversal ones, that specify conditions that enable typical functioning as well as atypical functioning (both positive and negative), and increased efforts to provide interpretations of findings that can be applied productively will be increasingly important characteristics of the field of cognitive development (Horowitz, 2000).

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Gottlieb, G. (1992). Individual development and evolution: The genesis of novel behavior. New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Gottlieb, G., Wahlstein, D., & Lickliter, R. (2006). The significance of biology for human development: A developmental, psychobiological systems view. In R. M. Lerner (Ed.), Theoretical models of human development (pp. 210–257). Vol. 1 in W. Damon & R. M. Lerner (Eds.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (6th ed.). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Green, D., Ford, M. & Flamer, G. (Eds.). (1971). Measurement and Piaget. New York, NY: McGraw-Hill. Greenfield, P. (2001). Culture and universals: Integrating social and cognitive development. In L. Nucci, G. Saxe, & E. Turiel (Eds.), Culture, thought, and development (pp. 231–277). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Greenfield, P. M. (2004). Weaving generations together: Evolving creativity in the Maya of Chiapas. Santa Fe, NM: School of American Research Press. Horowitz, F. (2000) Child development and the PITS: Simple questions, complex answers, and developmental theory. Child Development, 71 (1), 1–10. Inhelder, B. & Chipman, H. (Eds.) (1976). Piaget and his school. New York, NY: Springer-Verlag. Inhelder, B., de Caprona, D. & Cornu-Wells, A. (Eds.) (1987). Piaget today. Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Johnson, M. (1998). The neural basis of cognitive development. In D. Kuhn, & R. Siegler (Eds.), Cognition, perception, and language (pp. 1–49). Vol. 2 in W. Damon (Ed.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (5th ed.). New York, NY: Wiley. Kanazawa, S. (2010). Evolutionary psychology and intelligence research. American Psychologist, 65, 4, 279–289. Karmiloff-Smith, A. (1992). Beyond modularity: A developmental perspective on cognitive science. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Karmiloff-Smith, A. & Inhelder, B. (1975). If you want to get ahead get a theory. Cognition, 3, 195–212. Keil, F. (1984). Mechanisms in cognitive development and the structures of knowledge. In R. Sternberg (Ed.), Mechanisms of cognitive development (pp. 81–100). San Francisco, CA: W. H. Freeman. Keil, F. (1989). Concepts, kinds, and cognitive development. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Kessen, W. (1965). The child. New York, NY: Wiley. Kessen, W. (1984). Introduction: The end of the age of development. In R. Sternberg (Ed.), Mechanisms of cognitive development (pp. 1–18). San Francisco, CA: W. H. Freeman. Klahr, D. (1984). Transition processes in quantitative development. In R. Sternberg (Ed.), Mechanisms of cognitive development (pp. 101–139). San Francisco, CA: W. H. Freeman. Kohlberg, L. (1973). The claim to moral adequacy of the highest stage of moral development. Journal of Philosophy, 70, 630–646. Kuhn, D. & Siegler, R. (Eds.) (2006). Cognition, perception, and language. In W. Damon & R. Lerner (Eds.), Handbook of child psychology (6th ed.). Vol 2 . Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Langer, J. (1969). Theories of development. New York, NY: Holt, Rinehart, & Winston. Lerner, R. (1998). Theories of human development: Contemporary perspectives. In R. M. Lerner (Ed.), Theoretical models of human development (pp. 1–24). Vol. 1 in W. Damon (Ed.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (5th ed.). New York, NY: Wiley. Lerner, R. (2006). Developmental science, developmental systems, and contemporary theories of human development. In R. M. Lerner (Ed.), Theoretical models of human development (pp. 1–17). Vol. 1 in W. Damon & R. M. Lerner (Eds.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (6th ed.). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Lewis, M. (2000). The promise of dynamic systems approaches for an integrated account of human development. Child Development, 71, 36–43.

Liben, L. (1981). Individuals’ contributions to their own development during childhood: A Piagetian perspective. In R. M. Lerner & N. Busch-Rossnagel (Eds.), Individuals as producers of their development (pp. 117–153). New York, NY: Academic Press. Loevinger, J. (1976). Measuring ego development. New York, NY: Jossey-Bass. Milbrath, C. (1998). Patterns of artistic development in children. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Miller, P. H. (1983). Theories of developmental psychology. San Francisco, CA: W. H. Freeman. Murray, F. (1972). The acquisition of conservation through social interaction. Developmental Psychology, 6, 1–6. Mussen, P. (Ed.). (1970). Carmichael’s manual of child psychology. New York, NY: Wiley. Mussen, P. (Ed.). (1983). Handbook of child psychology (4th ed., Vol. 4). New York, NY: Wiley. Neisser, U., Boodoo, G., Bouchard, T., Boykin, A., Brody, N., Ceci, S., Halpern, D., . . . & Urbina, S. (1996). Intelligence: Knowns and unknowns. American Psychologist, 51, 77–101. Norman, D. A. (1993). Cognition in the head and the world: An introduction to the special issue on situated action. Cognitive Science News, 17, 1–6. Overton, W. (1998). Developmental psychology: Philosophy, concepts, and methodology. In R. M. Lerner (Ed.), Theoretical models of human development (pp. 107–188). Vol. 1 in W. Damon (Ed.-inChief), Handbook of child psychology (5th ed.). New York, NY: Wiley. Overton, W. (2006). Developmental psychology: Philosophy, concepts, methodology. In R. M. Lerner (Ed.), Theoretical models of human development (pp. 18–88). Vol. 1 in W. Damon & R. M. Lerner (Eds.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (6th ed.). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Oyama, S. (1985). The ontogeny of information: Developmental systems and evolution. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Oyama, S. (1999). Locating development: Locating developmental systems. In E. Scholnick, K. Nelson, S. Gelman, & P. Miller (Eds.), Conceptual development: Piaget’s legacy (pp. 185–208). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum. Papert, S. (1999, March 29). Jean Piaget. TIME Magazine. Piaget, J. (1962). Preface: Comments on Vygotsky’s critical remarks. In L. Vygotsky, Thought and language (pp. 1–14). Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Piaget, J. (1963). The origins of intelligence in children. New York, NY: W. W. Norton. Piaget, J. (1967). Six psychological studies. New York, NY: Random House. Piaget, J. (1970). Piaget’s theory. In P. Mussen (Ed.), Carmichael’s manual of child psychology (Vol. 1, pp. 703–732). New York, NY: Wiley. Piaget, J. (1971a). Biology and knowledge. Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Piaget, J. (1971b). The theory of stages in cognitive development. In D. Green, M. Ford, & G. Flamer (Eds.), Measurement and Piaget (pp. 1–11). New York, NY: McGraw-Hill. Piaget, J. (1972). Intellectual evolution from adolescence to adulthood. Human Development, 15, 1–12. Piaget, J. (1975). The development of thought: Equilibration of cognitive structures. New York, NY: Viking Penguin. Piaget, J. (1977). Piaget on Piaget [Motion picture]. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press (Distributed by Yale University Media Design Studio, New Haven, CT, 06520). Piaget, J., & Inhelder, B. (1967). The child’s conception of space. New York, NY: W.W. Norton (first published in 1948).

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CHAPTER 9

Emotion and Personality Development E. MARK CUMMINGS, JULIA M. BRAUNGART-RIEKER, AND TINA D. DU ROCHER SCHUDLICH

INTRODUCTION 215 NORMAL AND ABNORMAL EMOTIONAL AND PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT: A DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOPATHOLOGY PERSPECTIVE 216 INDIVIDUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EMOTION AND PERSONALITY 216 TEMPERAMENT AND PERSONALITY 220 RELATIONAL INFLUENCES ON EMOTIONAL AND PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT 224 PARENT–CHILD RELATIONSHIPS 224

MARITAL RELATIONSHIPS 226 FAMILYWIDE PERSPECTIVE 227 CULTURAL, COMMUNITY, AND POLITICAL CONTEXTS 228 NORMAL AND ABNORMAL EMOTIONAL AND PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT: A DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOPATHOLOGY PERSPECTIVE 230 CONCLUSIONS 234 REFERENCES 234

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Trabasso, & Liwag, 1994). Thus, emotional functioning contributes to mechanisms underlying the individual’s dynamic processes of adaptation or, alternatively, risk for the development of psychopathology. The present chapter covers themes for understanding the role of emotions in children’s development: what is known, what is being done, and future directions. The chapter is divided into three parts: (1) individual differences in development, (2) relational influences, and (3) emotions and children’s adjustment.

Support is increasing for the view that emotions play an important role in the appraisal and evaluation of children’s experiences and their readiness for action in response to events (Davies, Harold, Goeke-Morey & Cummings, 2002; Eisenberg, Spinrad, & Cumberland, 1998; Oatley & Jenkins, 1996; Schermerhorn, Cummings, DeCarlo, & Davies, 2007). Emotional expressions and emotional understanding are elements of social communication. Appropriate emotional regulation is pertinent to children’s adaptive versus maladaptive functioning. Emotion expression and regulation are fundamental to individual differences between children in temperament and personality. Moreover, according to a functionalist perspective on emotions, emotions constitute more than what might be measured as self-reported feelings. Instead, emotions reflect processes of responding that are pertinent to children’s evaluations of the meaning of experiential contexts in relation to their goals (Campos, Campos, & Barrett, 1989; Jenkins, Oatley, & Stein, 1998; Saarni, Mumme, & Campos, 1998). Emotions are part of the child’s immediate reactions to person-environment contexts (Davies & Cummings, 2006; Goeke-Morey, Cummings, Harold, & Shelton, 2003; Lazarus & Folkman, 1984; Stein,

Individual Development of Emotions and Personality in Children Children’s emotional expressions and regulation are understood to influence, and be influenced by, their social interactions, relationships, and contexts. Moreover, children’s expression and regulation of emotions are reciprocally related to the responses of others to their social functioning (Cummings & Davies, 2002). Emotions and emotionality are related to individual differences between children in social functioning, temperament, and personality. For example, the conceptualization of self is related to emotional processes (Harter, 1998), including the self-conscious emotions of shame, guilt, 215

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and embarrassment (Lewis, Sullivan, Stranger, & Weiss, 1989). Moreover, emotions are related to fundamental differences between individuals in personality characteristics and styles of social functioning. Attention has been called to reactivity and self-regulation as basic dispositions of temperament (Bridges, Denham, & Ganiban, 2004; Cole, Martin, & Dennis, 2004; Kochanska, Murray, & Harlan, 2000; Rothbart & Bates, 1998). Temperamental differences in infancy are linked with individual differences in personality development (Kochanska & Knaack, 2003). Relational Influences on Emotional and Personality Development in Children Increasing emphasis is also being placed on relational influences on emotional and personality development in childhood. Emotional expression and functioning are tied to the individual’s responses to social contexts, especially the contexts defined by social relationships. For example, children’s relationships with parents serve as a foundation for emotional functioning in social situations (Cassidy, 1994; Thompson & Calkins, 1996). Emotional relationships are related to parenting and children’s socialization and personality development (Cummings, Davies, & Campbell, 2000). Furthermore, attachments are defined as emotional bonds that endure over space and time (Colin, 1996). Relational influences on children’s emotional and personality development are also documented in the effects of marital functioning on children’s functioning and development (Cummings & Davies, 1994a). In particular, marital conflict, including negative emotional expressions of anger and hostility, may induce significant emotional and behavioral dysregulation in children (Cummings & Davies, 2010). Moreover, consistent with a functionalist perspective on emotions, current theory suggests that children’s emotions serve an appraisal function with regard to children’s responses to marital conflict that serve to organize, guide, and direct children’s reactions (Davies & Cummings, 1994, 2006). For example, children who appraise marital conflict as distressing are motivated to intervene (Cummings & Davies, 2010; Davies et al., 2002). Ultimately, these various relational influences on children’s emotional functioning do not act in isolation, but are likely to have cumulative effects on children’s reactions and behaviors. For example, children’s emotional security, which has implications for children’s emotional regulation in the face of stress, is influenced by multiple family systems, including parent–child relations and the marital system (Cummings & Davies, 1996;

2010). Thus, in order to more fully understand effects on personality development, understanding of relational influences must consider multiple family and extrafamilial factors, including the role of culture and community, in children’s responding to family (Cummings, GoekeMorey, Schermerhorn, Merrilees, & Cairns, 2009; Parke & Buriel, 1998).

NORMAL AND ABNORMAL EMOTIONAL AND PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT: A DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOPATHOLOGY PERSPECTIVE Concern about the implications of disturbances in emotional and personality development can be traced back to Freud and early psychoanalytic theory. A convergence of emerging themes for process-oriented perspectives on both normal and abnormal development has found articulate expression in research and theory from a developmental psychopathology perspective (Cicchetti & Cohen, 1995, 2006). The study of directions towards advanced understanding of abnormal emotional and personality development adds to the richness and breadth of normative models for child development emerging from the investigation of emotional and personality development.

INDIVIDUAL DEVELOPMENT OF EMOTION AND PERSONALITY This section presents information regarding the development of individual differences in the emotional system, including emotional expressions and regulation or coping of emotions. As children’s cognitive and language capacities develop, so too do their emotional systems. As changes occur in children’s emotional expressions and in their awareness of their own and others’ expressions, they are also better able to describe the causes and consequences of various emotions (Pons, Harris, & de Rosnay, 2004). In addition, children become increasingly savvy about how and when to strategically use emotions (e.g., maximizing or minimizing them) in relevant social situations (Saarni, 1998). Individual differences between children in their emotional abilities are also apparent. Emotional Expressions: The Emergence of Self-Conscious Emotions As children leave the toddler phase and enter into the preschool- and school-aged periods, the expression of

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basic emotions (e.g., anger, sadness, happiness), which emerge in infancy (Zahn-Waxler, Cummings, & Cooperman, 1984), starts to become more context-dependent. In peer settings, for example, anger and happiness are expressed more frequently than sadness or pain/distress (Denham, 1986). Emotional expressions also show more complexity over time; children’s expressions may show blends of various basic emotions. Perhaps the most significant changes are the development of self-conscious emotions. As children’s sense of self develops, particularly in the second and third years of life, they show emerging emotional reactions of pride, shame, embarrassment, guilt, empathy, and jealousy (Lewis, Haviland-Jones, & Barrett, 2008; Lewis & Sullivan, 2005). Self-conscious emotions are important to understand, given that such emotions are rooted in social relations—not only in interpersonal interactions, but also in the evaluation of individuals by themselves and others (Lewis & Sullivan, 2005). Furthermore, deficits in selfconscious emotions, such as the inability to experience guilt or experiencing excessive feelings of shame, have clinical implications across the entire life span. Changes in cognitive development in three core areas appear to underlie the emergence of self-conscious emotions (Lewis & Sullivan, 2005; Tangney & Dearing, 2002; Tracy & Robins, 2004). First, children need a sense of self-awareness. Self-awareness involves the ability to show self-recognition, as exhibited by toddlers’ responses to the “rouge test” (Lewis & Brooks-Gunn, 1979). In this procedure, toddlers see themselves in the mirror after a spot of rouge has been secretly placed on their nose, and if they touch their own nose, this is interpreted as a sign of self-recognition, at least in the physical sense. In addition, children’s use of words such as “I,” “me,” and “mine” reflect self-referential labeling, which indicates an awareness of themselves as autonomous beings (Thompson, 2006). In addition to understanding self-awareness, children need to understand that there are external standards that determine the degree to which behaviors and characteristics are socially acceptable. They also need to have the ability to compare their own behaviors or characteristics against these external standards (Lewis et al., 2008). During the preschool years, children develop a more elaborate theory of mind, which refers to the ability to attribute mental states (e.g., beliefs, knowledge, desires) to oneself and others and to understand that others have beliefs, desires, and intentions that are different from one’s own (Wellman, Cross, & Watson, 2001). Self-conscious emotions stem from how a person evaluates him- or herself in

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relation to personal standards or in relation to how he or she imagines other people are thinking about or evaluating him or her (Lagattuta & Thompson, 2007). With development and experience, children learn that significant others such as parents and teachers view them from an external, evaluative perspective (Wellman & Lagattuta, 2000). Although we see age-related changes in the development of self-conscious emotions, individual differences are also evident. In a study examining gender differences, Stipek and colleagues (1992) found that girls show more shame and pride compared to boys. This gender difference is interesting, given that girls are more at risk for internalizing disorders, in which feelings of shame and self-loathing are evident. Another interesting gender difference is that shame and guilt are positively correlated for girls, but are distinct emotions in boys (Lewis, Alessandri, & Sullivan, 1992). However, it may be important to distinguish whether self-consciousness involves negative self-evaluations. Lewis and Ramsay (2002), for example, found that boys showed more embarrassment than girls, but only in contexts that elicited exposure embarrassment, in which children feel embarrassed because they are the object of others’ attention, but not negative evaluative embarrassment, in which children feel embarrassed because they perceive that they did not behave or perform in a way that matches expectations or standards. In a study examining children’s memories of self-conscious emotions from stories involving emotional reactions, girls were more likely than boys to recall guilt, pride, and envy, but not embarrassment. Interestingly, boys and girls did not differ in recall of the nonemotional components of the stories (Davidson, 2006). Future research on gender and the development of self-conscious emotions might examine these interesting differences and whether gender differences in self-conscious emotions are a result of socialization or biological differences. Temperament may also be related to self-conscious emotions. Children rated higher in effortful control (Rothbart, Ahadi, & Hershey, 1994) and temperamental fearfulness (Kochanska, Gross, Lin, & Nichols, 2002) are more empathic and higher in guilt/shame. Reactivity to stress is also related to negative self-evaluations, such that heightened cortisol responses to stress are associated with increased expression of evaluative embarrassment and shame (Lewis & Ramsey, 2002). Emotional Understanding In addition to changes between infancy and early childhood in emotional experiences and expressions, children’s

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understanding of emotions becomes more sophisticated. Pons and colleagues (2004) identify nine components to emotional understanding, with the latter components emerging somewhat later than the former components: recognition and labeling of emotions, identifying the external causes of emotions, understanding that desire drives emotions, understanding that beliefs determine emotions, understanding that memory and emotion are linked, ability to identify ways to regulate emotions, understanding that people can hide their emotions despite how they truly feel through display rules, understanding that people can hold multiple emotions simultaneously, and understanding that feelings can ensue from morality. Children also need some maturity, however, in understanding, recalling, and labeling self-conscious emotions. For example, a study examining children’s memory of self-conscious emotions found that younger children (6–8 years of age) were more likely than older children (age 10) to recall stories involving self-conscious emotions using more basic emotion labels such as anger or fear (Davidson, 2006). In addition, younger children had more difficulties than older children recalling stories involving the specific concepts of envy and pride, indicating that these types of self-conscious emotions may require more sophisticated cognitive skills. In addition to age differences, however, we also see individual differences in children’s ability to understand emotions. Emotional understanding appears to be an important skill in relation to social competence (Cutting & Dunn, 2006), positive social behavior (Cassidy, Werner, Rourke, & Zubernis, 2003), moral development (Lane, Wellman, Olson, LaBouty, & Kerr, 2010), psychological well-being (Southam-Gerow & Kendall, 2000), and academic achievement (Leerkes, Paradise, O’Brien, Calkins, & Lange, 2008). For example, maltreated children, who often live in contexts in which emotions are extreme and inconsistent, struggle with understanding emotions. Perlman, Kalish, and Pollack (2008) found that maltreated children had more difficulty than typically developing children mapping emotions to specific situations and understanding emotion-situation pairings. More specifically, maltreated children, aged 4–5, interpret positive, neutral, and negative events as being equally plausible causes of sadness and anger. Similarly, Pears & Fisher (2005) found that children aged 3–5 in foster care showed decreased understanding of emotions and theory of mind abilities, even when accounting for age, intelligence, and executive function. However, children who receive coaching about emotions show improvements in their understanding (Pons, Harris, & Doudin, 2002;

Tenenbaum, Alfieri, Brooks, & Dunne, 2008). To better understand how or why children might show difficulties in understanding of emotions, a number of studies have examined factors such as family expressiveness (Halberstadt & Eaton, 2003), the quality of parent–child relationships (Colwell & Hart, 2006; de Rosnay & Harris, 2002), and parent–child interaction patterns (Ereky-Stevens, 2008; Guajardo, Snyder, & Petersen, 2009; Martin & Green, 2005). For example, a longitudinal study involving a large sample of mother–infant dyads from the United Kingdom found that children whose mothers were more sensitive during infancy showed stronger social understanding skills (understanding of emotions and the minds of others) than did those whose mothers were less sensitive (Ereky-Stevens, 2008). Sensitivity reflects the extent to which caregivers accurately read and respond to their child’s emotional and behavioral signals; sensitive caregiving also involves pacing interactions in a way that neither under- nor overstimulates infants’ arousal. In turn, maternal sensitivity has been found to predict infant–parent attachment security (De Wolff & vanIJzendoorn, 1997; Nievar & Becker, 2008). According to Bretherton (1993), young children in secure relationships are likely to approach emotionally relevant conversations—both negative and positive— more openly and competently. In addition, studies examining attachment and children’s understanding of emotion have found that having a secure attachment relationship concurrently (de Rosnay & Harris, 2002; Grieg & Howe, 2001) or as infants (Raikes & Thompson, 2008) is related to children having a better understanding of emotions. Emotion Regulation and Coping with Stressful Situations The term “emotion regulation” has been broadly construed (Cole et al., 2004; Gross, 2007; Thompson, 1994) and there is surprising diversity in the ways in which different theoretical perspectives and empirical approaches conceptualize and operationalize emotion regulation. Despite such diversity, most definitions of emotion regulation include aspects surrounding a person’s ability to modulate, control, or reduce the intensive and temporal features of an emotion; such emotions can be either negative or positive (Gross, 2007). Regulation can occur at the neurophysiological, hormonal, attentional, and behavioral levels (Calkins, 1994; Derryberry & Rothbart, 1985). The term “coping” has sometimes been used interchangeably with emotion regulation (Brenner & Salovey,

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1997), especially to the extent that effective coping is inseparable from effective emotion regulation and vice versa (Saarni, 1999). However, Gross (2007) has recently argued that both emotion regulation and coping are subordinate to the broader construct of “affect regulation.” Coping can be distinguished from emotion regulation both by its primary focus on decreasing negative emotions and by its emphasis on a much longer period of time, such as dealing with the loss of a parent or coping with a parent with depression (Gross, 2007). Several researchers have examined the ways in which children attempt to regulate their emotions and cope with stressful situations. Saarni (1997) interviewed children aged 6 to 8 and 10 to 12 about the types of strategies that children would use during various stressful situations. The strategies that emerged, with the most adaptive strategy listed first and the least adaptive listed last, were: problemsolving (attempting to change the situation), supportseeking from caregivers or peers—either for seeking solace or help, distancing/avoidance, internalizing, and antisocial behaviors (i.e., externalizing). We do not have a systematic empirical literature that tells us what coping strategies tend to emerge at what age, especially given that studies differ substantially on sample and contextual characteristics (Saarni, 1999). Two general patterns have emerged, however: (1) as children get older, they can generate more coping alternatives, and (2) older children are better able to make use of cognitively oriented coping strategies for situations in which they have no control (e.g., Compas, Malcarne, & Fondacaro, 1988). Explaining individual differences in emotion regulation is an important challenge to undertake, because older children who appear to have difficulties in managing emotions are at risk for developing behavioral disorders (Aldao, Nolen-Hoeksema, & Schweizer, 2010). Although psychopathological outcomes may represent extreme deficits in emotion regulation, less than optimal outcomes may also occur for children who struggle with regulating emotions. For example, Lindsey and Colwell (2003) found that preschool-aged children who have trouble managing emotions have difficulties in establishing positive peer relationships. Emotional adjustment and competence are also related to early school readiness (Raver, 2002) and preschool social competence (Denham et al., 2003). Individual differences in emotion regulation are attributed to both intrinsic and extrinsic factors (Calkins & Hill, 2007). Intrinsic neurophysiological mechanisms that reflect emotional regulatory processes include the amygdala, the prefrontal cortex, the hypothalamic pituitary adrenocortical (HPA) system, the autonomic nervous

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system, and others (Zeman, Cassano, Perry-Parrish, & Stegall, 2006). For example, children with low vagal recovery are more likely to remain focused on a forbidden object, rather than engage in other more adaptive or distracting emotion regulatory behaviors, suggesting that children who lack the physiological flexibility to alter vagal tone in response to task demands have difficulties in managing their emotions in challenging situations (Santucci, Silk, Shaw, Gentzler, Fox, & Kovacs, 2008). Neurophysiological reactions may depend on emotion regulatory abilities. Kliewer, Reid-Quinones, Shields, & Foutz (2009) found that African American children with poor emotion regulation skills showed hypocortisolism when psychosocial risk factors were high (e.g., poor neighborhood, parents with psychological adjustment problems, etc.). Those with better emotion regulation skills, however, showed a consistent cortisol response, regardless of their risk status. Such evidence suggests that emotion regulation skills may buffer potentially detrimental effects of living in a stressful environment. Extrinsic factors such as parenting also appear to contribute to children’s ability to regulate their emotions. Parents appear to socialize responses to stress by how they react to children’s emotions, how they discuss and express emotion, and how they select or modify stressful situations (Eisenberg, Spinrad, & Cumberland, 1998). In particular, parents’ positive reactions to negative emotions likely help children experience optimal levels of arousal and learn effective coping strategies (Davies & Cummings, 1998; Eisenberg et al., 1998). In addition, emotion regulation may mediate links between parenting and psychosocial development. Valiente, Lemery-Chalfant, & Swanson (2009) found that children whose parents are more affectively responsive to them show greater engagement coping, reflecting children’s ability to problem solve and manage emotions. In contrast, disengagement coping involves avoidance and denial. Engagement coping mediated associations between parental affective responsiveness and childhood adjustment. Recent translational research has shown that emotion regulation skills can improve when children receive effective interventions. In a longitudinal study of children in grades one through six, improvements were observed in emotional awareness, emotional coping, expression management, and self-efficacy with regard to managing emotions, with much of the learning sustained 1 and 2 years later. In addition, effectiveness was consistent, regardless of whether the intervention was school- or communitybased (Weshues, Hanbidge, Gebotys, & Hammond, 2009). Interventions designed to target both parents and children,

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however, are likely to be even more effective than those targeting just one member of the family system. Reid, Webster-Stratton, and Hammond (2007) found that children assigned to a two-year classroom intervention whose parents also received training (C + P) fared better than other groups (control group and classroom intervention without parent training group (C)). Following intervention, children in the C + P condition showed fewer externalizing problems and more emotion regulation than children in the C condition or control children. In addition, mothers in the C + P condition were significantly more supportive and less critical than those in the C or control condition. Thus, emotion regulation and coping can be enhanced when a broader familywide perspective is taken into consideration.

(Eccles & Roeser, 1999) as well as children’s emerging morality, conscience, and gender identity (Turiel, 1998). Likewise, personality influences how experiences are construed and interpreted and the choices that a person might make (Thompson, 1999). Thus, similar to temperament, personality is influenced by and influences experiences over time. Moreover, some investigators have proposed that temperament might be viewed as early-appearing personality characteristics. Thus, the conceptual borders between temperament and personality as individual difference constructs are to some extent blurred. Despite the conceptual overlap between temperament and personality, however, empirical investigations involving both domains are relatively sparse (see Caspi, 1998 for a review). Structure

TEMPERAMENT AND PERSONALITY In this section, we focus on children’s temperament and personality. First, we provide definitions of these concepts. Next, we discuss the structure of temperament and personality in terms of the dimensions they comprise and their stability during childhood. We also examine several psychobiological indicators such as gene systems, cortisol, and brain activity (EEG, fMRI) and their relation to childhood temperament. Finally, we examine the degree to which early temperament predicts later social outcomes. Definition Current theory proposes that temperament is a component of the more general domain of personality and involves individual differences in basic psychological processes, such as emotionality, activity, and attention that are relatively stable over situations and time (Goldsmith et al., 1987; Rothbart & Bates, 2006; Thompson, 1999). There is a general consensus that temperament arises at least in part from hereditary differences, and that temperament influences and is influenced by experience (Rothbart, Ahadi, & Evans, 2000). By contrast, personality encompasses much more than temperament, and includes skills, habits, values, perceptions of the self, and the relation of the self to others and events (Rothbart, 2007; Rothbart & Bates, 2006). Significant others who provide physical and emotional support, care, and security are believed to help shape personality (Ainsworth, Blehar, Waters, & Wall, 1978). Furthermore, personality is influenced by broader social experiences involving neighborhood, school, and community contexts

Compared to the structure of temperament during infancy, it seems that temperament during childhood involves fewer dimensions (Rothbart & Bates, 2006), especially if one considers temperament and personality to be organized hierarchically with broad traits (e.g., extroversion) representing the most general dimensions and lower levels including more specific traits (e.g., energetic). Based on factor analyses of maternal report data on items from the NYLS for 3- to 8-year-olds, three higher-order factors were found: negative emotionality, self-regulation, and sociability (Sanson, Smart, Prior, Oberklaid, & Pedlow, 1994). Similarly, Rothbart’s Childhood Behavior Questionnaire (which was developed in relation to infant and toddler versions and is used for children aged 3 to 8 years) consistently yields three broad temperament factors (Rothbart, et al., 1994; Rothbart, Ahadi, Hershey, & Fisher, 2001). The first factor is surgency, which includes approach, high intensity pleasure, activity level, and shyness (reversed). The second factor, negative affectivity, consists of discomfort, fear, anger/frustration, sadness, and soothability (reversed). The third factor has been labeled effortful control and includes scales related to inhibitory control, attentional focusing, low-intensity pleasure, and perceptual sensitivity. Interestingly, the three dimensions from both Sanson et al.’s (1994) and Rothbart et al.’s (1994) research resemble adult personality structures such as the “Big Three” (Tellegen, 1985): extraversion (sociability & surgency), neuroticism (negative emotionality & negative affectivity), and constraint (self-regulation & effortful control). Other child temperament/personality researchers have generally found support for five factors that are equivalent to the adult “Big Five” (see Halverson, Kohnstamm, & Martin’s 1994 book for

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an extensive review). Thus, in addition to extraversion, neuroticism, and conscientiousness (similar to constraint), there are also agreeableness and openness. Such a structure has been found in child personality research despite differences in sampling and methodology (Caspi, 1998). Although most theorists have conceptualized and measured temperament or personality on quantitative dimensions, some have argued for a categorical approach. By placing children into categories or typologies, one is able to take an ipsative, or person-centered, approach to understanding the child (Caspi & Silva, 1995). More typically, however, temperament and personality researchers have used a variable-centered approach, which involves the examination of multiple factors or dimensions, but each dimension is examined separately. In the end, both approaches may be useful (Laursen & Hoff, 2006). Categories or typologies are helpful because they suggest that a particular constellation of dimensions are greater than the sum of their parts. One difficulty with using grouping techniques, however, is deciding what to do about cases that are ambiguous. If children are forced into a classification, within-group heterogeneity can be high (even if betweengroup differences are high). Thus, using the restriction that heterogeneity is minimal, Aksan et al. (1999) found that two typologies emerged for preschool-aged children: controlled/nonexpressive and noncontrolled/expressive. Although these two types show overlap with previous typology work, only 15% of the children satisfied both between-category distinctiveness and within-category homogeneity criteria. Thus, categorical approaches may be helpful in capturing children’s general dispositional styles, but also may be limited if, within categories, children show wide variability. Stability in Temperament/Personality Despite the limitations of dimensional or categorical approaches, there has been growing interest in the study of temperament and/or personality longitudinally (Roberts & DelVecchio, 2000). Challenging questions pertaining to major developmental issues, however, may prevent a simple examination of the stability between early and later dispositional styles (Rothbart & Bates, 2006). Studies relying on quantitative dimensions have found that stability varies by dimension. Meta-analytic studies (Roberts & DelVecchio, 2000; Ferguson, 2010) indicate that different dimensions tended to have generally similar levels of consistency when examining stability during infancy (0–2.9 years), early childhood (3–5.9),

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and middle childhood (6–11.9). Differential stability has interesting implications for how certain dimensions develop and are affected by experience. Using latent variable modeling approaches that help minimize measurement error, Neppl et al. (2010) found that the “Big Three” (labeled in this study as positive emotionality, negative emotionality, and constraint) all showed significant stability from toddlerhood to early childhood and from early childhood to middle childhood. In addition, the magnitude of stability was greater from early childhood to middle childhood than it was from toddlerhood to early childhood. Differences across dimensions, however, were also evident. For positive and negative emotionality, stability was almost equally as large from toddlerhood to middle childhood as it was from toddlerhood to early childhood and early childhood to middle childhood. This was not the case for constraint. Constraint showed significant stability within the shorter time periods, but not from toddlerhood to middle childhood. These results suggest that as environmental demands increase for children to regulate their behavior and emotions, constraint may undergo some reorganization over time. Psychobiological Links with Temperament/Personality Studies that apply a psychobiological approach to temperament basically find converging evidence that temperamental attributes are rooted at least in part in biological bases. This convergence occurs despite the wide variety of methods applied and markers examined as potential indicators (Goldsmith et al., 2000). The most common indexes that are used include genes, cortisol, vagal tone, and brain activity as measured by an electroencephalogram (EEG) and functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI). A growing body of evidence also suggests, however, that we need to include both environmental and biological indices to more fully understand temperament, personality, and social behavior. Genes The genes that regulate the production of dopamine and serotonin, which are the two neurotransmitters that have been most commonly associated with individual differences in adult personality (Propper & Moore, 2006), have been examined as possible candidates in the influence of emotionality throughout the life span. In particular, the D4 dopamine receptor (DRD4) gene is primarily expressed in the limbic areas of the brain and is believed to be associated with excitability, impulsiveness, and exploratory

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behavior in adults (Benjamin et al., 1996). The DRD4 gene contains variations in DNA that result in changes in the length of the receptor protein. Shorter alleles have been found to be more efficient than longer alleles in its binding to dopamine (Plomin & Rutter, 1998). In addition, the 5-HTTLPR gene is linked with serotonin production; smaller 5-HTTLPR alleles are related to lower serotonin production than are longer 5-HTTLPR alleles (Heinz et al., 2000). Schmidt and colleagues (2002) found significant behavioral differences between 4-yearold children carrying the long DRD4 gene (L-DRD4) versus the short version (S-DRD4). Children with L-DRD4 genotypes were more likely rated by mothers as having problems with aggression than those with the S-DRD4 version. Interestingly, L-DRD4 has also been associated with lower intensity of emotional reactions in 3-yearolds—both positive and negative in valence—and less adaptive reactions to changes in stimuli in infants (DeLuca et al., 2001). However, a study examining children at 5 months and again at 3 years of age did not find relations between DRD4 variation and adaptive behavior (DeLuca et al., 2003), suggesting that links between genes and behavior may be complex. It may also be necessary to study multiple gene systems simultaneously. In a sample of 2-week-old infants, for example, those with both short DRD4 and short5HTTLPR genes displayed more negative emotionality than did any other genetic combination (Auerbach et al., 1999). Other studies, however, have also incorporated measures of the caregiving environment as a way to examine possible gene × environment interactions. A review of the literature conducted by Ivorra and colleagues (2010) supports the notion that the 5-HTTLPR polymorphism moderates the influence of maternal anxiety and child irritability. Thus, although genes are often thought of as causal mechanisms of traits and behavior, evidence suggests that associations between genes and behaviors should not only examine the impact of genes on behavior, but genes on environment, and environmental influences on genetic expression (Moffitt, Caspi, & Rutter, 2006).

found among behaviorally inhibited children (Tennes & Kreye, 1985). For example, Nachmias and colleagues (1996) found elevated cortisol levels during novel situations if toddlers were behaviorally inhibited and in an insecure parent-child attachment relationship. It is possible that securely attached inhibited children are better able to rely on their attachment figure and/or have effective emotional-regulatory skills, which could then buffer the stress response. Moreover, Gunnar (1994) has argued that behavioral inhibition may actually reduce the likelihood of an HPA stress response in certain novel situations. That is, behavioral inhibition may serve as a coping response that reduces the child’s engagement with overly arousing and unpredictable events. Indeed, a study by de Haan, Gunnar, Tout, Hart, and Stansbury (1998) seems to suggest that although cortisol levels were elevated for children showing shy, anxious, and internalizing behavior in the home setting, higher cortisol responses in a new preschool context were associated with aggressive, angry, and assertive styles of behavior. Thus, HPA responses are complex and may not only reflect certain temperamental attributes but also the context within which the child is examined. In addition, more recent evidence suggests that temperament and cortisol responses moderate each other in relation to internalizing problems, suggesting that links between cortisol reactivity and temperament are perhaps rather complex. Gunnar, Kryzer, van Ryzen, and Phillips (2010) found that a rise in cortisol in the preschool setting became more positively predictive of internalizing problems at increasing levels of behavioral inhibition. Specifically, when children were more behaviorally inhibited, those with larger cortisol increases expressed more internalizing symptoms than did children who were less behaviorally inhibited. In contrast, those with low cortisol activity and higher levels of inhibition expressed fewer internalizing symptoms than did children with low cortisol and inhibition levels. Taken together, these studies suggest that to best understand behavioral outcomes, one needs to consider cortisol, temperament, and the caregiving system simultaneously.

Cortisol

EEG

Cortisol is the primary product of the HPA system—a major stress-sensitive system (Palkovitz, 1987). Under conditions of stress, basal regulation of the HPA system is overridden, causing elevated levels of cortisol. At one time, it was predicted that cortisol levels would be higher for inhibited children compared with uninhibited children (Kagan, Reznick, & Snidman, 1987). However, elevated cortisol levels have not been consistently

Fox and Davidson (1984) found that greater relative right frontal EEG activity occurs during the presentation of visual stimuli used to elicit negative emotions and greater left frontal EEG activity is found during the presentation of stimuli designed to elicit positive emotions. Similar patterns emerge when using sensory modalities other than the visual system as well (Santesso, Schmidt, & Trainor, 2007). Moreover, individuals who naturally exhibit greater

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relative right frontal EEG activity at rest are more shy, socially withdrawn, and anxious/depressed, whereas individuals who exhibit greater relative left frontal EEG activity are more social, extroverted, and outgoing (Coan & Allen, 2004). These patterns have also been found in children (Fox, Henderson, Rubin, Calkins, & Schmidt, 2001). fMRI Measures The field of neuroscience and its use of fMRI techniques has exploded in recent years. Unlike EEG, fMRI measures provide more accurate spatial resolution of brain dynamics. Research involving children, however, is relatively scant. Adolescents who were identified as behaviorally inhibited toddlers showed greater striatal activation to positive incentives (Guyer et al., 2006). Adults who were temperamentally inhibited as toddlers showed greater bilateral amygdalar blood-oxygen-level-dependent signals in response to novel versus newly familiar faces (Schwartz et al., 2003). This latter finding corresponds with patterns of results from a study of adults currently identified as shy vs. bold (Beaton et al., 2008). Thus, emerging evidence provides support for links between temperament/ personality and specific patterns of brain activity. Early Temperament/Personality and Later Social Outcome Much of the work focusing on outcomes of temperament and personality has concentrated on children’s adjustment, such as internalizing and externalizing problems, conduct disorders, and other areas of developmental psychopathology (Rothbart, 2007; Rothbart & Bates, 2006). In this section, we provide a brief overview of the research on long-term predictions of temperament and later adjustment. Much of the work on temperament and behavioral adjustment has focused on direct linkages, in which a particular trait is associated with the development of an adjustment pattern (Rothbart & Bates, 2006). For example, in the Bloomington Longitudinal Study, infants and toddlers rated high on difficultness (high in frequency and intensity of negative affect) had more externalizing and internalizing problems in the preschool through middle-childhood periods (Bates and Bayles, 1988; Bates, Bayles, Bennett, Ridge, & Brown, 1991). In a study involving 2.5-year-olds, children rated by their mothers as higher in temperamental negative reactivity were more likely to show noncompliant behavior in the lab (refusing to clean up toys and touching a prohibited object). Moreover, mothers of more negatively reactive children used more power-assertive methods as a means of controlling

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their child (Braungart-Rieker, Garwood, & Stifter, 1997). Thus, negative reactivity appears to affect parent behavior as well as children’s less internalized control. Temperament might also affect the development of later adjustment in an indirect manner. A child’s temperament might elicit certain parenting behaviors, which in turn affects their development. For example, a child’s temperament is evoking certain responses from the environment (Scarr & McCartney, 1983). However, few studies have examined indirect effects. In addition, several studies have found that models testing for direct effects fit better than those including indirect effects (e.g., McClowry et al., 1994). Temperament might also interact with environmental characteristics. For example, goodness-of-fit models suggest that it is not the child’s temperament that will determine later behavioral problems; rather, how that child’s temperament fits with his/her environment will affect the development of behavioral outcomes (Thomas & Chess, 1985). Hagekull and Bohlin (1995) found that toddlers rated as temperamentally easy and who were in higher-quality child care were less aggressive at age 4 than easy children who were in lower-quality care. In contrast, difficult children’s aggressiveness was not influenced by quality of care in this sample. In a study examining reactivity to novelty (fear), those high in reactivity whose mothers were low in engagement or sensitivity showed higher levels of anxiety at 30 months (Crockenberg & Leerkes, 2006). Temperament and environment interactions also appear to promote more positive aspects of socioemotional functioning. Kochanska (1993) proposed two temperamental factors likely to be associated with the development of conscience, an important component of social competence: the child’s proneness to distress and inhibitory control. Children prone to distress, particularly fear, may be afraid to commit a wrongful act. In addition, children with high inhibitory control may have an easier time preventing or “putting the brakes on” a behavior that violates rules. In addition, children with low fear and/or inhibitory control may be harder to socialize. For highly fearful children, maternal compliance strategies that deemphasize power are correlated with child compliance, not only concurrently at 3.5 years, but also a year later (Kochanska, 1997). Peer relationships are also important outcomes for children. There are numerous reasons to expect that temperament would predict peer status, especially given that temperament is related to behavioral adjustment (e.g., Bates, Maslin, & Frankel, 1985), and in turn, antisocial and prosocial behaviors are related to peer acceptance

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(e.g., Coie, Dodge, & Kupersmidt, 1990). There is also evidence, for example, that the ability to regulate emotions or manage anger contributes to peer sociometric status (Hubbard & Coie, 1994). Children who can regulate their arousal engage in fewer aggressive interactions with peers (Gottman, Katz, & Hooven, 1996). Recent research on peer acceptance during childhood suggests that both intrapersonal and interpersonal dynamics are important to consider. In a study of preschool-aged children, both temperament and attachment made significant and unique contributions to peer acceptance, whereas temperament was found to be a stronger predictor of children’s peer rejection (Szewczyk-Sokolowski, Bost, & Wainwright, 2005). In summary, research and theory supports the importance to children’s socioemotional development of individual differences between children in emotional expression and regulation and the role of emotional processes in broader organizations of temperament and personality. The construct of emotion regulation offers particularly exciting promise for future advances, especially as understood in relation to temperament and personality development. However, more work is needed to further clarify the definitions of these constructs, their interrelations with each other over time and context, and the biological, experiential, and psychological processes that underlie the significance of these constructs to the individual’s development in childhood. Moreover, these dimensions of functioning do not operate in isolation from children’s social contexts; it is to the matter of the role of social context that we next turn.

RELATIONAL INFLUENCES ON EMOTIONAL AND PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT The family is clearly an important relational influence on children’s emotionality and emotional development (Cummings et al., 2000). Accordingly, this section will focus on family as a source of relational influences. Traditional research has emphasized the importance of the parent-child subsystem for children’s emotional functioning. However, the emotional qualities of the marital subsystem also have pervasive implications for the emotional quality of children’s lives, and the emotionality of family functioning (Cummings & Davies, 2010). A familywide perspective is needed. For example, parenting and other family relations may be strongly influenced by marital conflict. Moreover, factors outside of the family may also affect children’s adjustment. That is,

community and cultural factors, such as political violence, may also influence relations between children’s emotional expressions and experience and personality development. Accordingly, the importance of appreciating and examining community and other contextual influences on emotional and personality development is indicated (Cummings et al., 2009).

PARENT–CHILD RELATIONSHIPS Children have some of their first experiences with internal affective states, including anger, fear, anxiety, and happiness, in the context of their relationships with their parents. Moreover, the quality and intensity of children’s emotional experience is affected by the quality of their relationships with their parents. Emotionality is also a significant dimension of parent–child interactions and relationships, including parenting as acceptance, emotional availability, sensitivity, and parent–child emotional bond or attachment (i.e., emotional relationship) (Cummings et al., 2000). Emotional Dimensions of Parenting: Parental Acceptance and Emotional Availability The terms acceptance and emotional availability have been used to describe a relatively diverse set of behaviors pertaining to the emotional quality of relations between parents and children (e.g., parental support, expressions of warmth or positive emotional tone, sensitivity to children’s psychological states) that nonetheless share common ground, with demonstrated implications for children’s emotional and personality development (Darling & Steinberg, 1993; Maccoby & Martin, 1983). Emotional mediators within the child are implicated in the effects of parental emotionality on children’s functioning. For example, emotionally negative parenting may foster children’s negative attribution styles about parent–child relations, with subsequent effects on children’s processing of peer events and relationships. Proclivities toward hostile evaluations and response tendencies, in turn, may increase children’s susceptibility to poor peer relationships, aggression, social isolation, and depression (Crick & Dodge, 1994). On the other hand, parental availability may promote children’s capacities for interpersonal connectedness; fostering a general view of the social world as a safe, secure place; and equipping children with the social skills necessary to advance the quality of their relationships with others (Barber, 1997).

Emotion and Personality Development

Parent–Child Attachment: Emotional Bonds Between Parents and Children The effects of parental behavior on children’s adjustment are more than a matter of the behaviors that parents direct towards their children, or even the emotional intensity of interactions or parenting behavior, but reflect the underlying emotional quality of the relationship between parents and children. That is, interactions between parents and children are influenced by the emotional bond or attachment that has formed between the parent and child. Thus, in deciding how to behave, children don’t respond simply to the behaviors directed at them by parents, but also respond as a function of their emotional relationships with parents. John Bowlby and Mary Ainsworth’s attachment theory provides the most influential conceptualization of the nature of the emotional bonds between parents and children (Ainsworth et al., 1978; Bowlby, 1969). Moreover, the attachment theory tradition provides considerable empirical support for the significance of attachments to children’s (and adults’) adjustment (Cassidy & Shaver, 1999), although variability in the stability of attachment over time and in the prediction of later behavior based upon earlier attachment is evident in the literature (Belsky, Campbell, Cohn, & Moore, 1996; Thompson, 2000).

Parent–Child Attachment Patterns: Secure Versus Insecure Emotional Relationships Attachment parenting is neither defined as simply a set of behaviors that are observable at a microscopic level of analysis, nor as a global trait. Rather, attachment is an organizational construct; that is, a set of goals or plans that serve to organize and motivate behavior that emerge from the functioning of the attachment behavioral system. Moreover, this system functions in a manner that is highly sensitive to context, including the past history of the relationship (e.g., the perceived availability and sensitive responsiveness of the parent) and the circumstances of the immediate situation (e.g., the appraisal of threat). Attachment is a life-span construct, and a variety of methodologies have been derived to assess attachment security across the life span (Cassidy & Shaver, 1999). At all ages, however, security of attachment is held to have implications for the individual’s emotional regulation and emotional functioning, with corresponding implications for personality development. In infancy and early childhood, individual differences in patterns of attachment security are assessed based on

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the Strange Situation (Ainsworth et al., 1978), which consists of a sequence of brief contexts for observing the children’s functioning, most notably, in relation to the parent’s presence, absence, and return. Security of attachments are classified to distinguish parent–child relationships in terms of the relative effectiveness of the infant in deriving security from the parent in these various contexts and the parent’s effectiveness in providing security. Emotional Dimensions of Parenting and Attachment Security Attachment research provides evidence for the role of emotional dimensions of parenting practices, in particular, in the formation of attachment relationships. Bowlby’s theory (Bowlby, 1969, 1973) proposed the importance of the parent’s emotional availability and responsiveness for the development of secure attachments. The work of Ainsworth et al. (1978) provided empirical support for the pertinence of sensitivity, accessibility, acceptance, and cooperation as parenting behaviors relevant to the development of security of children’s attachments to the parents. A core prediction of attachment theory from its initial formulation thus was that the child’s sense of emotional security would derive from the responsiveness, warmth, and emotional availability of the parent. Maternal sensitivity was particularly emphasized and defined by Ainsworth as the parent’s ability to accurately perceive the child’s signals and to respond appropriately and promptly. While the size of the relations reported in Ainsworth’s pioneering Baltimore study were particularly strong, dozens of published studies have reported that constructs reflecting maternal sensitivity and emotional availability or related constructs significantly predicted the quality of attachment. A meta-analysis suggests that the support for this relation is much more than convincing from a statistical perspective (De Wolff & van IJzendoorn, 1997). Attachment security is also predicted from parents’ emotional availability, as seen from a relational perspective (i.e., maternal structuring, maternal sensitivity, child responsiveness, child involvement; Easterbrooks, Biesecker, & Lyons-Ruth, 2000). A Functionalist Perspective on Emotion Regulation, Attachment, and Personality Development The attachment behavioral system has been hypothesized as organized and directed by children’s appraisals of their felt-security in specific social situations and contexts (Sroufe & Waters, 1977). Thus, children’s emotions are

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viewed as an aspect of their appraisals of their emotional well-being or felt-security in specific contexts, also serving to guide and direct their behavioral responding—for example, their decisions about whether to seek proximity of contact with parents. Bowlby emphasized the role of self-regulatory processes in the impact of parenting on children’s emotional and personality development, including children’s emotional and cognitive appraisals of situational and contextual challenges and threats as influencing children’s emotional and behavioral responding. In particular, emotional reactions reflecting children’s evaluations of events were conceptualized as playing a role in children’s organizing and motivating their responses to these events, a point made by Bowlby and subsequently expanded by later theorists (Carlson & Sroufe, 1995; Sroufe & Waters, 1977). Over time, these emotionally based self-regulatory patterns, which reflected the relative security or insecurity afforded by their experiential histories with parents in multiple situations, were seen as characterizing their functioning in response to current experiences. Thus, such responses were one class of processes derived from dayto-day experiences with the parents that over time served to mediate relations between experiential history and child outcomes. That is, these processes reflected internal selfregulatory structures derived from experience that served to guide current responding. MARITAL RELATIONSHIPS Marital conflict has proven to be a particularly significant category of emotional event in the family with regard to child, marital, and family functioning (Cummings & Davies, 1994a). Family systems researchers (e.g., Easterbrooks & Goldberg, 1990) have stressed the significance of the marital dyad to parenting and family functioning. When this relationship is distressed, family responsibilities and coping skills suffer (Cox & Paley, 1997). Moreover, links between marital conflict and children’s adjustment problems have long been indicated, including externalizing disorders (e.g., aggression), internalizing difficulties (e.g., anxiety, withdrawal) and academic problems (Cummings & Davies, 1994a). Direct Effects of Exposure to Marital Relations on Children’s Emotionality Emotionality in the marital subsystem, especially during interparental conflict, has direct effects on children’s

emotions and behaviors (e.g., Cummings, Goeke-Morey, Papp, & Dukewich, 2002), and indirect effects by influencing the quality of emotional communications in the parent-child subsystem (e.g., Davies, Sturge-Apple, Woitach, & Cummings, 2009; Sturge-Apple, Davies, & Cummings, 2006a, 2006b). The specific emotional qualities of interparental communications are identified as influential in terms of children’s emotions and behaviors (see review in Cummings & Davies, 2002). Observational studies of children’s emotional reactions to parent’s conflicts are especially informative with regard to the direct effects of interadult emotions on children’s emotional functioning. Cummings and colleagues also reported on children’s reactions to marital conflict based on parents’ diary reports of marital conflicts that occurred in front of their child. Cummings and colleagues (2002) reported that parental negative emotionality and destructive conflict were related to children’s negative emotional and behavioral responses, whereas parents’ positive emotionality and constructive conflict were linked with children’s positive emotional reactions. When parents’ emotions and conflict tactics during marital conflicts were considered in the same model, negative emotionality was more consistently related to children’s negative reactions than were destructive conflict tactics, whereas constructive conflict tactics were more consistently related to children’s positive reactions than parents’ positive emotionality. Based on fathers’ and mothers’ reports of marital conflicts in the home (n = 1,281 and 1,638 conflicts, respectively), children’s emotional responses sharply distinguished between destructive conflict tactics (e.g., personal insult, marital withdrawal), which elicited negative emotional responses, and constructive conflict tactics (e.g., support), which elicited positive emotional responses (Cummings, Goeke-Morey, & Papp, 2003a). Cummings, Goeke-Morey, and Papp (2004) reported that exposure to destructive conflict tactics and negative parental emotionality increased aggressive behavior in children, whereas constructive conflict tactics and positive emotionality decreased aggression. The emotionally stressful effects of exposure to adults’ conflicts have been documented in children as young as 6 months of age. Recent work has advanced understanding of physiological indices of stress reactions (e.g., blood pressure, heart rate elevation; galvanic skin response; cortisol reactivity) (Davies, Sturge-Apple, Cicchetti, & Cummings, 2008; El-Sheikh et al., 2009). Children’s reports of negative representations and expectations about interparental relations indicative of emotional distress are also associated with exposure to marital conflict (e.g.,

Emotion and Personality Development

Shamir, Du Rocher Schudlich, & Cummings, 2001). Notably, children’s distressed reactions to marital conflict increase as a function of negative marital conflict histories, and such reactions to marital conflict are associated with adjustment problems (Davies, Sturge-Apple, Winter, Cummings, & Farrell, 2006). Indirect Effects of Marital Relations on Children’s Emotionality via Influence on Parenting A substantial literature supports relations between marital conflict and negative changes in parenting (Cummings & Davies, 2010). Marital conflict has also been associated with increased parental negativity and intrusive control (Belsky, Youngblade, Rovine & Volling, 1991) and low levels of parental warmth and responsiveness (Cox, Owen, Lewis, & Henderson, 1989). Conflict between parents may drain them of the necessary emotional resources to operate effectively (Goldberg & Easterbrooks, 1984), or anger between parents may translate directly into angry interactions with children (Kerig, Cowan, & Cowan, 1993). Marital relations are also predictive of the quality of the emotional bond or attachment that forms between parents and children. Increases in marital conflict during the first 9 months (Belsky & Isabella, 1985), or even prenatally (Cox & Owen, 1993), are linked to insecure attachment at 12 months of age. Children’s relationships with their parents may also change because of the negative effects on their sense of trust or high regard for parents due to watching them behave in mean or hostile way towards each other (Owen & Cox, 1997). Observational studies add to the case for the effects of marital conflict on children’s emotional functioning in triadic contexts (i.e., the mother, father, and child are present). Easterbrooks, Cummings, and Emde (1994) reported that toddlers showed more positive emotional behaviors than distressed behaviors when their parents demonstrated harmonious or positive expressions during a marital problem-solving task. On the other hand, expressions of distress between the parents were significantly related to children’s distress. Kitzman (2000) reported that family emotional processes involving mothers, fathers, and their 6- to 8-year-old sons became disrupted after conflictual marital interactions compared to pleasant marital interactions. Davis, Hops, Alpert, and Sheeber (1998), using a sequential analysis procedure, found that conflictual mother–father interactions led to children’s subsequent hostile aggressiveness during triadic family interactions. Moreover, adolescents’ aggressive

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and dysphoric responses to interparental aggression sequences contributed to the prediction of their overall aggressive and depressive functioning when general marital satisfaction was included as a control variable. Recent studies have identified longitudinal pathways from marital conflict to low levels of warmth and emotional rejection, as well as children’s emotional insecurity, with these pathways subsequently associated with child adjustment problems (e.g., Davies et al., 2009; Davies et al., 2006; Shoppe-Sullivan, Schermerhorn, & Cummings, 2007; Sturge-Apple, Davies, Winter, Cummings, & Schermerhorn, 2008; Sturge-Apple et al., 2006a, 2006b). Based on the pattern of findings, Cummings and Davies (2010) have further proposed emotional security theory (EST) as a model that can account theoretically for both direct (i.e., exposure effects) and indirect (i.e., parenting effects) pathways for the impact of marital conflict on child adjustment.

FAMILYWIDE PERSPECTIVE Families are appropriately viewed as relational environments with systems qualities (Cox & Paley, 1997). Thus, a systems theory perspective may be usefully applied to outlining the complex patterns of mutual influence of emotional expression and behavior that characterize family functioning. It also follows from systems theory that the family is appropriately seen as composed of multiple distinct subsystems, with each exercising influence on the others and on the whole. A family systems model advocates against simple linear models of causality or the assumption that one can adequately understand family influences by focusing exclusively on certain individual subsystems (Emery, Fincham, & Cummings, 1992). Thus, the emotions and behaviors of each subsystem are related to the emotions and behaviors of other subsystems, including the sibling subsystem (Stocker & Youngblade, 1999). Children and Family Emotionality in the Home Parental diary reports of emotional expressions in the context of marital interactions indicate pervasive interconnections between emotions and behaviors among family members during everyday interactions. Cummings, Goeke-Morey, and Papp (2003b) examined the interdependence between emotions and behaviors within the marital subsystem, and the effects on the emotionality of the marital subsystem on the emotional functioning

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of children. With regard to interparental communications, substantial reciprocity was found between wives’ and husbands’ emotional expressions, both for positive and negative emotional expressions. That is, the emotions of one spouse had a substantial, and predictable, relation to emotions of the other spouse. For example, parents reported that when one partner (either wife or husband) expressed more anger, sadness, fear, or negative emotionality (negativity, i.e., the sum of anger, sadness, and fear), the other partner engaged in more destructive behaviors (such as physical aggression, threats, yelling, giving dirty looks, withdrawing). Cummings, Goeke-Morey, et al. (2003a) also reported that emotions and behaviors between the parents were linked to children’s emotional and behavioral reactions in a manner consistent with a functionalist perspective on the role of emotion in family functioning. That is, children responded consistently with the apparent meaning of the parent’s emotionality, as indicated by the valence of the parent’s emotions. Thus, when parents expressed more anger, sadness, fear, and negative emotionality in marital conflict, children were more concerned. Moreover, children generally expressed more negative emotions and less positive emotions when their parents expressed negative emotions during martial conflict. Parents also reported that their and their partners’ positive emotionality was related to their children’s positive emotionality. In summary, these data illustrate the intriguing patterns of mutual influence of emotions between and among family members in the everyday context of the home. Moreover, the evidence indicated that individuals’ emotions were more closely linked with their own behaviors and the responses of others to them than were other categories of social expression and behavior (Cummings, Goeke-Morey, et al., 2003b). A Functionalist Perspective on Emotionality, Family Functioning, and Personality Development Cummings and Davies have proposed a theoretical model for a functionalist perspective on the role of emotions in organizing, regulating, and directing children’s responses to marital conflict (Davies & Cummings, 1994) and family functioning (Cummings & Davies, 1996). This theory, called the Emotional Security Hypothesis, specifically places considerable emphasis on emotional regulation and reactivity as a significant element of children’s appraisals and responding to family events. When events are appraised as threatening, moreover, emotional reactions are seen as serving to organize and motivate

children’s responses (e.g., children serving as mediators in marital conflicts) to threatening events (e.g., hostile marital conflict) (Cummings & Davies, 2010). The theory is proposed as an extension of attachment theory to a family-wide model of processes that account for children’s responses to family events, with these response processes—in particular, emotional regulation and reactivity—seen as having implications for children’s personality development over time (Cummings & Davies, 2010). Substantial evidence to support the model has emerged (Cummings, Schermerhorn, Davies, Goeke-Morey, & Cummings, 2006; El-Sheikh, Cummings, Kouros, Elmore-Staton, & Buckhalt, 2008). Empirical tests of the role of emotional regulation as a mediator of children’s functioning due to marital conflict histories have been conducted. For example, based on tests formulated in terms of structural equation modeling, children’s emotional reactivity in response to marital conflict, as well as attachment security, mediated relations between family functioning and child adjustment (see also Davies et al., 2002).

CULTURAL, COMMUNITY, AND POLITICAL CONTEXTS Consistent with the propositions of Bronfenbrenner’s (1979) ecological perspective, childhood development can be understood as embedded in a variety of social and other ecological contexts, including community, cultural, and ethnic contexts of child development. Each of these factors may exercise influence and may change the relative impact of family events and processes on child development. Thus, it is critical that attention be paid to whether the socialization models developed on middle-class Caucasian samples are appropriate to other, often neglected, samples (Cowan, Powell, & Cowan, 1998). Research directions that examine influences of culture and ethnicity are essential to understand the full range of variation in family functioning and child development, including the determination of whether family practices and their effects are culture-specific or culture-universal (Bornstein, 1991). Directions in the study of culture conceptualize culture as process (Keller & Greenfield, 2000), with the effects of culture seen in terms of dynamic response processes occurring in individuals due to transactions between the individual and environment over time (Cummings et al., 2000). Attachment phenomena are readily observed across cultures—for example, the

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child’s use of the parents as a secure base. Moreover, the different patterns of attachment found in Western cultures are generally found elsewhere and appear to as adequately describe the domain of attachments in non-Western cultures as in Western cultures. It would also appear that secure attachments are not just a Western ideal, but are normative and preferred across cultures (van IJzendoorn & Sagi, 1999). However, cross-cultural research can also been interpreted as raising challenges for attachment theory. For example, the distributions of insecure attachments (i.e., avoidant, resistant), in particular, has been reported to vary across cultures. Notably, however, the more significant question for attachment theory is whether variations in attachment patterns follow from variations in parenting, especially emotional dimensions of parenting (e.g., parental sensitivity, emotional availability, and responsiveness), consistent with the predictions of attachment theory. This question exemplifies the process-oriented level of analysis that is a needed next step in the study of cultural influences on attachment. This level of analysis has been explored only in a limited number of cultures, especially with regard to the prediction of different patterns of attachment following from variations in the emotional dimensions of parenting (Waters & Cummings, 2000). On the other hand, while the evidence to date is relatively scant, emotional dimensions of parent–child relationships, especially parental sensitivity, have been linked with secure attachment in virtually all cultures in which statistically significant results are found (van IJzendoorn & Sagi, 1999). As we have seen, a substantial body of evidence indicates that marital conflict and discord have negative effects on children’s functioning and adjustment (Grych & Fincham, 1990). However, understanding of the pervasiveness of these relations is limited, since most research has been based upon children and families from American or other Western cultures (e.g., British samples, Rutter & Quinton, 1984). To address this gap, Cummings, Wilson, and Shamir (2003) reported that children’s exposure to marital hostility and other indices of marital discord were related to adjustment among Chilean children, with effects at least as evident as among American children. Moreover, reflecting a process-oriented level of analysis, the qualities of marital conflict behavior were found to be related to children’s processes of emotional responding to marital conflict across cultures, with Chilean children making similar, or even greater, distinctions in emotional responding between unresolved and resolved conflict than American children.

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Moreover, reflecting another pathway of influence on social and emotional processes, also potentially involving family processes, community, and political violence, may also affect children’s development (Cummings et al., 2009; Feerick & Prinz, 2003; Prinz & Feerick, 2003). Community violence exposure may exert a negative influence on children’s psychological adjustment (Garbarino, Dubrow, Kostelny, & Pardo, 1992), including violence and aggressiveness (Attar, Guerra, & Tolan, 1994) and depression and stress symptoms (Gorman-Smith & Tolan, 1998). Community violence exposure is linked with poor academic performance in urban elementary school children (Schwartz & Gorman, 2003) and disruptions in children’s capacities for self-regulation and control (Maughan & Cicchetti, 2002; Schwartz & Proctor, 2000). Finally, violence in the community and home are interrelated in affecting children (Lynch & Cicchetti, 2002; Margolin & Gordis, 2000). In terms of a socioecological analysis, an even higherorder level of analysis of societal conflict processes concerns political conflict and violence. Major gaps have been identified in the study of political violence and ethnic conflict as related to child development (Barber, 2004; Feerick & Prinz, 2003). Definitions of, and boundaries between, political and community violence are little examined, and process-oriented studies on the mechanisms of the impact of violence exposure on children are rare (Trickett, Dur´an, & Horn, 2003). Nonetheless, progress is being made with regard to the impact of political and community violence on children’s emotional and personality development. As an illustrative example, progress has recently been made in the study of relations between political violence, community antisocial behavior, family functioning, and child development (Cummings et al., 2009). Cummings. Merrilees, and colleagues (2010) reported in a cross-sectional test that historical political violence in Belfast neighborhoods was related to sectarian community violence. Marital conflict. parental monitoring. and children’s emotional security about the community and family relations contributed to relations between sectarian community violence and children’s adjustment problems. Pathways involving familywide conflict and children’s emotional security about parent–child and family relations also accounted for relations between sectarian community violence and children’s prosocial and antisocial behavior in single-parent as well as two-parent families in socially deprived neighborhoods in Belfast (Cummings, Schermerhorn, Merrilees, Goeke-Morey, & Cairns, 2010).

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Recently, based on three-wave longitudinal model tests, children’s emotional security about the community was identified in pathways between sectarian community violence and child adjustment (Cummings et al., 2011). Longitudinal model tests have further supported family conflict and children’s emotional security about family conflict in relations between sectarian community violence and child adjustment (Cummings et al., in press). In summary, research and theory are emerging to support a familywide and community perspective on emotions from a systems perspective, and, moreover, specific process models that emphasize the function of emotions in organizing and directing children’s reactions to family interactions. However, more research is needed to further explore interrelations between family, especially the significance of sibling relationships and the effects of extended family members (e.g., grandparents), culture, and community.

NORMAL AND ABNORMAL EMOTIONAL AND PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT: A DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOPATHOLOGY PERSPECTIVE Viewing personality development and assessment through the lens of a developmental psychopathology perspective offers a broadened view and unique approach to conceptualizing personality. Historically, approaches to understanding personality development focused on describing personality traits in childhood, which were considered to be stable, primarily biologically based traits, and documenting links between these early traits and later adult personality or psychopathology. More recently, however there has been an increasing emphasis on understanding the underlying dynamic processes that contribute to the normal and abnormal development of personality over time (Cummings et al., 2000; Cicchetti & Toth, 2009). Although there is certainly a strong genetic component to personality, developing research in the past decade has begun to focus on and show strong support for the role of interpersonal experiences and interactions between children and their environments in the development of both normal and abnormal personality traits (Caspi et al., 2002; Costello, Foley, & Angold, 2006; Foley et al., 2004). This section will review emerging directions for research in personality development and assessment in children from a developmental psychopathology perspective. Both normal and abnormal personality development will be discussed.

Personality as an Evolving Process Over Time Historically, psychopathology in childhood has been considered from a traditional medical model approach in which disorders were viewed as distinct, discrete, and enduring pathologies (typically biological in nature) residing within the individual child (Sroufe, 1997). Disorders were considered to follow inevitable trajectories in terms of causes and outcomes, and the focus of disorders was primarily on description or categorization and identifying correlates (Rutter, 1986) rather than on dynamic etiological processes. Psychopathological outcomes were viewed as being qualitatively different from normal outcomes, and the emphasis was primarily on pathology. The field of developmental psychopathology has facilitated a broadening of our conceptualization of psychopathology. The developmental psychopathology perspective focuses on elucidating the interplay between biological, psychological, familial, individual, social, and cultural processes that influence both normal and abnormal development (Cicchetti, 2006). Thus, rather than assuming pathology resides within the child, it assumes a transactional model of development in which psychopathology (and development in general) arises from ongoing interactions between active, changing agents and their dynamic, changing contexts (Cicchetti, 2006; Cummings et al., 2000). It emphasizes delineation of the pathways through which normality or abnormality can be achieved (Cicchetti & Sroufe, 2000), with a focus on an in-depth understanding of the developmental processes and pathways that precede and account for the development of disorders. A pivotal element of the developmental psychopathology approach is its emphasis on both normality and abnormality as well as risk and resilience, which provides the most comprehensive understanding of how psychopathology may emerge in children. Furthermore, unlike previous perspectives, it follows the assumption that normality and abnormality lie on a continuous spectrum, suggesting that psychopathology is more quantitatively different than normality, rather than qualitatively different. Whereas previous considerations of psychopathology in children focused on categorizing and describing psychopathology and identifying its correlates, the goal of the developmental psychopathology approach is to discover the dynamic processes over time that explain psychopathology. The development of disorder is understood from a probabilistic perspective, where change is possible at any point in time, although change is constrained by prior adaptation. Furthermore, emphasis is placed on

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the significance of context for interpreting developmental patterns: What may be dysfunctional or harmful in one context may be adaptive in another. For example, academic success is associated with positive outcomes for youth in mainstream culture, but for inner-city youth it is associated with peer isolation and rejection (see Luthar & Burack, 2000 for review). Developmental psychopathologists underscore that children with disorders may move between pathological and normal functioning (Cicchetti, 2006). There may be times in which they function better and do not display pathology, only to move back to pathology during other, more stressful points in their lives. Thus, psychopathology is considered from a probabilistic perspective, in which change is possible at any point but is constrained by prior adaptation. Development extends throughout the life span, and at each new stage it is important to take into account not only the different pertinent agendas, but also how each stage prior has contributed to the current development and how each prior stage will affect future adaptation. Key life turning points may be times when protective mechanisms may help individuals redirect themselves toward more adaptive pathways of development (Schulenberg, Sameroff, & Cicchetti, 2004). Furthermore, children may display adaptive functioning even in the midst of psychopathology (Cicchetti, 2006). What may be dysfunctional in one context may be adaptive in another, and therefore the contexts in which children are living remain highly significant. For example, a highly aggressive child with conduct disorder may find himself repeatedly in trouble at school for acting out and causing fights, whereas he is revered in his neighborhood for his toughness and, as a result, is safe from the neighborhood gang violence. Thus, both the transition points in a child’s life, their current developmental level, and their context must all be taken into account. In the past decade of research there has been increasing recognition of children’s multiple levels of functioning and determinants of normal or abnormal development (e.g., at the molecular level, neurologically, genetically, and neuroendocrinologically, in addition to numerous psychosocial determinants). Risk factors in any one of these single domains may be insufficient for a disorder to manifest; however, the collective risk found in pooling the vulnerabilities across levels of functioning may lead to larger encompassing disorders (Fox, Hane, & PerezEdgar, 2006). Additionally, because risk factors tend to act synergistically, rather than additively, the use of multiple levels of analysis is critical in delineating the bidirectional nature of physiological–behavioral links (Kagan,

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Snidman, McManis, Woodward, & Hardway, 2002). For example, recent research on marital conflict’s effects on children has shed new light on the parasympathetic nervous system (PNS) and the sympathetic nervous system (SNS) as moderators of these effects (El-Sheikh et al., 2009). In a series of studies, El-Sheikh and colleagues (2009) found that interactions between the SNS and the PNS moderated conflict’s effects on children’s externalizing behavior. Furthermore, distinctions between types of interactions between the PNS and SNS were key to their findings: Opposing action between the PNS and SNS (e.g., coactivation and coinhibition) served as a vulnerability factor for children, whereas coordinated action (e.g., reciprocal PNS or SNS activation) operated as a protective factor. Thus, to understand psychopathology or normal development fully, multiple levels of analysis must be examined and integrated, as each informs, constrains, and interacts with the other levels of analysis. The developmental psychopathology approach provides a powerful framework for guiding future directions for studying normal and abnormal personality development in children. It allows for the consideration that many dynamic processes of maladjustment will not fit neatly into a nosological category (Cicchetti, 2006) and as such moves researchers beyond merely describing disorders to delineating the processes, histories, and contexts that contribute to children’s outcomes. It becomes less useful to focus on describing and identifying specific disorders and more important to take into account the processes over time that have contributed to children’s current and future personality functioning. Children of Depressed Parents Children of depressed parents are at heightened risk for a full range of adjustment problems, including emotional and personality problems, and are at specific risk for clinical depression (Downey & Coyne, 1990; Gotlib & Goodman, 2002). Biological and cognitive models are important in accounting for the relationship between parental depression and child adjustment problems, but they only partially account for this relationship. Many children with depressed parents do not develop adjustment problems, and not all children develop problems at the same point in their development, indicating that other environmental factors must be considered. The heterogeneity of outcomes in children demands further explication of the processes that account for and modify children’s adjustment (Cummings & Davies, 1994b). The developmental psychopathology approach extends

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researchers’ line of questions to include examination of questions such as how, why, and for whom parental depression is a risk. Thus, one important aim is to uncover the mediators and moderators of child outcomes for children of depressed parents (Cicchetti, 2006). Children may be affected by parental depression through direct exposure as well as numerous mediating family factors (Cummings, DeArth-Pendley, Du Rocher Schudlich, & Smith, 2001), including specific negative forms of marital conflict (Du Rocher Schudlich & Cummings, 2003; Keller, Cummings, Peterson, & Davies, 2009), maternal and paternal parenting styles (Du Rocher Schudlich & Cummings, 2007), family conflict (Du Rocher Schudlich, Youngstrom, Calabrese, & Findling, 2008), and parental rejection (Sturge-Apple et al., 2006a). The importance of examining several contexts is further exemplified by findings that marital conflict is an even better predictor of adjustment problems in children than depression when there is parental depression. Thus, Downey and Coyne (1990) comment “marital discord is a viable alternative explanation for the general adjustment difficulties of children with a depressed parent” (p. 68). This example makes evident the need for a complex, flexible theoretical model that can incorporate these diverse findings and yield a viable explanation of the multiple potential pathways of development. Thus, it is not as simple as just a genetic predisposition causing maladjustment in children of depressed parents, and it is not just the presence or absence of certain factors that can lead to adjustment or maladjustment, but rather it is the way in which these factors transpire that help account for children’s adjustment at any given time. Resilience The developmental psychopathology approach emphasizes the need to understand both normal and abnormal behavior together, as well as risk and resilience. The previous sections of this chapter focused primarily on the abnormal and risk end of the spectrum. We will now turn to a discussion of resilience and how this construct informs and is informed by risk, normal, and abnormal behavior. Definitions and operationalizations of resilience have varied greatly across theorists and researchers. Resilience has typically referred to the ability of children to function well in the face of adversity. Cutting-edge conceptualizations for resilience refer to the dynamic processes of psychological functioning that foster increased positive and diminished negative

outcomes in the face of adversity, both presently and in the future (Cummings et al., 2000). Resilience subsumes both risk, which is a condition carrying high odds for maladjustment, and positive adaptation, which is adaptation that is substantially better than what would be expected give the adverse high-risk circumstances to which one is exposed (Luthar, 2006). Positive adaptation is often manifested as social competence or competence/success in meeting other developmentally salient tasks (Masten, Burt & Coatsworth, 2006). Previously, resilience was assumed to be homogenous and either present or absent. More recent conceptualizations have acknowledged that risk and resilience are not all-or-none phenomena and are heterogeneous. Whereas assessing risk may involve one or more adverse circumstances, competence necessarily must be defined across multiple domains and contexts to avoid constricted and misleading pictures of success in the context of adversity. For example, children may demonstrate strong behavioral resilience (e.g., demonstrating appropriate conduct or low aggressiveness), but low cognitive resilience (e.g., low intelligence) or vice versa (Kim-Cohen, Moffitt, Caspi, & Taylor, 2004). Additionally, children may display competence in some contexts or time points, but not others. For example, studies on at-risk inner-city children found that children experiencing high stress who demonstrated behavioral competence at one point in development were highly vulnerable to emotional distress over time (Luthar, Doernberger, & Zigler, 1993). It is important to emphasize that resilience does not necessarily imply competence at a level achieved by those not facing adversity, but rather in some situations may be better conceptualized as functioning that is “better than expected” (Luthar, 2006, p. 743). Central to understanding resilience in child development, is identifying vulnerability and protective factors that may moderate or mediate associations with psychopathology or normality (Masten, 2001). Risk and resilience or vulnerability and protective factors are mutually defining and informing in charting processes affecting children’s development. For example, examining how and why protective factors buffer risk for resilient children from families with a depressed parent is just as informative as looking at risk factors leading to psychopathology. Vulnerability factors exacerbate the negative risk conditions to which one is exposed. For example, children with low intelligence are more vulnerable to negative community influences compared with those with higher intelligence (Masten, 2001). Protective factors, on the other hand, are factors that modify effects of risk

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in a positive direction. For example, having a positive relationship with at least one adult helps to enhance positive adaptation for those children exposed to significant adversity (Masten, 2006). Several models of resiliency have been developed to understand how risk and protective factors function in relation to each other. The compensatory model suggests that risk and protective factors have independent and direct effects on children’s outcomes; they combine additively to predict children’s outcomes. From this model, risk factors are thought to increase risk for negative outcomes, whereas protective factors neutralize the effects of risk by positively affecting outcomes. According to the risk-protective model protective factors interact with risk factors, creating a buffering effect that either diminishes or amplifies the effects of the risk factor on the outcome (Masten, 2001). Protective factors are not restricted to positive, pleasant factors; they may, in fact, actually be stressful or adverse. Challenge models of resilience purport that small amounts of adversity may have “Steeling effects”— similar to immunizations—that over time enhance coping and help to inoculate children against future adversity. For example, runaway girls may be least susceptible to depression when cumulative risks in their family, such as parental verbal aggression, parental depression, and family conflict, are in the moderate range rather than the severe or low range (Erdem & Slesnick, 2010). Reviews of research on resilience over the past 25 years have identified remarkably consistent results pointing to qualities of the child and context that are associated with better psychological functioning following adversity (Benzies & Mychasiuk, 2009; Masten & Coatsworth, 1998). Results of the reviews indicated a protective triad of child, family, and extrafamilial or community characteristics that contribute to resilience. Child characteristics associated with resilient functioning were high intelligence, holding an internal locus of control, having an easygoing disposition, self-efficacy and confidence, effective coping skills, high self-esteem, talent, and faith. Family characteristics associated with resilience included having a close caregiver–child relationship, interparental stability, authoritative parenting style, socioeconomic advantages, and connections to extended family members. Finally, characteristics of extrafamilial contexts associated with resilience were having bonds and receiving support from prosocial adults outside the family, being connected to prosocial organizations, attending effective schools, living in safe neighborhoods, and having access to quality health care.

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Thus, it is equally important not only to examine the risk factors and their underlying processes that contribute to children’s abnormal development over time, but also to consider the underlying protective processes that contribute to resilience over time, rather than merely documenting a factor’s positive association with adaptation.

Future Directions The developmental psychopathology approach provides many promising avenues for future research in both normal and abnormal development of personality. Much of the previous work in the field has focused on identifying risk and protective factors and the processes underlying them. Application of the knowledge of these processes to empirically testable interventions for children in specific adverse conditions is an important next step. Luthar (2006, p. 782) has put forth broad guidelines for future applied research in the field. She has recommended that researchers focus most intensively on risk factors with high “promotive potential,” defined as having the following five characteristics: 1. Conceptually highly salient in the context of that particular high-risk setting 2. Relatively malleable, or responsive to environmental interventions 3. Proximal to the individual rather than distal 4. Enduring for long periods in the individual’s life 5. Generative of the assets, catalyzing or setting into motion other strengths, and mitigating vulnerability The developmental psychopathology perspective is a complex, comprehensive model of development that can provide a more accurate representation of children’s personality development. Given its complex nature, this approach necessarily prescribes microscopic analysis of multiple levels of functioning, in multiple domains, in multiple contexts over time. Integrating microanalyses of functioning into macroscopic models, pertinent to broader conceptualizations of functioning, is an important future goal (Cummings, Braungart-Rieker, & Du Rocher Schudlich, 2003; Schermerhorn, Chow, & Cummings, 2010). Additionally, the need for translational research to bridge basic science on developmental processes and applied research on psychopathology is becoming increasingly evident (Cummings, Faircloth, Mitchell, Cummings, & Schermerhorn, 2008). Collaborative efforts between basic researchers and frontline professionals are key to transversing this current gap between

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laboratories and clinics. Similarly, more emphasis is needed on intervention and prevention efforts being informed by theories and research on developmental processes and simultaneously for prevention and intervention efforts to inform research and theory in developmental processes (Cummings & Davies, 2010).

CONCLUSIONS This chapter thus underscores the many ways in which the study of the role of emotions in personality development is currently being advanced in both research and theory. As we have shown, emotions are central to current directions in the investigation of individual differences in children, the impact of family and other environmental influences on children’s personality development, and the understanding of the basis for the development of psychopathology. Moreover, emotional processes are now incorporated in emerging explanatory models for the development of personality, playing a central role in understanding of children’s responses to everyday life, and underlying children patterns of coping that relate to pathways of adjustment or maladjustment. This foundation lays a strong and encouraging base for many future directions in exploring and understanding the important role of emotions in children’s development.

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CHAPTER 10

Social Development and Social Relationships in Middle Childhood JOAN E. GRUSEC, MARIA PAULA CHAPARRO, MEGAN JOHNSTON, AND AMANDA SHERMAN

SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT AND SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS IN MIDDLE CHILDHOOD 243 INTRODUCTION 243 FOUNDATIONS OF SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT 245 SOCIALIZATION PROCESSES AND SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS 248 SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS AND SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT: A DOMAIN APPROACH 249

SOCIALIZATION BY PARENTS 249 SOCIALIZATION BY PEERS 253 SOCIALIZATION BY SIBLINGS 257 CONCLUSIONS 259 REFERENCES 259

SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT AND SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS IN MIDDLE CHILDHOOD

relationships that children can have are described, as well as how socialization can occur in the context of each of these relationships. Relationships with and socialization by parents is discussed first, followed by a discussion of relationships with and socialization by peers and siblings.

This chapter provides a brief survey of some current thinking about social development during middle childhood. It begins with an overview of some of the accomplishments of this period of life, then moves to a description of evolutionary and biological underpinnings and outcomes of social experiences. It also includes a brief consideration of behavior genetics research and what that research suggests about genetic and environmental mediation of behavior. This material is followed by a discussion of the socialization process, as well as the role of social relationships in middle childhood, and how these relationships impact the developmental process as well as are affected by the cultural context in which the relationships exist. Noted is the fact that there are several different kinds of social relationships, as well as different groups of people with whom these relationships exist. As an example of the former, individuals can be involved in a relationship where one provides protection and caregiving to a more dependent other, or where one assumes the role of teacher and the other of student, or where the two are equal partners in an exchange relationship. And, as an example of the latter, relationships include (although are not limited to) parents, siblings, and peers. Five different kinds of

INTRODUCTION Middle childhood, comprising the years from approximately 6 to 12, marks the transition from the safety of family to the challenges of the outside world. During earlier parts of the life span, infants and preschoolers are protected and nurtured, and the groundwork is laid for their ultimate ability to function more or less autonomously in the larger world. In middle childhood, the early groundwork is tested as children emerge into that larger world. Theoreticians have described these years in a variety of ways. Erik Erikson (1963), for example, pictured the period as one encompassing a sense of industry: Children become immersed in work (either school or other forms of labor), during the course of which they develop social competence or the ability to interact with others. For Harry Stack Sullivan (1953), middle childhood was characterized by a reduction in egocentrism, an increasing ability to take the perspective of others, and, ultimately, 243

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the development of a close and egalitarian relationship with a same-age friend. It was, according to Sullivan, this friendship that formed the basis of all later close relationships. The emphasis on friends appears as well in the thinking of Piaget (1932), who stressed the egalitarian relationship of peers as an important venue for appropriate resolution of conflict and social interaction. Piaget, of course, also highlighted cognitive changes in problem solving and logical and abstract thinking as significant advances during these years, with these changes having significant implications for the child’s ability to interact successfully with others. The emphasis on peer relationships should not be taken to mean that the influence of parents is appreciably diminished in middle childhood. During this time, children continue to need their parents to help them acquire skills they must ultimately have in order to operate on their own in the social world. Nor should this emphasis on peer influence be taken to mean that peers are not important before middle childhood. Given that more and more preschoolers are involved in peer group care, the influence of peers before middle childhood may well be increasing. The Accomplishments of Middle Childhood Changes in social and emotional functioning occur rapidly and more or less consistently across the years of middle childhood. Emotional knowledge and expression becomes more complex and differentiated. Very young children can display empathy or sympathetic distress, but only when the distressed person is present, whereas those in middle childhood can respond to other people’s general condition, as, for example, their poverty (Eisenberg, Losoya, & Spinrad, 2003). By about the age of 10 to 12 years, children begin to understand that people can experience two opposing emotions or opposite feelings at the same time (Harter, 2006). The ability to regulate emotion becomes more sophisticated, so that by school age children have a wider range of regulatory strategies (Denham et al., 2010). Awareness of the self and its characteristics is an essential part of social development during middle childhood. Young children describe themselves in terms of physical features, activities, abilities, preferences, and social characteristics (“I have a sister”). By middle childhood, they think in terms of their personalities and enduring characteristics, and they recognize that they can be different people in different situations. Additionally, they begin to make realistic appraisals of their own abilities in various domains, in contrast to younger children, who tend to see themselves positively on all dimensions (Harter, 2006).

Differences in how children think about themselves as psychological beings are also reflected in the way they think about other people, with evaluations during middle childhood moving from physical and other surface characteristics to psychological and personality attributes (Alvarez, Ruble, & Bolger, 2001). Children during this time also become better able to take the perspective of others, understanding how others are perceiving situations and how they are thinking and feeling (Selman, 2003): This is a critical ability for knowing how to interact successfully both with peers and with adults. Interestingly, as their cognitive understanding of others increases, the incidence of prejudice against groups to which they do not belong decreases. Younger children may think of outgroup members as bad, but this tendency decreases as they come to realize that, although people may differ in their outward appearance, they have similar inner attributes (Aboud, 2005). Finally, the quality and nature of relationships changes in middle childhood. Instrumental dependence on parents decreases. Issues around autonomy from parental influence become greater, a topic that will be dealt with later in this chapter. Peer interactions change in the form they take, moving from some degree of cooperative play at 5 years to a desire to be accepted by others as well as a wish for loyalty from friends and the opportunity for self-disclosure and intimacy (Rubin, Bukowski, & Parker, 2006). The changes that occur during middle childhood are the result of an intimate and complex interplay between biological and social factors that exists from the moment of conception. Indeed, one of the most exciting aspects of current social developmental research is the extent to which investigators are beginning to untangle many of these complexities. The understanding begins with a consideration of evolutionary forces and how the human species is prepared, as a result of its evolutionary history, to respond in particular ways to environmental events. It continues with a focus on individual differences within the human species and the study of how these differences affect social development. Increasingly, researchers are looking at neurological and hormonal effects with an eye to how these are affected by the child’s experience, as well as how they affect the child’s thought, affect, and behavior. Finally, a central piece of the puzzle is contained in the work of cultural psychologists, who focus on the role played in the child’s development by different values and practices that characterize different cultural settings. These different cultural settings or contexts influence the meaning that is assigned to a given experience; as a result,

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it is essential to understand the context in which events are experienced and to realize that the same event can have a very different impact on its recipient, depending on the situation in which it occurs.

FOUNDATIONS OF SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT We turn now to a discussion of the role of evolutionary forces and of genetic differences in social development and of the complex interplay that exists between these aspects of development and events experienced by the child. Evolution and Social Development Evolutionary theory holds that the brain is experienceexpectant; that is, that the human species has evolved over time to be particularly responsive to particular events. Natural selection, which underlies these evolved predispositions, favors individuals who are able to survive and reproduce. Thus it is these individuals who pass on their characteristics to the next generation and hence ensure that offspring with their traits make up a larger percentage of the population. Evolution, of course, shapes not only the physical features of a population but also behavioral features, such as decision-making abilities, aggression, fears, and mating patterns. Social behavior has evolved because problems relevant to survival, including protection of the young and obtaining food, are more easily solved in a group setting. And the social nature of human beings requires that they learn to understand how others are thinking and feeling in order to be able to interact more satisfactorily and to develop useful relationships that will aid in survival. An additional feature of human evolution promoting the development of relationships is the extreme dependency of the young at birth. This dependency comes about because the human birth canal is limited in size as a result of the human’s upright gait and because the human brain is ultimately very large relative to body size. As a result, the human gestational period has to be limited in length, with long-term care required after birth that extends up to and beyond the period of middle childhood. This long-term care requires the development of a strong relationship between parent and child in order for the child to acquire the cognitive and social abilities that facilitate societal functioning as well as simply to survive to maturity. In essence, then, biological constraints mean that early human learning, which is reflected in rapid neural

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growth postnatally, must take place in a context of relationships with other human beings, and particularly those who have greater experience than the child (Gauvain & Perez, 2007). Modern views of evolution focus on the continuous interaction between genes, gene expression, and environmental events. These so-called epigenetic processes are central in individual development (Gottlieb, 2003; Meaney, 2010). Accordingly, research on epigenesis has emphasized that the expression of genes in the course of development cannot occur independent of the environment in which those genes are operating (Moore, 2008; Meaney, 2010). As one example, female gerbil embryos that develop in a uterine environment where most of the adjoining male embryos are male will be exposed to relatively high levels of testosterone produced by those male embryos. As a result, the female will be delayed in her physical maturation, as well as display more aggressive and territorial behavior than a normal female. Moreover, she will produce litters with a greater than average number of males, so her daughters will also have more exposure to testosterone and the outcomes that accompany it. These ongoing changes account for changes over generations without actual alteration in genetic material, and they reflect the long-lasting effects of gene-by-environment interactions or the co-action of genetic and nongenetic factors (Clark & Galef, 1995). Evolutionary theory deals with species differences and how they determine universal reactions to environmental events. In contrast, behavior genetic theory addresses individual differences within a species and how these account for differences within that species in response to the same event. It is to the latter we now turn. Quantitative Behavior Genetics and Social Development Quantitative behavior geneticists have contributed substantially to the understanding of social development and the extent to which different features of behavior that occur in a population of individuals are genetically and environmentally mediated. The approach involves comparisons between sets of individuals who have different degrees of genetic overlap. These sets could be monozygotic and dyzygotic twins, parents and children, siblings and stepsiblings, adopted and biological children, and so on. The greatest number of studies have involved comparisons of identical and fraternal twins; the former have all their genes in common and the latter, on average in the general population, have half their genes in common.

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An important distinction made by behavior geneticists is the distinction between the shared and nonshared environment, and behavior genetic methodology allows a quantitative distinction between these two sources of individual differences. Thus the assumption is that both identical and fraternal twins, because they are the same age and growing up in the same household, share to a considerable degree a common environment (which includes not only the kind of child rearing they experience but also their reciprocal responding to each other’s actions). Because of this shared environment, any differences between identical and fraternal twins must be attributable to their different genetic predispositions and to features of the environment that they do not share. Once the correlation between identical and fraternal twins on the measure of the behavior of interest—intelligence, aggression, sociability, and the like—is known, it then becomes possible to determine the extent to which that behavior reflects genetic differences and environmental events, including those that are shared and those that are not. Limitations The behavior genetics approach is not without its limitations. An obvious one is the assumption that the environment shared by dyzygotic twins is as similar as that shared by monozygotic twins. Given that dyzygotic twins, even if they are of the same sex, are not identical to each other, this assumption is not entirely warranted: Dyzygotic twins no doubt elicit different reactions from those in their environment, including parents, as well as seek out different environments. Thus their environments, in fact, rapidly become dissimilar. Another caution arises from the fact that studies do not provide an estimate of the extent to which an outcome reflects the gene by environment interactions—the differential impact of an environmental event depending on genetic features of the individual—that are so pervasive in the course of development. These interactions are included under heritability coefficients, and therefore the amount of variance attributed to genetic mediation can be misleading. Yet another limitation is that quantitative behavior genetics studies are not informative with respect to individuals but, rather, yield information about a particular population of individuals. Accordingly, heritability coefficients vary depending on the nature of the population under investigation, as well as on the environment in which that population exists. Thus, the smaller the variability in the environment under investigation, the greater the influence attributed to genetic mediation; contrarily, the greater the variability in the environment, the smaller piece of the

puzzle that is left for hereditary influences. All these limitations must be kept in mind when trying to understand the roles of genes and experience during the course of development, including during middle childhood. Antisocial Behavior What does emerge from behavior genetics studies is the importance of environmental experiences as well as genetic differences in the course of development (Moffitt & Caspi, 2007). Many studies have addressed aggressive behavior, for example, with the conclusion that genetic processes, including gene by environment interactions, account for approximately only half the variation in a population in aggressive behavior (Moffitt & Caspi, 2007). Even when the impact of genetic similarities between parent and child is controlled, as well as the inclination of aggressive children to elicit negative parenting, the evidence still indicates that socialization experiences have an important role to play in the development of children’s aggressive behavior (Moffitt & Caspi, 2007). Another finding that emerges from the literature on aggressive behavior is that shared environmental experiences are considerable, unlike the case with most other human behavior traits (Kendler, Prescott, Myers, & Neale, 2003). Thus shared experiences such as parenting would seem to be more important in the case of aggression than nonshared experiences such as the impact of different peer groups. Such a finding indicates that the same socialization experiences can have different effects depending on the behavior under consideration. Prosocial Behavior Studies of prosocial behaviors, such as helping, comforting, and sharing, have indicated that, in the populations sampled, the importance of genetic mediation increases with age. Thus, while heritability coefficients range from 0% to 30–40% for preschoolers (Knafo & Plomin, 2006; Zahn-Waxler, Robinson, & Emde, 1992; Zahn-Waxler, Schiro, Robinson, Emde, & Schmitz, 2001), they increase thereafter, ranging from 51% to 72% at age 7. Additionally, the influence of shared environment decreases in middle childhood, for several reasons. These include the fact that children in this age group spend more time outside the family and are able to seek out environments that support their genetic predispositions. As well, cognitive skills that are required for increasingly sophisticated prosocial behavior, such as the ability to take the perspective of others, are developing in middle childhood, and these skills have a strong genetic component (Knafo & Plomin, 2006; Knafo & Israel, 2010). A similar pattern

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of change is suggested in work on task persistence, with demonstrations that similarity in the ability of twins to attend to and self-regulate their own behavior shifts from shared environmental influences in early childhood to genetic influences in middle childhood (Deater-Deckard, Petrill, Thompson, & DeThorne, 2006). Molecular Behavior Genetics Recent advances in gene research have enabled investigation of the role of specific genes in various aspects of social behavior. The first major discovery involved the identification of monoamine oxidase A (MAOA), a gene that codes for the enzyme that breaks down serotonin, a transmitter that is found at reduced levels in antisocial individuals. Either alone or in interaction with negative aspects of parenting, MAOA has been shown to predict antisocial behavior (Caspi et al., 2002; Kim-Cohen et al., 2006). Other genes such as 5HTT, BDNF, and NOTCH4 have also been linked to antisocial behavior (Raine, 2008). Genes associated with dopamine receptors predict conscientiousness (Dragan & Oniszczenko, 2007), and those linked to oxytocin and arginine vasopressin hormones—which are associated with social traits such as social bonding and affiliation—predict children’s prosocial behavior (Knafo et al., 2008). Various aspects of social competence such as sociability, face recognition, emotion recognition, and theory of mind have also been associated with a variety of different genes affecting different neurochemical systems (Iarocci, Yager, & Elfers, 2007). The picture is not a simple one. In most cases of social behavior, there are many genes involved (Chakrabarti et al. [2009] note that 19 genes have been associated with adult’s self-reported empathy). Moreover, there are interactions among genes as well as interactions between genes and the environment. In addition, as noted above, different genes associated with different social behaviors are activated at different points in time. Temperament by Parenting Interactions The fact of biological and experiential interaction is highlighted by yet another area of study, that of temperament by experience interactions. Investigators have found repeatedly that the effects of different features of parenting, the form of experience that has received the most attention, are quite frequently moderated by temperament, an aspect of child behavior with a large genetic component (Rothbart & Bates, 2006). Temperament, although

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it can be modified to some extent by life experiences, generally is viewed as a biologically based, early appearing, and relatively stable feature of individual responses to emotionally salient stimuli and of self-regulation of those responses. Three aspects of temperament have received the most research attention. The first is fear or inhibition, which connotes initial withdrawal and slow adaptation to novel situations or those situations that might carry risk. Second is difficult temperament or negative emotionality, which is characterized by irritability and negative reactions to somatic discomfort, overstimulation, and frustration. Third is self-regulation, or high levels of effortful control and low levels of impulsivity, unmanageability, and resistance to control. The bulk of studies of temperament by parenting interaction effects have been conducted with toddlers and preschoolers (Belsky & Pluess, 2009). As well, however, investigators continue to report temperament by parenting interactions into middle childhood (e.g., Morris et al., 2002; Oldehinkel, Veenstra, Ormel, Winter, & Verhulst, 2006; Stice & Gonzales, 1998; Xu, Farver, & Zhang, 2009). Although findings are not always consistent, they generally suggest that children who have a negative temperament—fearfulness, difficultness, and low levels of self-regulation—are more adversely affected by problematic parenting than are those with more positive temperament features. Of particular interest is the further suggestion that children with a negative temperament are particularly positively affected by good parenting. Lengua (2008) provides a good example of the latter. In a longitudinal study of children between 8 and 12 years of age, she found that children who were prone to frustration and who perceived their mothers as rejecting increased in externalizing problems over time, whereas those who saw their mothers as not rejecting actually decreased in externalizing problems relative to those who were not prone to frustration. The nature of various interactions is complex. It no doubt depends on the particular parenting practice under consideration as well as the child outcome variable of interest—as we shall argue later in this chapter, there are many varieties of good and bad parenting, with quite different outcomes. As well, there are seeming anomalies in results. Sentse, Veenstra, Lindenberg, Verhulst, & Ormel (2009), for example, found that low parental warmth was linked to positive outcomes for children high in fear, and Arcus (2001) found that the difficult children of highly controlling parents had fewer internalizing problems. There is still much to be learned about these interactions between temperament and parenting (as well as other

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environmental events), but it is abundantly clear that they must be acknowledged and elaborated before an adequate understanding of social development can be achieved. Although, as noted above, most studies have focused on parenting, some studies have extended the inquiry to the effect of SES whose impact also seems to be moderated by features of temperament (Sentse, et al., 2009; Veenstra, Lidenberg, Oldehinkel, De Winter, & Ormel, 2006). SES and other forms of experience will continue to be objects of investigation as researchers pursue their understanding of children’s social development.

SOCIALIZATION PROCESSES AND SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS We turn now to a more detailed discussion of the role of socialization experiences in social development. Socialization refers to the process by which individuals are helped to become successfully functioning members of their various social groups and occurs across the life span as individuals enter and leave various membership groups. This chapter focuses on socialization in middle childhood and on preparation for entrance into the responsibilities of adolescence and adulthood. Socialization Is Bidirectional It is important to note that socialization is not a oneway street, with agents of socialization transmitting their values and attitudes, in the present case, to children in middle childhood. Rather, those being socialized take the information they receive from outside sources and construct their own set of beliefs and values. They seek out environments that are attractive, particularly as they grow older and have more freedom from parental control, and thereby self-select experiences (Kuczynski, 2003). As well, they elicit often unintentional behaviors from others that may interfere with successful socialization. Compelling examples of the latter are provided by Patterson and his colleagues (e.g., Patterson, Reid, & Dishion, 1998). They have documented the vicious circles that develop between mothers and their aggressive children, whereby mothers make a demand the child finds aversive, the child responds negatively, the mother backs off, and the child wins in the exchange by not having to accede to maternal direction. Moreover, as the mothers fail to gain compliance, their self-confidence declines, and they become even more inept in their behavior management strategies.

The Role of Perception and Meaning in Socialization Traditionally, socialization theorists have focused primarily on the role of parents in socialization and on parenting styles and parenting practices as determinants of children’s socioemotional outcomes. Accordingly, it has been concluded that effective or successful parents are, among other things, sensitive and responsive to their children’s needs; accepting; not intrusive or harsh; and relying on reasoning rather than punitive interventions (Barber, 2002; Baumrind, 1971; Hoffman, 1983; Lamborn, Mounts, Steinberg, & Dornbusch, 1991; Maccoby, 2007). A lack of consistent research findings, however, and the frequent observation of interactions between parenting behaviors and features of the child (such as temperament, age, gender, and mood) and situation (such as type of behavior being socialized) have led to refinements of this traditional approach. Grusec and Goodnow (1994), for example, argued that internalization of parental values was a function of the child’s accurate perception of the parental message and the child’s acceptance of the message, with the latter determined by variables such as the child’s perception of the parent’s fairness and good intention. In a similar vein, Darling and Steinberg (1993) suggested that parenting practices take on different meanings as a function of the context provided by parenting styles. The importance of perception and meaning in socialization has been further developed in cultural research emphasizing the context in which parent socialization takes place. A number of studies indicate that the effects of authoritarian parenting are less harmful in some cultures than they are in Western European cultures (e.g., Darling & Steinberg, 1993; Deater-Deckard, Dodge, Bates, & Pettit, 1996; Lansford et al., 2005). One explanation is that children see harsh parenting as more benign and fair when it is done in a context where it is normative and where it is viewed as a training technique rather than as an expression of negative affect. Fung and Lau (2009), for example, found that children of immigrant Chinese mothers who believed that punitive discipline was a reflection of parental responsibility to instill appropriate conduct in an atmosphere of genuine concern were buffered against the negative impact of harsh discipline. And Rudy and Grusec (2006) reported that negative parenting cognitions and emotions were associated with authoritarian parenting in individualist cultures but not in collectivist cultures (specifically, Egypt, Iran, Pakistan, and India). The importance of children’s perceptions and the meaning children attach to parenting actions, then, has led to the position that analyses of socialization practices need

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to move beyond specific parenting practices, taking into account how parenting actions are interpreted (responsive and fair or unresponsive and unfair, for example) and recognizing that this interpretation depends on a variety of factors, including the child’s developmental status, temperament, and gender and the cultural context. Parents’ understanding of the child’s perceptions is essential in order that the appropriate intervention can be selected.

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and reciprocity or exchange benefits one’s own reproductive success (Hamilton, 1964). Further elaboration of these domains can be found in Bugental (2000), Bugental and Grusec (2006), and Grusec and Davidov (2010), including their biological underpinnings. In the remainder of this chapter we will focus on socialization in the five domains in middle childhood, noting that different mechanisms operate in each domain and that the behavior of the socializing agent must therefore be specific to the particular need or state of the child.

SOCIAL RELATIONSHIPS AND SOCIAL DEVELOPMENT: A DOMAIN APPROACH SOCIALIZATION BY PARENTS Sex, age, temperament, and culture are all significant moderators of the relation between socializing behavior and child outcome. We now describe another significant moderator of socializing effectiveness, namely, the nature of the currently activated relationship between the child and the agent of socialization. We discuss this in the context of the parent-child dyad and then move to the sibling dyad and the peer dyad. Agents of socialization can have many qualitatively different relationships with children, with each of these relationships requiring a particular intervention and linked to a particular child outcome. This domain approach to socialization has been elaborated by Bugental (2000) and Grusec and Davidov (2010). The latter proposed five domains of socialization or forms of relationship: (1) protection, in which a caregiver responds to the distress of a care recipient; (2) reciprocity, in which two individuals of equal power exchange resources; (3) control, in which an authority figure aims to modify the behavior of a less powerful figure, often through the use of discipline involving rewards and punishments; (4) guided learning, in which a teacher imparts information to a student; and (5) group participation, in which one dyad member provides opportunities for the other dyad member to observe and take part in cultural practices. It must be emphasized that different responses are needed by socialization agents depending on the domain in which children are functioning. If, for example, children are crying because they are distressed, they need to be comforted, but if they are crying because they cannot have their own way, they need to be disciplined. If they misbehave because they do not know their action is wrong, they need to be taught, but if they misbehave knowingly, they need to be disciplined. Domains are proposed to be universal because they have evolved to solve problems experienced in the human environment of evolutionary adaptedness (Bugental, 2000). Protection of the inexperienced, for example, is necessary for survival,

Parents remain significant agents of socialization throughout middle childhood. Their efforts can be seen in each of the five domains. Protection Domain Children whose parents respond in an appropriate way to their distress or need for protection develop a sense of security that others will be there to support them in case of need. They also learn how to cope with their own distress, as well as to be appropriately responsive to distress in others (Eisenberg, Fabes, & Spinrad, 2006). The latter is reflected in high levels of empathy, an emotion that contributes to the expression of prosocial behavior or concern for others (Roberts & Strayer, 1996). The ability to be empathic is closely linked to and a result of the ability to regulate one’s own level of distress. This emotional self-regulation frees the individual’s cognitive resources to focus on the needs of another, rather than leaving that individual to be overwhelmed by distress to the self. And when personal distress is high, children are more likely to try to escape from a situation in which others need assistance than to do something to improve that situation (Eisenberg, Fabes, and Murphy, 1995). High levels of empathy, or being able to understand and respond to the distress of others, are also important in reducing the incidence of antisocial behavior, because the impact of one’s own hurtful actions on the welfare of others is more easily comprehended (Hoffman, 1983). Stress-Response Systems Considerable research has assessed the impact of lack of appropriate responsiveness to the child’s distress on the development of the hypothalamic pituitary adrenocortical axis (HPA axis). Activation of this system, when the child is distressed or threatened, is accompanied by elevated

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levels of the hormone cortisol. Appropriate levels of activation of the system enable adaptive responsiveness to dangers in the environment, but too much activation leads to chronically elevated levels of cortisol, with a whole series of negative outcomes including anxiety, depression, and developmental delay (Gunnar, 2000). The effects of early parenting that leave a child with high levels of unreduced stress continue into middle childhood and beyond. Gunnar, Morison, Chisholm, and Schuder (2001), for example, studied 6- to 12-year-old children who had been reared in Romanian orphanages but adopted when they were very young. Most of the children had significantly higher cortisol levels many years later than did children who had not experienced the early serious parenting deprivation experienced by the Romanian orphans, even though they were now living in supportive environments. Similarly, Wismer-Fries, Shirtcliff, and Pollak (2008) found that when adopted Romanian orphans interacted physically with their adoptive mothers (e.g., playing, touching) their levels of cortisol increased, unlike those of children reared by their biological parents, an indication that interactions with adoptive parents, who presumably were operating appropriately in the protection domain, were nevertheless stressful. The Importance of Parental Knowledge As in all areas of functioning, children in the protection domain react differently to the same environmental event. Thus children differ in what they find stressful and in what they find comforting. Sensitive parenting in the protection domain, then, requires some knowledge of when children are distressed and what they find comforting. Accordingly, Vinik, Almas, and Grusec (2011) asked 9- to 12-year-old children what events they found distressing and what their mothers could do to make them feel less anxious. Mothers were asked to predict how their children would respond to the interviewer’s questions. Vinik and colleagues found that the children of mothers who were able to predict accurately what their children reported as distressing were better able to cope with stress. In addition, mothers’ knowledge of what was comforting for children who were prone to distress predicted their children’s ability to cope well. As well, in both cases, mothers’ knowledge predicted children’s prosocial behavior in the classroom as reported by their teachers. Presumably, mothers who were knowledgeable were better able to help their children respond to stress than were those who had less information with which to work. In a follow-up study of the same children, Sherman, Grusec, and Almas (2011) reported that those children whose mothers knew what they found

comforting increased in their coping ability from two years ago, an indication of a causal relation between knowledge and coping. However, this was true only for mothers who were less likely to be totally accepting of their children’s behavior and who presumably were more likely to try to affect change. Reciprocity Domain The reciprocity domain is characterized by an egalitarian relationship between parent and child, whereby one accommodates the wishes of the other. This accommodation can take the form of specific exchange of favors as well as nonconditional mutuality as in play. When parents respond to the reasonable requests and bids for attention of their children, the latter, in turn, become more likely to reciprocate parents’ compliant behavior. The two dyad members thereby come to have a common goal and so cooperation is maximized. Exchanging or sharing of positive affect also often characterizes these reciprocal interactions, possibly because the mutual attunement of goals can be highly pleasing for both interaction partners (Kochanska, 2002; Parpal & Maccoby, 1985). Kochanska and her colleagues (e.g., Kochanska & Aksan, 1995; Kochanska & Murray, 2000) reported that mutually compliant and harmonious relationships during preschool years were associated with an increase in children’s compliance with rules of behavior during early school years. In middle childhood, existing studies suggest that similar associations are the case. Thus, positively responsive and interconnected relationships between mothers and boys have been found to predict less dyadic conflict and decreased likelihood of engagement in antisocial behavior (Criss, Shaw, & Ingoldsby, 2003). In a study of 7- to 9-year-olds that included Anglo- and Indian-British families as well as mothers and fathers, Deater-Deckard, Atzaba-Poria, and Pike (2004) assessed mutuality, in the form of responsiveness, cooperation, and joint attention, as well as shared positive affect, such as smiling and laughing. These investigators found that mothers and Anglo-British participants showed more mutuality than fathers and Indian-British participants, and that children showed moderately similar mutuality with both their parents. For both boys and girls and ethnic groups, higher levels of mutuality were predictive of fewer externalizing problems. Control Domain The most researched area in socialization is that of parental control of children’s behavior. In the control

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domain, the relationship between parent and child is a hierarchical one, with parents attempting to direct or modify behavior that they deem undesirable. To do this, they use a variety of resources—material, social, and physical. Different analyses of socialization place differing amounts of emphasis on the salience of these resources in promoting desired actions. Some (e.g., Patterson & Fisher, 2002) emphasize the role of contingent reinforcement in maintaining behavior, arguing that actions that are controlled in this way become habitual through repetition. In some cultures, emphasis is placed on the role of the child’s respect for authority or sense of duty to parents as a motivator for desired action (Schwartz, 1994). And, finally, an outcome that has been particularly emphasized by developmental researchers is self-regulation, or the internalization of values independent of external pressures. Forms of Control Working within the self-regulation framework, researchers have identified a variety of different forms of control. These include authoritarian control, marked by a failure to share decision-making power with the child and the assumption that parents are infallible, and authoritative control, characterized by firm control but accompanied by parental sensitivity to the wishes of the child. The latter is associated with higher levels of self-regulation and social competence than the former (Baumrind, 1971). More recently researchers have distinguished between psychological and behavioral control, with the former involving attempts to influence the child’s emotional state through guilt induction, withdrawal of love, and intrusiveness, and the latter involving the setting and enforcement of reasonable rules in a way that is supportive of the child’s autonomy (Barber, 2002; Steinberg, 1990). The children of psychologically controlling parents display internalizing problems such as anxiety, depression, and low self-esteem, whereas those of parents who are low in behavioral control display externalizing problems (Barber, 2002; Crouter & Head, 2002). In a complementary approach, researchers have identified forms of discipline (or control) that parents use, concluding that strongly power assertive and harsh interventions, such as corporal punishment, mitigate against children’s adoption of parental values and standards (Maccoby, 2007). The use of the term “control” has led to confusion because investigators operationalize it in different ways. In an attempt to reduce the level of confusion, Grolnick and Pomerantz (2009) proposed a distinction between control and structure. They suggest that control be characterized by parental pressure and intrusiveness, with children

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forced to meet demands and with parents solving problems for their children rather than allowing them some involvement in the solution. Low levels of control would include support of children’s autonomy by taking their perspective and encouraging them to take initiative and solve problems on their own. Structure, they propose, should refer to the provision of clear and consistent guidelines and expectations for behavior, with predictable consequences for actions. There is a parallel in this differentiation with Grusec and Goodnow’s (1994) distinction between the provision of clear messages (structure) and acceptance of those messages (control). However it is conceptualized, research suggests that children learn to regulate their own behavior when there is some minimal level of pressure for compliance accompanied by a perception that the parental demand is a reasonable and fair one and that their feelings of autonomy or appropriate choice are not being violated (Bugental & Grusec, 2006; Grusec & Goodnow, 1994; Lepper, 1983). The necessity for some degree of pressure is reflected in a meta-analysis by Hoeve, Dubas, Eichelsheim, van der Laan, Smeenk, & Gerris (2009), who found that parents’ monitoring of their children’s whereabouts and activities was a strong predictor of delinquent behavior, whereas there was little impact of open communication; that is, trust, acceptance, love, caring, and warmth. In other words, warmth and openness by themselves do not inhibit antisocial behavior, but need to be accompanied by some form of subtle pressure. Discipline, Its Meaning, and Parental Knowledge Although harsh discipline techniques such as corporal punishment frequently are associated with negative outcomes such as aggression and anxiety (Gershoff, 2002), there is considerable debate about the nature of the linkage, not least because the majority of studies finding negative outcomes are correlational in nature. In a recent report, Baumrind, Larzelere, and Owens (2010) did find that children who had received severe physical punishment when they were preschoolers exhibited social and emotional problems when they were adolescents. However, those who received milder and more normative physical punishment did not appear to be negatively affected by their discipline history. Additional insight is provided by studies that have compared the effects of harsh discipline in countries that vary in the normativeness of its use. Thus Gershoff and colleagues (2010), using data from children 8 to 12 years of age, found that when the children perceived the discipline technique—corporal punishment, yelling, and scolding—to be normative, they were less likely to display aggression and anxiety. Perceptions of

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normativeness also moderated the link between parents’ expressions of disappointment in the child and children’s anxiety. Interestingly, normativeness was not a moderator of more positive forms of discipline. In additional cross-cultural comparisons, perceptions of maternal hostility have been identified as a mediator between physical discipline and harsh verbal discipline and children’s aggression and anxiety (Lansford et al., 2010). These data again speak to the centrality of children’s perceptions of the meaning of discipline and the importance of parental knowledge. With respect to the latter, Davidov and Grusec (2006) asked mothers to predict how their 6- to 9-yearolds would rate a variety of discipline techniques on a number of dimensions, including fairness and effectiveness. They were then asked to get their children to clean up a playroom. For those children who failed to comply with the request, more knowledgeable mothers were able to gain subsequent compliance. Reactions to Parental Anger The anger that is frequently associated with discipline can be frightening, particularly if it is intense and threatening. Thus it gives rise to cognitive and physical events associated with responses to threat, including increased vigilance and preparation either for escape or for counteraggression. Pollak and his colleagues have demonstrated some of the differences in information-processing exhibited by children who have been physically abused compared to those who have not. Maltreated children display wider boundaries for what they identify as angry faces (Pollak & Kistler, 2002), can identify angry facial expressions using much less perceptual information (Pollak & Sinha, 2002), devote more attentional resources to the processing of angry faces (Pollak, Cicchetti, Klorman, & Brumaghim, 1997; Pollak, Klorman, Thatcher, & Ciccetti, 2001), and have greater difficulty in disengaging their attention from angry faces (Pollak & Tolley-Schell, 2003). Thus their experience with abuse makes them more sensitive to events that might be a signal for trouble. Guided Learning Domain In the guided learning domain, parents teach children about the rules and values of the social group: Using their greater wisdom and experience, they impart information to the child. An important feature of successful guided learning is that it occurs within the child’s zone of proximal development; that is, problems are presented that are just moderately beyond the child’s current level of functioning (Vygotsky, 1978). As a result of the ensuing dialogue,

children come to internalize the language of the more knowledgeable teacher, thereby acquiring a more developed understanding of the issue at hand. It has been suggested that many common practices of moral and character education involve guided learning (Turner & Berkowitz, 2005), and Grusec and Davidov (2010) have argued that internalization of societal values and standards is particularly likely to occur in this domain because discussion promotes a deep understanding of the relevant issue in a way that is less likely to happen in other domains of socialization. Additionally, Thompson (1994) has pointed out that the kind of calm discussion that occurs in the context of dialogue between parent and child is more likely to lead to values learning than the more heated exchange of the discipline situation. In the latter situation, both members of the dyad are distracted from the message about values, and cognitive resources that might otherwise be used for complex discussion are depleted as the dyad focuses on the anger being generated and/or its regulation. Research demonstrating the importance of guided learning in the development of moral values comes from a longitudinal study by Walker, Hennig, and Krettanauer (2000), who observed mothers and children talking about real-life moral dilemmas. They found that when the discussion involved lecturing and affective conflict it was detrimental to children’s developing notions of morality. But, when it involved supportive Socratic dialogue, paraphrasing, and checks for comprehension, and a positive affective atmosphere, it stimulated their moral thinking, producing higher rates of moral growth. The importance of conversation and dialogue is further underlined by Vinik, Johnston, Grusec, and Farrell (2011), who asked university students to report on a time when they had learned an important value. The most frequent precipitating event for the students was their own wrongdoing. However, conversations also comprised a substantial source of value learning. Of particular interest was the finding that those values acquired during conversations were more highly internalized, as indexed by importance and current impact, than values acquired in any other context, including that involving discipline. Group Participation Domain Socialization in the group participation domain utilizes the fact that children have an inherent desire to be part of their social group. Accordingly, they want to act like members of the group, as well as use membership in the group as a way of understanding their own particular identity (Fiese, 2006). The dyadic relationship in

Social Development and Social Relationships in Middle Childhood

the group participation domain is that of members of a common social group, with parents and other group members helping children understand who and what they are. Parents provide models of behavior, manage children’s environment so they are exposed to other models who are considered to be appropriate exemplars of group norms, and promote routines and rituals for the family that reflect normative expectations (Grusec & Davidov, 2010). Unlike the other domains, socialization in the group participation domain involves only exposure to or inclusion in group practices. Nevertheless, it is a potent source of training in a variety of social behaviors, including the many social conventions that guide the lives of the group. The form of learning that comes through participation and routines is a powerful one, because expectations for what is appropriate behavior do not receive close examination, and they are thus somewhat protected from articulation or change (Bourdieu, 1977). Herein lies a danger, however, because if these group practices are questioned, they are easier to reject than are ideas acquired in the guided learning domain, which are more likely to be internalized and seen as chosen by the self. Observational Learning Observational learning, one component of the group participation domain, is an important mechanism of behavior change in Western European cultures and even more so in other cultural contexts where formal schooling and guided learning are less the norm (Rogoff et al., 2007). The effects of observational learning can be seen in all manner of social behaviors in which children engage. It impacts their emotional lives as well. Denham, Bassett, and Wyatt (2007) have provided an extensive overview of how parents, through modeling, affect children’s expression of both positive and negative emotions, provide knowledge about the functioning of emotions, and influence children’s ability to regulate their own emotional states. The discovery of motor neurons has provided a neurological base for this form of learning. These are nerve cells that fire both when an individual performs an act as well as when that individual sees another person perform the same act, so that it is as though the observer is performing that action him or herself. Studies using fMRI, for example, have demonstrated that individuals who observe another person’s physical actions display activation of their own motor cortex (Iacoboni & Dapretto, 2006). Routines and Rituals Routines are day-to-day activities that promote family functioning. Rituals are less frequent occurrences that

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have symbolic value (e.g., family celebrations). The evidence suggests that children who participate in these sorts of events experience better socioemotional outcomes (Parke & Clarke-Stewart, 2011). Joint Play Parents who spend time in activities with their children also foster socialization in the group participation domain. Dubas and Gerris (2002), for example, in a longitudinal study of Dutch children ranging in age from 9 to 16 years, found that the more time fathers spent with their children doing something together such as eating or watching television, the less the amount of conflict experienced by the dyad. Although joint play might seem to have some features of mutual reciprocity, it appears that reciprocity is, in fact, not a major component of joint play in wellfunctioning families. Rather, parents of children with conduct problems are more likely to let their children take the lead in activities, in contrast to those of children without problems who are more likely to initiate and organize activities (Gardner, 1994).

SOCIALIZATION BY PEERS We move now to a discussion of domains as they can be applied to an understanding of how peers act as agents of socialization. Although there are differences in the extent to which particular domains are activated, for reasons to be outlined below, the domain framework continues to offer a way of organizing research findings. The commencement of full-day school attendance is a major feature of the beginning of middle childhood. Although some infants and toddlers are cared for outside of the home, these children are still in the minority. In the United States, only 23% of children consistently attend organized daycare before age 5 (Laughlin, 2010), and in Canada the figure is 30% (Bushnik, 2006). School entry thus creates an abrupt shift in the nature of the people with whom children interact most frequently. At this stage, all children begin to spend a great many hours per week with their peers, and this amount of interaction only increases with age as more recreational activities with friends are initiated. Not surprisingly, peers become a major agent of socialization during middle childhood, and their influence on social development rivals that of parents (McHale, Dariotis, & Kauh, 2003). The way that children influence each other’s development differs from the way that parents influence their children’s development. Unlike parents, children have the

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flexibility to choose the peers with whom they interact and build relationships. Peer interactions also frequently take place in groups, involving the characteristics of each individual and all of their dyadic relationships (Bukowski, Brendgen, & Vitaro, 2007). For all these reasons, the goals of each child in a peer interaction are frequently different from the goals that children and parents have when they interact with each other. However, as will be discussed, there are many instances when a peer’s role is very similar to that of a parent. Primary concerns of children in middle childhood are being liked by their peers and belonging to a group (Gottman & Mettetal, 1986). Across middle childhood, children also develop deeper emotional bonds with their friends than those established in the preschool years. Protection Domain The defining characteristic of the protection domain is that an individual in distress seeks another figure for security and comfort. Although this type of supportive interaction is most often attributed to the parent-child relationship, peers also provide security and comfort to each other, and it is across middle childhood that friendship bonds having this quality first appear. Relative to parents, the importance of peers as sources of comfort and protection appears to be increasing. While 9- to 12-year-old children 30 years ago reported that their parents were better at helping them with their problems than their friends were (Hunter & Youniss, 1982), at the present time children of the same age view their parents and friends as comparable in their abilities to provide emotional support (Bokhorst, Sumter, & Westenberg, 2010). It remains to be seen whether this is a real historical trend, with parents either becoming less supportive or peers becoming more supportive. It is clear, however, that in middle childhood children can and do act as supportive and kind figures to friends in distress. Friends as Support for Peer Victimization Bullying is a major concern in this developmental period. Accordingly, it is one of the main issues for which victimized children seek the help and comfort of their friends, with this help- and comfort-seeking increasing as children mature. While only 50% of bullied 9- to 10-year olds report talking to a peer in order to feel better, at age 11 to 12, 80% of children who have experienced peer victimization report they will seek the comfort of a friend (Hunter, Boyle, & Warden, 2004). Friends are valuable sources of comfort in response to the emotional

distress that accompanies being the victim of bullying in middle childhood. It is not surprising that chronically victimized children display more internalizing (e.g., anxiety, depression) and externalizing (e.g., aggression, disruptiveness) behaviors than their nonvictimized peers (Boivin, Hymel, & Bukowski, 1995; Hodges & Perry, 1999). Fourth and fifth graders who have a best friend who sticks up for them, however, do not display expected increases in internalizing or externalizing behavior one year later (Hodges, Boivin, Vitaro, & Bukowski, 1999). Unfortunately, observations of playground activity reveal that peers intervene in only 12% of all bullying episodes (Craig & Pepler, 1997). Which Children Comfort and Protect Others? Unlike the parent-child relationship, where caregivers have a responsibility to ensure that their children’s emotional needs are met, peers have no real obligation in this area. With this observation in mind, one can ask why some children are more likely to be caring toward their peers. Less frequent displays of negative emotions (e.g., anxiety, sadness, frustration) in the classroom and at home are an attribute that predicts which children will be nominated by their classmates as likely to spontaneously help and share with other children who are in need (Eisenberg et al., 1996). It may be that children who are less easily upset are more available to recognize and sensitively attend to the distress of others. Another predictor of helpful and kind behavior is children’s social status. While not all popular children are caring (Rodkin, Farmer, Pearl, & Van Acker, 2000), members of influential peer groups are more likely to be identified by their classmates as helpful and kind (Ellis & Zarbatany, 2007). Reciprocity Domain In the reciprocity domain, members of a dyad try to comply with one another’s needs and wishes in order to develop a relationship of mutual cooperation. In this relationship, there is an exchange of positive affect because the reciprocal compliance that emerges is genuine, voluntary, and pleasurable (Kochanska, 2002). Considerable peer socialization during middle childhood goes on in the reciprocity domain, as children have multiple opportunities to enjoy time together: They want to play with their peers, work cooperatively together, and form stable friendships. All these goals require social and cognitive skills that allow them to understand and respond to peer demands and so become more attuned to one another. Particularly, advances in perspective-taking skills

Social Development and Social Relationships in Middle Childhood

during middle childhood enable children to accurately understand each other’s behaviors and to perceive relationship qualities from their partners’ viewpoints (Kurdek, 1980). This mutual understanding promotes attunement in social interactions and the resulting exchange of positive affect. Cooperative Play and Cooperative Learning Play is the context in which children most often interact with their peers and, as they grow older, they start to engage in more complex types of play (Cillesen & Bellmore, 2004). When children are successful in playing and working cooperatively, it is presumably because their social competence and their willingness to accommodate each other allow them to accomplish their common goals. A number of studies show the multiple benefits of cooperative work. Smith, Boulton, and Cowie (1993) found that participating in cooperative learning groups during an academic year increased 8- and 9-year-old children’s liking of each other at the end of the year. R. Johnson and D. Johnson (1979) found better performance on academic tasks such as problem solving and knowledge acquisition in 10-year-old children who were in a cooperative setting, as opposed to those who were in either individualistic or competitive settings. And Gillies and Ashman (1998) showed that children perform better when working in a structured cooperative learning setting than when working in groups in which no guidelines for cooperation have been provided. These findings suggest that cooperation is not only important for harmonious relations with peers and friends, but that it also promotes positive outcomes in other areas of development. Friendships Children’s increasing interest in forming friendships and their increasing social competence each facilitate the establishment of more intimate and mutual relationships during middle childhood (Rubin et al., 2006). Symmetrical reciprocity (giving and taking in a broad sense) is one of the main expectations of friendships across different ages, as children both offer and expect in return loyalty, trustworthiness, sympathy, and selfdisclosure (Hartup & Abecassis, 2004). Friendships are by definition voluntary and, if they are long-lasting, it is presumably because each partner has learned to cooperate with the other’s needs and requests, thereby developing a situation of genuine mutual compliance. Indeed, research indicates that children who have close mutual friendships become part of groups more easily, engage in more cooperative play, are more prosocial,

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are more sociable, and have fewer peer conflicts than those children who do not have these types of friendships (Howes, 1989). Control Domain In the control domain, the relationship between dyad members is hierarchical as one member attempts to modify another’s behavior to make it more acceptable by group standards. An important activity of the peer group during middle childhood is encouraging adherence to group norms (Juvonen & Galv´an, 2008). Just as parents do, peers may also play the role of authority figures within their group by encouraging values or norms (not necessarily moral or generally acceptable in the wider world) that they assume are more adequate for maintaining harmony and social status within the group (Wentzel, 1994). Peer pressure is an active attempt by peers to modify each other’s behaviors. Children can reinforce behavior by praising and having positive reactions, or they can punish or display disapproval of behaviors that they do not consider appropriate (Parke & Clarke-Stewart, 2011). Exerting Antisocial Influence Peer pressure and children’s tendencies to engage in antisocial behavior are some of the best documented links in the peer influence literature; peer pressure is the strongest predictor of delinquency after childhood emotional and behavioral problems (Sullivan, 2006). Children can exert their pressure by criticizing or excluding each other when they fail to comply with specific requests (e.g., teasing others, hurting others). A common way of exerting control through antisocial means is bullying. Bullying usually occurs when there is an imbalance of power between the victimizer and the victim, and it may start as a way of manifesting disapproval toward a child who is different. Research suggests that when peers enable or maintain bullying, even though they are not the perpetrators, its effects are particularly negative. K¨arn¨a, Voeten, Poskiparta, and Salmivalli (2010), for example, found that the links between bullying and its two risk factors of social anxiety and peer rejection were strongest in classrooms where bullying was reinforced and its victims were unlikely to be defended. Observations of schoolyard activity reveal that children reinforce bullies’ behaviors in 81% of all bullying episodes (Craig & Pepler, 1997), so the incidence of support for bullying seems quite high. Although in some cases bullying is approved by the social norms of the

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group (Pozzoli & Gini, 2010), favorable attitudes toward bullying are usually not shared by the majority of children. This suggests that some children reinforce or engage in this behavior solely because it is expected of them, and not because they think it is correct (Rigby & Johnson, 2006). Exerting Prosocial Influence Unlike antisocial behaviors, there is little research on the link between peer pressure and children’s tendencies to engage in prosocial behavior. Rigby and Johnson’s (2006) finding that the strongest predictor of children’s expressed intention to intervene in the case of bullying was the belief that their friends expected them to do so does suggest that peer influence can be important in promoting prosocial action. Guided Learning Domain In the domain of guided learning, interactions become instructional in nature when one individual intentionally teaches another some specific skill or ability. Among children in middle childhood, this type of exchange can typically be found in the classroom setting. A unique characteristic of guided learning between peers is that it involves two individuals of similar competence and ability. This differs considerably from the type of guided learning provided by adults. Teaching Moral Reasoning The socialization of moral maturity is one area where parents and peers have been compared. The supportive and positive Socratic speech previously discussed as important to parent-child interactions can be equally effective in a peer context, with children who have conversed together in a supportive manner more likely to show higher rates of development of moral reasoning over a four-year period (Walker et al., 2000). Interactions where one partner has a negative tone and interferes with the coherence of the conversation, however, have opposite effects depending on the child’s partner. While these types of interactions are not associated with the development of moral reasoning in parent-child dyads, they do strengthen moral development when they occur in the peer context (Walker et al., 2000). This finding demonstrates another benefit of the more generally egalitarian nature of the peer relationship for guided learning, with more egalitarian relationships between peers allowing for greater expression of conflict than the more frequently asymmetrical relationships with parents.

Teaching Cognitive Skills In the school setting, peer-guided learning is especially important for children’s cognitive development. While it may not always be ideal, there are advantages to children acting as tutors to other children, primarily because they are closer in their abilities to those other children and therefore more attuned to their difficulties (Webb & Farivar, 1994). We discuss some of the research on guided learning and cognitive skills here, assuming that similar principles would likely apply if peers were to teach each other about norms and values in the social sphere. When learning science material, 11- and 12-year-olds who are assigned to pairs fare significantly better than children who work alone. Naturally, when one child is more competent at the task, the less skilled peer will benefit more from the partnership (Kutnick & Thomas, 1990), although same-ability peers can be just as effective at promoting higher order learning and thinking (King, Staffien, & Adelgais, 1998). Gains in ability are more likely to be seen when the more competent child provides an explanation for his or her partner (Fawcett & Garton, 2005), a demonstration that children’s existing knowledge is increased when other children scaffold their learning (Vygotsky, 1978). Friendship between peers in middle childhood is also a factor that increases the effectiveness of guided learning. This may be because friends build on each other’s ideas through communication (MacDonald, Miell, & Mitchell, 2002). When two friends work together, they share more information about the task and contribute more relevant and detailed ideas than do unacquainted peers (Miell & MacDonald, 2000). This increased quality of communication creates ideal conditions for peer scaffolding to take place.

Group Participation Domain In the group participation domain, members of the group serve as models of routines, practices, norms and habits. Children’s decisions on what to wear, what to eat, what music to like, and how to spend their free time are greatly influenced by their perception of the group’s practices. Thus, forming groups and being similar to group members become two important objectives relevant to this domain during middle childhood (Parke & Clarke-Stewart, 2011). Cliques Cliques are cohesive groups of same-gender friends who share common interests and interact more with each other

Social Development and Social Relationships in Middle Childhood

than with other children. Within cliques, children can influence each other through modeling and social comparison as they learn certain practices and routines by imitating what their friends do. They also compare themselves to their friends in order to adjust their behavior and performance (Lubbers, Kuyper, & Van Der Werf, 2009; Harter, 2006). An example of such adjustment comes from the finding that the performance of low achieving children tends to converge with the performance of their closest friends if those friends are high achievers (Altermatt & Pomerantz, 2005). Similarly, in terms of physical performance, children also report exercising more intensely when they are in the presence of close friends (Salvy et al., 2008).

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the egalitarian dynamic common to peer relationships. One key feature of sibling relationships in middle childhood is their emotional intensity, both positive and negative (Dunn, 2007). This intensity is characteristic at least in part because negativity and conflict between siblings can exist to a greater extent than in peer relationships, given that sibling bonds are less voluntary and therefore do not require the same investment in maintaining harmony (Updegraff, McHale, & Crouter, 2001). Research has shown various ways in which siblings influence social development across the domains of socialization in middle childhood. Protection Domain

Similarity Among Group Members Belonging to specific groups ultimately influences core aspects of the child’s social identity, as research consistently shows that children in the same group have a tendency to be similar to each other in terms of personal characteristics (Wentzel, Battle, Russell, & Looney, 2010). Homophily, this tendency to similarity among friends, can be the result of intentionally choosing friends who are considered similar, or becoming more similar after spending time with friends and thereby acquiring their behaviors and beliefs (Kandel, 1978). Accordingly, homophily promotes continuity in specific group practices. Nonetheless, although having friends who are similar and belonging to a certain group are necessary for general adjustment, the practices and routines chosen by certain groups are not always positive. If children view their in-group friends as behavioral models, then their influence might extend to encourage substance use, smoking, delinquency, unhealthy food consumption, decreased classroom engagement, and impaired school adjustment (Lubbers et al., 2009).

In the protection domain, a sense of security is developed through interactions that provide comfort and alleviate distress. Siblings are in a unique position to engage in these sorts of interactions both because of the amount of time they spend together as well as the intense emotionality that characterizes their relationship. Siblings can take on the role of support providers in the face of stressful life experiences: Indeed, siblings report increasingly close and intimate bonds following negative life events such as death in the family, maternal illness, conflicts with other children, personal accidents and illnesses, and divorce (Dunn, Slomkowski, Beardsall, & Rende, 1994; Hetherington, 1988). Both the provision of comfort to, and the reception of comfort from, a sibling are linked to benefits for children, and children growing up in harsh or disharmonious homes have fewer adjustment problems when they have supportive relationships with siblings (Jenkins, 1992). In general, the provision of comfort, assistance, and other prosocial behaviors to siblings has been found to increase with age (Abramovitch, Corter, Pepler, & Stanhope, 1986).

SOCIALIZATION BY SIBLINGS

Reciprocity Domain

Sibling relationships are both similar and dissimilar to peer and parent–child relationships. Although receiving less empirical focus than parents and peers, siblings provide an important and unique influence on children’s social development (e.g., Dunn, 2007). In fact, children spend more time interacting with siblings than with parents and, during middle childhood in particular, siblings are the most common companions outside of school (McHale & Crouter, 1996). Sibling relationships are interesting as they combine both the role asymmetry typically more prominent in parent–child relationships and

During reciprocal interactions of play, siblings coconstruct shared meanings and are exceptionally positioned to understand one another’s experiences and perspective. Karos, Howe, and Aquan-Assee (2007) found that younger siblings’ reports of reciprocal interactions (mutual and egalitarian exchanges) with their older siblings were positively associated with socioemotional problem-solving skills, whereas reports of instrumental interactions (assistance and instruction) were not. Thus, interactions with older siblings within the reciprocity domain seem to be integral to the development of

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advanced social skills in a way that more didactic interactions are not. The reciprocal aspects of the sibling relationship provide practice with skills that can then be applied to egalitarian relationships with peers. Kitzmann, Cohen, and Lockwood (2002), for example, found superior peerrelated social competence in siblings as compared to singletons. While the number and quality of individual peer relationships did not differ for singletons and siblings, children without siblings were less liked overall by classmates and were more likely to both be victimized by and to be aggressive toward their peers. Control Domain In small, non-Western agrarian communities, older siblings often function as authority figures for younger children and are responsible for monitoring and disciplining them (Zukow-Goldring, 2002). Although this is less the case in Western industrialized settings, siblings do exert control in various ways over each other’s behavior, whether through aggression and force or through negotiation. Through these attempts to control each other’s behavior, siblings learn the importance of modifying one’s own behavior in accord with the needs of a partner. Aggression Although physical attacks on siblings become less frequent as children move into middle childhood, verbal and relational aggression can continue to be daily issues in the sibling relationship, just as they are with peers. This kind of conflict, common to sibling relationships in middle childhood, can sometimes have quite negative effects, with siblings reinforcing each other’s aggressive behaviors (Snyder & Patterson, 1995). Older siblings tend to be particularly aggressive towards younger siblings who do not fight back (Martin & Ross, 1995). Conflict Resolution In middle childhood, disputes between siblings are often poorly resolved, with older children typically dominating and defeating their younger siblings (Siddiqui & Ross, 1999). However, these conflicts are important for children’s development of conflict resolution and social problem solving strategies (Dunn, Slomkowski, Donelan, & Herrera, 1995). In fact, some researchers argue that conflict in the sibling relationship demonstrates connectedness, as it provides practice with negotiating mutual consensus and social problem-solving skills (Shantz & Hobart, 1989). Sibling relationship quality is an important

predictor of how well children deal with conflicts, as well as a moderator of the relation between children’s understanding of others and their positive conflict tactics (Recchia & Howe, 2009). Guided Learning Domain Teaching interactions between siblings provide a context for the development of social-cognitive abilities, and it is particularly the slight difference in levels of competence between siblings that leads to the development of social understanding (Cassidy, Fineberg, Brown, & Perkins, 2005). Similar to peers, older siblings may function as superior teachers to parents, given their positioning closer to the learner’s zone of proximal development. Research indicates that sibling teaching is influenced by the age and gender of both siblings. Thus older sisters teach more than older brothers (Azmitia & Hesser, 1993), and younger sisters elicit more teaching than younger brothers (Stoneman, Brody, & MacKinnon, 1986). Sibling teaching also increases with age (Mendelson & Gottlieb, 1994), including teaching related to feelings and emotions (Brown & Dunn, 1992), making middle childhood a particularly important period for this form of instruction. Sibling versus Peer Teaching Some research suggests that children view their older siblings as more expert teachers than peers, as they ask more questions and direct more requests to siblings than to peers when learning tasks. In a comparison of older siblings and older peers as teachers of a building block task, Azmitia and Hesser (1993) found that younger siblings were more resistant to older siblings taking over a task than they were to similar actions in older peers, suggesting an increased need for personal responsibility in the presence of siblings as compared to peers. Children learning from older siblings, as compared to older peers, also requested more help, asked more questions, and challenged their teacher more. During middle childhood, teaching interactions become co-regulated (Maccoby, 1984), and it seems that the familiarity between siblings lends itself to more input from younger siblings to these interactions, resulting in greater learning than in peer contexts. Group Participation Domain In the group participation domain, children can learn important social skills through observation of their siblings. Gender socialization is one example of this learning, with this learning influenced by the sex of older

Social Development and Social Relationships in Middle Childhood

siblings. Stoneman and colleagues (1986), for example, found that children with older brothers engage in more stereotypically masculine play activities, whereas children with older sisters engage in more stereotypically feminine activities. Although gender socialization tends to be in the direction of older siblings influencing younger, some research has shown that older girls are less traditional in their gender role attitudes when they have younger brothers (McHale, Updegraff, Helms-Erikson, & Crouter, 2001). A second example of the importance of observational learning comes from the study of risk-taking behaviors. Sibling influence in the group participation domain may not always be beneficial. Older siblings may act as negative role models for younger siblings, introducing them to older peers who may also be negative role models (Bank, Patterson, & Reid, 1996). Co-offending, or joint acting in delinquent behaviors, can also occur, particularly with male siblings who are close in age and who presumably spend more time together (Rowe, Rodgers, & Meseck-Bushey, 1992). Indeed, the importance of time spent together is reflected in the finding that the association between genetic similarity and risky attitudes to sex and sexual behavior is mediated by the amount of time siblings spend together (McHale, Bissell, and Kim, 2009).

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wider world can be a place of danger and negative influence, but also a place in which children learn skills needed to navigate the challenges of adolescence and to become adults who can function adaptively in a social world. In spite of the increasing importance of peers, however, family remains a guiding influence, with family including both parents and siblings. Parents, peers, and siblings differ in a number of respects. Parents are charged by society with the task of socialization, whereas peers and siblings are not. Parents control a great many resources and hence are in a position of relative power, more so than peers or siblings. Children can select or reject their peers, but they cannot select or reject their parents and siblings. Peers and siblings are closer than parents to children’s level of social understanding and hence are better able to work within their zone of proximal development. The list continues. Nevertheless, all three kinds of socialization agents can have similar kinds of relationships with children and thereby bring their own particular features to bear on the socialization process. An understanding of what happens in these relationships and of how these experiences take on meaning as a function of the child’s biological characteristics and perceptions, helps to provide insight into and understanding of the accomplishments of middle childhood.

De-Identification So-called “de-identification” occurs when children engage in behavior that is opposite from that modeled by their siblings (Ansbacher & Ansbacher, 1956). In this way children set themselves apart as unique within the family, as well as reduce levels of sibling rivalry and competition. Whiteman, McHale, and Crouter (2007) found that a majority of second-born siblings did indeed report wanting to be like an older sibling in a variety of domains. They also reported competing with them in these domains. A second group of siblings, however, wanted to be different and to not compete. The investigators also identified a third group who did not use their older siblings as referents for either modeling or de-identification. It would seem, then, that the special features of the sibling relationship—having to live together and share the attention of the same adults—can work against the desire to be like other members of the social group.

CONCLUSIONS Developmental theorists have emphasized the importance of peers in middle childhood, and the emergence of children from the close ties to family into a wider world. This

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Snyder, J., & Patterson, G. (1995). Individual differences in social aggression: A test of a reinforcement model of socialization in the natural environment. Behavior Therapy, 26, 371–391. doi: 10.1016/ S0005-7894(05)80111-X Steinberg, L. (1990). Autonomy, conflict, and harmony in the family relationship. In S. S. Feldman & G. R. Elliott (Eds.), At the threshold: The developing adolescent (pp. 255–276). Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Stice, E., & Gonzales, N. (1998). Adolescent temperament moderates the relation of parenting to antisocial behavior and substance use. Journal of Adolescent Research, 13 (1), 5–31. doi:10.1177/ 0743554898131002 Stoneman, Z., Brody, G., & MacKinnon, C. (1986). Same-sex and cross-sex siblings: Activity choices, roles, behavior, and gender stereotypes. Sex Roles, 15, 495–510. doi:10.1007/BF00288227 Sullivan, C. J. (2006). Early adolescent delinquency: Assessing the role of childhood problems, family environment, and peer pressure. Youth Violence & Juvenile Justice, 4, 291–313. doi:10.1177/ 1541204006292656 Sullivan, H. S. (1953). The interpersonal theory of psychiatry. New York, NY: W. W. Norton. Thompson, R. A. (1994). Emotion regulation: A theme in search of a definition. In N. A. Fox (Ed.), The development of emotion regulation: Biological and behavioral considerations. Monographs of the Society for Research in Child Development, 59, 25–52. Turner, V. D., & Berkowitz, M. W. (2005). Scaffolding morality: Positioning a socio-cultural construct. New Ideas in Psychology, 23, 174–184. Updegraff, K. A., McHale, S. M. & Crouter, A. C. (2001). Adolescents’ sex-typed experiences: Does having a sister versus a brother matter? Child Development, 71, 1597–1610. doi: 10.1111/1467-8624.00251 Veenstra, R., Lindenberg, S., Oldehinkel, A. J., De Winter, A. F., & Ormel, J. (2006). Temperament, environment, and antisocial behavior in a population sample of preadolescent boys and girls. International Journal of Behavioral Development, 30, 422–432. doi:10.1177/0165025406071490 Vinik, J., Almas, A., & Grusec, J. E. (2011). Mothers’ knowledge of what distresses and what comforts their children predicts children’s coping, empathy, and prosocial behavior. Parenting: Science and Practice, 11, 56–71. 10.1080/15295192.2011.539508 Vinik, J., Johnson, M., Grusec, J. E., & Farrell, R. (2011). Understanding the socialization of values by means of narratives. Unpublished manuscript, University of Toronto.

Vygotsky, L. S. (1978). Mind in society: The development of higher psychological processes. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Walker, L. J., Hennig, K. H., & Krettenauer, T. (2000). Parent and peer contexts for children’s moral reasoning development. Child Development, 71, 1033–1048. doi:10.1111/1467-8624.00207 Webb, N. M., & Farivar, S. (1994). Promoting helping behavior in cooperative small groups in middle school mathematics. American Educational Research Journal, 31, 369–395. doi:10.3102/ 00028312031002369 Wentzel, K. R. (1994). Relations of social goal pursuit to social acceptance, classroom behaviour and perceived social support. Journal of Educational Psychology, 86, 173–182. doi:10.1037//00220663.86.2.173 Wentzel, K. R., Battle, A., Russell, S. L., & Looney, L. B. (2010). Social supports from teachers and peers as predictors of academic and social motivation. Contemporary Educational Psychology, 35, 193–202. doi:10.1016/j.cedpsych.2010.03.002 Whiteman, S. D., McHale, S. M., & Crouter, A. C. (2007). Competing processes of sibling influence: Observational learning and sibling deidentification. Social Development, 16, 642–661. doi:10.1111/j.14679507.2007.00409.x Wismer-Fries, A. B., Shirtcliff, E. A., & Pollak, S. D. (2008). Neuroendocrine dysregulation following early social deprivation in children. Developmental Psychobiology, 50 (6), 588–599. doi:10.1002/ dev.20319 Xu, Y., Farver, J. M., & Zhang, Z. (2009). Temperament, harsh and indulgent parenting, and Chinese children’s proactive and reactive aggression. Child Development, 80, 244–258. doi:10.1111/j.14678624.2008.01257.x Zahn-Waxler, C., Robinson, J. L., & Emde, R. N. (1992). The development of empathy in twins. Developmental Psychology, 28 (6), 1038–1047. doi:10.1037/0012-1649.28.6.1038 Zahn-Waxler, C., Schiro, K., Robinson, J. L., Emde, R. N. & Schmitz, S. (2001). Empathy and prosocial patterns in young MZ and DZ twins: Development and genetic and environmental influences. In R. N. Emde, & J. K. Hewitt (Eds.), Infancy to early childhood: Genetic and environmental influences on developmental change (pp. 141–162). New York, NY: Oxford University Press. Zukow-Goldring, P. (2002). Sibling caregiving. In M. H. Bornstein (Ed.), Handbook of parenting (Vol. 3, pp. 253–286). Mahwah, NJ: Erlbaum.

CHAPTER 11

Culture and Child Development JAYANTHI MISTRY, MARIAH CONTRERAS, AND RANJANA DUTTA

INTRODUCTION 265 INTERFACE BETWEEN CULTURE AND CHILD DEVELOPMENT 266 CULTURE AND DEVELOPMENT AS MUTUALLY CONSTITUTIVE 269

CONCLUSIONS 281 REFERENCES 282

INTRODUCTION

& Norenzayan, 2006; Jensen, 2011). This inherent bias highlights the concern that current developmental science research cannot inform us about what it is like to grow up and live in the range of varying circumstances involving the world’s population (Damon, 2011). Furthermore, in the current global context there is an unprecedented increase in the flow of people, ideas, and goods across cultures (Goodnow, 2010; Jensen, 2011). Population flows between and within nations, migrations, immigrations, transnational transactions in trade, media, technology, and economic trends have brought diverse people in close contact with each other requiring many boundaries (national, cultural, and psychological boundaries) to be navigated. The inherent bias in research questions grounded in the context of the United States with little attention to what it is like to live in other cultures (Jensen, 2011) stands out starkly against this cultural confluence. Reiterating many of the concerns raised by cultural and cross-cultural psychologists for the past couple of decades, Bornstein (2010) highlights three main limitations that have thus far constrained our understanding of child development: (1) a narrow participant database in the research enterprise, (2) biased sampling of world cultures in authoring the theoretical and empirical literature, and (3) a corresponding bias in the audience of that literature. These limitations of the field of developmental psychology need to be addressed if we are serious about developing theories of human development that are culturally inclusive and relevant for a wider, worldwide audience. In our chapter in the first edition of this handbook (Mistry & Saraswathi, 2003), we documented how each

Forces from outside the field of psychology, such as trends towards globalization (economic, political, and social), have brought to the fore the multiple realities of human life and circumstances. The discipline of psychology can no longer ignore the multiple realities of the human condition within those countries that Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i (1996; 2007) claimed constitute the “majority world” (2007, p. xxix). Although cross-cultural and cultural psychologists have been emphasizing the need for more culturally informed approaches to the study of human development over the past few decades (Cole, 1985, 1996; Heine & Norenzayan, 2006; LeVine, 1973; LeVine et al., 1994; Miller & Goodnow, 1995; Rogoff, 2003; Super & Harkness, 1986; Shweder, 1990; Mistry & Saraswathi, 2003; Valsiner, 1989), in recent years, several scholars within the discipline of developmental psychology in the United States have chimed in, calling for expansion of theoretical frameworks and research agenda to make developmental psychology more inclusive. For example, United States–based scholars have explicitly recognized the fact that 90% of the developmental psychology literature is based on research done within the United States and by U.S. scholars, while only 10% of the literature emanates from regions of the world that account for 90% of the world’s population (Arnett, 2008; Bornstein, 2010; Damon, 2011; Heine We are grateful to Dr. T. S. Saraswathi for her comments and contributions during the preparation of this chapter. 265

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of three subfields of psychology (cultural psychology, cross-cultural psychology, and developmental psychology) conceptualized the interface between culture and child development at the turn of the century. In this chapter, we begin with a brief overview of the convergence of perspectives on culture that was emerging at the turn of the century (as delineated in Mistry & Saraswathi, 2003), followed by our current focus on documenting key scholarship in integrating culture and child development in the first decade of the 21st century—that is, since 2000. We argue that the challenge for an integration of perspectives on culture is twofold: (1) to resolve continuing debates regarding the conceptualization of culture, and (2) to frame questions that are necessary for culturally inclusive theories of development. To address these challenges, we organize our synthesis of current scholarship on the integration of culture and child development around two particular convergences that we view as promising trends: viewing culture and individual development as mutually constitutive, and integrating questions central to developmental psychology with those that are the primary focus of cultural and cross-cultural psychology.

INTERFACE BETWEEN CULTURE AND CHILD DEVELOPMENT During the late 1990s, there had already been an emerging convergence in cross-cultural psychology, cultural psychology, and developmental psychology in terms of how culture and development were conceptualized. In this section, we use Mistry and Saraswathi (2003) as a frame for summarizing how the three subdisciplines were beginning to converge with each other, while also noting the debates and issues that continued at the turn of the century. Emerging Convergence at the Turn of the Century By the end of the 20th century, there had been a shift within cross-cultural psychology towards more socioculturally oriented theorizing and empirical work, representing the inroads made by cultural psychologists. Furthermore, there were increasing attempts to integrate knowledge generated by indigenous psychologists (Kim, Park, & Park, 2000). Taking a stance similar to that of cultural psychologists, indigenous psychologists were advocating a paradigm shift in which constructs and theories were developed inductively from within the cultural communities. Saraswathi and Dasen (1997) highlighted the

promise of such approaches for integrating the concerns of cultural psychology and cross-cultural psychology. Cultural psychologists had also made inroads in developmental psychology, more so in some areas than others, and especially in infancy research, adolescence, and cognitive development (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i & Poortinga, 2000). For example, Rogoff and Chavajay (1995) described the transformation of research on culture and cognitive development. They described the shift from the cross-cultural comparisons approach of the 1960s and 1970s to the more substantive, socioculturally based theorizing and research that had become a significant tradition of research in cognitive development within developmental psychology by the beginning of the 1990s. Interestingly, Rogoff and Chavajay documented this transformation by following the trajectories of several researchers and scholars whose initial research began within the traditions of crosscultural psychology, became increasingly sociocultural in orientation, and eventually became an integral part of developmental psychology. Finally, convergence between cross-cultural psychology and developmental psychology was primarily evident in the use of culture-comparative approaches to test developmental theories and constructs. Examples of such research included studies that tested the universality of developmental stages, particularly Piagetian stages (Dasen, 1972; Dasen & Heron, 1981); that appraised the cross-cultural applicability of developmental differences in cognitive competencies (Cole, Gay, Glick, & Sharp, 1971; LCHC, 1983); and that examined the universality of secure patterns of attachment (Sagi, 1990; Thompson, 1998; van IJzendoorn & Kroonenberg, 1988). However, during the late 1990s, developmental psychology had much less influence on the field of crosscultural psychology. The volume of culture-comparative research on developmental issues was small (Keller & Greenfield, 2000). Perhaps the primary reason for this situation was a difference in the central questions of interest. Developmental psychologists traditionally were interested in documenting the developmental trajectory in different domains of development and in socialization and enculturation processes; that is, the processes by which children are taught and acquire competencies as they grow up (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i & Poortinga, 2000). Cross-cultural psychologists, on the other hand, were primarily interested in examining cultural variability and establishing universally applicable lawful relations between cultural and ecological contexts and individual behavior. Furthermore, much of the research in cross-cultural psychology focused on the cultural variability of adult behavior. Although this

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work had been useful for developmental psychologists, because the culturally constructed behavior of adults can be viewed as end points along developmental pathways, lack of comparative research on ontogenetic development suggested that questions of central importance to developmental psychologists had not influenced the agenda of cross-cultural psychologists. Nevertheless, by the turn of the century, scholars were beginning to note promising convergence between the aims of cross-cultural, cultural, and developmental psychology. This is exemplified in Keller and Greenfield’s (2000) vision for the future of cross-cultural psychology, in which “developmental issues and methods will be theoretically, methodologically, and empirically integrated into cross-cultural psychology, thus enabling our field to make significant advance in research and theory” (p. 60). Continuing Issues and Debates at the Turn of the Century Despite the cross-disciplinary convergences and contributions that Mistry and Saraswathi (2003) noted, critical differences and debates between the major approaches continued to persist through the end of the 20th century. Despite agreement among developmental psychologists on the need to situate psychological phenomenon in cultural context, the question of how to integrate culture into developmental or psychological analysis remained problematic (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 1996). Cross-cultural and cultural psychologists continued to debate the differences among them as to how culture should be conceptualized and operationalized in psychological research (Harwood, Miller, & Irizarry, 1995; Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 1996; Poortinga, 1997; Saraswathi & Dasen, 1997; Shweder et al., 1998). Thus, issues in addressing this question were both conceptual and methodological. On the issue of how culture should be conceptualized, cross-cultural psychologists tended to view culture as an independent variable that influenced human behavior. Some cross-cultural psychologists suggested that culture should be operationalized as a set of conditions (Poortinga, 1992, 1997; Segall, 1984). For example, Poortinga (1997) defined the cross-cultural approach as follows: “ . . . there is a tendency to take cultural context, including ecological as well as sociocultural variables, as a set of antecedent conditions, while behavior phenomena, including attitudes and meanings as well as observed behaviors as outcomes or consequents” (p. 350). In the ecological model (Bronfenbrenner, 1979, 1986) that had

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been particularly influential in development psychology research, context was operationalized in terms of various levels of children’s ecological context, with culture represented in the outermost, macro level. Research conducted within this approach focused on documenting the interplay between historical, cultural, biological, and psychological influences on behavior. Contrary to the ecological or contextualist perspectives, cultural psychologists did not conceptualize cultural context as an independent variable or “split” (Overton, 2006, 2010) influence on behavior (LCHC, 1983; Rogoff, 1990, Rogoff & Mistry, 1985). Cultural psychologists maintained, that in studying culture, the focus should be on understanding culturally constituted meaning systems. They insisted that the study of the individual behavior must involve an examination of culturally constituted psychological processes, including culturally shared cognitive models and meaning systems (Harwood et. al., 1995). As Shweder and colleagues (1998) claimed, “This insistence in cultural psychology that contexts and meanings are to be theoretically represented as part and parcel of the psychological system and not simply as influences, factors, or conditions external to the psychological system distinguishes cultural psychology from other forms of psychology which also think of themselves as contextual (or situated)” (pg. 871). A related conceptual issue that distinguished crosscultural and cultural psychology was related to the primary goals of each approach. A primary goal of cross-cultural psychologists was to test the generalizability of psychological theories and to establish general universalities and differences in human functioning. Cultural psychologists, on the other hand, argued that attention needed to shift from finding lawful relationships between environmental variables (as culture and context are often operationalized) and behavioral outcomes to understanding the directive force of shared meaning systems in the lives of individuals (D’Andrade & Strauss, 1992; Harkness & Super, 1992). Although cultural psychologists recognized that children grow up within the multiple contexts represented in ecological models, they also argued that contexts could not be merely conceptualized as environmental influences. They emphasized that study of contexts must include knowledge of the tacit social and interactional norms of the individuals who exist within those settings and whose behaviors and expectations both shape and were shaped by the institutional structures of which they were a part (Harwood et al., 1995). This focus on understanding the rule-governed understandings, interpretations, and behaviors in particular contexts, and the processes whereby

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individuals co-construct and appropriate these understandings and interpretations, was highlighted as the primary goal of cultural psychologists. The other prominent debate among cross-cultural, cultural, and developmental psychologists at the turn of the past century focused on the methodological issues of how to study culture. Cross-cultural psychologists emphasized a comparative approach, with a focus on using common constructs and common measures across cultural communities, whereas cultural psychologists preferred an emphasis on the uniqueness of constructs in each cultural context because of the definition of culture as meaningmaking systems through which context is interpreted (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 1996). Thus, methodological debates about the preferred research orientation were cast in terms of the emic-etic distinction (Berry, 1969; Poortinga, 1997), or the indigenous–universalist orientation to research (Sinha, 1997). Behavior is emic —or culture specific—to the extent that it can only be understood within the cultural context in which it occurs; it is etic or universal in as much as it is common to human beings independent of their culture (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 1996; Poortinga, 1997). Another dimension of the debate focused on whether a comparative or decontextualizing methodology is preferred in contrast to the holistic, contextualized methodology preferred by cultural psychologists. Proponents of each view criticized the methodology preferred by the other. The interpretive methodologies that were particularly appropriate to study culturally unique phenomenon from an emic perspective were often not acceptable to psychologists using conventional empirical standards of methodological rigor. Similarly, culture-comparative methodologies that utilized etic constructs to establish lawful relationships between cultural variables and psychological phenomenon were criticized as not sensitive to cultural context (Greenfield, 1997). Though some discussions of these contrasts between cultural psychologists and cross-cultural psychologists had taken oppositional stances, there were attempts to develop culturally inclusive theories that could encompass cultural universals as well as differences and uniqueness. In general agreement with the need to establish lawful relations, cultural psychologists however emphasized that psychological structures and processes could vary fundamentally in different cultural contexts (Miller, 1997) and that there needed to be multiple, diverse psychologies rather than a single psychology (Shweder et al., 1998). Similarly, Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i (1996) argued that contrasting methodological approaches to the study of culture should be seen as complementary—“a comparative approach does not

preclude a contextualist orientation” (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 1996, p. 12). In fact, Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i claimed that conceptualizing the context-dependency of psychological phenomenon could focus investigations to uncover causal relations in different contexts that could actually lead to better generalizability. Mistry and Saraswathi (2003) highlighted the need to focus simultaneously on both how culture was conceptualized by developmental psychology (culture as context) as well as by cultural psychology (culture as meaning systems). For instance, they noted: Perhaps the more important question is this: Should not our focus be on understanding both contexts and the culturally constituted meaning systems embedded in various contexts? When the focus is solely on culturally constituted meaning systems, there is the danger of relying on cultural “explanations” for variations that often tend to preclude more substantial analyses (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i & Poortinga, 2000). Understanding important social-structural factors such as social-class standing, poverty, and low educational levels are then easily overlooked. On the other hand, focusing on context as a “social address” variable (Bronfenbrenner, 1986) can reinforce past assumptions that causes of development are similar across groups but that variations between groups are caused by differential exposure to causal agents or conditions and biological predispositions. (pp. 274–275)

Despite calls for simultaneous focus on both perspectives on culture, how this can be achieved conceptually as well as empirically continues to be an elusive challenge. To summarize this section, it was clear at the beginning of the 21st century that the main challenge of integrating cultural, developmental, and cross-cultural perspectives arose from (a) underlying assumptions about culture that were cast as opposing viewpoints and (b) differences in primary questions of central interest to each subdiscipline. On one hand, cross-cultural psychologists treated culture as an independent variable representing either varying sociocultural circumstances or cultural beliefs as sources of differences in human functioning outcomes or socialization processes. On the other hand, cultural psychologists examined culture as meaning systems and dynamic processes of making sense of the world with the underlying assumption that constructs of human functioning were culturally and contextually situated, and therefore needed to be understood from an emic perspective. In terms of questions of primary interest, these were not disparate for cultural and cross-cultural psychologists, since both aimed to understand universals and variations

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in human functioning across cultures. However, developmental psychologists varied from both cross-cultural and cultural psychologists in their focus on ontogenetic developmental changes and processes. Hence questions of central interest pertained to individual differences in developmental trajectories, as well as transition processes. Current Advances in the Integration of Culture and Development Recent scholarship during the first decade of the 21st century has generated particularly promising integrative approaches to the study of culture and child development. In this section, we selectively synthesize this scholarship, highlighting two specific convergences that we believe represent the most significant advances in integrating culture and child development. We focus on scholarship that addresses and responds to the twofold challenge faced by the field: (1) to resolve continuing debates regarding the conceptualization of culture and (2) to frame the central questions for culturally inclusive theories of development in such a way that each subdiscipline has something of value to contribute. The primary challenge to resolving debates regarding how culture is conceptualized and which questions are central to the study of culture and child development lies in how these debates are framed. If these ideas are framed as opposing positions, then the ideas can be viewed as irreconcilable perspectives, but when framed as complementary and therefore equally necessary they can lead to more comprehensive and culturally inclusive accounts of human development. Thus, Damon (2011), in his forward to Jensen’s (2011) book Bridging Cultural and Developmental Psychology, noted that although neither perspective on its own can offer a complete vision of human life, the two perspectives have not been easy to reconcile, because they have been separated “ . . . by longstanding oppositions between universalism and contextualism, absolutism and relativism, uniformity and diversity, and even the historically charged conflict of nativism versus imperialism” (p. xviii). Emphasizing the need to go beyond these opposing stances, Damon claimed that the complexity of human life makes single factor explanations for human behavior highly unlikely. However, the question of how to resolve oppositional stances remains a challenge. One possible path to such reconciliation between oppositional stances has been paved by Overton’s (2006; 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume) metatheoretical framework. Overton (2006) differentiated between split and relational metatheories, claiming that questions about

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development become debates only when they are cast as opposing dualities or antinomies (e.g., is development universal or particular, continuous or discontinuous, biologically based or culturally based?). Such conceptualizations of development are considered to represent a split or reductionist metatheoretical framework. In contrast, relational metatheoretical frameworks enable simultaneous focus on both sides of conceptual contrasts. “From an inclusive relational meta-theoretical position, all such debates necessarily evaporate, as the conceptual contrasts become co-equal, indissociable complementarities” (Overton, 2006, p. 29). Adopting this theoretical stance, we suggest that relational metatheory can serve as an organizing framework for integrative approaches to the study of culture and child development. Toward this end, we organize the chapter around two convergences represented in key scholarship within cultural, cross-cultural, and developmental psychology that reflect promising trends in the integration of culture and child development: (1) viewing culture and individual development as mutually constitutive, and (2) integrating questions central to developmental psychology with those that are central to cultural and cross-cultural psychology. CULTURE AND DEVELOPMENT AS MUTUALLY CONSTITUTIVE Typically, individual development and culture are viewed as separable, wherein the individual is assumed to have a set of basic, general capabilities that are influenced by culture. Behavior is often seen as the outcome of dynamic interaction between the individual and cultural influences external to the individual. Even in approaches that emphasize the study of individual in bio-ecological context (Bronfenbrenner, 1979; Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006), individual and context are viewed as separate, with the assumption that ongoing interactions between the child and people in key settings represent the bidirectional influences that relate ecological context with individual behavior. Similarly, Dasen’s (2003) framework for the cross-cultural study of human development represents an ecocultural perspective, in that theoretical models from developmental and cross-cultural perspectives are integrated into a single, complex model. While using concentric circles to represent various levels of context (as in Bronfenbrenner’s model), Dasen emphasizes that the circle borders should be viewed as reciprocal interactions. However, in a promising trend over the past decade, cultural psychologists and some cross-cultural psychologists have been proposing that culture and individual

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functioning are mutually constitutive. For example, Cole’s (1996, 2006) theorizing about the mutually constitutive nature of culture and cognitive development has been based on an integration of phylogenetic, historical, and ontogenetic perspectives, rather than framing each of these as separate points of analysis. Cole argued that the “capacity to inhabit a culturally organized environment” is a “universal, species-specific characteristic of Homo Sapiens” (Cole, 1996, p. 73). Arguing along similar lines, Eckensberger (2003) emphasized that psychology should be viewed as a cultural science, as culture should be viewed as a “ . . . constitutive condition for humans in general” (p. 75). But what does mutually constitutive mean? How can this type of relationship be operationalized for empirical analysis? Within each of the three subdisciplines, there is evidence of either theorizing about the mutually constitutive relationship between individual and culture, or there are specific constructs that have been proposed to represent the integration of individual and culture in a single unit of analysis. In this section, we present key scholarship from the three subdisciplines that represent (a) the nature of mutually constitutive relationships between culture and individual development and (b) examples of constructs that represent the integration of individual and culture in an empirically viable unit of analysis. Mutually Constitutive Relationships One implication of the mutuality of culture and individual psychological functioning lies in how relations between individual and cultural context or sociocultural environments are conceptualized. In their attempt to integrate cultural and developmental psychology, Shweder and colleagues (2006) described the cultural psychology of human development as the reciprocal investigation of both the psychological foundation of cultural communities and the cultural foundations of mind. Focusing on how culture and psyche “make each other up” (p. 721), they claimed that culture, community, and the psyche instantiate one another and are mutually sustaining. In sociocultural conceptualizations, culture is not considered a characteristic of an individual, but as configurations of routine ways of doing things in any community’s approach to living (Rogoff, 2003). Individual development is situated and constituted through participation in ongoing, dynamic communities of practice. Rogoff’s representation of the inseparability of individual and cultural context is vividly captured in a series of photographs (Rogoff, 2003, pp. 53–61) which illustrate the simultaneity of multiple

levels of analysis even when only one level is at the forefront of analysis. Such characterizations of the relation between individual psyche and culture as mutually constitutive are also apparent in current theories about the relation between individual and context in developmental psychology. Overton’s (2006, 2008, 2010; also, see Overton & M¨uller, this volume) discussions of relational metatheory in general, and of embodiment in particular, offer particularly valuable directions for developmental psychology. Overton characterized embodiment as a concept of synthesis that bridges and integrates biological, sociocultural, and person centered approaches to psychological inquiry. As a relational concept embodiment includes not merely the physical structures of the body but the body as a form of lived experience, actively engaged with the world of sociocultural and physical objects. The body as form references the biological line of sight, the body as lived experience references the psychological subject standpoint, and the body actively engaged with the world represents the sociocultural point of view. —Overton, 2006, p. 48

The person versus context dichotomy vanishes in this conceptualization of how person and context are integrally related. In another example of converging perspectives, Raeff’s (2011) conceptualization of person and context as indissoluble parts of a whole is consistent with relational metatheory (Overton, 2006), organismic-developmental theory (Werner, 1957), and cultural perspectives (Rogoff, 2003). Raeff’s elaboration of how the person-context relationship in organismic-developmental theory represents a systems perspective is particularly significant, because it integrates the systems perspective underlying relational metatheory with sociocultural perspectives. As Raeff underscored, to say that system constituents are interrelated means that they mutually affect and constitute each other, so that each constituent is inseparable from the others. Further, meanings and interpretations are acknowledged as integral components of the system. As Raeff noted, “System constituents further derive their meanings through their interrelations, and thus do not have fixed independent meanings” (p. 7). Raeff’s example of an individual functioning in a classroom context illustrates such integration and mutuality of person and context, in that a person’s functioning can only be understood in relation to his/her context, while contexts of human functioning can only be understood in terms of how they are constituted through people’s action.

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To summarize, within cultural and developmental psychology, as well as among some cross-cultural psychologists, recent discussions have focused on conceptualizing what it means to claim that culture and individual development are mutually constitutive. One conceptualization of mutuality highlights the integration of and simultaneous attention to multiple levels of analysis. This is exemplified in Cole’s (1996, 2006) integration of phylogenetic, historical, and ontogenetic levels of analysis in cognitive developmental analysis, Rogoff’s (2003) photographic representation of the inseparability of individual and sociocultural context, and Overton’s (2006) integration of the biological, sociocultural, and personcentered approaches to psychological inquiry. In all these explanations, the dichotomy between person and context disappears, representing core, underlying assumptions of a relational metatheory. Mutual constitution has also been characterized through constructs such as embodiment (Overton, 2006), instantiation (Shweder et al., 2006), and use of systems approaches (Raeff, 2011). We now discuss how some of these characterizations have been operationalized further to guide empirical analysis. Culture and Individual Development in Integrated Units of Analysis Although theoretical conceptualizations that integrate person and context are critical, their heuristic power is realized only when theoretical notions are transformed into operational constructs that can guide empirical research. Fortunately, within all three subdisciplines of psychology, there have been varying delineations of how individual and culture can be integrated into single units of analysis that preserve or represent the mutually constitutive nature of the relation. We highlight underlying commonalities to underscore the emerging convergence, including (a) an emphasis on action or activity as the unit of analysis, (b) some version of “person-in-context” as the appropriate unit of analysis, and (c) specific inclusion of meaningmaking and culturally constructed meanings as integral components of the unit of analysis. In order to account for culture in the study of human development, cross-cultural and cultural psychologists have advocated for action and functional conceptualizations of human development. Irrespective of how action or activity is conceptualized, such conceptualizations require the inclusion of context, because human action occurs within specific contexts. Cultural psychologists have advocated for activity as the unit of analysis for empirical research, claiming that this focus enables a simultaneous

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focus on phylogenetic, historical, and ontogenetic sources of development (Cole, 1985, 1995; Leont’ev, 1981; Rogoff, 2003; Tharp & Gallimore, 1988; Wertsch, 1985, 1991). Sociocultural theorists posit that the integration of the individual, social, and cultural levels of analysis takes place within the unit of the activity. The underlying assumption is that human psychological functioning is brought about by human activity mediated through the use of tools (physical tools and objects) and sign systems (language, writing, number systems). These actions, then, represent culture as symbolically mediated meaning systems shared by a group. Thus, the focus is on functions of human activity, rather than on individual characteristics, as representing individual development. “Mind, cognition, memory, and so forth are understood not as attributes or properties of the individual, but as functions that may be carried out intermentally or intramentally” (Wertsch & Tulviste, 1992, p. 549). Using activity as the unit of analysis contrasts with the independent/dependent variable approach that separates individual responses from environmental stimuli as the units of analysis. Rather, activity as the unit of analysis consists of individuals (as active agents) engaged in goal-directed behavior, carrying out actions, using culturally valued tools and mediation means, within a framework of shared cultural assumptions and expectations (Cole, 1985, 1996, 2006; Leont’ev, 1981; Rogoff, 2003; Tharp & Gallimore, 1988; Wertsch, 1985; 1991). Cross-cultural psychologists have also called for actionoriented theories as a means to construct contextualized or context-inclusive theories of human development (Eckensberger, 1979, 1995, 2003). Considering human acts as the unit of analysis requires recognition of intentionality, reflectivity, and agency, along with the context within which acts occur. Taking the example of writing, Eckensberger explained how this act is inextricably linked with the scripts of the language, with the culturally shared schemas for writing, and with the culturally constructed interpretations that are an integral part of the individual’s actions and intent in writing. Although, as Eckensberger (2003) noted, the focus on intentionality of actions has a long historical tradition in philosophy, action theories have become part of the theoretical discourse in developmental psychology relatively recently (e.g., Brandtst¨adter, 1998, 2006). Functional and adaptation-oriented approaches to human development (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 1996; 2007) represent a related, albeit different, conceptualization that requires the integration of context. Since the assumption is that human behavior is functional or adaptive within specific

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contexts, any empirically derived account of psychological functioning has to integrate specific facets of contexts. Functional approaches to human development have been prevalent in both cross-cultural and developmental psychology—because any theories that are based on the notion of ecosystems or are rooted in evolutionary perspectives represent the adaption-driven integration of individual and environment. Although ecological and ecocultural approaches have been prevalent in landmark cross-cultural research (e.g., Berry, 1966; Segall, Campbell, & Herskovitz, 1966), functional approaches are also becoming commonplace in developmental psychology. In addition to Bronfenbrenner’s (1979) model, which generated much research in developmental psychology, Shonkoff and Phillips’ (2000) synthesis of child development research to inform policy is a practical example of the value of framing central constructs of human development from a contextualized and functional perspective. In addition to advocating the use of activity as the unit of analysis, sociocultural theorists operationalize the mutually constitutive nature of person and context through their emphasis on “person-in-activity” as the appropriate unit of analysis (Rogoff, 2003; Wertsch, 1991). Instead of conceptualizing individuals as “having abilities and skills,” the focus is on the “person-acting-with-mediationmeans” as the appropriate unit of analysis (Wertsch, 1991, p. 119). The centrality of meditational means in this conceptualization is derived from Vygotsky’s (1978) assumption that it is the use of culturally produced tools and sign systems that fundamentally changes the nature of human psychological operations. For example, it is through the use of physical tools such as writing implements and paper that the human activity of writing triumphs over the constraints of direct or face-to-face communication, enabling communication between individuals across time and place. On the other hand, through psychological signs, for example knowledge of the varying genres of written texts (e.g., expository text versus narratives), humans mediate internal or mental activity aimed at mastering the ways in which thoughts are communicated. Thus, Vygotsky (1978) accorded symbolic activity a specific organizing function that penetrates the process of tool use and produces fundamentally new forms of behavior. It is in this symbolic activity, through the use of meditational means that have been culturally constructed, that the integration of individual and culture is represented in the cultural construction of the mind. The integration of person and context into a single unit of analysis is also promoted through including culturally

constructed or derived meanings as integral components of the unit of analysis. For example, Shweder and colleagues (2006) claim that “ . . . contexts and meanings are to be theoretically represented as part of the psychological system and not simply as influences, factors, or conditions external to the psychological system” (p. 724). Translating these notions to guide empirical research, Shweder and colleagues describe the custom complex as an integrative construct in which culture and psyche constitute a single unit of analysis. The custom complex combines sets of related behavioral practices and their underlying symbolic meanings into an integrated unit. Thus, delineations of customary practices, along with underlying beliefs, values, sanctions, rules, motives, and satisfactions that are associated with these, represent a partial fusion of individual behaviors and culturally constructed belief systems. Recent theories in developmental psychology have also been a rich source of integrative constructs to operationalize a synthesis of culture and individual psychological functioning. Overton’s (2006) constructs of embodiment and the person-agent are particularly noteworthy in this regard. In defining the embodied person functioning as a self-organizing dynamic action system, Overton’s conceptualization of the individual is already a fusion of the person and the relational biological-cultural world (p. 48). Further, the embodied person is assumed to developmentally transform his or her own expressive and adaptive functioning, as well as the world itself, through transactions with the biocultural world. Similarly, Overton’s description of the person-agent also represents a fusion in that it includes both the psychological processes that have meaning (e.g., through thoughts, wishes, emotions), as well as the sense of agency referring to the actionoriented, self-organizing systems through which the person transacts with the sociocultural world. The dynamic, systemic, and self-organizing nature of the person-agent construct recognizes the highly complex processes underlying human functioning and development. For example, Overton defines mind “ . . . as a self-organizing dynamic system of cognitive (knowings, beliefs), emotional (feelings), and conative or motivational (wishes, desires) meanings or understandings, along with procedures for maintaining, implementing, and changing these meanings” (p. 51). To summarize, we have highlighted two underlying and interrelated convergences that emerge across crosscultural, cultural, and developmental psychology in current theorizing about the mutually constitutive nature of individual development and culture. First, the inseparability of individual and culture, or of person and context, has been highlighted in all approaches, either through

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constructs that integrate both within a single unit of analysis, or through framing individual development from action theory or action-oriented conceptualizations. In such conceptualizations, the underlying assumption that individual action occurs within specific contexts (culturally constructed or otherwise) leads to the inclusion of context in varying forms of person-in-context constructs. Second, the centrality of action as an organizing and framing construct for human functioning enables the inclusion of lived experience or interpreted experience, which highlights culturally constructed interpretations and meaningmaking, which cultural psychologists have insisted need to be theoretically represented as part and parcel of the psychological system (Shweder et al., 1998, 2006). These notions are consistent with the relational metatheory position that culture and person operate in a “truly interpenetrating manner” (Overton, 2006, p. 34). Further, the emergence of promising constructs that integrate person and culture into a single unit of analysis are paving the way for empirical investigations that will advance the development of culturally inclusive theories of human development. Common Ground: Focus on Developmental Change and Processes Scholarship of early researchers from the fields of crosscultural, cultural, and developmental psychology necessarily reflected the biases emanating from their different professional origins in the three subdisciplines. Thus, the primary goal of early cross-cultural psychologists was to test the generalizability of psychological theories and establish universalities and differences in human functioning. Early cultural psychologists, instead, were focused on understanding the directive force of shared meaning systems in the lives of individuals and how these meanings were constructed in given cultural contexts. Developmental psychologists were primarily concerned with questions about developmental sequences and processes in various domains of human psychological functioning. However, like cross-cultural psychologists, they were also interested in examining cultural similarities and variations in developmental changes and processes. Over the years, as each subdiscipline has matured, it has extended its theoretical frameworks, leading to common and overlapping research questions that would advance the field. In this section of the chapter, we suggest that integration of the three subdisciplines is the result of common interest in how developmental processes and changes are situated in context. Furthermore, the three goals identified

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by Bornstein (2010), to describe, explain, and interpret the range of cultural variations in human psychological functioning, require an integration of cross-cultural, cultural, and developmental psychology. In his preface to the Handbook of Cultural Developmental Science (note that the title itself suggests an integration of cultural and developmental science), Bornstein delineates three goals for a culturally inclusive account of development: 1. Describe the widest spectrum of human variation, with a focus on highlighting alternative modes of development. We suggest that the contributions of cross-cultural and cultural psychology are particularly relevant in addressing this task. 2. Explain the origins and ontogenetic course of the widest possible variety of constructs, structures, functions, or processes of human development. According to Bornstein, this task includes delineating similarities and differences in development and in developmental processes so as to differentiate between those processes that emerge and evolve in a culture-dependent fashion and those that transcend or are independent of culture (e.g., processes that may be viewed as universal). We suggest that the goals of developmental psychology and cross-cultural psychology can be integrated in addressing this task. For example, when the focus of cross-cultural research is to examine similarities and differences in developmental sequences and processes in psychological functioning, then the primary goals of each of the two subdisciplines are integrated. 3. Provide an interpretation of the processes of development. We think that cultural psychologists are well poised to address this task. Furthermore, we argue that the integration of individual development and context becomes essential to this task, because the culturally situated meaning of the constructs, structures, functions, and processes of human psychological functioning necessitate an integration of individual development and context. These three tasks or goals for a culturally inclusive account of human development are also well aligned with Heine and Norenzayan’s (2006) characterization of the two stages of scientific inquiry through which most sciences mature. Heine and Norenzayan claimed that, during the first stage, the focus is on theories that facilitate the observation and discovery of interesting phenomena. Although the first stage may overlap with the second stage, the focus of the latter stage is on explanations and explication of underlying mechanisms of phenomena identified during the first stage. Thus, the first two goals that

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Bornstein (2010) identified represent the first stage of scientific inquiry as characterized by Heine and Norenzayan (2006), while the third goal represents the second stage. In the following subsections, we synthesize contributions from the three subdisciplines in addressing each of the three goals delineated above. Range of Variation in Human Functioning The first task for a culturally integrated account of human development is to document the range of variation in different domains of human functioning. Here we highlight the significant contributions of both cross-cultural and cultural psychology toward addressing this goal, while distinguishing their unique contributions. While crosscultural psychology has furthered our understanding of universals and cultural differences in human functioning, the questions have been broached from the Western (United States and Western European) perspective. For this task, though, cultural psychologists’ contribution has been to deliberately start from the vantage point of non-Western cultural communities to highlight alternate models of human development that facilitate shedding our ethnocentric lenses and frameworks. Cultural Similarities and Differences Much of the early literature in cross-cultural psychology focused on testing the generalizability of constructs, measures, and theories developed in North America. For example, more than half of the studies carried out in the African continent during the early 1900s were concerned with IQ testing—reflecting the primary goal of testing existing theories and constructs in psychology (Jahoda & Krewer, 1997). This focus on testing existing theories led to a large body of cross-cultural research that was primarily replicative in nature. Although much of such research focused on variations in adult psychological functioning, studies of variations in children’s development and child rearing processes also abounded (LeVine et al., 1994; R. L. Munroe & Munroe, 1975; R. H. Munroe, R. L. Munroe, & Whiting, 1981; B. Whiting & Whiting, 1975). Based on their extensive review of recent cross-cultural research, Heine and Norenzayan (2006) reported that the majority of cross-cultural research conducted thus far has been within stage one—that is, focused on identifying cultural differences in psychological functioning. They documented cultural variations in many domains of basic psychological processing (e.g., perception, memory, self-construal), including meta-analyses to demonstrate the robustness of cultural differences. Furthermore, they

emphasized that along with investigating cultural differences, stage one research also targets the establishment of universals. However, in specifically critiquing the lack of conceptual and methodological rigor in investigating psychological universals, they claimed that such universals need to be derived from empirical analysis of psychological patterns across cultures. They offered a conceptual framework that delineates four distinct levels of hierarchically organized universals, along with cross-cultural research strategies to investigate these universals. Recent advances in brain imaging technology have lured psychologists from related fields, such as social psychology, as well to look for evidence of cultural impact on psychological processes by examining the structure and function of the brain. Referring to the brain as a cultural organ, Ambady and Bharucha (2009) reviewed evidence from the processing of music and numerical tasks and perceptual processing that imply a tuning of cognitive or neural processes to the cultural environment. Similarly, Nisbett (2003) hypothesized that Westerners, due to the individualistic, self-based focus of their culture, have a tendency to process central objects and organize information via rules and categories. Park and Huang (2010) reviewed the empirical evidence for this hypothesis and noted that stable differences are, in fact, observed between East Asians and individuals from Western countries on attention, contextual processing, categorization, and reasoning. Their review of research on many different behavioral task domains revealed that East Asians are biased toward holistic, contextual processing, whereas North Americans are biased to process focal objects in visual stimuli. Data such as these raise an interesting and critical question about theories of human development as to whether they conceptualize single, ideal end points of development or the potential of arriving at multiple developmental end points via multiple developmental pathways. Multiple Models of Development The past decade has seen a historic surge of culture comparative literature to overcome the issue of the restricted database in psychology, which primarily represented samples from North America (Heine & Norenzayan, 2006). A number of books have been published in recent years with the specific purpose of providing an international perspective on developmental processes and outcomes (Adler & Gielen, 2003; Brown, Larson, & Saraswathi, 2002; Daiute, Beykont, Higson-Smith, & Nucci, 2006; Gielen & Roopnarine, 2004; Penn, 2005; Roopnarine, Johnson, & Hooper, 1994; among others).

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As one example of the international or worldwide focus in these books, Brown, Larson, and Saraswathi (2002) provided an overarching framework for a comparative analysis of a contextualized description of adolescence in different regions of the world. Chapters on specific countries or regions of the world are written by a group of international scholars. Each chapter begins with countryspecific data that provide the context for the integration of empirically based analyses on a standard set of issues and social contexts that affect adolescents within that country. There are many illustrations of how the characteristics of adolescence vary across these countries, as a function of different definitions of adolescence, differences in the key societal institutions with which adolescents engage, in the key individuals who are part of youths’ lives, and in the particular societal changes that are occurring within a country or region. This approach of providing an overarching framework, with country-and/or region-specific chapters, facilitates comparative analysis of specific trends and interpretations of the transformation from childhood to adulthood in various regions of the world. Although we do not include the large number of books that could be discussed here, Gielen and Roopnarine (2004) provide a very useful bibliography of books that represent the extensive range of work that has been conducted on the cross-cultural study of childhood and adolescence. Regularities in Variation Another approach to recognizing and examining multiple models of development has been offered by Rogoff (2003), who championed the importance of examining cultural regularities amidst diverse socialization practices and traditions in communities. With research increasingly documenting a range of variations in cultural practices and traditions of caregiving, it is essential to articulate patterns of similarities and differences in cultural practices and child outcomes. Else, existing cross-cultural literature can appear to be inundated with a seemingly infinite range of variations in practices. Perhaps the most well-documented regularity in variation is represented in studies of independence and interdependence. Consistent variations in the conceptualizations of the individualistic and relational self arising from cross-cultural research (Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 1996, 2007; Kim & Choi, 1994; Landrine, 1992; Markus & Kitayama, 1991, 1994; Triandis, 1989) have been used to organize the literature on independence and interdependence as alternative pathways through development (Greenfield, Suzuki, & Rothstein-Fish, 2006).

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Focusing on infancy and the early childhood years, Rogoff (2003) documented regularities in cultural variations associated with: infant mortality or survival, the availability of siblings and extended family, opportunities for children to engage widely in their community, and cultural prototypes for engaging as groups rather than in pairs. Based on an ethnographic examination of childrearing practices among the Gusii and a community in northeastern United States, LeVine and colleagues (1994) provided an example of contrasting cultural models of early child care that documents such regularities in variation. LeVine and colleagues label the Gusii model pediatric, because its primary concern is with the survival, health, and physical growth of the infant, and the U.S. model pedagogical , because its primary concern is with the behavioral and educational development of the infant. The adaptive and culturally coherent links between parenting goals, parenting strategies and scripts, and children’s development in each model are seen as internally consistent and coherent in organization. Another consistently observed cultural regularity has to do with how children’s environments are culturally organized for learning. As Rogoff (2003) noted, we are all familiar with and take for granted that children participate in age-graded and segregated activities versus being engaged in mature adult activities. If we do not recognize this as a culturally situated practice of organizing children’s worlds, we run the risk of making implicit and ubiquitous assumptions of the prevalence of such child-focused settings in all cultural communities. Such expectations that childfocused settings are typical for children all around the world then become the basis for theories about universal features of children’s worlds. In fact, many of our ideas about stages of life and developmental processes that we presume characterize universal development are predicated upon children developing within such child-focused settings. Rogoff, Mistry, G¨onc¨u and Mosier (1993) offered another example of contrasting, yet culturally coherent, models of toddler–caregiver interaction that illustrates varying patterns of structuring learning opportunities for infants. The researchers selected four cultural communities (a Mayan peasant community in Guatemala, a tribal village in India, a middle-class community in Turkey, and a middle-class community in the United States) that represented variation in the extent to which children are segregated from adult activities. Their observations of caregiver–toddler interaction revealed two patterns for learning that were consistent with variations in whether children were able to observe and participate in adult

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activities. In communities where children were segregated from adult activities, adults took on the responsibility for organizing children’s learning by managing their motivation, by instructing them verbally, and by treating them as peers in play and conversation. In contrast, in the communities in which children had the opportunity to observe and to participate in adult activities, caregivers supported their toddlers’ own efforts with responsive assistance. Toddlers appeared to take responsibility for learning by observing ongoing events and beginning to enter adult activity (Rogoff et al., 1993). Learning occurred through active observation and participation. Toddlers and caregivers often maintained simultaneous attention to several ongoing activities and were responsive to each other, often through nonverbal means. Within each community there was a coherence of patterns linking cultural context (i.e., segregation from adult activity, parental goals for children’s development, differential responsibility for learning) with patterns of caregiver–toddler interaction. Gaskins’s (1999) description of Mayan infants and toddlers involved with caregivers in non-age-segregated activities corroborates the conclusion of strong engagement with the social world through focused observation. Active observation allowed Mayan toddlers to take into account what is already happening and to make judgments about whether and how to enter ongoing interactions. Such variations in opportunities for learning are not just reflective of cultural variations but also precursors of different developmental behaviors. In contrast to toddlers in the Mayan community, U.S. toddlers rarely engaged in focused observations of multiple and competing events but instead engaged in dyadic interactions and sought their caregivers’ sole attention. Priority given to work or play activities is another area where we note regularity in cultural variation. In nonindustrialized rural communities where children are embedded in the world of adults, the boundaries between work and play are not as clearly marked as they are for children in industrialized, urban communities (Gaskins, 1999; Lancy, 2008; Rogoff, 2003). There appear to be concomitant variations in how learning occurs: that is, through intent observation as a spectator or peripheral participant in adult activities, or through adult-initiated instruction or active intervention. For example, Lancy (2008) noted that children in rural communities were typically free from adult control for play, when contrasted with industrialized, urban communities where adults intervene to accelerate preparation for formal schooling. Among village children, if there is any attempt to intervene to accelerate development, it is more often than not in areas of development

that hasten interdependence on others. For example, adults may explicitly teach children to learn proper etiquette and kin terminology so as to promote the child as a good candidate for shared nurturing (Lancy, 2008). To sum up this section, it appears that although historically it was cross-cultural psychology that focused on the quest for universals and cultural differences in psychological functioning, more recently, the range and focus of culture comparative research has been significantly influenced by the goals and concerns of cultural psychology. The emerging convergence is apparent in the current focus on examining alternate models of human development that reflect emic and indigenous perspectives and on establishing regularities in the pattern of cultural differences. The focus on regularities in variation highlights the integral role of culturally constructed meaning systems and frames of reference that mediate the mutually constitutive connection between cultural contexts and children’s development. More importantly, this focus guards against claims of infinite variation in cultural practices or extreme cultural relativism. We elaborate on this theme in a later section of this chapter. Nature of Development and Developmental Processes According to Bornstein (2010), the second question that is essential for culturally inclusive accounts of development includes delineating similarities and differences in development and developmental processes. As noted earlier, cultural and cross-cultural psychologists have primarily focused on examining cultural variations and similarities, while developmental psychologists have been primarily concerned with questions about developmental trajectories and processes. In this section, we suggest that it is possible to frame questions of developmental trajectories and processes that integrate the interests of cross-cultural, cultural, and developmental psychologists. However, this integration rests upon a relational metatheoretical perspective of viewing varying dimensions of development as co-equal and complementary (Overton, 2006), and on assumptions of the plurality of developmental end points and trajectories (Shweder et al., 2006). Representing a developmental perspective, Feldman (1994) delineated defining elements of developmental change. According to Feldman, three criteria must be met to define developmental change: It is critical to (1) specify end points of development, (2) document a developmental sequence in mastery, and (3) describe the nature of developmental transitions. From a relational developmental systems perspective (Lerner, 2006, 2011), developmental

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processes are viewed as changes in individual ←→ context relations, thus adding another dimension to developmental changes. The situated nature of developmental processes is explicitly acknowledged by including context in the developmental process. Adding a cultural perspective, developmental processes are assumed to occur through an individual’s participation in culturally situated activities and contexts and include appropriation of mental tools and symbolic systems (Bruner, 1990; Cole, 1996; Rogoff, 2003; Wertsch, 1991; Vygotsky, 1978), or mentality-practice complexes (Shweder et al., 2006). Once the processes of acquisition of culturally situated tools and symbolic systems are included as critical dimensions of developmental processes, we have a broader and more comprehensive conceptualization of development that sets the stage for culturally inclusive theories of development. Recent theoretical discussions regarding the nature and processes of development provide a comprehensive description of different dimensions of development. They also articulate how transactions with the sociocultural world (i.e., both the physical and social world) are integral components of the developmental process. To begin with, Overton (2006) contends that a theory of development must address two crucial questions regarding development. The first question focuses on the nature of developmental phenomena (the “what” of development), and the second focuses on the nature of transitions or change (the “how” of development). Here we integrate current theoretical discussions about contextually and culturally situated developmental processes to highlight how questions of interest to both cultural and developmental psychologists are integrated in these accounts. We emphasize that in these accounts, the focus is on the developmental processes and transitions whereby individual and contextual circumstances are interpreted, navigated, and negotiated in order to become integrative and adaptive within specific cultural contexts. Nature of Development To address the first question regarding the nature of development, Overton (2006) delineated two dimensions of behavioral development: the expressive–constitutive dimension of behavior (i.e., the underlying pattern or structural organization of behaviors or actions) and instrumental–communicative dimension (i.e., strategies and means of adapting to the sociocultural world at each organizational state). Both these dimensions are considered co-equal, essential, and complementary characterizations of the nature of developmental phenomena. Taking the example of attachment behaviors, Overton suggested that

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proximity-seeking behavior in attachment theory may be considered as expressive–constitutive when it is assumed to represent an underlying attachment organization. But proximity-seeking behavior can also be studied as an instrumental behavior that represents a way of coping with separation fears. Since the instrumental–communicative dimension by definition focuses attention on the strategies and means of adapting to the sociocultural world, questions that are of central importance to cultural psychologists become integral for developmental psychologists as well. This is because the focus on “what” develops includes dimensions of behavior that represent transactions with the sociocultural world. In the past decade, a readiness for convergence of cultural and developmental perspectives can be inferred from the notable voluminous handbooks on integrative perspectives. As the title itself suggests, Bornstein’s (2010) Handbook of Cultural Developmental Science was designed to integrate the aims of cultural and cross-cultural psychology on one hand with those of developmental psychology on the other hand. Bornstein specifically described the dual focus of the handbook as “ . . . charting relations between cultural variation on the one hand and, on the other, developmental variation in physical, mental, emotional, and social development in children, parents, and cultures” (p. x). Although this framing of a dual focus continues to treat cultural variation and developmental variation as separable, the chapters in the first part of the book provide integrative discussions of the range and nature of cultural variations in specific domains of development (e.g., language, motor skills, cognition, and so on). In the second part of the book, scholars provide overviews of childhood and caregiving representing varying countries or regions of the world. Jensen (2011) invited a selected group of authors to present new syntheses that bridge cultural and developmental psychology in their respective areas of scholarship, with a focus on offering new and helpful alternatives to these old but persistent issues of universalism and relativism. The chapters of this book are organized to represent those that integrate the study of culture and developmental processes (e.g., memory, moral development, and learning), culture and developmental contexts (e.g., family contexts, peer relationships, and communities), culture and developmental selves (e.g., identity development, self-acceptance, individual purposes), and culture and developmental phases (perspectives on African life stages, Hindu life stages, and emerging adulthood). Although Kitayama and Cohen (2007) is titled narrowly by subdiscipline as the Handbook of Cultural

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Psychology, the chapters present varying disciplinary perspectives that are integrated around two central questions: (1) how culture might foster different forms of psychological processes, and (2) how varying consequences of cross-culturally divergent psychological processes can be documented. Based on the extensive documentation of cultural differences in the nature and outcomes of development in these three handbooks, we suggest the field has begun to conceptualize developmental processes in ways that require an integration of questions of importance to developmental psychologists as well as questions of importance to cross-cultural and cultural psychologists.

(2011) discussion of irritability, adaptation, and action in ontogenetic development is also instructive here, in that the actions of the organism must be integrated with the actions of the context, and this can be in both structural and functional terms. As Lerner noted:

Developmental Transitions

Cross-cultural comparisons offer several examples of transformational transitions that vary in assumptions about the underpinnings of the developmental change (i.e., is it located in the individual or in the relation between the individual and social world). Classic stage theories of developmental psychology such as Piagetian stages of knowledge construction, Erikson’s psychosocial changes, and Kohlberg’s stages of moral reasoning are perhaps the best known examples where transitional change is situated within the individual and thought to be universal even though generated by interaction with the context. In other theories, development is seen as situated in changes in the individual’s relation to the social world. For example, Rogoff (2003) conceptualized developmental changes as transitions or transformations in the individual’s role or participation in communities. Gaskins’s (1996) description of phases of infancy as characterized by Mayan parents (from being a “lap baby” to a “knee baby” and then a “yard baby”) is another illustration of such transformations in the relation between developing individuals and their participation in communities. These representations coincide with changes in the infant’s mobility and concomitant relationship with the caregiver—from no independent locomotion (needs to be held in arms or lap), to some independent mobility (but needs to be kept close to caregiver), to independent mobility (can move around within a limited space under supervision). In yet other examples, developmental transitions are viewed as situated in the individual’s relation to the spiritual world (e.g., Nsamenang’s [1992, 2011] delineation of the stages of human development that characterize indigenous views in West Africa), or in the individual’s relation to the natural world (e.g., ethnotheories of indigenous or tribal communities in which individual development is represented as the individual’s relation to the natural world [Highwater, 1995]), or a model of life-span development organized around an individual-in-social relations

To address the second question regarding the nature of change (or the “how” of development), Overton (2006) differentiated between transformational change (representing change in form, organization, or structure) and variational change (representing individual variations within each organizational state). Once again, Overton emphasized that these differentiated dimensions are not dichotomous competing alternatives, but rather co-equal complementary processes. Further, transactions with the sociocultural world are an integral aspect in both transformational and variational developmental transitions and changes. At first glance, it may appear that transformational developmental transitions must be situated in individuallevel mental organizations or structures. For example, in the Piagetian perspective, developmental transitions of an individual’s understanding of the world are viewed as transformations of internal mental organizational structures that progress initially from sensorimotor schemas to preoperational, then concrete-operational, and finally formal-operational schemas. However, in characterizations of transformational developmental transitions that are consistent with a relational metatheoretical frame, the sociocultural world is integrally represented even in transformational developmental transitions. For example, Lerner has characterized developmental transitions as changes and transformations of self-organizing dynamic systems (Lerner, 2006, 2011). Lerner notes that a transformational transition is viewed as developmental if it represents a change in structure or organization of a system. Furthermore, since relational developmental systems represent individual ←→ context relations, developmental transitions can represent transformations of individualcontext relations, not just transformations of the structural organization of internal mental components. Lerner’s

Irritability means that the living being (which, for present purposes, we may term the organism) can alter itself in reaction to stimuli or events in its world, e.g., it can change its form, shape, or organization (these are structural changes) or it can alter things such as its rate or direction of change (these are functional changes). —Lerner, 2011, p. 35

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focus (e.g. Menon and Shweder’s [1998] analysis of life stages of women in a community in India). Menon and Shweder documented that life stages are marked by transitions in social responsibility, family management, and moral duty rather than by chronological age or biological markers. In a related vein, Saraswathi, Mistry, and Dutta (2011) offered an analysis of Hindu life stages as transformations in the “individual’s-relations-with-social world.” They documented the underlying organizing structure of the Hindu life cycle, in that each stage goes through a cyclical process of “induct–embed–detach” in an ever-widening social world. The cyclical and repeating transformations (induct–embed–detach) push an individual through an ever-widening social world, with dissolution at each level leading to induction into a higher level of synthesis with the social world, until one reaches the highest level of oneness with the universe represented in Brahma. For example, the child is introduced at birth to the mother, then family, then larger kinship (in some cases the village), and then through to the larger peer group and society. Like transformational developmental transitions, variational transitions (the second dimension of developmental transitions delineated by Overton, 2006) once again bring individual-context relations to the forefront. Variational change refers to the extent to which a change varies from a standard or norm (Overton, 2006, p. 27). This reference to standards or norms by definition incorporates questions of interest to cultural and cross-cultural psychologists. Since standards or norms of behavior vary across cultural communities, it stands to reason that individual variations within a cultural community need to be assessed in the context of norms that are valued or adaptive within the context of that specific cultural community. Thus, empirical analysis of the nature and sources of variational transitions or changes must be contextually and culturally situated. This approach necessitates the integration of questions that are of interest to both developmental and cultural and cross-cultural psychologists. To summarize our discussion of convergence in the study of developmental processes, we have noted that questions central to developmental psychologists and those central to cultural psychologists may well be viewed as complementary and equally necessary for a truly inclusive account of human development. Analysis of cultural universals and variations in terms of endpoints, as well as developmental trajectories and processes, falls well within the purview of both cross-cultural and development psychology. However, cultural psychology has also

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made significant contributions to addressing these questions by highlighting the possibility of multiple endpoints of development, the basis of observed regularities in cultural variations, and emic analysis of culturally situated constructs for the study of human behavior. In the next section, we highlight the integration of developmental and cultural psychology in addressing the third goal of interpretation as delineated by Bornstein (2010). Interpretation: Developmental Changes as Situated in Culture The task of interpretation requires analysis of culturally situated meaning of the constructs, structures, functions, and processes of human psychological functioning. Here we highlight the contributions of both cultural and developmental psychology in achieving this task of interpretation. The contribution of cultural psychology, with its focus on meaning making, becomes critical, and the focus on examining how context functions represents the contribution of developmental psychology. Thus, we focus on these two specific contributions: (1) examining the culturally situated meaning and interpretation of constructs, and (2) conceptualizing how context functions in the developmental process. Culturally Situated Meanings Perhaps one of the most crucial contributions of cultural psychology has been to highlight the culturally situated nature of the constructs we have generated to represent various domains of human psychological functioning. Take, for example, the construct of attachment. Crosscultural studies of mother-infant attachment led to discussions regarding the validity of attachment theory and attachment types across cultures (van IJzendoorn & Sagi, 1999; Morelli & Rothbaum, 2007). Even so, attachment theorists claimed that the existence of cultural differences in mothers’ perceptions of attachment behavior did not necessarily mean that the secure base system worked differently across cultures. However, Harwood and colleagues’ (1995) response to this claim is an invaluable example of the thoughtful unpacking of constructs that we often take for granted as universally applicable: This is certainly true, and in response a distinction must be made between basic human mechanisms that evidence suggests are universal, particularly in infancy, and the cultural constructs that human beings have built in an attempt to understand those mechanisms. For instance, the human reproductive system works identically across cultures; nonetheless, the cultural constructs people have created regarding sexual

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and marital relationships in which human reproduction occurs shows vast cross-cultural variation. Similarly, evidence suggests that it may be a human universal in later infancy for the subsystems of affiliation, wariness, exploration, and attachment to work together in coherent and recognizable patterns. It may even be that a sense of safety and emotional warmth underlie patterns of attachment behavior that are deemed desirable across a majority of cultures. However, these issues are separate from the cultural construct of security that we have created in U.S. psychology on the basis of these mechanisms. In particular, the concept of inner security, with its emphasis on the importance of selfsufficiency and inner resourcefulness for the autonomous, bounded individual, who is nonetheless capable of existing harmoniously and finding satisfaction in relationships with other autonomous, bounded individuals, is an ideal peculiar to dominant U.S. culture—a culturally constructed developmental endpoint that is not shared by much of the rest of the world. The cultural constructs built on the basic human mechanisms are what provide the cross-cultural variations in the meaning systems of interest to a symbolic approach.” —Harwood et al., 1995, pp. 36–37.

As underscored by this quote, interpretations of basic human mechanisms are culturally constructed, and these constructions form the schemas or mental tools and symbols through which individual behavior is mediated. Further, the constructs that psychologists create to study human behavior are also culturally constructed, therefore we must recognize that the constructs we use represent the implicit values, norms, or definitions that we take for granted. Garc´ıa Coll and Magnuson’s (1999) study of adolescent mothers also illustrated the need to deconstruct commonly used constructs or variables. In the literature examining development in infancy and early childhood, there is strong evidence that maternal education predicts developmental outcomes in infancy among middle-class communities in the United States. However, as Garc´ıa Coll and Magnuson demonstrated, maternal education did not represent the set of practices that facilitate developmental outcomes in other communities. In their study of adolescent Puerto-Rican mothers, Garc´ıa Coll and Magnuson (1999) used an emic (insider perspective) to determine that the combination of having experience in taking care of young siblings and cousins, and access to a network of caregivers in the extended family, predicted maternally responsive practices among the young mothers. These researchers went beyond using a social address variable (maternal education as representing socioeconomic status) to unpack the configuration of individually lived experiences through which adolescent mothers learned

to become effective mothers. Their findings documented that having the experience of taking care of younger siblings and access to caregiving help enabled the adolescent mothers to appropriate the set of maternal practices that promoted their infants’ developmental outcomes. How Context Functions in Development Culturally constructed meanings are also crucial in examining and interpreting how context functions. Here too we note common empirical ground where cultural and developmental psychologists tread to decipher the role of context on individual developmental processes and trajectories. Recent scholarship in cultural psychology and in developmental psychology appears to be converging, both in terms of paying attention to developmental processes as culturally and contextually situated phenomenon, as well as in terms of empirical investigations about how context functions in individual developmental processes and trajectories. In this regard, Bronfenbrenner’s ecological model (1979; Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006) with its multiple layers of context interacting with each other and affecting the developing person cannot be underestimated. However, it is important to differentiate it from cultural perspectives, such as Weisner’s (2002) ecocultural perspective, Rogoff’s (2003) sociocultural perspective, or Shweder and colleagues’ (2006) cultural psychology perspective. Although both the ecological and the above noted cultural perspectives represent individual-in-context processes, the latter go beyond the ecological model to emphasize that individual behavior is mediated through culture as the meaning systems, symbols, and practices through which people interpret experience. The contributions of such models and their associated empirical literature has the potential promise for a synthesis of culture and human development and is reviewed in this section. Nicotera’s (2007) distinction between neighborhoods as environment and place nicely illustrates how the conceptualization of community context can include both environmental circumstances as represented in ecological models, as well as the meaning-making processes through which individuals interpret their circumstances. Nicotera distinguished between environment as a static context that most people experience in the same way, and place as the socially constructed history of individuals’ lived experience of an environment over time (p. 27). Once again, consistent with the relational metatheoretical frame, both these dimensions of ecological circumstances can be analyzed simultaneously as complementary dimensions. To take an example, features of community context, such as economic and demographic characteristics (e.g.,

Culture and Child Development

population density, race/ethnic composition) represent shared environmental circumstances that can be assessed as static snapshots of community contexts. However, the socially and culturally constructed meaning attributed to these features, and the processes or strategies developed in response, need to be examined at the family and individual level to represent what Nicotera (2007) referred to as the place aspect of community context. Thus, ethnic stratification at the community level (i.e., ethnic composition and ethnic enclaves) is the environmental backdrop against which ethnically underrepresented families construct culturally grounded belief systems or ethnotheories through which they interpret the experience of being an ethnic minority. Both environmental and interpretive dimensions of context are germane to understanding the developmental process. Describing how context defined by static demographic categories such as ethnicity and race function, Cooper, Garc´ıa Coll, Thorne, and Orellana (2005) illustrated how demographic categories reflecting immigration, ethnicity, and race are instantiated and made more or less salient in the institutional practices of schools. For example, “ . . . schools’ institutional use of pan-ethnic categories such as Hispanic or Asian highlighted certain distinctions while muting others that were more meaningful to some families” (Cooper, Garc´ıa Coll, Thorne, et al., 2005, p. 196). Similarly, documentation of bilingual programs in schools revealed that bilingual class labels such as “Spanish bilingual” and “English only” accentuated some identity labels while muting others. For example, the Spanish bilingual program reinforced a sense of unity among Spanish speaking children despite varying immigrant origins, while accentuating their separation from African American and European American children in English-only classes. In all these examples, static demographic characteristics (such as racial or ethnic composition of the school’s population) are given interpretive salience and directive force for action by the institutional practices of labeling, which children made sense of and interpreted in navigating and responding to these practices. Thus, interpretive and meaning-making processes at both the institutional or individual level may be viewed as mediating constructs that link individual and context (Mistry & Wu, 2010). Once again focusing on how ethnic identity develops as a contextualized developmental process, there are several studies reported in Cooper, Garc´ıa Coll, Bartko, Davis, and Chatman (2005) that illustrate how demographic categories representing environmental circumstances are connected to individual development through mediating processes.

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For example, to illustrate the intramental mediating processes of change or transitions, Garc´ıa Coll, Szalacha, and Palacios (2005) examined how ethnic identity was constructed by children, focusing on how children drew upon their families’ national origin and ethnicity in constructing their personal identities. Similarly, Thorne’s (2005) ethnographic investigation of how children in ethnically diverse settings constructed and negotiated identity practices in their everyday interactions and social relations with peers illustrate many such mediating processes. Children marked, muted, and negotiated the salience and meanings of identities related to nationality, language, race, ethnicity, social class, gender, and other categories of social location. Thorne documented how supposedly static demographic categories reflecting immigration, ethnicity, and race had greater impact in children’s social lives at school under four conditions: (1) if they were coded in local classification systems; (2) if children seen as in a labeled category made up more homogeneous groups; (3) if markers such as appearance, language, dress, food, family lineage, and birthplace were visible and consistent; or (4) if the demographic categories were named in children’s intergroup conflicts. These examples highlight that demographic categories are not static, but instead are given meaning and actively interpreted by the institutions and individuals involved in using these categories to navigate and negotiate their lived experiences. To summarize, two crucial lessons for the integration of developmental and cultural perspectives t emerge from the examples discussed in this section. The first is that it is crucial to specify the particular features of context that are the focus of analysis. Goodnow (2010) has delineated ways of specifying contexts that offer a particularly promising guide for empirical research that integrates developmental and cultural foci of interest. Each specification of context represents a culturally informed perspective on context, and is linked to specific questions regarding the nature and course of development (thus integrating the concerns of both perspectives). The second lesson is that contexts are always interpreted by the participants functioning within the contexts. Hence, both environmental or ecological features of context and the ways individuals interpret and give meaning to features of context must be considered complementary and preferably be analyzed simultaneously. CONCLUSIONS We started this chapter with the silver lining that there is now widespread recognition of the limitations of a narrow

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empirical and theoretical knowledge base in developmental psychology generated primarily from the perspective of U.S.–based authors and researchers (Bornstein, 2010; Damon, 2011). These limitations need to be addressed if we are serious about developing theories of human development that are culturally inclusive and relevant globally. The need for such a global orientation stems from the state of science and technology that resides us in an interconnected world, bringing diverse people together on scientific, economic, and social fronts. In this climate of interconnectivity and coexistence of diverse peoples, our misguided assumption that our culture-specific knowledge applies to other contexts has proven to be unsustainable and can be potentially costly. We coexist on a unified planet, and a better understanding of contextual and cultural underpinnings of psychological structures can only facilitate a harmonious coexistence. The unpaved trails pioneered by forays into remote and exotic cultures far removed from our normative existence by cultural, cross-cultural, and anthropologically oriented psychologists have now become well-traveled roadways driven by the necessity of interacting in a technology-driven interconnected world. The net result is a proliferation in scholarship since our last chapter, as a number of mainstream developmental psychologists, along with the initial harbingers of change (i.e., cultural and cross-cultural psychologists), have joined the discussions on how cultural contexts should be conceptualized, studied, and integrated to better understand unique and universal developmental pathways. Given the width and breadth of interest in cultural context across many areas of psychology, it would be irresponsible to claim that we can bring it all together in the same chapter. Hence, in this chapter, we have attempted a nuanced synthesis of the nature of conceptual and methodological issues under debate, delving into the details of constructs and controversies and pointing out areas where consensus and integration are foreseeable. The chapter is thus intended as a topographic representation of the issues for scholars new to the field, giving them an overview of the nature of the terrain rather than a complete roadmap of all the work available. In fact, we list a couple of caveats to bear in mind: We are only referring to developmental psychology as defined up until adolescence, whereas we know lifespan psychology, psychology of adulthood, and aging have gained momentum in addressing issues of cultural context, and international and cross-cultural gerontology is an equally fertile field.

We have not reviewed advancements in analytical and methodological areas on structural equation models, mixed models and other such techniques which get into the nuts and bolts of how we may analytically be able to include contextual variables or do comparative analyses within groups. The questions people ask are often determined by the kind of analyses we are capable of doing (as we see in brain imaging data). Hence advancements in computational facilities may further shape how culture is conceived in empirical literature. Not many would argue with the role of the dialectic process as a critical mechanism of the development of theories. In this context, we hope that the emerging convergences among cross-cultural, cultural, and developmental psychologists that we delineate in this chapter will generate the dialogue that can promote integration and synthesis of perspectives. The more we are able to compare, distinguish, clarify, and synthesize constructs across varying theoretical perspectives, the better position we will be in to move towards integrative perspectives on human development (Mistry, 2011). REFERENCES Adler, L. L., & Gielen, U. P. (2003). Migration: Immigration and emigration in international perspective. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Ambady, N. & Bharucha, J. (2009). Culture and the brain. Current Directions in Psychological Sciences, 18, 342–345. Arnett, J. J. (2008). The neglected 95%: Why American psychology needs to become less American. American Psychologist, 63, 602–614. Berry, J. W. (1966). Temne and Eskimo perceptual skills. International Journal of Psychology, 1, 207–229. Berry, J. W. (1969). On cross-cultural comparability. International Journal of Psychology, 4, 119–128. Bornstein, M. (2010). Handbook of cultural developmental science. New York, NY: Taylor & Francis Group. Brandtst¨adter, J. (1998). Action perspectives on human development. In R. M. Lerner, Theoretical models of human development (pp. 807–863). Vol. 1 in W. Damon (Ed.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (5th ed.). New York, NY: Wiley. Brandtst¨adter, J. (2006). Action perspectives on human development. In R. M. Lerner (Ed.), Theoretical models of human development (pp. 516–568). Vol. 1 in W. Damon & R. M. Lerner (Eds.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (6th ed.). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Bronfenbrenner, U. (1979). The ecology of human development. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Bronfenbrenner, U. (1986). Ecology of the family as a context for human development. Developmental Psychology, 22 (6), 723–742. Bronfenbrenner, U., & Morris, P. A. (2006). The bioecological model of human development. In R. M. Lerner (Ed.), Theoretical models of human development (pp. 793–828). Vol. 1 in W. Damon & R. M. Lerner (Eds.-in-Chief), Handbook of child psychology (6th ed.). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Brown, B. B., Larson, R. W., & Sarawathi, T. S. (2002). The world’s youth: Adolescence in eight regions of the world . Cambridge University Press.

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PART IV

Adolescence

CHAPTER 12

Puberty Its Role In Development ELIZABETH J. SUSMAN AND LORAH D. DORN

HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE 290 PUBERTY: A BRAIN–NEUROENDOCRINE EVENT 291 TIMING OF PUBERTY: ITS PSYCHOLOGICAL SIGNIFICANCE 296 DOES PUBERTAL STATUS OR TIMING MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN PSYCHOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT? 299 FAMILY INFLUENCES ON TIMING OF PUBERTY AND MENARCHE 302

MECHANISMS INVOLVED IN TIMING OF PUBERTY AND ADJUSTMENT 310 PUBERTY AND OBESITY 311 PUBERTY AND BONE HEALTH 311 PUBERTY AND SLEEP 312 WHAT DO WE KNOW FOR SURE ABOUT PUBERTY AND DEVELOPMENT? 312 CONCLUSIONS 313 REFERENCES 315

What is this mystical, dreaded, and shrouded period of development, labeled puberty, that is accompanied by rapid morphological body changes, including physical growth and hormonal changes as well as a myriad of psychological and social contextual changes? Puberty has intrigued scholars, artists, parents, and adolescents alike for centuries, and cultures have ritualized puberty to varying degrees. In some instances, rituals celebrate the reproductive transition of puberty, whereas in other instances, religious and social aspects of puberty are celebrated. At its core, puberty is the period of development, the passage through of which endows an adolescent with reproductive competence. At an even more basic analysis, puberty is a brain–neuroendocrine process that provides a stimulus for the physical changes and putative psychological changes that accompany this period of development. How, then, does a biologically based process come to be so compacted with social and psychological significance? Puberty’s significance likely derives to some extent from its mistaken identity and overlap with the adolescent passage. Adolescence is a wider concept, encompassing the time and terrain that include both puberty and the

social, emotional, and wider psychological changes that characterize the chronological transition from childhood to adulthood. The primary functions of puberty and adolescence are principally nonoverlapping; puberty entails brain development consisting of neuroendocrine changes, characterized by activation of gonadotropin-releasing hormone (GnRH) and elevated secretion of gonadotropins and sex steroids, resulting in sexual maturation and related physical growth changes (Rockett, Lynch, & Buck, 2004; Sisk & Zehr, 2005). Adolescence entails the acquisition of adult cognition, emotions, and social roles, which is possible through maturation of brain functions and dynamic interactions with varying family, educational, and social contexts. Determining how the biological and psychological processes interact to influence one another has been a challenge to scientists for decades. The goal of this chapter is to present a perspective on the neuroendocrinology of puberty and the implications of these brain and morphological changes for psychological development. The chapter begins with a historical and theoretical perspective on the role of puberty in development, followed by a review of the major neuroendocrine changes that occur at puberty and how these changes affect physical morphological characteristics. Then, the literature is condensed

This chapter is based in part on the chapter by Susman and Dorn (2009). 289

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to present an overview of the relations between pubertal status and pubertal timing and psychological development. Finally, we conclude with research and intervention recommendations for the future. HISTORICAL PERSPECTIVE A classic perspective on adolescence is that it is a period characterized by “storm and stress” (Hall, 1904). This view portrays adolescents as oppositional, emotionally labile, and in need of constant monitoring so as to mold the adolescent’s developing character to prevent adult psychopathology. The biological changes of puberty were considered a major influence on the storm and stress of adolescence, as indicated by Anna Freud’s work (Freud, 1958). This viewpoint has been significantly reconceptualized, and currently adolescents are presented in a more balanced and positive perspective. Adolescence now is viewed primarily as a transitional period that is characterized by storm and stress for only a fraction of boys and girls (D. Offer & Offer, 1975; Offer & SchonertReichl, 1992). If it even does exist, the storm and stress of adolescence currently can be conceptualized as neither a universal phenomenon nor an exclusively biologically based aspect of development. Changes in the storm and stress perspective on adolescence evolved primarily from two distinct lines of evidence. First, parents, teachers, and others endowed with the responsibility to care for youth were aware that all adolescents are not the stormy and stressed-out persons who were portrayed in the literature and popular press reports. Offer and Offer (1975) published a seminal study showing that about 80% of adolescent boys remain welladjusted during this transitional period. Adolescents do have problems, and multiple studies of mental health problems have shown prevalence rates of about 20% for mental health problems (Costello et al., 1996, 2003; Kashani, Orvaschel, Burk, & Reid, 1985; Offord et al., 1987). Collectively, adolescence now seems to be viewed as a more positive period of development, and newer research focuses on positive youth development (Catalano, Haggerty, Oesterle, Fleming, & Hawkins, 2004; Larson, 2000; Lerner, Brentano, Dowling, & Anderson, 2002) rather than the negative perspective of past eras. In brief, adolescents are not consistently characterized by emotional distress and behavioral disruption, and they are known to be competent to interact seamlessly with family, friends, and others in their wider ecology. The socially valuable movement toward positive youth development is designed to foster growth potential along favorable directions.

Theories of Puberty and Psychological Development Puberty as a biological process that deterministically influenced psychological functioning and social behavior was a view derived from evolutionary (Neberich, Penke, Lehart, & Asendorpf, 2010; Parker, 2000) and psychodynamic theories (Blos, 1962; A. Freud, 1958; S. Freud, 1998; Hall, 1904) that dominated the early 20th century. Sigmund and Anna Freud were instrumental in advancing a perspective that merged the biological–sexual and psychological aspects of pubertal development. For Sigmund Freud, the arrival of puberty signaled the end of infantile sexual life and the beginning of normal adult sexual life (Freud, 1998). In infancy, the oral phase, the sexual instinct was predominantly autoerotic; at puberty, the genital phase, the search becomes for a sexual object. The autoerotic zones of infancy become subordinated to the genital zone. The two sexes are considered to diverge, as the basic anatomy of sexuality is different between males and females. Freud considered male sexuality as straightforward and understandable, whereas female sexuality became a combination of an affectional and a sensual current. The sexual aim of males becomes discharge of the sexual products, and the sexual aim is subordinate to the reproductive function. Anna Freud (1958) carried on and expanded the traditional psychoanalytic perspective of her father with regard to puberty and adolescence. She developed the notion that defense mechanisms are critical to understanding adolescent adjustment. Defense mechanisms ward off pregenital urges that are reawakened or new urges arising from endogenous biological changes. Unconsciously, adolescents call on defense mechanisms to protect the ego and reduce anxiety. After the analytically oriented era waned, behavioral and contextually oriented models of development became predominant in the mid- to late 20th century. This period might aptly be described as the dark ages of empiricism with regard to puberty and psychological development. Skinnerian behaviorism (Skinner, 1953), social learning theory (e.g., Bandura, 1978), ecological theories (Bronfenbrenner, 1979), and life-course perspectives gave virtually no attention to puberty or biology more broadly. The rich inner psychological life and sexual fantasies and urges of adolescents became as repressed by late 20th-century scientists as by the Victorian adolescent. However, a minority perspective erupted in the 1980s that had been brewing among developmental psychologists. A foundation for the rise of a new era of interdisciplinary models of the biological and psychological aspects of puberty sprung

Puberty: Its Role In Development

out of the now classic Petersen and Taylor (1980) chapter on pubertal development in Adelson’s (1980) Handbook of Adolescent Development. Petersen and Taylor suggested that the biological changes during puberty play a major role in psychological development. Furthermore, they suggested that being off time in pubertal development was a risk for adjustment problems. The Petersen and Taylor publication was followed in the early 1980s, parallel to the rise of the Society of Research in Adolescence, by a movement originating from a small group of scholars (Jeanne Brooks-Gunn, Richard M. Lerner, David Magnusson, Anne Petersen, Laurence Steinberg, Elizabeth Susman, and others) who put forth a paradigm that had parallels with a phoenix rising from the ashes. Like the risen phoenix, puberty and its psychological correlates took on a new form as a period of development characterized by integrated biological, psychological, and contextual features. The role of puberty in development then began to receive moderate attention, given its potential as a mechanism involved in the etiology of adolescent adjustment, psychopathology, substance use, and risky sexual behavior. Several of these scholars began or continued the first longitudinal studies that focused on the integration of biopsychosocial processes inherent in adolescent development. The more integrated perspective became the norm for considering puberty and psychological development. This perspective is now viewed as essential for understanding the role of puberty in psychological development. It follows that the current chapter presents a perspective on puberty as a biopsychosocial transition that is initiated by major neuroendocrine changes and is accompanied by psychological and behavior alterations that simultaneously initiate changes in the social contexts in which adolescents find themselves. This theoretical approach is referred to as dynamic integration and reflects the essential and changing fusion of processes across psychological, biological, and contextual levels of analysis (Susman & Rogol, 2004). The neuroendocrine changes that initiate and control the progression of puberty now will be reviewed.

PUBERTY: A BRAIN–NEUROENDOCRINE EVENT Puberty consists of a coordinated series of hormone and physical growth changes that form the core of the transition from childhood to adolescence. An increasing sophistication of understanding brain and endocrine changes has led scientists to consider the primacy of the

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neurobiological basis of puberty. The brain undergoes extensive remodeling at puberty, and these changes form the basis for reproductive maturation (Casey, Jones, & Summerville, 2011; Casey et al., 2008; Schell & Gallo, 2010; Sisk & Foster, 2004). These neurobiological changes are responsible for both the biological hormone and physical morphological changes and likely contribute to the social, cognitive, and emotional changes that occur during puberty. The structural and functional changes of the brain first will be considered, followed by neuroendocrine changes responsible for the onset and progression of puberty. Structure and Function of Adolescent Brain Development Coming to know the structure of the human brain during adolescence is largely the result of the implementation of new imaging technologies. Much of what we know about adolescent brain development is derived from studies using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) to examine structure, functional MRI (fMRI) and diffusion tensor imaging (DTI) to examine function. The yield from imaging changes in the brain is revolutionary, as these studies show both structural and functional changes during puberty (e.g., Asatol, Terwilliger, Woo, & Luna, 2010). Much of the richest work has come from the laboratories of Giedd (Giedd, 2008; Giedd et al., 1999), Casey (Casey, Jones, & Hare, 2008) and Paus (Paus, 2005; Paus et al., 2010). Importantly, some changes in the brain occur prior to puberty, some during puberty, and some after puberty (Dahl, 2004). In published studies thus far, age is used as the marker of puberty, and actual pubertal stage changes have not been examined. Major changes in gray matter volume develop in a Ushaped function (Giedd, 2004; Gogtay et al., 2004). Motor and sensory systems mature earlier, in general, compared to the higher-order functions that are responsible for associative areas of the cortex (Gogtay et al., 2004; Sowell, Thompson, & Toga, 2004). Specifically, the limbic system is proposed to develop earlier than the prefrontal control areas of the brain. The prefrontal cortex (PFC) is one of the last changes to occur in brain development (Lewis, 1997). Based on this model, the younger adolescent is considered to be biased more toward functional limbic activity relative to prefrontal control activity. With advancing development, there is a functional connectivity between the limbic and prefrontal regions. Nonetheless, Casey and colleagues (2008) propose a model indicating that bottom-up limbic and prefrontal top-down control

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regions should be considered together, even though they have different developmental trajectories. In brief, findings to date are interpreted to suggest differential development of bottom-up limbic systems, which are implicated in incentive and emotional processing, and top-down control systems during adolescence as compared to childhood and adulthood. Adolescents are assumed to have a heightened responsiveness to incentives and socioemotional contexts simultaneous with the period when impulse control is still relatively immature. This perspective has direct implications for social and emotional development and behavior, even though the perspective has not been totally empirically verified. The relatively late development of the prefrontal cortex may be an underlying process related to risk-taking behavior in adolescents (Steinberg, 2008). In addition, Casey and colleagues (2008) note that the sequence of developmental events may be exacerbated in adolescents prone to emotional reactivity, increasing the likelihood of poor mental health outcomes. Finally, given the major brain changes at puberty, the adolescent brain may be more vulnerable to the effects of substance use and abuse or other environmental insults that predispose youth to a trajectory of cognitive, emotional, and behavioral problems. Neuroendocrine Changes and Reproduction In spite of the new knowledge about the brain presented earlier regarding the puberty-related structural and functional aspects of brain development, there is virtually no overlap in the literature between this newly derived knowledge and neuroendocrine, puberty-related brain changes. The neuroendocrine changes responsible for the onset and progression of puberty consist of reactivation of the hypothalamic-pituitary-gonadal (HPG) axis and are referred to as gonadarche. Reactivation of GnRH (gonadotrophin-releasing hormone) via the GnRH pulse generator is the primary component of the neurobiology of puberty. We refer to “reactivation” because the initial activation of GnRH occurs in the fetal and neonatal period. (See Grumbach, 2002, and others for a complete description of the activation of the HPG axis at puberty.) GnRH is a decapeptide secreted in a pulsatile fashion by specialized neurons in the median eminence of the hypothalamus. GnRH stimulates the pituitary to secrete gonadotropins, luteinizing hormone (LH), and folliclestimulating hormone (FSH). LH and FSH travel via peripheral circulating blood to affect target cells in the testes in males and ovaries in females. Vital to reproduction, gonadal hormones are stimulated by gonadotropins and

regulate ovulation and spermatogenesis in females and males, respectively. Sisk and Foster (2004) suggest that in the brain, gonadal steroids control GnRH secretion by way of neuroendocrine feedback loops and facilitate sexual behavior. Much of what we know about the GnRH pulse generator and the onset of puberty derives from animal models, primarily from the rhesus monkey (see Knobil, 1988; Plant, 2000). The regulation of GnRH pulse frequency is responsible for producing a pattern of gonadotropin and steroid hormone secretion that is necessary for gonadal function and reproductive competence. The specific neural mechanism regulating GnRH secretion is not known, in spite of decades of research. What is known is that activation of the HPG axis has a defined developmental history from the prenatal period to midadolescence. In prenatal and early postnatal life, there is an increase in gonadal steroids that is responsible for sexual differentiation and organization of the nervous system. In early infancy, GnRH pulse frequency declines and remains quiescent until puberty. At that time, GnRH secretion gradually increases and remains high, stimulating gonadotropin and gonadal hormone secretion during the reproductive years. In approximately the third decade of life, testosterone and estrogen begin to decline, reaching low but detectable levels within the older adult. The multiple species-specific signals for puberty are integrated in such a way as to allow for the increase in GnRH at puberty. Sisk and Zehr (2005) go on to suggest that permissive signals cannot fully explain the onset of reproductive competence, as such signals are not unique to puberty. For instance, GnRH pulse frequency goes from low to high in the resumption of fertility after lactation. It was suggested that an innate developmental clock senses the unfolding of primary genetic programs that produce signals that in turn determine responses to endogenous and exogenous signals (e.g., the environment) that bring about high-frequency GnRH pulses. There exists the notion that a master regulatory gene allows for programming of the multiple permissive genes, but to date, this master gene remains elusive. The trigger that determines the timing of pubertal onset and the resurgence of GnRH pulses is not known. The logical explanation that a gene triggers the onset of puberty has led to a search for a gene specific to the initiation of puberty. The identification of kisspeptin and its receptor, G protein coupled receptor 54 (GPR54), held promise as the gene responsible for the initiation of puberty (Seminara, 2003). GPR54 is a promising candidate, as the absence of this gene is associated with the absence of

Puberty: Its Role In Development

GnRH activity at puberty. Other evidence shows that the Kiss1/GPR54 system is implicated in puberty in species (Martinez-Chavez, Minghetti, & Migaud, 2008) other than humans. But, to date, no single gene has been positively identified as a precipitant for the initiation of the complex pubertal process. Sisk and Foster (2004) suggest that there are multiple permissive signals rather than a singular cause of the onset of puberty: melatonin, leptin, ghrelin, body fat, and a complex of genes. Rather than a single trigger, it is likely the case that multiple triggers work in unison to bring about a resurgence of GnRH secretion in puberty. Sex Differences in Pubertal Triggers Males and females differ in permissive signals of puberty (Kauffman, 2010), and most of the triggers in women are related to energy balance. Sex differences likely stem from the different demands involved in reproduction. The beginning of the reproductive period is energy expensive for both males and females, given the rapid physical growth and metabolic changes that occur. In subhuman primates, males and females must defend the territory in which they will rear their young. However, females bear the added energy-intense period of pregnancy and childbirth and then must lactate to feed and rear offspring. Sisk and Foster (2004) suggest that organisms must determine whether female growth is sufficient to reproduce (via metabolic cues), whether relationships with potential mates are possible (through social cues), and whether the conditions are conducive to reproducing (via environmental cues). In females, for successful reproduction, there must be, for example, insulin, glucose, and leptin present in quantities sufficient to support pregnancy and lactation. Consider the case of leptin, an adipocyte-derived hormone that has been demonstrated to be a pivotal regulator for the integration of energy homeostasis, and reproduction (Fernandez-Fernandez et al., 2006). Leptin is necessary but not sufficient to trigger the onset of puberty. When the permissive signals collectively bring about metabolic and growth conditions, reproduction becomes possible and is partially observable in secondary sexual characteristics. Other Regulators of the Timing of Puberty Neurotransmitters also have an impact on GnRH. For example, gamma–aminobutyric acid (GABA) has primarily inhibitory control on GnRH (McCarthy, Davis, & Mong, 1997) and glutamate has excitatory control over GnRH (Grumbach, 2002). The system and its feedback

GABA

? ?

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GPR54 Kiss- 1 neurone

Kisspeptin Likely inhibitory Likely excitatory

Glutamate GnRH neurone

GnRH pulses

Multiple other factors (e.g. IGF -1, leptin, FGF, Astroglial cells TGF-β and ?proteins from clock genes) Neurobiological pathways and other factors influencing the activity of gonadotrophin-releasing hormone neurons: Genetic variation in the components of these pathways and the other factors are likely to influence the time of onset and tempo of human puberty. GnRH, gonadotrophin-releasing hormone; IGF-I, insulin-like growth factor-I; FGF, fibroblast growth factor; TGF, transforming growth factor.

Figure 12.1 Genetic and neurobiological pathways and other factors influencing puberty Source: Reprinted from Banerjee, I. & Clayton, P. (2007). The genetic basis for the timing of human puberty. Journal of Neuroendocrinology, 19 (11), 831–838, with permission from Wiley-Blackwell Publishing Ltd.

loops are complex and are beyond the scope of this chapter. The reader is referred to Styne and Grumbach (2007). Figure 12.1 (Banerjee & Clayton, 2007) shows genetic and neurobiological pathways and other factors influencing puberty. The neurobiological and peripheral processes of gonadarche and the reproductive axis were described previously. A second component of puberty, adrenarche, begins earlier than gonadarche, at around 6 to 8 years of age. Adrenarche reflects maturation of the adrenal glands, although the trigger for its initiation is unknown (Nakamura, Gang, Suzuki, Sasano, & Rainey, 2009; Parker, 1991). Adrenal androgens such as dehydroepiandrosterone (DHEA), its sulfate (DHEA-S), and androstenedione are products of the adrenal glands whose concentrations begin to rise at adrenarche and continue on an upward trajectory through the third decade of life (Saenger & Dimartino-Nardi, 2001). Adrenarche and gonadarche are two independent, yet overlapping, components of puberty. Concentrations of adrenal androgens primarily have an impact on the development of axillary and pubic hair, as well as acne and body odor. However, these concentrations generally are not high enough to act on peripheral target tissues (e.g. testes) until later, often after gonadarche. Pubic hair generally is not evident at age 6 when adrenarche alone has occurred. DHEA also serves as a precursor

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for the development of other androgens such as testosterone. In girls, much of the exposure to androgens comes from DHEA or its conversion. Concentrations of these hormones also have been associated with behavior problems and mood disturbances (Goodyer, Herbert, Tamplin, & Altham, 2000a, 2000b; Goodyer, Herbert, & Altham, 1998; Goodyer et al., 1996; Dorn, Hitt, & Rotentstein, 1999; Dorn, Rose, et al., 2008). It is yet to be identified whether adrenal androgens have effects similar to testosterone on aggressive or other behaviors. A third axis, the growth axis, also is involved in puberty. Growth, primarily linear growth, also involves neuroendocrine changes. Growth hormone (GH) increases, but other growth factors are also key contributors to growth. Linear growth has been the focus of the psychology of youth, as changes in linear growth, along with secondary sex characteristics, constitute the signal for adolescents themselves and others around them that the adolescent years have arrived. Physical Changes at Puberty External changes in height, weight, and secondary sexual characteristics provide visible ways of marking the progress of pubertal development. These growth changes include increases in linear growth and body composition, as well as development of primary sexual characteristics (ovaries, testes) and secondary sexual characteristics (pubic hair growth, genital and breast development). Collectively, the changes are a result of the neuroendocrine development described earlier. Early descriptions of growth and pubertal changes in girls and boys were first described by Tanner (Tanner, 1962; Marshall & Tanner, 1969, 1970). Generally, the height spurt begins earlier in girls, at approximately age 12, than in boys, at about age 14 (Marshall & Tanner 1969, 1970). In girls the earliest external change evident at puberty is an increase in breast tissue (Parent et al., 2003; Tanner & Whitehouse, 1976). Girls usually begin the development of secondary sex characteristics with breast development followed by pubic hair development, whereas boys generally begin genital growth with an increase in testicular volume followed by appearance of pubic hair. Girls tend to mature physically earlier than boys by approximately 18–24 months (Patton & Viner, 2007). Menarche is a relatively late event in the pubertal process, occurring after the growth spurt and after breast development and pubic hair growth has begun. The average ages of menarche for White, African American, and Latino girls are 12.6–12.9, 12.1–12.2, and 12.2–12.3 years, respectively (Wu, Mendola, & Buck,

2002; Chumlea et al., 2003). The rising gonadal and adrenal hormone (DHEA, DHEA-S, and androstenedione) concentrations as a result of GnRH secretion result in the changes in primary and secondary sexual characteristics previously described. These hormones increase across puberty, but there are large individual differences, resulting in overlap of hormones across adjacent stages of puberty (Nottelmann et al., 1987; Styne & Grumbach, 2008). The result of wide individual variations in hormone levels is that hormone levels cannot be matched to a specific pubertal stage (Shirtcliff, Dahl, & Pollak, 2009). It follows that hormone levels to determine sexual maturity stage are not an option to assess stage of puberty in research (see Dorn, et al., 2006; Huang et al., in press for further discussion). Assessing Pubertal Maturation Tanner and Marshall described methods of quantifying breast and pubic hair development for girls and genital and pubic hair for boys (Marshall & Tanner, 1969, 1970; Tanner, 1962; see also Dorn & Biro, 2011; Raman, Lustig, Fitch, & Fleming, 2009). A 5-stage rating system (1 = prepubertal to 5 = full maturation) was developed for each secondary sex characteristic. The characteristics were originally adapted from Reynolds and Wines (1948). Photographs are available of these stages in endocrinology (e.g., Kronenberg, Melmed, Polonsky, & Larsen, 2008) or adolescent medicine textbooks (Neinstein, 2008), as well as psychology-related textbooks focusing on adolescent development (Steinberg, 2007). Additional photographs showing these same stages were published later (van Wieringen, Roede, & Wit, 1985) and most recently appear in Biro and Dorn (2005). It is important to note that Tanner’s criteria for assessing pubertal maturation were developed from a relatively small sample of boys and girls (less than 400) housed in an institution in England. Thus, the sample is representative neither of the United Kingdom nor of other world populations. Further, the sample included only Caucasian youth. To our knowledge, there are no photographs describing the stages in boys and girls of different ethnic groups. A recent comprehensive study estimated the ages at which adolescents reach the different stages of puberty in a sample of Black and White boys and girls (Susman et al., 2010). The aim was to show the ages when adolescents were in sexual maturity stages 2 through 5; to explain the relations between breast (girls), genital (boys), and pubic hair (girls and boys) stages between ages 9.5 and 15.5 years; and to evaluate synchrony of pubertal development

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across secondary sexual characteristics. The adolescents were enrolled in the National Institute of Child Health & Human Development (NICHD) Study of Early Childhood and Youth Development (SECCYD). Girls were in breast maturity stages 2 and 3 earlier than in the comparable pubic hair stages. Breast development in girls started earlier than pubic hair development, but both breast and pubic hair development were completed at approximately the same age. Black girls were in all stages of breast and pubic hair development prior to White girls. Boys were in stages 2, 3, 4, and 5 of genital development before the parallel pubic hair stage. In boys, genital development started earlier than pubic hair development, but pubic hair development was completed in less time. Black boys began genital and pubic hair development about 7 months earlier than White boys. Of note is that at stage 2, for 66.2% of girls, breast development preceded pubic hair development. For boys, 91.1% had genital development prior to pubic hair development. The conclusion was that the findings are useful in understanding normative variation in the timing and change in the development of secondary sexual characteristics at puberty. Limitations included that the study was not representative of the U.S. population, although it was drawn from 10 different sites across the United States. These newer findings may help health-care professionals determine when girls or boys are maturing earlier or later than other Black and White youth in the peripubertal period. Components of Change Three characteristics of changes in puberty may have important implications for health and development in adolescence and beyond. These include timing of puberty, sequence, and tempo. Timing refers to being earlier or later compared to a normative age group. For example, breast development at age 3 signals the need to conduct an appropriate evaluation for precocious puberty. Alternatively, a 14- or 15-year-old boy with short stature (e.g., low percentile in height compared to norms) signals the need for an evaluation to determine a diagnosis of delayed puberty. A critical question is whether a developmental clock that determines the timing of GnRH maturation also determines gonadal maturation (Sisk & Foster, 2004). The majority of psychological research on puberty has focused on the importance of timing of puberty. This literature is briefly reviewed below in this chapter. The sequence of pubertal components—that is, the order in which growth or development of secondary sex characteristic occurs—has received little empirical

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attention. Generalities of the sequence have been described by Tanner (1962) and others showing that in girls, breast development is often the first observable change, followed by the height spurt and pubic hair growth. Menarche is a relatively late event during the pubertal process. If this sequence deviates substantially from the norm, it should set into motion further concerns by a parent or health-care provider. For instance, early pubic hair development in the absence of breast development may reflect early adrenarche. In a recent paper, Biro and colleagues (2003) reported that most White girls with asynchronous maturation were more likely to begin puberty with breast development (thelarche) compared to initiation with pubic hair (adrenarche). Of interest is that the reported age of onset of puberty in both thelarche and adrenarche groups was 10.7 years. Specifically, girls in the thelarche pathway had a greater sum of skin folds, percent body fat, waistto-hip ratio, and body mass index (BMI) at menarche, and many of these differences held across a 10-year longitudinal study. In this pathways paper, Biro and colleagues proposed that the sequence in which pubertal changes are experienced in girls may have long-term ramifications for health. For example, girls with breast development first, stimulated by gonadal axis activation, may be more at risk for obesity and breast cancer than girls with pubic hair development first. To our knowledge there are no studies that examine the psychological import of the sequence of pubertal development. Finally, the tempo of puberty, that is, the rate of progression through puberty, until recently has received little empirical attention from either a medical or psychological perspective. Nonetheless, there is evidence indicating that the tempo of puberty has not changed in the last several decades (Reiter & Lee, 2001). The tempo of puberty varies across adolescents, and differences in tempo will determine the later progression through puberty. For instance, at one time of measurement, one adolescent may be more advanced in physical maturation than another adolescent who began puberty at the same time, but one adolescent’s maturational progression may slow so that measurement at a second time point finds the same adolescent as average in terms of tempo. In African American children aged 10–12 years old, Ge and colleagues (2003) found that males who experienced accelerated pubertal maturation from the first to second assessment showed the highest increase in depressive symptoms. Does it follow then that a faster tempo constitutes a risk for depressive symptoms in males? The answer may be yes or no. In a study of 327 male and female adolescents (aged 10–12 years at first assessment and 12–14 years at second assessment), boys

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with accelerated pubertal maturation had a lower risk of depression (Laitinen-Krispijn, van der Ende, & Verhulst, 1999). An unanswered question until the last year was whether age of onset of puberty is correlated with tempo of puberty or age of menarche. The question was answered using a sophisticated longitudinal statistical approach to estimate parameters of tempo in conjunction with timing of puberty. Marceau and colleagues (2011) assessed individual differences in timing and tempo, which were extracted with models of logistic growth. Timing and tempo were associated in boys but not girls. Pubertal timing and tempo were important for predicting psychological outcomes in girls but only sparsely related to boys’ psychological outcomes. Ellis and colleagues (2011) similarly modeled pubertal tempo with a piecewise (two-part) growth curve, with family support as a predictor. Higher quality parenting predicted slower tempo and timing of puberty. These state-of-theart approaches to pubertal tempo are yielding findings suggesting that tempo may be somewhat comparable to timing in relation to psychological development. It seems appropriate to suggest then the need to consider pubertal tempo when examining pubertal influences and psychological functioning.

TIMING OF PUBERTY: ITS PSYCHOLOGICAL SIGNIFICANCE The biological changes of puberty are universal, but the timing and social significance of these changes to adolescents themselves, cultures, and scientific inquiry vary across historical time, individuals and families, and societal norms. The psychological significance of the timing of puberty is one of the most popular topics examined by scholars of adolescent development. Secular Trends in the Timing of Puberty The last decade evidenced a renewed interest in secular changes in the timing of puberty (Aksglaede, Sørensen, Petersen, Skakkebæk, & Juul, 2009; Biro et al., 2010; Buck Louis et al., 2008; Euling et al., 2008; Gohlke & Woelfle, 2009; Golub et al., 2008; Kaplowitz, 2008; Lee et al., 2010; Walvoord, 2010). The increase in interest in secular trends was sparked partially by a controversial paper by Herman-Giddens et al. (1997) showing that girls were entering puberty at an earlier age than was the historical norm in U.S. girls. Specifically, signs of puberty were evident in African American girls, on average, at

age 7 and in Caucasian girls, on average, at age 9. The study was conducted on more than 17,000 girls, yet the report has been controversial, based primarily on methodological issues (see Emans & Biro, 1998; Reiter & Lee, 2001; Rosenfield et al., 2000). In another sample, Sun and colleagues reported older ages of onset of puberty based on breast development than did Herman-Giddens and colleagues (Sun et al., 2002). However, recently in a three-site study including more than 1,200 girls, Biro and colleagues reported a greater percentage of girls (particularly White girls) had entered puberty by age 7 and 8 compared to the study by Herman-Giddens and colleagues (Biro et al., 2010). Importantly, the data collected by Biro and colleagues represents an age cohort 20-some years later. Other studies of girls that show earlier maturation (particularly by age at menarche) include findings from the National Health Examination Survey (Anderson, Dallal, & Must, 2003), the National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey (Chumlea et al., 2003), the Bogalusa Heart Study (Freedman et al., 2002), and the Fels Longitudinal Study (Demerath et al., 2004). Importantly, age at menarche was not reported to be earlier than in the past. Maturation in boys also is reported to be earlier than in previously described cohorts, as reported in a secondary data analysis from a cross-sectional survey of the National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey (Herman-Giddens, Wang, & Koch, 2001). The analysis included 2,114 boys who were identified as White, African American, or Mexican American. In all racial groups, boys matured earlier than reported in previous studies based on Tanner criteria for genital and pubic hair development. Further, African American boys had the earliest age of onset of puberty (age 11.2 years; Tanner 2) based on pubic hair and age 9.5 for genital development. The African American sample also reached full maturity of genital development (Tanner 5) at an earlier age than the other groups. Importantly, age at menarche, compared to age of onset of puberty, has not varied in recent history. Nonetheless, secular trends have shown dramatic differences in timing of puberty across time (Gluckman & Hanson, 2006) and may be changing too slowly to show an evolutionary change in the time period assessed (see Figure 12.2). In conclusion, Biro, Huang, and colleagues (2006) note that the correlation is low between age of menarche and age of onset of puberty, and this correlation has become progressively lower across the decades. The divergence in the correlation between age of onset of puberty and age of menarche may result from the increase in weight in both boys and girls. Not all recent findings support the divergence of age of onset of puberty and age of menarche. Current

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10 Psychosocial maturation Industrial Social revolution and complexity and Agriculture social nutritional settlement improvement overload

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TRENDS in Endocrinology & Metabolism The relationship between the likely range of ages of menarche and achievement of psychosocial maturity from 20,000 years ago to the present day. The mismatch in timing between these two processes is a novel phenomenon.

Figure 12.2 The relationship between the likely range of ages of menarche and achievement of psychosocial maturity Source: Reprinted from Gluckman, P. D. & Hanson, M. A. (2006). Evolution, development and timing of puberty. Trends in Endocrinology & Metabolism, 17 (1), 7–12, with permission from Elsevier.

speculation is that secular trends in the timing of puberty now may be characterized by stability rather than change. In Europe, Parent and colleagues (2003) reported that the downward trend in age of maturation is decreasing or is even slightly increasing in some instances. Similarly, Sun and colleagues (2005) noted no convincing evidence for earlier age of pubertal maturation from 1966 to 1994. Evidence to the contrary is that the age of menarche, as opposed to pubertal maturation, also is decreasing in two longitudinal studies (Anderson & Must, 2005). A recent panel concluded that the findings for girls are sufficient to suggest a secular trend toward an earlier age of onset of breast development and age of menarche (Euling et al., 2008). In contrast, the panelists concluded that the data for boys were insufficient to make a conclusion about a secular trend in boys’ development. Recently, Biro (2006) raised the important question, “Whither goest puberty?”And what are the causes of the changes in timing of puberty? Although the exact cause of early timing of puberty is unknown, there are several plausible explanations. Several environmental factors beyond heritability could influence the earlier onset of puberty: nutritional status, weight, chronic diseases, migration to a healthy environment, infectious diseases, pollution

and exposure to environmental toxins (Delemarre-van de Waal, 2005). It is of note that we, and most of the literature on timing of puberty, are referring to a small variation in timing that is well within the normal range of timing of puberty or menarche from a health-care perspective. Pediatric endocrinologists would likely not see these smaller differences as abnormal. Nonetheless, even minor variations in the timing of puberty may have implications for both physical and mental health and behavior. Following is a discussion regarding endogenous and exogenous influences on the timing of puberty. Obesity and Timing of Puberty Obesity as an initiator of early timing of puberty is now a major concern, given the epidemic of obesity that is rampant in North America and is spreading to other nations. The concern is that the obesity observed during adolescence will persist into adulthood and, in turn, increase the likelihood of various adult diseases like cardiovascular disease. This concern was warranted in a prospective study of boys and girls (Bratberg, Nilsen, Holmen, & Vatten, 2007). The study examined the influence of early sexual maturation on subsequent overweight in late

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adolescence and found that timing did relate to later obesity, but this relation was modified by central adiposity in early adolescence. A question in the past was whether early puberty initiates weight gain or whether heavier weight is an initiator of earlier puberty. The latter explanation has received support. Girls who were heavier at age 5 had an earlier timing of puberty, based on both estradiol levels and Tanner stage (Davison, Susman, & Birch, 2003). In a similar vein, higher weight status even in young children was related to earlier timing of puberty (Lee et al., 2007). Surprisingly, infants’ weight at 36 months and higher rate of change in BMI between 36 months and grade one, earlier age of mothers’ menarche, and non-White race each consistently and positively was associated with an earlier onset of puberty in girls (Lee et al., 2007). In a recent review, Biro, Khoury, and Morrison (2006) reported relatively consistent evidence for the relations of timing of puberty and obesity in older children and adolescents. Kaplowitz (2008) suggests that obesity may be causally related to earlier puberty in girls rather than earlier puberty causing an increase in body fat. Much of the research on timing of puberty and obesity is in girls and also shows that these relations are more evident in Black compared to White girls (Biro et al., 2006). These relations do not hold in boys, for unknown reasons (e.g., Lee et al., 2010).

of exposure to disruptors, whereas others report later timing. It also seems that males may not be as affected by endocrine disruptors as females. Most of these studies using animals report on development following a known exposure to a chemical. Few studies of healthy children have included measures of endocrine disruptors. In studies that have found putative disruptor effects on timing of puberty, speculation is that endocrine disruptors may have played a role. For example, one of the proposed mechanisms involved in earlier puberty in African Americans was the use of hair products containing natural estrogens (Herman-Giddens et al., 1997). Exposure to specific chemicals in hair products, however, was not measured. In earlier reports, early puberty (precocious puberty, premature thelarche, and premature adrenarche) in children in Puerto Rico was thought to be related to significant amounts of estrogen from the food supply (Bongiovanni, 1983; Comas, 1982; Saenz de Rodriguez, Bongiovanni, & Conde de Borrego, 1985). The actual amount of estrogen in the food supply was not determined. Caution is warranted regarding the potential effect of these endocrine disruptors on health as well as on timing of puberty. Progress in the development of household and industrial products in our modern society, where there is also an increased use of household chemicals, pesticides, and plastics, may have a higher risk::benefit ratio than in the past.

Endocrine Disruptors One of the proposed mechanisms of earlier timing of puberty focuses on endocrine disruptors (e.g., see JacobsonDickman & Lee, 2009; Roy, Chakraborty, & Chakraborty, 2009). Endocrine disruptors include a variety of substances that could be natural or synthetic environmental chemicals that disrupt or change normal endocrine functions (Nebesio & Pescovitz, 2007). Examples include such things as harsh pesticides or chemicals that come from industry processing or waste (e.g., polychlorinated biphenyls [PCBs], phthalates) that are converted to natural estrogens or phytoestrogens. Effects of these disruptors may be on the HPG axis concurrently or may result from accumulation over time, in turn contributing to later reproduction problems. Examination of the mechanisms involved in endocrine disruptors and timing of puberty has been carried out in both lower animal and human models. There are extensive animal model studies showing the impact of environmental chemicals on pubertal timing, yet there is less empirical evidence based on human models (see review by Buck Louis et al., 2008). Some of these studies report earlier timing of puberty as a result

Measurement of Puberty: Pubertal Status and Pubertal Timing Pubertal status and pubertal timing are key variables in both biological and behavioral studies. Whether puberty is considered a cause or a consequence of the outcome at hand or whether it must be controlled for in a statistical analysis, both are constructs deserving considerable attention. However, assessment of puberty is often missing in studies in which it is relevant, or puberty may be measured in an inappropriate method with respect to the research question. Currently, the “gold standard” for measuring pubertal stage is by Tanner criteria (Marshall & Tanner, 1969, 1970) as assessed by a physical examination by a trained examiner. Frequently, psychosocial studies of adolescents measure pubertal maturation using self- or parent report of adolescents’ maturation. The most widely used self-report measure is the Petersen Pubertal Development Scale (PDS; Petersen, Crockett, Richards, & Boxer, 1988). Adolescents report on specific puberty-related physical or auditory changes (e.g., voice, skin changes, body hair, linear growth). Other studies have used photographs or

Puberty: Its Role In Development

line drawings (Morris & Udry, 1980) of the stages of puberty. Self-ratings are not perfectly related to assessments by physical examinations (e.g., see Dorn et al., 1990; Dorn et al., 2006; Raman, et al., 2009) (i.e., by kappa coefficients) but in some cases can be strongly correlated with actual physical examinations. Although not perfectly correlated with ratings on a physical exam, there are some instances when self-report is an appropriate measure of puberty. The measure of puberty should match the research question. The reader is referred to a recent and more in-depth publication outlining methods of measuring puberty and their respective strengths and limitations (Dorn et al., 2006). In that report, the more frequently used measures of pubertal status and pubertal timing are evaluated for strengths and weaknesses. Age at menarche is another index frequently used to reflect pubertal development. This measure is most often obtained by self-report, but also has been obtained via parent report using either a questionnaire or an interview. As mentioned previously, menarche is a relatively late event in the pubertal process. Thus, it can be equated neither with “pre- versus postpubertal” nor can it be used to determine the exact stage of pubertal development. Menarche occurs when the majority of girls are Tanner 4 (nearly two-thirds), but about 25% are Tanner 3, 5% Tanner 2, and 10% Tanner 5 when becoming menarcheal (Neinstein, 2008). Further, the consistency of reporting age at menarche across many years is not perfect. Correlations range from 0.60 to 0.81 (Bergsten-Brucefors, 1976; Casey et al., 1991; Damon & Bajema, 1974; Livson & McNeill, 1962; Must et al., 2002). In brief, age of menarche is an index of just that—age of menarche; it reveals little about pubertal maturation other than that gonadotropins and sex steroids are at levels essential for the onset of the menstrual cycle. The methods for estimating timing of puberty are varied. In some instances, indices of puberty are used to characterize adolescents as early, on time, or late with respect to a same-age cohort. Comparisons can be made to sex-specific national norms or the peer group to answer the question of whether a particular adolescent is on time, early, or late. Frequently, age at menarche or Tanner stage for age is categorized in this manner. For example, distributions of pubertal stage have been trichotomized or cut points have been determined by a specified number of standard deviations to estimate timing of puberty. Recent research uses innovative, nonlinear statistical models to estimate the age at which adolescents reach a specific pubertal stage (see Marceau et al., 2011; Susman et al., 2010). Importantly, one needs to articulate the rationale

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for defining the method of timing of puberty in each instance. Other studies have used a pubertal status (stage) measure to reflect pubertal timing as a continuous measure. For example, pubertal stage has been regressed on chronological age, and the residuals then have been used in analyses as an index of timing (Dorn, Ponirakis, & Susman, 2003; Ellis & Garber, 2000; Ellis, McFadyen-Ketchum, Dodge, Pettit, & Bates, 1999). This methodology of considering the continuum of timing of puberty tends to be useful for smaller samples that are not population based. The use of stage residual scores allows for considering the relative age of pubertal stage or “earlier timing” rather than “early timing” as defined by a categorical variable.

DOES PUBERTAL STATUS OR TIMING MAKE A DIFFERENCE IN PSYCHOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT? This section presents a brief review of major findings on the relation between pubertal status and pubertal timing and psychological development. It first considers differences in psychological parameters between adolescents at different pubertal stages. Second, the section discusses the relation between psychological parameters and timing of puberty (earlier, later, or on time). Pubertal Status The relationship between pubertal status and psychological functioning has not been as thoroughly examined as timing of puberty and psychological dimensions. Noteworthy are three reports from the Great Smokey Mountain longitudinal study that are relevant to pubertal status and psychological development (Costello et al., 1996). First, after the transition to midpuberty (Tanner stage 3 and above), girls were more likely than boys to be depressed (Angold, Costello, & Worthman, 1998). Second, Angold, Costello, Erkanli, and Worthman (1999) examined whether the morphological changes associated with Tanner stage or the hormonal changes were more strongly associated with increased rates of depression in adolescent girls. Models that included testosterone and estradiol eliminated the seemingly strong Tanner stage differences and depression. The effect of testosterone on depression was nonlinear. These findings were interpreted as arguing against theories that explain the emergence of the female excess of depression in terms of changes in body morphology (i.e., pubertal status) and

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resultant psychosocial effects on social interactions and self-perception. The authors conclude that causal explanations of the increase in depression should focus on factors associated with changes in androgen and estrogen levels, rather than the morphological changes of puberty. Third, a later report from the Great Smokey Mountain study showed that after controlling for age, Tanner stage predicted alcohol use and alcohol use disorder (AUD) in both boys and girls (Costello, Sung, Worthman, & Angold, 2007). The effect of morphological development was strongest in early-maturing girls. Early pubertal maturation predicted alcohol use in boys and girls and AUD in girls. The highest level of excess risk for alcohol use was in early-maturing youth with conduct disorder and deviant peers. Lax supervision predicted alcohol use in earlymaturing girls. In contrast, poverty and family problems predicted alcohol use in early-maturing boys. The dearth of recent studies on pubertal status differences in either internalizing or externalizing behavior problems prevents drawing definitive conclusions about pubertal status differences and psychological development. The need for assessment of stage differences is especially acute in studies that use sexual maturity ratings by a trained health-care provider. Pubertal Timing Pubertal timing and its connection to psychological adjustment has received significantly more attention than pubertal status. The literature on the psychological significance of timing of puberty has been extensively (Alsaker, 1995) or partially reviewed in various publications (Mendle, Turkheimer, & Emery, 2007; Negriff, Susman, & Trickett, 2010; Susman & Rogol, 2004). The next section presents representative studies showing the association between timing of puberty and internalizing and externalizing behavior problems. When scientists began to consider the impact of the timing of the physical maturation on mental health and adjustment, primarily two hypotheses were articulated. First, the maturational deviance hypothesis, also coined the “off-time” hypothesis, suggested that those either early or late pubertal changes compared to same-age peer group will likely experience more stress and adjustment difficulties than on-time developers (Brooks-Gunn, Petersen, & Eichorn, 1985; Caspi & Moffitt, 1991; Petersen & Taylor, 1980; Tschann et al., 1994). Off-time pubertal development may be more difficult in the absence of the necessary social support or resources to cope with earlier or later maturation. That is, if maturation is early, emotional and

social resources may not yet be in place for the youngerage adolescent. Alternatively, if maturation is late, social and family resources might be available, but not at the time when they are most needed by the adolescent. In turn, adjustment problems may be more likely for either the earlier or the later maturer. Few studies focus on positive effects of either earlier or later timing of puberty. The second hypothesis is the early maturational or early timing hypothesis (Brooks-Gunn et al., 1985; Caspi & Moffitt, 1991; Petersen & Taylor, 1980; Tschann et al., 1994). This hypothesis suggests that early maturation, particularly in girls, is a disadvantage, because girls bypassed the opportunity to complete the normative tasks of development that facilitate coping with the issues and problems associated with puberty. Adding to the stress of puberty, there are more advanced social role expectations for early maturers; since their appearance is more physically mature, they are expected to act more maturely. Early-maturing girls also face more social pressures at a time when they are cognitively and emotionally unprepared to deal with abstractions and complex emotional issues. In brief, there is a mismatch between physical development and cognitive and emotional development. The findings from studies of timing of puberty and adjustment are not consistent in terms of whether earlier or later timing of puberty is good or bad for boys or girls. Early Maturation and Internalizing Problems Early maturation for girls fairly consistently is associated with negative psychological and behavioral consequences (Carter, Jaccard, Silverman, & Pina, 2009; Copeland et al., 2010; Ge, Brody, Conger, Simons, & Murry, 2002; Ge, Conger, & Elder, 2001a, 2001b; Graber, Lewinsohn, Seeley, & Brooks-Gunn, 1997; Hayward, Gotlib, Schraedley, & Litt, 1999; Mendle, Harden, Brooks-Gunn, & Graber, 2010; Natsuaki, Biehl, & Ge, 2009; Negriff & Susman, 2011; Reardon, Leen-Feldner, & Hayward, 2009). Representative findings are that early-maturing girls report more negative emotions than on-time or later maturing peers. For instance, Ge and colleagues (2001a) report findings showing that seventh-grade girls who experienced menarche at younger ages subsequently experienced a higher level of depressive symptoms than on-time and later maturing peers. The gender differences disappeared when pubertal transition indices (pubertal status and menarche) were included in the model. The finding is important as it indicates that pubertal maturation may explain the often reported gender difference in depressive symptoms. The effects of early maturation are true for boys as well as

Puberty: Its Role In Development

for girls, although fewer studies have been conducted with boys. Early-maturing boys reported more hostile feelings and internalized distress symptoms compared to on-time and later maturing boys (Ge et al., 2001b). The negative effects of early maturation for boys are inconsistent with the earlier findings reporting positive effects of early timing of puberty on boys. Early Maturation and Externalizing Problems The early-maturational hypothesis suggests that earlier maturing girls engage in more acting-out behavior than on-time or later maturing peers (Ge et al., 2001a; also see Carter et al., 2009; Copeland et al., 2010; Najman, et al., 2009). Studies such as those of Ge and colleagues do report that earlier maturing girls tend to exhibit more behavior problems and adjustment difficulties than their on-time or later maturing peers. But the relationship between earlier timing and externalizing behavior problems can be moderated by a history of vulnerability (Caspi & Moffitt, 1991). Early maturers with a history of behavior problems later reported more behavior problems than on-time or later maturers without a history of behavior problems. In addition, earlier maturing girls with no history of behavior problems experienced fewer behavior problems than girls with a history of behavior problems who matured on time. A consistent finding related to pubertal timing is the link between earlier maturation and substance use. Substance use is more prevalent in both earlier maturing boys and girls (Dick, Rose, Kaprio, & Viken, 2000; Orr & Ingersoll, 1995; van Jaarsveld, Fidler, Simon, & Wardle, 2007; Wilson, Killen, & Hayward, 1994). Specifically, early timing of maturation is linked to a higher incidence of smoking (Martin et al., 2001). Early timing of maturation and substance use also occurs across cultures. In East and West German youth, earlier timing was associated with more frequent cigarette and alcohol use (Wiesner & Ittel, 2002). On-time and later maturation was not associated with substance use. Similarly, in Norwegian and Swedish youth, earlier puberty was associated with alcohol use, alcohol intoxication, drunkenness onset, and number of units consumed (Andersson & Magnusson, 1990; Wichstrøm, 2001). The mechanisms relating early timing of puberty and substance use have received a moderate amount of attention. Substance use may lower resistance to peer pressure to use various substances increasing both substance use and other health-compromising behaviors, such as risky sexual behavior. In brief, the growing body of literature indicates that early

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pubertal maturation in girls is generally associated with negative psychological and health outcomes in Western societies. The findings are strong enough at this date to suggest to policy makers that programs to reduce externalizing behavior, principally substance use and risky behavior, should be initiated earlier than in the past for adolescent girls who exhibit early signs of puberty. The findings to date are deemed insufficient to make a similar recommendation for boys. Timing of Puberty and Health A new set of findings shows that timing of puberty has potentially serious implications for health problems, either during adolescence or later in the life span. Adolescents with earlier puberty are at risk for accelerated skeletal maturity and short adult height, earlier sexual debut, and a higher risk for sexual abuse (Golub et al., 2008). An even more serious implication of earlier timing of puberty is its association with reproductive tract cancers later in life. Earlier age of menarche is a risk for breast cancer, and lower age of puberty in boys is associated with a higher incidence of testicular cancer (Golub et al., 2008). One explanation for the link between earlier timing of puberty and reproductive cancer is a longer duration of exposure to estrogen in girls and testosterone in boys. Estrogen and testosterone are growth factors that putatively may contribute to reproductive cancer. In the earlier discussion, the focus was on timing of gonadarche and health risks. Early adrenarche carries a risk for health problems as well: metabolic syndrome or ovarian hyperandrogenism/polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS) in adulthood (Ib´an˜ ez, Dimartino-Nardi, Potau, & Saenger, 2000). PCOS is a disorder characterized by infertility, hirsutism, obesity, menstrual disorders, and ovarian atretic follicles. These problems in turn put females at risk for obesity, type 2 diabetes, cardiovascular disease, and infertility (Golub et al., 2008). Obesity and reproductive problems additionally are associated with mood and affect problems, and there is speculation that depression and mood problems may play a role in the onset of these disorders. Premature adrenarche also is associated with mood and behavioral problems (Dorn, 2007; Dorn et al., 1999; Dorn, Susman, et al., 2008). Longitudinal studies to establish the connection between timing of gonadarche and adrenarche and metabolic and psychiatric disorders are not yet available. Earlier timing of puberty has negative implications for lifestyle and health behaviors. In addition to the wellknown relationship between earlier timing of puberty and

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Adolescence

smoking, earlier maturers reported more sedentary behavior, but earlier maturation was offset by physical activity (van Jaarsveld et al., 2007). The same study also reported lower rates of breakfast eating and higher reported stress, especially among early-maturing girls. To date, no policy recommendations are available regarding education of adolescents and their families regarding timing of puberty and health risks. Spermarche as an Index of Timing of Puberty Spermarche (oigarche) is rarely used as an index of timing in boys compared to age of menarche as an index of timing in girls. Reaching spermarche at 11 years or younger was associated with higher levels of depression (KaltialaHeino, Marttunen, Rantanen, & Rimpela, 2003). But later timing of spermarche also was associated with depression. A second paper from the same sample yielded different results as the adolescents were grouped based on age at menarche or spermarche (10 or younger, 11 years, 12 years, 13 years, 14 years, and 15 years or older) (Kaltiala-Heino, Kosunen, & Rimpela, 2003). In boys, only early maturation increased the risk of depression. It is not surprising that spermarche is an infrequent index of timing of puberty, given that the presence of sperm in urine is a preferred way to assess spermarche. But urine is difficult to accurately collect, as it is an embarrassing and sensitive procedure for some youth. Nonetheless, indices of the timing of spermarche provide a potentially valid and needed index of pubertal maturation.

FAMILY INFLUENCES ON TIMING OF PUBERTY AND MENARCHE The evolution of puberty occurred so as to maximize the probability for successful procreation. Puberty- related mutations in successive generations have favored biological qualities fostering survival in particular geographic and cultural settings. Draper and Harpending (1982) proposed that individuals have evolved to be sensitive to features of their early childhood environment that may affect later reproductive competence. Belsky, Steinberg, & Draper (1991) extended this perspective to consider family disruption/father absence and early timing of puberty or menarche. Psychosocial acceleration theory (first proposed by Belsky and colleagues) and life history theory have been used to explain the unusual connection between family disruption/father absence and timing of puberty and menarche. Specifically, Belsky and colleagues proposed

an evolutionary function of family ecology and psychosocial influences to explain earlier timing of puberty. From an early age, children are socialized to develop an understanding of the availability and predictability of resources, the trustworthiness of meaningful others, and the enduring quality of close relationships. In brief, individuals are presumed to become sensitive to qualities of the environment that enhance or suppress reproductive tendencies. For instance, family stressors create conditions that undermine parental functioning, such as parental conflict and lower parental investment in girls. Girls from families characterized by father absence or discordant male–female relationships perceive males as less salient to family relationships and lack parental investment in offspring. Given the perceived instability of relationships with males, girls accelerate the timing of menarche and subsequently engage in early sexual activity and unstable pair bonding so as to maximize reproductive capability. Mendle et al. (2006) later similarly proposed that unstable parental relationships subsequently lead girls to believe that resources are limited, people are untrustworthy, and relationships opportunistic. Further, parents’ mating reproductive behavior characterized by multiple sexual partners and erratic relationships contribute to a girl’s sense of a transient family situation. In a somewhat similar perspective to the psychosocial acceleration theory, Ellis and Essex (2007) proposed a life history theory linking family structure and processes and timing of puberty. They emphasize the importance of life history traits, that is, the constellation of maturational and reproductive characteristics that influence speed of reproduction and population turnover. A key assumption of the life history approach is that individuals make trade-offs in distribution of metabolic resources to sustain vital functions—growth, reproduction, and maintenance—given that resources are finite and unpredictable. Individuals choose evolutionarily relevant features of the environment as a basis for altering the timing and tempo of pubertal maturation (Ellis, 2004). A life history perspective asks questions about when individuals should stop converting surplus energy related to growth and begin to shift resources to reproduction. Published studies based on acceleration and the life history perspectives show support for the hypotheses regarding timing of puberty or menarche and family structure or processes (see also Ellis, 2004, Ellis et al, 2003). One notable and consistent finding is that timing of puberty or menarche occurs at an earlier age among girls raised in stressful family circumstances (Ellis, Shirtcliff, Boyce, Deardorff, & Essex, 2011; Doughty & Rodgers, 2000;

Puberty: Its Role In Development

Jones, Leeton, McLeod, & Wood, 1972; Kim & Smith, 1998a, 1998b; Kim, Smith, & Palermiti, 1997; Moffitt, Caspi, Belsky, & Silva, 1992; Surbey, 1990). The majority of the studies use father absence as a marker of family disruption in relation to timing of menarche. Other studies assess father absence, family dysfunction, or qualities of parenting (Belsky et al., 2007; Ellis & Essex, 2007; Ellis et al., 2011; Surbey, 1998) or family composition (e.g., stepbrothers) (Matchock & Susman, 2006). Thus, it is difficult to separate the effects of family disruption as indexed by father absence and family disruption or family relationships. Table 12.1 shows representative findings from father absence and family disruption studies. The recent Ellis and colleagues (2011) study added a different theoretical construct to understanding family functioning and timing of puberty, the notion of individual differences in biological sensitivity to context based on the overall theory of evolutionary–developmental theories of biological sensitivity to context and reproductive development. Added was a possible mechanism to understand family relationships and timing of puberty; specifically, stress was assessed via cortisol reactivity. Using the framework of individual differences in biological sensitivity to context, the findings show that in children displaying heightened biological sensitivity to context (i.e., higher cortisol reactivity), higher-quality parent–child relationships forecast slower initial pubertal tempo and later pubertal timing. In contrast, lower-quality parent–child relationships forecast the opposite pattern. No such effects emerged among less context-sensitive children. Father Absence The absence of a biological figure and its effects on timing of puberty or menarche was the original focus of studies of the sociobiology of puberty. The general conception was that father absence or some permutation of father absence (i.e., step-parent) was related to earlier menarche in fatherabsent homes. For instance, Surbey (1990) reported that girls achieved earlier menarche in father-absent homes than in father-present homes. The girls in the survey who also experienced high levels of stress also achieved earlier menarche. Since the early Surbey (1990) study, more and more family and contextual measures have been added to the analyses of family structure and function and timing of puberty or menarche (see also Bogaert, 2008). The inclusion of family functioning, as in the case of parental investment and early predictors of timing of puberty (e.g., Belsky et al., 2007) has enriched the wealth of findings on the sociobiology of puberty. Nonetheless, specific

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mechanism and pathways linking timing of puberty and menarche to contextual and individual level variables have not been identified.

Family Disruption Family stress or disruption refers to events that are considered stressors in families, including mental health problems of parents, family conflict, and financial and employment problems. The psychosocial acceleration and life history evolution–based perspectives propose that family disruption and father absence play a causal role in early timing of puberty (Belsky et al., 1991). Girls in these families engage in early sexual behavior and early reproduction (Draper & Harpending, 1982; Ellis, 2004). In one of the first tests of the psychosocial acceleration theory, Moffitt et al., (1992) showed that family conflict, divorce, and father absence in childhood predicted earlier age of menarche. Weight also contributed to the influence on earlier menarche. Similarly, in a retrospective study of college-age girls, earlier menarche was related to family stress in later childhood (age 7–11), conflict with mother, and anxiousness and internalizing symptoms (anxiousness/ depression) in early childhood (birth to age 6), and earlier age at dating boys and more boyfriends (Kim & Smith, 1998a). Other studies report that greater marital and family conflict is associated with primarily early timing of puberty in girls (Ellis & Garber, 2000; Graber, Brooks-Gunn, & Warren, 1995; Saxbe & Repetti, 2009). Longer durations of father absence also correlate with an earlier menarcheal onset (Moffitt et al., 1992; Romans, Martin, Gendall, & Herbison, 2003; Surbey, 1990; Wierson, Long, & Forehand, 1993). Studies of family stress and timing of puberty in boys are more rare than studies of girls. Others have argued that the posited causal relationship between family structure and functioning and timing of puberty can be explained by uncontrolled genetic and environmental influences (Mendle et al., 2006). Girls who experience early menarche are more likely to be from lower socioeconomic status (SES) families, experience psychological difficulties, and transmit the likelihood of earlier development to children (e.g., Mustanski, Viken, Kaprio, Pulkkinen, & Rose, 2004; Stattin & Magnusson, 1990; Udry, 1979). These are potential confounds that cannot be controlled in research that compares age of menarche among unrelated individuals. Mendle and colleagues (2006) did a comparison of the step-parenting effects in the children of monozygotic (MZ) and dizygotic (DZ) twins and determined that this design can potentially

304

N = 5913 Girls N = 570

Pubertal timing

N = 281

Ellis, Bates, Dodge, Fergusson, Horwood, Pettit, and Woodward (2003) Girls

Pubertal timing menarche

N = 756 Girls

Ellis and Essex (2007)

Pubertal timing and tempo

Menarche

N = 756 Boys and Girls

Belsky, Steinberg, Houts, Friedman, DeHart, Cauffman, Roisman, Halpern-Felsher, Susman, and NICHD Early Child Care Research Network (2007) Bogaert (2008)

Ellis, Shirtcliff, Boyce, Deardorff, and Essex (2011)

Tanner stage

Sample

Puberty Measures

Early sexual activity Teenage pregnancy

Father absence

Rearing experiences.

Father absence Siblings Family environment, sensitivity to stress (cortisol), timing and tempo of puberty, cortisol and sympathetic nervous system reactivity

Rearing by emotional interaction

Rearing experiences Mother’s age of menarche Infant negative emotionality

Family/Adolescent Characteristic

Studies Examining Family Contextual Correlates of Pubertal Timing

Authors

TABLE 12.1

Greater parental supportiveness showed slower initial pubertal tempo, adolescents were less developed by 12.5 years of age, and then showed faster subsequent pubertal tempo. Children with more negative PEP slope scores (indicating greater sympathetic reactivity) experienced significantly faster initial maturation, displayed more advanced pubertal development by age 12.5, and then experienced less maturation after 12.5 years of age when they came from less supportive families. Children with higher adrenocortical activation and higher parental supportiveness experienced slower initial pubic hair development. Pubertal onset was not predicted by maternal age of menarche, rearing variables or infant negativity.

Pubertal onset was not significantly predicted by maternal age of menarche, any rearing variables, or by infant negativity.

Males

Females

Mothers who reported an earlier age of menarche had daughters who reported earlier age of menarche and initiated pubertal development earlier than did girls whose mothers reported later age of menarche. Infant negative emotionality did not significantly predict pubertal outcome. Greater exposure to father absence was strongly associated with elevated risk for early sexual activity and adolescent pregnancy. Elevated risk was either not explained or only partly explained by familial, ecological, and personal disadvantages associated with father absence. After controlling for covariates, there was stronger and more consistent evidence of effects of father absence on early sexual activity and teenage pregnancy than on other behavioral or mental health problems or academic achievement.

Findings were similar for girls.

Earlier age of puberty was predicted by father absence

Mothers with earlier menarche had daughters with earlier puberty. Insensitive parenting earlier in childhood predicted earlier pubertal development. Maternal harsh control predicted earlier menarche.

Findings

305

Pubertal timing

N = 173 Girls

N = 75 Girls

N = 28 Daughters Menarche N = 21 Mothers

N = 357

Ellis, McFadyen-Ketchum, Dodge, Pettit, and Bates (1999)

Graber, Brooks-Gunn, and Warren (1995)

Kim and Smith (1998a)

Kim and Smith (1998b) Boys and girls

Menarche

N = 87 Girls

Ellis and Garber (2000)

Age at menarche and spermarche

Pubertal timing Menarche

Petersen Development Scale

N = 630 Girls

Ellis, Bates, Dodge, Fergusson, Horwood, Pettit, and Woodward (2003)

Stressful life events Family relationships Absence or present of an adult male Childhood stress Conflict in family environment

Heredity Transmission Weight and weight for height

Negative-coercive parenting

Maternal psychopathology Discordant family relationships and father/stepfather absence. Stress in mothers’ romantic relationships

Father absence

(continued )

Earlier menarche correlated with family stress at late childhood; more conflict with mother in early childhood; more rejection from, and less closeness to, mother throughout childhood; more anxious and internalizing symptoms in late childhood; earlier age at dating boys and more boyfriends. Earlier spermarche was associated with Earlier menarche was associated with parental father absence; more stress in quality of marital conflict in early childhood; more family life, parental marital unhappiness parental marital unhappiness throughout and parental marital conflict in early childhood; more independence from mother childhood; more independence from and father in late childhood; less anxiousness mother and father in late childhood; or internalizing symptoms earlier age at dating women, more (anxiousness/depression) in late childhood; girlfriends, and earlier age at sexual earlier age at dating men and more boyfriends. intercourse.

Fathers’ presence in the home, more time spent by fathers in child care, greater supportiveness in the parental dyad, more father–daughter affection, and more mother–daughter affection, prior to kindergarten, each predicted later pubertal timing by daughters Breast development, weight, family relations, and depressive affect were predictive of age at menarche; family relations predicted age of menarche above the influence of breast development or weight.

Father absence was associated with earlier sexual activity and teenage pregnancy. Father absence earlier in the girl’s life was associated with sexual activity and teenage pregnancy. History of mood disorders in mothers predicted earlier pubertal timing in daughters. Relation was mediated by dyadic stress and biological father absence; stepfather presence was best accounted for earlier pubertal maturation in girls Negative-coercive (or less positive-harmonious) family relationships in early childhood provoked earlier puberty.

306 Menarche

Menarche

Menarche

N = 1938 Women

N = 1284 Girls

N = 1037 Girls

Mendle, Turkheimer, D’Onofrio, Lynch, Emery, Slustke, and Martin (2006)

Moffitt, Caspi, and Silva (1992)

Menarche and spermarche

N = 380 Boys and Girls

Kim, Smith, and Palermiti (1997)

Matchock and Susman (2006)

Puberty Measures

Sample

(continued )

Authors

TABLE 12.1

Family stress Behavioral and psychological problems

Body weight Race Siblings Childhood stress

Absence of Biological Father Presence of half or step-brothers Living in an urban environment

Early childhood stress or conflict in the family environment

Family/Adolescent Characteristic

Females Earlier menarche was associated with stress in quality of family life; unhappiness in parental marital relations during childhood; more conflict with mother; less emotional closeness to mother; and behavioral independence from mother or father in late childhood. Earlier menarche was associated with earlier age at dating men and older age of first sexual intercourse partner relative to own age at first intercourse. Absence of the biological father, presence of half- or stepbrothers and living in an urban environment were all predictors of earlier menarche. Body weight and race were also related to menarche timing. The number of siblings and the birth order had no effect on menarche, although presence of a sister showed delay in menarche, especially if they were older. Within the discordant MZ twin pairs, children raised by the twin providing a stepfather had an age of menarche slightly earlier than children raised by the co-twin without a stepfather. The opposite pattern occurred in children of the discordant DZ pairs. Family conflict and father absence in childhood predicted an earlier age of menarche, and these factors combined with weight showed some evidence of an additive influence on menarche.

Findings

Earlier spermarche was associated with more parental marital conflict, less emotional closeness to father, more aggressiveness, unruliness, and externalizing symptoms in early or late childhood. Earlier spermarche was associated with earlier age at dating women, having more girlfriends, having had intercourse, and having more total frequency of intercourse partners.

Males

307 Menarche

N = 71

Wierson, Long, and Forehand (1993) Girls

Menarche

Pubertal timing Menarche

N = 1,200 Girls

Surbey (1998)

N = 71 Girls

Menarche

N = 2225 Girls

Romans, Martin, Gendall, and Herbison. (2003)

Wierson, Long, and Forehand (1993)

Pubertal develop-ment scale

N = 1891 Boys and Girls

Mustanski, Viken, Kaprio, Pulkkinen, and Rose (2004)

Divorce Interparental conflict

Environmental stress

Higher maternal reports of interparental conflict were significantly related to earlier menarche in the total sample.

Earlier menarche in families with maternal-reported interparental conflict Compared to girls with intact families, those from divorced families had earlier onset of menarche.

Divorced families

Father absence Heightened levels of childhood stress

Interparental conflict

Genetic influences made the largest contribution to variance common to PDS items. In girls, common environmental influences were added for growth spurt and menarcheal status. For both common and item-specific variation, genetic effects were partially sex specific. Subsidiary analyses found accelerated maturation in girls who at age 14 were reared in father-absent homes.

Early menarche was predicted by low family socioeconomic status, absence of father, family conflict, poor relationships between the girl and either/both parents, a self-rated childhood personality style as a loner, and childhood physical and sexual abuse. Menarche was earlier in girls from father-absent households and those reporting high levels of stress during childhood. The mothers of the father-absent girls also were early maturers, began dating early, tended to have their first child at an earlier age and have more children, and had more negative attitudes towards males and the family than mothers of father-present girls. Earlier menarche in girls from divorced families.

Genetic influences made the largest contribution to variance common to PDS items. Genetic and nonshared environmental factors accounted for variation specific to PDS items in boys. Genetic effects were partially sex specific. Subsidiary analyses found accelerated maturation in boys who at age 14 were reared in father-absent homes.

Father absence Family conflict Genetic determination of early puberty

Father absence Environmental influences

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discriminate whether confounds in the association between stepfathering and menarche are mediated via genetics or shared environment. A within-pair difference between the daughters of discordant DZ pairs but not between daughters of discordant MZ pairs suggests that the confound is primarily genetic. This is because DZ twins differ in genetic endowment and shared environment, whereas MZ twins differ only in their shared environment. A comparison of the step-parenting effects in the children of MZ and DZ twins can potentially discriminate whether confounds in the association between stepfathering and menarche are mediated via genetics or shared environment. Variables indicative of stress were included by Mendle and colleagues (2006): divorce, being raised by both biological parents in the household, presence of a stepfather in the household, and absence of a biological father in child rearing. Results show that girls reared in families with stepfathers exhibit a significantly earlier age of menarche than girls raised without stepfathers. Of note is that the presence of a step-uncle was as predictive of early menarche as the presence of a stepfather. That is, it was not necessary for a child to experience the direct environmental influence of a stepfather to experience an accelerated age of menarche, if she is genetically related to someone who does have a stepfather. In brief, in a pair of twin mothers, of which only one raises her children with a stepfather, the offspring of both twins are equally likely to exhibit early age of menarche. Mendle and colleagues concluded that some genetic or shared environmental confound accounts for the earlier menarche found in female children living with stepfathers. However, it is also possible that earlier menarche results from some shared environmental quality.

Parental Investment Parental investment refers to the quantity and quality of parenting of offspring. For example, father investment as indexed by qualities of parenting and timing of puberty was considered (Moffitt et al., 1992). Negative aspects of family environment (family conflict, maternal harsh control) and earlier timing of menarche were related to timing of puberty. Ellis and Essex (2007) used a life history approach and proposed that humans have evolved to be sensitive to specific features of early childhood environments and that exposure to different parental environments bias children toward development of alternative reproductive strategies, including differential pubertal timing. Ellis (2004) extended Belsky and colleagues’ (1991)

perspective to parental investment by positing a unique and central role for fathers in the regulation of female offspring sexual development, separate from the effects of other dimensions of psychosocial stress and family support in the child’s ecology. See also Ellis and colleagues, as described earlier in the chapter. Higher-quality parental investment in the preschool years and greater parental supportiveness predicted lower rates of evidence of adrenarche, the early aspect of puberty, in boys and girls in the first grade and less development of secondary sexual characteristics in girls in the fifth grade (Ellis & Essex, 2007). Higher-quality mother and father parental investment and less father-reported maternal conflict or depression predicted later adrenarche. Older age at menarche in mothers, higher SES, greater mother-based supportiveness, and lower third-grade BMI also uniquely and significantly predicted later sexual maturity in daughters. Ellis and Essex (2007) concluded that, consistent with a life history perspective, quality of parental investment emerged as a central dimension of the proximal family environment and pubertal timing. These findings are consistent with the previous Ellis and colleagues (1999) findings. Parental warmth, positive family relationships, and paternal involvement in child rearing were related to a later age of menarche. The quality of the father’s investment in the family emerged as the most important feature of the proximal family environment as a correlate of daughters’ pubertal timing. Parenting qualities consisted of greater supportiveness in the parental dyad, more time spent by fathers in child care, more father–daughter affection, and more mother–daughter affection. Positive parenting characteristics, according to the child development theory (CDT), reap a longer childhood (later sexual maturation and onset of reproduction), and high-investing family contexts foster development of sociocompetitive competencies. In contrast, the costs of truncating childhood are reduced in low-investing family contexts that do not meaningfully facilitate competitive competencies. The argument proposed by Ellis and Essex (2007) regarding early age at adrenarche, family processes, and the ecology of development has good internal consistency. Nonetheless, the logic is not consistent with the biology of reproduction. Adrenarche is independent of gonadarche; children can experience gonadarche without adrenarche; and children enter adrenarche in the absence of reactivation of the GnRH system. Specifically, adrenarche is not accompanied by increases in gonadal steroids, testosterone and estradiol, hormones that are essential for ovulation, spermatogenesis, and reproduction. Thus, the evolutionary

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significance of the timing of adrenarche is not known to be relevant to reproduction. Family environment appears to affect a puberty-related event, adrenarche, that is not related to reproduction, suggesting a reconsideration of the role of adrenarche, family environment, and early timing of puberty as a reproductive strategy in girls. A limitation of many of the studies on family and contextual influences on age of onset of puberty or menarche is that they are cross-sectional or short-term longitudinal. Belsky and colleagues (2007) overcame this limitation by capitalizing on a 12-year longitudinal design to assess the effects of family influences on timing of puberty. Other major strengths of the study were that it included boys and girls, and mothers and fathers; the adolescents had annual repeated assessments of pubertal development by trained nurses and physicians during puberty; and both family structure and process were considered. The results were both consistent and inconsistent with earlier findings. Rearing experiences predicted pubertal timing among girls, but not boys. There are too few studies that included boys to know how to evaluate the consistency of rearing and puberty in boys. Maternal age at menarche was a stronger predictor of girls’ pubertal development than were early rearing conditions, suggesting the strength of the genetic influence on timing of menarche. A unique finding was that early maternal harsh control at 54 months and at first and third grade predicted earlier menarche. An additional novel finding was that negative experiences with fathers and mothers predicted earlier age of menarche. In summary, the study yielded novel findings supporting the influence of parenting characteristics on timing of puberty and menarche. A prominent limitation of the study is the small effect size and the limited number of significant findings. Nonetheless, it is noteworthy that any effects emerged, given the extended time frame of the study and the major genetic influences on timing of puberty. Explanations are varied regarding the mechanisms involved in father absence, family relationships, family disruption, and timing of puberty. The studies based on an evolutionary model imply a causal relation between family disruption or father absence and timing of age at menarche or timing of puberty. One explanation is that a stressful family environment characterized by family conflict, absence of a biological father, poverty, and accompanying low parental investment creates an internalizing disorder that lowers metabolism, thereby inciting a weight gain that in turn accelerates menarche (Belsky et al., 1991; Ellis & Essex, 2007). Recent evidence raises questions regarding

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mechanisms involved in weight and earlier puberty. Heavier weight status even during the preschool-and school-age period predicted earlier timing of puberty (Davison et al., 2003; Lee et al., 2007). The question, then, is: How does this early weight gain affect timing of puberty? Future studies need to be longitudinal from infancy to the onset of puberty to test the hypothesis that family environment and weight status in combination are mechanisms involved in early timing of puberty. Family influences on acceleration of timing of puberty and menarche are based on the assumption that the family environment is stressful, likely arising from the unpredictability of rearing related to parental absence, psychopathology, and other forms of family disruption. However, objectively measured stress was not part of the design of the studies until Ellis and colleagues (2011). Stress was merely implied by family conflict, poverty, and father absence or step-parenting. What is needed is continuing use of good measures of subjective aspects of stress as well as the objective, neuroendocrine indices of stress in family members to establish the mechanisms involved in stress and timing of puberty. Noteworthy is that the acceleration and life history perspectives on stress and reproduction are at odds with the neuroendocrinology of reproduction. Cortisol exerts inhibitory effects on reproduction at the levels of the GnRH neuron, the pituitary gonadotroph (responsible for secreting LH and FSH), and the gonad itself, thereby suppressing sex steroids (testosterone and estrogen) and delaying maturation of reproductive function and physical growth (see Dorn & Chrousos, 1997; Stratakis & Chrousos, 1997; Susman, Reiter, Ford, & Dorn, 2002). That is, CRH, ACTH, and cortisol suppress the reproductive axis. In brief, theories regarding putative family stress and timing of puberty or menarche run counter to the well-established physiology of stress and reproduction. The two sets of evidence can be reconciled nonetheless. Although acute stress may suppress reproductive functioning, chronic stress may release gonadotropins and sex steroids from the downregulating effects of CRH, ACTH, and cortisol. Family stress is likely to be of chronic, long duration, thus attenuating the classic acute response to stress. Genetics may be an alternative explanation to the evolutionary model of family relations and timing of puberty (see Mendle et al., 2006). Girls who mature early tend to have earlier sexual activity and earlier age of first marriage and first birth, which increases the probability of divorce and lower-quality paternal investment. Puberty, sexual, and reproductive timing may be genetically programmed (Ellis et al., 1999). Mothers who are early maturers tend to have daughters who are early

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maturers (Brooks-Gunn & Warren, 1989), suggesting a genetic linkage. In addition, the androgen receptor (AR) gene has been used as an explanation of the effect of father absence on age of menarche (Comings, Muhleman, Johnson, & MacMurray, 2002). Shorter alleles of the X-linked AR gene are associated with aggression, greater numbers of sexual partners, impulsivity, and divorce in males, and with early age of menarche in females (Comings et al., 2002). The same genes may predispose children to early timing and early sexual activity. Comings and colleagues also reminded the field that there are paternal as well as maternal influences on age of menarche. The same genetic factors that influence a man’s likelihood to abandon marriages may also contribute to an earlier age of menarche in female offspring. Mendle and colleagues (2006) tested an alternative hypothesis that nonrandom selection into stepfathering families related to shared environmental and/or genetic predispositions leads to a spurious relation between stepfathering and earlier menarche (also discussed earlier in this chapter). Using the controls for genetic and shared environmental experiences offered by the children-of-twins design, cousins discordant for stepfathering were found not to differ in age of menarche. Moreover, controlling for mother’s age of menarche eliminated differences in menarcheal age associated with stepfathering in unrelated girls. These findings strongly suggest that selection and not causation accounts for the relationship between stepfathering and early menarche. As an argument counter to genetic influences, it could be proposed that the effect is still there between family environmental factors and timing of puberty when mothers’ age of menarche is controlled. Mothers’ age of menarche could be considered a poor control for genetic influences. Age of menarche is a broad proxy for a genetic influence, and there is significant error of measurement in retrospective recall of age of menarche. Molecular genetics approaches yielding new genetic markers will likely be illustrative of the complexity of genetic influences on timing of puberty in functional and disruptive families. To advance the issue of timing of puberty and family structure and dynamics, future studies would benefit from including: (a) objective indices of family stress, family structure, and interactions, and reliable and valid measures of timing of puberty and menarche; (b) longitudinal assessment of early family adversity and the neurobiology of stress and reproduction for long periods prior to the onset of puberty; (c) inclusion of genetic markers of early timing of puberty if they become available.

MECHANISMS INVOLVED IN TIMING OF PUBERTY AND ADJUSTMENT The specific mechanisms relating timing of puberty and psychosocial adjustment, as discussed here and elsewhere, remain largely unknown. The empirical findings to date are based on articulated theories, but few mechanisms are proposed to explain the authenticated connection between timing of puberty and a diverse array of behaviors, emotions, and disorders and family structure and functioning. What, then, are the possible explanations for the long-standing connection between timing of puberty and psychological development? The explanation can be separated into two broad categories: social/contextual and brain development. Social/contextual explanations include peers, family, school, and the broader social ecology of youth. A fairly consistent explanation of earlier maturation and deviant behavior is that early maturers tend to associate with older and deviant peers. Older deviant peers may perceive the early-maturing adolescent as older than his/her stated age and include the early-maturing adolescent in adult-like deviant behaviors that include substance use and risky sexual activity. In the case of sexually risky behaviors, early-maturing girls also may be preyed upon by older boys and men, as these males perceive the girls as inexperienced and vulnerable to sexual coercion. Negriff and colleagues (2010) suggest that later maturing boys and girls may be protected by their childish appearance and are excluded by older, deviant peers. Family members and teachers exert influences on an off-time maturing adolescent via expectations and social roles. The juvenile appearance of a late-maturing adolescent can lead to assigning less responsibility and independence to the childlike-appearing adolescent, with the consequence to the adolescent of not being allowed to participate in peer activities that may lead to deviance or result in fewer opportunities to develop competencies. Similarly, institutions in the wider social environment, such as church groups and clubs, may assign less independent and challenging tasks to the immature-appearing adolescents. The relation between brain development, timing of puberty, and adjustment is now only beginning to be considered. Briefly, the question is whether there is asynchrony between higher-order functions like decision making and impulse control and emotional areas of the brain and hypothalamic functioning and the reactivation of the GnRH pulse generator. Steinberg (2008) suggests an explanation for the association of brain development and risk taking that can be applied to timing of puberty

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and risk taking as well. As previously discussed, earlymaturing adolescents may not have the social decisionmaking skills and impulse control required to avoid risky situations and risky behavior.

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large studies that are long-term interventions that take into account the complex nature of obesity in youth. Successful prevention and interventions gleaned from such research have the potential for improving the emotional life of adolescents as well as their overall health.

PUBERTY AND OBESITY PUBERTY AND BONE HEALTH The higher weight status of early-timing adolescents, as previously discussed, has led to the suggestion that the increase in obesity is responsible for the earlier timing of puberty. Many adolescents worldwide are now considered overweight or obese, and there is virtually no evidence that the epidemic is subsiding, which is an alarming trend given the association of obesity with cardiovascular disease, diabetes, and other chronic diseases (Dietz, 1998; Katzmarzyk, Tremblay, P´erusse, Despr´es, & Bouchard, 2003; Spruijt-Metz, 2011). The increase in BMI in the United States in particular may be related to various eating behaviors characterized by high-energy dense foods. For example, a review by Biro et al., (2006) found that calorie consumption has increased across the last three or so decades, with high increases in soft drinks and snacks that are salty, and lower intake of milk. Further, overweight adolescents seem to be particularly vulnerable to consuming more calories in a fast-food setting. With respect to activity, the Biro et al., review also provides evidence that physical activity decreases across adolescence. There is some evidence that the amount of television viewing and computer-related games may have an impact on weight status via spending less time in physical activity. Puberty is a sensitive period for the development of overweight and obesity, since body fat normatively increases secondary to pubertal development (Dietz, 1997). Early sexual maturation is related to obesity and overweight in adolescence and is carried over to the young adult years (Bratberg et al., 2007) and appears to have a heritable intergenerational component (Ong et al., 2007). Environmental factors may also play a role in weight status during puberty. For example, Belsky and colleagues (1991) proposed that a stressful family environment, characterized by family conflict, absence of a biological father, poverty, and resultant insufficient parenting, predisposes girls to develop an internalizing disorder that lowers metabolism, thereby inciting weight gain that accelerates the timing of menarche. Overall, the psychological consequences of weight status are only beginning to be addressed, but it is increasingly clear that another negative consequence of early puberty is overweight and obesity. Spruijt-Metz (2011) suggests that the need for the future is to initiate

In this section, we provide an example of the importance that puberty can have on accrual of bone mineral density (BMD) or bone mineral content (BMC) and, in turn, how depression may play a role in bone health. Over 40% of BMD is accrued in adolescence, with the majority of accrual occurring in the two years surrounding menarche (Glastre et al., 1990). During these two years, as much bone is laid down as is lost in the last four decades of life (Bailey, Mirwald, McKay, & Faulkner, 2000). Thus, building an adequate store of bone mineral is crucial during this period to decrease the chance of becoming osteoporotic in the postmenopausal years and, in turn, likely decreasing the rate of fractures. Optimum accrual depends on one’s genetic and familial background, but lifestyle and behavioral factors such as exercise, nutrition, and smoking also influence accrual. Timing of puberty has been shown to have an impact on bone accrual. Later pubertal timing (later menarche) girls had lower BMD (Chevalley, Bonjour, Ferrari, & Rizzoli, 2009; Galuska & Sowers, 1999). The explanation is that later maturing girls have less estrogen exposure, and estrogen contributes to strong bones. In brief, a later maturer has fewer ovulatory menstrual cycles and, in turn, less lifetime estrogen exposure. Where does depression fit into the puberty-bone density model? In the adult literature, there is generally a strong association between depression and BMD. Individuals with depression or who report depressive symptoms are more likely to have osteoporosis or lower BMD (Cizza, Primma, Coyle, Gourgiotis, & Csako, 2010; Eskandari et al., 2007; Jacka et al., 2005; Michelson et al., 1996; Schweiger, Weber, Deuschle, & Heuser, 2000; Yazici, Akinci, S¨utc¸u¨ , & Ozc¸akar, 2003;). Only one study has been conducted in adolescent girls examining the association of depressive and anxious symptoms and bone mass. Higher numbers of depressive symptoms were related to lower bone mass, and the associations varied by substance use (Dorn, Susman et al., 2008; Dorn et al., 2011). If one considers that rates of depression become higher in girls during puberty (Costello, Mustillo, Erkanli, Keeler, & Angold, 2003) and that early maturers are more vulnerable

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to depression (Hayward et al., 1997; Kaltiala-Heino et al., 2003), early timing of puberty may also contribute to bone density. Recognized is that other factors may influence both bone health and depression during puberty, and these include smoking and change in exercise and eating habits.

PUBERTY AND SLEEP The media frequently describes findings on the sequelae of lack of sleep in adolescents. Factors responsible for this lack of sleep are lack of parental monitoring, peer interactions and influences, and pervasive use of television and communication media (cell phones and text messaging), music devices, and Internet surfing. Sleep characteristics of adolescence began to receive systematic attention in the last two decades. Carskadon, Acebo, & Jenni (2004) produced seminal work showing the systematic changes that occur in the sleep patterns of adolescents. This research showed that there is a major shift in sleep characteristics during the pubertal period. The total amount of sleep decreases, and there is an increase in daytime sleepiness (Carskadon & Acebo, 2002; Dahl & Lewin, 2002). There is also a major shift in time of onset of sleep and time of awakening, referred to as phase delay. Phase delay is related to stage of puberty independent of age, suggesting that the biological changes of puberty have links to changes in sleep patterns (Carskadon, Vieira, & Acebo, 1993; Frey, Balu, Greusing, Rothen, & Cajochen, 2009; Hagenauer, Perryman, Lee, & Carskadon, 2009; Pieters, Van Der Vorst, Burk, Wiers, & Engels, 2010; see also Carskadon & Acebo, 2002; Carskadon et al., 1997; Carskadon, Wolfson, Acebo, Tzischinsky, & Seifer, 1998). The preference for later onset and offset of sleep and societal demands for early school attendance results in an asynchrony in the biological and social needs of adolescents. Changes in sleep quality and duration during puberty can be justified based on biological and social changes that occur at puberty. First, sleep is associated with the same hormones involved with endocrine changes of puberty (Knutson, 2005). For example, the growth hormone–releasing hormone that is produced in abundance during puberty appears to be important in the regulation of sleep (Steiger & Holsboer, 1997). Ghrelin improves slowwave sleep, which is the deeper stages of non-rapid eye movement (REM) sleep (Steiger, 2003). Sleep deprivation resulted in a stronger increase of slow-wave activity in Tanner 5 (39% above baseline) than in Tanner 1–2 adolescents (18% above baseline). Additional findings show that

the buildup of homeostatic sleep pressure during wakefulness was slower in Tanner 5 adolescents compared with Tanner Stage 1–2 children (8.9 +/− 1.2 hours) (Jenni, Achermann, & Carskadon, 2005). The social changes of adolescence, such as increasing interaction with peers, have not been examined in relation to the changes in sleep quality and duration. An unfortunate side effect of lower duration of sleep is its association with obesity. Shorter sleep duration in third and sixth grade was independently associated with obesity at sixth grade (Lumeng et al., 2007). A contributing factor to sleep problems during adolescence is morningness/eveningness (M/E) preference. M/E refers to a preference for activities in the morning or evening. The hypothesis is that trait circadian preference mediates mood, daytime functioning, and academic grades through its effect on sleep at school time. It was concluded that whereas the imposition of school schedules negatively impacted mood and daytime functioning for the sample as a whole, evening-oriented adolescents were the most vulnerable to poorer outcomes (Warner, Murray, & Meyer, 2008). Eveningness students obtained poorer quality and less sleep than morning-oriented students and were more likely to exhibit antisocial behavior (Susman et al., 2007; Warner et al., 2008). Other studies show that girls who were more evening type also had more depressive and anxious symptoms, and these associations were stronger in those who were obese (Pabst, Negriff, Dorn, Susman, & Huang, 2009). Additionally, those with early (or ontime) puberty and an evening preference exhibited more cigarette use (Negriff et al., 2011). The evening-preference adolescent gets less sleep and, as a result, has difficulty concentrating and controlling impulses.

WHAT DO WE KNOW FOR SURE ABOUT PUBERTY AND DEVELOPMENT? It is a given that puberty is an essential stage of reproductive development that has challenged scholars and scientists, communities and teachers, as well as parents and adolescents themselves. The degree to which adolescents experience mood and behavior changes during puberty varies considerably (e.g., Forbes & Dahl, 2010). Across time, much has become known about both the biological and psychological changes that occur at puberty. First, in the past several decades, discoveries have documented the neuroendocrine processes of puberty due primarily to technological advances in molecular biology and other life sciences, hormone assay development,

Puberty: Its Role In Development

and strong empirical studies in lower animal models, as well as in studies of humans. Second, in the psychosocial literature, studies are relatively consistent in pointing to early pubertal development as being behaviorally and psychologically problematic, primarily for girls. Such studies have generally focused on negative outcomes related to mood disturbances and risky behaviors and have used timing of puberty in associative or predictive models. Third, the measurement of pubertal progression has been examined in detail, so that investigators now have access to assessments of the appropriateness of different measures of pubertal development, depending on the research question. Fourth, research on the psychological effects of pubertal development has become based on more complex theoretical and statistical models than in the past. These complex models are characterized by multiple levels of analysis that combine “protein to population” levels. Recent work on identification of genes and proteins that are responsible for the onset of puberty represent the most basic level of analysis. At the population level, the ADD Health study has produced an abundance of information on sexual, psychological, and social influences on the U.S. population of adolescents. In addition, contextual variables are now being examined as mediators or moderators that may impact associations of biological pubertal processes on psychological outcomes. These multiple-level studies offer a richness of detail that has never before been available to scientists of adolescent development. CONCLUSIONS Although the knowledge base regarding puberty and its role in psychological development has certainly expanded, much is left to be uncovered. “Puberty’s effects on health and wellbeing are considered profound and paradoxical” (Patton & Viner, 2007, p. 1130). Thus, the topic warrants further attention as a way of improving psychological and physical health and developmental outcomes in youth. Some of the gaps in the literature are as follows: • There is an asynchrony between medical and psychological research with regard to biological and psychological issues inherent in the consequences of pubertal status and pubertal timing. However, the medical research community has identified the significant impact of altered timing of puberty (e.g., precocious puberty and premature adrenarche) on current health or later adult health problems (Golub et al., 2008; see review by Dorn, 2007). For instance, there is now a growing recognition of the association between timing

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of puberty and adult disease, particularly reproductive cancers. There is also growing recognition in the medical community that the downward secular trend in timing of puberty may precipitate psychosocial and health problems by compromising growth and increasing the risk of early and risky sexual activity, potential sexual abuse, and inappropriate expectation by others (Golub et al., 2008). What we would like to know is whether these early psychosocial problems have adult psychological sequelae. As a beginning, basic knowledge on the mechanisms involved in early or late timing of puberty and psychosocial functioning is needed. As an additional issue, there is a continuing need for health policy that continues surveillance of human adolescents to define and refine the mechanisms of altered timing of puberty. For instance, screening for exposure to endocrine disruptors is a promising trend for the future. There is also asynchrony between the psychological and medical community in the precision of measuring puberty; its measurement has often lacked rigor in behavioral and psychological studies. Whether puberty is a cause, correlate, or confound of the outcomes of interest, it can play a leading role in study outcomes; therefore, valid and reliable measures of puberty deserve scrutiny in both the medical and psychological scientific communities. • Health and developmental problems of adolescence are complex and require an interdisciplinary focus. The roots of psychological and behavioral problems stem from, or contribute to, brain–behavior interactions, family dysfunction, reproduction and physical morphological changes, peers, and unknown genetic influences. These inherent complex features of puberty mandate that research scientists be obligated to collaborate across disciplinary lines. The richness and expertise of each discipline in terms of methods, measures, and theoretical and empirical–statistical models could ultimately lead to an empirically based body of research that enhances prevention and intervention efforts. An area of inquiry with rich interdisciplinary attention is that of brain development. Cognitive and emotional functioning research from a neurobiological perspective appears to be an area already beginning to develop. Such functioning, as assessed by neuropsychologists and functional and structural brain imaging neuroscientists and neurologists in combination with behavioral scientists, holds much promise for understanding adolescent behavior. A challenge for the scientific community is to garner funding support for such valuable interdisciplinary efforts.

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• Longitudinal studies with rigorous methodology for measuring puberty as well as other biological and psychological parameters are an additional necessary step in solving complex research problems encountered in pubertal-age adolescents. Several sources have commented on appropriate measures and methodologies for studies of pubertal development (Dorn et al., 2006; Euling et al., 2008). Future longitudinal studies will yield the most payoff by beginning to assess the biological and behavioral roots of pubertal processes at an early age, so as to capture pubertal onset and the range of pubertal changes through adrenarche and gonadarche. Needed in these longitudinal assessments are better biomarkers of onset and progression of puberty, such as genomic and hormone assay studies. A collateral consideration is that to understand the role of puberty on psychological development, longer-term perspectives are essential. We do not know for certain whether the links between internalizing and externalizing behavior are a result of puberty or timing of puberty per se, or whether relations represent continuity from earlier phases of development. • Mechanisms impacting puberty and, in turn, its effect on psychological development need further examination. For example, we know little about why pubertal timing is early or late and whether timing is a consequence of genetics, environmental factors, other influences, or a combination of these processes. In turn, we do not know why early pubertal timing is generally negative for girls but positive or neutral for boys. Nor do we know why the timing of puberty seems to have less of an impact on boys than on girls, at least in psychosocial domains. Importantly, there is a very small amount of knowledge on the positive effects of puberty on development. The majority of studies to date have focused on negative outcomes of puberty, with a minority focused on positive youth development. For some adolescents, puberty is a positive sign of emerging adolescence, adulthood, independence, and respect. For others, puberty and its rapid physical growth may enhance self-esteem and vigor and be a protective influence for depression and anxiety. • Much more research needs to be carried out regarding structure and function of brain development across puberty. Since most studies have measured change only across chronological age rather than pubertal stage, appropriately little can be said about neuroendocrine changes and brain development as they relate to the external manifestations of puberty. Briefly, we need to know if pubertal status and pubertal timing are related

to brain structure and function and, in turn, how those changes may or may not be related to emotions and cognitions as well as behavioral outcomes. A concluding note is not complete without mentioning the current state of prevention and intervention to reduce problems of youth and increase positive youth development. The current state of knowledge regarding puberty and timing of puberty offers insights into prevention and intervention efforts. One issue is that most parents and school systems have not caught up with the importance of earlier timing of puberty in the health and development of adolescents. As previously indicated, earlier timing, especially for girls, is associated with and predictive of internalizing and externalizing problems, interactions with older and perhaps deviant peers, and early and risky sexual behavior. Thus, earlier maturing adolescents require earlier risk education efforts than their on-time peers on issues of normal sexual development, risky behaviors, relationships, and Internet safety. Parents, the educational system, and health-care providers also are encouraged to undertake earlier health promotion and disease prevention efforts with the aim of assisting adolescents to cope with peer expectations, early sexual development, and expectations for mature behavior. It also may be advantageous to approach adolescents in a more creative manner than in educational programs that currently are available. For instance, adolescents are likely to be interested in new information about brain development during puberty and adolescence, especially if it is presented via the Internet. Specifically, adolescents should be assured that decision making will be difficult in some instances, as brain structures and functions are still developing and adult decisions may be beyond their grasp. Adolescents need to be provided with the assurance that asking others for help is healthy and expected. Within this neurobehavioral approach, an aim could be to familiarize the adolescent with the awareness that since brains are still developing, they may be highly vulnerable to insults (e.g., negative effect of substance use) that have the potential for affecting academic performance and emotions later in life. In brief, an adolescent-friendly approach that emphasizes the developing brain and decision making is warranted. The effort to mount such an approach is daunting to consider but offers a novel approach to adolescent health promotion. Finally, scientists, clinicians, and policy makers have not had an established venue for sharing new scientific information that is relevant to pubertal neurobiological processes and the psychological, health, and societal

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CHAPTER 13

Schools as Developmental Contexts During Adolescence JACQUELYNNE S. ECCLES AND ROBERT W. ROESER

LEVEL 1: TEACHERS, TASKS, AND CLASSROOM ENVIRONMENTS 321 LEVEL 2: BROADER SCHOOLWIDE CHARACTERISTICS 326

LEVEL 3: DISTRICT-WIDE POLICIES 329 CONCLUSIONS 333 REFERENCES 334

Adolescents spend more time in school than any other setting except their bed. It is the place where they are exposed to their culture’s font of knowledge, hang out with their friends, engage in extracurricular activities that can shape their identities, and prepare for their futures. Consequently, experiences at school influence every aspect of development during adolescence, ranging from the breadth and depth of their intellectual capital to their psychological well-being to the nature of peer influences on their development (Eccles & Roeser, in press; NCES, 2004, 2006; Wigfield, Eccles, Schiefele, Roeser, & DavisKean, 2006). Some youth thrive at school, enjoying and benefiting from most of their experiences there; others muddle along and cope as best they can with the stress and demands of the moment; still others find school an alienating and unpleasant place to be, a place that is difficult to enjoy and benefit from. In this chapter, we summarize some of the major research initiatives and findings regarding the many ways in which experiences at school might relate to adolescents’ academic and socioemotional development during the second decade of life. In our own work, we conceptualize the context of schooling as one that forms a bridge between the macrolevel of society and culture, which shapes district policies and the practices of education from afar, and the middleand micro-levels of the district, the school as an organization, and the classrooms within a school, whose people, through daily acts of leadership, teaching, and social interaction, affect adolescents’ learning and development in immediate ways (see Eccles & Roeser, 2010, in press;

Roeser, Stephens, & Urdan, 2009). Here, we focus and organize our review around the middle and micro levels of the context of schooling, beginning first with contextual features associated with teachers, curricular tasks, and classroom environments (Level 1), then moving to the level of the whole school (Level 2), and finally to the level of district policies (Level 3).

LEVEL 1: TEACHERS, TASKS, AND CLASSROOM ENVIRONMENTS Teachers, with their professional qualifications and identity beliefs, as well as their pedagogical capacities and curricular choices, represent some of the most proximal influences on the development of adolescents in school. During the past decade, research in education, psychology, and economics in particular has begun to examine how such teacher factors affect the intellectual development of youth. Teacher Qualifications The importance of teacher qualifications, such as certification, majoring in the subject matter one teaches, and years of teaching experience, for students’ achievement and graduation rates has now been demonstrated in many countries (Akiba, LeTendre, & Scribner, 2007; Koedel, 2007). For example, greater teacher qualifications were associated with increased mathematical achievement across 321

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all of the 46 different countries that participated in the Trends in International Mathematics and Science Study (TIMMS) in 2003. These effects of teacher qualifications have also been shown for mathematics achievement in high school students (Goldhaber & Brewer, 2000) and for graduation rates (Koedel, 2007). Furthermore, evidence shows teachers with greater qualifications also are more likely to use reform-oriented teaching practices in middle school math classrooms (Smith, Desimone, & Ueno, 2005). The influence of different types of certification, and qualifications in subjects other than math on adolescent student achievement, still remains unclear, however (see Boyd, Goldhaber, Lankford & Wyckoff, 2007). Unfortunately, the likelihood of having well-qualified teachers differs across socially defined groups in the United States. In addition, large proportions of the teaching staff in poor schools are made up of noncredentialed or unqualified teachers. Substitutes also regularly fill the places of full-time teachers in these schools; staff turnover is great, and there is little support for English language learners (Fashola, Slavin, Calderon & Duran, 2001; Peske & Haycock, 2006). Thus, poor and language-minority students are much more likely to be exposed to unqualified teachers, which has implications for their intellectual development. Although the No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB) of 2002 included a provision to redress inequality in teacher qualifications in high-concentration poor and ethnic-minority schools, such provisions did little to remedy the inequities (Darling-Hammond, 2007; Peske & Haycock, 2006). Just how to improve teacher quality, especially in high-concentration poor and ethnic-minority school environments, remains a key challenge in education today and in the upcoming reauthorization of federal educational legislation. Furthermore, from a developmental perspective, more research is needed on how the quality and qualifications of teachers change as young people progress through elementary and into middle and high school, and the effect that such changes have on individuals’ academic life-paths and issues of educational equity more generally. Curriculum and Academic Work The nature of the academic work students are asked to do is at the heart of their school experience. It can affect not only what students come to know about themselves and their world, but also their capacities to pay attention, their interests and passions, and their morals and ethics. Two key aspects of academic work are particularly

important for adolescents’ emotional, cognitive, and moral development: (1) the content of the curriculum, in terms of its intellectual substance and its consideration of global social-historical realities (e.g., Noddings, 2005; Zins, Weissberg, Wang & Walberg, 2004); and (2) the design of instruction to cultivate interest, meaningfulness, and challenge, as well as deep cognitive, emotional, and behavioral engagement with the material (Fredricks, Blumenfeld, & Paris, 2004). Both of these characteristics vary in terms of their relative match or mismatch with the developmental needs and capacities of students of different ages, cultures, and social background. Both cross-sectional and longitudinal correlational evidence support the notion that academic work that is meaningful to the developmental interests and cultural reality of adolescents’ experience promotes motivation to learn and helps to “bond” young people with the institution of school (e.g., Burchinal et al., 2008; Roeser, Eccles, & Sameroff, 2000). For instance, boredom in school, low interest, and perceived irrelevance of the curriculum predict diminished engagement and learning and withdrawing from school (Finn, 2006; NRC/IOM, 2004). Minority students in particular report greater interest in courses in which voices, images, role models and historical experiences of traditionally under-represented groups are represented (Graham & Taylor, 2002). Nonetheless, providing curricula that address developmentally and culturally meaningful topics to a diverse and large school population is an ongoing challenge in the United States and many developed nations today, and little attempt has been made to evaluate curricular materials in terms of their meaningfulness to students. How things are taught can influence adolescents’ motivation, engagement, and learning (Deci & Ryan, 2002; Fredricks et al., 2004; Hattie, 2009). Choosing materials that provide an appropriate level of challenge for a given class; designing learning activities that require diverse cognitive operations (e.g., opinion, following routines, memory, comprehension); structuring lessons so they build on each other in a systematic fashion; using multiple representations of a given problem; and explicitly teaching children strategies that assist in learning (e.g., asking oneself if one has understood what was just read) are but a few of the design features that can “scaffold” learning and promote interest, engagement, and learning. Work on the role of interest in learning, engagement, and intrinsic motivation highlights the important role of the design of academic tasks (Renninger, 2000). Increased interest is associated with greater engagement in the task and higher levels of mastery of the material (Fredricks

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et al., 2004; Hattie, 2009; Wigfield et al., 2006). Even more importantly, interesting tasks increase intrinsic motivation to do well (Deci & Ryan, 2002) and increase the odds that students develop a strong personal identity as a committed school student (Eccles, 2009). From a developmental perspective, there is evidence that the content and design of academic work may not change over time in ways that reflect the increasing cognitive sophistication, diverse life experiences, and identity-linked motivational needs of children and adolescents as they move from the elementary into the secondary school years (Eccles, 2009; Roeser, Peck, & Nasir, 2006; Wigfield et al., 2006). As one indication, middle school children report the highest rates of boredom when doing schoolwork, especially passive work (e.g., listening to lectures) and in particular classes such as social studies, mathematics, and science (Larson, 2000). Academic work becomes less, rather than more, complex in terms of the cognitive demands as children move from elementary to junior high school (Juvonen, 2007). It may be that declines in adolescents’ motivation during the transition to secondary school in part reflect academic work that lacks challenge and meaning commensurate with children’s cognitive and emotional needs. For instance, Roeser and colleagues (2000) found that perceived curricular meaningfulness was a positive predictor of longitudinal changes in their valuing of and commitment to school from the beginning to the end of middle school. Efforts at middle school reform also support this hypothesis: Adolescents’ motivation to learn is maintained and does not decline when secondary schools introduce more challenging and developmentally and historically meaningful academic work (Lee & Smith, 2001; Lee & Ready, 2007; NRC/IOM, 2004). Teacher Beliefs Teachers’ professional identity beliefs also matter for their pedagogical decisions the classroom, as well as in the ways teachers interact with different types of students from various social backgrounds and at various levels of achievement. Various kinds of teacher beliefs have been posited to mediate the effects of teachers on adolescents’ achievement (Greenberg, Weissberg, O’Brien, Zins, Frederick, Resnik, & Elias, 2003; Wigfield et al., 2006). For example, secondary school students with teachers who feel confident of their ability to teach all of the students in their class learn more and feel better about themselves as learners (Hattie, 2009; Lee & Smith, 2001; NRC/IOM, 2004). In the last decade, Woolfolk and colleagues have

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extended the concept of teacher efficacy to a broader construct they label teacher optimism (Beard, Hoy, & Woolfolk Hoy, 2010; Knoblauch & Woolfolk Hoy, 2008) that is composed of three components: confidence in one’s ability to teach the students, confidence in students’ ability to learn and master demanding material, and trust of both students and parents. These scholars argue that: (a) teacher optimism is a key underlying motivational construct that drives effective teaching and effective relationships between teachers and both students and their parents, (b) teacher optimism operates at both the individual teacher and collective schoolwide levels, and (c) teacher optimism is influenced by school structural characteristics. Most of the existing work has focused on elementary school teachers, but given the established importance of teacher efficacy at the secondary school level and the importance of the issue of adult–adolescent trust for positive relationships, it is quite likely that teacher optimism is important during the secondary school years as well. Unfortunately, from a developmental perspective, the proportion of teachers with a high sense of teacher efficacy decreases as children move from elementary into secondary school. In addition, the proportion of secondary school teachers with a strong sense of teaching efficacy is lower in schools that educate a predominance of poor and minority children (Juvonen, 2007; Juvonen, Nishina, & Graham, 2006; NRC/IOM, 2004; Wigfield et al., 2006). Although this has not been tested systematically yet, it is likely that teacher optimism is also lower among secondary school teachers, particularly middle school and junior high school teachers, than among elementary school teachers. Expectations and Differential Treatment Teachers vary in their expectations for the success of individual students in their classrooms, and these beliefs are related to differential treatment and to differential student outcomes (Hattie, 2009; Jussim & Harber, 2005; NRC/ IOM, 2004). In general, the teacher expectations literature has shown that these effects are small on average, but can have substantial cumulative negative effects on motivation and achievement for students from stigmatized groups (e.g., girls in math, boys in reading, and African American and Hispanic students in all subject areas). Recent studies have also shown that teachers’ implicit stereotypes about gender and about race predict differential teacher expectations for male versus female students and for students from different ethnic/racial groups (Chalabaev, Sarrazin, Trouilloud, and Jussim, 2009; van den Bergh, Denessen, Hornstra, Voeten, & Holland, 2010).

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Much of the work related to this phenomenon in the last decade has focused on differential treatment based on race or ethnic group and has relied on students’ reports of differential treatment based on race or ethnicity. Researchers interested in the relatively poor academic performance of adolescents from some ethnic groups have suggested another classroom-based experience linked to teachers’ expectations, beliefs, and prejudices: discrimination or differential treatment based on ethnicity, race, immigrant status, or gender (Brody, et al., 2006; Chavous, RivasDrake, Smalls, Griffin, & Cogburn, 2008; Graham & Taylor, 2002; Rowley, Burchinal, Roberts, & Zeisel, 2008; Suarez-Orozco & Suarez-Orozco, 2001; Wong, Eccles, & Sameroff, 2003; Valdez, 2001). For instance, in a 2-year longitudinal analysis of African American early adolescents across grades 7 to 9 (junior high), Wong, Eccles, and Sameroff (2003) found that adolescents who perceived more incidents of racial discrimination with teachers, school staff, and classmates in grade 8 also showed declines in their academic self-concept and teacher-reported grades and increases in their self-reported psychological distress for grade 7 to grade 9. In contrast, anticipated future discrimination appeared to motivate the youth to do their very best so that they would be maximally equipped to deal with future discrimination. Similarly, in a large study of Asian, Mexican, Central American, and South American immigrant high school students growing up in major metropolitan areas of the United States, Portes and Rumbaut (2001) found that a majority of youth in their sample reported feeling discriminated against at school and in other settings. The major sources of this perceived discrimination were European American classmates, teachers, and neighbors. Such experiences were associated with greater feelings of depression among the youth in the study (see Szalacha et al., 2003, for a similar study with Puerto Rican youth). Furthermore, some researchers report that students’ perceptions of race/ethnic discrimination increase as they move through secondary school. For example, in Greene, Way, and Pahl (2006), African American and Asian American adolescents (but not Puerto Rican students) reported increasing levels of discrimination from adults (and peers in the case of the African Americans) as they moved through high school. Interestingly, the Latino and Puerto Rican students in the same study did not show these same patterns; if anything, these groups reported less ethnic discrimination as they moved through high school. One additional very important finding is emerging in these studies: Having a strong positive ethnic identity

serves as a protective factor against the potential aversive effects of daily experiences of ethnic discrimination at school (Burchinal, Roberts, Zeisel, & Rowley, 2008; Chavous et al., 2008; Harris-Britt, Valrie, Kurtz-Costes, & Rowley, 2007; Rowley et al., 2008; Wong et al., 2003). Pedagogical Goals and Beliefs About the Nature of Ability Another key set of teacher beliefs relates to the goals that underlie aspects of their teaching practices, purposes, or goals regarding instruction and learning. Advocates of Achievement Goal Theory argue that mastery- or relative ability–oriented classrooms can emerge from the goals that teachers hold implicitly about the purposes of learning and related ways of teaching and motivating learning (see Midgley, 2002). Goal theorists have identified two particular goal-oriented approaches to instruction or goal structures. In the first pattern, called the mastery-goal orientation, teachers emphasize in their instructional practice a focus on mastery of material, investment of effort, selfimprovement, progressive skill development, and collaborative work assignments (Midgley, 2002). These teachers stress the importance of understanding work, not just memorizing it, and they make an effort to provide students with work that has meaning in their everyday lives (Roeser, Marachi, & Gehlbach, 2002). In the second pattern, called a relative ability–goal orientation, teachers believe that the goal of learning is for students to demonstrate their own abilities relative to others. Grouping by ability, differential rewards for high achievers, public evaluative feedback, academic competitions, and other practices that promote the notion that academic success means outperforming others and proving one’s superior ability are practices employed by such teachers that are consistent with this goal orientation (Hattie, 2009; Midgley, 2002). In a review of 25 years of research in Achievement Goal Theory on learning environments that emphasize these two different goal orientations or achievement goal structures, Meece, Anderman, and Anderman (2005) concluded that “whereas school environments that are focused on demonstrating high ability and competing for grades can increase the academic performance of some students, research suggests that many young people experience diminished motivation under these conditions” (p. 487). In a study using person-centered analyses, Roeser and colleagues (2002) found that the students most at risk for school failure were most aware of, and presumably affected by, a relative-ability goal orientation in their

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school. In addition, in a meta-analysis of the effects of competitive, cooperative, or individualistic goal structures on the achievement and peer relationships of over 17,000 adolescents, Roseth, Johnson, and Johnson (2008) found that higher achievement and more positive peer relationships were associated with cooperative rather than competitive or individualistic goal structures. Dweck and her colleagues argue that teacher strategies linked to a mastery versus a relative-ability orientation are associated with the teachers’ beliefs about the nature of students’ academic ability and intelligence (Dweck, 2006). If teachers believe that intelligence is a fixed entity rather than a modifiable skill, they are likely to use abilityfocused pedagogical strategies. Similarly, students who see intelligence as a fixed entity are likely to adopt a relative ability-focused orientation to learning. If they are doing very well academically, this orientation may not cause them problems, but if they are not doing very well, such an orientation is likely to undermine their engagement in learning and in school. In support of this view, students exposed to an intervention that emphasized teaching about the malleability of intelligence promoted positive change in students’ classroom motivation and seemed to ameliorate some of the downward trend in grades normally found after the transition to secondary school (Blackwell, Trzesniekwski, & Dweck, 2007). In addition, in a review of what amounted to three rigorously designed intervention studies aimed at reducing the detrimental effects of stereotype threats on the achievement of African American students, Aronson and colleagues (2008) identified three main components of the interventions that worked that seemed the most crucial: (1) the reinforcement of the idea that intelligence is malleable and, like a muscle, grows stronger when exercised; (2) the reinforcement of the idea that difficulties in school are often part of a normal learning curve or adjustment process, rather than something unique to a particular student or his/her racial group and (3) provisions of opportunities for students to reflect on other values in their lives beyond school that are sources of self-worth for them. Thus, changing mindsets around issues of intelligence and related goal orientations through mastery-oriented pedagogy and emphasizing the malleability of intelligence through effort are crucial for supporting the motivation of all students, especially those from groups traditionally targeted with stereotypes of intellectual inferiority. Such interventions are also likely to engender positive mental health consequences for adolescent students as well (e.g., Greenberg et al., 2003; Roeser & Peck, 2003; Seligman, Ernst, Gillham, Reivich, & Linkins, 2009).

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Given these findings, it is unfortunate that school leaders’ and teachers’ use of performance-oriented instructional practices increases as adolescents move into and through secondary school, and this increase in the likelihood of adolescents being exposed to more performance-oriented/relative ability–focused classrooms contributes to the declines that exist during adolescence in school motivation, school engagement, and achievement (Midgley, 2002; Roeser et al., 2002). This suggests the learning environments of secondary school become less supportive and less motivating for all but the highest achieving students as adolescents move through school. Researchers interested in Self-Determination Theory (SDT) have also investigated the relations of classroom climate to adolescents’ motivation, engagement, and socioemotional development (Deci & Ryan, 2002). These scholars argue that motivation, engagement, learning, and well-being will be highest in classrooms and schools in which the climate and culture stress and provide opportunities for the students to feel autonomous, competent, and emotionally supported. Such classrooms and schools would: (a) provide the students with a voice in how the classroom is run and what kinds of assignments are made, (b) allow all students to be successful at the required academic and social tasks, and (c) provide emotional support to all students. Teacher–student relationships and classroom emotional climate. Both longitudinal correlational and randomized trial intervention studies support these predictions (Assor, Vansteenkiste, & Kaplan, 2009; Chatzisarantis & Hagger, 2009; Dignath & Buttner, 2008; Niemiec & Ryan, 2009; Taylor & Ntoumanis, 2007; Usher & Pajares, 2006; Zimmer-Gembeck, Chipuer, Hanisch, Creed, & McGregor, 2006). Teacher–Student Relationships Both cross-sectional and longitudinal studies have shown that the quality of teacher–student relationships in terms of instrumental and social support, trust and caring, and the fostering of a sense that all students are valued members of a learning community who belong in the classroom predicts changes in students’ academic motivation, engagement and learning, and socioemotional well-being in school (Burchinal et al., 2008; Deci & Ryan, 2002; Greenberg et al., 2003; Hattie, 2009; NRC/IOM, 2004; Roeser et al., 2000; Wentzel & Wigfield, 2007). Sense of belonging may be especially critical for young people who must traverse significant ethnic and racial, socioeconomic, and sociolinguistic borders to feel fully part of

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a school in which middle-class, majority cultural norms often predominate (Garcia-Reid, Reid, & Peterson, 2005). In correlational, longitudinal studies, adolescents’ perceptions of how caring their teachers are predict gains and losses in their feelings of self-esteem, school belonging, and positive affect in school (Hattie, 2009; NRC/IOM, 2004; Zimmer-Gembeck et al., 2006). Declines in the average levels of adolescents’ perception of emotional support from their teachers and in a sense of belonging in the classrooms are quite common as students move from elementary into secondary schools (Burchinal et al., 2008; NCES, 2004, 2006; NRC/IOM, 2004; Wigfield et al., 2006; Zimmer-Gembeck et al., 2006). This shift is particularly troublesome in our highly mobile society, in which teachers represent one of the last stable sources of nonparental role models for adolescents. In addition to teaching, teachers in mobile societies such as the United States can provide guidance and assistance when socioemotional or academic problems arise. This role is especially important for promoting developmental competence when conditions in the family and neighborhood cannot or do not provide such supports (NRC/IOM, 2004; Roeser & Peck, 2003). More General Classroom Socioemotional Climate Evidence supporting the link of better student motivation, general well-being, and classroom engagement with more positive, supportive classroom climates is also quite strong (Wigfield et al., 2006). Over the last decade, several researchers have looked more specifically at the association between classroom climate and students’ emotions in the classroom, and in turn their motivation and learning (Frenzel, Goetz, Ludtke, Pekrun, & Sutton, 2009; Frenzel, Pekrun, & Goetz, 2007; Frenzel, Goetz, Ludtke, Pekrun, & Sutton, 2009; Hattie, 2009; Pekrun, 2006; Pekrun, Goetz, Titz, & Perry, 2002). These researchers argue that emotional reactions to experiences in the classroom have a large impact on student engagement and learning and have separated individual emotional reactions to classroom experiences from shared emotional reactions. Findings suggest that shared emotional reactions across students within the same classroom are influenced by shared perceptions of teachers’ enthusiasm and enjoyment (Frenzel et al., 2007). Furthermore, these shared positive and negative emotions are linked to the general level of achievement in the classroom: as a group, students in high-achieving classrooms reported more positive emotions (pride and enjoyment) and less extreme negative emotions (anxiety, shame, and hopelessness).

LEVEL 2: BROADER SCHOOLWIDE CHARACTERISTICS In this section we discuss school culture, school safety, and school student body and new influences. These topics reflect broader schoolwide characteristics.

School Culture The concept of the culture of the school as a whole, and the fact that different schools, like different communities, vary in their interpersonal, moral, and academic cultures, expectations, and goals for students, has made important contributions to our understanding of school effects (Eccles & Roeser, in press; Roeser et al., 2009). During the last decade, much of the work in this area has focused on two issues: school cultures that facilitate academic engagement and learning by all students (Bandura, 2006; Lee & Smith, 2001; NRC/IOM, 2004; Quint, 2006; Suarez-Orozco & Suarez-Orozco, 2001; Valdez, 2001) and school cultures linked to school violence versus tolerance and civility (Arum, 2003; Greenberg et al., 2003; Henrick, Brookmeyer, & Shahar, 2005; McConvill & Cornell, 2003; Rowley, Burchinal, &, 2008; Savin-Williams, 1994). Much of the work on the former draws directly on the work on Catholic and private schools done by Bryk, Lee, & Holland, (1993). Using a similar approach to understanding successful versus less successful public high school, Lee & Smith (2001) found that successful public high schools (schools with higher average levels of academic achievement and less SES and race/ethnic differences in academic achievement) were characterized by high value placed on learning, high expectations that all students can learn and master a core curriculum, and the belief that though the business of school is learning, each personal has inherent value and dignity and each person is a valued member of a social community (Hattie, 2009; Stewart, 2007).

School Safety In this section, we discuss school safety in regard to two foci: school violence and harassment of sexual minority youth. School Violence Scholars are concerned about bullying and victimization, because being a victim of bullying and school violence is negatively associated with psychological adjustment;

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being bullied and feeling unsafe at school predict decreasing levels of psychological adjustment, school engagement, and academic achievement (Graham & Bellmore, 2007; Henrich et al., 2005; Nishina & Juvonen, 2005). Unfortunately, recent statistics suggest that bullying is quite common in America’s secondary schools (NCES, 2004, 2006, 2007): according to NCES (2007) 28% of ninth graders report being bullied at school in the last 6 months, and 14% report having been in a physical fight on campus. The frequency of being exposed to bullying varies as a function of several characteristics of the school: Rates are higher in larger schools and in schools with higher proportions of students from low-income families (c.f. G. Gottfredson, Gottfredson, Payne, & Gottfredson, 2005; Gregory et al., 2010; McConvill & Cornell, 2003). Graham and her colleagues (Juvonen et al., 2006) also found that greater ethnic diversity in both the classroom and the school predicts reduced levels of both bullying and the negative consequences of being bullied for students who are members of the least well-represented minority groups. Astor and his colleagues (Benbenishty & Astor, 2007; Benbenishty, Astor, Zeira, & Vinokus, 2002) have shown that both the levels of school violence and students’ concerns about their safety at school decrease as the social climate in the schools improves. Similarly, Crosnoe, Johnson, and Elder (2004) found that bonding with the teachers in one’s school is positively linked to feeling safe at school. It is likely that these two aspects of schools are reciprocally related: As social climate deteriorates, violence increases, and as violence and bullying increase, the general social climate in the school further deteriorates. Using Hierarchical Linear Modeling (HLM) with cross-sectional data, Gregory and colleagues (2010) found that both perceived bullying and reported victimization are lower in schools in which both the students and the teacher rate the prevalence of consistent authoritative discipline and social support as high. Similarly, several scholars interested in school violence point to the importance of the moral authority of the adults in the school coupled with the acceptability of violence to the students (Arum, 2003; Henrich, Brookmeyer, & Shahar, 2005; LeBlanc, Swisher, Vitaro, & Tremblay, 2007; McConvill & Cornell, 2003; Stewart, 2003). Given the importance of school discipline and safety, many interventions have been designed and tested over the last 20 to 30 years. In addition, many American schools have adopted Zero Tolerance policies with regard to violence. What have we learned about what works? In 2008, the American Psychological Association (APA) released a report from its Zero Tolerance Task force. The authors of

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this report concluded that evidence for the effectiveness of Zero Tolerance policies is weak and often shows worsening conditions rather than improvement at the school level. Often, these policies result in higher rates of suspension, particularly for students of color, poor students, and students with disabilities, without leading to improvements in school safety. The authors argue for interventions aimed at changing the general school climate, at reconnecting alienated students and increasing school bonding, at developing a planned continuum of steps to be followed with at-risk students, and at increasing the collaboration between the various community, school, and family stakeholders. Unfortunately, achieving these multiple goals is not easy, as has been shown by a meta-analysis of wholeschool reform efforts focused on violence (Smith, Schneider, Smith, & Ananiadou, 2004). Clearly, much more research is needed on how to successfully implement the kinds of integrated interventions suggested by the APA Task Force. Harassment of Sexual Minority Youth Over the past decade, there has been increased attention to ways in which harassment and bullying at school influence the development and well-being of students generally and lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) youth in particular. Because LGBT youth are at higher risk of mental health difficulties than heterosexually identified youth, including suicidal ideation, substance misuse, and deliberate self harm (King et al., 2008; Meyer, 2003), research has focused on the emergence of such difficulties in the schools in which adolescents develop. Among selfidentified LGBT youth, adolescent males, adolescents who attend rural schools in isolated communities, and younger adolescents are at greatest risk of exposure to homophobic language or other forms of verbal and physical victimization in school related to their sexual orientation (Kosciw, Greytak, & Diaz, 2009; Russell, Seif, & Truong, 2001; Savin-Williams, 1994). Furthermore, exposure to homophobic victimization at school, as well as exposure to an unsafe school climate, predicts subsequent psychological and social outcomes (such as increased anxiety depression, substance use, suicidality, engagement in risky sex, and a decreased sense of school belonging) for LGBT youth, especially males (Eisenberg & Resnick, 2006; Espelage, Aragon, Birkett, & Koenig, 2008; Murdock & Bolch, 2005; Poteat & Espelage, 2007). Subgroup differences by orientation and gender within the LGBT population have been examined, but few clear results have emerged (Murdock & Block, 2005; Poteat & Espelage, 2007; Russell et al., 2001).

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Some intervention and policy research is beginning to examine how the sexual diversity climate of secondary schools can be improved for all students through inclusive policies, conscious efforts to educate students and staff on sexual diversity issues, and the existence of a Gay-Straight Alliance in the school (e.g., Szalacha, 2003). Much of the field research cited above also is suggestive of the protective value of supportive teachers, support groups for LGBT youth, and safe school climates generally in ameliorating risk among LGBT youth (e.g., Goodenow, Szalacha, & Westheimer, 2006). School Student Body and Peer Influences The aggregate social background characteristics of the student body also have been investigated as a key factor in student achievement (Rutter & Maughan, 2002). The “mix” of socially disadvantaged students or those with significant emotional–behavioral difficulties in a school has been associated with the educational outcomes of all students in a given school (Crosnoe, 2009; Rumberger & Palardy, 2005). Furthermore, between-school variations in the proportion of students with histories of disruptive problems predicted subsequent rates of classroom behavior problems among high school students, for example (LeBlanc et al., 2007). Similarly, as the ratio of students who are socially disadvantaged goes up in a school, its aggregate achievement goes down (Rumberger & Palardy, 2005). Given the disproportionate numbers of African American and Latino youth who are socially disadvantaged in the United States, this is highly problematic. In the United States, nearly half of all African American students and almost 40% of all Latino students attend high schools in which most students do not graduate (Balfanz & Legters, 2004). This phenomenon gives rise to a normative perspective on curtailed educational attainments of members of these groups and serves to reify debilitating cultural stereotypes about group members’ academic ability. A variety of mechanisms, including those of peer influences on motivation understood in the context of tracking and social environments in which maladaptive norms develop, have been proposed to account for these influences (Crosnoe, 2005; Wigfield et al., 2006). In support of these hypothesized mechanisms, new research has focused on the influences of peers groups and peer cultures on students’ motivation and achievement in school. The Adolescent Health (AD health) data set in particular has made such studies possible because it is longitudinal and has extensive social network information

that allows researchers to link changes at the individual level to between-individual variations in the experiences within their friendship and larger peer networks, as well as within the much larger peer cultural characteristics of whole schools. The most ambitious work in this area is the work being done by Frank, Muller, Crosnoe, and their colleagues (Crosnoe, 2007; Crosnoe, Muller, & Frank, 2004; Crosnoe, Riegle-Crumb, Field, Frank, & Muller, 2008; Frank et al., 2008; Needham, Crosnoe, & Muller, 2004; Riegle-Crumb, Farkas, & Muller, 2006). For example, in a very important paper, Frank and colleagues (2008) demonstrated first that one can classify individual students’ local peer social position in terms of the network of students with whom they take the same classes. They argue that peer norms and “cultures” at this structural level are likely to yield the strongest “peer influences” on individual students’ identity formation, short- and long-term goals and aspirations, and educational choices during the secondary school years. They show that being a member of a group of students taking the college preparatory math sequence in early high school increases the likelihood of taking advanced math courses later in high school substantially, particularly for girls who perform below the group mean in mathematics in early high school. They also compared the amount of individual variation in high school math course taking explained by individual characteristics, local peer social position, and school level variation in course taking patterns and found that 44% (35%) of the within-school variance in young women’s (and 35% in young men’s) math course taking is explained by the “emergent but observable sociological entity” (pg 1675) they call “local position.” Finally, they argue that schools can implement practices that increase the likelihood that many students will be in local positions linked to high school achievement and successful transition into college. Other studies by this group of scholars and others have demonstrated a strong link between the norms and practices of one’s friendship network and larger peer group within the school context and changes over time in the behaviors and goals/aspirations, and social and personal identities of individuals, even after controlling for the relevant individual and family-level characteristics. Hanging out with and taking courses with achievementoriented peers both reduces the likelihood of becoming involved in risky behaviors and dropping out of school and increases the likelihood of positive academic outcomes (Crosnoe et al., 2004; Crosnoe et al., 2008; Crosnoe, Cavanagh, & Elder, 2003; Ream & Rumberger, 2008; Stewart, 2007). Interestingly, the protective associations

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of having academic friends are larger for females than for males (Crosnoe, Riegle-Crumb, & Muller, 2007). But, consistent with Marsh’s notion of the “big fish in a small pond” (Marsh, Trautwein, Ludtke, & Brettschneider, 2008), among those girls who failed a course over the 2year time span between waves of data collection, those who hung out with academic friends are more likely to suffer a decrease in their academic self-concept over time than those who hung out with less academically oriented friends. Finally, the longer-term negative consequences of drinking alcohol in high school are less marked for those youth who have high achievement-oriented friends (Crosnoe et al., 2004). Similar results characterize the mediating role of peer group characteristics in the association between participation in extracurricular activities and both positive and negative indicators of adolescent development (Eccles, Barber, Stone, & Hunt, 2003; Mahoney, Larson, & Eccles, 2005). Crosnoe and his colleagues have also looked at the role of the larger peer group on the association of obesity on school achievement and well-being. In general, girls who are obese are less likely to enter college, more likely to fail courses, more likely to be truant, and more likely to show mental health problems, net of other relevant individual and family background characteristics, than girls who are not. By and large these relationships were not evident for boys. But more importantly for this section, the associations of obesity with college attendance and truancy were stronger for girls who attended high schools with very few obese students, suggesting that the stigma associated with obesity varies by gender and by the proportion of the student body that is obese. Crosnoe and Muller (2004) also found that the longitudinal link between obesity and lower school achievement, net of all other personal and social covariates, is stronger in schools with “high rates of romantic activity and lower average body size among the students” (p. 393). All of these results are consistent with person– environment fit theory, in that individuals fare best in settings in which they fit well with the norms and aggregate characteristics and much less well in settings in which they are outliers. The recent work on the role of peers and friends also supports the perspective that personal and social identities are critical in understanding adolescents’ school engagement, that individual and group differences in these identities are influenced by the peer groups one has joined or aspires to join, and that these processes are directly influenced by schoolwide characteristics and policies that shape the peer group structures within the school building based on peer segregation due to differential

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course-taking patterns, differential curricular tracking, differential extracurricular activity choices, and the more general processes associated with niche-picking (Crosnoe & Muller, 2004; Eccles, 2009; Eccles et al., 2003; Frank et al., 2008).

LEVEL 3: DISTRICT-WIDE POLICIES Many aspects of within classroom and within school interactions are influenced by district-wide policies and characteristics. Often these characteristics and policies reflect local political and cultural beliefs, as well local economic conditions. We review work on several such schoolwide characteristics and practices, including school size, grade configurations, tracking policies, school start and end times, and the availability of extracurricular activities. Grade Configurations and School Transitions School transitions are an excellent example of how the multiple levels of school interact to affect development. All school districts must decide both when they allow children to begin school and how they will group the gradelevels within the various school buildings. One common arrangement is to group children in grades kindergarten through fifth or sixth grade in elementary schools, children in grades six or seven through eight or nine in junior high or middle schools, and children in grades nine or ten through twelve in senior high schools. The other common arrangement places the transition to secondary school after grade eight—creating elementary schools made of kindergarten through eighth grade and senior high schools made up of grades nine through twelve. In both of these arrangements, children typically move to a new and often larger building at each of the major school transition points. These school transitions typically also involve increased bussing and exposure to a much more diverse student body. How might such changes influence development? This question has attracted a great deal of research and policy attention over the past 25 years, due primarily to concerns about the declines in motivation, achievement, and engagement in schools during adolescence. Most of the work in the 1990s focused on the middle or junior high school transition; over the last 10 years, there has been increasing work on the transition into high school and then into college. There is consistent evidence of average level declines in academic motivation, interest in school, and achievement across the adolescence years; particularly as these

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adolescents make the transition to middle or junior high school and again when they make the transition into high school (Juvonen, 2007; NCES, 2004, 2006; Wigfield et al., 2006). Although these changes are not extreme for most adolescents and many adolescents show positive changes in response to these transitions, a substantial number of adolescents become less interested in and less engaged in their education as they move into and through secondary school, leading to excessively high rates of school failure and dropout, particularly among ethnic/racial minority youth, lower SES youth, immigrant youth, and youth who have difficulty with the academic school agenda (Rumberger & Lim, 2008; Suarez-Orozco & Suarez-Orozco, 2001). Why? Some researchers point to the biological changes (both hormonal and brain maturation) associated with adolescent development (Dahl, 2008; Forbes & Dahl, 2010; Lamm, Zelazo, & Lewis, 2006; St. Clair-Thompson, 2006; Steinberg, 2008). Others point to more social contextual factors linked to pubertal development and to major school transitions (Crosnoe & Riegle-Crumb, 2007; Eccles et al., 1993). However, almost all researchers now point to the confluence of changes at the biological, psychological, and social levels. Given the space limitation in this chapter, we focus on the role of context. Both Eccles and Midgley (see Eccles et al., 1993) and Simmons and Blyth (1987) proposed that average level declines in school motivation during adolescence might reflect changes in the experiences adolescents have as they move from elementary school into middle or junior high school and then again into high school. Eccles and Midgley referred to this possibility in terms of changing Person-Environment Fit (Stage-Environment Fit Theory, Eccles et al., 1993). For example, most junior high schools are substantially larger than elementary schools, and instruction is more likely to be organized departmentally. As a result, junior high school teachers typically teach several different groups of students, making it very difficult for students to form a close relationship with any school-affiliated adult precisely at the point in development when there is a great need for guidance and support from nonfamilial adults. Such changes in student–teacher relationships are also likely to undermine the sense of community and trust between students and teachers, leading to a lowered sense of efficacy among the teachers, an increased reliance on authoritarian control practices by the teachers, and an increased sense of alienation among the students. Lee and Smith (2001) noted similar types of changes associated with the transition to high school. Such changes are likely to decrease the probability that any particular student’s difficulties will be noticed early enough

to get the student necessary help, thus increasing the likelihood that students on the edge will be allowed to slip onto negative motivational and performance trajectories leading to increased school failure and dropout. Correlational longitudinal research is accumulating to support these sets of hypotheses regarding both the middle or junior high school transition and the high school transition, particularly for adolescents who are having difficulty with the academic school agenda (Juvonen, 2007; Lee & Smith, 2001; NRC/IOM, 2004; Roeser, Eccles, & FreedmanDoan, 1999, Wigfield et al., 2006).

School Size For many years, scholars have argued for the benefits of small schools; these scholars hypothesized that smaller secondary schools afford young people various opportunities not available in larger schools, opportunities that foster engagement and achievement. Such opportunities include (a) closer relationships between teachers and students, (b) greater adult monitoring of and responsibility for student progress; and (c) a particularly favorable rolesto-people ratio with respect to school extracurricular activities and the need for many students in the school to participate to fulfill those roles. By affecting these mediating processes, school size was hypothesized to affect student outcomes. Subsequent research has consistently verified these hypotheses. For instance, in a national probability study of high school students, Crosnoe et al., (2004) found that students’ attachment to school in general and to their teachers in particular was significantly, negatively correlated with school size (see also Hawkins, Kosterman, Catalano, Kill, & Abbott, 2008; Lee & Smith, 2001). In summarizing the work of school size, Leithwood and Jantzi (2009) proposed that the most effective K–8 elementary schools with respect to student achievement gains are those that enroll 300–500 students or less, whereas the ideal 9–12 secondary school in this regard enrolls between 600–900 students. Students in high schools smaller than 600 or larger than 1,200 learn less in reading and mathematics. This work and studies by others suggest that the impact of school size on achievement depends on quality of instruction provided: If the schools focus primarily on social climate and devote limited focus on academic press, the students feel quite good about attending the school but their academic achievement is no higher than students attending much larger schools (Wyse, Keesler, & Schneider, 2008). Again, this work provides a nice illustration of how it is complex configurations of factors in school

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systems, not single factors in isolation, that account for “school effects” per se on students. Others have studied issues of school size in the context of the schools-within-schools or small learning community approaches (Lee & Ready, 2007; Ready & Lee, 2008). The schools-within-schools approach grew out of two concerns: (1) reducing the size of each student’s learning community without having to build new schools, and (2) providing students with greater choice over their high school curriculum. Educators decided that they could create several smaller learning communities within the existing large high school buildings. Furthermore, they decided that they could increase student choice and sense of autonomy by focusing these smaller learning communities on specific subject matter or career topics such as math/science, the arts, health, and vocational education. Unfortunately, unless school administrators are very careful, these smaller learning communities often end up creating the same problems that we discussed under academic tracking; namely, tracking highly linked to the students’ social class, which can then exacerbate problems of inequity in educational experiences (Ready & Lee, 2008). The students like these smaller learning communities and report feeling that their educational options fit better with their own career and educational goals, even though they acknowledge the status hierarchies associated with the different communities that can be created along social class lines in certain schools-within-schools programs. School Start and End Time School start time is yet another example of how regulatory processes associated with schools can interact with individual regulatory processes, here biological ones, to influence development. Research has shown that, as children progress through puberty they actually need more, not less, sleep (Carskadon, 1997; Dahl, 2008; Forbes & Dahl, 2010; Sadeh, Dahl, Shahar, & Rosenblat-Stein, 2009). In addition, preferred diurnal patterns of sleep and wake cycles shift developmentally, such that adolescents prefer to stay up later at night and to sleep later in the morning. This tendency is exacerbated in modern American culture by the fact that many adolescents have televisions and computers/cell phones in their bedrooms, which they use until late at night, and by the increased use of caffeine to induce wakefulness (Forbes & Dahl, 2010). During this same period, as children move through elementary to middle and high school, schools typically begin earlier and earlier in the morning, necessitating earlier rise times for adolescents (Carskadon, 1997). In concert with other

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changes, such as the later hours at which adolescents go to bed, the earlier school start times of the middle and high school create a “developmental mismatch” that can both promote daytime sleepiness and undermine adolescents’ ability to make it to school on time, alert, and ready to learn. The time that school begins has implications for other aspects of adolescent development. Increasing evidence suggests that the sleep deprivation created by early school start times is linked to increasing levels of depression, aggression, and risk taking during adolescence, as well as the increasing desire for reward-driven behaviors and the increasing perception of academic classes being boring (Dahl, 2008; Holm et al., 2009; Whalen et al., 2007). Interestingly, sleep deprivation also increases the rate of pubertal development, which may lead the youth to think they are more mature than their brains actually are, as well as leading other individuals to engage such youth in more risky opportunities related to drinking alcohol, driving cars, smoking, and having early and unprotected sex (Sadeh et al., 2009). Finally, the time at which school ends also has implications for adolescents’ behavior. In communities where few structured opportunities for after-school activities exist, especially impoverished communities, adolescents are more likely to be involved in high-risk behaviors such as substance use, crime, violence, and sexual activity during the period between 2:00 and 8:00 P.M. Providing structured activities either at school or within community organizations after school when many children have no adults at home to supervise them is an important consideration in preventing children and adolescents from engaging in high-risk behaviors (Eccles & Templeton, 2002) and for keeping educationally vulnerable students on track academically (Mahoney et al., 2005; Peck, Roeser, Zarrett, & Eccles, 2008). School Tracking Policies School districts often have policies regarding both ability level and curricular tracking. Such tracking policies influence adolescents’ daily experiences in their classrooms and in their academic niche within the school (Oakes, 2005). Differentiated curricular experiences for students of different ability levels structure experience and behavior in three major ways: First, tracking determines the quality and kinds of opportunities to learn (Oakes, 2005); second, it determines exposure to different peers and thus, to a certain degree, the nature of social relationships that youth form in school (Dishon, Poulin, & Burraston, 2001);

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and, finally, it determines the social comparison group students use in assessing their own abilities and developing their academic identities (Marsh et al., 2008). Despite years of research on the impact of ability tracking practices, few strong and definitive answers have emerged (Hattie, 2009; Wigfield et al., 2006). The strongest justification for tracking practices derives from a person–environment fit perspective. Students will be more motivated to learn if their educational materials and experiences can be adapted to their current competence level. There is some evidence consistent with this perspective for children placed in high-ability classrooms, high withinclass ability groups, and college tracks (Frank et al., 2008). In contrast, the results for students placed in low-ability and non-college tracks do not confirm this hypothesis. By and large, when long-term effects are found for this group of children, they are usually negative, primarily because these children are typically provided with inferior educational experience and support (e.g., Hattie, 2009; Lee & Smith, 2001). Low track placements have been related to poor attitudes towards school, feelings of incompetence, dropping out of school, and problem behaviors (Oakes, 2005). Social comparison theory leads to a different prediction regarding the effect of ability grouping and curricular tracking on one aspect of development: ability selfconcepts. People often compare their own performance with the performances of others to determine how well they are doing (Marsh et al., 2008). Ability grouping should narrow the range of possible social comparisons in such a way as to lead to declines in the ability selfperceptions of higher-ability individuals and to increases in the ability self-perceptions of lower-ability individuals. Marsh and his colleagues refer to this effect as the Big Fish in a Small Pond Effect. Evidence supports this prediction. For example, Marsh and his colleagues have shown consistent evidence that attending a more academically elite high school leads to reductions in students’ academic ability self-concepts that persist over time (Marsh, Trautwein, L¨udtke, Baumert, & K¨oller, 2007). These results have led Marsh and his colleagues to conclude that academic tracking comes at a cost of confidence in one’s academic abilities for academically able students. Similarly, Frenzel, Pekrun, and their colleagues have found that individual students experience slightly more negative emotions (anxiety, hopelessness, and shame) and slightly fewer positive emotions (enjoyment and pride) when they are in higher achieving classrooms (Frenzel et al., 2007). Yet another way to think about the impact of ability grouping on development is in terms of its impact

on peer groups: Between-classroom ability grouping and curricular differentiation promote continuity of contact among adolescents with similar levels of achievement and engagement with school. For those doing poorly in school, such practices can structure and promote friendships among students who are similarly alienated from school and are more likely to engage in risky or delinquent behaviors, which, in turn, is likely to facilitate increases in all of the students’ engagement in risky behaviors (Crosnoe, 2002; Dishon et al., 2001). The “collecting” of students with poor achievement or adjustment histories also places additional burdens on the teachers in these classrooms, likely further undermining the quality of instruction that students receive (Oakes, 2005). Extracurricular Activities and Service Learning The availability of extracurricular activities and opportunities for service learning in secondary schools is determined by district-level budget decisions and by the availability of interested faculty and staff within each school. During the last 20 years, many districts have responded to budget deficits by reducing or eliminating funding for extracurricular activities and service learning opportunities. Should we be concerned about these changes? Do extracurricular activities and service influence adolescent development? This question has received a great deal of research in the last decade. By and large, the researchers have been guided by the following hypotheses: Being involved in constructive, organized activities and service learning settings is good for adolescents because (a) doing good things with one’s time takes time away from opportunities to get involved in risky activities; (b) one can learn good things (like specific competencies, prosocial values and attitudes) while engaged in constructive and/or service learning activities; and (c) involvement in organized activity and service learning settings increases the possibility of establishing positive social supports and networks and prosocial values. By and large, both the correlational–longitudinal research and intervention research support these assumptions about the positive effects of participation in organized and/or social learning activities (Larson, Hansen & Moneta 2006; Mahoney et al., 2005; Pearce & Larson, 2006). However, the correlational effect sizes are small, and the evidence from randomized trial interventions is not consistent across studies. More specifically, participation in school-based extracurricular activities has been linked to increases on such positive developmental outcomes as high school

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GPA, strong school engagement, and high educational aspirations (Eccles et al., 2003), as well as to educational resilience among at-risk youth (Roeser & Peck, 2003; Peck et al., 2008). Similarly, participation in high school extracurricular activities, particularly service-based volunteer activities, predicts high levels of adult participation in the political process and other types of volunteer activities, continued sport engagement, better physical and mental health, and reduced participation in risky behaviors (Mahoney et al., 2005; Scales, Blyth, Berkas, & Kielsmeier, 2000; Melchior & Bailis, 2002; NRC/IOM, 2004).

CONCLUSIONS Developmental scientists have made significant contributions to the study of the impact of school experiences on adolescent development over the past decade (see Meece & Eccles, 2010 for a comprehensive set of chapters outlining all of this progress). We now know a great deal more about the ways in which experiences at school are linked to a wide variety of indicators of intellectual and socioemotional development during adolescence. Much of what has emerged fits well with three broad theoretical perspectives: (1) stage–environment and person–environment fit perspectives, (2) agency and structure life course developmental perspectives, and (3) identity formation perspectives. Both Eccles and her colleagues (Eccles et al., 2006) and Deci and Ryan (2002) argue that students fare best in settings that fit well with their developmental, cultural, and psychological needs. Eccles et al. (1993) also argue that much of the decline in school-related motivation and engagement reflects developmentally inappropriate changes in the nature of schooling as students move from primary school into secondary school. Many of the findings we summarized are consistent with this perspective. Other findings are consistent with the idea that individual development reflects both agentic processes within the individual and structural supports and constraints (Crosnoe, 2005; Crosnoe et al., 2007; Elder & Conger, 2000; Stewart, 2007). Finally, and we find this among the most novel of findings during the last decade, many of the results are consistent with the following fundamental ideas (see Eccles & Roeser, 2010; Roeser et al., 2006): (a) adolescents actively create their own identities through their social interactions; (b) the nature of the social interactions they can have are influenced by the worlds they inhabit; (c) these worlds are shaped in part by external structures in which they

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are allowed to participate, in part by their own choices; and (d) these identities have implications for all aspects of their intellectual and socioemotional development. However, much more work is needed to establish the causal processes underlying the processes assumed to underlie development in each of these perspectives. We believe that this research need is a function of several factors, including a continued heavy reliance on cross-sectional and correlational designs; large, nationally representative datasets that include very limited contextual information; the absence of teachers and teacher data in relation to adolescent outcomes in many studies; and the increasing complexity of what constitutes a “school context” as youth move into the secondary years (Meece & Eccles, 2010; Roeser et al., 2009). What is needed now are cross-disciplinary theories of the context of schooling, coupled with powerful theories of adolescent development such as those described in this paper and in Eccles and Roeser (2010), with sophisticated multilevel statistical techniques. Nonetheless, because most school research represents a “simplification” of young people’s actual school experience (Lee, 2000), we believe that the need for rich observational and ethnographic studies of schooling will continue to be important sources of inquiry in the field. We concluded by noting specific topics of schooling and motivation that are of concern in urban, rural, and suburban schools in the United States today. In terms of next steps, we believe that several themes merit continued attention. These themes include longitudinal investigations of how students’ cultural, ethnic and racial, and social class backgrounds interact with the learning environment of the school and thereby shape their educational pathways through the school system (Duckworth & Seligman, 2006; Meece & Kurtz-Costes, 2001). Another issue needing more investigation concerns the challenges facing different kinds of schools and communities in urban, rural, and suburban settings today (Roscigno, Tomaskovic-Devey, & Crowley, 2006). Approximately 30% of students attended school in cities in 2003–2004, with African American and Latinos overrepresented in urban schools. Approximately 40% attended schools in the suburbs, with European Americans overrepresented in these wealthier school districts. The final 30% of students are in rural schools, including an overrepresentation of European Americans and Native Americans. Asian American youth are equally likely to attend schools in cities and suburbs, but are rarely found in rural areas. The point we wish to highlight here is that questions about school effects on adolescent development are situated within each of these different geographical locales.

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More work is also needed on different types of individuals. In the last decade, we’ve seen more work on variations related to sexual identity, body size, and ethnic groups. Students vary along many other individual characteristics, as well in ways that are very likely to moderate the ways in which experiences at school influence their development (Duckworth & Seligman, 2006; St. ClairThompson, 2006; Suarez-Orozco & Suarez-Orozco, 2001; Valdez, 2001). Related to the issue of individual differences, much more work is needed on the reciprocal relationships between identity formation and experiences in school (e.g., Eccles, 2009; Roeser et al., 2006). Finally, it is important to inquire into how the testing movement in general, and the upcoming reauthorization of the NCLB Act in particular, influences the motivational climate in schools and, thereby, aspects of adolescent development (Nichols & Berliner, 2007). How has this law affected schools’ missions? Teacher morale? Teacher– student relationships? The curriculum? In summary, considerable strides have been made in the past decade in recognizing the centrality of the cultural context of schooling to adolescent development. We hope the next decade will bring a rich interdisciplinary set of theories to bear on the growing body of research on schooling and adolescent developing with the aim of improving the science of education generally.

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CHAPTER 14

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood Theory, Research, and Recent Advances SETH J. SCHWARTZ, M. BRENT DONNELLAN, RUSSELL D. RAVERT, KOEN LUYCKX, AND BYRON L. ZAMBOANGA

THE TRANSITION TO ADULTHOOD AND THE CONCEPT OF EMERGING ADULTHOOD 339 DIMENSIONS OF IDENTITY: PERSONAL AND CULTURAL 341 PERSONAL IDENTITY DEVELOPMENT IN ADOLESCENCE AND EMERGING ADULTHOOD: EARLY CONCEPTUALIZATIONS 341 THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE BIG FIVE DISPOSITIONS FROM CHILDHOOD TO ADULTHOOD 346

THE ROLE OF AGENCY IN PERSONAL IDENTITY DEVELOPMENT 348 CULTURAL IDENTITY IN ADOLESCENCE AND EMERGING ADULTHOOD 350 THE INTERSECTION OF PERSONAL AND CULTURAL IDENTITY IN ADOLESCENCE AND EMERGING ADULTHOOD 354 AREAS IN NEED OF FURTHER RESEARCH 356 CONCLUSIONS 357 REFERENCES 358

The transition between childhood and full adulthood is a critical developmental period shaped by individual, familial, social, and historical circumstances. The central task of this age period is nearly universal: to become ready to assume the major roles played by mature members of the social group (Larson, Wilson, Brown, Furstenberg, & Verma, 2002). Typically, after some period of “adolescence,” “youth,” or a new term, “emerging adulthood” (Arnett, 2000), the individual is expected to contribute to society by fulfilling adult roles. In some cultural groups and societies, the transition to adulthood is fixed and relatively predictable, whereas in other societies, this transition can be ambiguous and lengthy. For many individuals—specifically in modern, industrialized societies—this transition involves, among other things, working to establish a sense of a sense of identity or self. Identity development can be guided by an individualist perspective (e.g., “I am”) or by a collectivist perspective (e.g., “We are”). In this chapter, we present

an overview of research on the different ways in which identity development unfolds from adolescence into adulthood, and describe the known correlates of identity development and related outcomes, with particular attention given to personality and well-being.

THE TRANSITION TO ADULTHOOD AND THE CONCEPT OF EMERGING ADULTHOOD “Who am I? What I am doing with my life? What does this all mean anyway?” Many of us have heard these questions from our siblings, our children, or our students—and perhaps we have even asked these questions ourselves. Questions of identity can arise at many points during the life span, but these issues come up most commonly (and intensely) during the adolescent and early adult years (Whitbourne, Sneed, & Sayer, 2009). Indeed, these are the times of life that have traditionally been “set aside” 339

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for identity development (Arnett, 2000; Erikson, 1968). The advent of formal operational thought and abstract thinking in adolescence permits people to imagine what the future could be like—and indeed to begin to ask questions about what they would like the future to be (Moshman, 2011a). In turn, these advanced cognitive abilities allow for consideration of future “possible identities” that one might wish to become—or to avoid becoming (Oyserman & James, 2011). In Erikson’s time—the mid-20th century—young people were expected to enter the workforce, and into a stable, committed relationship, shortly after completing high school (Cˆot´e & Allahar, 1994). The “start in the mailroom and work your way up to president of the company” approach to workforce entry was available to many individuals who were willing to put in the necessary effort. Most people remained in a single line of work for much of their working lives (Kalleberg, 2009). The majority of individuals did not receive postsecondary education; with the exception of professional occupations such as law and medicine, most careers could be “learned on the job.” Thus, there was a limited range of options that one needed to consider in adolescence prior to deciding on a career path. Similarly, the average age of marriage in the United States in 1950 was 22.8 years for men and 20.3 years for women (U.S. Census Bureau, 2001), and divorce was quite rare (Cherlin, 2004). As such, these statistics suggest that most young people had decided on a marriage partner not long after finishing their formal schooling, and that they most often stayed with that person for life. The state of the labor force in the early 21st century is quite different from that of the mid-20th century. Many entry-level jobs have been mechanized, outsourced, or otherwise made obsolete (Kalleberg, 2009). Young people are now being encouraged to prepare themselves for work in a number of different fields, rather than identifying themselves with any specific corporation (Smith, 2010). More and more occupations require at least a bachelor’s degree—if not more—as a prerequisite for employment. Not coincidentally, young people began to attend colleges and universities in increasing numbers during the second half of the 20th century and into the 21st century. In 1959, approximately 2.4 million American students attended university full time; by 2010, that number had jumped to 12.7 million (National Center on Education Statistics, 2010). This 430% increase is nearly six times the 72% increase in the total U.S. population during that same time span (U.S. Census Bureau, 2011). Statistics on committed partnership reflect a similar shift in social roles. In many Northern

European countries, for example, young people often cohabitate before (or instead of) getting married (Wiik, 2009), and an increasing number of individuals are choosing to remain single permanently (Dykstra & Poortman, 2010). The transition from adolescence to adulthood has become far more extended, precarious, and difficult than was the case 50 or 60 years ago. Although much of this shift is due to larger social and economic changes (Cˆot´e & Bynner, 2008), it has profound implications for how young people make the transition to adulthood (Arnett, 2007). This transition has become increasingly individualized, such that young people must largely define for themselves, and live up to, what it means to be an adult. The responsibility for making the transition to adulthood, therefore, rests largely on the shoulders of today’s youth. Changes in the labor market and the social structure in modern, industrialized cultures, along with the feeling of being somewhere in between adolescence and adulthood (see Arnett, 2000), have all played a key role in extending the transition into adulthood for many individuals living in these societies. These conditions prompted Arnett (2000) to argue for a new developmental period called “emerging adulthood” that captures the period of time from roughly 18 to 25 years of age. Emerging adulthood refers to a time when individuals attend explicitly to issues related to identity (among other things) and are given the freedom to focus on their own self-development. The concept of emerging adulthood is not without controversy, as we discuss later in this chapter. Nonetheless, with an exponential increase in the amount of consideration that young people must give to their future plans for love, work, and parenthood, a premium has been placed on figuring out who one is and where one’s life is headed. The constant availability of information over the Internet, through instant messaging, and through emerging technologies has provided many young people with a wide array of life options—many of which their parents and grandparents could never have imagined. Therefore, in essence, just as the task of developing a sense of identity has become increasingly important, it has also become more challenging to navigate. Whereas individuals in the mid-20th century could develop their identity within well-defined roles of worker and partner, today’s youth often address identity issues prior to entering the workforce and committed partnerships. Indeed, the expanded transition to adulthood, where many young people attend college prior to beginning their professional careers, provides more opportunities for identity exploration—but there has been a marked decrease in

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood

the extent of support and guidelines for how this identity development should proceed (Cˆot´e, 2000). The destructuring of Western societies, and the resulting expectations for young people to find their own way to adulthood, has placed a premium on agency, or selfdirection (Cˆot´e & Levine, 2002; Schwartz, 2000). Simply put, individuals who are able to decide for themselves which options are “right” for them, to sort through these options largely on their own, to “change course” when their original plans are blocked, and to follow their efforts through to completion are at a distinct advantage compared to their peers who are less self-directed and agentic (Schwartz, Cˆot´e, & Arnett, 2005). As a result, the relatively unstructured transition to adulthood in Westernized countries provides unprecedented opportunities for those who are able to capitalize on them, but this transition can be extremely difficult, distressing, and frustrating for those who are unable or unwilling to exercise agency at this point in the life span (Arnett, 2007).

DIMENSIONS OF IDENTITY: PERSONAL AND CULTURAL Thus far, we have highlighted several reasons as to why identity is important during adolescence and the transition to adulthood. However, what exactly is identity, how does it work, and how does it develop? The term identity has been used to refer to many different phenomena, including people’s goals, values, and beliefs; group memberships; and roles played in the larger society (Vignoles, Schwartz, & Luyckx, 2011). The meaning of “identity” has become so unclear that some writers (e.g., Brubaker & Cooper, 2000; Rattansi & Phoenix, 2005) have advocated for discontinuing the use of the term altogether. In this chapter, we adopt the position that the diversity of meanings assigned to “identity” is a virtue. Social-psychological (e.g., Brown, 2000; Spears, 2011) and sociological (e.g., Hitlin, 2003; Stryker, 2003) perspectives hold that individuals have multiple identities—for example, one can be Black, American, and planning to be a doctor in the future. These various aspects of identity come together to define who one is—although, of course, certain group memberships (e.g., gender, ethnicity, nationality) can increase or decrease the chances that one will be able to attain certain personal goals. For example, Roberts, Settles, and Jellison (2008) have studied stereotypes regarding women in science as well as African Americans in the medical profession, arguing that these gender and ethnic

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group memberships can sometimes be viewed as incompatible with specific careers. We will also explore various dimensions of identity— especially personal and cultural—and how these dimensions of identity intersect with, and guide, personality and emotional development. In particular, we will focus on how specific personality configurations are linked with certain personal and cultural identity trajectories, and on how identity processes are associated with positive and negative psychosocial and health outcomes. It is important to define some of the key identity terms that we will use in this chapter. Personal identity refers to one’s goals, values, and beliefs (Schwartz, 2001). Personal identity is often studied in content domains such as political preference (Schildkraut, 2005), occupational choice (Porfeli & Skorikov, 2010), moral standards (Hardy & Carlo, 2005), sexual and dating styles (Worthington, Navarro, Savoy, & Hampton, 2008), and family relationships (Scabini & Manzi, 2011). Research has indicated that individuals can be more invested in some of these content domains than in others (cf. Grotevant, 1987), suggesting that not all domains are equally important for all individuals. On the other hand, cultural/ethnic identity refers to the extent to which an individual has considered the personal significance of and feels a sense of solidarity with his or her ethnic or cultural group (Phinney & Ong, 2007; Uma˜na-Taylor, 2011). Individuals within a given ethnic or cultural group are likely to differ in terms of how important the group membership is to their overall sense of identity, and this importance has been shown to be associated with the person’s psychosocial adjustment (e.g., selfesteem, anxiety, depression; Uma˜na-Taylor & Updegraff, 2007; Uma˜na-Taylor, Vargas-Chanes, Garcia, & GonzalesBacken, 2008). Moreover, ethnic identity is generally more strongly endorsed by ethnic minority group members than by individuals from the ethnic majority group (Roberts et al., 1999). In short, in regions such as North America, Oceania, and much of Western Europe, ethnic identity helps ethnic or cultural minority group members make sense of themselves both within their minority group and within the larger society in which that group is embedded.

PERSONAL IDENTITY DEVELOPMENT IN ADOLESCENCE AND EMERGING ADULTHOOD: EARLY CONCEPTUALIZATIONS The majority of developmentally based personal identity research has relied on Erikson’s (1950, 1968) psychosocial

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theory of identity, and on Marcia’s (1966, 1980) empirical operationalization of Erikson’s concepts. Erikson based his work within what he termed the “epigenetic principle” that development unfolds through a predetermined set of stages. The fifth stage was explicitly focused on identity; Erikson proposed that adolescence is characterized by a dynamic between identity synthesis and identity confusion. Individuals with a stronger sense of who they are and where their lives are headed would be more likely to engage in mature interpersonal relationships and to successfully assume adult roles (Beyers & Seiffge-Krenke, 2010; Cˆot´e, 2002). In contrast, individuals who are unclear about their identity would be more likely to experience distress, engage in destructive behavior, and experience difficulties maintaining healthy relationships with others (Schwartz, Beyers, et al., 2011; Schwartz, Klimstra, et al., 2011; Schwartz, Mason, et al., 2009). Although Erikson’s writings were rich in clinical description, he did not operationalize his concepts in a way that would have easily permitted direct empirical measurement. Marcia (1966) extracted from Erikson’s writings the assumedly independent dimensions of exploration and commitment. Exploration refers to the consideration of various potential alternative sets of goals, values, and beliefs, whereas commitment refers to adhering to one of more of these alternatives. Marcia bifurcated exploration and commitment into “high” and “low” levels and crossed these two dimensions to derive four “identity statuses.” Achievement represents enacting a set of commitments following a period of exploration. Moratorium represents actively exploring a set of identity alternatives without strong current commitments. Foreclosure represents enacting a set of commitments without much prior exploration. Diffusion represents an inability to systematically explore or to make commitments, or a lack of regard for identity issues altogether. In a number of cross-sectional and longitudinal studies, these four statuses have been associated with distinct sets of personality, adjustment, and cognitive variables (see Kroger & Marcia, 2011, for a review). Achievement has been related to balanced thinking (Krettenauer, 2005) and mature interpersonal relationships (Beyers & SeiffgeKrenke, 2010). Moratorium has been associated not only with openness to experience (Luyckx, Goossens, Soenens, Beyers, & Vansteenkiste, 2005) but also with anxiety, depression, and low self-worth (Meeus, Iedema, Helsen, & Vollebergh, 1999; Schwartz, Zamboanga, Weisskirch, & Rodriguez, 2009). Foreclosure has been associated with rigidity and authoritarianism (Marcia, 1967), but with high degrees of self-esteem, life satisfaction, and

psychological well-being (Schwartz, Beyers, et al., 2011). Diffusion has been linked with the poorest psychosocial functioning, including lack of meaning and direction (Waterman, 2007), drug and alcohol abuse (Bishop, Weisgram, Holleque, Lund, & Wheeler-Anderson, 2005), and social and academic maladjustment (Luyckx et al., 2005). The identity status model has represented an important starting point in research on personal identity development in adolescence and emerging adulthood (Schwartz, 2001, 2005). However, during the latter part of the 20th century and into the beginning of the 21st century, the model was heavily criticized on several fronts. First, much of the first three decades of identity status research focused on comparing the statuses on external variables (e.g., self-esteem, coping styles; Schwartz, 2001). This approach created a “static” view of identity centered on classifying individuals into categories rather than examining the dynamic tension between synthesis and confusion that Erikson (1950, 1968) proposed. Second, the casting of exploration as the process underlying identity development (Grotevant, 1987), and of commitment as an outcome of that process (Marcia, 1988), appeared to carry the assumption that identity was somehow “finalized” during adolescence or emerging adulthood (van Hoof, 1999).1 Third, although identity achievement is similar to Erikson’s concept of identity synthesis, and although diffusion is similar to identity confusion (Cˆot´e & Schwartz, 2002; Schwartz, Beyers, et al., 2011), it is unclear how foreclosure and moratorium fit into Erikson’s theorizing. Until recently, foreclosure and achievement have been largely indistinguishable in terms of adjustment indices such as self-esteem and symptoms of anxiety and depression—perhaps creating the impression that enacting commitments without exploration would be just as likely to lead to identity synthesis as would commitments established following a deliberate period of exploration. The characterization of moratorium as the “route” to achievement did not appear consistent with the finding that individuals in moratorium were often as poorly adjusted as those in diffusion (Cˆot´e & Levine, 1988; Schwartz, 2001). Cˆot´e and Schwartz (2002, p. 582) summed up this concern by stating that “the transition from moratorium to achievement may require a massive personality reconfiguration that may or may not be successfully negotiated.” These issues

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be clear, Marcia emphasized that identity development is a lifelong process (Stephen, Fraser, & Marcia, 1992); and identity status–based research has been conducted on adult populations (e.g., Kroger & Haslett, 1988).

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood

have begun to be addressed in more recent identity research, as we review below. Personal Identity Status: Recent Advances In the years since these criticisms were presented, the personal identity literature has advanced considerably. Largely in response to these criticisms, theorists have proposed new identity processes and/or subdivided exploration and commitment into more finely grained dimensions. Luyckx, Goossens, Soenens, and Beyers (2006), for example, subdivided exploration and commitment into two processes apiece. Exploration was partitioned into exploration in breadth (Marcia’s original dimension) and exploration in depth (careful consideration of commitments that one has already made). Commitment was partitioned into commitment making (Marcia’s original dimension) and identification with commitment (integration of one’s commitments into one’s overall sense of self, following a period of exploration in depth). Luyckx and colleagues demonstrated that the two exploration processes and the two commitment processes were empirically distinguishable, and their model specified both exploration and commitment as process variables. In a longitudinal analysis, Luyckx, Schwartz, Goossens, and colleagues (2008) illustrated that these four processes change at different rates across time. Following the introduction of their original model, Luyckx and colleagues (Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, et al., 2008) proposed a third type of exploration, ruminative exploration. Ruminative exploration refers to an obsessive concern about making the “correct” choice, such that the person often does not make any choice at all and remains “stuck” in the exploration process. Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, et al. (2008) demonstrated that the paradoxical association of exploration with both distress and openness to new experiences was actually due to the simultaneous occurrence of multiple exploration processes. Specifically, exploration in breadth and in depth appeared to be associated with openness, whereas ruminative exploration appeared to be associated with distress. Using data from three longitudinal studies on high school and college students, Luyckx, Duriez, Klimstra, Van Petegem, and Beyers (2011) demonstrated that these identity dimensions also play different roles within the person’s sense of self at different times during the transition to adulthood. In adolescence, exploration appeared to predict self-esteem, with exploration in breadth positively predicting, and ruminative exploration negatively predicting, changes in self-esteem. In emerging adulthood, however, the associations between identity and self-esteem

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became reciprocal in nature; identification with commitment predicts self-esteem, and self-esteem predicts commitment making and identification with commitment. With increasing age, the self-system appears to become more consolidated, with identity and self-esteem functioning as an integrated self-system (Schwartz, Klimstra, Luyckx, Hale, & Meeus, in press). Such a stable self-system may provide an important resource for addressing the challenging transition to adulthood and the many psychosocial tasks with which young people are confronted (Cˆot´e, 2002; Cˆot´e & Levine, 2002; Montgomery & Cˆot´e, 2003). In other words, whereas in adolescence the search for a personalized identity (provided that it is conducted in a proactive rather than a ruminative fashion) appears to be beneficial over time, emerging adults need to commit, and to identify with these commitments, to experience increases in selfesteem. Another extension of the identity status framework was proposed by Crocetti, Meeus, and their colleagues (e.g., Crocetti, Rubini, & Meeus, 2008; Meeus, van de Schoot, Keijsers, Schwartz, & Branje, 2010). Their model included three processes: commitment (similar to Marcia’s dimension), exploration in depth (similar to Luyckx et al.’s dimension), and reconsideration of commitment (dissatisfaction with one’s current commitments and a desire to change them). Meeus and colleagues did not include exploration in breadth in their model, instead arguing that individuals enter adolescence with a set of foreclosed commitments internalized from parents, and that these commitments can be reconsidered as part of the identity development process. Reconsideration, like exploration in breadth, has been associated with symptoms of anxiety and depression (Crocetti, Rubini, & Meeus, 2008; Schwartz, Klimstra, et al., 2011). In some ways, both ruminative exploration and reconsideration of commitment are conceptually similar to Erikson’s (1968) construct of identity confusion. With regard to both ruminative exploration and reconsideration, the person becomes immobilized by a lack of clarity regarding the direction that she or he should follow. Specifically, ruminative exploration appears to interfere with well-being (Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, et al., 2008) and with the establishment of autonomy, a sense of competence, and mature interpersonal relationships (Luyckx, Vansteenkiste, Goossens, & Duriez, 2009). Reconsideration, especially when it fluctuates rapidly over short periods of time (i.e., from one day to the next), leads to heightened levels of anxiety and depression (Schwartz, Klimstra, et al., 2011). Similar findings have emerged for identity confusion—that is, it is associated with low

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well-being and with symptoms of anxiety and depression (Schwartz et al., 2009). Therefore, reconsidering and ruminating about identity appear to be problematic for social adjustment. Following the recommendations of Schwartz (2001, 2005) and others (e.g., Cˆot´e & Levine, 1988; van Hoof, 1999), both Luyckx and colleagues (2005; see also Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, et al., 2008), and Crocetti, Rubini, Luyckx, and Meeus (2008) focused on processes rather on status categories and demonstrated that the statuses could be empirically derived from the component processes. Using cluster-analytic procedures (rather than the median-split techniques that were originally used to place participants into status categories), these authors found evidence for all of Marcia’s original statuses, as well as for some new statuses. These newer statuses have been extracted from populations as diverse as high school students, college students, employed emerging and young adults, and individuals with chronic illnesses such as Type 1 diabetes (Luyckx, Duriez, Klimstra, & De Witte, 2010; Luyckx, Seiffge-Krenke, et al., 2008). These findings lend additional construct validity to the identity status model and help to address the concern that the statuses do not represent the process of identity development. Meeus and colleagues’ (2010) finding that identity status classifications are largely stable through adolescence supports the possibility that the statuses may serve as developmental trajectories as well as character types. The additional statuses obtained by Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, et al. (2008) and by Crocetti et al., (2008) may help to expand the identity status model. These new statuses included additional variants of diffusion and moratorium, as well as an “undifferentiated” status consisting of individuals who could not be safely categorized into one of the other statuses. Luyckx and colleagues found that the diffused status could be subdivided into diffused diffusion, referring to individuals who were attempting to develop a sense of identity but were unable to engage in any sort of systematic exploration or to maintain any lasting commitments; and carefree diffusion, referring to individuals with little or no interest in identity work. These two diffused statuses correspond to Erikson’s (1950) two characterizations of identity confusion—feeling “mixed up” or being largely uninterested in identity issues. Crocetti and colleagues found two types of moratorium—classical moratorium, referring to Marcia’s original moratorium status; and searching moratorium, where individuals are able to explore new alternatives without necessarily relinquishing their existing commitments.

The introduction of the searching moratorium status helps to clarify the casting of moratorium as a transitional status. Not surprisingly, in their longitudinal study of identity status transitions, Meeus and colleagues (2010) found that individuals in searching moratorium were more likely than those in the classical moratorium status to transition into achievement. Specifically, 19% of searching moratoriums, compared to 9% of classical moratoriums, were classified as achieved one year later. The corresponding numbers over a 4-year period were 32% versus 22%. The findings reported by Luyckx, Crocetti, Meeus, and their colleagues left unanswered at least one important question, however. Although North America and Western Europe can both be characterized as “Western” cultural contexts (Hofstede, 2001), there are also important differences between North America—especially the United States—and European countries in terms of the amount of structure that they provide for young people making the transition to adulthood. Specifically, although the emerging adult life stage has been identified in many different European countries, including Belgium (Luyckx, Schwartz, Goossens, & Pollock, 2008), Italy (Lanz & Tagliabue, 2007), Germany (Buhl, 2007), Finland (Fadjukoff, Kokko, & Pulkkinen, 2007), and the Czech Republic (Macek, Bejˇcek, & Van´ıcˇ kov´a, 2007), most European countries’ economic systems offer a “safety net” for individuals who cannot find work. Given the embeddedness of identity development within larger social, cultural, and historical contexts and forces (Baumeister & Muraven, 1996; Burkitt, 2011), it is important to investigate the extent to which the task of developing a sense of identity takes similar forms between American and European contexts (cf. Waterman, 1999a). The transition to adulthood may be less stressful and unstructured in societies that provide a “safety net” and greater degrees of guidance and structure for young people (Cˆot´e & Levine, 2002). Schwartz, Beyers, and colleagues (2011) conducted a large-scale evaluation of Luyckx, Goossens, Soenens, and Beyers (2006; Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, et al., 2008) model in the United States. In a sample of nearly 10,000 emerging-adult college students from 20 U.S. states, Schwartz, Beyers, and colleagues (2011) extracted the same cluster solution identified by Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, and colleagues (2008). They also found that the statuses differed as expected on measures of identity synthesis and confusion—achieved individuals scored highest on identity synthesis, whereas diffused-diffused individuals scored highest on identity confusion. Further, whereas prior studies had been unable to distinguish foreclosed and

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood

achieved individuals on indices of positive and negative psychosocial functioning (Waterman, 1999b), Schwartz, Beyers, et al. (2011) found that indices of growth and purpose—such as meaning in life and having discovered one’s innate potentials—were endorsed more strongly by achieved than foreclosed individuals (see also Luyckx et al., 2009). Schwartz, Beyers, and colleagues (2011) concluded that being committed to a set of goals, values, and beliefs was sufficient to facilitate happiness and satisfaction with one’s life, but that engagement in an agentic, self-directed period of exploration prior to making commitments was most likely to facilitate feelings of personal meaning, purpose, and direction. Beyond Identity Status: Additional Perspectives on Identity in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood, and a Return to Erikson Although the identity status model is among the most prominent approaches to examining the development of identity in young people, it is by no means the only approach. Indeed, a number of writers (e.g., Cˆot´e & Levine, 1987, 1988, 2002; Schwartz, 2001, 2005) have called for a return to Erikson’s original ideas on identity, and a number of perspectives other than identity status have drawn on Erikson’s thinking (see Vignoles et al., 2011, for a review). First, Erikson’s notions of identity synthesis and confusion—that is, knowing who one is and where one is headed, versus feeling lost and “mixed up”—has been found to predict a number of psychological and behavioral outcomes. Using a sample of Hispanic adolescents and five assessment waves between ages 13 and 16, Schwartz, Mason, Pantin, and Szapocznik (2008, 2009) found that increases in identity confusion over time were associated with heightened risk for initiating use of cigarettes, alcohol, marijuana, and hard drugs, as well as for initiating unprotected sexual activity. Rose, Rodgers, and Small (2006) found that, among American high school students, sexual identity confusion was related to depressive symptoms, substance use, delinquent behavior, and running away from home. Schwartz, Zamboanga, Weisskirch, and Rodriguez (2009) found that among an ethnically diverse sample of American emerging adults, identity confusion was associated with low self-worth, anxiety, and depressive symptoms, and endorsement of deviant and antisocial activities. Wheeler, Wintre, and Polivy (2004) found that, among Canadian college women, identity confusion was related to risks for disordered eating. In summary, consistent with Erikson’s ideas, a confused sense of identity is linked with

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a host of negative outcomes both for the individual and for others. It is important to note, however, that identity confusion is not necessarily undesirable. Erikson (1950, 1968) stated that adolescence was characterized by an “identity crisis”2 during which the person was expected to work toward developing a coherent and synthesized sense of identity. In the years since Erikson’s writings, this identity crisis has been extended into emerging adulthood (Cˆot´e, 2006; Cˆot´e & Allahar, 1994). From an identity status perspective, exploring various identity roles sometimes requires relinquishing existing commitments in order to consider and adopt new ones. This exploration process can, in turn, give rise to a sense of confusion and disequilibrium. Relinquishing one’s commitments, in turn, gives rise to a sense of confusion and disequilibrium (Schwartz et al., 2009), and the process of developing a sense of identity is likely to involve at least some ruminative exploration (Luyckx, Schwartz, Berzonsky, et al., 2008). In turn, this confusion is likely to be associated with symptoms of anxiety, depression, and other forms of distress, as well as with increased likelihood of antisocial and risk-taking behavior (Schwartz, Beyers, et al., 2011; Schwartz, et al., 2008, 2009). Establishing commitments signifies the end of the “crisis” period (Bosma & Kunnen, 2001)—and likely the end of the freedoms involved in the relatively unstructured emerging adult life stage (Luyckx, Schwartz, Goossens, & Pollock, 2008). As a result, a distinction must be made between “temporary” (and developmentally normative) identity confusion associated with exploration in breadth and more “chronic” forms of identity confusion that may require intervention. Contemporary identity research is therefore both returning to its Eriksonian roots and generating new insights to move the field forward.

Levels of Individuality and Personality in Personal Identity Development Now that we have reviewed the structure of personal identity, we will turn to an exposition of the intrapersonal factors that can play a role in shaping it. Identity development is shaped profoundly by macro-level factors such as culture (Taylor & Oskay, 1995), gender roles (Lewis, 2

It is essential to note that the term “crisis” as used by Erikson did not necessarily refer to an emergency or catastrophic situation. Rather, Erikson intended the term to signify the urgency of developing a sense of identity during the time that society has “set aside” for identity work.

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2003), and history (Burkitt, 2011). Identity is also likely to be shaped by individual-difference characteristics such as temperament, as well as by core personality dispositions captured by the Big Five domains (see, e.g., Caspi, Roberts, & Shiner, 2005; John, Naumann, & Soto, 2008). Accordingly, it is useful to consider multiple levels of individuality when examining how identity is embedded within a person’s personality and other intrapersonal processes. One approach to structuring such a discussion is to draw upon the framework proposed by McAdams and Olson (2010). At the outset, we acknowledge that it can be difficult to draw clear distinctions among basic personality dispositions, motives, and aspects of identity. Nonetheless, McAdams offers a heuristic approach that helps distinguish between three levels of individuality ranging from temperamental attributes to the overall “story” that one constructs about one’s life path. The set of basic dispositional attributes that capture broad tendencies of temperament characterizes McAdams’s first level of individuality. These attributes reflect (in broad terms) an individual’s emotional tendencies, general approach to the social world, and dispositional levels of self-control. The Big Five personality traits— extraversion, agreeableness, neuroticism, conscientiousness, and openness to experience—may represent some of these dispositional tendencies (cf. John et al., 2008). Extraversion reflects the individual’s level of energy and motivation to approach the social world. Agreeableness captures empathy and prosocial tendencies. Conscientiousness refers to impulse control, following rules, and the ability to successfully pursue relatively long-term plans and goals. Neuroticism refers to differences in susceptibility to negative emotions such as feelings of anxiety, tension, and sadness. Last, Openness to experience captures differences in curiosity and preferences for artistic and intellectual stimuli. The next level of individuality is referred to as characteristic adaptations and includes constructs such as goals, life plans, and cognitive-affective schemas of the self in relation to others, such as attachment styles. This third level in McAdams’s framework captures the individual’s evolving life story that provides for a “semblance of unity, purpose, and meaning” (McAdams & Olson, 2010, p. 527). McAdams posits that this personally constructed narrative of self is layered on top of dispositional traits and characteristic adaptations such that a “narrative identity gives individual lives their unique and culturally anchored meanings” (McAdams & Olson, 2010, p. 527). The following sections explore each of these levels of individuality in which identity is situated.

THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE BIG FIVE DISPOSITIONS FROM CHILDHOOD TO ADULTHOOD Researchers who study the development of core personality dispositions typically focus on two conceptually and statistically distinct types of stability and change: meanlevel and rank-order (or differential) change (see, e.g., Donnellan & Robins, 2009; Klimstra, Hale, Raaijmakers, Branje, & Meeus, 2009). Mean-level studies focus on average levels of dispositional constructs and provide answers to questions such as whether average levels of emotional stability are higher in adulthood than in early adolescence. Rank-order studies investigate the degree of consistency in the relative positioning of individuals over time. These studies answer questions such as whether individuals who are especially emotionally stable as early adolescents mature into emerging adults who are also relatively emotionally stable in comparison to their peers. Mean-level changes in the Big Five from early adolescence through adulthood broadly follow a generalization referred to as the maturity principle (Caspi et al., 2005). The basic idea is that age differences in average levels of these attributes seem to be in the direction of changes that facilitate the fulfillment of adult roles in terms of serving as a productive member of society (Caspi et al., 2005). In general, average levels of conscientiousness, emotional stability, and agreeableness tend to increase from adolescence to middle adulthood (e.g., Caspi et al., 2005; Roberts, Walton, & Viechtbauer, 2006). Results for extraversion are complex, such that attributes linked with social dominance tend to show mean-level increases from adolescence to adulthood, whereas attributes associated with sociability show average increases during the transition to adulthood but then show fairly limited amounts of change in adulthood (Roberts et al., 2006). Average levels of openness also tend to increase during the transition to adulthood and then remain fairly stable during adulthood (Roberts et al., 2006). These changes in openness may allow for identity exploration—especially exploration in breadth. As it stands, the evidence regarding mean-level changes in the Big Five traits during adolescence itself is somewhat mixed, given that relatively few studies have evaluated this question (e.g., DeFruyt et al., 2006; Klimstra et al., 2009; McCrae et al., 2002). There are indications that agreeableness and emotional stability increase robustly in adolescence (e.g., Klimstra et al., 2009). Again, the age differences from early to late adolescence tend to follow the maturity principle (see, e.g., Klimstra et al., 2009).

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood

The pattern of rank-order consistency follows a characteristic pattern of increasing stability coefficients with age for all Big Five attributes, at least until middle adulthood (Roberts & DelVecchio, 2000). A consistent finding is that dispositional attributes become more stable during the transition to adulthood. For example, 1-year stability coefficients for extraversion for boys started at .35 in early adolescence and increased to .75 by late adolescence (Klimstra et al., 2009). Klimstra and colleagues (2009) found that girls tended to have higher stability coefficients than boys, but these coefficients increased across the adolescent years for both genders. One possible explanation for this pattern of increasing differential stability with age is that individuals are granted increasing autonomy during the transition to adulthood—autonomy that also allows for exploration of identity alternatives. This increasing freedom allows individuals to seek out contexts that are compatible with their core dispositions, such that one’s sense of self can be developed within a (reasonably) self-chosen social context. The ability to seek out environments that are compatible with one’s core personality is known as the corresponsive principle of personality development (Caspi et al., 2005), and this matching of the individual and the attributes of the social context tends to promote consistency. Dispositions evoke predictable responses from the social contexts, such that disagreeable individuals draw out hostility from others. Likewise, dispositions may shape how individuals perceive their social contexts, such that individuals higher in emotional stability are less distressed by novelty and challenge than are more neurotic individuals. In short, the development of one’s sense of self may occur in a supportive environment for those who are emotionally stable, extroverted, and open to experience, for example—but in a hostile environment for those who are neurotic, introverted, disagreeable, and closed-minded. In addition, researchers have suggested that identity processes may contribute to increasing personality consistency with age (Caspi et al., 2005). According to these suggestions, identity provides a framework for interpreting life events and making life choices. Likewise, identity helps to define and solidify an individual’s reputation in the eyes of other members of a social group (Leary & Baumeister, 2000). Collectively, these processes would tend to promote increasing consistency with age. Thus, there are important conceptual reasons to study the development of individuality at multiple levels in the McAdams framework. Indeed, it is also important to emphasize that individual characteristics are likely reciprocally associated

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with identity—that is, these characteristics affect, and are affected by, the course of identity development (e.g., Luyckx et al., 2011). For example, Cˆot´e (1997) has proposed that certain psychological and personality attributes can serve as crucial assets for individuals making the developmental transition to adulthood in postindustrial societies. His concept of agentic personality —which includes items focused on concepts including self-esteem, life purpose, internal locus of control, and ego strength—has been found to be positively associated with identity exploration and commitment, and negatively with avoidance (Schwartz et al., 2005). Likewise, characteristics such as sensation seeking (preference for new and exciting stimuli; Zuckerman, 2007) and perceived invulnerability (Lapsley, 1993) may also serve to promote identity exploration. Unlike the view of invincibility as a form of cognitively based adolescent egocentrism (Elkind, 1967), Lapsley (1993) argues that feelings of invulnerability play a role in managing the process of moving away from a childhood self as part of the separation-individuation process. If channeled toward positive and prosocial ends, desires for novel stimuli and an inclination to take risks might lead one to explore identity alternatives that one otherwise might not have considered. For example, pursuing creativity or athletic success may involve risking rejection and embarrassment—and some form of sensation seeking and perceived invulnerability might help individuals to take the necessary “risks” without becoming overly hesitant or self-conscious.

Motivation and Identity Development In contrast to disposition or temperament, intentionality and goal-directed behavior emerge more gradually and represent a second level where individuality occurs (McAdams & Olson, 2010). Among the primary variables at work at this level are the extent to which identity activity is purposeful and freely chosen, or whether it is undertaken as a way of meeting or satisfying expectations established by others. For example, Smits, Soenens, Vansteenkiste, Luyckx, and Goossens (2010) found that adolescents and emerging adults may utilize specific identity development strategies either out of choice or out of coercion—and the same strategies may be utilized for either reason. Ryan and Deci (2000) have proposed that autonomous or freely chosen life paths might be experienced as exciting and interesting, whereas the same life path might be viewed as aversive if it is pursued out of obligation or coercion (see also Waterman, Schwartz, & Conti, 2008). Therefore, the specific motivation underlying identity activities is important to consider.

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Different motivations may underlie certain exploratory behaviors during different phases of the life span. For example, emerging adults may undertake purposeful experimentation and exploration as a way to find out who they are, to test their beliefs and limits, and to see what would happen (Dworkin, 2005). Indeed, Arnett (2000) proposed that some degree of risk behavior seen during emerging adulthood might reflect a desire to have a wide range of experiences before settling into adult responsibilities. Ravert (2009) explored this possibility among a sample of emerging-adult college students by asking about behaviors in which they currently engage because they will no longer be able to do so once they enact full adult commitments. A majority of respondents reported engaging in such “now or never” behaviors, with the most common behaviors being travel, social events (e.g., “going out”), substance use (e.g., “drinking heavily”), and exploring relationships. Although many of the behaviors reported would be considered risky, a number of them might be considered functional in addressing the developmental tasks of emerging adulthood (e.g., widening one’s perspective on the world; Arnett, 2005, 2007). Still others (e.g., road trips, dating a lot of new people) may hold potential for generating either healthcompromising or growth-oriented outcomes, depending on how (e.g., recklessly vs. carefully) and why (e.g., pursuing personal life meaning vs. engaging in “now or never” behaviors) one engages in these activities. McAdams and Olson (2010) propose that layered on top of individual dispositions and adaptations is the narrative, or life story, that an individual develops to “make sense of it all.” This narrative provides a sense of cohesion, purpose, and meaning to one’s life. Indeed, the coherence of the narrative that one constructs, and one’s ability to derive an overall theme or lesson from the narrative, might be taken as an index of the coherence or functionality of one’s sense of identity (McAdams, 2011). This conceptualization of identity is consistent with Erikson’s (1950, 1968) view of identity synthesis, in which one’s various life roles and commitments fit well together and tell a coherent story.

THE ROLE OF AGENCY IN PERSONAL IDENTITY DEVELOPMENT One of Erikson’s central propositions regarding personal identity development is that it is a largely self-directed process (see Cˆot´e, 1993, 2000, for comprehensive reviews). The person must transact with (i.e., purposefully act within the constraints of) the social environment if she or he is to create an identity that is strong and synthesized, yet

flexible enough to respond to the rapidly changing nature of postindustrial society. To be able to transact purposefully with society, one must possess a sense of agency. Agency has been defined in a number of ways within sociological (e.g., Emirbayer & Mische, 1998) and psychological (e.g., Bandura, 1989) theories. Most relevant to identity development are descriptions offered by Cˆot´e (2000; Cˆot´e & Levine, 2002) and Lerner and colleagues (e.g., Gestsd´ottir & Lerner, 2007; Lerner, Freund, DeStefanis, & Habermas, 2001). Cˆot´e proposed a set of personality characteristics that are most consistent with agency, whereas Lerner and colleagues proposed a series of steps that young people follow as part of the exercise of agency. In terms of personality characteristics, Cˆot´e (1997) identified self-esteem, life purpose, an internal locus of control, and ego strength (patience and resilience) as dimensions of agency. Self-esteem is important, because young people must possess enough faith and belief in themselves to continue transacting with the environment, even when the initial response is not favorable. Life purpose is essential because the person must know what type of goals she or he is striving for, so that her or his efforts can be directed toward these goals. An internal locus of control increases the likelihood that the person will assume responsibility for her or his actions and their consequences—rather than passing the blame onto other people or circumstances. Ego strength is critical, because it facilitates perseverance in the face of failure and disappointment (cf. Masten, 2001). In explaining agency as a series of steps, Lerner et al. (2001) drew from a model originally developed to explain self-regulation in older adults (P. Baltes & Baltes, 1990). According to this approach, intentional selfregulation (which is analogous to agency) consists of three steps: (1) selection —choosing opportunities that correspond to one’s talents, potentials, or sense of self; (2) optimization —refining one’s skills so that one can be more successful in pursuing the opportunity in question; and (3) compensation —being able to “change course” in the event that one’s original plans or wishes are blocked or otherwise unavailable. Loss-based selection (Gestsd´ottir, Bowers, von Eye, Napolitano, & Lerner, 2010) refers to choosing another goal when one’s original option is no longer available. Cˆot´e’s and Lerner and colleagues’ operationalizations of agency are fully compatible with one another: Gestsd´ottir and Lerner (2007) and Gestsd´ottir, Lewin-Bizan, von Eye, Lerner, and Lerner (2009) found that selection, optimization, and compensation were predictive of self-esteem, competence, and purpose across grades 7 to 10. This work is consistent with the idea that the

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood

adaptive self-regulation processes underlying agency are more likely to be displayed by individuals who possess an agentic-oriented personality. This pattern of findings further suggests that achievement represents the “optimal” resolution to the identity stage within Erikson’s theory and that a foreclosed identity structure is likely to function less well. Although foreclosure and achievement have both been found to be associated with life satisfaction and self-esteem (Waterman, 1999b), the greater association of achievement with indices of purpose, direction, agency, and discovery (Schwartz, Beyers, et al., 2011) suggests that individuals who have “taken ownership” over their own identity development process may be better able to respond to rapidly and unexpectedly changing circumstances (Schwartz, in press). For example, as noted above, more and more young people are choosing cohabitation instead of marriage (Manning & Smock, 2002; Wiik, 2009)—such that it is much easier to leave the relationship on a moment’s notice (Osborne, Manning, & Smock, 2010). For another example, as reviewed at the beginning of this chapter, due to outsourcing, layoffs, and other larger economic forces, many individuals’ career trajectories have shifted from long-term affiliations with a single company or line of work, to a scenario where companies and even whole industries are making wholesale changes, and sometimes becoming quickly obsolete (Kalleberg, 2009). The need to be fast on one’s feet and to be ready to switch courses quickly is essential for thriving in today’s economic context. As such, achieved commitments, which are generally flexible because they were developed using agentic and self-directed strategies, are likely to support adaptability and an ability to make decisions quickly when necessary. This may be less true of rigidly held, passively created foreclosed commitments. As Erikson foreshadowed more than 60 years ago, an agentic orientation characterized by openness, self-direction, and flexibility, is essential to developing an identity that can withstand the pressures, decisions, and changes of adulthood in Western societies (Cˆot´e, 1993; Cˆot´e & Levine, 2002).

The Social Context of Agency as a Vehicle for Identity Development In addition to being shaped by dispositions, motivations, and individual experiences, the process of identity development can be influenced by the social and cultural environment. Thus, the exercise of agency should not be taken to imply that individuals can make any choice they want. Cˆot´e and Levine (2002) reviewed the structure-agency

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debate within contemporary sociology, and they concluded that agency is exercised within constraints imposed by contextual forces. An individual can explore and commit to a given set of identity alternatives, but this does not necessarily mean that all of these alternatives can and will be implemented. For example, socioeconomic barriers can prevent young people from realizing the goals that they have set for themselves (Phillips & Pittman, 2003). These barriers can include lack of financial resources, the absence of necessary mentorship and encouragement, or discriminatory practices that limit the range of options that one can pursue (Yoder, 2000). However, agency in the form of persistence, resilience, and a well-articulated plan for success can (in some cases) help the person overcome some of these barriers (Oyserman, Bybee, Terry, & HartJohnson, 2004). Put another way, a “possible self” is most likely to be actualized when the individual agentically pursues it, and then recognizes and addresses the barriers that could potentially preclude its realization (Oyserman, Bybee, & Terry, 2006). It is critical to note that social structures and cultural factors place limits on agency as well as on the conceptualization of the individual as an independent agent or as an interdependent member of a larger group. Accordingly, the role of agency in the development of identity must be examined within a social, cultural, and historical context. Personal agency, defined as purposeful and goal-directed choices made deliberately and intentionally by a self-guided individual, is most important—and appropriate—in postindustrial Western contexts where the individual person is responsible for her or his own life course. In non-Western cultural contexts, the self is expected to be fluid and changing across situations, and there may not be a permanent “I” that is consistent across time and place (Cross, Gore, & Morris, 2003; Dwairy, 2002). As a result, agency is more likely to be perceived as operating at the collective or group level (Menon, Morris, Chiu, & Hong, 1999). Indeed, in a study of the structure of identity exploration (assumedly an agentic process) across Eastern and Western cultural contexts, Berman, Yu, Schwartz, Teo, and Mochizuki (2011) found that identity exploration emerged as a coherent empirical construct in American emerging adults, but not in their Taiwanese, Mainland Chinese, or Japanese counterparts. This finding suggests that Erikson’s concept of personal agency, as an individualistic construct, may be most strongly applicable within cultural contexts that emphasize individual choice, and less so in contexts that emphasize subjugation of the individual self to the wants, needs, and priorities of the group (cf. Markus & Kitayama, 1991; Triandis, 1995).

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As such, we and others (e.g., Adams & Marshall, 1996; Bosma & Kunnen, 2001) contend that the identity status model and other conceptualizations that rely heavily on notions of individual decision-making and problem solving, are best applied to adolescence and emerging adulthood in postindustrial, Western contexts where young people are faced with finding their own way into adult roles and responsibilities. Indeed, Marcia (1966, 1980) himself has acknowledged explicitly that identity status was conceived as applying to North America, Western Europe, Australia, and other areas where Western influences have strongly taken hold. Personal identity development in non-Western contexts may be framed more around clearly prescribed social roles and responsibilities than around individually chosen goals, values, and beliefs. Personal identity therefore develops within a social and cultural context—and, indeed, scholars have increasingly begun to attend to the impacts of cultural forces and processes on developmental processes (e.g., Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, 2005; Smith, 2011). Cultural processes themselves have, at least at the level of the individual person, been recognized as identity processes (e.g., Ryder, Alden, & Paulhus, 2000; Schwartz, Unger, Zamboanga, & Szapocznik, 2010). It is for this reason, as well as others, that we now turn to an exploration of cultural identity in adolescence and emerging adulthood.

CULTURAL IDENTITY IN ADOLESCENCE AND EMERGING ADULTHOOD For much of recent history, culture has been taken for granted as the realities that shape, constrain, and guide those tasks and processes that are prescribed versus proscribed within a given national, cultural, ethnic, or religious group (Smith, 2011). However, with the advent of globalization—largely due to the Internet and the spread of Western culture around the world (e.g., Arnett, 2002)—and the unprecedented mass international migration that has taken place globally during the last 40–50 years (Sam & Berry, 2010; van de Vijver & Phalet, 2004), more people are exposed to cultural streams and realities other than their own (Vignoles et al., 2011). One’s cultural orientation has, therefore, been increasingly recognized as an aspect of identity rather than as a taken-forgranted reality (Vedder, Berry, Sabatier, & Sam [2009] refer to this cultural orientation as one’s “Zeitgeist”). In light of these changes, it has become possible to examine the emergence of these cultural orientations, as well

as the ways in which they are associated with personality characteristics and psychosocial and health outcomes in young people. In much extant research, cultural constructs are examined primarily in immigrant or minority groups, with “host nationals” (generally individuals from the ethnic group that comprises the cultural majority in the country or context under study) used largely as a comparison group. Indeed, cultural identity is easiest to isolate and study while it is undergoing change, and in individuals whose cultural identities are markedly different from that of the context in which they reside. This is likely one of many reasons why the acculturation literature has grown exponentially in the past 40 years (Schwartz, Unger, et al., 2010). We should note that the majority of our points regarding cultural identity refer primarily to individuals who (or whose ancestors) migrated voluntarily, or arrived as refugees, to the country of settlement. Cultural constructs take on an entirely different meaning for involuntarily subjugated groups—whether they were conquered, colonized, or forced to migrate to another nation against their will. Examples of such groups include, but are not limited to, African Americans and Native Americans in the United States, the First Nations groups in Canada, the Scottish and Welsh in Great Britain, and the Taiwanese and Tibetans in China. These groups certainly do have cultural identities within the larger societies in which they reside (e.g., Bryant & LaFromboise, 2005; Tyler et al., 2008). However, the identities maintained by members of involuntarily subjugated groups are likely influenced by historical events characterized by acts of aggression, enslavement, or genocide perpetrated by the dominant cultural group (Baum, 2008; Moshman, 2007, 2011b). As a result, we caution that some, but not all , of the principles that we cover in this chapter are applicable to members of involuntarily subjugated groups. Ethnic Identity Perhaps one of the most easily understandable dimensions of cultural identity, and the one that is most similar to the personal identity constructs discussed in the first half of this chapter, is ethnic identity. Ethnic identity represents the exploration and consideration of the subjective meaning of one’s ethnic group, as well as the extent to which one has an emotional attachment to this group (Phinney, 1990; Phinney & Ong, 2007). Ethnic identity therefore brings together Eriksonian principles (e.g., exploration)

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood

with principles from Tajfel and Turner’s (1986) social identity theory (e.g., affirmation, belonging, and group identity; see Uma˜na-Taylor, Yazedjian, & B´amaca-G´omez, 2004, for a more extensive review). Ethnic identity is generally regarded as the ways in which individuals from ethnic or cultural minority groups make sense of themselves within a larger society (Uma˜naTaylor, 2011). It is therefore not surprising that ethnic identity tends to be more strongly endorsed among minority or immigrant individuals than among those who belong to the dominant cultural group in a given context (e.g., Phinney, Cantu, & Kurtz, 1997; Roberts et al., 1999; Yasui, Dorham, & Dishion, 2004). For minority group members born in the larger society—such as Mexican Americans in the United States or North Africans, Middle Easterners, and South Asians in Western Europe—ethnic identity is important because it allows individuals to connect with their cultural heritage (Roysircar-Sodowsky & Maestas, 2000). Ethnic identity may help immigrant individuals to find their place within the larger society, as well as within cultural designations that, in many cases, do not exist in the country of origin. For example, the term “Hispanic” was invented by the U.S. Census Bureau to refer to individuals of Spanish-speaking descent. Individuals from countries that have little in common—or that have experienced hostile relations with one another (such as Peru and Ecuador, Argentina and Chile, or Colombia and Venezuela)—are grouped under the same demographic category. The term “Hispanic,” along with the similar term “Latino,” is both a source of pride and a source of irritation among individuals who are grouped under these labels (Su´arez-Orozco & P´aez, 2002). Nonetheless, individuals migrating to the United States from Spanish-speaking countries must decide for themselves what it means to be “Hispanic” (Portes & Rumbaut, 2006; C. Su´arez-Orozco & Su´arez-Orozco, 2001). Similarly, in the United States, individuals from countries as diverse as China, the Philippines, India, and Sri Lanka are grouped under the label of “Asian American” despite not sharing a common linguistic, religious, or cultural heritage. Ethnic identity is one way in which migrants from these countries can make sense of what it means to be a member of a minority group in their new homeland. Ethnic identity has been studied in adolescents and emerging adults from many different cultural and national backgrounds, and in a number of different receiving countries (e.g., Berry, Phinney, Sam, & Vedder, 2006). Studies

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conducted in the United States have generally found gradual increases in ethnic identity exploration and affirmation during early adolescence (French, Seidman, Allen, & Aber, 2006), middle adolescence (Pahl & Way, 2006), and emerging adulthood (Syed & Azmitia, 2009). In turn, increases in ethnic identity exploration and affirmation are generally linked with increases in self-esteem (Uma˜na-Taylor, Gonzales-Backen, & Guimond, 2009). For the most part, this suggests that young people become increasingly comfortable with their ethnicity over time—although in some cases it may also indicate a defensive response, as we will review later in this chapter. A fairly large literature has amassed regarding the modest but consistent links between ethnic identity and indices of well-being. The link between ethnic identity and selfesteem has been examined on a number of occasions, and results generally indicate that individuals with a stronger sense of ethnic identity (i.e., those who have considered the meaning of their ethnicity and who have come to regard their ethnic group positively) generally report higher levels of self-esteem (e.g., Schwartz, Zamboanga, & Jarvis, 2007; Uma˜na-Taylor, 2004). Ethnic identity is associated with other positive outcomes as well—for example, Armenta, Knight, Carlo, and Jacobson (2011) found that ethnic identity affirmation was associated with engagement in several types of prosocial behaviors. Recent research has suggested that ethnic identity helps individuals to discover or identify their meaning or purpose in life, which in turn can lead to stronger self-esteem (Kiang & Fuligni, 2010). This last finding lends additional credence to the notion that ethnic identity can play a role in helping minority group individuals find their place within the larger society within which they reside and function. Ethnic identity—especially ethnic identity affirmation and belonging—can also help protect immigrant and minority individuals from experiencing the negative outcomes associated with perceived discrimination and distress. Specifically, using a short-term longitudinal design, Torres and Ong (2010) found that ethnic identity affirmation attenuated the association between discriminatory experiences on Day x and depressive symptoms on Day x +1. Moreover, Armenta and Hunt (2009) found that ethnic identity affirmation can arise as a response to group (but not personal) discrimination—and that ethnic identity can then boost self-esteem. Research has also generally found that ethnic identity is protective against risk-taking behavior in minority adolescents and emerging adults. Specifically, among ethnic

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minority adolescents and emerging adults, ethnic identity has been found to protect against behavior problems (Yasui et al., 2004), alcohol and drug use (Marsiglia, Kulis, Hecht, & Sills, 2004), and unsafe sex (EspinosaHernandez, & Lefkowitz, 2009). These effects have been found to be at least partially mediated by self-esteem in both American (Schwartz et al., 2007) and European (Wissink, Dekovi´c, Ya˘gmur, Stams, & De Haan, 2008) adolescents. However, some research on Hispanic adolescents and emerging adults in the United States has found that ethnic identity can be associated with higher levels of risk taking—including alcohol and drug use (e.g., Zamboanga, Raffaelli, & Horton, 2006; Zamboanga, Schwartz, Jarvis, & Van Tyne, 2009) and unsafe sex (Raffaelli, Zamboanga, & Carlo, 2005). Although these counter-intuitive findings are difficult to explain, evidence suggests that they may reflect a defensive, rather than proactive, manifestation of ethnic identity. For example, Schwartz, Weisskirch, and colleagues (2011) found that, in Hispanic emerging adults, controlling for engagement in Hispanic cultural practices (e.g., speaking Spanish, eating Hispanic foods, associating with Hispanic friends), endorsing a Hispanic ethnic identity was positively associated with illicit drug use and with unsafe sexual behavior. Schwartz and colleagues interpreted this finding as indicating that, once Hispanic cultural practices had been factored out, ethnic identity referred to a defensive attachment to being Hispanic—perhaps a reaction to discrimination or other negative experiences with non-Hispanic Americans. Armenta and Hunt’s (2009) finding that perceived group discrimination was associated with increased ethnic identity provides preliminary support for this potential explanation. It should be noted, however, that cultural practices and identifications are closely related—so further research is needed to understand the aspects of ethnic identity that may be more versus less protective against health-risk outcomes. The defensive activation of ethnic identity represents what Rumbaut (2008) has labeled as reactive ethnicity. Specifically, reactive ethnicity refers to a situation where individuals who do not normally identify strongly with their ethnic or cultural group do so in response to an external threat. For example, Stepick, Dutton Stepick, and Vanderkooy (2011) refer to the 2000 Eli´an Gonzalez case, in which a young Cuban boy was rescued at sea and subsequently returned to his father in Cuba—against the wishes and protests of the Miami Cuban community. Many young Cuban Americans who had considered themselves American began waving Cuban flags, rejecting symbols of the United States, and developing a newfound interest in

Cuban culture and heritage. It may therefore be important to distinguish between proactive and defensive ethnic identifications—especially given that these two types of ethnic identifications may exert opposing effects on psychosocial and health outcomes. Acculturation as an Identity Process Aside from representing a cultural dimension of identity, ethnic identity also represents a dimension of acculturation (Phinney, 2003). That is, ethnic identity is an index of the ways in which immigrants and their immediate descendants adapt to the receiving society. Schwartz, Unger, and colleagues (2010), as well as others (e.g., AbraidoLanza, Armbrister, Florez, & Aguirre, 2006; Castillo & Caver, 2009), have suggested that the concept of acculturation not only includes heritage-cultural and receivingcultural practices, values, and identifications, but also encompasses identity processes. Indeed, the decision to migrate and the processes involved in migrating from one country to another are often akin to starting one’s life over again (e.g., Steiner, 2009; C. Su´arez-Orozco, Su´arezOrozco, & Todorova, 2008). Just as changing careers in midlife requires an identity transition, so does moving to a new cultural environment. In the case of individuals born in the receiving society but raised by immigrant parents, the presence of the heritage culture in the home and of the receiving culture in school and with friends can present identity challenges, especially when these socialization agents are in conflict with each other. The ways in which one addresses these challenges can be framed as constructing a cultural identity (cf. Schwartz, Montgomery, & Briones, 2006). Just as personal identity consists of multiple domains such as career choice, religious orientation, and friendship and dating preferences (Goossens, 2001), cultural identity consists of a number of domains—including behavioral (practices), cognitive (values), and affective (identifications; Kim & Abreu, 2001; Schwartz, Unger, et al., 2010). One’s choices or responses within these domains may or may not correspond to one another; for example, an immigrant (or a child of immigrants) may be fluent in the language of the receiving country or cultural group but may not hold the values of, or identify with, that country or group. A number of psychological, sociological, and anthropological studies (e.g., Portes & Rumbaut, 2001, 2006; C. Su´arez-Orozco & Su´arez-Orozco, 2001; C. Su´arezOrozco et al., 2008; Tseng, 2004) have examined large cohorts of first-generation (born in the country of origin)

Identity Development, Personality, and Well-Being in Adolescence and Emerging Adulthood

and second-generation (born in the receiving country but raised by immigrant parents) adolescents and emerging adults and have mapped the ways in which their cultural adaptation is associated with personality, psychosocial, and health indices. In general, among adolescents and emerging adults, a bicultural orientation (i.e., endorsing the practices, values, and identifications of both one’s culture of origin and the new society of settlement) has been identified as the most “adaptive” cultural identity configuration (e.g., Coatsworth, Maldonado-Molina, Pantin, & Szapocznik, 2005; Sam & Berry, 2010). This is particularly the case when the individual views her/his heritage and receiving cultural streams as compatible with one another (Nguyen & Benet-Mart´ınez, 2007). Compared to young people who view their two cultural streams as incompatible or opposing, those who are able to combine or integrate their heritage and receiving cultural streams are likely to be more emotionally stable and open to experience (Benet-Mart´ınez & Haritatos, 2005). Moreover, compared to other cultural orientations, biculturalism has been found to be associated with more advanced cognitive and moral reasoning (Tadmor, Tetlock, & Peng, 2009). Although cultural constructs have been applied primarily to ethnic minority groups, their applicability to “majority” groups may be increasing. In many Western countries, individuals of European descent comprise a declining share of the population over time, and in some European countries, the actual number of White individuals is decreasing due to low birth rates. At the same time, immigrant and minority groups—many of whom originate from non-European backgrounds—are increasing both in number and in their share of the population. The implication of these demographic changes is that Whites of European descent may cease to represent the numerical majority in many Western countries as the 21st century progresses. Moreover, the rapid advance of globalization and real-time communication has decreased the importance of national boundaries (Arnett, 2002). For example, in 1990, cellular phones were not commonplace, the Internet had not yet been introduced to the general public, and few people outside of universities and government organizations had e-mail addresses. In 2010, the majority of individuals owned cellular phones (and many no longer maintained home phone numbers); and millions not only had Internet and e-mail access but were communicating with others around the world in real time using applications such as Facebook, Twitter, Skype, and other recent advances. What this means for the study of cultural identity is that the

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“dominant” cultural group in any given nation or region is no longer defined strictly by national or regional boundaries. So mass immigration and globalization have combined to increase the importance of cultural identity for individuals from majority cultural groups (Schwartz, Unger, et al., 2010). Indeed, mass immigration and globalization have prompted many Americans (e.g., Schildkraut, 2007) and Europeans (e.g., Licata, Sanchez-Mazas, & Green, 2011) to consider what their national and cultural identities mean to them. Accordingly, Schwartz, Weisskirch, and colleagues (2010) have argued that individuals of European descent should be regarded as a cultural group, rather than as a comparison group, in studies of cultural processes. Not coincidentally, Chen, Benet-Mart´ınez, and Bond (2008) have proposed two types of acculturation— immigration-based and globalization-based. Individuals do not necessarily need to move to a new country to experience acculturation; indeed, many “dominant-culture” adolescents and emerging adults in Asian, Latin American, and African countries have begun to experience and embrace Western music, dress styles, and manners of speaking (often to their parents’ chagrin; Jensen, Arnett, & McKenzie, 2011). Similarly, the influx of immigrants to many Western countries has led individuals from the dominant cultural group to explore immigrant cultures. For example, due to both globalization and mass East Asian immigration, Buddhism and other Eastern religions have become increasingly popular among American adolescents and emerging adults (Coleman, 2002). Simply put, the availability of a wider range of cultural options has increased the range of cultural identity choices that young people can make, as well as the ways in which young people might define what their ethnic/cultural identity might mean for themselves. Agency, as defined within the personal identity literature, may therefore also come into play with regard to the development of cultural identity. Although adolescents and young adults whose parents have socialized them toward the values, practices, symbols, and traditions of the family’s culture of origin are especially likely to retain and identify with the heritage culture (Juang & Syed, 2010; Uma˜na-Taylor, Bhanot, & Shin, 2006), this is not guaranteed to occur. Individuals have choices with regard to how much of their cultural heritage they wish to retain, and this applies to individuals from both minority and majority backgrounds. For example, Ponterotto and colleagues (2001) and Rodriguez, Schwartz, and Whitbourne (2010) found that Italian, Greek, Irish, and Polish Americans may wish to retain practices, values, and identifications from

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their cultural heritage well into the third and fourth generations. More recent immigrants are also somewhat at choice regarding how much of the new receiving cultural stream they will acquire, and how much of their heritage cultures they will retain (e.g., Berry, 1997; Sam & Berry, 2010). With that said, however, demographic and contextual factors can (and often do) work to constrain the range of cultural identity options from which a given individual can choose. In particular, individuals whose physical features or foreign accents identify them with socially devalued groups may be precluded from full participation in the mainstream society in which they have settled (Schwartz, Unger, et al., 2010; Steiner, 2009). For example, in the United States, Hispanic immigrants—especially those from Mexico, Central America, and the Dominican Republic—may be looked upon with scorn by White Americans (Cornelius, 2002), especially by those who equate “American culture” with “White culture” (Morrison, Plaut, & Ybarra, 2010). In turn, negative perceptions of immigrant groups can lead to discrimination against individuals from these groups, both by adults (Liu & Nicholson-Crotty, 2010) and by children and adolescents (Brown, Spatzier, & Tobin, 2010). Such discrimination may manifest as lack of recognition and acknowledgement of the needs and rights of minority individuals (Licata et al., 2011) or in the form of verbal or physical offenses (Guerin, 2005). In any case, discrimination can send a message to young immigrant and minority individuals that they do not fit in the receiving society. As a result, it is entirely possible for a person to identify as American, British, French, Australian, and the like, but not to be accepted as such by members of the dominant cultural group (e.g., Portes & Rumbaut, 2001, 2006). For example, Portes and Rumbaut (2001) use the example of a young Korean American woman who “identifies with Americans, but Americans do not identify with me” (p. 191). The resulting feelings of rejection can be interpreted (among other ways) as discrimination. Conversely, second or later generation individuals from visible-minority groups may be labeled as foreigners or complemented on their fluency in the language of the receiving society—and this may also be taken as discriminatory because it labels the person as “something other than American” (Lee, 2005). Discrimination has been identified as among the most prominent and deleterious psychosocial stressors in the lives of immigrant and minority individuals, including adolescents and emerging adults. In particular, experiences of discrimination may be associated with depression and anxiety (Berkel et al., 2010) and with cigarette, alcohol, and illicit drug use (Flores, Tschann, Dimas,

Pasch, & de Groat, 2010; Wiehe, Aalsma, Liu, & Fortenberry, 2010). In the longer term, discrimination may lead to chronic physical, emotional, and health problems in adulthood (Finch & Vega, 2003; Williams & Mohammed, 2009).

THE INTERSECTION OF PERSONAL AND CULTURAL IDENTITY IN ADOLESCENCE AND EMERGING ADULTHOOD Thus far, we have considered personal and cultural identity, and their associations with psychosocial, personality, emotional, and health outcomes, separately. Until very recently, the literatures on various dimensions of identity have similarly remained separated (Schwartz, Zamboanga, & Weisskirch, 2008; Vignoles et al., 2011). However, adolescents and emerging adults establish identity-related commitments in personal, cultural, and other areas (Kiang, Yip, & Fuligni, 2008). The ways in which these multiple dimensions of identity relate to one another and to psychosocial, emotional, personality, and health indices have only recently begun to be studied. Although they emanate from very different metatheoretical traditions, personal and cultural dimensions of identity share a number of features in common. They both have the potential to protect against distress and against risk-taking behavior—in the form of personal identity synthesis and what Usborne and Taylor (2010) have labeled “cultural identity clarity.” Cultural identity clarity is akin to feeling a sense of bonding and solidarity with one’s heritage-cultural group (i.e., ethnic identity)—which, along with heritagecultural practices and values, is likely protective against depressive symptoms (Cano & Castillo, 2010; Torres & Ong, 2010), behavior problems (Dinh, Roosa, Tein, & Lopez, 2002; Yasui et al., 2004), and health-compromising activities (e.g., Marsiglia et al., 2004; Schwartz, Weisskirch, et al., 2010) for many adolescents and emerging adults. Research has suggested that, when personal and cultural dimensions of identity are used together as predictors of well-being, distress, and health risks, personal identity tends to emerge as a significant predictor whereas cultural identity does not (e.g., Schwartz, Mason, Pantin, Wang, et al., 2009; Schwartz, Zamboanga, Weisskirch, & Rodriguez, 2009). Indeed, indices of personal identity consolidation appear to mediate the contributions of cultural identity clarity—or both heritage and receiving cultural practices, values, and identifications—to psychosocial and health outcomes (Schwartz, Zamboanga, Weisskirch, &

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Wang, 2010; Usborne & Taylor, 2010). These patterns suggest that cultural identity may in fact represent a domain or aspect of personal identity, and that one’s personal self may include cultural elements (Schwartz, Armenta, et al., 2011). Given the confluence of individual and group levels of identity (Vignoles et al., 2011), whether personal identity or cultural identity is most salient in any given moment may depend on the situation at hand—specifically, whether group identity has been made salient by specific circumstances (cf. Spears, 2011). In particular, discriminatory events (both perceived and actual) can activate ethnic and cultural identities and can render them most “important” in a given situation (Rumbaut, 2008). Family needs and crises may also activate collectivist-based value systems—for example, the illness or death of a family member may cause one’s personal goals, values, and beliefs to be subjugated to family obligations. At the same time, however, it is easy to see how personal goals, values, and beliefs can be guided by cultural orientations. For example, a person with a highly individualistic value system may establish a set of goals largely on her or his own, without seeking or utilizing much input from others; whereas someone with a highly collectivist value system may internalize goals from significant others, or might at least seek (and adhere to) the opinions of family members before setting important goals (Triandis, 1995). The specific cultural system in which one resides, and the extent to which one endorses and identifies with this cultural system, are likely to constrain and direct the ways in which one goes about developing a sense of personal identity (Bosma & Kunnen, 2001). As a result, the direction of effects that Usborne and Taylor (2010) found in their series of studies (i.e., that personal identity mediated the relationship between cultural identity and psychosocial outcomes) is likely to reflect reality for many people. Personal identity is developed within a social, cultural, and historical context (Baumeister & Muraven, 1996; Burkitt, 2011)—such that the agentic, individualist, exploration-based pathway that Erikson (1950) and Marcia (1966) identified may not be functional in collectivist-oriented, non-Western contexts (Berman et al., 2011). Nonetheless, across cultural contexts, “successful” identity development is likely perceived as making and identifying with commitments. Whether commitments are developed using internal standards or based on group norms, they likely serve the same function—that is, to anchor the person within a set of social roles and responsibilities (Stryker, 2003). Whether this means entering into an assigned role in an Eastern society or settling

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down after a period of exploration in a Western country, the commitments into which one enters will establish a set of expectations for one’s future choices and behavior. For example, regardless of when it happens, having a child places one into the role of “parent,” and this role carries a set of defined expectations and responsibilities. Although these expectations and responsibilities differ from one cultural society to the next, some set of expectations and responsibilities accompanies the transition to parenthood across social and cultural groups. The term “commitment” refers both to a choice made to adopt a specific set of goals, values, and beliefs and to the roles and responsibilities that accompany having placed oneself (or having been placed) into a specific societal position (Schwartz, Vignoles, & Luyckx, 2011). Therefore, for example, when adolescents and emerging adults are considering whether they want to become parents at some point in their lives, they are considering not only the act of becoming a parent, but also the social roles and responsibilities that come along with it. Altogether, social and cultural contexts and forces, and the extent to which one identifies with them, help to direct the development of personal identity. However, what happens when one is transitioning from one cultural context to another, as in international migration, or when one has “roots in two cultures,” as in individuals born in one society but raised by parents who migrated from somewhere else? The construct of acculturation—by virtue of its operationalization as cultural identity change—implies that one’s cultural identity is in flux (Schwartz et al., 2006). How does one form a personal identity without a firm set of cultural principles to serve as a guide? And what of individuals who live in multicultural areas where no one cultural stream predominates, such as parts of Quebec, Belgium, Switzerland, South Africa, Hong Kong, or Singapore? Although research on the development of personal identity in situations of cultural identity change, flux, or multiplicity is scant, it may be possible to apply theories of biculturalism to the development of personal identity (Schwartz et al., 2006). As Benet-Mart´ınez and colleagues (e.g., Benet-Mart´ınez & Haritatos, 2005; Nguyen & BenetMart´ınez, 2007) have found with regard to the development of cultural identity among integrated bicultural individuals, the person selects identity elements from a number of cultural sources, depending on the compatibility of a given identity element with the overall sense of self that the person wishes to create. In this way, an integrated bicultural identity is agentic by nature. For example, a young Chinese American person may wish to develop a set of goals,

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values, and beliefs that combines familistic elements from Chinese culture with individual ingenuity and creativity from American culture. However, as is the case with the vast array of choices presented to young people by postindustrial Western societies, developing a sense of personal identity within a bicultural or multicultural context may not be entirely clear and straightforward. As noted by Chen, Benet-Mart´ınez, and Bond (2008), the process of developing a sense of cultural identity can be confusing, uncertain, and distressing for individuals who find their multiple cultural streams to be opposing or incompatible. The same may be true of personal identity. In the case of individuals who are from (or whose families are from) collectivist-based societies but are living in individualistic Western cultural contexts, the expectations of family members and other heritagecultural influences can clash with those of the receiving cultural stream. Rudmin (2003) characterizes biculturalism as a potentially precarious condition where any given set of identity choices may be met with resistance from either the heritage or receiving cultural community. For bicultural individuals who are not willing or able to integrate their multiple cultural streams, the process of developing a personal, as well as cultural, identity may be difficult, confusing, and frustrating.

AREAS IN NEED OF FURTHER RESEARCH We will close this chapter with a review of some areas in which extant knowledge needs expansion. The first hearkens back to one of the first issues we raised in the chapter—specifically, a closer, in-depth, empirical examination of Arnett’s (2007) contention that the majority of identity work in modern, industrialized societies now takes place during emerging adulthood rather than during adolescence. Cˆot´e and Bynner (2008), among others, have criticized Arnett’s notion of emerging adulthood by stating that it is an economic phenomenon rather than a developmental one. More specifically, they claim that the “luxury” of emerging adulthood is reserved for those individuals with the financial resources to attend college full-time or to otherwise delay entry into full adulthood, and that individuals without these financial resources are unlikely to experience emerging adulthood at all. So, for those individuals in the “forgotten half” (Halperin, 2001)—that is, those whose financial situations require them to enter the workforce in their teens or early 20s—does identity work occur during adolescence? And can individuals who do not attend college have similar developmental opportunities for growth in the years following adolescence as do college

students? Tanner (2006) comes to the conclusion that identity exploration should be possible for non-college-bound emerging adults, as long as supportive resources (e.g., policies, mentors) are available. A similar question can be posed regarding collectivist-based societies in which individualized decision making is discouraged. Does a period of emerging adulthood still occur in such societies, and if not, when does the majority of personal identity development take place? Second, and relatedly, the ways in which identity develops between early adolescence and emerging adulthood are in need of examination (Schwartz, 2005). We know that identity work begins in early adolescence (Archer, 1982) and that a sense of personal identity is first consolidated by the time one settles into a set of adult commitments (Schwartz, 2007). However, how does identity develop between these two points in the life span? Some longitudinal studies on personal identity (e.g., Klimstra, Hale, Raaijmakers, Branje, & Meeus, 2010; Luyckx, Goossens, & Soenens, 2006; Meeus et al., 2010; Schwartz, Mason, et al., 2008) have been conducted within adolescence or within emerging adulthood, but there has been a dearth of longitudinal studies conducted across these two age periods. In particular, an examination of the heterogeneity of developmental trajectories between early adolescence and emerging adulthood would provide a useful illustration of the ways in which personal identity development might proceed. For example, what are the developmental precursors and consequences of ruminative exploration, foreclosed commitments, or identity achievement? Third, we know that agency is an important prerequisite for the development of a coherent and synthesized sense of personal identity in most Western cultural contexts, but we do not yet know where agency comes from. How does it develop? What sorts of personality traits and developmental experiences in childhood and early adolescence are most likely to facilitate the development of agency later in adolescence and in emerging adulthood? Some studies (e.g., Soenens et al., 2007) have identified parenting processes that may be linked with self-determined functioning in adolescence and in emerging adulthood. However, it is not entirely clear whether this self-determined functioning is equivalent to the type of agency of which Erikson (1950) spoke and that Cˆot´e and colleagues (e.g., Cˆot´e, 2000, 2002; Cˆot´e & Levine, 2002; Cˆot´e & Schwartz, 2002) have linked with “successful” personal identity development (see Soenens & Vansteenkiste, 2011, for an extended discussion). Fourth, concerning cultural identity, it is not yet known how cultural identity develops—that is, the possible

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trajectories that it can follow. Although longitudinal studies have examined the course of ethnic identity in early adolescence (French et al., 2006), in later adolescence (Pahl & Way, 2006), and in emerging adulthood (Syed & Azmitia, 2010), the developmental courses of cultural practices and values, or of identification with the dominant or receiving society, have not been empirically examined. As Schwartz, Unger, and colleagues (2010) have reviewed, cultural practices, values, and identifications represent distinct components of acculturation and of cultural identity—and the developmental course of one of these components may not necessarily reflect the developmental course of the others. Moreover, although ethnic identity has received a great deal of empirical attention, identification with the dominant or receiving society has received surprisingly little attention (see Kiang, Witkow, Baldelomar, & Fuligni, 2010; Phinney et al., 1997; Schwartz, Weisskirch, et al., 2011, for examples of such research)—and all of the research to date on receiving or dominant culture identity has been cross-sectional. Fifth, the interface between personal and cultural identity is an extremely new and emerging area of study, and much remains to be investigated. Although some crosssectional work (e.g., Schwartz, Zamboanga, Weisskirch, & Wang, 2010; Usborne & Taylor, 2010) has examined the associations between personal and cultural identity, the ways in which these two dimensions of identity develop together has not been examined. Some work has suggested ways in which cultural contexts shape the development of personal identity. For example, consistency of self across time and place appears to be desirable in Western contexts but not in Eastern contexts (Cross et al., 2003), and identity exploration—at least the type proposed by Erikson and Marcia—appears consistent with American cultural standards but not with those in Asian countries (Berman et al., 2011). However, aside from these general principles, how do cultural and historical currents guide the development of personal identity (cf. Baumeister & Muraven, 1996)? How do people with individualistic or collectivistic personality tendencies differ in their patterns of personal identity development (Triandis, 1995)? Moreover, research has demonstrated that parents can socialize their children’s ethnic and cultural identities (Hughes et al., 2006; Schwartz & Zamboanga, 2008; Uma˜na-Taylor et al., 2006)—but what impact does this socialization have on the development of personal identity? Given that personal identity appears to mediate the associations of cultural identity to psychosocial and emotional outcomes (Schwartz, Zamboanga, Weisskirch, & Wang, 2010; Usborne & Taylor, 2010), the ways in which cultural processes influence

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personal identity are important to examine. Moreover, the ways in which personal identity develops in situations where cultural identity is changing or in flux—as well as how the resulting sense of personal identity may help to offset the potentially deleterious effects of cultural identity change—are in need of study (Schwartz et al., 2006). Does an integrated form of biculturalism indeed translate into the development of a synthesized sense of personal identity in individuals who are exposed to multiple cultural backgrounds or streams? Finally, the direction of effects between identity and psychosocial, emotional, and health outcomes is important to examine. Does a coherent sense of personal identity lead to positive emotional and psychosocial development, or vice versa? Some research has suggested that identity precedes emotional adjustment (Schwartz, Klimstra, et al., 2011), whereas other research suggests that the association may be reciprocal (Luyckx, Schwartz, Goossens, et al., 2008). As noted, recent work by Luyckx and colleagues (2011) seems to suggest that the direction of effects observed might very well depend, in part, on the developmental period under study. Associations between and among developmental processes may be quite different in adolescence versus in emerging adulthood. Another factor potentially influencing temporal sequences between identity and well-being is the time span under consideration (e.g., day-to-day versus longer-term change; LichtwarckAschoff, van Geert, Kunnen, & Bosma, 2008). Moreover, how personal and cultural identity are related to adjustment, and whether these associations are moderated by cultural context, is an open question. Some initial research indicates that personal identity may mediate the relationship between cultural identity and psychosocial and emotional adjustment. However, these studies have been conducted in the United States and Canada—countries characterized by individualistic, Western cultural streams (Cˆot´e, 2000; Cˆot´e & Allahar, 1994). It is unclear whether similar findings will emerge in Latin American, Asian, Middle Eastern, or African cultural contexts.

CONCLUSIONS Taken together, the field of identity development— including personal, cultural, and other dimensions of identity—in adolescence and emerging adulthood is an exciting area of research and offers great potential for understanding how and why some adolescents appear well-adjusted whereas others do not. At least five prominent themes have been included within the present review. First, identity development differs markedly

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across individuals, as well as across the cultural and historical contexts in which individuals are embedded. Understanding the development of identity requires understanding both intrapersonal (e.g., temperament, personality, self-understanding) and contextual/cultural determinants, as well as how these determinants work together. Second, within many Western cultural contexts, making commitments following a period of exploration appears to be the most “successful” way to develop one’s identity. However, this exploration may be marked by a sense of confusion and distress—though in most cases these are temporary symptoms. Third, the exercise of personal agency is critical in postindustrial Western countries where individuals are presented with a vast array of choices and where a period of time (i.e., emerging adulthood) may be set aside for identity work. Fourth, the ways in which identity develops in collectivist-oriented, non-Western contexts are not well understood—but it does appear that identity exploration and personal agency are not the primary considerations. Fifth, globalization and mass international migration have highlighted cultural processes as identity processes. These include not only ethnic identity—which is clearly an aspect of identity—but also cultural practices and values. These cultural identity processes may be most visible, and most amenable to study, in international migrants whose cultural orientations are markedly different from those of the society in which they have settled. The process of acculturation is, in itself, an identity transformation—that is, it is a process by which cultural identity changes. Moreover, cultural principles can be used to study the ways in which personal identity is developed within a cultural context. In particular, the agency that accompanies biculturalism—especially the integrated form of biculturalism—may help young immigrants (and children of immigrants) to develop a sense of personal identity while their cultural identities—or those of their parents—are in flux. In closing, both personal and cultural identity are rooted in rich theoretical and empirical literatures, and much is known about their associations with personality and psychosocial development—but much still remains to be understood. We hope that the issues discussed in this chapter have helped to bring together and summarize the existing literatures, as well as to highlight unanswered questions that can help to move these fields forward. In turn, the study of identity in its various forms can point to ways in which identity constructs can be used to promote adolescent and emerging adult wellness, to help prevent or reduce risk-taking behavior, and to facilitate successful transitions into responsible adulthood among today’s youth.

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CHAPTER 15

Positive Youth Development Processes, Philosophies, and Programs JACQUELINE V. LERNER, EDMOND P. BOWERS, KELLY MINOR, MICHELLE J. BOYD, MEGAN KIELY MUELLER, KRISTINA L. SCHMID, CHRISTOPHER M. NAPOLITANO, SELVA LEWIN-BIZAN, AND RICHARD M. LERNER

PYD AS A DEVELOPMENTAL PROCESS 365 THE STUDY OF ADOLESCENCE WITHIN THE RELATIONAL DEVELOPMENTAL SYSTEM 366 APPROACHES TO PYD AS A DEVELOPMENTAL PROCESS 367 RICHARD M. LERNER, JACQUELINE V. LERNER, AND COLLEAGUES AND THE STUDY OF INDIVIDUAL ←→ CONTEXT RELATIONAL PROCESSES AND PYD 373 PYD AS A PHILOSOPHY OR APPROACH TO YOUTH PROGRAMMING 379

PYD AS INSTANCES OF YOUTH PROGRAMS AND ORGANIZATIONS 381 PROBLEMS IN INTEGRATING THE THREE FACETS OF PYD SCHOLARSHIP 385 THE INTEGRATION OF PREVENTIVE AND PROMOTIVE APPROACHES TO YOUTH DEVELOPMENT 386 CONCLUSIONS 387 REFERENCES 387

Interests in the strengths of youth, the plasticity of human development, and the concept of resilience coalesced in the 1990s to foster the development of the concept of positive youth development (PYD; J. Lerner, Phelps, Forman, & Bowers, 2009). As discussed by Hamilton (1999), the concept of PYD was understood in at least three interrelated but nevertheless different ways: (1) as a developmental process; (2) as a philosophy or approach to youth programming; and (3) as instances of youth programs and organizations focused on fostering the healthy or positive development of youth. In the decade following Hamilton’s (1999) discussion of PYD, several different models of the developmental process believed to be involved in PYD were used to frame descriptive or explanatory research across the adolescent period (e.g., Benson, Scales, & Syversten, 2011; Damon, 2004; Larson, 2000; Lerner et al., 2005). As we argue below, all of these models of the developmental process reflect ideas associated with what are termed “relational developmental

systems” conceptions of human development (e.g., Overton, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume). In this chapter we will use the tripartite conception of PYD suggested by Hamilton (1999) as a frame to review the literature on (a) the different theoretical models of the PYD developmental process; (b) philosophical ideas about, or conceptual approaches to, the nature of youth programming with a special emphasis on the model of PYD with the most extensive empirical support, the Five Cs Model of PYD (Lerner et al., 2005, 2009, 2010, 2011b); and (c) key instances of programs aimed at promoting PYD. We conclude this chapter by discussing the conceptual and practical problems in integrating these three facets of PYD scholarship. We point to the use of employing both the PYD and prevention science approaches to adolescent development to maximize efforts to promote positive youth outcomes.

The preparation of this article was supported in part by grants from the National 4-H Council and the Thrive Foundation for Youth.

Developmental science seeks to describe, explain, and optimize intraindividual change and interindividual differences

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in intraindividual change across the life span (Baltes, Reese, & Nesselroade, 1977). The contemporary, cutting-edge theoretical frame for such scholarship involves relational developmental systems theoretical models (Overton, 2010; Overton & M¨uller, this volume). These models emphasize that the basic process of human development involves mutually influential relations between the developing individual and the multiple levels of his or her changing context. These bidirectional relations may be represented as individual ←→ context relations. These relations regulate (govern) the course of development (its pace, direction, and outcomes). When these “developmental regulations” involve individual ←→ context relations benefitting both the person and his or her ecology, they may be termed “adaptive” (Brandtst¨adter, 2006). Examples of these models include Bronfenbrenner’s bioecological theory (e.g., Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006), action theory models of intentional, goal-directed behaviors (e.g., Baltes, 1997; Brandtst¨adter, 2006; Heckhausen, 1999), Elder’s (1998) life-course theory, the Thelen and Smith (2006) approach to dynamic systems theory, Magnusson’s (1999; Magnusson & Stattin, 2006) holistic person-context interaction theory, and the Ford and Lerner (1992) and the Gottlieb (1998) developmental systems formulations. History, or temporality, is part of the ecology of human development that is integrated with the individual through developmental regulations. As such, there is always change and, as well, at least some potential for systematic change (i.e., for plasticity) across the life span (Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 2006; Lerner, 1984). This potential for change represents a fundamental strength of human development. Of course, plasticity means that change for the better or worse can characterize any individual’s developmental trajectory. Nevertheless, a key assumption of relational developmental systems theories—and, as we will note, of the use of these theories to understand both adolescent development in general and to frame the PYD conception of developmental processes more specifically—is that the developmental system is sufficiently diverse and complex such that some means may be found (by researchers and/or practitioners) to couple individual and context in manners that enhance the probability of change for the better, of promoting more positive features of human development (J. Lerner et al., 2009; Lerner, 2002, 2004). There is an enormous number of individual and contextual changes characterizing the adolescent period. For example, changes in the prefrontal cortex, increases in the interconnectivity among brain regions, and increases

in dopamine levels provide both vulnerabilities to risk and opportunities for growth in cognitive control and self-regulation (Steinberg, 2010). At the same time, most youth in Western societies are experiencing great contextual changes, such as changing schools (e.g., Eccles, 2004) and the increased relevance of peer pressure for risk taking (e.g., Gardner & Steinberg, 2005). Moreover, in adolescence, the individual has the cognitive, behavioral, and social relational skills to contribute actively and often effectively to his or her own developmental changes (Lerner, 1982; Lerner & Busch-Rossnagel, 1981; Lerner & Walls, 1999). Accordingly, adolescence is an ideal “ontogenetic laboratory” for studying the plasticity of human development and for exploring how coupling individual and contexts within the developmental system may promote positive development during this period.

THE STUDY OF ADOLESCENCE WITHIN THE RELATIONAL DEVELOPMENTAL SYSTEM Multiple dimensions of profound changes are prototypic of the adolescent period, involving levels of organization ranging from the physical and physiological, through the cognitive, emotional, and behavioral, and to the social relational and institutional. As already noted, plasticity represents a fundamental strength of the adolescent period (Lerner, 2005, 2009), in that it reflects the potential for systematic changes that may result in more positive functioning. If adaptive developmental regulations emerge or can be fostered between the plastic, developing young person and features of his context (e.g., the structure and function of his or her family, school, peer group, and community), then the likelihood will increase that youth may thrive (that is, manifest healthy, positive developmental changes) across the adolescent decade. Indeed, predicated on relational developmental systems theory, the links among the ideas of plasticity, adaptive developmental regulations, and positive development suggest that all young people have strengths that may be capitalized on to promote thriving (i.e., exemplary positive development; Benson et al., 2011; Lerner, 2004) across the adolescent years. For instance, one example of the emerging strengths of adolescents is their ability to contribute intentionally to adaptive developmental regulations with their context (Gestsd´ottir & Lerner, 2008). Such intentional selfregulation may involve the selection of positive goals (e.g., choosing goals that reflect important life purposes), using cognitive and behavioral skills (such as executive functioning or resource recruitment) to optimize the chances of

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actualizing one’s purposes and, when goals are blocked or when initial attempts at optimization fail, possessing the capacity to compensate effectively (P. Baltes & M. Baltes, 1990; Freund & Baltes, 2002). Simply, through the lens of relational developmental systems theory, it is possible to assert that youth represent “resources to be developed” (Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003a, 2003b). Increasingly, this strength-based view of adolescents has been used to study PYD within the United States (e.g., J. Lerner et al., 2009) and internationally (e.g., Gestsd´ottir & Lerner, 2007; Silbereisen & Lerner, 2007). As we have noted, this research has been framed at a metalevel by the ideas of individual ←→ context relations of focus within relational developmental systems models; in addition, the research has been influenced by interest in the characteristics of PYD that emerge from this relational process, by the individual and ecological bases of the development of these characteristics, and by interest in theoretically expected outcomes of the PYD process, e.g., youth community contribution or active and engaged citizenship (e.g., Zaff, Boyd, Li, Lerner, & Lerner, 2010). Together, these interests by scholars in the PYD process reflect the first emphasis within the PYD field that was identified by Hamilton (1999).

APPROACHES TO PYD AS A DEVELOPMENTAL PROCESS Current theoretical conceptions of the PYD developmental process have been framed within the relational developmental systems’ metatheoretical perspective (e.g., see Damon, 2004; Larson, 2000; J. Lerner et al., 2009). Nevertheless, there are several different instantiations of this theoretical approach. We now turn to a discussion of these approaches. William Damon and the Study of Purpose William Damon (2008; Damon, Menon, & Bronk, 2003; Mariano & Damon, 2008) approaches the study of the PYD process through an examination of the development of purpose in youth. Damon notes that a central indicator of PYD and youth thriving is engagement in pursuits that serve the common welfare and make meaningful contributions to communities. Damon assesses the ways in which youth go beyond their own self-centered needs and extend outward to the pursuit of goals that benefit the world. To Damon (2008), a purpose is a stable and generalized intention to accomplish something that is at once

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meaningful to the self and is of intended consequence to the world beyond the self. It is an “ultimate concern” or overall goal for one’s life, helping to organize one’s life decisions and actions, and is thus manifested in one’s behavior. The purpose is internalized, or “owned” by the individual, and therefore is central to his or her identity. As such, the operational criteria of purpose are as follows: • The person must have all elements of the definition: something to accomplish, a beyond-the-self rationale, plans for future action, meaningfulness to self, and incorporation into one’s identity (that is, behavior that is not driven by oughts); • The concern must function to organize the person’s decisions and activities in support of the concern; • The person must manifest the concern with visible action; and • The person cannot imagine himself/herself without the concern; it is necessary to do the activities related to the concern. In their program of research at the Stanford Center on Adolescence, Damon and his colleagues (e.g., Damon et al., 2003; Mariano & Damon, 2008) have examined youth purpose through a series of studies with youth across the United States. To understand adolescents’ potential sources of purpose, they surveyed a diverse group of youth from 6th, 9th, and 12th grades and from college, and asked respondents to indicate their level of dedication to 18 categories of purpose. A “category” refers to a life area that individuals find important, and in which they may be psychologically and actively invested. The categories included: family, country, personal growth, sports, academic achievement, good health, looking good, arts, making lots of money, lifework, general leadership, romance, political or social issues, happiness, religious faith or spirituality, community service, friends, and personal values (Mariano & Damon, 2008). Mariano and Damon (2008) indicate that contributions to community are a key indicator of positive youth development. They also present the idea that purpose is associated with increased prosocial behaviors and negatively associated with negative behaviors, and therefore is central to the study of PYD. In extending Damon’s work, Mariano and Going (2011) emphasize the person–context relationship, in which individuals are constantly interacting with their environment and receiving resources and opportunities from a surrounding network. Mariano and Going (2011) state that purpose helps young people express and satisfy their individual

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interests, strengths, and talents. They reassert that purpose in life can serve as a guide for adolescents and a way of adapting to aspects of life that adolescents may view as threatening. Two of the outcomes associated with having purpose in one’s life are coping mechanisms and psychological cohesion. Purpose helps adolescents cope by allowing them to see the positive side of whatever challenge they may be encountering. Mariano and Going (2011) found that adolescents with a more comprehensive sense of purpose focused on future improvements and the positive states that could result from challenging situations, more so than was the case among adolescents with a less comprehensive sense of purpose. In turn, psychological cohesion is understood as a complementary set of values that adds to one’s moral character, such as humility, integrity, and vitality. Purpose helps improve the psychological aspects of an adolescent’s life by acting as the glue that unifies these moral characteristics. An individual with strong psychological cohesion has character traits, morals, and values that all flow together positively because of having an identified purpose in life. In addition to suggesting that purpose is central to youth thriving, Damon and colleagues (e.g., Mariano & Damon, 2008) suggest that a youth’s purpose in life can be defined by their religion and spirituality. Pamela Ebstyne King and her colleagues (e.g., King, Carr, & Boitor, 2011) have also studied the role of religion, spirituality, and PYD in people’s lives from a relational developmental systems perspective. They assert that the constructs of religion and spirituality are complex and multidimensional, and include cognitions, feelings, behaviors, experiences, and relationships. They maintain that using relational developmental systems theory creates a perspective that allows for both the individual and the context to be included. Reflecting Damon’s conception of purpose, King et al. (2011) define spirituality as a developing sense of identity that motivates youth to care for themselves and, as well, to contribute to the greater good. They note that transcendence, fidelity, and generative actions are all key to the development of spirituality. Transcendence exists when people think beyond the self, and attribute or see significance in something bigger than themselves. For example, this focus may relate to God or to a higher being with a sense of divinity, to humanity in general, or to specific communities (such as the church). Fidelity is the adherence to transcendence, where people consistently connect to a world beyond themselves. When one has acquired both transcendence and fidelity, he or she is motivated to produce generative actions in that they promote and develop one’s own life as well as the lives in one’s community.

King and colleagues (2011) note that spirituality and religiosity are linked to PYD in several ways. First, brain development during adolescence allows for more abstract thought, and adolescents begin to understand the notion of God and better understand religious beliefs. Spirituality combines one’s values and beliefs to form an individual identity and help identify a purpose in life. These developments lead to behaviors indicative of thriving. Transcendence also aids this development through providing motivation to be altruistic and more understanding of devotion, responsibility, and commitment. In a study of urban public high school students, Furrow, King, and White (2004) found a positive relationship between religious self-understanding, personal meaning, and prosocial personality. Differences existed in the relationship of personal meaning to prosocial personality across age and gender cohorts. Furrow and colleagues found a significant, positive association between personal meaning and prosocial concerns among boys, but no significant association among girls. This finding suggests that personal meaning may be more applicable for males than females. Overall these findings provide support for considering that, among youth, religion is a developmental resource associated with personal meaning and with concern and compassion for others. While Damon (2008) sees purpose as an indicator of PYD, he notes that a next step in his research will require a deeper understanding of the ways that young people are purposeful. Purposeful young people may indeed be contributing to something beyond themselves, but whether that contribution is for self-serving reasons and social approval or an end in itself may be an important distinction for understanding how purpose and contribution are associated with different facets of adolescent development. Peter Benson and Search Institute and the Study of Developmental Assets The work of Peter Benson and his colleagues at Search Institute (e.g., Benson, 2008; Benson et al., 2011) has been integral in providing the vocabulary and vision about the strengths of young people and the communities in which they reside. Coining the term “developmental assets,” Benson and his colleagues describe “internal” or individual assets, which are a set of “skills, competencies, and values” of a young person. These assets are grouped into four categories: (1) commitment to learning; (2) positive values; (3) social competencies; and (4) positive identity (Benson et al., 2011). These individual assets represent the talents, energies, strengths, constructive interests, and

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“sparks” that every young person possesses (Benson, 2008). Thriving occurs as a result of aligning these individual strengths with a community’s “external” or ecological assets, which are conceived as “environmental, contextual, and relational features of socializing systems” and are organized into four categories: (1) support; (2) empowerment; (3) boundaries and expectations; and (4) constructive use of time (e.g., Benson et al., 2011). In a series of studies, Benson and his colleagues found these assets to be predictive of seven behavioral indicators of thriving, including: (1) school success; (2) leadership; (3) helping others; (4) maintenance of physical health; (5) delay of gratification; (6) valuing diversity; and (7) overcoming adversity (Leffert et al., 1998; Scales, Benson, Leffert, & Blyth, 2000). For example, achievement motivation and school engagement, which are internal assets, in combination with time spent in youth programs, which is an external asset, significantly predicted school success for six different racial/ethnic groups of 6th- to 12th-grade students. In turn, higher levels of assets have been related to positive developmental outcomes such as higher school achievement, better physical health, lower levels of risk behaviors, and resilience (Reininger et al., 2003; Scales, Leffert, & Vraa, 2003). Benson and colleagues have emphasized the practical application of research on the developmental assets by highlighting the role of communities in fostering wellbeing and positive development among young people. In the last two decades, the work of the Search Institute has been useful in helping communities to develop long-term goals for PYD. Today, more than 300 communities across the country have incorporated the Search Institute assetbuilding framework. In sum, Benson and colleagues’ focus on research and applications is aimed at sustaining the strengths of youth and building upon them, rather than on eliminating risk behaviors. Current work by Benson and colleagues (e.g., Benson et al., 2011) seeks to extend the developmental assets approach to diverse youth, both in the United States and internationally. Jacquelynne Eccles, the Study of Stage-Environment Fit, and Expectancy-Value Theory Jacquelynne Eccles’s work focuses on elucidating how a “fit” between contextual variables (e.g., schools, families, and youth programs) and individual characteristics (e.g., motivational constructs such as expectations and values) contributes to the healthy, positive development of adolescents (e.g., Eccles et al., 1993; Eccles & Wigfield, 2002;

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Gutman & Eccles, 2007). Through a focus on assessing early and middle adolescents’ relationships within families, transitions to junior high or middle school, and participation in youth programs, Eccles and colleagues have forwarded a theoretically rich and empirically robust body of work indicating that social contexts must be developmentally appropriate for the youth populations they serve in order to ensure a (developmental) “stage-environment fit” that motivates adolescents and that promotes their positive development (e.g., Eccles, 2004). When youth develop in environments that respond to their changing needs, they are more likely to experience positive outcomes; youth in nonresponsive families, schools, or programs may experience difficulties and develop problems. Accordingly, when adolescents develop in settings reflecting stageenvironment fit, positive and healthy changes occur. Such fit presupposes that youth and context act in mutually beneficial ways toward each other (e.g., Brandtst¨adter, 1998; Lerner, 2006); that is, there are adaptive developmental regulations between youth and their contexts. Much of Eccles’s work examines the variables that motivate adolescents to act in ways to promote their positive development. Specifically, Eccles and colleagues use the expectancyvalue model of achievement-related choices (e.g., Eccles, 2004) to understand youth-context relations. This model holds that an individual’s activity choice, persistence, and performance are related to his or her expectations of success and value for the activity, which in turn are influenced by a variety of other personal and contextual factors (Eccles & Wigfield, 2002). Using this model, Eccles and colleagues have identified the various characteristics of schools that better support an adolescent’s expectancy for success and value for academic goals (Eccles & Roeser, 2009). For example, these school characteristics include teachers’ expectations for high student achievement and the provision of structured after-school activities (e.g., Eccles & Gootman, 2002). Eccles and colleagues have also found that several characteristics common to the United States education system, most notably the transition into junior high or middle school, often have adverse effects on young adolescents’ motivation, achievement, and positive development (e.g., Eccles & Roeser, 2009). The work of Eccles and colleagues provides a theoretical model for and empirical evidence of the dynamic person ←→ context interactions that result in positive outcomes for young people. That is, contextual variables influence youth characteristics, which in turn affect the type of contexts with which youth are engaged. While Eccles’s

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primary focus has been on the school factors that influence youth motivation, we now turn to Reed Larson’s work on youth motivation within youth development programs. Reed Larson and the Study of Motivation, Active Engagement, and Real-Life Challenges For Larson (2006), PYD is “a process in which young people’s capacity for being motivated by challenge energizes their active engagement in development” (p. 677). For positive development to occur, the motivational system must become activated, and remain engaged in multiple domains of development, while young people deal with everyday real-life challenges. Larson characterizes a young person’s initiative as both a key component of PYD and, as well, an important focal point for youth development programs seeking to promote PYD (Larson, 2000). Defining initiative as “the capacity to direct cumulative effort over time toward achievement of a long term goal” (Larson, Hansen, & Walker, 2005, p. 160), Larson (2000) posits that initiative is a central requirement for “components of PYD, such as creativity, leadership, altruism, and civic engagement” (p. 170). Larson’s work looks at the match between the experiences of adolescents and the requirements of the adult world they are preparing to enter. He seeks to understand this integration by describing the diversity of developmental tasks, skills, and competencies adolescents need to develop in order to successfully transition into adulthood in different cultures. With his focus on agency and initiative, much of the recent work by Larson and colleagues focuses on how youth development programs can best develop these and related skills in participating youth (e.g., Dawes & Larson, 2011). Larson has suggested that across diverse programs, an important component for the development of initiative may be the concurrent development of personal connections with adult leaders or other participating peers. Out-of-school-time (OST) activity is a context that Larson has studied in depth. Programs with structured activities are seen as contexts in which youth can act as producers of their own positive development (Dworkin, Larson, & Hansen, 2003; Larson et al., 2004; Lerner, 1982); such contexts offer opportunities to develop skills and competencies necessary for negotiating the real world (Mahoney, Larson, Eccles, & Lord, 2005). These skills and competencies include taking initiative, developing leadership, and learning responsibility, as well as strategic and teamwork skills (Larson, 2000; Larson & Hansen, 2005; Larson, Hansen, & Moneta, 2006; Larson et al., 2005; Larson & Walker, 2006; Larson, Walker, & Pearce,

2005). At the same time, participation in structured activities may be associated with negative experiences such as stress, inappropriate adult behavior, negative influences, social exclusion, and negative group dynamics. In all types of programs, adults were found to play an important role in facilitating positive development (Larson & Hansen, 2005; Larson & Walker, 2006; Larson et al., 2004, 2005). Successful adult leaders use techniques such as following the lead of youth, cultivating a culture of youth input, monitoring and creating intermediate steps in task management, and stretching and pushing youth (Larson et al., 2004). Larson and Angus (2011) identify youth programs as an ideal place for adolescent skill building, especially when the content of the program relates to skills of action (e.g. planning and creating events or strategies). Such programs are also a means to further adolescent empowerment. However, Larson notes that an issue has arisen between the professionals who work with these adolescents and their ability to empower them. For example, it is common for adult leaders to become uncertain about how much autonomy to give the adolescent, or how much of their own agency and knowledge they should use in helping the adolescent develop. Comparatively, youth report that they like their advisors giving them freedom, but also that their assistance was helpful. Thus, some balance of assistance and freedom may be optimal. One of Larson’s many contributions to the field of youth development is the close attention he has paid to the specific aspects of youth development programs, such as developmental opportunities and actions of adults who contribute to positive development. His focus on the developmental processes that occur with youth in successful programs elucidates possible intrapersonal pathways towards positive youth development. Margaret Beale Spencer and the PVEST Model Margaret Beale Spencer’s Phenomenological Variant of Ecological Systems Theory (PVEST) is a dynamic and systemic framework for studying development that takes into account social structural factors, cultural influences, and individual experiences, as well as individuals’ perceptions of these features (Spencer, 2006b). A central feature of this model is an emphasis on the ways in which youth make sense of their contexts and the role that these understandings play in their perceptions of events, people, and opportunities in their environments. The work of Spencer and her colleagues and students has especially focused on how youth respond to their environments when they

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

are seen as reflecting social inequities or injustices, using PVEST as a framework for interpreting their findings. An important theoretical consequence of this model for the study of PYD is that different youth will experience the same events and settings through different lenses, which can yield different interpretations and effects. Thus, while an after-school homework club might promote academic competence for some youth, for others the same context might evoke disturbing reminders of earlier unavailability of resources, such as access to books and teacher help. The effectiveness of this asset, then, is likely to vary according to youth perceptions of this setting. While attention has been paid to the importance of bidirectional interactions of individual characteristics and ecological contexts, Spencer argues that the role of structural inequality must be considered as well. The framework of PYD and thriving is intended to be a general theory of human development that should be applicable to all youth. Spencer’s model provides a way to include the systematic effects of shared contexts on youth perceptions of their environments in the transactional study of PYD. Spencer’s research with the PVEST model has focused especially on youth of color and on poor youth. In part, her scholarship is a critique of researchers’ “failure to consider their [youth of color’s] unique human development experiences in socially constructed and culturally unique contexts” (Spencer, 2006a, p. 271; Spencer, Swanson, & Cunningham, 1991). The contexts of underserviced neighborhoods, impoverished communities, and families under stress that often characterize urban, and frequently African American, children, and the lifelong structural effects of these contexts, are generally ignored or characterized as random error in many developmental models (Spencer, Noll, Stoltzfus, & Harpalini, 2001). In addition, Spencer’s work points directly to the need to study positive outcomes for all youth, defined within the cultures and contexts in which youth and their families find themselves (Spencer, 2006a). The PVEST model provides a nuanced structure in which to do this research. This contribution exists in part because the everyday experiences of race, which include both overt and subtle racism with which people of color must learn to cope, and the demands of socialization, which all youth face, are explicitly acknowledged and modeled (Lee, Spencer, & Harpalani, 2003). The work of Spencer and her colleagues brings notions of injustice and inequality into developmental models. Structural inequity, racism, and poverty are not individual characteristics, nor are they context-specific. They are pervasive facts of American life that affect all segments of the population in various, complex ways. At the same time,

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the actual experience is perceived at the individual level. What one adolescent experiences as stress may not affect his or her neighbor or sibling in the same way (Spencer, 1995). Spencer argues that to effectively promote thriving, these factors will need to be understood better and incorporated into the models and methods of PYD. Her scholarship offers a powerful frame for such research. As well, it stands in many ways as the conscience for our field, as a means to keep issues of social justice and rigorous, theory-predicated developmental science integrated and at the forefront of our scholarly agenda. Consistent with the work of Spencer, other researchers have examined how positive development may occur in contexts that are marked by high risk and adversity. One key focus has been on the study of resilience among youth. Ann Masten and the Study of Resilience Masten (2001) notes that to be considered resilient, an individual must not only be identified as experiencing adversity, but he or she must also be deemed as doing “good” or “okay” in terms of the quality of adaptation or of developmental outcomes. Accordingly, her work involves “understanding behavior problems in the full context of human development . . . focus[ing] on variations in adaptation” (Masten, 2004, p. 311). She believes that research on positive and maladaptive functioning and development are mutually informative (Masten, 2001, 2004). Masten’s work on determining what constitutes positive adaptation focuses on competence in age-salient developmental tasks (e.g., Masten, 2001; Masten, Obradovi´c, & Burt, 2006). Thus, resilience is a dynamic construct, as developmentally appropriate tasks vary according to the age of the individual as well as in relation to the cultural and historical context in which the individual was raised. Competence in managing the salient developmental tasks of one’s sociocultural context is a multidimensional operationalization of adaptation, as there are multiple tasks during any given developmental stage in any given place at any given time. Within this framework, maladaptive development would be operationalized as failure to meet the expectations of a given society for several domains of development or for one major domain (Masten, 2001). According to Masten (2001), resilience occurs as the result of mutually influential individual ←→ context relations. Therefore, young people whose lives are characterized as resilient may be identified not only by the competence they develop with respect to developmental tasks, but also by the quality of resources available to them. This conceptual orientation has led Masten to study

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the cascades of individual ←→ context relations that are linked to the presence of resilience in adolescent development, arguing that different interactions occur in developing systems and result in spreading effects across levels, among domains at the same level, and across different systems or generations. These different interactions have cumulative consequences for development (e.g., Masten & Cicchetti, 2010). In her own work with the Project Competence group (Masten et al., 1999) and in reviews of the resilience literature (Masten & Coatsworth, 1998), Masten specifies that three adaptive systems are crucial for the development of competence: parenting, self-regulation skills, and cognitive functioning. For example, in the 10-year assessment of their urban sample (Masten et al., 1999), Masten and colleagues found evidence to support the position that cognitive functioning and parenting quality are fundamental adaptational systems, as they predicted current and future adaptation in children and adolescents (academic achievement, conduct, and peer social acceptance). The work of Masten highlights the need to study dynamic person–context relationships and the importance of plasticity for understanding the intraindividual changes and interindividual differences in intraindividual changes that mark human development. Findings from this personcentered approach have come up in contradiction to a belief of many risk-focused social scientists—that risk factors for the most part predict negative outcomes. Findings from resilience research suggest that risk factors are predictive of negative outcomes for only about 20% to 49% of a given high-risk population (Rutter, 1987, 2000; Werner & Smith, 2001). In contrast, the supports and opportunities that buffer the effects of adversity and enable development to proceed appear to predict positive outcomes in 50% to 80% of individuals in a high-risk population. From resilience research such as Masten’s, scholars and practitioners are provided information about supports and opportunities that might serve as protective factors not only for youth facing adversity, but for all young people. Young people experience several transitions in which the supports and opportunities identified in Masten’s research become especially relevant. In the next section, we review Stephen and Mary Agnes Hamilton’s work on the assets that support youth during a transition indicative of youth competence—the school-to-work transition. Stephen Hamilton and Mary Agnes Hamilton and Positive Adolescent-to-Adult Transitions The scholarship of Hamilton and Hamilton (e.g., Hamilton, 1994; M. Hamilton & Hamilton, 2005; S. Hamilton &

Hamilton, 1999, 2006, 2009) elucidates the developmental processes that encompass the transition from adolescence to adulthood, with a particular emphasis on the schoolto-work transition and the role of adults, programs, and institutions in supporting this transition. The transition to adulthood is defined by changes in social roles, as adolescents shift from being dependent upon adults to being capable of caring for self and others. This shift is structured by the many contexts in which a youth is embedded—family, school, work, and society. The Hamiltons’ scholarship provides theory and research that helps frame our understanding of the issues faced by youth trying to connect school and work. In addition, the Hamiltons offer ideas for policies and programs useful for enhancing the school-to-work connection for all youth and, in particular, for those adolescents who seek full-time employment immediately after completion of high school. For instance, studying adolescents and young adults from seven nations—United States, Germany, Japan, Austria, Switzerland, Denmark, and Sweden—Hamilton (1994) noted that “Adolescents who believe their current efforts will bring them closer to a desirable future are far more likely to work hard in school and avoid self-destructive behavior than those who are either unable to think about the future or who believe their prospects are beyond their control” (pp. 267–268). To attain the link they desire between their adolescent school context and their young adult work context, adolescents must consider two key facets of the worlds of education and work/career: transparency and permeability. Transparency describes the extent to which young people can “see through” the intricacies of the stated and the unstated rules of the educational system and the labor market and, using this understanding, plan a course of action to move from where they are in the present (e.g., a senior in high school) to a goal they have for the future (e.g., employment as an electrical engineer, as an accountant, or as a beautician). Permeability involves the amount of effort needed to move from, say, a plan involving becoming an electrical engineer to a plan involving becoming an orthodontist or to a plan involving becoming a sales clerk if one has decided that one is no longer interested in becoming a beautician. The Hamiltons’ work highlights how subtle features of the contexts within which youth develop contribute to their positive development in several important ways. For example, for youth in poverty, the school-to-work transition is the best opportunity to rise above their current socioeconomic status (S. Hamilton & Hamilton, 2009). However, for this transcendence to occur, youth must reside in societies that allow social mobility and live during a

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

time when this mobility is possible. The success of this transition is also dependent on individual characteristics, including educational and employment experiences. A poor youth born in a relatively mobile society such as the United States has varied chances of a successful transition to work, depending on the era in which he or she was born, his or her race or ethnicity, and his or her ability to meet the requirements of a desired position. In short, the school-towork transition is defined by normative and nonnormative changes in individual–context relationships that are subject to individual, social, and historical influences. We turn now to a model of PYD that incorporates these multilevel concepts into its framing of positive youth development: the Five Cs model of Lerner, Lerner, and colleagues.

RICHARD M. LERNER, JACQUELINE V. LERNER, AND COLLEAGUES AND THE STUDY OF INDIVIDUAL ←→ CONTEXT RELATIONAL PROCESSES AND PYD The model of the PYD process used by Lerner, Lerner, and their colleagues (e.g., Lerner et al., 2005; R. Lerner, Lerner, von Eye, Bowers, & Lewin-Bizan, 2011b; Lerner et al., 2011a) explicitly draws on the individual ←→ context relational conception to develop a model of the PYD process. This model has been elaborated in the context of the longitudinal study of PYD conducted by R. Lerner, Lerner, and colleagues, the 4-H Study of PYD (e.g., Bowers et al., 2010; Lerner et al., 2005). This research seeks to identify the individual and ecological relations that may promote thriving and, as well, that may have a preventive effect in regard to risk/problem behaviors. Within the 4-H Study, thriving is seen as the growth of attributes that mark a flourishing, healthy young person, e.g., the characteristics termed the Five Cs of PYD—competence, confidence, character, connection, and caring (Eccles & Gootman, 2002; Lerner et al., 2005; Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003a, 2003b). A key hypothesis tested in this approach to the developmental process of PYD is that, if: (a) the strengths of youth (e.g., a young person’s cognitive, emotional, and behavioral engagement with the school context, having the “virtue” of hope for the future, or possession of intentional self-regulation skills such as Selection [S], Optimization [O], and Compensation [C]); can (b) be aligned with the resources for positive growth found in families, schools, and communities—for instance, the capacities of adults to provide for young people a nurturing, positive milieu in which their strengths may be enhanced

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and positively directed (e.g., Benson et al., 2011; DuBois & Rhodes, 2006; Karcher, Davis, & Powell, 2002; LewinBizan, Bowers, & Lerner, 2010; Rhodes & Lowe, 2009); then (c) young people’s healthy development may be optimized (Lerner, 2004). In addition, given that positively developing youth should be involved in adaptive developmental regulations, then a thriving young person should act to contribute to the context that is benefiting him or her; there should be contributions to self, family, community, and civil society. —Jeliˇciˇc, Bobek, Phelps, Lerner, & Lerner, 2007; Lerner et al., 2005

In other words, if positive development rests on mutually beneficial relations between the adolescent and his or her ecology, then thriving youth should be positively engaged with and act to enhance their world. As well, they should be less prone to engage in risk/problem behaviors. Figure 15.1 presents an illustration of the R. Lerner and Lerner conception of the PYD developmental process. As indicated in the figure, the developmental process envisioned by Lerner and Lerner (e.g., Lerner et al., 2005) to be involved in PYD involves adaptive developmental regulations between the strengths of youth and the developmental assets present in their ecologies. These mutually beneficial individual ←→ context relations are depicted as being associated with PYD (and the Five Cs associated with this construct) and, in turn, with the enhanced probability of youth contributions to their ecology and with lowered probabilities of risk/problem behaviors. The outcomes of these adaptive developmental regulations feed back to the individual and his or her context and thus create a nonrecursive basis for further adaptive developmental regulations. The figure illustrates as well that these adaptive developmental regulations and their positive and problematic sequelae exist within the broader ecology of human development. This ecology includes cultural and, as well, historical (temporal) variation, and thus introduces change at all levels of organization within the developmental system (Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006; Elder, 1998). Such changes are manifested by intraindividual change, by interindividual differences in intraindividual change, and by normative and non-normative contextual variation (Baltes et al., 1977).

Empirical Support for the Five Cs Model of PYD To test the ideas presented in Figure 15.1, researchers at the Institute for Applied Research in Youth Development (IARYD) at Tufts University launched the 4-H Study of Positive Youth Development in the Fall of 2002. The 4-H Study of Positive Youth Development is a longitudinal

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Social networks

Self

Institutions

Family

+

Adaptive development regulations

Broader ecology of human development

Contribution Ecological assets Competence Access to resources

Individuals

Confidence

Community

Positive youth development (PYD)

Character

Caring

Civil society

?

Connection

Strengths of adolescents

Risk/Problem behaviors −

Intentional selfregulation

School engagement

Hopeful future expectations

Depression

Delinquency

Substance use

Time

Figure 15.1 A relational developmental systems model of the individual ←→ context relations involved in the R. Lerner and Lerner conception of the PYD developmental process.

investigation supported by a grant from the National 4-H Council and the Altria Corporation. Data were collected annually from 5th through 12th grades. The 4-H Study sought to access youth in their actual environments, rather than conducting randomized controlled trials. In these environments, youth and their parents, rather than research investigators, make decisions about how they spend their time. We provide here only a brief description of the methodology of the study; full details of the methodology have been presented in numerous empirical publications (e.g., Bowers et al., 2010; Jeliˇciˇc et al., 2007; Lerner et al., 2005; Phelps et al., 2007, 2009; Theokas & Lerner, 2006). The 4-H Study uses a form of longitudinal sequential design. Fifth graders, gathered during the 2002–2003 school year (which was Wave 1 of the study), were the initial cohort within this design. To maintain at least initial levels of power for within-time analyses and to permit assessment of the effects of retesting, subsequent waves of the study involved the addition of a new cohort (of youth of the current grade level of the initial cohort); this new cohort was

then followed longitudinally. Overall, across eight waves of the study, approximately 7,000 youth and 3,500 of their parents from 42 states were surveyed. At all eight waves, the sample varied in race, ethnicity, socioeconomic status, family structure, rural-urban location, geographic region, and program participation experiences. Data were collected through the use of a student questionnaire (SQ), a parent questionnaire (PQ), and—to assess facets of the settings within which youth develop—from school district administrators and from Web-based or census tract data, for example, about community and school resources and school climate. These data collection procedures enabled the identification of the resources, or developmental assets, that exist in these settings of youth. In addition, through obtaining information about the young person’s strengths (e.g., intentional self regulation, school engagement, and hopeful future expectations) the study assessed the individual strengths of adolescents. Patterns of participation in OST activities are also assessed in this study. These activities include PYD programs (such as 4-H, Boys & Girls Clubs, Scouts,

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

YMCA, and Big Brothers/Big Sisters), sports, arts and crafts, interest clubs, religious clubs, performing arts organizations, or service organizations. Information about civic engagement/civic contribution; future aspirations and expectations; relationships with parents, friends, and other adults; and values were also measured. In addition, parents were asked about the nature and composition of their household, their parenting style, and their education, employment, and neighborhood. Key Discoveries to Date Both the initial findings of the 4-H study and the more recent findings have brought empirical data to bear on several key ideas within the Lerner and Lerner PYD perspective. We discuss several discoveries about the key premises of the Lerner and Lerner PYD model, including the structure of PYD, its antecedents (youth strengths and ecological assets), and its functional significance for youth positive and problematic outcomes. The Structure of PYD Support for the structural model of PYD illustrated in Figure 15.1 has been provided by the 4-H Study dataset from the beginning of the adolescent period through, to date, 11th grade (e.g., Bowers et al., 2010; Lerner et al., 2005; Phelps et al., 2009). For instance, Phelps and colleagues (2009) assessed the structure and development of PYD from 5th through 7th grades of the 4-H Study and provided evidence of a latent construct of PYD that generalized across the early years of adolescent development and that could be operationalized by lower-order latent constructs representing the Five Cs. Bowers and colleagues (2010) extended these findings by demonstrating that the structure of PYD in middle adolescence (8th through 10th grades) was comparable to the structure of this construct present across the early years of adolescence. Bowers and colleagues found that while the overall structure of PYD was maintained across 8th through 10th grades, the scales relevant to measuring the Five Cs were slightly different for two of the Cs during middle adolescence than for early adolescence. That is, reflective of developmental change, athletic competence was no longer a relevant indicator of Competence during middle adolescence. In turn, physical appearance significantly loaded on the latent construct of Confidence. The Strengths of Youth From the relational developmental systems PYD perspective, all young people have strengths that may be

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capitalized on to promote thriving across the adolescent years. One example of the emerging strengths of adolescents is their ability to contribute intentionally to the adaptive developmental regulations with their context, for instance, as indexed through the use of selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC) behaviors (Freund & Baltes, 2002; Gestsd´ottir & Lerner, 2007, 2008). Other instances of strengths are specific self regulations in key contexts of adolescents, for example, school engagement (Li, 2011), and youth beliefs and emotional structures pertinent to their futures (Schmid, Phelps, Kiely, et al., 2011). For instance, having a hopeful future orientation may energize the activation of the self-regulatory skills of youth, even in the face of challenges to their opportunities to contribute to the adaptive developmental regulations requisite for positive development. Intentional Self-Regulation Using the selection (S), optimization (O), and compensation (C) (or SOC) measure developed by P. Baltes, M. Baltes, and colleagues (e.g., Baltes, 1997; Freund & Baltes, 2002) to index intentional self regulation (ISR), Gestsd´ottir, Lerner and their colleagues have found that SOC, conceptualized as reflecting the individual’s “contribution” to adaptive individual ←→ context relationships, covaries positively with positive youth development (PYD) and negatively with problem behaviors (e.g., Gestsd´ottir, Bowers, von Eye, Napolitano, & Lerner, 2010; Gestsd´ottir & Lerner, 2007; Gestsd´ottir, Lewin-Bizan, von Eye, Lerner, & Lerner, 2009; Zimmerman, Phelps, & Lerner, 2007, 2008). Lerner and colleagues have also identified the structure of SOC over the adolescent period. They found that, in early adolescence (5th, 6th, and 7th grades), SOC was best represented as a global structure rather than three differentiated processes (Gestsd´ottir & Lerner, 2007), but, by 8th grade, the tripartite, elective selection, optimization, and compensation structure of SOC was identified (Gestsd´ottir et al., 2009) and by 10th grade, Gestsd´ottir and colleages (2010) confirmed the presence of a four-component structure of intentional selfregulation: Elective Selection (ES), Optimization (O), Compensation (C), and Loss-Based Selection (LBS). In each study, SOC scores correlated positively with indicators of PYD and negatively with substance use, delinquency, and depressive symptoms. Bowers, Gestsd´ottir, Geldhof et al. (2011) examined the development of intentional self regulation across seven years of adolescence (5th through 11th grades) to ascertain whether distinctive patterns of ISR development existed, whether these trajectories differed in relation to

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several 5th-grade parenting characteristics, and whether ISR trajectories were linked to positive and negative developmental outcomes at 11th grade. Across the developmental period spanning 5th through 11th grades, four distinct trajectories of global SOC development could be identified—Steady Decline, Elevated , Pronounced Decline, and Late Onset. The majority of youth in the sample experienced a steady decline in global SOC. Lower levels of parental warmth, monitoring, and school involvement at Grade 5 predicted Late-Onset ISR development, while Pronounced Decline adolescents reported lower levels of PYD and Contribution in 11th grade. These findings highlight the importance of recognizing the principles of multipotentiality, equifinality, and multifinality (Cicchetti & Rogosch, 1996; von Bertalanffy, 1968) when conducting developmental research. That is, initially disparate ISR groups arrived at similar developmental outcomes through different pathways whereas groups who reported similar global SOC levels at the onset of adolescence were significantly different in 11th grade. Hopeful Future Emotions, such as hope for one’s future, along with the cognitive and behavioral skills youth need to activate SOC skills to achieve future goals, may also play important roles in the development of positive and problematic characteristics manifested across adolescence. Using data from youth participants from the 7th, 8th, and 9th grades of the 4-H Study, Schmid, Phelps, Kiely, and colleagues (2011) assessed the role of a hopeful future in predicting growth trajectories of positive and negative developmental outcomes, including PYD, Contribution, risk behaviors, and depressive symptoms. The SOC measure was also included as a covariate to predict developmental outcomes. Controlling for sex and SES, higher levels of both hopeful future and SOC significantly predicted membership in the most favorable trajectories. Hopeful future was a stronger predictor than SOC for each of the outcomes assessed. In a subsequent study exploring the developmental associations between hopeful future expectations and SOC, Schmid and colleagues (Schmid, Phelps, & Lerner, 2011) found that although both constructs were strong predictors of PYD in middle adolescence, the results indicated that earlier hopeful expectations for the future may be influential for later intentional self-regulation abilities. School Engagement School engagement is a person ←→ context relational construct that depicts the way in which the individual cognitively, emotionally, and behaviorally interacts with the

school setting (Li, Lerner, & Lerner, 2010), and, as such, school engagement may mediate the associations between ecological and personal assets and academic competence. Using structural equation modeling procedures, relations between school engagement and academic competence were assessed through the use of 5th and 6th grade data from the 4-H Study (Li et al., 2010). Factor analyses provided evidence for two school engagement components, Behavioral and Emotional. These two factors mediated the relationship between assets and academic competence in different ways. Emotional engagement was actually indirectly linked to academic competence via behavioral engagement. Behavioral and emotional engagement also had different individual and contextual antecedents. Behavioral engagement was predicted by the individual assets of ISR and educational expectations, while emotional engagement was predicted by the ecological assets of parental involvement, maternal warmth, peer support, and school climate. In subsequent studies Li and colleagues (Li & Lerner, 2011; Li, Zhang, et al., 2011) have assessed the development of the two facets of school engagement and their relationship to both positive and problematic youth outcomes. Using a semi-parametric mixture model, four trajectories for behavioral school engagement and four trajectories of emotional engagement were identified across 5th to 8th grades. Li and Lerner (2011) were also able to identify several instances of sex, race/ethnicity, and family SES differences with regard to membership in both behavioral and emotional engagement trajectory groups. In general, boys, youth of color, and youth from less advantaged families tended to be in less favorable trajectory groups for both behavioral and emotional engagement. Findings suggested that associations between behavioral engagement and nonacademic outcomes exist as youth who experienced more positive pathways of behavioral or emotional engagements tended to have better grades, were less depressed, and were less likely to be involved in delinquency and drug abuse than youth who followed less favorable trajectories. Li and her colleagues also estimated discrete-time survival analyses to assess the effect of behavioral and emotional school engagement on the subsequent initiation of drug use and delinquency (Li, Zhang, et al., 2011). Results indicated that, controlling for demographic variables, higher degrees of behavioral and emotional school engagement predicted a significantly lower risk of substance use and involvement in delinquency. Finally, the contextual predictors of behavioral and emotional school engagement have recently been reported

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

(Li, Bebiroglu, Phelps, & Lerner, 2009; Li, Lynch, Kevin, Liu, & Lerner, 2011). Li, Lynch, and colleagues (2011) found that girls and youth of higher family SES reported higher behavioral and emotional engagement on average than boys and, as well, than youth from less advantaged families. Peer support positively predicted behavioral and emotional school engagement, whereas associating with problem-behaving friends and bullying involvement were negatively associated with both aspects of school engagement. Li and colleagues (2009) also indicated that hanging out with friends without set plans and excessive media use were associated with lower behavioral engagement with school, lower academic achievement, and higher rates of risk behaviors. However, youth who ate dinner with their families reported higher levels of emotional engagement, lower depression and risk behaviors, and better grades while engagement in civic activities was associated with higher levels of emotional engagement. Ecological Assets and PYD The relations among observed ecological assets in the families, schools, and neighborhoods of youth with positive and negative developmental outcomes were assessed among 5th grade youth from the 4-H Study (Theokas & Lerner, 2006). Ecological asset indicators were categorized into four categories: (1) human; (2) physical or institutional; (3) collective activity; and (4) accessibility, and were measured equivalently across the three contexts. Different dimensions of the family, school, and neighborhood settings had the most comprehensive impact on the different developmental outcomes, specifically collective activity in the family, accessibility in school, and human resources in the neighborhood. However, in all settings, assets associated with individuals were the most potent predictors of PYD. Family assets were most important in the lives of youth, as one of the strongest predictors of PYD was eating dinner together as a family. Subsequent analyses of the youth from Theokas and Lerner’s work (2006) indicated that dimensions of the neighborhood interact with adolescent extracurricular activity involvement to predict PYD, depressive symptoms, and risk behaviors (Urban, Lewin-Bizan, & Lerner, 2009). The direction of these relationships differed for boys and girls. Girls who lived in lower asset neighborhoods exhibited higher levels of PYD and lower levels of depressive symptoms and risk behaviors when they engaged in extracurricular activities. At high levels of activity involvement, girls in high asset neighborhoods exhibited increased levels of risk behaviors, particularly if they lived in neighborhoods with abundant physical

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resources. The opposite relationships were seen in boys. Moderate to high levels of activity involvement predicted lower levels of PYD and higher levels of risk behaviors for boys living in lower asset neighborhoods. For boys living in high asset neighborhoods, activity involvement was generally beneficial. Increased activity involvement was associated with increased levels of PYD and decreased levels of risk behaviors. The findings from this study pointed to the need to consider the influence that multiple contextual factors can have on development. Recent analyses by Bowers, von Eye, and colleagues (2011), also following up on the Theokas and Lerner (2006) work, assessed the relationships between these ecological assets and trajectories of positive and problematic development. Assets at the family, school, and neighborhood levels differentiated goal-optimization trajectories, while factors at the school level differentiated delinquency trajectories. However, an ecological asset was not found that consistently differentiated both goaloptimization trajectories and delinquency trajectories. The results indicated that collective activity in the family best predicted membership for the five goal-optimization trajectories that were identified, whereas school-based assets (physical resources and accessibility) differentiated the four delinquency trajectories that were identified. The 4-H Study data have been used also to examine specifically the ecological assets of parenting and youth programs in relation to the youth strength of intentional self regulation. For example, using data from 5th through 8th grades from the 4-H Study, Lewin-Bizan, Bowers, and Lerner (2010) found a developmental cascade wherein positive parenting (as indexed by warmth and monitoring) was a major contextual asset predicting subsequent intentional self regulation; intentional self regulation predicted subsequent scores for PYD; and, in turn, PYD positively predicted later youth Contribution scores. Using person-centered configural frequency analysis (von Eye, 2002), Napolitano, Bowers, Gestsd´ottir, Depping, and colleagues (2011) examined patterns of parenting (warmth, monitoring, school involvement) and the development of goal selection processes across 9th through 11th grades, conceptualized and measured by the Selection subscale of the SOC measure. The researchers also assessed the relation of these patterns to the positive development of youth. Across analyses of maternal warmth, parental monitoring, and parental school involvement, Napolitano and colleagues found that the most common pathway to 11th grade thriving involved a youth having stable, consistently above-median Selection scores and above-median levels of the parenting variables for at least two times of

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measurement. However, the findings also indicated that a higher than expected number of youth with consistently low levels of Selection had above-median PYD at 11th grade, regardless of their perceptions of maternal warmth, parental monitoring, or parental school involvement. As noted, several studies have also used the 4-H Study data set to examine possible interactions between selfregulatory processes and OST activity participation. For example, Urban, Lewin-Bizan, and Lerner (2010) found that both the strengths of youth and the resources of their contexts are involved in thriving. Urban and colleagues (2010) employed data from 5th through 7th grade to explore whether youth intentional self-regulation abilities moderated the effect of participation in OST activities on PYD among adolescents living in neighborhoods with relatively low levels of ecological assets. Overall, Urban and colleagues (2010) found that youth in these settings who had the greatest capacity to self regulate (i.e., youth with the highest SOC scores) benefited the most from involvement in OST activities, in terms of PYD, depressive symptoms, and risk behaviors. These relations were particularly strong for girls. Mueller et al. (2011) used data from 8th, 9th, and 10th grades of the 4-H Study in order to examine the relationship between adolescents’ SOC abilities and their participation in youth development (YD) programs across 8th and 9th grades in predicting 10th grade PYD and Contribution. Results indicated that while self-regulation skills alone predicted PYD, self regulation and YD program participation both predicted Contribution. In addition, 8th grade YD program participation positively predicted 9th grade SOC, which, in turn, predicted 10th grade PYD and Contribution.

and decreases in risk/problem behaviors. Other youth remained stable over time, showed increases in PYD and risk, and declined in PYD. In turn, Lewin-Bizan, Lynch, and colleagues (2010), using the 4-H Study data across 5th through 10th grade, found that youth who were high in PYD (i.e., the group of youth with increasing-to-stable-high PYD) were also more likely to be in a group of youth having risk behaviors that increased (and later decreased) than in a group having the lowest risk behaviors. Thus, negative trajectories are not simply the other side of the coin of positive trajectories. Schwartz et al. (2010) examined the association of PYD with the likelihood of tobacco, alcohol, marijuana, hard drug, and sex initiation for youth in 5th through 10th grade of the 4-H Study. Survival analysis models indicated that PYD was significantly and negatively associated with the initiation hazards for tobacco use, marijuana use, and sex for girls only, and with hard drug use for both genders. PYD was also positively associated with the odds of condom use across genders. Schwartz and colleagues also found that PYD was positively related to the timing of alcohol use initiation for boys, but not for girls. Perhaps surprisingly, for a one standard deviation increase in PYD, the odds of boys initiating alcohol use during the study would be expected to increase by 24%. Thus, consistent with the idea that relationships between positive and negative behaviors is not straightforward, the findings of Schwartz et al. (2010) point to the need for future research assessing the bases of these variations. Overall, the multiplicity of patterns of conjoint trajectories for PYD and risk/problem behaviors constitutes a challenge for both developmental theory and applications aimed at enhancing resilience and positive development among adolescents.

Trajectories of Positive and Problem Behavior Initial formulations of the PYD perspective suggested that if PYD is promoted, then risk and problem behaviors would be in turn diminished (e.g., Benson, Mannes, Pittman, & Ferber, 2004; Pittman, Irby, & Ferber, 2001). Findings from the 4-H Study have shown a more complex pattern of positive and negative developmental trajectories; these pathways are not simply inversely related (Lewin-Bizan, Lynch, et al., 2010; Phelps et al., 2007). Phelps and colleagues (2007) assessed the patterns of change associated with indicators of PYD and of risk/problem behaviors through use of data from the first three waves of data (5th, 6th, and 7th grades) from the 4-H Study. They identified several different trajectories of positive and problematic/risk behaviors. Only about one-sixth of all youth in the sample manifested a pattern of change marked by the coupling of increases in PYD

Conclusions The results of the 4-H Study of PYD provide important insights into what constitutes PYD and what individual and contextual factors might relate to adolescent thriving. We believe that the relational developmental systems approach taken by 4-H Study researchers has been useful in understanding, first, the plasticity of human development and, second, the importance of dynamic relations between adolescents and their real-world ecological settings. As we turn now to a review of PYD as a philosophy to understanding, or conceptualizing, youth programs, it is important to note that, while there is some substantial variation in the focus of different conceptions of the PYD process, all models we have described highlight the adaptive individual ←→ context relations that constitute

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

the basic, relational process of development. In essence, all models reflect the PYD process depicted in Figure 15.1.

PYD AS A PHILOSOPHY OR APPROACH TO YOUTH PROGRAMMING The second component of Hamilton’s (1999) definition of PYD is that it is a philosophy or approach to youth programming. There are numerous excellent examples of this second facet of PYD, the most prominent and influential one being the Eccles and Gootman (2002) National Academy of Sciences report on community programs to promote youth development. The report discusses the design, implementation, and evaluation of community programs for youth and conceptualizes PYD in regard to the skills, knowledge, and other personal and social assets required to successfully transition from healthy adolescence into competent adulthood. Eccles and Gootman (2002) based their report on the work of scholars who contributed to the National Academy of Sciences’ Committee on Community-Level Programs for Youth. These scholars defined four domains of individual assets that represent health and well-being in adolescence: physical development, intellectual development, psychological and emotional development, and social development. They noted that positive development does not require possession of all assets. Having more assets, however, is better than having fewer, and it is beneficial to have assets in all four domains. Eccles and Gootman (2002) indicated that these assets do not exist in a vacuum and do not in themselves ensure the wellbeing of adolescents. Youth need access to contexts that facilitate their development through exposure to positive experiences, settings, and people, and to contexts that provide opportunities to develop and refine real-life skills. It is important for every community to have an array of programs for youth that, taken together, offer all features of positive developmental settings. Some of the features that characterize such positive developmental settings include physical and psychological safety, appropriate structure, and positive social norms. These contexts provide opportunities to enjoy supportive relationships, to belong, to build skills, and to feel empowered by experiencing efficacy and a sense of mattering. Moreover, these settings need to be synergistic with efforts and perspectives of the adolescents’ families, as well as with the communities in which both the programs and the adolescents reside. While acknowledging the list as provisional, Eccles and Gootman (2002) suggested

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that youth-serving professionals take these factors into consideration when planning, designing, and evaluating programs for the youth with whom they work. In addition to Eccles and Gootman’s framework (2002), there are several other “philosophies” of youth programs (e.g., Blum, 1998, 2003; Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003a, 2003b). For instance, in 2003, Roth and Brooks-Gunn investigated community-based programs to understand what exactly is meant by the term “youth development program.” They identified the three critical characteristics that programs should have. Based on the existing literature, Roth and Brooks-Gunn (2003a, 2003b) concluded that: (a) specific program activities; (b) atmosphere; and (c) goals are the three defining aspects of youth development programs that differentiate them from other programs for adolescents. The goals of youth development programs go beyond prevention to include promotion of positive development. They are characterized by an atmosphere of hope, caring, safety, cultural appropriateness, and respect of adolescents’ abilities to make choices and bear responsibility. Program activities provide opportunities for active involvement and meeting new challenges. Similarly, Blum (2003) identified four elements critical to successful youth interventions: people, contributions, activities, and place. Successful interventions are those that build strong adult–youth relationships (People), include active involvement of youth in giving back to family, school, and community (Contribution), offer productive and recreational opportunities for youth (Activities), and provide a safe environment free from drugs and violence with adult supervision (Place). Many other philosophies/approaches to youth programs exist (e.g., see Dryfoos, 1990; Dukakis, London, McLaughlin, & Williamson, 2009; Heck & Subramaniam, 2009). For instance, the Positive Youth Development Evaluation Project (e.g., Catalano, Berglund, Ryan, Lonczak, & Hawkins, 1999, 2004) reviewed the literature on youth development programs to generate an operational definition of positive youth development and identify characteristics that mark effective youth development programs. This review, in general, affirmed Eccles and Gootman’s (2002) framework, as it defined positive youth development programs as those that promote or foster at least five of fifteen outcomes in youth: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5.

Bonding Resilience Social competence Emotional competence Cognitive competence

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6. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12. 13. 14. 15.

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Behavioral competence Moral competence Self-determination Spirituality Self-efficacy Clear and positive identity Belief in the future Recognition for positive behavior Opportunities for prosocial involvement Prosocial norms

Nineteen of the 25 programs that were reviewed significantly increased positive youth behaviors, and all but one of the programs significantly decreased problem behaviors. Effective youth development programs also had a structured curriculum and measured reductions in problem behaviors, increases in positive behavior, or, ideally, both types of outcomes. These effective programs were delivered over a period of at least nine months and were implemented with quality, consistency, and fidelity to the standards established by the program’s model (Catalano, Berglund, et al., 2004). Building on the work of both Roth and Brooks-Gunn (2003a, 2003b) and Blum (2003), as well as others (e.g., Rhodes, 2002), Lerner (2004) argued that there are three fundamental characteristics of effective PYD programs. These “Big Three” characteristics are: 1. Positive and sustained adult–youth relations (relations between a young person and an adult who is competent, caring, and continually available for at least a year, such as a mentor, coach, or teacher) 2. Life-skill building activities (e.g., enhancing skills pertinent to the selection, optimization, and compensation skills we discussed earlier) 3. Opportunities for youth participation in and leadership of valued family, school, and community activities Lerner (2004) argued as well that these features of youth programs needed to be simultaneously and integratively present for PYD to be effectively promoted. In turn, Heck and Subramaniam (2009) described five other youth development program philosophies, or development frameworks, which they defined as a conceptualization that “helps give direction and purpose to a program” (p. 2). The five frameworks that they discuss are: 1. Targeting Life Skills 2. Developmental Assets (as conceptualized by Search Institute; e.g., Benson, Scales, Hamilton, & Semsa, 2006; Benson et al., 2011)

3. The Four Essential Elements of Youth Development 4. The Community Action Framework for Youth Development 5. The Five Cs In their review, Heck and Subramaniam (2009) compared the strengths and limitations of the five models in terms of their effectiveness, which is evaluated by the criteria of validity (scientific evidence), utility (extent of use and availability of instruments), and universality (applicability to various populations). The Targeting Life Skills model details the life skills encapsulated by 4-H’s Heart, Hands, Head, and Health (Hendricks, 1996); this model is meant to serve as a plan for youth programming. Each of the four components is composed of two general categories of skills, with the two categories composed of more specific life skills. For example, Hands is divided into working and giving: giving is further divided into community service, leadership, responsible citizenship, and contributions to group effort; working is further divided into marketable skills, teamwork, and self motivation. The model helps to identify specific skills that a youth-based program should focus on, rather than being a theoretical model of development (Heck & Subramaniam, 2009). As we have noted earlier in this chapter, the Developmental Assets model as conceptualized by the Search Institute (e.g., Benson et al., 2011) identifies resources available to young people that promote positive development. Benson and colleagues have generated a list of 40 developmental assets, both internal and external to young people, that have been linked to positive youth outcomes. As indicated as well in the approach forwarded by Eccles and Gootman (2002), higher levels of assets have been related to positive developmental outcomes, such as higher school achievement, better physical health, lower levels of risk behaviors, and resilience (e.g., Benson et al., 2011). Heck and Subramaniam (2009) reported that research (and evaluation) about the application of the Developmental Assets model to youth programs is sparse. The Four Essential Elements of Youth Development are identified as belonging, mastery, generosity, and independence, and were originally proposed as the “Circle of Courage” (Brendtro, Brokenleg, & Van Bockern, 1990). These four elements were further subdivided into eight elements that were identified as critical to developing positive youth outcomes in youth development programming (Peterson et al., 2001). Belonging includes having relationships with caring adults and having an inclusive and safe environment; mastery includes opportunities for

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

mastery and engagement in learning; generosity consists of the opportunity to value and practice service for others; and independence includes opportunities to see oneself as an active participant in the future and the opportunity for self-determination. The Community Action Framework for Youth (Gambone & Connell, 2004; Gambone, Klem, & Connell, 2002) includes five hierarchically organized strategies for use by both practitioners and scientists. These five strategies are: 1. Building community capacity and conditions for change 2. Implementing community strategies to enhance supports and opportunities for youth 3. Increasing supports and opportunities for youth 4. Improving youth development outcomes 5. Improving long-term outcomes in adulthood To implement these strategies, programs must meet five key requirements: adequate nutrition, health and shelter, multiple supportive relationships, challenging and engaging activities and experiences, meaningful opportunities for involvement, and physical and emotional safety. The Community Action Framework for Youth is intended to create communities in which all young people can optimize their potential. The Framework is meant to be a systematic approach to planning, implementing, and evaluating programs and resources for youth. In this regard, the Framework enumerates supports and opportunities that overlap with the elements of effective youth programs presented in other approaches. In turn, as noted earlier in the discussion of Lerner, Lerner, and colleagues’ relational developmental systems model of the PYD process (e.g., Lerner et al., 2005), the Five Cs model of youth development conceptualizes PYD as composed of Five Cs—Competence, Confidence, Connection, Character and Caring. The Cs are a means to operationalize the developmental characteristics that a youth needs to become a successful and contributing member of society. These Five Cs were linked to the positive outcomes of youth development programs reported by Roth and Brooks-Gunn (2003a, 2003b). In addition, these Cs are prominent terms used by practitioners, adolescents involved in youth development programs, and the parents of these adolescents in describing the characteristics of a “thriving youth” (King et al., 2005). Heck and Subramaniam (2009) indicate that each of the five approaches they reviewed has varying levels of empirical support. However, none of the frameworks have been linked to research that provides evidence of universal

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applicability, although from a relational developmental systems perspective, such universality is not even possible, given that the world is seen as variegated and changing (Lerner, 2002; Overton, 2010). As evidenced by our earlier review of the 4-H Study results, Heck and Subramaniam (2009) indicated that the Five Cs model of PYD is the most empirically supported framework to date. However, as we turn to the third facet of PYD research— youth programs—it is important to note that while the Five Cs model may be an empirically useful means to study the PYD process, it is not clear from the conceptualization of the Five Cs model how to translate it into a specific youth development program. Work on such translation is beginning in regard to coaching youth sports programs (e.g., Haskins, 2010) and to mentoring programs for youth (Napolitano, Bowers, Gestsd´ottir, & Chase, 2011).

PYD AS INSTANCES OF YOUTH PROGRAMS AND ORGANIZATIONS In the United States, there are literally thousands of instances of community-based programs that seek to promote PYD (e.g., Dryfoos, 1990; Mahoney, Vandell, Simpkins, & Zarrett, 2009; Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003a, 2003b) or its theoretically related outcomes, for example, active and engaged citizenship (Zaff, Kawashima-Ginsberg, & Lin, 2011). As well, there are numerous national organizations that seek to provide such programs throughout the United States, including 4-H, Boys & Girls Clubs, Big Brothers/Big Sisters, Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, YMCA, and Girls, Inc. (e.g., Zaff et al., 2011). Discussing these programs or organizations in detail is obviously beyond the scope of this chapter. Our purpose here is to illustrate the third instance of Hamilton’s (1999) tripartite definition of PYD and point to the current nature of the connections between this facet of PYD and the other two facets we have discussed. There are many instances of programs that are effective in promoting PYD, operationalized, for instance, in regard to the links between program characteristics and the development or enhancement of one or more of the Five Cs (e.g., see Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003a, 2003b). Accordingly, we will use several exemplary PYD programs as sample cases of the sorts of programs to which Hamilton (1999) pointed. Accordingly, we focus on the scholarship of Catalano, Hawkins, and colleagues (e.g., Catalano, Haggerty, Oesterle, Fleming, & Hawkins, 2004; Hawkins, Brown, et al., 2008; Hawkins, Catalano, Arthur, & Egan, 2008), Kurtines and colleagues (Kurtines et al., 2008a, 2008b),

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and Flay and colleagues (Flay, 2002; Flay & Allred, 2003), as examples of such exemplary PYD programs. Richard Catalano, J. David Hawkins, and the Social Development Research Group Richard Catalano, J. David Hawkins, and colleagues in the Social Development Research Group (SDRG) at the University of Washington have conducted work that has reflected the integration of the prevention science and PYD approaches (Catalano, Haggerty, et al., 2004; Catalano, Hawkins, Berglund, Pollard, & Arthur, 2002). The interventions developed, implemented, and tested by the SDRG are framed within the prevention science model; therefore, they necessarily have a primary focus on “preventing” negative developmental outcomes rather than promoting positive ones (Catalano et al., 1999). However, their work has included key components of the PYD model, such as the building of youth connections to family, school, and community and, as well, indices of positive adjustment, functioning, and well-being. These features of their work reflect the growing recognition that preventing disease or behavioral problems does not constitute the provision of health or the actualization of positive development (Damon, 2004; Lerner, 2005; Lerner, Fisher, & Weinberg, 2000). Two longitudinal intervention programs the SDRG has overseen are the Community Youth Development Study and the Raising Healthy Children (RHC) projects. The Community Youth Development Study began in 2003 and consists of 12 pairs of matched communities across 7 states (e.g., Fagan, Hanson, Hawkins, & Arthur, 2009; Hawkins, Brown et al., 2008; Hawkins, Catalano et al., 2008). In each pair, one community receives the Communities That Care (CTC) prevention system, which seeks to promote and sustain positive youth development, and the other community serves as a control. CTC serves as a system for planning and managing community-based prevention activities. Among 5th- through 8th-grade adolescents, results indicate that the CTC prevention system reduced tobacco and alcohol use and prevented delinquent behavior within four years of implementing the CTC program. There are five stages in the CTC prevention system (as outlined on the SDRG Web site): 1. Get Started —Assessing community readiness to undertake collaborative prevention efforts 2. Get Organized —Getting a commitment to the CTC process from community leaders and forming a diverse and representative prevention coalition

3. Develop a Profile —Using epidemiologic data to assess prevention needs and evaluating gaps in current services related to those needs 4. Create a Plan —Choosing tested and effective prevention policies, practices, and programs based on assessment data 5. Implement and Evaluate —Implementing the new policies, programs, and practices with fidelity (in a manner congruent with the program’s theory, content, and methods of delivery) and evaluating progress over time —SDRG Web site, www.sdrg.org/current .asp?frmPSelect=1&New+Entry=View+Details

Raising Healthy Children (RHC) is an 8-year study of 1,000 students, their parents, and their teachers, which seeks to investigate risk and protective factors for positive youth development (e.g., Catalano, Haggerty et al., 2004; K. King, Fleming, Monahan, & Catalano, 2011). The project provides research-based parenting workshops in which parents learn ways to encourage positive behavior and family bonding, as well as academic success. In addition, the project includes home visits in which additional services that aid in the development of the student are offered. Staff development for teachers seeks to contribute to the development of the child as well. Teacher training seeks to help teachers identify ways to keep students interested and involved in learning. Results from the RHC study indicated that childhood bullying is significantly associated with violence, heavy drinking, and marijuana use at age 21 (Kim, Catalano, Haggerty, & Abbott, 2011). The researchers also found that greater self-control problems and attentional problems in 6th grade, and increases in these problems over time, were associated with higher levels of substance use in 11th grade (K. King et al., 2011). Other findings suggested that risk factors in early adolescence resulted in outcomes relating to depressive symptoms, risky sexual behavior, and cigarette smoking (Kim, Fleming, & Catalano, 2009; Mazza, Fleming, Abbott, Haggerty, & Catalano, 2010; White, Fleming, Catalano, & Bailey, 2009). The work of Catalano, Hawkins, and colleagues in the SDRG is reflective of the “Big Three” characteristics of effective youth programs as discussed by Lerner (2004). Both the CTC and RHF programs emphasize the role that strong, healthy connections to prosocial families, schools, and peers have on youth development. This impact occurs through the provision of opportunities to actively engage these contexts, inculcation of the skills to engage contexts successfully, and recognition of youth contributions. The use of such integrative approaches to promote PYD is also illustrated in the next exemplary program we discuss.

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

William Kurtines and the Miami Youth Development Project The Miami Youth Development Project (YDP) is a university–community collaborative outreach research program that draws on what William Kurtines and colleagues term developmental intervention science (Kurtines et al., 2008a, 2008b). Developmental intervention science is an integration of the developmental science, intervention science, prevention science, outreach research, and positive youth development literatures. Developmental intervention science seeks to describe, explain, and optimize intraindividual change and interindividual differences in intraindividual change across the life span (Baltes et al., 1977) through the development of community-supported interventions. Kurtines and colleagues see this integrative approach as having . . . the potential to bring together (a) a more empowering model of knowledge development for research involvement in the community, one that includes meeting both community and youth needs as well as knowledge development needs; (b) a nuanced and contextualized notion of youth and their development; and (c) methodologies that richly reflect rather than reduce the experiences of young people whose development we seek to promote. —Kurtines et al., 2008a, p. 258

The Miami YDP began in response to the needs of atrisk young people in the Miami community, especially those from immigrant groups from Central and South America and the Caribbean. As a community-supported program, the Miami YDP aims to realize long-term community-valued developmental goals for its youth by generating knowledge of strategies that are effective, practical, and sustainable in “real world” settings (Kurtines et al., 2008b). Among the programs developed as part of this university-community partnership is the Changing Lives Program (CLP, Eichas et al., 2010; Kurtines et al., 2008b). The CLP targets youth with multiple problems in alternative high schools by creating contexts in which youth can take responsibility for their lives and their communities. The immediate focus in implementing CLP is on addressing identified, presenting problems through counseling services (e.g., addressing depression, anger management, substance use). The long-term focus is on promoting positive development. With the specific aim of promoting positive identity development, CLP services work to build skills and strengths in youth that will help them to change themselves and the contexts in which they are embedded. Thus, youth work to directly build

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positive characteristics that will lead to a reduction in problematic outcomes. This individual strength–based approach complements prevention models that seek to affect the contextual level, such as parents, peers, and school. Drawing on outcomes-mediation evaluation models in the prevention science literature (Silverman, Kurtines, Jaccard, & Pina, 2009), Eichas and colleagues assessed whether the CLP program, which was specifically designed to promote PYD, also had an effect on untargeted problem outcomes. In a sample of 178 African American and Hispanic adolescents, the results of SEM analyses indicated that participation in CLP was directly related to gains in positive identity development. The evaluation of the CLP indicated that the intervention resulted in significant increases in the outcome of interest; that is, participant’s feelings of personal expressiveness. Analyses also indicated CLP participation led to positive changes in identity exploration and identity commitment, with the effect on personal expressiveness partially mediated by identity exploration, as measured by seeking out and utilizing self-relevant information. The CLP intervention also had a differential impact on changes in identity resolution for African American versus Hispanic youth. As hypothesized, participation in CLP was related to positive changes in identity resolution among Hispanic youth relative to the comparison group; however, contrary to expectations, African-American youth in CLP reported a decrease in identity resolution relative to the comparison group. In regard to the relationship between CLP participation and problematic outcomes, results indicated that gender moderated the effect of the CLP intervention on internalizing problem behaviors. For females, participation in CLP was related to a reduction in internalizing behaviors, while males reported no greater change in internalizing problem behaviors than did males in the comparison group. The findings also identified several possible pathways through which the intervention may have had an effect on both internalizing and externalizing problem behaviors. The CLP intervention seemed to lead to increases in personal expressiveness (partially mediated by identity exploration), which in turn led to decreases in internalizing problems. Changes in internalizing problems then led to changes in externalizing problems. The work of researchers on the Miami YDP has provided important findings regarding the potential for integrative interventions to both promote positive outcomes and decrease or prevent problematic outcomes. As indicated in research based on the 4-H Study of PYD (e.g., Lewin-Bizan, Lynch, et al., 2010; Phelps et al., 2007) the

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relationship between PYD and problematic outcomes is not simply an inverse one. A more complex pattern exists. Dynamic models of human behavior and development are needed to understand first, the plasticity of human development, and second, the importance of individual ←→ context relations as the bases of variation in the course of human development (Baltes et al., 2006; Lerner, 2005; Silbereisen & Lerner, 2007). The third program we discuss also illustrates the links that may exist between positive and problem behaviors as outcomes of youth programs.

Brian Flay and Carol G. Allred and the Positive Action Program Brian Flay, Carol G. Allred, and colleagues (e.g., Flay, 2002; Flay & Allred, 2003) have presented a comprehensive youth program, one that focuses on promoting healthy, positive development of children and youth in many domains, including academics, problem behaviors, and family relationships. Flay (2002) argued that PYD requires comprehensive health promotion programs. He explains that “to prevent problem behaviors and promote positive behaviors [we need] comprehensive, coherent, and integrated approaches” to youth programs (p. 407). Accordingly, Flay and Allred (2003) illustrate such a program by describing the long-term effects of the “Positive Action” program. Features of this school-based program include interventions with the individual child or adolescent, the school, and the family. At all levels, the interventions within the program focus on the same broad concept (feeling good about oneself when taking positive actions). The specific content includes six units: 1. Self-concept 2. Positive actions for body and mind 3. Social/emotional positive actions for managing yourself responsibly 4. Social/emotional positive actions for getting along with others 5. Social/emotional positive actions for being honest with yourself and others 6. Social/emotional positive actions for improving continually A 2006 review by the National Registry of Evidencebased Programs and Practices (NREPP) noted that the Positive Action program is indeed an integrated and comprehensive program. The review pointed to evidence that the program is effective in improving academic achievement and school attendance and, in turn,

in diminishing problem behaviors, such as substance use, violence, suspensions, disruptive behaviors, dropping out, and sexual behavior. Evaluations of the effectiveness of comprehensive PYD programs like this are limited (cf. Catalano et al., 1999). Indeed, most youth development programs in the United States are not evaluated (e.g., see Roth, Brooks-Gunn, Murray, & Foster, 1998). However, the evaluation data pertinent to the Positive Action program, such as that provided by Beets et al. (2009), indicated that students who participated in the program were less likely to engage in substance use, violence, and sexual activity than students who did not participate in the intervention. These findings were derived from both student self-report and teachers’ reports. This evaluation, however, had limitations in terms of sample; it included only young adolescents (5th-grade students) in a specific geographical and cultural setting (Hawaii). Nevertheless, despite such limitations of a particular evaluation research study, the Positive Action program has demonstrated effectiveness and is an excellent example of the third facet of the definition of PYD discussed by Hamilton (1999). Moreover, in including in its design a comprehensive, individual and contextual approach to intervention, the Positive Action program reflects key ideas found within instances of the other two facets of Hamilton’s (1999) tripartite definition of PYD. Conclusions The work of the researchers who focus on designing, implementing, and evaluating youth development programs highlights the importance of the dynamic relations between the person and context in the study of positive youth development. Supporting the use of relational developmental systems theories in understanding the plasticity of human development and the importance of relations between individuals and their real-world ecological settings as the bases of variation in the course of human development (Baltes et al., 2006; Lerner, 2005; Silbereisen & Lerner, 2007), there are consistencies between what actions occur within actual, exemplary PYD programs and the two other facets of the Hamilton (1999) tripartite conception of PYD. However, these connections are often not drawn explicitly by practitioners enacting PYD programs. Indeed, across the work associated with these three facets of Hamilton’s (1999) definition, these domains of the PYD field exist as Venn diagrams whose degrees of overlap remain uncertain. We believe this lack of specification,

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

and the incomplete integration of the domains of basic and applied scholarship pertinent to PYD that it reflects, constitutes a challenge to advancing knowledge of how to understand and promote thriving among diverse youth. There are several problems involved in increasing the integration among the three domains of scholarship pertinent to PYD. The next section of this chapter addresses potential future direction of the PYD field by discussing the problems in integrating these facets of PYD.

PROBLEMS IN INTEGRATING THE THREE FACETS OF PYD SCHOLARSHIP The lack of integration between the processes, philosophies, and programs of PYD scholarship represents one of several important obstacles to creating a fully reciprocal relation between practice and theory-predicated research in the service of the promotion of PYD. For example, it is not always clear what particular model of developmental process is explicitly used in the “philosophical” approaches to youth programming pertinent to PYD or in the particular instances of youth programs designed to foster PYD. In addition, it is ironically the case that when such a connection seems evident (e.g., as appears to be the case with both the Developmental Assets framework and the Five Cs model; Heck & Subramaniam, 2009), it may nevertheless be unclear how these theories of process provide a specific approach (i.e., a particular logic model) for youth programs. As we have noted, work on this translation is only in its nascent period (Haskins, 2010; Napolitano et al., 2011). Despite some correspondence between elements of the theoretical models and some features of the philosophy/approach to youth programming, more clarity about the connections between theories and philosophies, as well as between philosophies and particular instances of programs, are needed. The lack of integration within and across each domain of PYD scholarship provides uncertainties in regard to understanding how to optimize PYD. In regard to the theoretical models of the PYD process, there is a lack of integration of both the structural and measurement models framing empirical tests of the models. For instance, the measurement of ecological developmental assets differs between the research of Lerner and Lerner and their colleagues (e.g., see Theokas & Lerner, 2006; Urban et al., 2010) and the research of Benson and colleagues at Search Institute (e.g., Benson et al., 2011). Similarly, variation exists in regard to the conceptualization and measurement of the motivational,

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purposive, or goal-oriented behaviors of interest to Damon (2008), Eccles (e.g., Eccles & Roeser, 2009; Eccles & Wigfield, 2002), Larson (2000), and Gestsd´ottir and Lerner (2007, 2008). Even more abstractly, there is little information about whether, across theoretical models, there exist similar views about the actions that are integrated within individual ←→ context relations of interest in all theories. Given such variation, there is no certainty that similar empirical referents exist in regard to information about the PYD process. Such uncertainty makes it problematic to achieve any consensus about what variables, from what levels of organization within the developmental system, must be integrated in what specific ways, at what points in adolescence, to optimize what specific outcomes. Clearly, in the face of this uncertainty, what is needed is cross-laboratory integration of measurement models, perhaps through the use of a multitraitmultimethod matrix method (Campbell & Fiske, 1959). However, the practical challenge of gaining the funds for such field-integration research is itself a major problem constraining the advancement of knowledge about PYD. Similar problems can be raised in regard to integrating the different philosophies of or approaches to PYD programming. What are the fundamental defining characteristics of an effective PYD program? Do scholars use different terms for the same latent construct? For instance, when Roth and Brooks-Gunn (2003a, 2003b) think of program characteristics they believe to instantiate PYD-promoting activities, atmosphere, and goals, are they pointing to the same actions as those envisioned by Blum (2003) when he discusses people, contributions, activities, and place, or by Lerner (2004) when he discusses positive and sustained adult–youth relations, life skill–building activities, and opportunities for participation in and leadership of valued activities? The answer is not certain. Accordingly, it may be that there should be a conceptual meta-analysis, perhaps undertaken in the context of a working group of scholars and practitioners involved in a thorough review of the theoretical and empirical bases from which their philosophies/approaches were derived. Again, however, issues of funding make such an undertaking problematic. Moreover, a similar lack of integration exists in regard to the numerous instances of PYD programs. Are actions labeled in the same way actually implemented identically? In different instantiations of the “same” program, is there high fidelity of implementation? Here, answers are particularly difficult to attain because, again, most youth programs in the United States are not evaluated and, as well, key elements of any effective program—most critically,

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a theory of change and a logic model—are absent from most programs (e.g., see Roth et al., 1998). Such errors of omission preclude scientifically rigorous evaluation and make empirical comparisons across different programs or among different instantiations of the same program highly problematic if not impossible.

THE INTEGRATION OF PREVENTIVE AND PROMOTIVE APPROACHES TO YOUTH DEVELOPMENT Adolescence can be viewed as a time of increasing opportunities or of escalating risks, depending on the theoretical perspective that is taken. While the PYD approach arose in reaction to the preponderance of deficit-driven models that marked the study of adolescence, recent proposals have suggested the need for an integrative model that bridges “deficit-based” prevention science and the PYD perspective (Guerra & Bradshaw, 2008; Kurtines et al., 2008a; Schwartz, Pantin, Coatsworth, & Szapocznik, 2007; Weisz, Sandler, Durlak, & Anton, 2005). The prevention science approach to adolescent development posits that youth often engage in problematic behaviors, such as substance use and delinquency, and that this engagement is due to compromised developmental trajectories (Schwartz et al., 2007). The focus of prevention science involves the individual and environmental factors that are thought to contribute to these compromised developmental trajectories. From this perspective, adolescence is often viewed as a period of risk taking, conflict, and difficulties. Preventing youth problem behaviors is not the same as actively promoting PYD (Guerra & Bradshaw, 2008; Lerner, 2000). While the outcomes of interest may differ for the PYD and prevention science perspectives, the two approaches overlap in several ways. Most importantly, they share a common goal of making adolescent health and wellness possible (e.g., Catalano, Berglund, et al., 2004; Schwartz et al., 2007). In addition, as systemic approaches to development, they align through their emphases on the assumption of plasticity, on the contributions of the individual to the context (and thus to his or her own development), and on the important roles of the family, school, and neighborhood contexts in youth development. In focusing on preventing or reducing harmful or risky behaviors, prevention-based programs often target the same positive processes highlighted in PYD approaches, such as positive relationships within the family (e.g., Dishion, Andrews, Kavanagh, & Soberman, 1997), school (e.g., Lonczak, Abbott, Hawkins, Kosterman, & Catalano,

2002), and community (e.g., Hawkins, Brown et al., 2008; Hawkins, Catalano et al., 2008). In fact, instantiations of prevention and promotion programs often look very much alike in practice (Eccles & Gootman, 2002). As we have noted, in the PYD perspective positive qualities of these contextual variables are termed ecological developmental assets and are characteristics or processes that increase the likelihood of positive developmental outcomes such as competence, confidence, or contribution to one’s community (Benson et al., 2006; Lerner, 2004). In prevention science, these contextual variables are termed protective factors and are characteristics or processes that decrease the likelihood of negative developmental outcomes, such as delinquency, drug use, or unsafe sex (Schwartz et al., 2007). Several reviews of effective programs (Dryfoos, 1990; Schorr, 1988) aimed at preventing risk and problems behaviors in youth have also identified key aspects of programs that are consonant with the ideas associated with the relational developmental systems theories that mark the PYD perspective. Indeed, successful prevention programs and interventions integrate features of the individual youth embedded in his or her specific context. In such reviews, effective interventions are marked by intensive and individualized attention involving a diversity of people and developmentally appropriate activities based on an individual’s specific motivations, interests, aspirations, and needs. In addition, effective services are noted to be responsive, evolving, and user friendly, with a predictable environment for youth that promotes active participation and provides opportunities to learn new skills. Moreover, successful programs promote relationships among multiple supports in context, as they engage the individual’s family, peer group, workplace, and school in an integrated and comprehensive case management approach led by staff trained in the substance of the program, youth development, and the community culture. It is notable that these characteristics are also evident in the three exemplary PYD programs that were described earlier. Indeed, each of these programs is defined by their comprehensive, integrative approach to optimizing adolescent development. The integrative model of adolescent development also holds that, given a systemic view of development, both positive and negative indicators of development can coexist within a single individual; these indicators, and the trajectories of these indicators, must therefore be related in some way (Lerner & Galambos, 1998; Schwartz et al., 2007). Accordingly, Schwartz and colleagues’ integrative model (2007) posits that it is important to assess the extent to which the same, similar, or complementary mechanisms

Positive Youth Development: Processes, Philosophies, and Programs

may be responsible for preventing problem behavior and promoting PYD. It may be that the same set of individual and/or contextual factors is associated with both outcomes (e.g., Scales et al., 2000), albeit that the relationships between individual and/or contextual factors and youth outcomes may be more complex than currently understood (e.g., Theokas & Lerner, 2006). However, little research has taken this integrative approach (Schwartz et al., 2007). In future research about the promotion of PYD, we believe it would be useful if scholars adopted a common language and system of measurement for individual and contextual assets. There is a need to differentiate theoretically individual assets from indicators of PYD, since some constructs (e.g., executive functions related to ISR) may be seen as both outcomes and predictors. In addition, the characteristics of contexts other than youth development programs and of the adults who promote PYD in youth, such as peer groups and neighborhoods, should also be studied. Furthermore, it will be useful to broaden the scope of contexts within which PYD is investigated. Currently, the role of families, schools, and community-based programs in promoting PYD receives substantial attention in the literature. There are other important contexts, such workplaces or faith institutions, where young people spend portions of their time (Greenberger & Steinberg, 1986; King et al., 2011). The assets and developmental opportunities available in these contexts need to be considered more by researchers for further elaboration of the ecological influences on PYD. On the level of practice, professionals working with families and schools, as well as employers who hire youth, would benefit from being educated about possible applications of the PYD perspective in these settings. The idea that the development of positive behaviors will lead to the reduction of negative ones should also continue to be part of the research agenda. As the 4-H Study results reveal, youth who are developing positively are also engaging in some level of risk behaviors. This relation means that risk behaviors need to be studied along with positive ones. The multiple trajectories of development seen in the 4-H Study support the idea that efforts should be aimed at understanding the factors that contribute to these individual differences.

CONCLUSIONS In the past two decades, there has been a surge of research focused on the positive view of human development. In the adolescent literature, this focus has been aimed primarily at replacing the deficit view of youth

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as “problems to be managed” with the view that youth are “resources to be developed” (Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003a, 2003b), and current evidence suggests that an integrative preventive-promotive focus may be the best course to pursue in increasing the likelihood that youth will thrive. To appropriately pursue such an integrative approach, a multipart, integrative question may be most useful to address: What interventions, with what components, of what duration, with what youth, at what age or developmental levels, in what communities, at what historical time, will result in what positive individual psychological, social, cognitive, and physical outcomes? It has been a little more than 10 years since Hamilton initially formulated the three facets of PYD. Perhaps it is too much to expect that such a young area of scholarship would have the level of integration to which we are pointing. Nevertheless, we believe that as all members of the PYD scholarly community—both researchers and practitioners—come together in the service of making such integration a high-priority agenda item, it will be crucial for funders of PYD scholarship and application to take actions to support and extend such integrated work. If such support is forthcoming, we are hopeful that in the next 10 years we will see enhanced integration and have more knowledge to answer the complex multipart questions pertinent to promoting PYD. We are optimistic that a more mature field of PYD is possible, given the theoretical and methodological tools of contemporary developmental science.

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CHAPTER 16

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers A Relationships Model MARC H. BORNSTEIN, JUSTIN JAGER, AND LAURENCE D. STEINBERG

INTRODUCTION 393 ADOLESCENTS 394 PARENTS 398 ADOLESCENT–PARENT RELATIONSHIPS 401 FRIENDS/PEERS 408

A TYPOLOGY OF TRIADIC RELATIONS FUTURE DIRECTIONS 419 CONCLUSIONS 421 REFERENCES 421

INTRODUCTION

• Parents and friends/peers not only influence adolescent adjustment and development separately, but parents and friends/peers also relate to one another, and their relationships relate to adolescent adjustment and development in kaleidoscopic ways that are embedded in and conditioned by larger contexts and systems. • Parent–adolescent relationships may be characterized as vertical ties at some times and in some contexts, but parent–adolescent relationships can also be characterized as horizontal alliances, just as adolescent–friend/ peer relationships may be characterized as horizontal alliances at some times and in some contexts, but adolescent–friend/peer relationships can also be characterized by vertical ties.

This chapter is about relationships among adolescents, their parents, and their friends and peers. Thinking about these relationships was once shaped by certain assumptions: • Parents and friends/peers influence adolescent adjustment and development. • Parents and friends/peers each relate to adolescents in fixed ways. • Parent–adolescent relationships are characterized as “vertical” ties, whereas friend/peer relationships constitute “horizontal” alliances.

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Explications of these principles are not exhaustive of the burdens this chapter carries, but rather illustrative of its 21st-century revisionism. Here we proceed in a task-analytic fashion in building toward a model of triadic relationships amongst these three principal actors and their relationships. We first describe adolescence and salient individual-difference characteristics in adolescents that are germane to their relationships with parents and friends/peers. Second, we likewise treat parents and parenting. Third, we link adolescents and parents, and discuss their special bidirectional, transactional relationships. Fourth, we introduce friends and peers and their salient characteristics that are germane to their relationships with adolescents and adolescents’ parents. Fifth, we

In this chapter, we supplant and expand on these antiquated notions. The “relationships” framework we wish to develop here revises such assertions: • Parents and friends/peers influence adolescents’ adjustment and development, just as adolescents influence parents and friends/peers. Relationships involving adolescents are bidirectional, and (although they do not choose their parents) adolescents are active agents in selecting and shaping all their relationships. We thank D. Breakstone, M. Kerr, R. M. Lerner, H. Stattin, and C. Yuen. Preparation was supported by the Intramural Research Program of the NIH, NICHD. 393

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link adolescents with friends/peers and discuss their special bidirectional, transactional relationships. Sixth, we move beyond the two dyadic relationships involving adolescents to discuss triadic relationships. As part of this discussion, we delineate the different ways that dyadic relationships are influenced by or depend on other dyadic relationships and/or other contributors outside of the dyad. By individual-difference characteristics, we mean those features of people that have a bearing on their relationships with others, such as their gender, age, and the like. By bidirectional, transactional relationships, we mean the multiplicity of ways individuals mutually influence one another through time. Much is now known about the direct roles that adolescents, parents, and friends/peers each play in adolescent adjustment and development, but less is known about their dyadic relationships, and even less about their triadic relationships or (looking ahead) how these relationships are influenced by broader systems and contexts in which they function. Here, we focus on microsystems of adolescents’ interactions with parents and friends/peers, but we also touch on how the larger environments that envelope those relationships moderate them. In consequence, this chapter plants guideposts for the interested reader, along with instructive appeals to the empirical literature. We do not pretend to exhaust the extensive database in some of these subfields of developmental science but draw selectively on existing studies to flesh out the dynamic landscape of adolescent relationships.

ADOLESCENTS Scholarly journals, textbooks, and review articles on adolescence abound (e.g., Journal of Research on Adolescence; Habermas & Bluck, 2000; Steinberg, 2011), and so here we circumscribe the discussion to profiling the most prominent normative functions in adolescence and individual differences that relate to adolescents’ relationships. Adolescence represents a significant period of psychosocial development, because numerous changes occur at the biological, cognitive, and social levels (Berndt, 1982). Gender and age as well as changes in biology and maturation, cognition, and emotions, self, and social interactions define the child’s arrival at adolescence, and they, along with social status in terms of ethnicity, SES, and culture, are all relevant to adolescents’ relationships and renegotiation of relationships with parents and friends/peers (Figure 16.1). Our reviews here (and below) proceed with

1 Adolescents Individual Differences Gender Age/Stage Biology/Maturation Cognition Emotions, Self, and Social Interactions Ethnicity, SES, and Culture

Figure 16.1 Adolescents and their individual-difference characteristics

an eye fixed on connections between these individualdifferences characteristics and their value in relationships. We review each briefly and illustrate them as we proceed.

Gender On average, girls undergo puberty earlier and are socially more advanced than boys (Ounsted & Taylor, 1972), so if physical and social maturities drive changes in the parent– or friend/peer–adolescent relationships, one would expect to observe changes earlier in adolescence with girls than with boys. Boys are at greater risk for adolescent onset of externalizing behavior problems, whereas girls are at greater risk for adolescent onset of internalizing behavior problems (Crick & Zahn-Waxler, 2003; Frank, Van Egeren, Fortier, & Chase, 2000; Galambos, 2004; Rutter, Caspi, & Moos, 2003). Girls desire increased autonomy more than boys (Daddis, 2011) but tend to have later expectations for autonomy than boys (Daddis & Smetana, 2005; Fuligni, 1998). Parents are more likely to encourage participation in youth organizations, religious activities, and summer situations with sons than with daughters and are more likely to encourage participation in art programs with daughters than with sons, with no gender differences in encouragement of participation in sports (MacDonald & Parke, 1984). Parents tend to give boys more decisionmaking leeway (Daddis & Smetana, 2005), whereas girls report more stringent rules regarding socializing with friends, and caregivers are more likely to become involved in peer relationships because of misbehavior of their sons

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

than of their daughters (Way & Greene, 2005, 2006). Parents also appear to be more consistent in the ways they socialize their daughters than in the ways they socialize their sons (McGue, Elkins, Walden, & Iacono, 2005). Gender stereotypes may influence parents’ reports of adolescent problems. Consequently, parental attributions may reflect expectations for boys versus girls (Bugental & Happaney, 2002). Although conflicts with parents reportedly increase in intensity and warmth decreases across adolescence, these changes may be greater for girls than boys (McGue et al., 2005). Concerning peers, platonic and romantic relationships with members of the opposite sex are normal during adolescence (Blyth, Hill, & Thiel, 1982; Connolly, Furman, & Konarski, 2000). Girls spend more time with and thinking about opposite-sex peers, whereas boys spend little time thinking about peers when they are not with them (Richards, Crowe, Larson, & Swarr, 1998). However, girls’ reports of opposite-sex friendships are more unstable than boys’. In addition, relative to boys, girls reportedly have larger peer networks in adolescence (Blyth et al., 1982; Chan & Poulin, 2007), although girls’ preference for exclusive friendships may serve to maintain their close friendships over time compared to boys (Eder & Hallinan, 1978), and their need for intimacy can make them extremely sensitive to potential distress within their friendships (Benenson & Christakos, 2003). Girls’ larger networks are more unstable than those of boys (Chan & Poulin, 2007). Overall, gender intensification theory posits that gender differences become more pronounced after puberty (Hill & Lynch, 1983).

Age/Stage Scholars typically divide the adolescent period at least into younger and older stages—13- and 19-years-olds may be “different species”—and the adolescent’s state of maturity moderates parent and friend/peer relationships. Parents leave interactive supervision of younger children and directive supervision of older children behind and rely more on monitoring their adolescents. As adolescents age, mature, and gain autonomy, parents grant them more responsibility (e.g., for arranging peer activities, for example) and attempt to control their relationships less (Bhavnagri & Parke, 1991; Ladd & Hart, 1992). As mentioned, adolescent girls physically mature faster and earlier (on average) than boys, and so gender and age interact. As adolescents age, they come into contact with a higher proportion of opposite-sex friends/peers, and they

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hold a greater number of opposite-sex friends (Blyth et al., 1982). As they grow older, adolescents also exert increasing influence over their relationships, including those with their parents (Maccoby, 1992). At about 14 years of age, susceptibility to peer influence peaks (Berndt, 1979), concomitant to a decline in susceptibility to parental influence (Steinberg & Silverberg, 1986). Adolescents more and more determine how much time they spend with their parents, the extent to which their parents are involved in and know about their lives outside the home, and the extent to which their relationships with parents are marked by conflict and negativity (Kerr, Stattin, Biesecker, & Ferrer-Wreder, 2003). That is, as the child ages, the parent–child relationship becomes more mutual and less hierarchical, providing the adolescent with opportunities that help to redefine relationships with the parents. Parents typically hold later age expectations for adolescent autonomy than do adolescents (Daddis & Smetana, 2005; Feldman & Quatman, 1988). Compared with their age-11 ratings, 14-year-olds perceive greater parent–child conflict, less parental involvement in their lives, less positive regard for their parents, and that parents have less positive regard for them (McGue et al., 2005). Often, children, in their ambition for increasing independence from home, actively discourage parents from supervising and monitoring them. Scarr and McCartney (1983) hypothesized that an individual’s increasing ability to exert influence over her or his environment, either indirectly through the reactions her or his behavior elicits from others or directly through the experiential choices she or he makes, underlies the increasing predictability of phenotype from genotype (i.e., the heritability) of psychological characteristics with age. The structure of social relationships changes in adolescence (Cairns, Leung, Buchanan, & Cairns, 1995; Degirmencioglu, Urberg, Tolson, & Richard, 1998). For example, adolescents report more cross-gender friendships over time (Connolly et al., 2000; Feiring, 1999). Younger adolescents desire increased autonomy more than older adolescents (Daddis, 2011). Adolescents and parents come to regard the locus of decision-making authority over some issues to rest with the child. Adolescents and parents contest control over different types of issues as adolescents age (Smetana & Villalobos, 2009). Younger adolescents tend to endorse parental responsibility and care, whereas older adolescents tend to justify expression of rights with appeals to personal choice and rights (Cherney, 2010). Thus, adolescents come to consider some behaviors and actions as beyond the bounds of parental regulation

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(Smetana, 2000), like personal issues (e.g., hairstyle or favorite food), multifaceted issues (containing aspects of both personal and conventional domains), and prudential issues (involving potential harm to an actor). Parents, by contrast, continue to view these issues as falling within their purview, defining them as social conventions or matters of safety. These discrepant interpretations lead to increases in everyday conflicts that ultimately serve as opportunities for adolescents and parents to renegotiate boundaries of authority (Smetana & Villalobos, 2009). As adolescence proceeds, teens increasingly view peer relationships as a domain over which they, and not their parents, have control. By contrast, their parents maintain that peer relationships are a domain over which they should continue to have control, because friendship issues often are linked to other issues such as morals (Smetana & Asquith, 1994). Adolescents identify friends and peers as significant sources of influence on autonomy beliefs, particularly over prototypical personal and multifaceted issues (Daddis, 2008). Overall, levels of parental supervision, communication, and punishment decline during adolescence (Pagani, Tremblay, Vitaro, Kerr, & McDuff, 1998). Parent–child conflict decreases somewhat in frequency and increases (only modestly) in affective intensity during the transition from early to middle adolescence (Laursen, Coy, & Collins, 1998); negative affect toward parents increases markedly from age 12 through age 15 but decreases thereafter (Kim, Conger, & Lorenz, 2001). Thus, positive aspects of parenting decrease in middle adolescence, even if parent–child communication changes little with age (Loeber et al., 2000). Biology Adolescents’ genetic makeup helps to shape their characteristics and determine the ways they relate to and are related to by parents and friends/peers. One expression of endowment is temperament and personality. Withdrawn children at age 5 years report feelings of depression, loneliness, and negative self-worth at age 11 years, and social withdrawal then predicts self-reported loneliness, depression, negative self-evaluations of social competence, feelings of not belonging to a peer group that could be counted on for social support, and parental assessments of internalizing problems at age 15 years (Hymel, Rubin, Rowden, & LeMare, 1990; Rubin, Chen, McDougall, Bowker, & McKinnon, 1995; Rubin & Mills, 1988). Furthermore, temperamental characteristics associated with effortful control allow an individual to better regulate emotions and behaviors, a hallmark of psychological maturity (Galambos & Costigan, 2003).

Children’s inherited dispositions and their parents’ rearing choices are, of course, closely interwoven and function jointly (see Overton & M¨uller, this volume). Reactive and active genotype–environment correlational processes lead adolescent monozygotic (MZ) twins to have more similar relationships with their parents than adolescent dizygotic (DZ) twins have with theirs. Elkins, McGue, and Iacono (1997) tested these associations by comparing the heritability of features of the parent–child relationship at age 11 with that at age 17 in a cross-sectional study of male twins. Consistent with expectations, the heritability of parent–child conflict, involvement, regard, and overall support was greater at age 17 than at age 11. Likewise, pubertal changes in adolescence—changes in body composition, rapid acceleration in growth, and the development of primary and secondary sex characteristics—have relationship implications (Barker & Bornstein, 2010; see Susman & Dorn, this volume). Biological development associated with puberty engenders transformations in adolescent self-image, which in turn affect parent- and friend/peer-directed thoughts and behaviors, just as physical maturation transforms appearance that, in turn, prompts changes in treatment by parents and friends/peers. Thus, physical and sexual maturation profoundly affects the ways that adolescents view themselves and the ways they are viewed and regarded by parents and friends/peers (Brooks-Gunn, Graber, & Paikoff, 1994; Leffert & Petersen, 1996; Paikoff & Brooks-Gunn, 1990; L. Steinberg & Steinberg, 1994). On average, as mentioned earlier, girls proceed through puberty earlier than boys (Ounsted & Taylor, 1972), so as physical maturity drives changes in adolescents’ relationships, changes are likely observed earlier in adolescence among girls. Early-maturing adolescents are exposed to social contexts that differ greatly from their same-age late-maturing peers, so, for example, they tend to associate with older peers (Archibald, Graber, & Brooks-Gunn, 2003; Ge et al., 2003). Pubertal timing also affects status in the peer group (Collins & Steinberg, 2006). Physical changes are often asynchronous with cognitive and socioemotional development, leading parents and friends/peers to over- or underestimate adolescents’ needs and capabilities. Cognition Although they retain some intellectual limitations, increasingly adolescents think in ways that are more abstract and hypothetical, efficient, and effective. Developmentally, adolescents are progressively more capable of perspectivetaking, social problem-solving, and hypotheticodeductive

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

reasoning about the consequences of various courses of action, including those that involve relationships (Eisenberg & Morris, 2004). These cognitive developments oblige parents and friends/peers to recognize new relationship dynamics and equilibria with adolescents. Higher levels of adolescent academic orientation predict increases in parental warmth and decreases in hostility (Williams & Steinberg, 2011). Adolescents question rules and absolutes and see moral standards and social conventions as subjective and sometimes arbitrary (Smetana & Asquith, 1994; Yau & Smetana, 1996). When teens and parents confront one another over cell phones, clothes, or curfews, each apparently sees these same points of contention from distinct vantages (Smetana, 2002). Parents are likely to construe them as issues of “right” and “wrong” by social custom or convention, whereas adolescents are likely to define the same issues as matters of “personal choice” (Smetana, 1989). Parents’ “because I say so” explanations may suffice for younger children; as their reasoning abilities mature, adolescents expect or demand more logical and articulated justifications from their parents (Eisenberg & Morris, 2004). Adolescents are more likely to comply with parental advice if they understand and agree with their parents’ positions (Steinberg, 2004b). In addition, changes in cognition alter processes of self-socialization, whereby teens are socialized by influences of their own choosing (e.g., media consumption). The ways in which adolescents process and interpret information about their social worlds help to shape their social behaviors (Crick & Dodge, 1994; Lemerise & Arsenio, 2000) and in turn friend/peer acceptance and/or rejection (Rubin & Rose-Krasnor, 1992). Emotions, Self, and Social Interaction Adolescents bring their own socioemotional characteristics to their relationships with others (Bornstein, Hahn, & Haynes, 2010). Adolescents reportedly experience negative moods more often than either children or adults (Larson & Asmussen, 1991; Larson, Csikszentmihalyi, & Graef, 1980; Larson & Lampman-Petraitis, 1989), and the increase in negative affect during adolescence challenges parents of teenagers as well as their friends/peers. As a result, parents and friends/peers need to calibrate their reactions to adolescents’ emotions. Puberty begins to distance adolescents from their parents, but it is not necessarily associated with familial “storm and stress,” and rates of outright conflict between parents and adolescents are not dramatically higher during adolescence than before or after (Laursen et al., 1998), even if conflict intensity waxes. High disclosing adolescents do not interact with people in

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deceptive, manipulative ways and self-report warm feelings toward parents (Kerr & Stattin, 2000), whereas secretive adolescents tend to expect failure and are often deceptive and manipulative with others (Stattin, Kerr, & FerrerWreder, 2000). Notably, girls and boys are at greater risk for adolescent-onset internalizing and externalizing, respectively (Crick & Zahn-Waxler, 2003; Rutter et al., 2003), and externalizing problem behaviors predict parental disengagement and subsequent peer rejection (Sturaro, van Lier, Cuijpers, & Koot, 2011). A hallmark of adolescence is intrapsychic separation from the parent. Processes associated with individuation, which began during infancy, continue well into adolescence (Blos, 1979). These processes involve a gradual, progressive sharpening of a sense of self as autonomous, competent, and independent. Establishing autonomy and identity are normative developmental tasks of this time, and their effects reverberate in familial and nonfamilial social networks. The normal drive of the adolescent to establish her- or himself as a separate individual with a unique identity may clash with parents’ desires to maintain adolescent dependence and inculcate their own values. Furthermore, the responsibility, independence, and freedom that accompany the transition from childhood to adulthood, combined with the attainment of an increasingly adult-like physical appearance, often lead adolescents to feel as though they should be treated as more mature. However, parents may not (be ready to) grant adolescents the autonomy that they seek, resulting in relationship conflicts over rules, regulations, and rights. That arguments for increased freedom are directed toward parents itself implies that autonomy develops within the interactive context of adolescent–parent relationships and not solely within the individual (ZimmerGembeck & Collins, 2003). At the same time that adolescents interact less with their parents and spend less time with their families, they engage in more recreational, academic, and social activities outside of the family setting, normally with friends/peers (Larson, Richards, Moneta, Holmbeck, & Duckett, 1996). Parents remain important influences, but friends/peers assume roles previously occupied by parents (Buhrmester, 1996; Savin-Williams & Berndt, 1990). Thus, normative socioemotional developmental changes in adolescence include renegotiating relationships with parents and investing more in friendships and peer relationships. Ethnicity, SES, and Culture Relationships between adolescents and parents or friends/ peers vary with ethnic identification, even if topics of

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agreement and disagreement tend to be similar across ethnic groups (Barber, 1994; Kupersmidt, Burchinal, Leff, & Patterson, 1992). Mean level differences in relationship management as well as differences in correlations between management and outcomes are common in regard to European American, Latin American, and African American adolescents (Mounts, 2004b). However, Latin American and African American adolescents report lower levels of consulting with parents (see content to follow) than do European American adolescents. In turn, higher levels of consulting are related to lower levels of delinquency among European American adolescents but not among Latin American or African American adolescents. Perceptions of classroom belonging are greater among African American than European American students (Faircloth & Hamm, 2011). African American adolescents report larger numbers of friendships than European American adolescents (Hallinan & Smith, 1989). Although all adolescents negotiate physical, cognitive, and socioemotional changes that accompany the transition from childhood to young adulthood, they vary in the extent to which they manifest the positive versus negative developmental outcomes commonly associated with these changes (Rutter, 1989; Jager, 2011a). Adolescents of immigrant parents are at particular risk (Ferguson, Bornstein, & Pottinger, 2012; G¨ung¨or & Bornstein, 2009; Miller & Chen, 2003). For example, a primary difference between Asian Indian and European American cultural belief systems lies in the concept of the self (Dasgupta, 1998; V. M. Ranganath & Ranganath, 1997). Asian Indians tend to be allocentric, where the self and the family are integral, rather than to have separate concepts for each, as is characteristic of Western belief systems. Asian Indian parental rearing practices emphasize close family bonds, with parents highly involved in their children’s lives. Individuals of all ages are expected to make sacrifices and to contribute to the honor and welfare of the family (Jambunathan & Counselman, 2002). By contrast, European American families tend to be nuclear, and children are generally viewed as transitional members who by adolescence are expected to individuate and pursue their own interests (Triandis, Bontempo, Villareal, Asai, & Lucca, 1988). Indeed, adolescence, as it is broadly conceptualized in Western society, is a foreign concept in traditional Asian Indian families. Although rites of passage are associated with the onset of biological puberty, there is no corresponding change in adolescents’ status, responsibilities, or autonomy in decision making (Dasgupta, 1998; Ibrahim, Ohnishi, & Sandhu, 1997). Even adult children are expected to remain at home until marriage and follow

parental advice when dating or making career choices (Jambunathan & Counselman, 2002). Thus, Asian Indian parents do not regularly recognize their adolescents’ ability to make sound decisions, and they hold a negative view of independent and autonomous behavior (Segal, 1991). Adolescents from Asian cultures tend to be more academically successful than those from Latin American cultures, but Asian adolescents often experience higher levels of distress (e.g., anxiety and depressive symptoms) than their European American peers (e.g., Okazaki, 1997). Like ethnicity, family fiscal situations affect feelings, mental states, and the quality of adolescent–parent and –friend/peer relationships. For example, financial strains are associated with depression, worse marriages, and intrafamilial conflict, such as those between parents and adolescents over money. Moreover, single-parent families and families with teenage mothers experience worse interactions over time than do families consisting of two biological parents present in the household (Loeber et al., 2000). Last, the vast majority of the published literature on adolescent–parent and –friend/peer relationships derives from studies conducted in North America and Western Europe. Simply put, we know less than is desirable about the nature and development of adolescent–parent and –friend/peer relationships in non-Western settings (Brown, Larson, & Saraswathi, 2002). However, adolescent behaviors in family contexts, as well the formation and function of friend/peer relationships, are likely to be culture-sensitive, because they are often directed by cultural conventions, norms, and values (Chen & French, 2008). Here, we introduced the adolescent and hinted at prominent individual-difference characteristics of adolescents that impact their relationships with both parents and friends/peers. This account admittedly presents a static snapshot of the individual adolescent actor, when our ultimate goal is to convey a relational and dynamic perspective on adolescence. However, to fully appreciate the bidirectional, transactional relationships model we propose, readers need to keep individual-difference characteristics of the adolescent (and those of parents and friends/peers below) in mind. Studies showing that puberty per se is influenced by the quality of the adolescents’ relationships are stunning examples of this bidirectionality.

PARENTS Because there are already many reviews of parents and parenting (e.g., Parenting: Science and Practice; Bornstein, 2002, 2006; Steinberg & Silk, 2002), we circumscribe our

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

discussion to profiling the most prominent normative characteristics associated with parents and parenting and especially to individual differences in them that contribute to parent- and friend/peer-adolescent relationships. The parent’s role is to educate adolescents in behaviors that are acceptable for the stage of life they occupy as well as prepare adolescents for adaptation to a wider range of life roles and contexts they will encounter as they continue to grow. A functionalist approach to parenting asserts that it is desirable to promote traits in adolescents that will lead to their becoming adults who cope well within the requirements of the social groups among whom they live (Bornstein, Mortimer, Lutfey, & Bradley, 2011). In achieving other goals, parents have the moment-to-moment job of disambiguating novel, complex, and rapidly changing, uncertain information vis-`a-vis their adolescents. Despite this flux, they are consensually expected to parent consistently, appropriately, and effectively. What about parents affects their parenting adolescents? Several salient individual-difference characteristics likely moderate parents’ relationships with adolescents and their children’s friends/peers. Specifically, gender and age, as well as cognitive changes and socioemotional skills, define parents, and they, along with social status in terms of ethnicity, SES, and culture, are all relevant to parent–adolescent and adolescent–friend/peer relationships. We review each briefly and illustrate them along the way (Figure 16.2).

2 Parents Individual Differences Gender Age Cognition Socioemotional Skills Ethnicity, SES, and Culture

Figure 16.2 Parents and their individual-difference characteristics

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Gender Mothers and fathers appear to interact with and care for adolescents in complementary ways; that is, they tend to divide the labor of caregiving and engage adolescents by emphasizing different types of interactions. Historically, researchers who have evaluated parent-adolescent relationships have focused on the mother-adolescent dyad. Mothers spend more time with their teenagers than do fathers, and fathers are involved more often in leisure activities than in caregiving (Collins & Russell, 1991; Parke & Buriel, 2006). Mothers typically provide adolescents with more emotional support, whereas fathers provide more informational and material support (Steinberg & Silk, 2002). Mothers also tend to be more knowledgeable about adolescents’ friendships than fathers; fathers are more likely to be perceived as relatively distant authority figures who may be consulted for objective information (such as help with homework) but who are less frequently sought out for relationship support or guidance (such as help for problems with friends) (Updegraff, McHale, Crouter, & Kupanoff, 2001; Waizenhofer, Buchanan, & Jackson-Newsom, 2004). Reciprocally, adolescents tend to be closer to their mothers and feel more comfortable talking to them about emotional matters (Smetana, Metzger, Gettman, & Campione-Barr, 2006). The maternal role is better articulated and defined than is the paternal role generally, and mothers ordinarily have more opportunities to acquire and practice skills that are central to adolescent childrearing than do fathers. Often, too, mothering helps to interpret and condition fathering, and mothers may serve as gatekeepers to adolescentfather relationships (Allen & Hawkins, 1999). In addition, adolescent attachment representations of mothers versus fathers appear to link with different social competencies (Lieberman, Doyle, & Markiewicz, 1999). Peer-rejected adolescents, and in particular those who are aggressive, report lower levels of companionship and affection from fathers (Patterson, Kupersmidt, & Griesler, 1990), and at least one aspect of adolescent social competence, anxious-withdrawn behavior, is more closely associated with father-adolescent than mother-adolescent attachment representations (Verschueren & Marcoen, 1999). Age Adolescence typically arrives when parents themselves may be grappling with a new set of difficult psychological issues brought on by their own passage into midlife. This confluence renders the family’s transition into adolescence all the more challenging. The typical parent may

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be 40 years of age or older when her or his first child enters adolescence, and parents at midlife may be encountering unique developmental needs (Farrell & Rosenberg, 1981; Levinson, 1978; Ryff & Seltzer, 1996). This period in the family life cycle sometimes proves to be a low point in parents’ marital and life satisfaction as well as a period of heightened risk for divorce (Gecas & Seff, 1990; Gottman & Levenson, 2000). Adolescence is also sometimes a time of enhanced insecurity about parenting skills. At the same time that adolescents are beginning to develop the capacity to think systematically about the future, their parents are beginning to feel that their own possibilities for change are limited. Adolescents are on the threshold of moving to heightened status, their careers and marriages lie ahead of them, and their choices seem open and limitless. For their parents, in contrast, many choices have already been made—some successfully, others perhaps less so. Most adults reach their occupational plateau during midlife, and many must deal with whatever gap exists between their early aspirations and their actual achievements (Gould, 1978). Adolescents may navigate the transition between childhood and adulthood with relative ease, whereas parents can find their child’s adolescence to be a weathering journey for themselves (Steinberg, 2001). One cross-sequential study that spanned ages 6 through 18 years reported that positive aspects of parenting decreased markedly through middle adolescence, even though parent–child communication changed little (Loeber et al., 2000). Cognition Parents’ general cognitions, for example their memories of their own adolescence and friend/peer experiences, help to create a “strategy frame” or “affective lens” that shapes parental socialization (Putallaz, Costanzo, & Smith, 1991). Adults’ belief systems relate to their behavioral choices and help to determine how much time, effort, and energy to expend in parenting. Parents’ confidence in their ability to influence their adolescents’ academic performance and school achievement, for example, is associated with their school involvement and predicts their helping their adolescents’ academic interests (Eccles & Harold, 1996; HooverDempsey & Sandler, 1997). Likewise, parents’ beliefs and expectations about adolescence itself affect how they parent.

Socioemotional Skills Parenting reflects transient feelings as well as enduring personality traits (Belsky & Barends, 2002; Bornstein, Hahn,

& Haynes, 2011). Certainly parenting stress, perceived or real, is a strong accompaniment of the transition to adolescence (Putnick et al., 2010). Features of personality favorable to effective parenting of adolescents vis-`a-vis friends and peers might include empathic awareness, predictability, nonintrusiveness, and emotional availability. Parents who are satisfied with other aspects of life (marriage, work, hobbies) and/or are able to frame relationship changes positively (e.g., gaining freedom from some parenting responsibilities rather than losing control) are better able to adjust to changes in the parent-adolescent relationship (L. Steinberg & Steinberg, 1994). One parent personality factor related to the emotional climate of the adolescent–parent relationship as well as its predictability is neuroticism, defined as a personality trait ranging from emotional stability to instability, with higher levels reflecting susceptibility to negative emotions, including fear, anger, sadness, embarrassment, and guilt (Costa & McCrae, 1992). Adolescents whose parents are higher in neuroticism report higher levels of internalizing and externalizing (Ellenbogen & Hodgins, 2004; Nigg & Hinshaw, 1998), poorer psychosocial functioning (Cumberland-Li, Eisenberg, Champion, Gershoff, & Fabes, 2003; Nigg & Hinshaw, 1998), and more conflictual relationships with parents (Belsky & Barends, 2002; Ellenbogen & Hodgins, 2004). Although the link between parent neuroticism and adolescent outcomes may be in part genetic and direct (Lake, Eaves, Maes, Heath, & Martin, 2000), the link is also partially indirect and mediated by relations between parent neuroticism and poor parenting practices (Belsky & Barends, 2002; Ellenbogen & Hodgins, 2004). For example, parents higher in neuroticism are more likely to parent their adolescents in unpredictable, unstable, and overcontrolling ways (Ellenbogen & Hodgins, 2004) and encourage and support their children less (Cumberland-Li et al., 2003). Another more extreme parent personality factor that contributes to individual differences in their relationships is depression. Specifically, depression impacts parents’ cognitions regarding their parenting as well as how parents interact with their adolescents. Compared to nondepressed parents, adolescents’ parents who are depressed report lower confidence in their parenting abilities and lower levels of parental efficacy (Cummings & Davies, 1994a; Webster-Stratton & Hammond, 1988). Depressed parents also are more negative, unsupportive, and intrusive, more likely to be critical and abusive, and less likely to use explanations, persuasion, or reasoning in disagreements with their children (Burbach & Borduin,

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

1986; Conger, Patterson, & Ge, 1995; Cox, Puckering, Pound, & Mills, 1987; Gordon et al., 1989). The impact of depression on parenting cognitions and practices has consequences for adolescents’ relationships with both parents and friends/peers. Adolescents of depressed parents are more likely to experience parent–child relationships that are characterized by conflict (Conger et al., 1995; Kane & Garber, 2004; Patterson & Dishion, 1988), suffer poorer peer relationships and more peer rejection (Conger et al., 1992, 1995), and engage in more antisocial behavior (Conger et al., 1995; Kane & Garber, 2004). Ethnicity, SES, and Culture Parents from different ethnic groups possess different goals or beliefs in regard to adolescents, their adjustment and development, and their peer relationships; they engage in different ways of managing adolescents’ relationships, and their adolescent-rearing strategies can have different effects (Way & Greene, 2005). As we discuss in a future section, one of the ways in which parents influence adolescence is through their style of parenting. Parenting style refers to the overall emotional climate of the parent–adolescent relationship—an affective context that sets the tone for the parent’s interactions with the adolescent (Darling & Steinberg, 1993). Style is constituted into two broad classes of parenting: One concerns the emotional side of parenting—warmth and responsiveness—and the other concerns the supervisory side of parenting—regulation of activities and associations. Style is moderated by ethnicity as well as SES and culture. For example, adolescents from European American and Latin American authoritative homes, ones that are warm yet demanding, perform well academically, and better than those coming from nonauthoritative homes. However, school performance is similar for authoritatively and for nonauthoritatively reared African American and Asian American adolescents. Ethnicity likewise plays a role in parental supervision (Loeber, Farrington, StouthamerLoeber, & van Kammen, 1998). Furthermore, ethnicity of friends/peers factors into parental management of friends/peers. European American, Latin American, and African American parents all similarly actively encourage their adolescents to establish same-ethnicity friendships and caution their adolescents about the challenges of cross-ethnic romantic relationships (Brown, Hamm, & Meyerson, 1996; Dornbusch, Ritter, Leiderman, Roberts, & Fraleigh, 1987; Hamm, 2001). However, minority parents’ management of their adolescents’ peer relationships is limited (Brown et al., 1996), but in ethnic groups

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in which traditionally parental authority is not generally questioned there are higher levels of parental involvement in peer relationships (Chao, 1994). With respect to SES, parents under economic strain tend to be less involved, less nurturing, harsher, and less consistent in disciplining adolescents (McLoyd, 2006). Again, single-parent families and families with teenage mothers experience significantly worse interactions over time than do families consisting of two biological parents (Loeber et al., 2000). Across adolescence, mothers and fathers serve as key sources of instrumental aid (i.e., providing tangible resources and services), advice, support, and affection (Lempers & Clark-Lempers, 1992); and they continue to serve as primary socialization agents of values, reasoning, and morals (Parke & Buriel, 2006; Pratt, Skoe, & Arnold, 2004). As we have indicated, all of the foregoing individual parent characteristics have implications for parents’ relationships with their adolescents and their adolescents’ relationships with their friends/peers. Just as we stated at the end of our discussion of prominent individual adolescent characteristics, our discussion of these individual parent characteristics is admittedly static, implying a unidirectional path of influence between a parent and other actors (i.e., adolescents or friends/peers of the adolescent). Nonetheless, our goal is to develop a relational and dynamic perspective of adolescence. Put bluntly, parents influence their adolescents in a multiplicity of ways, just as adolescents influence parents, a topic to which we now turn.

ADOLESCENT–PARENT RELATIONSHIPS Adolescent–parent relationships are bidirectional and transactional. Parents and their adolescent children interact with one another over time to co-construct parenthood as well as adolescenthood. This section of the chapter focuses on bidirectional, transactional aspects of the parent-adolescent relationship, and it builds on, but is distinct from, the foregoing discussion of adolescent and parent as individual actors. The previous sections on adolescents and parents centered on aspects of actors that relate to or influence their relationships with others; this section of the chapter on the adolescent ↔ parent dyad, and a future section of the chapter on the adolescent ↔ friend/peer dyad, focus on the bidirectional, transactional nature of their relationships. In such dyad dynamics, individual-difference characteristics that are potential are actualized. We discuss these relations first in terms of

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parent effects (Parent → Adolescent) and then in terms of child effects (Adolescent → Parent). Immediately afterward, we set the data from the extant directional literatures in a discussion of dialectical Adolescent ↔ Parent relationships.

to genetic transmission rather than socialization. However, gene-related effects do not rule out parent-to-adolescent socialization, at least with respect to between-family individual differences (Bornstein, 2006).

Parent → Adolescent

A second direct channel by which parents influence adolescents in themselves and in their relationships (with parents and friends/peers) is via socialization (Figure 16.3). Many theoretical accounts for how socialization takes place have been proposed (Bornstein, Mortimer, et al., 2011). For most theories, it is primarily through parental control and teaching that the adult culture is transmitted to each new generation of adolescents. Parents are the primary agents who set the agenda for what adolescents learn and who administer the rewards and punishments that strengthen desired characteristics and weaken undesired ones in adolescents. Parents assume multiple roles in socializing adolescents, including those of relational partners and direct instructors (Parke & Buriel, 2006). For example, the way parents approach dilemmas with their adolescents directly impacts adolescents’ reasoning: Parents who encourage and support, and who reason at a level slightly higher than do their adolescents, successfully optimize adolescents’ moral development, whereas parents who make conflictual remarks or lecture without warmth do not (Smetana, 1999; Walker & Henig, 1999). Parents’ use of reasoning, and especially other-oriented induction (i.e., reasoning that draws adolescents’ attention to the effects of their actions on others), appears to extend adolescents’ thinking beyond personal consequences and foster adolescents’ concern for others and prosocial behavior (Hoffman, 1977). A significant increase in risk of drug sampling is obtained for every unit of decrease in parental monitoring (even after partialling age, sex, and ethnic status; Chilcoat & Anthony, 1996). Parental socialization accounts for significant portions of the variance in adolescent outcomes (Conger & Elder, 1994; Kochanska & Thompson, 1997; Reiss et al., 2000). Both longitudinal studies (which assess parenting at one

Socialization

Parents are active participants in adolescent individuation, and they can facilitate healthy emotional development in adolescents by granting age-appropriate autonomy while maintaining a warm and involved relationship (Allen, 2008). Although parents must adjust to their new role as important but less salient figures in their teen’s life, parents influence the behaviors and decisions of their adolescent well into the teen years in important ways (Collins, Maccoby, Steinberg, Hetherington, & Bornstein, 2000). The roles played by parents’ genetic endowment and socialization are inextricably intertwined, even if much more is presently known about the latter than the former. Genetics One direct way parents influence adolescents in themselves and in their relationships (with parents and friends/peers) is via genetic endowment (Figure 16.3). That is, some connections between parent and adolescent characteristics may be attributable to parents’ and adolescents’ shared genetic make-up (Ge et al., 1996; Harris, 1998; Reiss, Neiderhiser, Hetherington, & Plomin, 2000; Rowe, 1994), and reciprocal behaviors between adolescents and their parents may be influenced by inherited factors (van den Oord & Rowe, 1997). Furthermore, because genes and environments are correlated, genetic endowment plus geneenvironment correlation both contribute to understanding links between parents and adolescents. Parents may create opportunities and environments relevant for adolescents’ relationships that are consistent with their own and their adolescents’ genetic dispositions. Behavioral geneticists claim that much (if not most) of the correlations observed between parenting and adolescent outcomes are ascribable

Genetics Adolescents

Socialization

1

1 Child Effects

Figure 16.3 Adolescent ↔ Parent relationships

Parents 2

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

point in time and adolescence at some later point) and experimental research (in which parenting practices are altered through intervention) provide evidence that parenting affects, and does not simply reflect, adolescent adjustment and development (Collins et al., 2000). That parental influences on adolescent functioning that are evident when controlling for adolescents’ impact on their parents gives greater confidence in the power of parents (Williams & Steinberg, 2011). Parenting adolescents is instantiated in parents’ cognitions and practices (Bornstein, 2002, 2006). That is, parents (and other caregivers) help to shape children’s experiences, and parents therefore directly influence adolescent adjustment and development by the socialization and other beliefs they hold and by the related behaviors and practices they exhibit. Socialization cognitions form a framework from which parents perceive and interpret their adolescents. In addition, many theorists reason that parents’ cognitions generate and shape their practices, and so in turn reflect adolescent adjustment and development (Darling & Steinberg, 1993; Goodnow, 2002; Holden & Buck, 2002). Parents’ cognitions, broadly construed, include values, goals, perceptions, attitudes, beliefs, and the like. Specific cognitions related to parenting and adolescence are a part of socialization: Parents’ goals might include their adolescents having positive peer relationships (such as having friendships with other adolescents who are doing well in school) or avoiding contact with friends/peers whom parents believe to be negative influences (such as those who are involved in drugs or delinquency). We first discussed these cognitions under the rubric of parent individualdifference characteristics; here, we focus on how cognitions color parent socialization. For example, parents’ perceptions of adolescent social development (whether their adolescent’s development is delayed, on time, or advanced), attitudes toward their adolescent’s peer relationships (the importance of peer relationships to their adolescent’s social adjustment), and general parenting beliefs (attributions about the heritability of social behavior) may all affect parents’ estimations of their ability to influence adolescent social development and competence and thereby adolescents’ success in peer relationships. For example, parents who see their children as delayed in developing interpersonal skills might express higher levels of concern than those who judge their children’s progress as normative (Profilet & Ladd, 1994). Moreover, parents who estimate their children’s progress as appropriate and express low levels of concern are more likely to encourage their children to participate in contacts

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with friends/peers. When mothers see their children as interpersonally skillful, they are less likely to supervise children’s peer play (Mize, Pettit, & Brown, 1995). In essence, parents’ thinking about parenting and child development has developed as a pertinent domain of investigation vis-`a-vis adolescent relationships. Finally, parents’ childrearing beliefs vary with social status and are associated with the psychological well-being of their adolescents. For example, Asian Indian parents endorse training and shaming childrearing beliefs more than European Americans, and their adolescents report higher family conflict, ethnic identity achievement, and anxiety (Farver, Xu, Bhadha, Narang, & Lieber, 2007). Socialization style and practices constitute a second domain. Parenting style is characterized by attitudes toward the adolescent and the emotional climate of the parent–adolescent relationship rather than specific, goal-directed behaviors. In contrast, parenting practices have specific goals and specific content. Parenting style therefore refers to the emotional climate of the parent– adolescent relationship—the affective context of their interactions. Baumrind (1967) grouped young children according to their social adjustment and then determined how the parents of her groups differed. “Children who were most self-reliant, self-controlled, explorative, and content” had parents who were “controlling and demanding; but they were also warm, rational, and receptive to the children’s communication,” whereas “Children who . . . were discontent, withdrawn, and distrustful” had parents who were “detached and controlling, and somewhat less warm than other parents,” and “the least self-reliant, explorative, and self-controlled children” had parents who were “noncontrolling, nondemanding, and relatively warm” (Baumrind, 1971, pp. 1–2). Baumrind termed the three groups of parents authoritative, authoritarian, and permissive, respectively. She hypothesized that parenting style fosters or fails to foster social competency. In this body of work, the major conceptual difference between authoritative and authoritarian parents is the presence or absence of warmth (responsiveness) along with the high levels of control (demandingness) that both types of parents are thought to exert with respect to childrearing. Together, warmth and control have been used to establish a circumplex model (Maccoby & Martin, 1983) that delimits four parenting styles: authoritative (high warmth, high control), authoritarian (low warmth, high control), indulgent (high warmth, low control), and indifferent (low warmth, low control). Authoritative parenting is believed to promote the development of adolescents’ competence and enhances their ability to

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withstand potentially negative influences, like life stress and exposure to antisocial friends/peers (Curtner-Smith & MacKinnon-Lewis, 1994; Mason, Cauce, Gonzales, Hiraga, & Grove, 1994; Mounts & Steinberg, 1995). Adolescents from authoritative homes are more responsible, self-assured, adaptive, creative, curious, socially skilled, and successful in school (Goldstein & Heaven, 2000; Reitz, Dekovi´c, Meijer, & Engels, 2006; Simons-Morton & Chen, 2005; Steinberg, 1987, 2001; Steinberg, Lamborn, Darling, Mounts, & Dornbusch, 1994; Vazsonyi & Belliston, 2006). They report less depression and anxiety, score higher on measures of self-reliance and esteem, and are less likely to engage in antisocial behavior, including delinquency. The verbal give-and-take of parent-adolescent exchanges in authoritative families fosters cognitive and social competencies, thereby enhancing adolescents’ functioning outside the family. Even within ethnically and socioeconomically diverse populations (Mason, Cauce, Gonzales, & Hiraga, 1996; Steinberg, Mounts, Lamborn, & Dornbusch, 1991) and across countries (Claes et al., 2005; Vazsonyi & Belliston, 2006), authoritative parenting remains a positive influence on adolescent development (Steinberg, 2001). Furthermore, the advantages of authoritative parenting appear to accumulate over time. In authoritarian households, by contrast, where rules are rigidly enforced and seldom explained, parenting has been found consistently to have more harmful effects on adolescent adjustment and development, leading to depression and behavior adjustment problems. Adolescents reared in authoritarian homes are more dependent and passive and less socially adept, self-assured, and intellectually curious (Crittenden, Claussen, & Sugarman, 1994; Sheeber, Hops, Alpert, Davis, & Andrews, 1997; Strauss & Yodanis, 1996). It is noteworthy that authoritative and authoritarian parenting may be more or less appropriate in different cultural settings. Adolescents from indulgent homes are often less mature and unable to assume positions of leadership, as well as more irresponsible and conforming with their friends/peers. Finally, adolescents reared in indifferent homes are often impulsive and more likely to be involved in delinquent behavior and precocious experiments with sex, drugs, and alcohol (Fuligni & Eccles, 1993; Kurdek & Fine, 1994; Lamborn, Mounts, Steinberg, & Dornbusch, 1991; Steinberg, 2001; Steinberg et al., 1994). In both indulgent and indifferent families, parents fail to provide sufficient guidance for their adolescents, and, as a result, their youth fail to acquire adequate standards for behavior. If style is the general emotional climate that parents create, their practices consist of goal-directed behaviors in which parents engage to socialize adolescents in a

particular fashion. Of course, practices may be more or less effective depending on the emotional climate that parents have established, because emotional climate can condition whether adolescents are more or less receptive to parent practices (Darling & Steinberg, 1993). A domain of practice that has been found to have implications for adolescents’ relationships with parents and friends/peers alike is discipline. Discipline of different kinds experienced within the family is hypothesized to transfer from the family relationship system to the peer relationship system. Inductive parental disciplinary strategies that emphasize reasoning are associated with prosocial adolescent behavior (Becker, 1964; Hoffman, 1960; Zahn-Waxler, RadkeYarrow, & King, 1979). Parents who employ inductive discipline presumably teach their adolescents about interpersonal outcomes. By contrast, power assertive disciplinary styles, in which parents rely on verbal commands and physical power, are associated with adolescents’ use of aggression and hostility with friends/peers (Cohn, Patterson, & Christopoulos, 1991; Pettit, Dodge, & Brown, 1988; Pettit, Harrist, Bates, & Dodge, 1991; Putallaz & Heflin, 1990). Associations between harsh discipline and antisocial behavior are independent of confounds such as adolescent temperament, family, and SES (Weiss, Dodge, Bates, & Pettit, 1992). Control is another practice found to have implications for adolescents’ relationships with both parents and friends/peers. For example, two specific types of parental behavior related to adolescent autonomy are enabling and constraining (Allen, Hauser, O’Connor, Bell, & Eickholt, 1996; Allen & McElhaney, 2000; Hauser, Powers, & Noam, 1991; Hauser & Safyer, 1994). Parents who enable accept their adolescents but at the same time help them to develop and state their own ideas through questions, explanations, and tolerating differences of opinion. In contrast, parents who constrain have difficulty accepting their adolescents’ individuality and react to expressions of independent thinking with responses that are distracting, judgmental, or devaluing. Adolescents whose parents enable over constrain are more individuated and score higher on measures of ego development and psychosocial competence. Adolescents who are permitted to assert their own opinions within a family context that is secure and loving develop higher self-esteem and more mature coping abilities. In contrast, adolescents whose autonomy is suppressed are at risk for developing feelings of depression, and those who do not feel connected are more likely than their friends/peers to develop adjustment problems (Allen, Hauser, Bell, & O’Connor, 1994; Allen, Hauser, Eickholt, Bell, & O’Connor, 1994; Allen et al., 1996; Allen &

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

McElhaney, 2000; Hauser et al., 1991; Hauser & Safyer, 1994). Parents’ direct control strategies (controlling adolescents’ freedom to come and go as they please without informing parents, getting their permission ahead of time, or explaining themselves afterward) correlate with adolescents’ feelings of being overly controlled, which, in turn, link to poorer adjustment. Although autonomy-granting behaviors are important, parents still need to balance them with a measure of control. For example, adolescents who are granted too much autonomy too early by their parents are more likely to engage in problem behaviors and to become involved in deviant peer networks (Dishion, Nelson, & Bullock, 2004). Additionally, parental monitoring, a practice that rests on direct parental control, asserts that parents’ tracking and control inhibit adolescents from engaging in problem behavior. This perspective on socialization assumes that parents exert an influence on adolescents through direct supervision and control of adolescent activities and associations (Hirschi, 1985; Laub & Sampson, 1988; Leibner & Wacker, 1997; Wells & Rankin, 1988), even if they are not physically present when their adolescents are outside their purview and direct control of their behavior is not possible (Csikszentmihalyi & Larson, 1984; Hirschi, 1969; Nye, 1958). Parental monitoring is linked to less delinquency, association with deviant friends/peers, drug and alcohol use, cigarette smoking, and risky sexual activity (Dishion & McMahon, 1998; Patterson & Stouthamer-Loeber, 1984). Measures of monitoring often conflate monitoring with knowledge, which can come from adolescent disclosure (see pg. 699–701). Adolescent → Parent The relative strength of parent versus child effects shifts over development (Scarr & McCartney, 1983). Parental influences are likely to be stronger early in development, when parents exert relatively direct control over many aspects of their younger children’s physical and social environments. As the child grows older and gains autonomy, however, she or he will exert increasing control over experiential choices. Adolescents more actively choose situations and circumstances associated with their own parent and friend/peer socialization (Kerr et al., 2003). Adolescents also increasingly seek out experiences and environments that match their dispositions and interests. In addition, adolescents alter environments as they interact with them, and they interpret their experiences and environments in idiosyncratic ways. The messages parents send

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their adolescents about resolving issues of disclosure and concern in friendship may be illuminating, but the adolescent must actually process those messages. Based on their developmental level, perceptions of the domain appropriateness of certain messages, and so forth, adolescents decide to accept or reject them (Grusec & Goodnow, 1994; Smetana, 1999). The impact of parenting on adolescent adjustment is likely to be mediated by how adolescents perceive their parents (Neiderhiser, Pike, Hetherington, & Reiss, 1998; Powers, Welsh, & Wright, 1994). Overall, adolescents are more active agents in their own development and so also influence their parents (Figure 16.3). The adolescent’s makeup, expressed in individualdifference characteristics, affects the adolescent’s adjustment and development directly, but also evokes certain parenting cognitions and practices, which then influence the adolescent’s adjustment and development. Goldberg (1977) usefully taxonomized three salient child characteristics that affect parents: responsiveness, readability, and predictability. Responsiveness refers to the extent and quality of child reactivity to stimulation, readability refers to the definitiveness of child behavioral signals, and predictability refers to the degree to which child behaviors can be anticipated reliably. Each adolescent brings a unique social style and an idiosyncratic physical, social, and mental life to interactions with parents that shape his or her parenting experiences. For example, an “easily read” adolescent produces unambiguous cues that allow parents to recognize the adolescent’s state quickly, interpret signals promptly, and thus respond appropriately. Twin, adoption, and sibling studies indicate that parents react to their children’s unique makeup, and in turn children’s unique experiences are predictive of their adjustment and development (Plomin & Daniels, 1987; Plomin, Reiss, Hetherington, & Howe, 1994). Positive parent behaviors decline, and negative parental control increases, in response to children’s antisocial behavior (Albrecht, Galambos, & Jansson, 2007; Ge et al., 1996; Reitz, Dekovi´c, & Meijer, 2006; Rueter & Conger, 1998; Stice & Barrera, 1995). Adolescents’ antisocial behavior disrupts effective parenting, and parents become hostile and rejecting in the face of their adolescent’s delinquency (Conger & Ge, 1999; Conger & Simons, 1997). The impact of adolescent deviance on parenting is stronger than that of parenting on deviance (Albrecht et al., 2007; Jang & Smith, 1997; Kerr & Stattin, 2003). In making attributions about their behavior and in creating opportunities and environments (or in failing to do so), parents are often influenced by and responding to their adolescents’ characteristics, including gender, age, and personality, and

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parental characteristics, such as mood states (Bugental & Happaney, 2002; De Los Reyes & Kazdin, 2005). Parents influence adolescents, and adolescents influence parents. Clearly, caution is warranted when drawing conclusions about directions-of-effect in studies of adolescence and parenting. Adolescents may be following their parents’ lead, or parents may be following their adolescent’s lead, or parents and adolescents may be co-constructing relationships that fit with their shared interests and dispositions. The links between parenting and adolescent adjustment and development are bidirectional and transactional. The Adolescent ↔ Parent Relationship Early thinking about parent–adolescent relationships tended to highlight parents as agents of adolescent socialization; however, parenting has long since been recognized as a two-way street (Bell, 1968). Parent–adolescent relationships are characterized by intricate patterns of synchronous interactions and mutual understandings. Sometimes, parents’ cognitions and practices are proactive; just as often, however, they are reactive. The parenting literature is populated with numerous experimental and longitudinal studies, from which causality can be inferred, that show that parents and other adults sometimes react to child and adolescent characteristics and adjust their behavior accordingly (e.g., Anderson, Lytton, & Romney, 1986; Bell & Chapman, 1986; Buss, 1981; Dix, Ruble, Grusec, & Nixon, 1986; Lerner & Spanier, 1978; Mulhern & Passman, 1981; Passman & Blackwelder, 1981). For example, parents’ active efforts to get information from their adolescents are only weakly related to their knowledge about their adolescents; rather, adolescents must disclose. Stattin and Kerr (2000), Kerr and Stattin (2000), and others (e.g., Marshall, Tilton-Weaver, & Bosdet, 2005) have found that much of the knowledge parents have about their adolescents comes from adolescents’ open disclosure of information to parents. Thus, in addition to the claim that relations between parents or parenting and adolescent adjustment and development are ascribable to genetic transmission, adolescent-parent effects sometimes run in the reverse direction (Harris, 1995, 1998; Kerr & Stattin, 2003). In lieu of interpreting the link between warm parenting and adolescent adjustment to indicate an impact of parental warmth on adolescent well-being, it is equally reasonable to conclude that well-adjusted teens elicit warm parenting from their mothers and fathers (Kerr et al., 2003). Parents likely adjust to adolescent behavior as much as they likely produce it. The reverse is also true with adolescents adjusting their behavior based on the behavior

of their parents. For example, relative to other adolescents, adolescents who disclose to their parents about their lives are more likely to have parents who refrain from reacting negatively (with sarcasm, judgment, or ridicule) to their spontaneous disclosures; knowledgeable parents tend to be trusting, and their adolescents do not feel overly controlled (Kerr & Stattin, 2000; Kerr, Stattin, & Trost, 1999). Therefore, parents’ trust (or mistrust) affects the way they relate to and communicate with their adolescent and that affects their adolescent’s willingness to disclose about her or his feelings and life experiences. Attachment theory (Bowlby, 1969, 1982) looks at lifespan relationships faithful to this kind of bidirectional, transactional perspective (Posada & Lu, 2011), even if it developed initially out of a focus on maternal sensitivity in situations of infant distress. Attachment views the emotional bond between parents and adolescents as a feedback system, maintaining a balance between adolescents’ desires for closeness with parents and for exploring the world beyond the family (G¨ung¨or & Bornstein, 2010). As the balance between independence and closeness with parents is a central feature of attachment theory, it is particularly relevant to adolescence. In the context of attachment theory, the construct of the “internal working model” has been construed as an unconscious representation of early intimate ties (primarily with parents) that, once formed, remains relatively invariant (Bretherton, 1985; Fraley, 2002; Waters, Vaughn, Posada, & Kondo-Ikemura, 1995). These cognitive models are thought to guide feelings, behaviors, and how information about the world is processed. They structure the approach and expectations parents and adolescents have about each other and, for adolescents, are thought to spill over to other nonparental relationships (Bowlby, 1973; Elicker, Englund, & Sroufe, 1992; Sroufe & Fleeson, 1986). Adolescents differ in their emotional security and the type of internal working models they have developed from attachment relationships with their parents (E. M. Cummings & Cummings, 2002). The security of attachment relationships is shaped by the ways that members of the dyad, such as a parent and adolescent, respond to each other. Secure attachments are characterized by open and flexible communication between parents and adolescents (Bowlby, 1988; Cassidy, 1994), whereas insecure attachments reveal problematic ways of communicating emotions, where partners may exhibit a restricted range of emotions or intensify their displays of emotion (Bowlby, 1988; Cassidy, 1994). Relationship implications of attachment theory are fairly straightforward. Attachment experiences provide a secure or insecure base for adolescents to explore their

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

Context

talents and abilities in a variety of contexts and prepare adolescents to become socially connected with others (Crittenden, 1992). Individuals learn both sides of the attachment relationship and re-enact both sides of their attachment relationship in their associations with friends/peers (Sroufe & Fleeson, 1986). Adolescents using insecure attachment strategies may experience difficulties understanding their own and others’ emotions, leaving them more vulnerable to misinterpreting ambiguous situations as hostile and less able to repair disruptions in relationships (Kobak & Cole, 1994). These misinterpretations may lead to hostile or aggressive actions, withdrawal from friends/peers, or other behaviors that undermine the formation of healthy relationships and foster negative feelings about the self. An insecure-preoccupied attachment style predicts greater discrepancies between adolescent–mother and adolescent–father reports of internalizing and externalizing problems (Berger, Jodl, Allen, McElhaney, & Kuperminc, 2005). Predictably, parents become warmer and less hostile in response to positive adolescent development and less warm in response to problematic adolescent functioning (Williams & Steinberg, 2011). Reciprocally, positive adolescent development is facilitated by high parental warmth and low parental hostility. As adolescents begin to spend more time with friends/peers of their own choosing, internal working models are hypothesized to influence their selection of friends and the quality of those interactions. Adolescents may choose friends as attachment figures who fit with their existing working models, as the data on continuity of attachment from infancy to adolescence suggest (Doherty & Feeney, 2004; Fraley, 2002). The literature has now yielded evidence for independent bidirectional effects of parent and child behavior over intervals of a year and more (Beauchaine, Webster-Stratton, & Reid, 2005; Williams & Steinberg, 2011). Parallel process growth curve models provide independent estimates of the impact of parenting on adolescent functioning as well as the impact of adolescent functioning on parenting.

In the view of family systems theory, what transpires between a parent and an adolescent is governed not only by the characteristics of each individual but also by patterns of transaction between them and between them and others (Bornstein & Sawyer, 2005; Cox & Paley, 2003). Parent and adolescent develop in family and friend/peer systems or contexts that function as an organized whole (Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006), composed of interdependent elements or subsystems that include individuals as well as relationships among individuals that are embedded in contexts (Figure 16.4). Each element or subsystem both affects and is affected by other elements; a change in any one aspect of the system likely leads to changes in others. Like other living systems, family and friend/peer systems continually strive to achieve and maintain a dynamic balance between growth and change on the one hand and the need for consistency and equilibrium on the other. In the family systems view, for example, emphasis falls on relationships and interactions as well as contexts that reach beyond the parent and adolescent to encompass the full diversity of the dyad’s social embeddedness. This means that the structure or organization of relationships in the family affects the quality of the relationship between any two family members, such as adolescent and parent. A major life transition (such as attaining adolescence) for one family member is likely to affect other family members. Regarding the parent–adolescent dyad, a prime example of the role of context in general and the influence of other family subsystems in particular is the influence of the marital subsystem on parents’ parenting. Coparenting refers to ways that parents (or parental figures) relate to each other in the role of parent (McHale et al., 2002). Coparenting comprises multiple interrelated components: agreement or disagreement on childrearing issues, support or undermining of the parental role, and the joint management of family interactions (Feinberg, 2003). The coparenting literature closely articulates with the family systems

Context

Genetics Adolescents 1

Socialization 1 Child Effects

Figure 16.4 Adolescent ↔ Parent relationships in context

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Parents 2

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perspective that marital and parent-adolescent relationships are interdependent (Grych, 2002), as each is to the adolescent’s adjustment and development (Cox, Paley, & Harter, 2001). Strained family relationships appear to be associated with a lack of autonomy during adolescence (Bomar & Sabatelli, 1996). Marital discord not only undermines adolescent psychological health and functioning (Cummings, Iannotti, & Zahn-Waxler, 1985; Grych & Fincham, 1990), such as internalizing and externalizing behaviors and disorders (P. A. Cowan, Cowan, Schultz, & Heming, 1994; Fincham, Grych, & Osborne, 1994), but also affects adolescents’ peer relationships (Ladd & Pettit, 2002). Likewise, the quality of sibling relationships plays a role in connecting parent–adolescent to adolescent–peer relationships. In addition to the marital subsystem, other important contextual factors include the ethnicity, SES, and culture in which adolescent–parent relationships emerge, develop, and function; each can condition the meaning they have for partners in the relationship and for consequences of the relationship. Influences within the family system and between the family and other social systems in the culture are bidirectional and transactional as well.

FRIENDS/PEERS One of the defining characteristics of adolescence is the growing importance of friends and peers (Allen, Moore, & Kuperminc., 1998; Csikszentmihalyi & Larson, 1984; Rose-Krasnor & Denham, 2009); peers include the circle of acquaintances, a subset of whom share greater intimacy and constitute friends (Buhrmester, 1990; Sullivan, 1953). For example, adolescents prefer confiding in friends/peers rather than adults (Dunham, 2004), and the majority of adolescents’ real-life moral dilemmas fall within the context of their friendships (Johnston, Brown, & Christopherson, 1990). As much has been written about adolescents and their friends and peers (see Ladd & LeSieur, 1995; Ladd & Pettit, 2002; Rubin, Bukowski, & Parker, 2006; Rubin, Coplan, Chen, Bowker, & McDonald, 2011), we draw heavily on these accounts and circumscribe this discussion to the most prominent normative characteristics associated with this social nexus, focusing on individual differences in them that contribute to adolescent–friend/peer and adolescent–parent relationships. Historically, theorists of many stripes looked to parents as those actors thought to influence adolescents the most; in more modern construals, adolescent socialization is acknowledged to involve a variety of actors and to take place in a variety of contexts, including families and

locales where peer groups reign, from school classrooms to out-of-school centers to neighborhood associations. This view is consonant with the prevailing ecological perspective in developmental science (Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006). Piaget (1932) suggested that children’s relationships with friends/peers could be distinguished from their relationships with adults, and within the context of friend/peer interactions, children experience opportunities to examine conflicting ideas and explanations, negotiate and discuss multiple perspectives, and decide to compromise with or reject propositions advanced by others. Mead (1934) suggested that an ability to reflect on the self develops primarily out of friend/peer interactions (Boivin & Hymel, 1997), and Sullivan (1953) suggested that adolescents’ concepts of mutual respect, equality, and reciprocity develop from friend/peer relationships (Vitaro, Boivin, & Bukowski, 2009). Finally, social learning theorists have suggested that adolescents learn about their social worlds through direct peer tutelage and observations of friends/peers (Bandura & Walters, 1963), and from this perspective friends and peers act as control and change agents in adolescence. The composition of adolescent social networks includes multiple levels: best friendships,the friendship network, and the peer group (Claes, 2003; Degirmencioglu et al., 1998). Perceived bonds with best friends are generally strongest (Brendgen, Markiewicz, Doyle, & Bukowski, 2001). The adolescent’s proximal network is composed of a small number of intimate friends with whom she or he interacts frequently, feels close, and shares things. In contrast, the exchange network is composed of a larger number of friends and peers with whom the adolescent interacts episodically, usually during leisure activities or weekends. The adolescent peer world is a significant context for relationships. Friends constitute a subset of peers (Figure 16.5). Friendships and peer networks describe social associations between individuals of roughly the same age who tend to share about the same ecological conditions, interests, and activities (Kirchler, Palmonari, & Pombeni, 1996; Ladd, 1989; Reisman, 1985). First, we characterize peers and friends, and review some common and distinguishing characteristics between these two classes of adolescent associates; then, we describe the similar and different functions of both; finally, we review similarities and differences in peers and friends. Peers Adolescents spend increasing proportions of their time in formal and informal group settings with agemates, and crowd affiliation is a salient feature of adolescent social

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

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Friends

Friend(s)

Peers 3

Figure 16.5 Friends/Peers

life (Brown, Eicher & Petrie, 1986). Peer groups have their own structural and functional characteristics in terms of norms and organization. The adolescence literature distinguishes between crowds and cliques of peers. The following exposition applies to cliques: Cliques commonly range in size from 3 to more than 10, with an average of 5 or 6 members. Many cliques are comprised of adolescents of the same gender (Chen, Chang, & He, 2003; Kindermann, McCollom, & Gibson, 1995), although they may become increasingly cross-gendered with age. Cliques are dynamic entities defined by formation, maintenance, and dissolution (Hardy, Bukowski, & Sippola, 2002). Demographic, ecological, and longitudinal investigations have revealed their natural evolution (Brown, Mounts, Lamborn, & Steinberg, 1993; Dunphy, 1963; Goldstein, 1994) as well as stability and change in them (Loeber, 1991; Olweus, 1979; Stattin & Magnusson, 1989). The relevant point here is that peers and adolescents influence one another based on individual-difference characteristics of each (Agnew, 1991; Fergusson, Lynskey, & Horwood, 1996; Moffitt, 1993; Mounts & Steinberg, 1995). For example, peer networks predict change in individual motivation in school (Kindermann, 1993). Being liked and included by a peer group is known as peer acceptance, and being disliked by peers has been termed peer rejection. Socially competent adolescents appear to be sociometrically popular. The characteristics most highly associated with status in the peer group include social skills and advanced ways of thinking about social phenomena. Sociometrically popular adolescents are prosocial and skilled at initiating and maintaining qualitatively positive relationships (Asher & McDonald, 2009; Chen & Tse, 2008; Gazelle, 2008; Pakaslahti, Karjalainen, & KeltikangasJarvinen, 2002; Tomada & Schneider, 1997).

Friendships provide a unique socialization context for the acquisition of essential skills, and they promote personal adjustment (Hartup, 1996; Sullivan, 1953; Youniss, 1980). Most adolescents have a good friend, often several (Hartup & Stevens, 1999), and adolescents typically become increasingly invested in friendships (Epstein, 1983a, 1983b). Friendships are dyadic, mutual, voluntary, and are based on openness, affection, empathy, loyalty, and equality. Reciprocity is another inherent condition in defining friendships (Rubin et al., 1998). Friendships are considered egalitarian and herald positive relational situations that allow the expression and regulation of affect (Parker & Gottman, 1989). Adolescent risky behavior often takes place in the company of friends (Gardner & Steinberg, 2005; Steinberg, 2004a), and sharing and keeping personal information (secrets) between friends is developmentally normative for adolescents (Frijns et al., 2005). Once adolescent friendships are formed, they tend to be stable (Berndt & Hoyle, 1985), but not exclusively (about one-half of all young adolescent friendships are stable across one academic school year; Bowker, 2004; Bowker, Rubin, Burgess, Booth-LaForce, & RoseKrasnor, 2006). Friendship networks display a higher level of stability than instability, and there is stability in the types of friends adolescents have over time, even if the identities of their friends change. Adolescents’ friendship networks are thus composed of stable friends, old friends temporarily or permanently leaving the network, and new friends joining. As adolescents develop, varying rates of maturation and rapid changes in interests can motivate changes in friendship choices and maintenance (Berndt, 1985; Bowker, 2004). Indeed, the very meaning of friendship undergoes developmental change. Whereas young children describe friends as companions who live nearby, have nice toys, and share expectations about play activities (Bigelow & LaGaipa, 1980), and older children share values, when rules and loyalty become important, by early adolescence friends are seen as possessing similar interests, making active attempts to understand each other, and willingly engaging in intimate self-disclosure (Schneider & Tessier, 2007). Thus, the emotional character of friendships varies with age. Intimacy, empathy, self-disclosure, mutual responsiveness, loyalty, and trust emerge and grow in significance within friendships from early to late adolescence (Buhrmester, 1990). Altruistic acts (generosity, cooperation, and helpfulness) between friends increase (Berndt, 1985; Windle, 1994). Friendships also become

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more exclusive. By adolescence, friendship is perceived as ongoing, and friends are people on whom adolescents can count for continuing understanding and intimate social support. Experiences with friends are specific to dyadic social situations, whereas peer groups may have pervasive impact on individual social, emotional, and behavioral functioning and adjustment in larger social settings (R. B. Cairns & Cairns, 1994; Chen, Chang, Liu, & He, 2008; Kindermann et al., 1995). The behavioral interactions that differentiate friends from nonfriend peers typically involve positive engagement, conflict management, and ability to join in tasks. Adolescents take part in more talk, tasks, cooperation, positive affect, and effective conflict management during social interactions with friends than with nonfriends/peers (Hartup, 1996; Simpkins & Parke, 2002). In adolescence, friend/nonfriend peer behavioral differences are stronger than in early childhood. Friends, as compared with nonfriend peers, make more use of negotiation and disengagement, relative to hardening firm positions, in resolving conflicts. Friends are more likely to reach equitable resolutions and agreements (Newcomb & Bagwell, 1995; Tomada, Schneider, & Fonzi, 2002). Although the amount of conflict is greater between friends than between nonfriend peers, friends resolve conflicts in ways that help ensure that their relationships persist beyond the conflict and continue into the future (Laursen, Hartup, & Keplas, 1996). Some Relationship Functions of Peers and Friends Peers Peer groups offer adolescents opportunities to learn about themselves and others (Vaughn & Santos, 2009). Through their membership in peer groups adolescents learn about common goals, cooperation, and the complex interrelationships that comprise a group’s structure as well as the social skills and qualities that are required for effective collective functioning. Peer relationships help adolescents gain a more sophisticated social understanding and develop cognitively because negotiating relationships and disagreements with peers forces adolescents to take another person’s point of view and develop empathy and understanding. Peers act as emotional confidantes (Gottman & Mettetal, 1986), provide each other with advice and guidance (Buhrmester, 1996), and model social attitudes and behaviors (Sussman et al., 1994). Young adolescents may seek support from (intimate) groups as a source of psychological dependence in an effort to establish personal autonomy from parents and acquire a sense

of identity (Brown, 1990). Peer groups teach adolescents how to engage in cooperative activity aimed at collective rather than individual goals and about social structures, the skills associated with leading and following others, the control of hostile impulses towards others, and how to mobilize aggression in the service of group loyalty by directing it towards outsiders. Friends Friendship bonds are the most influential (Berndt, 1979). Friends serve unique relationship functions in adolescent development. Friendships help adolescents build intimacy skills and learn closely how others think and feel. Friendships are known to render adolescents sensitive to others’ perspectives, roles, and feelings (Berndt, 1982; Marcus, 1996). Having a friend can promote or support positive adjustment, particularly during potentially stressful times of transition and peer difficulty (Berndt & Keefe, 1995). A single close friend may help to alleviate the negative “costs” of being disliked and isolated by peers. Friendships provide young people with approval and support in daily life, experiences of sharing and cooperating, standards for social comparison, opportunities to try out adult roles, companionship in leisure time recreation, forums for personal and intimate disclosure of experiences, thoughts, and ideas, and prototypes for later romantic, marital, and parental relationships (Bagwell, Newcomb, & Bukowski, 1998; R. B. Cairns & Cairns, 1994; Hartup, 1983; Parker, Rubin, Price, & DeRosier, 1995). Perhaps the most important function of friendship is to offer adolescents an extrafamilial base of security from which they may explore the effects of their behaviors on themselves, their peers, and their environments. Friendships assist adolescents in their quest for self-exploration and identity formation. With age, adolescents’ friendships demonstrate more stability, more reciprocal altruism, and more intimate personal knowledge. Adolescents’ initial dyadic experiences with friends assist them in acquiring social skills appropriate and necessary for peer acceptance. Similarities and Differences in Peers and Friends Adolescents are attracted to and tend to choose relationships with others who are like themselves in observable as well as nonobservable characteristics (Kupersmidt, DeRosier, & Patterson, 1995). Peers and friends of adolescents tend to share sociodemographic characteristics, like age, gender, and ethnicity (Aboud & Mendelson, 1996; Hartup, 1983; Kandel, 1978a, 1978b), although not exclusively, as cross-characteristics influence friendships and

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

peer relationships alike (Chan & Poulin, 2007; Kiesner, Poulin, & Nicotra, 2003; Poulin & Pedersen, 2007). Adolescents also tend to select peers who resemble them dispositionally and attitudinally, as in shyness or popularity, victimization, academic achievement and motivation, and hobbies or interests (Altermatt & Pomerantz, 2003; Hogue & Steinberg, 1995; Kupersmidt et al., 1995; Rubin, Wojslawowicz, Rose-Krasnor, Booth-LaForce, & Burgess, 2006; Selfhout, Branje, ter Bogt, & Meeus, 2009). They also tend to select peers who are prosocially and antisocially similar (Dishion, Patterson, & Griesler, 1994; Hartup, 1983, 1996; Haselager, Hartup, van Lieshout, & Riksen-Walraven, 1998; Kandel, 1978a, 1978b, 1986; Popp, Laursen, Kerr, Burk, & Stattin, 2008; Rubin, Lynch, Coplan, Rose-Krasnor, & Booth, 1994). In adolescence, stable friendships, in contrast to those friendships that dissolve, are more likely to be similar to each other in their attitudes about school and academic aspirations, and whatever is considered to be normal teen behavior, including experimentation with drugs and alcohol (Urberg, Degirmencioglu, & Pilgrim, 1997; Vitaro, Tremblay, Kerr, Pagani, & Bukowski, 1997). The proclivity in adolescents to affiliate with like-minded friends/peers (Berndt, 1999; Berndt, Hawkins, & Jiao, 1999) might account for observed similarities between adolescents and their friends across a wide array of variables, including school achievement, aggression, internalizing, and externalizing (Epstein, 1983a, 1983b; Hogue & Steinberg, 1995; Kandel, 1978a, 1978b). Adolescents also often choose peers and friends who are different from themselves in certain ways and who satisfy different needs—peers who have talents they do not possess or interests that differ from their own, and whom they can talk with, learn from, and gain insights from (Eder, 1985; Smith & Inder, 1990). Adolescent ↔ Friend/Peer Relationships To this point, our discussion of adolescent–friend/peer relationships has treated adolescents and friends/peers as independent actors. However, adolescent–friend/peer

Adolescents 1

relationships are of course bidirectional and transactional. The discussion that follows first looks at Adolescent → Friend/Peer effects, as identified in the literature, then Friend/Peer → Adolescent effects, and finally the Adolescent ↔ Friend/Peer relationship (Figure 16.6). Here we again summon individual-difference characteristics, but focus on how they influence adolescent ↔ friend/peer relationships. Adolescent → Friend/Peer With the freedom and independence that accompany adolescence, for the first time adolescents can and do make new and different kinds of choices. They can now decide with which particular peers to associate and whom to cultivate as friends. They can now elect to spend time in one or another context (Kerr et al., 2003). Some of these choices are related: Selecting to engage in a particular activity, such as sports, means encountering new but particular peer experiences and, consequently, friendships. Looking toward adolescents’ associations with others, we can identify salient individual-difference characteristics that likely affect their relationships with friends/peers. Adolescent biological or dispositional factors (e.g., maturation or temperament) directly and indirectly impact the quality of their friend and peer relationships. Variation in adolescents’ social skills has been partly explained by early childhood temperament, for example (Prior, Smart, Sanson, & Oberklaid, 2000). Temperamentally sociable children who lack emotion regulatory control are disruptive and aggressive among peers; yet, their sociable counterparts who can regulate their emotions are socially competent with peers (Rubin, Coplan, Fox, & Calkins, 1995). Temperamentally shy children may want to play with friends or peers but tend to refrain from talking and interacting with them because of social fear and anxiety (Coplan, Prakash, O’Neil, & Armer, 2004; Henderson, Marshall, Fox, & Rubin, 2004; Rubin, Burgess, & Hastings, 2002). With friends/peers, shy children display less socially competent and fewer prosocial behaviors, employ

Dyadic 2 Group

Figure 16.6 Adolescent ↔ Friend/Peer relationships

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less positive coping strategies, and are more likely to develop anxiety (Rubin, Bowker, & Kennedy, 2009). Moreover, shy and socially withdrawn children become increasingly rejected and victimized by peers (Gazelle & Rudolph, 2004). Adolescents who are shy, socially wary, and anxious might be expected to have difficulties forming and maintaining friendships; indeed, their timidity precludes opportunities to establish friendships to begin with. Although most aggressive children have a mutual best friend and are as likely as well-adjusted children to have friends (Vitaro, Brendgen, & Tremblay, 2000), not unexpectedly aggressiveness seems to be negatively related to friendship stability (Hektner, August, & Realmuto, 2000). Friend/Peer → Adolescent Lewin (1947) theorized that people change when they participate in peer group interaction, and Harris (1995, 1998) used this view as a platform from which to assert that experiences within the peer group constitute a major source of influence on adjustment and development in adolescents. Adolescents have been portrayed as being especially receptive to steering influences of friends/peers. The presence or absence of friendships (Bagwell, Newcomb, & Bukowski, 1998), the quality of friendships (Ladd, Kochenderfer, & Coleman, 1996; Parker & Asher, 1993), and the characteristics of friends (Dishion, Andrews, & Crosby, 1995; Rubin et al., 2006) all contribute to adolescent development. Peer characteristics are outstanding correlates of key adolescent behaviors. Strong links are believed to be forged between peer behavior or status and adolescents’ behavior with respect to academics as well as sexuality and delinquency (tobacco, alcohol, or drug use; Dishion et al., 1994; Oetting & Donnermeyer, 1998; Parker et al. 1995). Sociometric popularity is positively associated with academic competence, physical attractiveness, and having a good sense of humor (Daniels & Leaper, 2006), whereas peer rejection is associated with maladjustment in terms of externalizing problems, including conduct disorder, attentional difficulties, and substance abuse (Kupersmidt & Coie, 1990). Early peer rejection predicts later antisocial outcomes (even controlling for previous levels of aggression and externalizing; Ladd & Burgess, 2001; Miller-Johnson, Coie, Maumary-Gremaud, Bierman, & The Conduct Problems Prevention Research Group, 2002; Miller-Johnson, Coie, Maumary-Gremaud, Lochman, & Terry, 1999; Wentzel, 2003), increases in both internalizing and externalizing (Kraatz-Keily, Bates, Dodge, & Pettit, 2000), and influences behavioral adjustment problems in adolescence

(even controlling for the stability of externalizing; Laird, Jordan, Dodge, Pettit, & Bates, 2001). Research on peer influence has revealed changes in overt adolescent behaviors, such as school adjustment (Berndt, 1999; Epstein, 1983a, 1983b; Ide, Parkerson, Haertel, & Walberg, 1981; Kurdek & Sinclair, 2000; Mounts & Steinberg, 1995; Wentzel & Caldwell, 1997), and engagement in risky behaviors (Ennett & Bauman, 1991), such as smoking, drinking, and acting out. Peers influence the construction of social cognitions (Daddis, 2011), and belonging supports motivation and engagement (Anderman & Freeman, 2004; Juvonen, 2006) and mediates the relation between motivation and achievement, suggesting that it serves as an essential underlying experience for engaged, achievement-related behavior (Faircloth & Hamm, 2005; Goodenow, 1993; Roeser, Midgley, & Urdan, 1996). Through interaction and association with peers, adolescents experience validation, acceptance, and affirmation at school (R. B. Cairns & Cairns, 1994). Group membership in early adolescence is associated with heightened interest and enjoyment in school and with greater engagement in academics (Wentzel & Caldwell, 1997). In contrast, early adolescents who lack membership in the larger social structure may become academically disaffected (Hymel, Comfort, Schonert-Reichl, & McDougald, 1996). Stability in friendship can benefit school adjustment, particularly during times of school transition (e.g., Berndt et al., 1999; Savin-Williams & Berndt, 1990). However, negative effects also accompany peer group membership (Cairns, Gariepy, Kindermann, & Leung, 1989). Peers influence substance use (Hawkins, Catalano, & Miller, 1992; Kandel & Andrews, 1987), sexual activity (Billy & Udry, 1985a, 1985b), and delinquent behavior (Magnusson, Stattin, & Allen, 1986). Peer rejection adds to the prediction of externalizing problems above and beyond prior levels of problem behavior (Sturaro et al., 2011). Thus, having friends who engage in externalizing behaviors and peer rejection constitute risk factors for adolescent externalizing (Boivin, Vitaro, & Poulin, 2005; Deater-Deckard, 2001; Ladd, 2003, 2006; Parker, Rubin, Erath, Wojslawowicz, & Buskirk, 2006; Rubin et al., 2006). Adolescent ↔ Friend/Peer Relationships Studies of homophily differentiate friend/peer selection from friend/peer socialization (Kandel, 1978a, 1978b, 1985). In friend/peer socialization, adolescents become similar to their friends/peers as they gradually conform to the values, attitudes, and behaviors that are normative in the friend/peer group. In friend/peer selection, similarity between adolescents and friends/peers obtains because

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

adolescents choose to engage with friends and peers who are similar to themselves. Research has confirmed the reciprocal nature of these processes (Engels, Knibbe, de Vries, Drop, & van Breukelen, 1999; Engels, Knibbe, Drop, & De Haan, 1997; Ennett & Bauman, 1994; Farrell & Danish, 1993; Fisher & Bauman, 1988; Mounts & Steinberg, 1995; Urberg et al., 1997), and longitudinal work that has investigated networks of relationships over time conforms to mutual relations between friend/peer selection and friend/peer socialization (Patterson, Reid, & Dishion, 1992). Research indicates that peer socialization and peer selection processes both inform academic achievement (Epstein, 1983a, 1983b) as well as problem behavior (Kandel, 1978a, 1978b). In short, adolescent-friend/peer relationships are bidirectional and transactional. Context Adolescent friendships and peer associations alike are shaped and constrained by the physical and social contexts in which they occur. Family and friend/peer settings (home versus community center) share none to few of the same structural features as do many different friend/peer settings (playground versus street corner). Fluctuations in friendships may be more pronounced in early adolescence because this period coincides with the transition to high school, along with numerous developmental changes at the social, cognitive, and biological levels (Berndt, 1982; Eccles, Lord, & Buchanan, 1996). Understanding adolescent relationships therefore requires bringing into the picture the contexts in which adolescents interact (Figure 16.7). For example, a contextual perspective helps to inform how friend/peer relationships form, stabilize, and disintegrate. The choice of friend/peer activities is confounded with setting. Particular leisure settings afford particular types of activities and engender meeting particular kinds of friends/peers (Eccles, Early, Frasier, Belanksy, & McCarthy, 1997). Adolescents live their everyday lives

in multiple settings, each linked to the other, and each has its special implications (Eccles & Roeser, 2011). In this way, broader neighborhood, leisure time, and community settings influence friend/peer/relationships (Mahoney & Stattin, 2000). School, for example, is the major breeding ground for friend and peer associations (Parker & Asher, 1993), and the relationships that adolescents experience within classrooms often constitute their primary, within-school contact with peers (R. B. Cairns & Cairns, 1994; Eccles et al., 1996; Entwisle, 1990; Kindermann, 1993). However, many leisure-time adolescent associates are not necessarily classmates (George & Hartmann, 1996; Kiesner et al., 2003; Mahoney, 2000; Smith & Inder, 1990). Adolescents have friends and peers who cross diverse contexts, from school to neighborhood, sports teams to Internet, and so forth (Mesch & Talmud, 2007). Out-of-school peer relationships are more heterogeneous than are in-school ones in terms of age and gender (Allen, 1989; George & Hartmann, 1996; Smith & Inder, 1990), and they might have important concurrent and predictive implications for adolescent adjustment and development as youth gradually spend more time with peers outside of home and school (Larson & Verma, 1999). Perhaps peers outside of school are especially important for adolescents who do not consider school to be a valued context or who, for reasons such as peer rejection, do not partake in activities with the majority in their class (Ladd, 1983). By studying an entire community, Kiesner (2000) was able to include peers in the school context as well as the neighborhood. Unsurprisingly, in- and out-of-school peer groups were found to predict adolescent adjustment (individual problem behavior and homework and curfew compliance); notably, however, only out-ofschool groups explained individual involvement in sports and social activities. Notably, frequent nominations as an out-of-school group member buffer adolescents from the negative emotional effects of low peer status in school. In addition, multicontext friendships (school and nonschool)

Context

Adolescents 1

Dyadic 2 Group

Figure 16.7 Adolescent ↔ Friend/Peer relationships in context

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are more stable than single-context friendships (school only or nonschool only) (Chan & Poulin, 2007). Adolescents’ individual-difference characteristics, friend/peer relationships, and contexts are interrelated. Well-adjusted adolescents tend to be more actively involved in structured leisure-time activities and settings, such as organized sports, hobbies, religious activities, music, theater, art, and politics. By contrast, adolescents who suffer more problematic personal and social adjustment tend to be less involved in organized activities and are more likely to be found on the streets and other public places (Cochran & Bo, 1987). Naturally, their unstructured activities seldom fall under direct adult supervision. Settings and activities characterized by high levels of structure, skill-building, exposure to conventional values, and the presence of nondeviant peers are linked to lower levels of antisocial behavior (Csikszentmihalyi, Rathunde & Whalen, 1993; Mahoney, 2000; Mahoney & Stattin, 2000). It is important to consider the ecology of friend/peer relationships, because their stability may vary depending on the contexts of the relationships. Entry into a new social environment may result in the dissolution of old friendships and, at the same time, provide opportunities to form new ones (Hardy et al., 2002). When students move to middle school, particularly in school districts with multiple feeder elementary schools, young adolescents typically see existing peer groups dissolve and must establish new group memberships (Farmer, Xie, Cairns, & Hutchins, 2007).

A TYPOLOGY OF TRIADIC RELATIONS So far, in this chapter we have focused on three actors (adolescent, parent, and friend/peer) and two bidirectional, transactional dyadic relationships involving these actors (adolescent ↔ parent relationships and adolescent ↔ friend/peer relationships). By and large, this discussion treated these two dyads as independent, although we have touched on instances of dependencies between adolescent– parent and adolescent–friend/peer relationships (e.g., our discussion of how parents influence adolescent–friend/peer relationships). Although not discussed to this point, there is a third dyadic relationship that emerges out of this set of actors: the parent ↔ friend/peer relationship. In this regard, readers of a certain age will recall Eddie Haskell’s role in Cleaver family dynamics (those who do not can consult: http://en.wikipedia .org/wiki/Eddie_Haskell). Because the literature has little to say about the parent ↔ friend/peer relationship, we

could not elaborate on it; nonetheless, for purposes of completeness and delineating interdyad relationships, we include it here. Adolescent relationships with parents and friends/peers do not emerge and develop independently of one another. Instead, just as there are reciprocal influences between actors within each dyad, there are reciprocal influences across dyads (i.e., triadic relations). In this section of the chapter, we directly address these triadic relations. Specifically, we identify and explore three types of triadic relations: (1) second-order derivative relations, (2) outside-actor relations, and (3) dyad-to-dyad relations. Derivative Relations Conceptually, between a pair of actors A and B, a derivative relation describes the effect of relationship A–B on actor A or actor B. Put less abstractly, each relationship—adolescent–parent, adolescent–friend/peer, parent–friend/peer—has implications for each of its respective actors—adolescent, parent, and friend/peer. Actors are altered by their dyadic relationship experiences. We think of these as first-order derivative relations due to their effect on an actor in the dyad. Additionally, the effect of one relationship can cascade to another relationship in which the actor partakes. Insofar as relationship A–B affects actors A and B, other relationships that involve actors A and B will likely be affected. We think of these as second-order derivative relations, and these second-order derivative relations define one type of triadic relation. The effect of each relationship on each actor is depicted in Figure 16.8 as bidirectional loops from independent dyadic relationships , , and  to actors , , and . To illustrate what we mean by second-order derivative relations we provide examples of how actors are altered by their experiences in a given relationship (i.e., first

Adolescents 1

2

1

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Figure 16.8 relations

3

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Adolescent ↔ Parent ↔ Friend/Peer derivative

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

order derivative relations), and then we clarify how those alterations to the actor can impact the actor’s other relationships (i.e., second-order derivative relations). As part of a bidirectional, transactional process, adolescents are influenced by their relationships with parents or friends/peers. For example, adolescent–parent relationships  that are characterized by mutually secure attachments are theorized to lead to better social skills development in adolescents , a first-order derivative relation (Allen et al., 2002). Because adolescent social skills are linked to the formation and maintenance of relationships with friends/peers (Crick & Dodge, 1994), the impact of the adolescent–parent relationship on adolescent social skills can in turn influence adolescent–friend/peer relationships, a second-order derivative relation. Links between parent–child attachment and children’s peer relationships were initially investigated with younger children (Elicker et al., 1992; Fagot, 1997; Kerns, 1994; LaFreniere & Sroufe, 1985; Perry, Finnegan, Hodges, Kennedy, & Malone, 1993; Troy & Sroufe, 1987; Waters, Wippman, & Sroufe, 1979). Children with secure, in contrast with insecure, attachments express higher levels of social competence with friends/peers, higher rates of peer acceptance, and lower rates of peer victimization. Similarly with adolescents, secure attachments are associated with higher levels of competence and lower levels of dysfunction in peer and friend relationships (Allen et al., 1998; Clark & Ladd, 2000; Hodges, Finnegan, & Perry, 1999). Second-order derivative relations can also follow the reverse pattern—namely, the effect of the adolescentfriend/peer relationship  on the adolescent  can, in turn, affect the adolescent-parent relationship . As an example of how adolescent–friend/peer relationships  exert influences on adolescents , once an adolescent has joined a group of friends/peers who harbor ill feelings about adult authority or rules or structure, these friends/peers might model, elicit, or reinforce deviant activities in the new adolescent group member (Dishion, McCord, & Poulin, 1999; Dishion, Spracklen, Andrews, & Patterson, 1996; Poulin, Dishion, & Haas, 1999), all first-order derivative relations. Likewise, rejection from the peer group can contribute to adolescent maladjustment, leading to externalizing problems, including attentional difficulties, conduct disorder, delinquency, and substance abuse (Kupersmidt & Coie, 1990; Ladd & Burgess, 2001; Laird et al., 2001; Miller-Johnson et al., 2002; Miller-Johnson et al., 1999; Wentzel, 2003). Because increases in adolescent problem behavior are negatively associated with adolescent–parent relationship quality (Buist, Dekovi´c, Meeus, & van Aken,

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2004), the impact of adolescent ↔ friend/peer relationships  on adolescent  problem behaviors can in turn influence adolescent ↔ parent relationships , a secondorder derivative relation.

Outside-Actor Relations Outside-actor relations constitute a second type of triadic relation. Conceptually, among a set of actors A, B, and C, an outside-actor relation is the extent that relationship A–B is directly influenced by or directly influences actor C (i.e., an actor outside of the A–B relationship). Displayed graphically in Figure 16.9, actors not only establish bidirectional, transactional relationships with other actors (, , and ), but the relationship between each pair of actors has relationship implications for the outside (third) actor, just as each outside actor can impact the relationship between the other two actors (, , and ). Outside-actor relations are similarly bidirectional and transactional, and they are conceptually distinct from second-order derivative relations. Whereas second-order derivative relations involve one relationship, due to its effect on a given actor, indirectly impacting another relationship (i.e., A–B indirectly affects A–C through its effect on A), outside-actor relations involve one actor directly impacting or being impacted by another relationship (i.e., actor A directly impacts or is impacted by relationship B–C). To be more specific: The adolescent ↔ parent relationship () has implications () for friends/peers (), just as the adolescent’s friends/peers () have implications () for the adolescent ↔ parent relationship (). The adolescent ↔ friends/peers relationship () has implications ( ) for parents (), just as parents () have

Adolescents 1

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2 6 4

5 Parents 2

Figure 16.9 relations

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Adolescent ↔ Parent ↔ Friend/Peer outside-actor

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implications ( ) for adolescent ↔ friend/peer relationships (). The parent ↔ friends/peers relationship () has implications ( ) for adolescents (), just as adolescents () have implications for parent ↔ friend/peer relationships (). Obviously, not all these associations are of equal weight, and not all associations have been investigated in equal degrees. As we see shortly, relationship (parent ↔ adolescent–friend/peer) has captivated the effort and energy of the research community. However, there are likely numerous real-world instances and examples of , friends/peers responding to adolescents’ relationships with their parents and being influenced by them, as there are adolescents responding to parents’ relationships with their friends/peers ( ) and being influenced by them.  The Friend/Peer ↔ Adolescent–Parent Relationship Characteristics of adolescents’ friends and peers are associated with the adolescent–parent relationship. Consider the example of parents who become aware that their adolescent and certain of her or his friends or peers have relationships or shared beliefs and engage in activities together that the parents view as undesirable. As a result, parents might modify their management practices or attempt to block the adolescent from spending time with these “risky” friends/peers, thereby creating tension and conflict in the adolescent–parent relationship. Adolescents often rely on peers as bridges as they move from being reliant on parents to engaging in more autonomous behavior (Steinberg & Silverberg, 1986). Reciprocally, poor emotional bonds with parents might result in teens choosing friends who differ from their parents (Elliott, Huizinga, & Ageton, 1985; Hawkins & Weis, 1985; Hirschi, 1969; Kaplan, 1982; Kaplan, Johnson, & Bailey, 1986; Kaplan, Martin, & Johnson, 1986). In these two ways, characteristics of the adolescent ↔ parent relationship () may influence the types of peers () an adolescent befriends, just as characteristics of adolescents’ friends and peers () influence relationships adolescents have with their parents (). The Parent ↔ Adolescent–Friend/Peer Relationship Parents () directly influence adolescent-friend/peer relationships (), just as adolescents’ friend and peer relationships () directly influence parents (). We first consider the better known parent → adolescent-friend/peer relationship; afterward, we briefly consider the adolescentfriend/peer → parent relationship.

The Parent → Adolescent–Friend/Peer Relationship. Parents can affect the types of friends that adolescents associate with (Mounts, 2002), and they might influence peer relationships indirectly or directly (Parke & Bhavnagri, 1989). Parents indirectly affect their adolescents’ friend/peer relationships when they engage in parenting that does not directly focus on affecting peer relationships. An authoritative parenting style (high warmth and control) is not focused specifically on peer relationships, yet it relates to peer relationships (Putallaz & Heflin, 1990). Adolescents who report that their parents use a nonauthoritative style are more likely to be influenced by their peers to use drugs (Mounts & Steinberg, 1995). When adolescents report that their parents are restrictive and try to maintain power over them, they orient more to peers (Fuligni & Eccles, 1993). Some parents might encourage their adolescent to enroll in many activities with children that they find desirable and away from the undesirable peer contact. Other parents might engage in high levels of prohibiting in an effort to affect peer selection. Direct parental influences in adolescent–friend/peer relationships have been organized traditionally around four key parental roles: designer, mediator, supervisor, and advisor/consultant (Ladd & LeSieur, 1995; Ladd & Pettit, 2002). These direct modes of influence encompass parents’ efforts to socialize or manage adolescents’ relationships with friends/peers. Parents act as designers when they seek to structure, control, or influence the physical surroundings and social settings in which adolescents meet and interact with their friends/peers. As designers, parents influence adolescents’ access to friends/peers through their choice of neighborhoods, schools, after-school arrangements, extracurricular activities, and community resources. When parents settle in one as opposed to another area, they mark out the limits of the future life courses of their adolescents (Barker, 1964; Brown, Harris, & Peto, 1973; Magnusson & Stattin, 1998), and the availability of social situations in that area determines the possibilities for particular activities and for the functioning and development of adolescents and peer groups. To the extent that different ecologies create different opportunities, they also become staging areas for the development of social skills and interpersonal competencies in adolescent-friend/peer relationships. Adolescents in self-care after school report higher levels of susceptibility to peer influence than adolescents in adult care or in self-care in their homes (Steinberg, 1986), and adolescents in self-care out of their own homes after school and during the summer report higher levels of peer involvement than adolescents in adult care or in self-care at

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

home (Galambos & Maggs, 1991). Parents involve their adolescents in religious organizations as a means to provide them with peer groups that purportedly positively influence their development (Furstenberg, Cook, Eccles, Elder, & Sameroff, 1999). As mediators, parents bridge between the family and the world of friends/peers by helping adolescents meet friends/peers and construct social networks, form and maintain relationships with specific friends/peers, and manage interactions in peer contexts (Bhavnagri & Parke, 1991; Ladd & Coleman, 1993; Ladd, Le Sieur, & Profilet, 1993; Lollis, Ross, & Tate, 1992). One study identified four groups of facilitation strategies that parents used in helping adolescents form friendships after a move to a new school (Vernberg, Beery, Ewell, & Abwender, 1993): Parents reported that they met with other parents, facilitated proximity to peers, talked with their adolescent about peer relationships, and encouraged interactions with other adolescents as strategies for helping them make new friends. Adolescents whose parents reported the highest frequency of friendship facilitation strategies had the greatest successes in making friends. Supervision is defined as parents’ efforts to oversee and regulate adolescents’ ongoing interactions, activities, and relationships with friends/peers. Parents claim that they would exert a moderate amount of control in a situation where their adolescents’ friends were known to be troublemakers and less control in situations where the parents did not know the friends (Youniss, DeSantis, & Henderson, 1992). Parents also supervise their adolescents’ peer relationships by providing rules regarding peer relationships. Parents in impoverished neighborhoods enforce a variety of rules regarding peer relationships as a strategy to prevent their adolescents from being adversely affected by peers (Furstenberg et al., 1999). For example, parents have rules about where adolescents may meet and rules constraining the amount of contact they may have with peers who might exert negative influences. Three types of supervision have been distinguished: interactive intervention, directive intervention, and monitoring (Lollis et al., 1992; Parke et al., 2003). Interactive intervention includes parents’ attempts to proactively supervise adolescents’ peer interactions from within a relationships framework (e.g., as active participants in their play). This style of supervision best fits the social novice adolescent, who relies on a more skillful partner to help construct and carry out social interactions with peers. In directive intervention, parents typically operate from outside the context of the adolescent–friend/peer relationship (as observers rather than as participants) and intervene only infrequently in ongoing interactions. The last

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distal form of supervision, and perhaps the most appropriate strategy to adolescence, is monitoring, defined as parents’ knowledge or awareness of adolescents’ whereabouts or activities (Bogenschneider, Wu, Raffaelli, & Tsay, 1998; Jacobson & Crockett, 2000; Stattin & Kerr, 2000; Steinberg et al., 1994). Monitoring is a practice in which parents manage peer relationships (Parke & O’Neil, 1999). As suggested earlier, much of what researchers label parental monitoring may be parental knowledge and based on adolescent disclosure (Stattin & Kerr, 2000). High levels of monitoring are associated with peer acceptance (Dishion, 1990), whereas low levels of monitoring are linked with a wide array of social and academic difficulties in adolescence (Dishion & McMahon, 1998). Adolescents in selfcare after school who were monitored distally by their parents, through telephone calls home, are less susceptible to antisocial peer pressure than adolescents whose parents did not monitor them (Steinberg, 1986). Similarly, high levels of monitoring are associated with a less extreme peer orientation (Fuligni & Eccles, 1993). According to Patterson’s (1982) theory of coercive family processes, adolescents are more likely to affiliate with deviant peers in response to overt parental hostility (Dishion, Patterson, Stoolmiller, & Skinner, 1991) and poor parental monitoring (Ary, T. E. Duncan, Duncan, & Hops, 1999; Dishion, Capaldi, Spracklen, & Li, 1995). Finally, parents advise adolescents about friends/peers when their friends/peers are not present. Parents talk with adolescents about how to initiate friendships, manage conflicts, maintain relationships, deflect teasing, buffer bullying, and so forth (Laird, Pettit, Mize, Brown, & Lindsey, 1994; Lollis et al., 1992). Such consulting is more likely to occur as parents become distant from direct involvement in their adolescent’s friend/peer relationships (Parke et al., 2003). Advising also occurs in response to specific incidences involving friends/peers or as parents see a need to prepare adolescents for the possibility of having certain types of experiences with friends/peers. Following a change of residence, parents report that they engage in consulting strategies, such as talking with their adolescents and encouraging them to participate in peer activities (Vernberg et al., 1993). Guiding advice is a way parents help adolescents think about friend/peer relationships and how those relationships might affect them. Adolescents whose parents use more guiding select friends with lower levels of antisocial behavior and higher levels of academic achievement (Mounts, 2000: guiding also predicts these same friend characteristics one year later, controlling for earlier friend characteristics) and higher levels of positive friendship quality (Mounts, 2004a).

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The Adolescent–Friend/Peer Relationship → Parent. As every parent knows (too well), adolescents’ social successes lighten parents’ burdens and hearten them, just as adolescents’ social difficulties stress and distress them. In short, adolescents’ friend/peer relationships affect parents deeply. Parents are concerned about their adolescent’s choice of friends. They also worry about their adolescents’ participation in delinquent activities while in the company of their peers (Pasley & Gecas, 1984). If adolescents turn to deviant peers and increase their involvement in antisocial activity, parents often disengage (Dishion et al., 2004; Dishion, Poulin, & Medici Skaggs, 2000). Parents also modify their attitudes and actions depending on characteristics of their adolescents’ friend/peer relationships. Peers might influence adolescent behaviors, which then leads parents to manage peer relationships in a particular way; or parents might manage peer relationships in response to friendship selections. For instance, a parent initially might want her/his adolescent to be popular with friends/peers; if the adolescent has problems developing relationships with other adolescents, however, the parent might modify that goal to prefer the adolescent have a smaller number of friends. Adolescent–friend/peer relationships encompass interactions with opposite-sex friends/peers, initiation of dating and sexual relations, and so forth; to say the least, these each have consequences for parents.

The Adolescent ↔ Parent–Friend/Peer Relationship By contrast with the other two actor-relationship paths, few studies have examined the relationship between adolescents’ parents and their friends/peers () and its relation to the adolescent ( ). Such relations exist, and they and their implications wait to be explored. For example, the relationship between an adolescent’s parents and her or his friends and peers could be characterized by positivity, negativity, or the absence of a relationship altogether. Under what conditions is each type of relationship most likely to arise? Are positive parent–friend/peer relationships beneficial to adolescents, and, if so, in what ways are they beneficial? Separate from questions regarding whether adolescents are influenced by parent–peer/friend relationships, there are questions regarding whether and how adolescents exert influences over parent–peer/friend relationships. That adolescents prefer not having their parents around when they are hanging out with their friends is a given. Although understandable, this preference, when heeded, likely reduces parent–friend interactions and, in turn, hinders the formation of parent–friend relationships. Of course, adolescents likely differ to the extent that they

hold this preference, and parents likely differ to the extent they cater to it. Future research should explore the individual, relational, and contextual characteristics associated with these dynamics.

Dyad-to-Dyad Relations Dyad-to-dyad relations are the third type of triadic relation. Among a set of actors A, B, and C, a dyad-to-dyad relation is the extent that relationship A–B directly influences or is directly influenced by relationship B–C (i.e., a dyad other than itself). The logic of a relationships model and dawning acknowledgement of moderation in developmental science lead inexorably to the conclusion that relationships between pairs of actors relate to relationships between other pairs of actors; in other (less kind) words, the relationship–relationship relations depicted as paths , , and in Figure 16.10. Note that dyad-todyad relations are conceptually distinct from outside-actor relations. Whereas outside-actor relations entail one actor directly impacting or being impacted by another relationship (i.e., actor A directly impacts or is impacted by relationship B–C), dyad-to-dyad relations entail one relationship directly impacting or being impacted by another relationship (i.e., relationship A–B directly impacts or is directly impacted by relationship B–C). We cannot consider all of the dyad-to-dyad relations depicted in Figure 16.10 in detail because, although they are revealed by our model, they have garnered little theoretical or empirical attention to date. Nevertheless, greater notice of them may pay dividends in the future. To clarify what we mean by dyad-to-dyad relations and the types of research questions they can engender, we focus on the parent–adolescent relationship ↔ adolescent–friend/peer relationship dyad-to-dyad relation . In doing so, we first deconstruct it into directional relationships, although we

Adolescents 1

1 8 Parents 2

2

7 9 3

Friends Peers 3

Figure 16.10 Adolescent ↔ Parent ↔ Friend/Peer Dyad-toDyad relations

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

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stress as always our conviction that these dyad-to-dyad relations are fundamentally bidirectional and transactional.

The Adolescent–Friend/Peer → Adolescent–Parent Relation

The Adolescent–Parent → Adolescent–Friend/Peer Relation

Adolescents have a finite amount of time and resources to give to relationships, and as the time and energy devoted to and the importance placed on relationships with friends and peers increase (Brown, 2004), relationships with parents in turn typically decrease (Jager, 2011b; Larson et al., 1996; Youniss, 1980). Adolescents spending more time with peers may disrupt adolescent–parent communication. This inverse relation or “competition” between adolescent relational domains has also been identified between romantic partners and parents (Connolly & Johnson, 1996; Laursen & Williams, 1997). The foregoing examples may be instances of direct dyad-to-dyad relations, but they also overlap derivative relations and outside-actor relations. In fact, it is possible that direct dyad-to-dyad relations do not exist (i.e., it may never be the case that one relationship directly impacts another relationship). Instead, it is possible that all relations between relationships are indirect. For example, the relation between adolescent–parent interaction styles and adolescent–friend/peer relationships () may be fully mediated by the impact that adolescent–parent interactions have on the adolescent (i.e., fully explained by derivative relations—). A similar argument could be made for any proposed dyad-to-dyad relation. Whether or not direct dyad-to-dyad relations exist is an empirical question that has yet to be answered. This question of whether or not dyad-to-dyad relations exist is just one of many raised by our triadic model of adolescent, parent, friend/peer relationships.

Dyad-to-dyad relations pertain to how one relationship impacts another relationship. There are several ways that adolescent–parent relationships may impact adolescent– friend/peer relationships. For example, time and again, research has demonstrated that adolescent–parent interaction styles (e.g., attachment styles, communication, warmth, conflict resolution) predict the quality of adolescent–friend/peer relationships. Well-adjusted adolescents from authoritative homes select (and are selected by) similarly competent—and to a certain extent, similarly reared—friends/peers, and experiences within their peer group serve to amplify and maintain their higher level of adjustment. In contrast, less competent adolescents from nonauthoritative homes are more likely to select comparably less competent peers—from comparably nonauthoritative homes—and their friend/peer group amplifies and maintains their disadvantage (Brown et al., 1993; Fletcher, Darling, Steinberg, & Dornbusch, 1995). Another way that the adolescent–parent relationship may influence the adolescent–friend/peer relationship is that adolescent–parent relationships can serve as a sort of proving ground for the types and forms of interactions that are ubiquitous in adolescent–friend/peer relationships, thereby setting the stage for more successful adolescent–friend/peer relationships. For example, when parents engage in horizontal roles with their adolescents (such as “co-player” in play interactions; see O’Reilly & Bornstein, 1993), adolescents are provided with opportunities to acquire interactional skills (matching affective states, turn-taking, synchronous exchanges, and co-construction of the content and direction of play; Russell, Pettit, & Mize, 1998) that might easily generalize to their horizontal friend/peer interactions. Parent–child attachment and play are nonredundant in their links with children’s peer competence (Kerns & Barth, 1995). Likewise, parent–adolescent discussions about friendships (as a means to assist adolescents to meet new friends) relate to higher levels of intimacy in adolescents’ friendships (Vernberg et al., 1993). Overall, the message is that relationship patterns learned in the family can transfer to relationships in the friend/peer domain, and family environments and the processes that occur within them can impact the quality of adolescents’ friend and peer relationships. The reciprocal is also true.

FUTURE DIRECTIONS Figure 16.11 depicts the near full flowering of adolescent– parent–friend/peer relationships and their dyadic and triadic relations. The triadic relationships model we have advanced calls on researchers to undertake new, more, and challenging studies to promote knowledge in this area. By this, we mean research that begins with bidirectional, transactional models; embraces person–context designs; actively captures development in longitudinal endeavors; tests causality and hypothesized mechanisms in experimental studies; measures processes and mechanisms; and focuses on realworld phenomena in ecologically valid contexts. Throughout this chapter, as we delineated our triadic relationships model, we distinguished between dyadic relations (bidirectional, transactional relations

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Adolescence

Adolescents 1

1

Parents 2

2

7 4 8

5 6 3

9 Friends Peers 3

Figure 16.11 Adolescent ↔ Parent ↔ Friend/Peer relationships and relations

between two members of a dyad) and inter-triadic relations (bidirectional, transactional relations among three members of a triad). Research devoted to the examination of adolescent relationships has primarily focused on dyadic relations. The wealth of research on adolescent–parent attachment and the reciprocal nature of adolescent–peer/friend relationships are testimony to this fact. Nonetheless, our understanding of dyadic relations among adolescents, parents, and friends/peers remains far from complete. In particular, little is known about the formation of parent–friend/peer relationships and the ways in which parents and friends/peers jointly contribute to their formation or their implications for adolescent adjustment and development. We believe that our triadic model of adolescent relationships provides a heuristic conceptual framework for the examination of these and other dyadic relations involving adolescents, parents, and friends/peers. Comparatively, gaps in our understanding of interdyad dependencies among adolescents, parents, and friends/ peers are far more extensive. Not only has research on the topic been extremely limited, but the field has lacked a theoretical framework to help direct the research and propel it forward. Our triadic model of adolescent relationships might fulfill the latter and inspire the former. By delineating three different types of triadic relations (i.e., derivative relations, outside-actor relations, and dyad-to-dyad relations), incorporating multiple actors (adolescents, parents, friend/peers), and allowing for the contribution of context, our triadic model provides an inclusive yet detailed framework for examining and unpacking triadic relations among adolescents, parents, and friends/peers. Nonetheless, significant obstacles remain. To apply the triadic model to the examination of triadic relations among this particular set of actors, a dataset that includes contextual measures as well as individual and relational measures for adolescents,

parents, and friends/peers is required. Datasets incorporating all of these measures are rare; longitudinal datasets incorporating all of these measures are rarer still. Additionally, in most cases, unpacking triadic relations among adolescent relationships will require creative, if not novel, analytical techniques. Indeed, this may be one reason why existing research on triadic relations remains so limited. For example, what analytical or statistical approach(es) would one use to examine dyad-to-dyad relations or distinguish between derivative relations and outside-actor relations? Answers to these questions are far from straightforward. Finally, we referred to Figure 16.11 as depicting the “near” full flowering of adolescent–parent–friend/peer relationships. In reality, each of these triadic flowers populates a field of overlapping triadic relations. When given opportunity to record all individuals who have an influence on their lives, even young adolescents mention a large number of unrelated adults (Blyth, Hill, & Thiel, 1982): Approximately 10% of significant others named were nonrelated adults, most of whom resided within the same neighborhoods as the participants. It is likely that many of these adults are parents of adolescents’ friends. Nonrelated adults in a community influence adolescents. At least two mechanisms have been identified. First, nonrelated adults affect adolescents through adolescents’ parents by providing emotional and instrumental support, by encouraging or discouraging specific parenting, or by modeling parenting (Case & Katz, 1992). Adolescents are thereby influenced by these network effects through the changed behavior of their own parents (Cochran, 1990). Second, nonrelated adults influence adolescents through the nonrelated adults’ children. A parent may inculcate a set of values or standards for behavior among her or his own children, who then influence their peers (Case & Katz, 1992). Adolescents whose friends describe their parents as authoritative earn higher grades in school, spend more time on homework, have more positive perceptions of their academic competence, and report lower levels of delinquency and substance use. So, parental authoritativeness in the larger adolescent network benefits adolescents above and beyond the positive impact of parental authoritativeness at home. Network authoritativeness is associated with lower levels of adolescent delinquency and substance use, lower levels of school misconduct and peer conformity for boys, and greater psychosocial competence and lower levels of psychological distress among girls. The beneficial impact of network authoritativeness on adolescent behavior is mediated through its effect on adolescents’ peers (Fletcher et al., 1995). Membership in a community of peers and adults who

Adolescents, Parents, Friends/Peers: A Relationships Model

encourage adjustment and good behavior on the parts of other adolescents within the community is beneficial above and beyond the presence of such positive influences within the immediate family.

CONCLUSIONS Although we have attempted in this chapter to delineate a layered, bidirectional, transactional relationships model that weighs actors—adolescents, parents, friends/peers— equally, in many senses we have had adolescent adjustment and development foremost in mind. Indeed, a full accounting of adolescent adjustment and development requires the inclusion of adolescents, parents, and friends/peers, as well as their larger networks. After all, social relationship theory rightly posits that multiple relationships are important to adolescents because they meet different developmental needs (Ladd et al., 1997; MacKinnon-Lewis, Starnes, Volling, & Johnson, 1997; Vandell & Wilson, 1987; Vondra, Shaw, Swearingen, Cohen, & Owens, 1999; Wentzel, 1998). Parents may serve as a source of love, affection, security, protection, advice, and limit setting. Friends/peers provide mutual commitment, support, and trust. Therefore, adolescent adjustment and development constitute parts of a complex system that includes adolescents’ own capacities and proclivities; adolescents’, parents’, and friends’/peers’ social relationships; and multiple developmental contexts (homes, schools, neighborhoods, ethnicity socioeconomic class, and culture). Within complex developmental systems, it is unlikely that any single factor is determinative. Rather, multiadic, transactional relationships are more likely. Researchers and theoreticians today do not ask whether parenting and friendship/peer relationships affect adolescent adjustment and development, but which parent and friend/peer cognitions and practices affect which aspects of adolescent adjustment and development when and how; they are interested also in learning the ways in which individual adolescents are so affected, as well as the ways individual adolescents affect their own adjustment and development as well as that of their parents and friends/peers. Adolescents are increasingly free to make individual choices that they have never had the latitude to make before. A deeper understanding will come from knowing adolescents in their complexity as both active and reactive agents who are embedded in relationships and contexts. Consolidating this understanding is the central challenge that lies ahead.

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PART V

Adulthood and Aging

CHAPTER 17

Disease, Health, and Aging in the First Decade of the 21st Century ILENE C. SIEGLER, HAYDEN B. BOSWORTH, ADAM DAVEY, AND MERRILL F. ELIAS

DEMOGRAPHIC AND PUBLIC HEALTH CONSIDERATIONS 439 INCREMENTAL FINDINGS FROM REVIEW CHAPTERS 440 UNDERSTANDING RISK AND PREDICTIONS OF COGNITIVE AND FUNCTIONAL DECLINES 441 MEDICAL SELF-MANAGEMENT AND NEW MODELS OF CARE 443

END OF LIFE ISSUES 443 PREDICTIONS FOR THE FUTURE AND THE ROLE OF DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY 445 CONCLUSIONS 445 REFERENCES 446

In the 10 years or so since the last version of this chapter, there has been steady progress in research on developmental health psychology. Areas that were described in our previous chapter (Siegler, Bosworth, & Poon, 2003, Chapter 17) that are still applicable remain as written and are updated where necessary. Most of the ongoing research in the psychology of adult development and aging has been incremental, with the emphasis on qualitative changes in the lifecycle most prominent at the start of

adulthood (see, e.g., Arnett, 2010; Arnett & Tanner, 2006). Research in psychosomatic medicine started taking aging and the life course seriously, with a special issue (Ory & Chesney, 2002) published after the previous chapter was written. We argue that the major changes in understanding disease and health among the elderly over the past decade come from increased methodological sophistication about how to model and deal with time and from the role of the Web in making data and international collaboration commonplace; the latter improvement has resulted in a new paradigm for research in the future that previously was only common in the study of centenarians (e.g. Robine, Vaupel, Jeune & Allard, 1997). This new paradigm is just getting organized in psychology of aging (e.g., Hofer & Piccinin, 2009) but is in full operation in the studies of Alzheimer’s disease (AD) modeled on the collaborative study, with multiple centers pooling data with public–private partnerships and international

Dr. Siegler’s work on this chapter was support by NIH Grant #R01 HL55356 from the National Heart Lung and Blood Institute (NHLBI) and cofunding by the National Institute on Aging (NIA); P01 HL36587, Grant #IIRG-08-89565 from the Alzheimer’s Association and the Duke Behavioral Medicine Research Center. Dr. Elias’ work on this chapter was supported by research grants 1RO1-HL67358 and 1R01-HL081290 from the NHLBI and The National Institutes of Health, to the University of Maine. The content is solely the responsibility of the author and does not represent the official views of the NHLBI.

Dr. Davey’s work on this chapter has been supported by grants from the National Institute of Aging R01 AG13180, the National Cancer Institute R21CA158877, and from the U.S. Department of Agriculture PENR-2008-05011, PENR-2010-04643.

Dr. Bosworth’s work on this chapter was supported by a NHLBI grant (R01 HL070713), a VA Health Services Research and Development grant (20-034), an Established Investigator Award from the American Heart Association, and a VA Career Scientist Award(08-027) to the third author. The views expressed in this manuscript are those of the authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the Department of Veterans Affairs.

We would like to thank Shirley Austin for her work on coordinating this chapter. We wish to acknowledge the editorial work by Ms. Danielle Briggeman, The University of Maine. 437

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collaboration (see Weiner et al., 2010). These advances have the potential to improve the worth of psychology of adult development and aging to public health (Lahey, 2009). The goals of developmental psychology and the place of adult development and aging and the study of health have changed only in incremental ways. Thus, most of our previous introduction is still relevant. Developmental psychology’s goal is to describe, predict, and understand the changes that come with age. Developmental psychology is a multidisciplinary field within psychology—a field that cuts across all of the standard areas of psychology. We adopt the conventional terminology for changes, which implies variations in longitudinal measurements on the same persons over time; this is the core of the psychology of aging. We reserve the term age differences for cross-sectional age comparisons at a single point in time; such comparisons are the province of experimental aging research or a psychology of the aged. Understanding the variance accounted for by particular health problems or disease statuses requires both approaches. A basic contribution of developmental psychology has been the development of methodological advances to improve ways to assess age changes in the aforementioned contexts. Health and disease are prominent factors that influence changes associated with age; thus, this chapter examines the measurement and meanings of health and disease and their contribution to our understanding of the aging process, called developmental health psychology (Siegler, 1989; Siegler et al., 2003, p. 423) The key term in developmental psychology is age—that is, the age at time of measurement; the age at the beginning and at the end of the measurement period; the age at the onset of a disorder; and the age at death—but new statistical methods recognize that the age when the study began is not really the baseline. Baseline measures in longitudinal designs capture a point in time along the age continuum that extends forward and backward. Developmental psychology sees age as more than just a marker variable or placeholder; age is a dynamic process. A basic contribution of developmental psychology has been the development of methodological advances to improve ways to assess age changes and separate out the times of measurement and cohort effects, all of which get more complex with changes in health status (Schaie, 1977, 2005). However, there is an increasing recognition that more efficient designs do not need to include every measure for every person at every time of measurement, and

indeed that many hypotheses of developmental interest may not even be accessible within traditional completedata designs (Davey & Salva, 2010). What were our conclusions 10 years ago, and are they still relevant? Period effects and changes in technology and treatments are continuing to redefine relationships between aging and disease; however, they are still not applied equally across the socioeconomic status (SES) gradient (cf. Gianaros & Manuck, 2010; Krieger et al., 2008) and have major implications for research and care at the end of life (see Gawande, 2010). The genetics revolution is continuing. Data are accumulating at a dizzying rate; it is too soon to see how this will change our understanding of the aging process. Survey research has moved to include biomarkers and shortened versions of psychological constructs. This has costs as well as benefits. It provides national population data on psychological constructs, but these need to be validated to ensure comparability (see Siegler and Davey, 2012). Finally, there is growing recognition that some studies simply cannot be completed without incomplete data (e.g., accelerated cohort designs in longitudinal studies), and some hypotheses (e.g., effects of repeated testing) cannot be tested in complete data designs. Further, selection for incomplete data is naturalistic and intimately connected to the structure of the human life span, as considered in greater detail in the following section. Planning a study with incomplete data may represent a cost-effective alternative to collecting complete data on all individuals (e.g., Derks, Dolan, & Boomsma, 2007; Graham, Hofer, & MacKinnon, 1996; Graham, Taylor, Olchowski, & Cumsille, 2006; Helms, 1992; Moerbeek, 2008; van der Sluis, Dolan, Neale, & Posthuma, 2008). In other situations, incomplete designs may be the only practical and/or cost-effective way to plan a study. It may make the difference between collection of data or no study at all (Davey & Salva, 2010; Leon, Demirtas, & Kedeker, 2007). These new methodological developments make synthetic approaches (i.e., those that combine data across multiple samples, measures, cohorts, and/or designs) to estimating the life span possibly more realistic than in the past, but survival of increasingly impaired persons makes a life-span psychology less likely to be a credible model that can be applied universally. Fears about public policy and demographic transitions have increased as the first Baby Boomers (born 1946–1964) begin to turn 65 in 2011. We will start this chapter with such concerns.

Disease, Health, and Aging in the First Decade of the 21st Century

DEMOGRAPHIC AND PUBLIC HEALTH CONSIDERATIONS Table 17.1 (from Siegler et al., 2003) is still a reasonable description of disability and use of nursing homes until new census data is available, as generally, reports treat “over 85” as a single category. We since learned that cognitive function plays an important role as a mediator between risk factors such as hypertension and disability (M. F. Elias, Dore, Davey, Robbins, & Elias, 2010). Continued research determining how to move the proportion of life spent without disability, which is considered to be about 60% of the remaining life span after age 65 (Kinsella & Gist, 1998), is still needed. Life expectancy continues to increase, but the increases are gradual in the United States. Boomers born in 1946 turned 65 in 2011. Thus there is great concern on how this huge and varied cohort will behave in the next 30 years. Life expectancy at 40 is now 43.6 years, so half of all who have reached 40 can expect to live beyond age 83.6 (IRS, 2009). Even Social Security, in the documents it sends yearly, informs us of about possible future increases in life span and has raised the retirement age to 66 for persons born after 1943. Findings from the Georgia Centenarian Study Recent findings from the Georgia Centenarian Study (Arnold et al., 2010) can help to fill in some of the details of what increased longevity might bring. First, surviving to 100 happens with chronic disease. Following findings from the New England Centenarian Study (Evert, Lawler, Bogan & Perls, 2003), we found similar pathways to longevity: Survivors, who had chronic disease before age 80 (43%), Delayers, who developed disease between ages 80 and 98 (36%), and Escapers, who developed disease after age 98 (17%); compare these percentages to 38%, 42%, and 19% in the New England Study (see Table 3, page 4 from Arnold et al., 2010). Dementia was present TABLE 17.1 What Are Older People Like, and How Old Is Old? Age Group

% No Disability

% in Nursing Home

65–69 70–74 80–84 85–89 90–94 95–99 100+

83% 83% 62% 45% 35% 20% 18%

3% 5% 10% 17% 32% 42% 48%

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in 57% of the population; while cardiovascular disease was the most prevalent (80%), diseases with under 10% prevalence included diabetes (9%), kidney disease (7%), neurological disease (6%), and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (see Table 5, p. 7 from Arnold et al., 2010) in this very small slice of the population. While data from centenarian studies are generally more optimistic than expected, they represent a very small slice of the population. We need to think about how to manage survival of the non-fittest, longevity without cognition or personality, and dependence on caregivers when the care recipient has no family left or never had any offspring (Siegler, 2010). Thus differences between fatal and nonfatal disease becomes increasingly important in the extreme aging. It is also useful to have a full picture of what the extreme aging actually look like (in terms of their cognitive functional health physical capacity, biomarkers and health habits, and chronic disease status) and how this is associated with gender, race, residential living arrangements and educational attainment, both taken separately and modeled together. Davey and colleagues (2010) provide detailed normative data on the 244 members of the Georgia Centenarian Study who were aged from 98 to 109 at the time of measurement, circa 2005. While an N of 244 seems small, it compares favorably to national data from HRS AHEAD study, with 143 individuals in that age range, and 253 from the National Long Term Care Survey. In general, physical illness profiles provide little independent information after living arrangements and educational attainment are accounted for, which are the two primary variables accounting for race and gender differences. When considering cognitive outcomes, the major source of systematic variation was associated with formal educational attainment, followed by residential status (community or facility). In terms of physical performance measures, the major source of systematic variation was associated with residential status, followed by gender. Readers are invited to look at the variables they know best to get a fuller understanding of the extreme variation in this increasingly important segment of the population found in Davey and colleagues (2010) and described in the following paragraph. The protocol is composed of three domains of physical health: (1) physical examination and health history; (2) blood chemistry profile, including nutritional assessment; and (3) physical function assessment, including measures of bed mobility, bed-to-chair transfer skills, standing balance, walking, step-up, and chair standing abilities.

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Cognition, neuropsychology and mental health were assessed by a variety of instruments. These include: Mental State Examination (MMSE; M. Folstein, Folstein, & McHugh, 1975), Global Deterioration Scale (Reisberg & Ferris, 1982), Severe Impairment Battery (Saxton & Swihart, 1989), Fuld Object Memory Evaluation (FOME; Fuld, 1981), Wechsler Adult Intelligence Scale-III, Similarities subtest, Letter Number Sequencing subtest, and Matrix Reasoning subtest (Wechsler, 1997), Behavioral Dyscontrol Scale (BDS; Grigsby, Kaye, & Robbins, 1992), ILS Health & Safety Scale (Loeb, 1992) and the Controlled Oral Word Association Test (Benton & Hamsher, 1997). Basic functional capacity was assessed using both a self-report as well as performance-based measures of basic/physical and instrumental activities of daily living (BADL and IADL). Physical functional capacity was measured with the NIA Short Physical Performance Battery (SPPB; Guralnik et al., 1994) and Physical Performance and Mobility Examination (PPME; Guralnik & Winograd, 1994). The performance-based measures include selected subtests of the Direct Assessment of Functional Status–Revised (DAFS-R; Loewenstein et al., 1989). The measures and Performance Rating Scale were taken from OARS (Fillenbaum, 1988; see Davey et al., 2010). Additional information about the methodological considerations necessary to study centenarians is discussed in Poon and Perls (2008). These norms from the Georgia Centenarian study are complemented by extensive norms from the Maine– Syracuse Longitudinal Study and the Framingham Heart Study, which provide cross-sectional normative data on health and many cognitive measures organized in the decades extending from early adulthood to the years immediately preceding centenarian status (Dore, Elias, Robbins, Elias, & Brennan, 2007; M. F. Elias et al., in press; Au et al., 2004). Aging and Health The aging of the population and the increasing prevalence of chronic diseases pose challenges to the U.S. healthcare system. One out of 10 deaths among Americans each year are from chronic diseases. Heart disease, cancer and stroke account for more than 50% of all deaths each year (Kung, Hoyert, Xu, & Murphy, 2008), and 133 million Americans—almost 1 out of every 2 adults—had at least one chronic illness (Wu & Green, 2000). Obesity has become a major health concern; 1 in every 3 adults is obese (Ogden, Carroll, McDowell, & Flegal, 2007).

About one-fourth of people with chronic conditions have one or more daily activity limitations (Anderson, 2004). Healthcare costs for individuals with at least three chronic conditions accounted for 89% of Medicare’s annual budget (RWJ Web site; see Anderson, 2004). Multimorbidity is associated with poor quality of life, increased physical disability, high health care use, use of multiple medications, and increased risk for adverse drug events and mortality (Hoffman, Rice, & Sung, 1996). Optimizing care for this population is a national priority (Anderson, 2003). Consider that, just for hypertension, the residual lifetime risk for hypertension for middle-aged and elderly individuals is 90% (Vasan et al., 2002); we need to better consider how we capture these comorbidities and what we do with this information.

INCREMENTAL FINDINGS FROM REVIEW CHAPTERS The psychology of adult development and aging uses edited volumes as a useful way to integrate information. As well, undergraduate text books in adult development and aging now routinely include information on physical and mental health (e.g., Hoyer & Roodin, 2009). We have recently completed companion chapters that may be useful to the readers of this chapter. Siegler and colleagues (2009) review how changes in conceptualizations of normal aging have had an impact on our understanding of psychiatric syndromes, which in turn has implications for treatment. In particular, this chapter gives a good brief summary of the implications of the 50 years of research on the Seattle Longitudinal Studies of intellectual development and the data on cognitive interventions with older persons; reviews of findings in neuroimaging, personality, and health-related cognitive changes from cardiovascular diseases; a summary of findings from centenarian studies around the world; findings on personality and disease at midlife; and as a predictor of survival and a discussion of the stresses of caregiving as experienced by minority families. Hooker, Hoppmann, and Siegler (2010) focus on lifespan personality and health, and highlight the role of the UNC Alumni Heart Study. Siegler and Davey (2012) was written to evaluate the role of risk factors with age over the lifecycle in a volume focused on adult development, and uses data from a variety of sources to develop a synthetic cohort approach from age 40 to 100. Siegler, Hooker, Bosworth, Elias, and Spiro (2010) have written the aging chapter of a new volume on

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behavioral medicine, which covers a wide range of data but also has particular interest in the measurement of age and the treatment of time as a variable. The volume (Suls, Davidson, & Kaplan, 2010) shows the expansion of behavioral medicine into treatment, evidence-based medicine, and public health. As well, we have listed many of the longitudinal aging studies that are continuing to produce important new data: Longitudinal studies are now maturing. Investigators are publishing data that has been collected for over 50 years (Seattle Longitudinal Study, Schaie, 2005; Baltimore Longitudinal Study of Aging; [Terracciano, Lockenhoff, Zonderman, Ferrucci & Costa], 2008; Normative Aging Study, Mroczek & Spiro, 2007). In addition, findings from a second generation of psychologically oriented longitudinal studies (e.g., Berlin Aging Study; Baltes & Mayer, 1999; Gerstof et al., 2008; Victoria Longitudinal Study; MacDonald, Hultsch & Dixon, 2008) have incorporated broadly measured health and cognitive measures into their designs, resulting in an increased understanding of stability and change in basic psychological processes and their implications for health and survival. —Siegler et al., 2010, p. 147

Measuring Health In our chapter in the previous edition, we reviewed various measures of functional health, health-related quality of life, and self-rated health, as well as medical and psychiatric comorbidity (Siegler et al., 2003, pp. 430–434). The issues are still the same. Possibly because they don’t have objective measures of disease, or cannot afford them, many psychologists have rushed prematurely to establish self-report of health variables as “just as good as” objective measures. What this literature has established is that self-report of general health is important in its own right as a predictor of mortality (Singh-Manoux et al., 2007) and reflects the fact that individuals can report accurately how they feel but cannot necessarily diagnose the cause of their discomfort. Nonetheless, research has shown that self-rated health does predict major cardiovascular events, depending on assessment of functional status (Rutledge et al., 2010). Few medical practitioners or epidemiologists will agree that asking someone whether they have hypertension or diabetes is as good as measuring it objectively. Survey research generally asks about reports of disease conditions that have been diagnosed by a physician, or treatments of invasive procedures, or medications taken. There is a large literature in epidemiology that has verified such conditional reports and suggests that in welleducated populations with access to medical care, they can

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be reliable in terms of identifying the presence of the particular condition or disease, but these are not necessarily adequate measures of severity of disease (e.g., presence of hypertension, but not necessarily actual blood pressure levels). In general, the level of reliability of self-report measures is different for each disease condition, and it is important to consider the role of both reporter (e.g., self versus proxy reports) and potential moderating variables (e.g., cognition), particularly for the oldest old (Mitchell et al., 2011). In the UNC Alumni Heart Study, which is a mail survey, for example, we ask about full range of doctordiagnosed diseases and coronary procedures, and we collect medical records for reported cardiovascular events. We have found that the self-report of coronary procedures is excellent and is always verified by the records. The outcomes of diagnostic procedures and heart attacks are less so. The records we receive about these suggest that the person is reporting accurately in that the status of the diagnostic procedure is often ambiguous. People can only tell you accurately what they know. Furthermore, there are methodological techniques that can be used, such as those derived by Davey and Salva (2010) to evaluate whether designing studies with some inferior and some gold standard methods is, in fact, more cost efficient (Davey & Salva, 2010) leading toward the establishment of the appropriate uses of various methods of disease assessment.

UNDERSTANDING RISK AND PREDICTIONS OF COGNITIVE AND FUNCTIONAL DECLINES Petersen and colleagues (2009) provide a 10-year review of the construct of mild cognitive impairment and the extent to which it converts to AD, as well as the problems with it as a construct. Findings from Washington University (Johnson, Storandt, Morris, & Galvin, 2009) speak to transition from healthy aging to AD; longitudinal data on multiple aspects of cognitive functioning in those who develop dementia is clear about 3 years before the clinical diagnosis, suggesting the increased power of repeated measures in a longitudinal design. Many risk factors for cardiovascular disease are related to quality of life, cognitive performance, and dementia (Smith, 2008; Waldstein & Elias, in press). These include: rising blood pressure, hypertension, diabetes, obesity, atherosclerosis, atrial fibrillation, smoking, low or no alcohol consumption in some studies, low physical activity, a diet low in fish, rate of decline in body mass

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index (BMI), low education, low intake of antioxidants, raised markers of inflammation, raised plasma total homocysteine, low plasma concentrations of folate, vitamin B6 , vitamin B12 , low testosterone in men, hormone replacement therapy in women after age 65, nonuse of NSAIDs, low thyroxine-stimulating hormone (TSH), head injury in men, depression, poor perceived health, and low level of social and mental activities (Siegler, Elias, & Bosworth, in press; Smith, 2008). In addition to environmental and lifestyle risk factors, there are genetic risk factors for decline in cognition and dementia—for example, carrying one or more of the ApoE-e4 alleles. Among other functions, the ApoE gene is involved with neuronal repair. Cognitive deficit is exacerbated in diabetics (e.g., Dore, Elias, Robbins, Elias, & Nagy, 2009) or persons with high homocysteine values who carry at least one ApoE-e4 allele (e.g., M. F. Elias, Goodell, & Waldstein, in press). Because cardiovascular risk factors can be present very early in life (Waldstein, 1995), it is important to prevent or detect and treat them as early as possible. While these cardiovascular risk factors herald dementia and mild cognitive dysfunction, they are also responsible for lower cognitive performance in persons free from stroke and dementia. Lowered cognitive functioning is, in turn, a risk factor for MCI and dementia (M. F. Elias et al., 2000; Smith, 2008). With advancing age, the likelihood of multiple cardiovascular risk factors increases, and risk factors act in a synergistic manner to work their adverse effects on quality of life and cognitive ability. The greater the number of risk factors, the lower the cognitive performance (M. F. Elias, Elias, Robbins, Wolf, & D’Agostino, 2001). Strokefree persons who, by virtue of cardiovascular disease risk factors, are at the highest risk of acute stroke based on the Framingham Stroke Risk Profile exhibited the lowest levels of cognitive functioning in the Framingham Heart Study (M. F. Elias, Sullivan, et al., 2004). Next to diabetes mellitus, hypertension has probably received the greatest attention in the adult developmental psychology literature. Prospective designs led to the discovery that untreated blood pressure (BP) levels are inversely related to cognitive performance measured in midlife (M. F. Elias et al., 2001). More importantly, for both young adults and middle-aged adults, the higher the BP at baseline, the greater the acceleration in decline in fluid, but not crystallized-verbal abilities, over time (M. F. Elias, Robbins, Elias, & Streeten, 1998), and the rate of decline over time is the same for young and middle-aged adults (P. K. Elias, Elias, Robbins, & Budge, 2004). However, for pulse pressure (systolic–diastolic

blood pressure), an index of arterial stiffness, accelerated decline in cognition was only observed when baseline BP was related to change for middle-aged individuals (see M. F. Elias, Robbins, et al., 2004 for review). The age range over which blood pressure and cognition is tracked is important. These age × hypertension interactions may change in very old age or when the longitudinal study involves only elderly individuals (Wilkie & Eisdorfer, 1971). Here, old age may be a disadvantage in the presence of sustained high blood pressure. Curvilinear relations between blood pressure and cognition have been seen in the Baltimore Longitudinal Study of Aging (Waldstein, Giggey, Thayer, & Zonderman, 2005). For hypertension and for other risk factors, more longitudinal studies are needed and will be seen as the longitudinal studies in progress mature. It is important to note that lower is not necessarily better with regard to blood pressure among older adults. Hypotension is a risk factor for lower cognitive performance and dementia, and the elderly are especially vulnerable given its effect on decreased cerebral blood flow and the fact that blood perfusion of the brain decreases across the life span (de la Torre, in press). While representing only a small fraction of the literature and one risk factor, the literature on hypertension illustrates that one must take a life-span approach to understanding risk in relation to cognitive change and that one must not assume that what holds for one risk factor holds for all others, that youth protects against the adverse behavioral consequences of hypertension, or that lower is better under all circumstances. This is also made complex by the fact that changes in diastolic blood pressure are problematic for young/middle adults, but rarely do older adults have problems with diastolic blood pressure; rather, the majority of hypertension is systolic hypertension in older adults. Space does not permit examples from the literature with other risk factors. However, we direct the reader to edited volumes by Waldstein and Elias (2001), Waldstein and Elias (in press), Siegler et al. (in press), Siegler, Hooker, Bosworth, Elias, and Spiro (2010), and M. F. Elias, Robbins, and colleagues (2004) for this literature. The literature on hypertension, with its emphasis on cerebral blood flow, has stimulated an interest in heart and cognition in general. Each of the following heart diseases increases the burden of reduced blood flow to the brain with advancing age and has been associated with dementia (de la Torre, in press): (a) low ejection fraction or low cardiac output; (b) atrial fibrillation; (c) aortic and mitral valve prolapse; (d) hypertension; (e) heart failure;

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and (f) coronary artery disease. The model for this process appears to be straightforward. Glucose is the primary molecule used to create energy fuel for mammalian brain cells, and thus the brain depends on a continuous and optimal flow of blood to maintain normal brain cell activity and structural integrity. Brain cells receive 21% less blood flow at age 60 compared to age 22, so any additional burden that lowers cerebral perfusion can damage or kill vulnerable neurons (de la Torre, in press). As this line of investigation progresses, life-span studies will be essential. It is important to track the progression of reduction in brain perfusion from normal to stages identified as reductions in cerebral blood flow (brain hypoxia) and chronic and acute cerebral ischemia. Essential tools include batteries of cognitive tests measuring different domains of functioning, neuroimaging methods, and cerebral blood flow studies.

MEDICAL SELF-MANAGEMENT AND NEW MODELS OF CARE Since the previous edition’s chapter was written, there has been a new emphasis on patient-centered care, the medical home, and self-management; treatment of disease has expanded past the province of physicians now. Chronic diseases, specifically, cardiovascular diseases (CVD), have become the leading cause of death and disability in most countries in the world (Lawes, Vander Hoorn, & Rodgers, 2008). In the United States, an estimated 81.1 million persons have CVD, and coronary heart disease (CHD) and stroke remain the first and third leading causes of death, respectively. CVD also carries an enormous personal and financial burden; the total direct and indirect cost of heart disease and stroke in the United States for 2010 is estimated at $503.2 billion (American Heart Association, 2010). Managing a chronic illness is a time-consuming and complex process. Patients and their informal caregivers are required to make day-to-day decisions about such actions as how to respond to new symptoms, what and how much to eat, whether to take their medication, or whether to exercise—all of which can have substantial effects on their clinical outcomes, particularly when the decisions are aggregated over months and years. These day-to-day decisions and tasks are referred to as selfmanagement, which was formally defined by Barlow and colleagues as “the individual’s ability to manage the symptoms, treatment, physical and psychosocial consequences and lifestyle changes inherent in living with a

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chronic condition” (Barlow, Wright, Sheasby, Turner, & Hainsworth, 2002). All patients with chronic diseases selfmanage; the question is how well they self-manage and the influence of self-management on the patient’s experience of chronic disease and health outcomes. The potential benefit of interventions to improve patients’ self-management and subsequent health behaviors exceeds that of interventions aimed at health-care providers, in part because unhealthy behaviors may contribute more than inadequate health care does to poor health and premature death. Unhealthy behaviors such as smoking, poor diet, and sedentary lifestyles account for as much as 40% of premature deaths in the United States, whereas deficiencies in health-care delivery account for only 10% (Stampfer et al., 2000). Self-management is more than simple adherence to provider recommendations, because it also incorporates the psychological and social management of living with a chronic condition. Indeed, self-management consists of the following components: engaging in activities that promote physical and psychological health; interacting with health-care providers and adhering to treatment recommendations; monitoring health status and making associated care decisions; and managing the impact of the illness on physical, psychological, and social functioning (Bosworth, Powers, & Oddone, 2010). To a great extent, patients’ outcomes will be dictated by the degree to which these choices lead to further reductions in risk. As we continue to understand the relationship between diseases like hypertension and CVD and their impacts on cognition, it will become increasingly important to examine ways to reduce the burden of these chronic diseases.

END OF LIFE ISSUES Issues surrounding how we die are different than they were when previous chapters addressing these questions were published. More people now die later in life, when the cause may not be due to a specific disease (Fried et al., 1998; Nuland, 1995). At least one-third of all disease burden in developed countries can be attributable to five modifiable risk factors: tobacco use, blood pressure level, cholesterol level, obesity, and alcohol use (World Health Organization, 2002). How will the control of these risk factors, if achieved, change aging and the end of life? What role will psychosocial factors play in the development of geriatric syndromes? Once thought to be a reflection of hypertension and diabetes, obesity (especially central adiposity) is now known to be independently

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associated with lower cognitive performance (Dore, Elias, Robbins, Budge, & Elias, 2008; M. F. Elias, Elias, Sullivan, Wolf, & D’Agostino, 2003; Waldstein & Katzel, 2001; Wolf, Davis, Tilson, Bass, & Parker, 2006). The role of self-management and health psychology becomes apparent when one realizes that these five modifiable factors that explain a majority of CVD and diabetes, for example, are attributed to behavior (Stampfer et al., 2000). There are new findings in terminal drop. Thirty-six years after Klaus Riegel introduced the notion to psychology in terms of changes in intellectual functioning (K. Riegel & Riegel, 1972), Gerstof and colleagues (2008) reported on similar changes in life satisfaction. Harel, Hofer, Hoffman, Pedersen, and Johansson (2007) present models for reaching valid longitudinal inferences with terminal drop. Kurland, Johnson, Egelston and Diehr (2009) present some new methods useful in analysis of old data, while Wilson, Beck, Bienias, and Bennett (2007) provide detailed data showing terminal decline in different cognitive functions beginning about 3.5 years before death. Issues of mortality and terminal drop underscore the importance of explicitly considering issues of selection out of the population when making inferences about the nature of longitudinal change. To date, very few studies take these issues adequately into account. The importance of selection grows as the length of time over which inferences are being made increases and as research grows to include samples of individuals who are increasingly rare in the population. A related issue is the effect of inclusion and exclusion criteria in prospective studies as an increasing proportion of the population experiences a particular condition (e.g., cognitive impairment, hypertension). By way of example, Stone, Schwartz, Broderick, & Deaton (2010) present data from an extremely interesting cross-sectional study of well-being, using a sample of 340,847 individuals aged 18 to 85 in the United States. The paper is important, interesting, theoretically derived,

and carefully interpreted. But it does not consider the potential effects of mortality on its cross-sectional conclusions regarding well-being. The authors conclude that “relative to prior studies, the present results broaden the case that WB, including positive affect, increases with age” (p. 3). We would like to suggest that an alternative perspective, namely selection out of the population, is likely to be at least as important in interpreting these data. It has been well established that constructs associated with negative affect (depression and depressive symptoms) predict mortality (e.g., Barefoot, Mortensen, Helms, Avlund, & Schroll, 2001). To show the effects of selection out of the population on cross-sectional inferences, we began with a stable, standardized (M = 0, SD = 1) variable that was completely unassociated with age. Next, we calculated the effects on mean levels of this standardized variable of dropping individuals from the bottom of the distribution in proportion of mortality data published in the Social Security Administration life tables, separately for men and women. Changes in population mean levels associated with age are due solely to selection out of the population due to mortality, and as such, there is absolutely nothing “developmental” affecting the data (i.e., individual levels of well-being are constant over time). As can be seen in Figure 17.1, well-being in the (surviving) population is seen to increase, slowly at first, beginning early in midlife, and then in a rapidly accelerating fashion in the 50s and 60s, which is consistent with when Stone and colleagues (2010) first reported changes. Considered across the entire adult life span, these selection effects are hardly inconsequential. The effects of selection are equivalent to a small (d = .2) effect size by age 54 years for men and 62 years for women; to a medium (d = .5) effect size by age 71 years for men and 77 years by women, and to a large (d = .8) effect size by age 79 years for men and 84 years for women. It is

1.2 Men

1.0

Women

SD

0.8 0.6 0.4 0.2 0.0

18 22 26 30 34 38 42 46 50 54 58 62 66 70 74 78 82 Age

Figure 17.1 Selection effects with age

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not difficult to think of research applications in which the effects of selection may easily trump those of the substantive variable under investigation. As a result, we strongly advocate more explicit consideration of the role of selection in developmental psychology with older adults.

PREDICTIONS FOR THE FUTURE AND THE ROLE OF DEVELOPMENTAL PSYCHOLOGY The “brave new world of aging” may or may not have anything to do with psychology. Life-span or life-course approaches are recognized in epidemiology (Kuh & BenShlomo, 2004). Personality change as a signal of early dementia may prove to be useful (Siegler et al., 1991; Siegler, Dawson, & Welsh, 1994; Balsis, Carpenter, & Storandt, 2005; Duchek, Balota, Storandt, & Larsen, 2007) and studies of the role of personality as factor in cancer risk may be retired (see Ranchor, Sanderman, & Coyne, 2010). Psychological factors and their role in disease etiology and progression must be studied disease by disease. There are many studies showing that psychological factors predict all-cause mortality, that is, they predict age at death. Dementia may be predictable up to 10 years before onset from cerebral spinal fluid (CSF) indicators (De Meyer et al., 2010). What are the implications for us? If dementia can be identified early and prevented, will it become like polio? Like AIDS? Or will there be a new set of unanticipated problems? The way in which developmental psychology studies constructs in specific areas (cognition vs. personality vs. emotion) may not be useful as we integrate our findings with other disciplines that consider all we do as “psychosocial stuff,” and indeed research within the field may also be moving in that direction (Carstensen, Mikels, & Mather, 2006). Recognition of the biology of aging is evidenced by the awarding of the Nobel Prize in Physiology in 2009 for work on telomeres—a “key mechanism that cells use to protect their genetic information” (see Vogel & Pennisi, 2009)—as well as new data on the sirtuin gene (Haigis & Guarente, 2006) and potential identification of longevity genes (Jazwinski et al., 2010). Has the technology gotten so complex that the models are not understandable by nonexperts? Have we been oversold on the role of genetics? For all the genetic predictors of cardiovascular disease, they do not add much to the Framingham CVD risk score, which consists of diabetes status, smoking status, LDL, age, and SBP (Melander et al., 2009; Shah & de Lemos,

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2009). These advances have also spurred biotechnology and drug companies to invest in the biology of aging. Is this the start of a new understanding of basic aging processes and a change in fundamental understanding of aging and development—or not? It may be too early to tell, but we may indeed be on the verge of the true aging revolution. There is a lot of attention in the press and in biotech investments; it may take another 10–20 years to see if these discussions represent hype or real changes (Verghese, 2010; Weiner, 2010).

CONCLUSIONS In sum, in the past 10 years, most of the work studying aging health and disease has been incremental within psychology of adult development and aging and has been finding great promise in the study of particular disease endpoints combining the traditional methods of adult development and aging—careful longitudinal studies with well-characterized disease outcomes (Siegler, 2007). Major changes in the next 10 years will not necessarily come from psychology of adult development and aging. If there is a treatment for Alzheimer’s disease, it will change later life and the health psychology of aging. If not, we will be faced with larger and larger numbers of dependent older persons with tremendous needs for longterm care, and requirements for caregiving will escalate. We already know that the demographics of this group are fixed—the first Boomers will be 65 in 2011, and 20 years away from the massive increase in incident dementia at age 85 and beyond. It is unlikely that health disparities and income disparities that interact with age and disability will moderate in the next 10 years (see Crimmins & Hagedorn, 2010). Furthermore, genetic hypotheses will continue to accumulate, as will critical genetic data—but 10 years is too soon for this important area to revolutionize aging (see Kaiser, 2011) on the 10th anniversary of the Human Genome project. At this point in time, major issues remain about sharing genetic information with patients, parents, and subjects in research studies (Couzin-Frankel, 2011). Depending on one’s place in the age and status hierarchy continuity, the next 10 years may not be a problem for those middle-aged and older. However, as we are now seeing changes in the meaning of adulthood, it is more likely that there will be major shifts for younger generations, who will find adult development and aging different from the way it is experienced presently.

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CHAPTER 18

Cognitive Development in Adulthood and Aging ROGER A. DIXON, G. PEGGY McFALL, BONNIE P. WHITEHEAD, AND SANDA DOLCOS

OVERVIEW OF COGNITIVE AGING: APPROACHES, PERSPECTIVES, AND PROCESSES 451 INTELLIGENCE AND MEMORY: CLASSIC CLUSTERS OF PROCESSES 453 BIOLOGICAL AND HEALTH INFLUENCES ON COGNITIVE AGING 458

EMOTIONAL AND AFFECTIVE INFLUENCES ON COGNITIVE AGING 460 POTENTIAL FOR SUSTAINED COGNITIVE HEALTH IN AGING 464 CONCLUSIONS 469 REFERENCES 469

This chapter discusses five aspects of cognitive development in adulthood and aging. First, we provide an overview of the approaches, perspectives, and processes involved in this area of developmental science. Second, we discuss intelligence and memory, as two instances of classic clusters of cognitive aging processes. Third, we review recent developments in research and theory regarding biological and health influences on cognitive aging. Fourth, we discuss new research on emotional and affective influences on cognitive aging. Finally, we evaluate the intriguing question of whether there is potential for sustained cognitive health in aging.

of cognitive aging. In this section, we discuss guiding questions, key patterns, and influential approaches to the study of cognitive aging.

Patterns of Cognitive Aging Perhaps the main orienting question for the field of cognitive aging is: How, why, and when does cognition change with aging? We begin by focusing on the patterns of cognitive aging, highlighting the main components of this guiding question. First, the term cognition is used broadly and inclusively in this chapter to accommodate multiple aspects, dimensions, theories, and measures of a variety of mental activities executed by the brain. These include, but are not limited to, classes of activities known as intelligence, memory, attention, reasoning, speed, executive functions, problem solving, and wisdom. Second, the term change is used broadly and inclusively to accommodate several theories, phenomena, directions, and research designs. Thus, the present approach permits consideration of structural, stage-like, or incremental cognitive changes with aging, as investigated (a) under the aegis of any developmental theory or approach and (b) with any of numerous legitimate time-structured research designs. No assumptions are made about the nature of cognitive developmental change with aging, but it is important, as elsewhere in lifespan studies, to attend to (if not focus on) actual intraindividual changes. Third, the term aging is

OVERVIEW OF COGNITIVE AGING: APPROACHES, PERSPECTIVES, AND PROCESSES The area of developmental research focusing on the study of cognitive changes in adulthood is known as the field Preparation of this chapter was supported by a grant from the U.S. National Institute on Aging (R37 AG008235) to Roger A. Dixon, who also acknowledges support from the Canada Research Chairs program. Peggy McFall is supported by Alberta Innovates Health Solutions. Sanda Dolcos is now at the Department of Psychology, University of Illinois, Urbana, IL. This chapter is a substantially revised version of Dixon and Cohen (2003). 451

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used broadly and inclusively to reflect processes occurring throughout adulthood. It is a neutral term referring to “changes with age that occur during adulthood” regardless of the direction, quality, or rate of the changes. Notably, aging is not tantamount to decline. Finally, as articulated elsewhere (e.g., Baltes, 1987; Dixon, Small, MacDonald, & McArdle, 2012), it is important to pursue questions that point to how (description), why (explanation), and when (at what lifespan inflection points) substantial changes in group and individual cognitive trajectories occur. Substantial changes refer to those developments that are not only detectable but also descriptively informative, theoretically meaningful, or clinically significant. Cognitive aging (the field) is a particularly active and vibrant domain of research, one that is at the crossroads of both classic questions and novel trends. Several brief examples of each of the paths leading to this crossroads may be useful. First, classic questions about cognitive aging revolve around core developmental issues such as directionality (i.e., whether adult cognitive changes are gains, losses, or maintenance), universality (i.e., the extent to which there are individual differences in profiles of changes throughout adulthood), and reversibility (i.e., whether experience or intervention may promote recovery or improvement in functioning). For more than a century, scholars have wondered whether the lengthening adult life span would be ineluctably accompanied by diminishing cognitive, social, institutional, and other resources (Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 2006; Birren & Schroots, 2001). Moreover, because contemporary (Western) adulthood represents about 75% of the normal expected life span, few adults would fail to have a vested interest in the cognitive changes they might expect as they grow through their middle and into their later years. Second, novel trends reflect influences that are easily and importantly incorporated into research on cognitive aging (as is the case for earlier periods of life). Recent trends include methodological advances, such as the means of detecting and analyzing structure, change, and variability (e.g., Hofer & Sliwinski, 2006; McArdle, 2009). Other novel trends in cognitive aging are often adapted from neighboring disciplines and given new clothing in the context of understanding long-term change. Among notable developments are such integrated topics as metamemory and memory compensation (e.g., Dixon & de Frias, 2007; Hoogenhouts, van der Elst, de Groot, van Boxtel, & Jolles, 2010), neurobiological, neurodegenerative, and neurogenetic influences (e.g., B¨ackman & Nyberg, 2010; National Institute on Aging, 2008), other biomarker and health modulators (Anstey, 2008; Spiro &

Brady, 2008), psychosocial, motivational, and emotional influences (e.g., Heckhausen, Wrosch, & Schulz, 2010); social, interactive, and collaborative contexts (e.g., Dixon, 2011a; Gerstof, Hoppmann, Anstey, & Luszcz, 2009; Rauers, Riediger, Schmiedek, & Lindenberger, 2011), interventions and training (L¨ovd´en, B¨ackman, Lindenberger, Schaefer, & Schmiedek, 2010), and successful or healthy directions of cognitive aging (Baltes & Baltes, 1990; Dixon, 2010). Overall, how, why, and when cognition changes with aging are seen as integrated developmental questions—questions that reflect classic developmental issues and relate to numerous neighboring developmental processes. Indeed, issues considered in the study of cognitive aging go to the heart of our view of both the human life course, in general, and of developing (aging) adults, in particular. Although it may be used in different ways and to accomplish different goals, cognition is no less important in late adulthood than in early and middle adulthood. Not only is it a basis of one’s achievements and competence, but it contributes to—or detracts from—one’s sense of self-efficacy and the efficiency with which one (a) engages in life planning and life management and (b) pursues, achieves, or re-evaluates life goals (Heckhausen et al., 2010). Therefore, it is instructive to briefly compare the basic stories told about cognitive development during the first 20 or so years of life, on the one hand, and during the remaining 60 (or so) years of life, on the other. Obviously, the stories told of infant, child, adolescent, and even early adult cognitive development are generally optimistic. Cognition during these years is progressing and growing, channeled in part by the typical social worlds and the rapidly maturing neurobiological substrate. From early life, cognitive potential is being realized, steadily if not ineluctably. For normally developing individuals there are some differences in level of performance attained and in the rate at which growth occurs, but virtually no differences in the direction of change. Although cognition improves from infancy, around early adulthood the story of lifespan cognitive development evidently changes. The word “evidently” is used because there is some controversy about the range and causes of aging-related changes in cognition. There is, however, little remaining controversy regarding the fact that there is substantial and necessary cognitive decline (see Craik & Salthouse, 2008). Nevertheless, an important theme in cognitive aging is one of individual differences in profiles, rates, and causes of change. Increasingly, researchers are attending to questions concerning such issues as whether people differ in when they start to decline, whether processes differ in

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rate of decline, what processes are maintained and for how long, how normal decline differs from that associated with neurodegenerative diseases (e.g., Alzheimer’s disease), and the extent to which this decline affects individuals’ everyday lives. A common proposal is that individual differences in cognitive development are greater in late life than in early life. Research in cognitive aging is ideally suited to investigating how, why, and when such individual differences in change patterns occur. Approaches to the Field of Cognitive Aging How is research conducted in the field of cognitive aging? As with other areas of developmental science, we attempt to answer questions about the how, when, and why of cognitive aging by implementing time-structured research designs. In its most global rendition, time-structured research includes any design that implicitly (and only indirectly) or explicitly (and directly) examines intraindividual (within-person) change. The well-known distinction between (and relative strengths and weaknesses of) cross-sectional (e.g., comparing different age groups) and longitudinal (e.g., following the same individuals over time) designs will not be further discussed in this chapter. Nevertheless, as with other developmental areas, these methodological issues loom large in the history of theoretical and clinical cognitive aging research. We will note one important and relatively recent aspect of the methodological approaches to describing and understanding cognitive aging. A principal goal of this field is to identify the independence, interactivity, and confluence of factors that contribute to (or compromise) cognitive “health” in aging. Among the many challenges researchers face in trying to attain this goal, two may be mentioned in this chapter: Relevant influences or factors (1) are associated with multiple disciplines (biology, neurobiology, health, pharmacology, neuropsychology, lifestyle, genetics, sociology) and (2) operate across the longest period of developmental activity and vulnerability in the lifespan (some 60 or more years). In recent years, some cognitive aging researchers have adapted and merged methodological techniques from epidemiology (e.g., risk factors, protection factors) and longitudinal research (intraindividual change, individual variability and differences, multiple trajectories, multiple outcomes). Accordingly, a number of large-scale longitudinal studies (LSLS) have emerged, contributing continuing data from a variety of constituent areas of lifespan development (Dixon, 2010; Hultsch, 2004). In this way, actual changes and statuses (including normal decline, clinical or accelerated decline, maintenance or stability,

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or even improvements or gains) can be linked to precursors (and interactions among precursors) from multiple contributing domains. Although there are others meriting attention, two LSLS will be mentioned in passing in the following section (i.e., Seattle Longitudinal Study, Victoria Longitudinal Study; Dixon & de Frias, 2004; Schaie, 1996). In the remainder of this chapter we summarize (quite) selected aspects of the field of cognitive aging. Reflecting the breadth of the field, we have elected to focus on several clusters or processes of cognitive functioning. Naturally, this results in numerous unattended processes. Interested readers may turn to several recent volumes of collected works in which scholars have reviewed a variety of processes of cognitive aging in much more detail (e.g., Craik & Salthouse, 2008; Dixon, B¨ackman, & Nilsson, 2004; Hofer & Alwin, 2008). Two long-standing areas of study in cognitive aging are intelligence and memory. In the next section, we begin by briefly reviewing enduring perspectives and new approaches to scholarship in these areas. Subsequently, we introduce the growing topic in cognitive aging of biological and health influences. Next, we highlight recent developments in integrating emotional and psychosocial elements into the understanding of cognitive aging. Finally, we offer notes on a topic of growing interest in the field, specifically, the extent to which there is evidence of potential, resilience, or sustained success in cognitive aging.

INTELLIGENCE AND MEMORY: CLASSIC CLUSTERS OF PROCESSES In this section, we first discuss the historical background that led to modern approaches to the study of intellectual aging. Second, we briefly review current perspectives on memory aging, including two principal systems of memory and emerging issues in the field. Overview of Intellectual Aging: A Century of Programmatic Research Like other major categories of developmental processes, cognition can be viewed from numerous related and even overlapping perspectives. From one such perspective, the focus is on cognition as intelligence or intellectual ability. There is a long tradition of research on intelligence and a surprisingly long (and still pertinent) history of research on intellectual aging (e.g., Kirkpatrick, 1903; Sanford, 1902; Weisenburg, Roe, & McBride, 1936; see

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Dixon, Kramer, & Baltes, 1985, for a brief history of the early years). Research on the aging of intellectual abilities typically uses procedures adapted from research on psychometric intelligence. This means that intelligence is measured by multiple tests, each of which may be composed of more than one scale or subtest. Each subtest measures a relatively unique aspect of intelligence. There are a variety of statistical means through which the uniqueness of the subtests can be evaluated. In addition, however, the subtests typically should be linked both conceptually and empirically. Contemporary psychometric approaches to adult intellectual development employ multidimensional theories of intelligence. Therefore, they also use intelligence tests in which performance on multiple scales or dimensions may be tested. Using multiple scales of intelligence allows the investigator to examine the extent to which dimensions of intelligence change similarly or differently across adulthood. The psychometric approach to intellectual aging has a long and illustrious history (Horn & Cattell, 1966; Schaie, 1990). Historically, a typical expectation about intellectual aging came to be that intelligence would increase until early adulthood and then decline through late adulthood. This pattern can be portrayed in an inverted-U-shaped curve. Botwinick (1977) referred to this curve as the classic pattern of intellectual aging, partly because it was so frequently supported in the literature up to the mid1900s. Interestingly, however, even the earliest theories and research did not lead to the unequivocal conclusion that intelligence inevitably and universally declined after early adulthood. Contemporary research has confirmed some of the prescient early theorists, who operated without the benefit of modern technology, contemporary theories, or even much research data. Several examples illustrate this point. First, important issues of age fairness (in testing procedures) and late-life potential and plasticity (through training) were identified early by Kirkpatrick (1903). Second, another enduring issue raised about 100 years ago is the potentially close connection between the aging body and the aging mind. For example, Sanford (1902) noted that intellectual decline was likely associated with the inevitable physical decline that accompanies late life. Thus, Sanford anticipated some aspects of contemporary theories focusing on the roles of physiological, neurological, health, and sensory factors (e.g., Anstey, 2008; Baltes et al., 2006; Dixon, 2011a; Spiro & Brady, 2008). Third, some observers have historically raised the question of whether and how older adults could avoid, postpone, or overcome seemingly inevitable agingrelated changes. For example, Sanford (1902) speculated

that some maintenance of performance levels is possible if aging adults make an effort to maintain them by, for example, continuing challenging activities, an idea of considerable currency even today for both normal aging and neurodegenerative diseases (e.g., Fratiglioni & Wang, 2007; Stern, 2007). Fourth, potentially vast individual differences, aging-related patterns, and trajectories were highlighted early (e.g., Weisenburg et al., 1936), with some attention to the varying ages of peak performance, implying interindividual differences in rates of growth and decline, as well as final performance level (e.g., Baltes et al., 2006; McArdle, 2009). The next era in intellectual aging research began in the 1960s and 1970s. For example, John Horn and Raymond Cattell began developing an alternative view to the classic aging pattern. Horn and Cattell (1966) collected a variety of intelligence-test data from adults of varying ages. Rather than interpreting the scores from each of the tests, or even collapsing across categories of tests (such as Verbal and Performance), Horn and Cattell evaluated the underlying dimensions or factors of intelligence. Specifically, Horn and Cattell (1966; Horn, 1982) identified two major dimensions of intelligence. These dimensions of intellectual abilities were called fluid intelligence (Gf) and crystallized intelligence (Gc). Fluid intelligence reflected the level of intellectual competence associated with casual learning processes. This learning is assessed by performance on novel, usually nonverbal tests. Crystallized intelligence, on the other hand, reflects intellectual competence associated with intentional learning processes. This variety of learning is assessed by measures of knowledge and skills acquired during school and other cultural learning experiences. Most verbal tests tap processes thought to underlie crystallized intelligence. Because crystallized intelligence indexes lifelong accumulation of cultural knowledge, it should show a pattern of maintenance or increase during the adult years. According to the theory, fluid intelligence is more dependent on physiological functioning, including the neurological system, and is known to decline with aging even from the early 20s (e.g., Raz, 2004). Given the extent to which the neurological substrate becomes impaired, the ability to perform associated intellectual skills is undermined. Horn and Cattell have therefore provided the classic aging pattern with a potential theoretical explanation for the common observation of differential decline across the two dimensions. Biological and sociocultural influences remain important in understanding intellectual aging (e.g., Baltes et al., 2006). In addition, in the 1960s and 1970s, longitudinal research in intellectual aging began emerging (Schaie,

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1983). Although longitudinal investigations have the advantage of examining age changes rather than simply age differences, they have additional strengths and associated limitations (Schaie, 2009; Schaie & Hofer, 2001). For example, selective sampling and selective attrition factors are challenging but often manageable aspects of longitudinal designs (Hofer & Sliwinski, 2006; Hultsch, 2004; Schaie, 1996). Most notably in the study of intellectual aging, in 1950s and 1960s, Schaie (1996) began a carefully designed and exhaustive longitudinal and cohort-sequential study of intelligence in adulthood. With participants ranging in age from the 20s to the 70s, Schaie’s Seattle Longitudinal Study tested participants at 7-year intervals. At each testing occasion, new participants were added and then followed in subsequent waves. Throughout his career, Schaie (1994, 1996, 2011) has emphasized that there are considerable individual differences in degree of decline and age at onset of decline. Indeed, up to age 70, some individuals do not decline at all. Some of these individuals even show modest gains for all of the intellectual abilities evaluated. Nevertheless, a prominent conclusion is that the age at which each ability peaks and the patterns of decline thereafter are quite different. For example, those abilities associated with fluid intelligence have earlier peaks and longer declines than those abilities associated with crystallized intelligence. Complementing historical researchers, Schaie and colleagues also provided advanced insights into applications, plasticity, risk and protection factors, health and other influences, as well as differences in aging associated with gender, generation, education and other conditions. Overall, the Seattle Longitudinal Study, along with other major longitudinal investigations of cognitive and intellectual aging, have made prodigious contributions to this field. For example, in one study, Schaie (1990) reported that more than 70% of 60-yearolds and more than 50% of 81-year-olds declined on only one ability over the previous 7 years. Thus, intellectual declines occur with aging, but not appreciably until quite late in life, and then not uniformly across dimensions of intelligence.

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answering a broad set of specific questions. To be sure, all prominent developmental research designs—that is, those that compare age groups (cross-sectionally) or those that follow samples across time (longitudinally)—may be enacted with either psychometric or experimental-based tasks. In the case of memory, the bulk of extant research has been cross-sectional and quasi-experimental in nature, but there are a growing number of examples of changeoriented, longitudinal studies populating the scholarly literature. Thus, at the most general level the motivating issues of memory and aging research are similar to those propelling scholarship in intelligence and aging. These include (a) the perennial questions of how, why, and when memory changes with aging; (b) whether aging-related changes may be characterized as gains, losses, or both; and (c) what accounts for differences in performance (changes and trajectories) as observed across time, age, task, and individuals (Dixon et al., 2012). Overall, research on memory and aging is focused on processes through which individuals may recall previously experienced events or information, the extent to which these processes change with advancing age, and the conditions, correlates, or predictors of such changes. Reflecting the sheer volume of research in this field, numerous reviews of memory and aging have been published in recent decades (see Craik & Salthouse, 2008; Naveh-Benjamin & Ohta, 2012; Schaie & Willis, 2011). Of all aspects of cognitive aging, memory may be the one that has most captivated general human interest and academic attention. Many reviewers begin by noting that (a) memory is viewed as a functional, if not essential, tool of successful development; (b) memory is one of the most frequently mentioned complaints of older adults; (c) memory loss is one of the most feared signs and implications of aging; and (d) many adults believe that, whereas memory abilities improve through childhood, they decline with aging. For these and other reasons, researchers and lay adults are profoundly interested in whether, how, why, and when their and others’ memory abilities change (decline) throughout adulthood (Dixon et al., 2012). Systems of Memory and Aging

Overview of Memory Aging: Classic Processes and New Perspectives If research on intellectual aging is characterized principally by psychometric assumptions and procedures, research on memory and aging is typically conducted by implementing one or more of a wide range of clinical and experimental tasks and techniques in the service of

Over the last several decades, research on memory and aging reveals provocative patterns of results. Whereas some tasks are associated with robust findings of agerelated deficits, other tasks are associated with less pronounced losses or even equivalent performance by younger and older adults. Tasks typically associated with losses require processing or manipulations of complex, difficult, speeded, multimodal features (Naveh-Benjamin & Ohta,

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2012). The less common tasks associated with relatively unimpaired performance may reflect acquired facts and knowledge or familiar situations with substantial environmental or human support. Although others are available, one well-developed theoretical treatment of memory per se has proven helpful in organizing these disparate results. Specifically, the memory systems perspective has been especially influential in research on memory and aging (Nyberg et al., 2003; Schacter & Tulving, 1994). Positing that there are up to five systems of memory, a central goal of this perspective is to explicate the organization of the systems. A memory system is defined as a set of related processes, linked by common brain mechanisms, information processes, and operational principles (Schacter & Tulving, 1994). For this overview chapter, we focus on two of the systems briefly and summarize some principal findings with respect to aging. First, episodic memory refers to memory for personally experienced events or information. Everyday examples are bountiful: Trying to remember the names of people one has met at a party, where one parked the car, a conversation or joke one heard, the location of an object in a spatial arrangement, an anecdote one read in a newspaper, or an unwritten list of items to purchase at a store. It is thought to be the latest developing memory system, and some reviewers have suggested that it is correspondingly among the first to begin showing signs of aging-related decline. Indeed, cross-sectional research using a variety of episodic memory tasks (e.g., memory for digits, words, nonwords, pictures, objects, faces) and procedures (e.g., free recall) has observed that older adults commonly perform worse than younger adults. Much recent research has targeted potential exacerbating or modulating factors associated with aging, such as neural vulnerability, health status, biological vitality, lifestyle activities, education, gender, environmental support, collaborative condition, and ecological relevance of the task (e.g., Baltes & Staudinger, 1996; Dixon et al., 2012; Herlitz & Rehnman, 2008; Naveh-Benjamin & Ohta, 2012). Although no evidence has been marshaled to dispute persuasively the conclusion that episodic memory performance generally declines with advancing age, some cross-sectional (e.g., Nilsson et al., 1997) and longitudinal (Dixon et al., 2004) research has indicated that the magnitude of some aging-related change may be more gradual than precipitous for normally aging adults, at least until the mid-70s. In addition, the extent of individual differences in trajectories, as modulated by numerous intrinsic and extrinsic factors, is substantial. Second, semantic memory is expressed through the acquisition and retention of generic facts, knowledge,

and beliefs. In research, it is evaluated by administering tests of general world knowledge, facts, words, concepts, and associations. As such, it is similar to the domain represented by crystallized intelligence. The typical cross-sectional finding for semantic memory is that older adults may remember as much information of this sort as do younger adults. For example, normal older adults, through extended cultural and educational experiences, may possess knowledge bases regarding world facts (sports, celebrities, geographical information, political lore) that are superior to those of younger adults. In addition, vocabulary performance of older adults is often similar to or better than that of younger adults. Thus, older adults display similar knowledge structures or associative networks. Nevertheless, some studies have suggested that older adults may access such information more slowly and with more frequent blockages than do younger adults. In a large cross-sectional study, only small differences were observed across the ages of 35 to 80 years (B¨ackman & Nilsson, 1996). Moreover, recent longitudinal analyses have observed modest changes (but dramatic individual variability in change) over substantial longitudinal periods and broad bands of adulthood (e.g., 55–95 years; Dixon et al., 2012). Selected Emerging Topics in Memory and Aging Memory, like intelligence, is a multidimensional construct. As with other multidimensional constructs of interest in developmental psychology, differentiable dimensions may reveal distinct developmental patterns. Researchers continue to explore with increasing ingenuity each of the clusters of memory phenomena. In addition, many researchers push the boundaries of these memory systems as they apply to aging by considering everbroader ranges of memory phenomena, as well as diverse correlates and predictors. In this section, we briefly note a few trends in memory and aging research, selecting two of these domains for somewhat more discussion. Among the promising new trends in memory and aging research is the ever-increasing attention that biological influences are receiving. This is an entirely logical development, if only because the brain is a crucial site of activation that is representative of memory and other cognitive processes. Structural and functional changes in the brain are related to, if not predictive of, cognitive performance in adults (e.g., Cabeza, Nyberg, & Park, 2005; Raz et al., 2005; Reuter-Lorenz & Lustig, 2005). In addition, within a broader biological level, much current research in memory and aging has focused on the extent to which genetic status, as well as physiological, sensory, and

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physical health changes, may have an effect on cognitive functioning in late life (Dixon, 2011a; Wahlin, 2004). (We address the latter issues in a subsequent section.) Additional new foci of memory and aging research include the following four promising topics. First, researchers have come to focus closely on the interactions of social and cultural contexts of aging with cognitive and memory performances among older adults (e.g., Park, Nisbett, & Hedden, 1999; Schaie, 2011; Schaie & Carstensen, 2006). Second, adults of all ages often wonder about their memory—how it works or does not work, why one remembers some things but not others, and whether memory skills will change over the life course. The term metamemory refers to such cognitions about memory—thinking about how, why, and whether memory works. Specific aspects of metamemory include knowledge of memory functioning, insight into memory changes or impairment, awareness of current memory processes, beliefs about and interpretations of memory skills and demands, memory-related affect and motivation, and the role such metamemory functions may play in shaping everyday memory behaviors (e.g., effort, self-efficacy, compensatory processes) (Hertzog & Hultsch, 2000; Hoogenhouts et al., 2010). Third, for several decades researchers in a surprising variety of fields have addressed aspects of everyday memory activity that appear to operate in the influential context of other individuals. Many observers have noted the frequency with which everyday adult cognitive activity occurs in interactive contexts (e.g., Clancey, 1997; Greeno, 1998). A collaborative context frequently envelops cognitive performance in modern life. Everyday examples of collaborative cognition include (a) family groups or lineages reconstructing stories from their shared past; (b) spouses enlisted to help remember important appointments, duties, or dates; and (c) strangers in unknown cities consulted in order to solve way-finding or map-reading problems (Dixon, 2011b; Strough & Margrett, 2002). Lurking behind this observation is the contention that collaboration may lead to functional performance outcomes, practical solutions, and improved performance. Of particular importance in cognitive aging research is the possibility that the strategic deployment or use of human cognitive aids (other individuals) may be a means of compensating for individual-level aging-related losses or deficits. In other literatures the phenomenon has been also called collective, situated, group, socially shared, or interactive cognition (e.g., Baltes & Staudinger, 1996). Some evidence for notable collaborative benefit may be observed when researchers attend to collaborative

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expertise, multidimensional outcomes, measurement of actual collaborative processes, and comparisons accommodated to memory-impaired or vulnerable groups (e.g., Dixon & Gould, 1998). In particular, evidence has accumulated that expert older collaborators (long-term married couples) may be able to solve complicated memory problems at levels not otherwise expected for such individuals through cooperative mechanisms that resemble compensatory devices (Baltes & Staudinger, 1996; Dixon, 2011b; Gagnon & Dixon, 2008; Rauers et al., 2011). This is a growing and promising area of both basic and applied research in memory and aging. Fourth, the classical sense of memory—and all the examples just noted—refer to remembering events that have occurred in the past. There is, however, a common class of memory activities that refer to future events. Among the abundance of everyday memory experiences are those in which one must remember to carry out an action in the future, such as remembering to take medication, keep an appointment, give a message to a colleague, pick up a loaf of bread on the return trip home, or perform an errand such as mailing a letter. This class of memory has become known as prospective memory. Accordingly, it is contrasted with the sizable set of memory activities for past events, which from this perspective may be classified as retrospective memory. Thus, retrospective memory includes the principal memory systems, episodic and semantic memory, as discussed above. Although memory and aging research has been predominantly interested in retrospective memory phenomena, in recent years prospective memory has become a salient research topic (McDaniel & Einstein, 2008; see also the previous version of the present chapter, Dixon & Cohen, 2003). Like retrospective memory, the aging of prospective memory has been studied with both naturalistic and experimental procedures. In a groundbreaking naturalistic study, Moscovitch (1982) instructed younger and older adults to call an experimenter at prearranged times throughout a period of several days. The intriguing results indicated that older adults’ prospective memory performance was actually better than that of the younger adults. Further investigation revealed an unexpected potential explanation; namely, older adults were motivated to perform such tasks and were more likely to use reminders (e.g., written notes) as a way of remembering the intention of phoning the experimenter (but see also the early study by Dobbs & Rule, 1987). Eventually, prospective memory tasks were divided into two subsets (e.g., Einstein,

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McDaniel, Richardson, & Guynn, 1995): event-based (situations in which an external event acts as a trigger for some previously encoded intention) or time-based (situations in which the appropriateness of an action or intention is determined by the passage of time). The provocative aging-related observation was that time-based tasks (which require more self-initiated processing) produced more negative aging-related effects than did event-based tasks (McDaniel & Einstein, 2008). Event-based prospective memory is believed to involve spontaneous retrieval. As no resources are dedicated to monitoring memory, a specific event will act as a cue, and prospective memory is spontaneously remembered (Henry, MacLeod, Phillips, & Crawford, 2004; McDaniel, Guynn, Einstein, & Breneiser, 2004). However, a variety of complexities has appeared (McDaniel & Einstein, 2007). Due to the everyday importance of “remembering to remember,” continued prospective memory research is advised.

BIOLOGICAL AND HEALTH INFLUENCES ON COGNITIVE AGING In this section, we discuss biological and cognitive vitality in aging adults. We then evaluate methods of tracking and comparing biological markers and chronological indices of cognitive aging. Finally, we sketch selected mechanisms through which functional biomarkers may influence cognitive aging. Considering Biological and Cognitive Vitality We begin by considering a small but important (and often overlooked) subset of older adults—referred to variously as successful aging, superaging, or cognitively elite. Have you ever noticed that the cognitive vitality of some aging individuals seems to evade the grasp (even ravages) of time? Undaunted, such successfully aging adults maintain a high level of mental activity and acuity into later years of life, even as most people their age experience gradual decrements, and an ever-growing proportion experience precipitous or neurodegenerative decline. If we consider cognitive vitality to be one of many manifestations of biological integrity, we can imagine a “biological age” for the cognitively advantaged older adults that could be several years “younger” than (a) their corresponding chronological age and (b) the biological age of other typically aging counterparts. This intriguing potential dissociation between chronological age and biological/cognitive vitality has captured the attention of scientists and the lay public. Two

general observations are offered. First, an individual’s cognitive status and rate of decline is not always consistent with that individual’s chronological age (Birren, 1999). That is, the passage of time (or years of age) is not inextricably tied up with, or synonymous to, processes of physiological decline associated with normal or clinical aging. Second, on a population level, there exists broad heterogeneity in the natural history of aging. People of the same age may differ considerably in cognitive and biological vitality (Anstey, 2008; Baltes & Willis, 1977; Dixon, 2011a). These observations support the notion that although chronological age generally approximates biological age across the lifetime, the relationship is less than perfect, especially from midlife forward (e.g., MacDonald, Dixon, Cohen, & Hazlitt, 2004; Nakamura & Miyao, 2007). In addition, chronological age carries no intrinsic theoretical meaning and is limited in its power to empirically predict and explain cognitive aging trajectories (Anstey, 2008; Wahlin, MacDonald, de Frias, Nilsson, & Dixon, 2006). Biological age, on the other hand, may reflect theoretically meaningful processes that, unlike chronological age, vary across individuals in measureable ways that affect quality of aging. Researchers use the terms biological vitality and cognitive vitality to refer to the cumulative, interactional, functional effect that a lifetime of both stressors (risk factors) and salubrious influences (protection factors) have within an individual or population. As contrasted with chronological age (an index of the passage of time), biological age (or BioAge) is a quantified composite of one or more indicators of actual biological vitality, and therefore of potential value in descriptive and explanatory developmental research (MacDonald et al., 2004). The idea is that the full range of cognitive aging trajectories happen as a result of both broadly influential and highly idiosyncratic impetuses of change, which are not always tied simply or unambiguously to the passage of time. Although a valid marker of the passage of life time, chronological age offers no immediate or unambiguous indication of the mechanisms responsible for cognitive aging and is perhaps best viewed as a proxy for these mechanisms (Baltes & Willis, 1977; Dixon, 2011a). Nevertheless, chronological age may serve a variety of useful purposes in cognitive aging research, including (a) classifying clusters of older adults likely to be similar in cohort-related experience and (b) serving as one valid factor (along with years of education) for sorting adults into normative or clinical comparison groups. However, the broad heterogeneity of cognitive status among people of similar ages underscores the relatively weak relationship between cognitive development and chronological age—at least in adulthood and aging.

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Cognitive development in adulthood is critically influenced by manifold factors. Such factors may appear unsystematically or stochastically—unevenly, nondeterministically across individuals—in adulthood and later life. That is, the vital interplay of nonnormative risk and protection factors can influence cognitive aging directly, indirectly, interactively, and cumulatively. Well-known in lifespan theory is the notion that normative changes (age-graded, history-graded) may show relatively strong correlations with chronological age, but nonnormative influences are less strongly associated with particular ages (Baltes et al., 2006). Regarding influential history-graded trends, differential patterns for successive cohorts may be related to industrialization, biological fitness, and agingrelated diseases. One example related to cognitive aging is the veritable epidemic in the prevalence of Type 2 diabetes in the current historical era, in both Western and other countries (e.g., India; Ramachandran et al., 2004). Notably, Type 2 diabetes is a known risk factor for cognitive decline and neurodegenerative disease (McFall, Geall, Fischer, Dolcos, & Dixon, 2010). As it is even related to Alzheimer’s disease pathology, Type 2 diabetes may be involved in the initiation of neuritic plaque deposition and other compromising neural changes (e.g., Matsuzaki et al., 2010). Type 2 diabetes and the biological changes associated with it are an example of history-graded health or social changes that may have notable cognitive consequences for a growing proportion of aging adults. Accordingly, in cognitive aging research a variety of functional, neural, and health biological markers have been examined as representing BioAge, a potential index with theoretical and clinical implications (Anstey, 2008; Dixon, 2011a; Nakamura & Miyao, 2007; Spiro & Brady, 2008). Tracking Biological Age, Chronological Age, and Cognitive Aging A BioAge composite would ideally reflect the summation of, and interaction between, risk factors, protective factors, and the reserve, resources, and resilience available to a given aging adult (see Dixon, 2011a). To identify and then track BioAge, researchers have suggested that biological markers (biomarkers) can be any factor (e.g., neurological, genetic/epigenetic, anthropometric, sensory, or cognitive) that follows trajectories of change corresponding to the functional or pathological trajectory of individuals or specific groups. Some time-varying biomarkers may show lead–lag relationships with performance or status markers, such that adverse changes in the biomarker could influentially precede

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changes in corresponding functional or pathological trajectories. Such reliable lead-lag relationships could be used by clinicians and researchers to predict (and perhaps eventually postpone or prevent) adverse cognitive aging events and accelerated decline trajectories. For example, identification of a set of biomarkers that could predict Alzheimer’s disease could result in delays and reduced prevalence of the disease (e.g., Brookmeyer, Gray, & Kawas, 1998; Fratiglioni & Wang, 2007). In general, any effective intervention must involve early identification of the disease-related changes that precede irreversible neurological or cognitive changes (Anstey, Lipnicki, & Low, 2008; Frank et al., 2003). Interestingly, individuals faced with similar health conditions may fare very differently in terms of functional and cognitive outcomes, reflecting the existence of interindividual differences in biological health–supporting resources (e.g., protective genotypes, coping strategies) and subsequent probability of fending off cognitive decline (Treiber, 2010). One example of this has been noted in Alzheimer’s research, wherein it has long been known that some nondemented older adults upon autopsy present with significant development of amyloid plaques and neurofibrillary tangles—the biological hallmarks of Alzheimer’s disease—yet in life did not show the typical cognitive deficits of the disease (Scarmeas & Stern, 2003). This suggests the importance of including markers of brain or cognitive reserve (Stern, 2007), especially those reflecting the availability of biological (e.g., genetic), cultural (e.g., social support), personal (coping strategies), or cognitive (strategic) resources that may support cognitive functioning and abate decline. With aging, cognitive reserve may be contributed through, for example, exercise (Dik, Deeg, Visser, & Jonker, 2003), cognitively stimulating leisure activities (Hall et al., 2009), and education and complex occupations (Stern, 2007). Possible Mechanisms of Functional Biomarkers Affecting Cognitive Aging Accelerated cognitive changes with aging may occur as a result of stress or damage to underlying neurological substrates. As noted earlier, however, the factors affecting the integrity of the neurological substrates and thereby influencing cognitive changes are multimodal. They may even be relatively distal, in that some may stem from biological (e.g., genetic) and health (e.g., somatic disease) domains, as well as behavioral, social, environmental, and institutional dimensions (Baltes et al., 2006; Spiro & Brady, 2008). For the present chapter, we note

Adulthood and Aging Multimodal Biological-Health Stressors

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Breakdown of Neurological Infrastructure

Decrements in cognitive performance and increased rate of decline

Figure 18.1 Temporal association between cognitive performance (level and rate of change) and relative proximal (i.e., neurological substrate) and distal (i.e., biological and health stressors) influences on cognitive functioning.

that the degree of aging-related neurological vulnerability can be affected by both proximal (neurological) and distal (biological-health) changes and stressors (Anstey, 2008). With aging, the greater the neurological vulnerability, the weaker may be the neurological infrastructure that supports specific aspects of cognitive functioning (e.g., memory, executive functions). Neurological deterioration is a proximal factor underpinning the rate and extent of detrimental cognitive changes. This temporal distal-toproximal process is displayed in Figure 18.1. BioAge is one way of representing the extent of the multimodal stressors from relevant biological and health modalities, any number (or combination) of which might affect neurological integrity. Thus, the concept of BioAge naturally situates even relatively distal physiological and health factors as legitimate and potentially important foci of longitudinal and epidemiological investigations of cognitive aging. Moreover, as shown in the figure, it emphasizes the dynamic relationships among functional physiological integrity, health burden, and neurocognitive vitality (Anstey, 2008; Dixon, 2011a; Spiro & Brady, 2008). Recently identified distal biomarkers relevant to cognitive aging include (a) markers of homeostatic control and dysregulation (e.g., systemic inflammation, Gorlick, 2010; insulin dysregulation, Aleman & Torres-Alem´an, 2009); (b) functional markers (e.g., grip strength, pulmonary functioning; Finkel et al., 2003; MacDonald et al., 2004); (c) blood pressure (hypertension; Tzourio, Dufouil, Ducimeti`ere, & Alp´erovitch, 1999); (d) sensory functioning (vision and hearing, Baltes & Lindenberger, 1997; olfaction, Olofsson et al., 2009), and genetic/epigenetic influences (Deary, Wright, Harris, Whalley, & Starr, 2004; National Institute on Aging, 2008). In sum, increased recent attention has been given to the search for variables that mark theoretically significant precursors or “causes” of cognitive changes with aging. Coincidentally, since the 1960s, some observers have suggested that in order to better understand the multiple influences on cognitive aging, chronological age may be more usefully integrated with theoretically relevant markers of neurological, biological, and health changes

(e.g., Baltes & Willis, 1977; Birren, 1999; Dixon, 2011a). Emerging research on the operationalization of BioAge has increasingly been linked to the understanding of (a) typical cognitive trajectories across adulthood and aging, (b) clinically significant groups and individuals, such as those at an increased risk for cognitive decline in later years of life, and (c) successful cognitive aging profiles (e.g., Dixon, 2010; Nakamura & Miyao, 2007). Many challenges remain prior to the availability of a single valid and replicable index of BioAge, but the research path to that point will be paved with novel results pertaining to the biological and health context of cognitive aging. Theoretical and methodological developments in this aspect of cognitive aging will contribute to developing biomarker composites that better reflect the reality of multimodal and interdependent processes affecting cognitive development.

EMOTIONAL AND AFFECTIVE INFLUENCES ON COGNITIVE AGING In this section, we introduce an intriguing paradox of aging; that is, the observation that aging adults report general satisfaction with their lives in the face of increased biological, cognitive, and social losses. We link this issue to the unique roles that emotion and affect may play in cognitive aging. A “Paradox” of Aging The topic of emotional and affective influences on cognitive aging is new (Blanchard-Fields, 2007). If traditional cognitive aging research focused on relatively pure renditions of specific cognitive processes (e.g., reasoning, episodic memory) and their interrelations (e.g., speed and executive function influences on complex cognitive changes with aging), more recent efforts have been devoted to placing these changes in several important contexts. These contexts, which are also changing with aging, include domains known as neurological,

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functional-biological, and health (as described in the previous section), but also affect and personality (the topic of this section). This ongoing (upward and downward) contextualizing of cognitive aging has led to (a) significant descriptive and explanatory advances, and (b) an expanded interest in aspects of aging that may be maintained or even improved with aging (Baltes & Baltes, 1990). Among these may be some emotional and affective processes, which appear to undergo little decline during adulthood (Blanchard-Fields, 2007). One simple example is the observation that many older adults report that they are both generally satisfied with their lives and experience relatively high levels of emotional well-being, despite that fact that later life is associated with increasing physical ailments, psychological stress, social losses, and increased dependency. This phenomenon, characterized by maintained or improved subjective emotional experience in late life, has been called the “paradox ” of aging (Carstensen, Isaacowitz, & Charles, 1999; Mather, 2004). Naturally, these apparent improvements in emotional well-being are general trends across people, not guarantees to individuals. A predictable set of risk factors or stressors—including dispositional tendencies, life events, and individuals’ management of such events—can influence whether emotional life improves or deteriorates with age. Nevertheless, some research suggests that reasonably high levels of emotional well-being are possible (and may even not be exceptional) for many adults in late life. In this section, we turn attention to this putative paradox and link it to cognitive aging. We begin with the simple question: How is it that older adults can have emotionally gratifying lives in the face of significant neurobiological, biological, health, and cognitive losses? Put another way, we have asked earlier: Are there intriguing possibilities lurking behind or among the robust declines associated with aging (Dixon, 2003)? As others have put it: Are there gains throughout the aging process, and what might they be (Baltes, 1987; Baltes et al., 2006)? In this section, we sketch some provocative provisional answers by integrating perspectives from the fields of lifespan development, emotion and personality psychology, cognitive aging, and cognitive neuroscience. Emotion-Cognition Relationships in Aging Emotional well-being refers to the subjective experience of positive and negative emotions. It is defined in terms of life satisfaction, happiness, or the balance between positive and negative emotions (Charles & Carstensen, 2009). A large body of research indicates that negative affect

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decreases and positive affect increases or remains stable throughout adulthood (Carstensen et al., 1999; Carstensen, Mikels, & Mather, 2006). For example, when asked at random intervals during the week about their emotions, older adults report less negative emotional experience than younger adults (Carstensen, Pasupathi, Mayr, & Nesselroade, 2000) and less negative affect (Diehl & Hay, 2007). From a clinical perspective, older adults have lower rates of depression and anxiety disorders compared with younger adults, indicating cohort differences that may reflect an aging-related decrease in negative affect (e.g., Jorm, 2000; Kryla-Lighthall & Mather, 2009). Indeed, a 23-year longitudinal study including almost 3,000 participants from four different generations showed that negative affect decreased across the lifespan (Charles, Reynolds, & Gatz, 2001). A different pattern emerged for positive affect: Over time, frequency of positive affect remained stable across the younger and middle-aged cohorts but declined slightly among the oldest participants, who began the study in their early 60s and continued participating into their mid-80s. Other longitudinal and cross-sectional studies generally parallel these findings, showing sustained levels (Kurland, Gill, Patrick, Larson, & Phelan, 2006) or gradual increases (Gross et al., 1997; Mroczek & Kolarz, 1998) of positive affect, at least until the mid-60s (whereupon it slightly decreases). It is important to note that these decreases rarely get to the level of positive affect of younger adults, suggesting that emotional well-being is relatively well-preserved even among the oldest old (Jopp & Rott, 2006). Given the well-known co-morbidities and losses of aging, an important question is how older adults maintain relatively high levels of emotional well-being. Theories of emotional-motivational lifespan development propose that motivational and experiential changes associated with adult development and aging—including a greater focus on emotion regulation—help older adults achieve heightened emotional experience. For example, the Selective Optimization with Compensation model (Baltes & Baltes, 1990) and the Dynamic Integration Theory (LabouvieVief, 2003) conceptualize emotional-motivational changes as compensatory means to adapt to declining resources with age (see also Heckhausen et al., 2010). In this chapter, we focus on the socioemotional selectivity theory of emotional aging, which emphasizes motivational changes as selective processes caused by shrinking time horizons (Carstensen, 1993, 2006; Carstensen et al., 1999). According to this theory, a limited future time perspective in older adults promotes a focus on optimizing emotional satisfaction in the present moment through

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goal readjustment. Older adults’ focus shifts from emotionally riskier goals associated with information seeking, knowledge building, and social exploration, to moodenhancement goals that provide immediate gratification and focus on emotional maintenance, emotional experience, and the seeking of meaning. In the last decade, researchers have begun to examine the consequences of this motivational shift for cognitive processing. Specifically, recent evidence suggests that the focus on moodenhancement goals may help older adults become more sensitive to positive information and less sensitive to (or avoidant of) negative information, a phenomenon termed the positivity effect or bias (Carstensen et al., 2006). One possible explanation, which has recently received much attention, is that older adults may develop an increasing focus on regulating emotions and an increasing competence to do so (Blanchard-Fields, 2007; Carstensen, 2006; Carstensen, Fung, & Charles, 2003). The Role of Emotion Regulation in Cognitive Aging A growing body of research suggests that adults’ ability to regulate, consciously or unconsciously, which emotions they have and how they experience and express them remains stable and in some aspects may improve across adulthood (Charles & Carstensen, 2007; Gross, 1998; St. Jacques, Dolcos, & Cabeza, 2009). As compared to their younger counterparts, older adults (a) display less physiological arousal when experiencing negative emotions (Levenson, Carstensen, Friesen, & Ekman, 1991; Tsai, Levenson, & Carstensen, 2000), (b) recover more quickly from negative emotional states, (c) are less likely to respond to verbal slights with anger (Charles & Carstensen, 2008), (d) maintain positive emotional states longer than younger adults (Carstensen et al., 2000), and (e) report superior emotional control with less effort (e.g., Charles & Carstensen, 2008; Scheibe & Blanchard-Fields, 2009). Higher levels of emotional well-being in older adults are likely achieved by using emotion regulation strategies that target emotional experiences before they occur (Charles & Carstensen, 2007), thus decreasing the severity of the stressors (Charles & Almeida, 2007). It is possible that the lifelong experience and practice in dealing with emotional situations could increase older adults’ procedural knowledge about how to handle emotional situations. The implementation of emotion regulation goals requires cognitive control abilities such as focusing attention, maintaining attention in the face of distraction, and reappraisal or suppression of unwanted thoughts and memories. It also requires the integrity of the neural circuits

involved in emotion processing and regulation. Indeed, older adults seem to use selective attention to achieve emotion regulation goals even very early in processing, before explicit appraisals can occur, therefore focusing on and subsequently processing more positive than negative information. Studies using eye-tracking technology show that older adults (a) tend to look toward positive images and away from negative ones (Isaacowitz, Wadlinger, Goren, & Wilson, 2006a, 2006b; Knight et al., 2007), and (b) show less of a negativity bias in their sustained attention than younger adults (R¨osler et al., 2005). Importantly, this tendency to attend to more positive information with aging is not necessarily “caused” by intrinsic age differences in emotion detection abilities (see Hahn, Carlson, Singer, & Gronlund, 2006; Knight et al., 2007; Mather & Knight, 2006; R¨osler et al., 2005). Instead, it is associated with older adults’ selective tendency to focus on information consistent with their goals and away from goal-irrelevant information (Kryla-Lighthall & Mather, 2009). Age-related positivity effects have also been documented in episodic and autobiographical memory (Mather, 2004). For example, compared to younger adults, older adults (a) show a reduction in memory for negative relative to neutral images (St. Jacques et al., 2009), (b) tend to recall less negative information and more positive information (Charles, Mather & Carstensen, 2003; Mather, 2006; Mather & Carstensen, 2005), and (c) recall their own past more positively than they had initially reported (Kennedy, Mather, & Carstensen, 2004; Ready, Weinberger, & Jones, 2007). Even negative memories are recalled more positively among older than younger adults (Comblain, D’Argembeau, & Van der Linden, 2005). Notably, the positivity bias in older adults’ memory is not caused by “gating out” negative affect when they have low cognitive control abilities (e.g., Labouvie-Vief, 2005), as research indicates that older adults with the best cognitive control function are the most positively biased (Kryla-Lighthall & Mather, 2009). Rather, it is possible that older people, aware of shrinking time horizons, become more motivated to preserve their emotional balance, which shifts attention to the positive aspects of life (Charles & Carstensen, 2009). Affect and Emotion in Brain and Cognitive Aging Overall, brain imaging research supports the behavioral findings indicating that emotion regulation requires cognitive control. Emotion regulation involves three main brain regions: the amygdala, the prefrontal cortex, and the anterior cingulate. The amygdala is a region responsible

Cognitive Development in Adulthood and Aging

for the rapid identification and processing of emotional information, and is preserved with aging, as compared with most other brain regions (Grieve, Clark, Williams, Peduto, & Gordon, 2005; Mather, 2004; Mu, Xie, Wen, Weng, & Shuyun, 1999). The prefrontal cortex and the anterior cingulate are involved in higher-order cognitive processing, allowing for the flexible and situationdependent responses necessary in emotion regulation (Ochsner & Gross, 2007). How is it neurally possible that regulation improves with aging, given that the prefrontal cortex and the anterior cingulate deteriorate significantly with advancing age (Greenwood, 2000; Raz, 2000, 2005; Resnick, Pham, Kraut, Zonderman, & Davatzikos, 2003; West, 1996)? Research suggests that motivation may compensate for structural decline. Even though prefrontal regions suffer from age-related structural decline, these same regions may be recruited to selectively meet the motivational demands of older adults (Kryla-Lighthall & Mather, 2009). Thus, older adults seem to compensate for age-related neural deficits by recruiting more cognitive resources through their emotion-regulation efforts. Evidence shows that older adults may compensate for the disruption of the cognitive control network by recruiting additional frontal resources (Gutchess et al., 2007) and developing increased functional connectivity between the amygdala and anterior cingulate (St. Jacques, Dolcos, & Cabeza, 2010). In addition to the integrity of the neural circuits involved in emotion processing, personality characteristics and life events, as well as an individual’s reaction to such events, can all influence whether emotional life improves or deteriorates with age (Charles & Carstensen, 2009). In addition to increased motivation to maintain emotional well-being, older adults may also have gained valuable experience in coping with difficult events in their lives, enhancing their expertise in social and emotional regulation (e.g., Blanchard-Fields, 2007; Magai, 2001). This expertise in the pragmatics of life can serve to limit some older adults’ exposure to potentially negative experiences (Birditt & Fingerman, 2005), and to appraise negative stressors as less severe (Charles & Almeida, 2007). However, not all older adults confronted with chronic illnesses, stressful life events, or chronic psychosocial distress benefit from this experience. Older (and younger) adults may be confronted with situations in which emotion-regulation strategies, such as avoidance or distraction, are ineffective or impossible to employ. Aging increases the likelihood of experiencing stressors such as illnesses, physical restrictions, and social losses—any one of which may become chronic, uncontrollable, and

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impossible to avoid. Despite such adverse accumulating circumstances seemingly related to higher rates of negative affect (Caswell et al., 2003; Charles & Almeida, 2006; Mitra, Wilber, Allen, & Walker, 2005), many older adults continue to report relatively high levels of positive affect and relatively low levels of negative affect, as compared with younger adults (Piazza, Charles, & Almeida, 2007). Naturally, there are limits to the positivity effect, such as high levels of stress or severe distress (e.g., neuroticism) (Charles & Almeida, 2006; Piazza et al., 2007). The tendency to experience distress, neuroticism, negative affectivity, or emotional instability is associated with a variety of negative outcomes in later life, including cognitive decline (e.g., Charles & Almeida, 2006; Charles, Gatz, Kato, & Pedersen, 2008; Mroczek & Kolarz, 1998; Mroczek & Spiro, 2007; Wilson, Schneider, et al., 2007). Although severe negative affect (such as neuroticism) tends to decrease, possibly reaching a lower plateau in old age (Mroczek & Spiro, 2005; Roberts, Robins, Caspi, & Trzesniewski, 2003), a growing number of studies suggest that adults who score high on neuroticism do not experience age-related benefits in emotional functioning. For example, they do not experience decreases in negative affect over time, in contrast to the patterns evident for their same-aged peers (Charles et al., 2001; Griffin, Mroczek, & Spiro, 2006), and they may even be more sensitive and reactive to negative stressors (i.e., the “kindling effect”; Mroczek & Almeida, 2004; Mroczek, Spiro, Griffin, & Neupert, 2006). Given the typical losses associated with aging, greater sensitivity to negative stimuli may also have adverse cognitive repercussions for such individuals (Griffin et al., 2006), including increased risk for cognitive decline (Johansson et al., 2010; Wilson et al., 2006; Wilson, Schneider, et al., 2007). Older adults with a history of stressful life events, posttraumatic stress disorder, and high neuroticism also have an increased risk of developing mild cognitive impairment (Wilson et al., 2005; Wilson, Schneider, et al., 2007) and Alzheimer’s disease (Wilson et al., 2003; Wilson et al., 2006). For instance, in women, high levels of psychological stress in midlife may increase the risk of developing dementia later in life (Johansson et al., 2010). Moreover, among older persons without manifest cognitive impairment, higher levels of neuroticism may be associated with increased incidence of mild cognitive impairment during up to 12 years of annual follow-up. One hypothesis for this effect is that chronic distress factors may compromise the limbic structures that regulate stress-related behavior and memory systems, increasing the likelihood that traditional neuropathologic lesions are expressed as cognitive

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impairment (Wilson, Arnold, Schneider, Li, & Bennett, 2007; Wilson, Schneider et al., 2007). Overall, in contrast to commonly observed age-related deficits and the general gradual declines associated with physical and cognitive aging, emotional well-being does not uniformly decline during adulthood. Instead, it is preserved and even shows areas of improvement. Theoretical and empirical work on emotional functioning suggests that although older adults certainly face losses and challenges, they also have psychological resources available to compensate for, or moderate, losses in functioning. Shifts in cognitive processing of emotional stimuli and changes in emotional functioning with age, such as enhanced motivation to regulate emotions and increased competence to do so, may help aging individuals face late-life challenges and experience emotional well-being that is equal (or superior) to that of younger adults. However, under certain circumstances, such as prolonged and unavoidable stress or high levels of neuroticism, emotional well-being in older age appears to be compromised. This suggests that a clear step towards better understanding of well-being in late life is further delineation of the integral relationships among emotions, personality, and cognition.

POTENTIAL FOR SUSTAINED COGNITIVE HEALTH IN AGING In this section, we emphasize that cognitive aging can be represented as a dynamic balance of (principally) declining performance with (in selected cases) cognitive growth. We then examine possible circumstances which facilitate cognitive growth and resilience in aging adults.

Toward a Balanced Concept of “Gains” in Cognitive Aging In this chapter, our sampling of several bodies of research on cognitive aging has revealed that despite robust evidence of gradual decline in performance, there may be some room for guardedly optimistic interpretations. Among the multidimensional constructs and processes considered to be the mechanics of cognitive aging, even the fundamental processes of intelligence and memory offer some opportunity to observe mixed aging-related trajectories and patterns (Baltes et al., 2006; Dixon et al., 2012). Recent collections of reviews of basic processes (such as those closely linked to neurobiological aging) evaluate principally the magnitudes and rates of decline

for a broad range of neurocognitive and complex cognitive functioning. Given the robust and near-universal decline in basic and constituent cognitive processes, it is not surprising that recent collections devote little attention to the rare exceptions, including cognitive maintenance or growth (Craik & Salthouse, 2008; Dixon et al., 2004; Hofer & Alwin, 2008). Nevertheless, the overall balance between the gains and losses of cognitive aging continues to be an issue of vigorous debate (e.g., Baltes, 1987; Baltes et al., 2006; Dixon, 2000; Park & ReuterLorenz, 2009). Why is this the case? Perhaps the most compelling reason was identified long ago by Salthouse (1990). He noted that one of the most vexatious challenges facing cognitive aging researchers is to reconcile (on the one hand) what we have learned about cognitive decline from laboratory and psychometric research with (on the other hand) the common observation that many older adults are quite competent in cognitively demanding everyday leisure and professional activities. How can older adults—all of whom will have experienced at least detectable decline in a variety of fundamental biological, neurological, and cognitive processes—still perform well as world political leaders, CEOs of large corporations, scientists and engineers, novelists and poets, expert bridge and chess players, composers and painters, and a variety of other complex roles? In brief, there must be some aspects or processes of cognitive aging that are not definitively represented or determined by commonly researched domains. In this section, we review briefly some of the possible scenarios for observing the sparing or optimization of cognitive potential in young adulthood, midlife, and beyond. With most empirically investigated psychological processes, aging-related changes may follow multiple (and individualized) directions. This is the case, despite the fact that many biologically based processes are in decline throughout middle and late adulthood. In fact, the presence of much potential multidirectionality has been identified as one of the major challenges and principles of lifespan studies (Baltes, 1987; Baltes et al., 2006). Accordingly, this descriptive possibility also urges research on explanatory mechanisms. What could be the means through which inevitable aging-related risk factors could be avoided or minimized in some lives, or through which scarce agingrelated protection or supportive factors could be accumulated or optimized for long-term healthy outcomes (Dixon, 2010)? It has been argued that development is a concept that contains multiple possible directions—as widely varied as these directions can be (i.e., that between gains and losses) (e.g., Baltes, 1987).

Cognitive Development in Adulthood and Aging

Two prominent aging-related cognitive processes summarized in this chapter (memory and intelligence) are excellent examples. As noted earlier, among the multiple memory systems are two (i.e., episodic, semantic) that may undergo somewhat different developmental changes with aging. Similarly, intelligence is comprised of multiple dimensions (e.g., crystallized, fluid), and these undergo rather different patterns of average changes with aging. Notably, there is much diversity or variability with memory and intellectual aging, and this is especially notable longitudinally as individuals follow quite different trajectories over time. From a developmental epidemiological perspective, among the principal challenges for cognitive aging researchers are to not only describe and document the cognitive losses that occur typically with aging, but also to articulate the mechanisms accounting for those losses. A great deal of evidence pertains to both of these enterprises, which ideally would be coordinated (B¨ackman & Nyberg, 2010; Craik & Salthouse, 2008; Park & Reuter-Lorenz, 2009). Similarly, an important challenge in cognitive aging is to articulate and demonstrate examples of late-life maintenance, successes, or gains in cognitive performance. In what manner and by what means may there be long-term stability or improvement in psychological functioning with advancing age? Accordingly, several classes of examples have been offered, and we briefly review some of these in this chapter. Specifically, one model proposes that given substantial and unavoidable losses in basic biological and cognitive functioning with aging, three main categories of qualified “gains” may be hypothesized (Dixon, 2000). These are (1) gains qua gains, or the possibility that some gains may emerge and continue independent of the constraints provided by surrounding aging-related losses; (2) gains as losses of a lesser magnitude, or the idea that some consolation or adjustment may be made given that some cognitive losses occur later than expected (personally or in stereotypes) or to an extent are not as devastating as had been feared; and (3) gains as a function of losses, or the evident possibility that some psychological gains are linked to specific losses, occasioned by those losses, and that may even compensate partially for such losses, mitigating their detrimental effects (Dixon, 2000). Interestingly, the latter category includes many examples that operate both at a basic or neurological level of analysis as well as in strategic or plasticity modes. More recently, an explicit application of epidemiological principles has been explored for its merit in understanding “cognitive health” (i.e., healthy aging, successful aging) (Dixon, 2010; see also Park & ReuterLorenz, 2009). In sum, at many levels, cognitive aging

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appears to be multidirectional; this is the case even though much overall, inevitable, and fundamental loss (decline) occurs with aging. In the remaining sections, we briefly review several modalities through which cognitive health may be maintained throughout adulthood. Plasticity Through Enrichment, Training, and Experience Under what circumstances can older adults experience selective maintenance or durable gains in cognitive health? Recent researchers have produced useful empirical information regarding plasticity effects with aging. Plasticity, like its corollary compensation, typically refers to adaptive changes in neural or cognitive functioning as related to (or a function of) mismatches between demands (task, environmental) and capacities (initial, diminished) (B¨ackman & Dixon, 1992; Dixon, Garrett, & B¨ackman, 2008; L¨ovd´en et al., 2010; Reuter-Lorenz & Cappell, 2008). In a variety of healthy and vulnerable populations, such plasticity can be encouraged or channeled through deliberate intervention (e.g., training) or enriching experience (e.g., lifestyle activities). Regarding enrichment, differential effects on cognitive health in late life may be associated with both (a) naturally accumulated or active everyday levels of cognitive, physical, and social engagement (Small & McEvoy, 2008; Stern, 2007) and (b) interventions that increase the magnitude or focus of such categories of engagement (e.g., Fratiglioni & Wang, 2007; Hertzog, Kramer, Wilson, & Lindenberger, 2009; Stine-Morrow & Basak, 2011). Some recent studies indicate maintenance of cognitive performance for older adults who have had complex work lives and higher levels of education, suggesting that such enhancements may be due in part to continuing practice of activities involving complex brain functions (Christensen, Anstey, Leach, & MacKinnon, 2008; Hertzog et al., 2009; Stern, 2007). Regarding intervention, training studies indicate that although older adults show less cognitive improvement than younger adults, some improvement in performance on specifically trained skills may be observed (e.g., Ball et al., 2002; Dahlin, Stigsdotter Neely, Larsson, B¨ackman, & Nyberg, 2008). Notably, training seems to be near-specific to the targeted domain; research continues to explore issues of transfer and generalizability (see Lustig, Shah, Seidler, & Reuter-Lorenz, 2009; Persson & Reuter-Lorenz, 2008). In addition, selected older adults who have experienced severe or pathological decline can occasionally benefit from specific and aggressive interventions (e.g., Edwards et al., 2005; Grandmaison &

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Simard, 2003). Theoretically, some degree of normally observed decline in cognitive aging may be due to disuse or lack of practice (Small & McEvoy, 2008). Some older adults may decline partly in association with diminished engagement in the social experiences and cultural contexts that help them practice cognitive skills and thereby maintain relevant and adaptive abilities. The implication is not, however, that there is no real cognitive decline, nor is it that simply by providing mental activities, physical exercises, or social support that all expected declines can be avoided. As we have seen elsewhere in this chapter, cognitive decline with aging is inevitable, but there is some degree of plasticity available to many older adults. The “potential for potential” in late life is relevant not only to theorists and researchers interested in cognitive aging. It is also increasingly relevant to (a) politicians and policy makers, who are preparing for the “rising tide” (Dudgeon, 2010) of an aging population, and (b) almost everyone who knows someone who is nearing the retirement years or who plans to reach late life themselves. Why should so many people be interested in the fact that aging individuals retain the potential for cognitive health, including maintenance and growth? One demographic reason is that our population is increasingly an aging one. Larger numbers of people are reaching late life, and many, including probably a large proportion of the Baby Boomers, seem to be extending their potentially productive and competent lives into later decades (Baltes & Baltes, 1990). Many recent books have addressed precisely this issue and its implications, as the titles of several of them indicate: Successful Aging (Rowe & Kahn, 1998), Vintage People: The Secrets of Successful Aging (Old, 2000), The Okinawa Program: How the World’s LongestLived People Achieve Everlasting Health—And How you Can Too (Willcox, Willcox, & Suzuki, 2002), Mental Fitness for Life: 7 Steps to Healthy Aging (Cusack & Thompson, 2005), In Full Bloom: A Brain Education Guide for Successful Aging (Lee & Jones, 2008), and The Joys of Successful Aging: Living Your Days to the Fullest (Sweeting, 2008). In addition, the technologically savvy older adults of the 21st century are consumers of memoryenhancing games (e.g., Nintendo’s Brain Age). Notably, recent intervention studies, such as the Experience Corps Program (Carlson et al., 2009), integrate cognitive, physical, and social engagement with promising results. These types of programs may provide a template for community use in the future. A recent Web search on “training for retirees” led to more than 2 million results, suggesting that adult education (and re-education) is indeed becoming important (Cusack & Thompson, 2003; Hori & Cusack,

2006). These and similar recent contributions explore the possibility that there is considerable cognitive potential in late life, as well as how such potential can be actuated, distributed, and preserved. Wisdom The study of wisdom is as old as the study of human thought or philosophy. Ptahhotep, Vizir to Pharaoh Issi (between 2870 and 2675 BC), wrote books intended to pass on the knowledge of his ancestors concerning rules of conduct for future generations (Brugman, 2006; Lichtheim, 1973). These passages spoke of the importance of truthfulness, self-control, and kindness to others. Although philosophers have struggled with the concept of wisdom for centuries, psychologists and other researchers in developmental science have addressed it only more recently. In the field of cognitive aging—especially the aspect of cognitive health and potential—wisdom is naturally of considerable interest. There are relatively few processes generally thought to improve substantially with advancing age. In principle, wisdom may be one such process. What is wisdom, and how does one know if someone is wise? What are the signs of wisdom, and how might they be recognized? For research purposes, it is crucial to begin by defining wisdom such that it may be studied empirically. One important step was taken by Kekes (1983). In the course of an historical and philosophical analysis, Kekes argued that wisdom is required and may appear in the context of life problems for which there may be multiple considerations and even multiple solutions, each with a variety of potential ramifications. In everyday lives, these include age-graded (expected) events, such as first job and marriage, as well as nonnormative events, such as divorce or (unexpected) career changes. Given that the best advice for such complex decisions may not be the simplest or readily available, wisdom would be shown in analyses that considered the individual and his/her social milieu, the problem and its complementary issues, the cultural or historical circumstances, as well as the future and various strands of implications. Thus, wisdom involves a variety of cognitive skills assembled and focused on a problem of life (Baltes & Staudinger, 1993). One early psychologist, G. Stanley Hall (1922), thought that wisdom could be one of the desirable characteristics of late adulthood. For Hall, wisdom included taking perspective, synthesizing significant factors of life, and moving toward higher levels. Erikson’s (1997) view portrayed wisdom as emanating from a late-life crisis

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between integrity and despair, from which one desired outcome might be some degree of wisdom. Contemporary psychological approaches build on ideas of decision making, compassion, altruism, and insight, all in the context of related processes of reflection, emotional homeostasis, relativistic and tolerant thinking, and acceptance of uncertainty and ambiguity in life (Meeks & Jeste, 2009). In a related paradigm Staudinger, Kessler, and D¨orner (2006) identified two types of wisdom: (1) general wisdom, based on the highest attainment of insight and judgment about the human condition and ways of negotiating a good life for the greater good, and (2) personal wisdom, which is identified as insight into one’s own life based on personal history and self-reflection. In general, as indicated in a series of reviews, wisdom may be defined as showing good judgment about complex life problems. Recent investigators have explored empirically whether wisdom does indeed develop in late life and, if so, whether it is in fact an important aspect of successful and healthy aging. Wise decisions would therefore involve several ingredients, including balances between what one knows and what one does not know, between the academic and the practical, between the declarative and the procedural (Baltes & Staudinger, 1993; Brugman, 2006; Sternberg, 2003). How can wisdom be measured? After reviewing several attempts, Brugman (2006) summarized three types of wisdom measurement instruments: (1) problem-solving scenarios or vignettes, (2) questionnaires that assess related aspects of metacognition or strategies, and (3) indirect measures such as theory-ofmind tasks. Methodological challenges are substantial, but progress has been made on selected fronts. One issue is of constant and uniform concern: To what extent is there empirical evidence that aging per se confers some advantages in actual performance on purported wisdom tasks? To date, this is not necessarily the case (Brugman, 2006), although with qualifications and alternative perspectives the question remains open and intriguing for researchers in cognitive aging (e.g., Scheibe, Kunzmann, & Baltes, 2007). Compensation The concept of compensation continues to be explored for its application in the field of cognitive aging, especially in light of new developments in neighboring disciplines of cognitive rehabilitation and cognitive neuroscience, as supported by innovations in technical, conceptual, and methodological domains (e.g., Dixon et al., 2008; ReuterLorenz & Cappell, 2008). In its most basic psychological

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meaning, compensation refers to a set of mechanisms (biological, technological, psychological) through which individuals may continue to perform difficult or complex tasks despite having experienced deficits or decrements in relevant abilities typically required to perform such tasks (B¨ackman & Dixon, 1992). As noted earlier, aging involves robust declines in fundamental sensory, motor, neurological, and cognitive abilities. Many of the typically declining cognitive abilities are contributory components of higher-level cognitive, professional, or life skills. Some of these adaptive skills may be maintained into late life. One mechanism through which such maintenance can occur is compensation. Adults may be able to compensate for declines that they experience in even very basic components; they may continue to perform even complex skills (running governments or companies, composing or writing novels, conducting scientific research, driving) at competent, if not creative, levels. However, it is important to keep in mind that while compensation generally results in gains, there are sometimes losses involved as well (Dixon & B¨ackman, 1995). For example, a theory currently being investigated, the effortfulness hypothesis, suggests that some memory loss observed in older adults is due to shifting resources in order to compensate for sensory deficits (see; McCoy et al., 2005; Wingfield, Tun, & McCoy, 2005). Several forms of compensation have been identified (B¨ackman & Dixon, 1992; Baltes & Baltes, 1990; Dixon & B¨ackman, 1995; Reuter-Lorenz & Cappell, 2008; Salthouse, 1995). We focus only on selected aspects relevant to the current topic in cognitive aging. For older adults, most forms of compensation begin with the experience of a mismatch between their available abilities and the requirements they either place upon themselves (as personal expectations) or accept as given by the community (environment) in which they operate. In addition, there is evidence that with normal cognitive aging, automatic neural compensation may occur with or without this mismatch (Dixon et al., 2008; Reuter-Lorenz & Cappell, 2008). When the mismatch does occur, it is possible that both automatic neural and compensatory mechanisms may activate concurrently. A key point is that by using one or more of the mechanisms or forms of compensation, the gap between ability and expected level of performance can be closed. In this way, a satisfactory level of performance for a given skill can be attained, and an individual’s potential can be sustained, if not optimized. Compensation can occur in normal aging, but also as a form of recovery from brain injury or other pathogenic neurological conditions (e.g., Dixon et al., 2008; Wilson & Watson, 1996).

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Compensation is also a viable concept in recovery from a wide range of social and personal deficits and losses, many of which are quite pertinent to the study of cognitive aging (see Dixon & B¨ackman, 1995). What forms of compensation are applicable to aging in general and to cognitive aging in particular? Like many evolving concepts, multiple perspectives on its precise nature have been offered. However, there seems to be some agreement that a handful of aspects of compensatory-type mechanisms may be active and relevant in cognitive aging. We summarize five forms that appear to cover many of the situations in which compensation might occur in late life (Dixon et al., 2008), but we readily acknowledge that there are different ways of carving out the conceptual space. The first form is known as remediation. One example is that of investing more time and effort when there is a deficit in learning or performing a target skill. For example, an older individual returning to school, may compensate for the gap between encountered environmental demands and skill level by putting more time and effort into studying. The second form of compensation, substitution, originates with a deficit in a specific skill that is declining with age and that contributes to the ineffectiveness of some overarching skill performance (e.g., Salthouse, 1995). Substitution can occur in two ways (Dixon et al., 2008): (1) hidden or as yet not utilized skill can emerge (latent process substitution) or (2) a new skill can be learned and implemented (novel process substitution). Both mechanisms can be used to compensate for the declining skill. Salthouse’s (1987, 1995) classic observation is that some successful older typists compensated for aging-related decrements in critical components of typing skill by possibly developing a substitutable mechanism, namely, eye–hand span. A third compensatory process, assimilation, involves selection and optimization (Baltes & Baltes, 1990; Baltes et al., 2006; Marsiske, Lang, Baltes, & Baltes, 1995). One’s development overall is facilitated by selecting different paths or goals when the original one is blocked or unattainable, and managing the loss-based selection (e.g., Freund & Riediger, 2003; Marsiske et al., 1995; Riediger, Li, & Lindenberger, 2006). A fourth category, known as accommodation, reflects processes in which one adjusts goals, priorities, and criteria of success in response to decreased skill level. Specifically, individuals may modify their goals (e.g., Brandtst¨adter, Rothermund, Kranz, & K¨un, 2010) or lower their criteria of what constitutes successful performance (Dixon et al., 2008; Riediger et al., 2006). For example, older adults may modify personal expectations of performance such that it is no longer

necessary to perform at quite the same level or with quite the same speed as they did when they were younger. A fifth aging-related compensatory process may occur automatically, or in combination with other compensation processes, in response to normal aging or serious insult such as traumatic brain injury or stroke. Researchers have observed brain volume changes (shrinkage of some areas and thinning of others), decreases in dopamine receptors, and decrements in white matter integrity that are implicated in lowered cognitive performance as a result of aging (Park & Reuter-Lorenz, 2009). Neural compensation may be viewed in several simple ways, such as potentially increased sizes of neurons in the brain, new neuronal growth, or an overproduction of brain chemicals (enzymes and neurotransmitters) that are used in effective learning and memory skills (Dixon et al, 2008, Park & Reuter-Lorenz, 2009; Reuter-Lorenz & Cappell, 2008). In addition, increased activitations in typical brain areas and the utilization of different areas of the brain have been observed in some older adults (Cabeza, Anderson, Locantore, & McIntosh, 2002; Dennis & Cabeza, 2008). Compensation on a neural level may be due to the automatic reaction to normal aging or to conscious compensation process (Cabeza et al., 2002; Dixon et al., 2008; Paquette et al., 2003; Paxton, Barch, Racine, & Braver, 2008). Researchers have found that certain strategic mechanisms are used more often and are used differentially by groups of older adults in varying statuses of cognitive health (Dixon & de Frias, 2007; Garrett, Grady, & Hasher, 2010). For example, in one study cognitively healthy older adults used external memory aids and more investment of effort, while early Alzheimer’s patients more often recruited other people (e.g., spouses, caregivers) to help them remember new information. Different cognitive status groups also have different patterns of use as time passes. Dixon and de Frias (2007) found that cognitively healthy older adults increased their use of compensatory mechanisms over a 6-year period, whereas cognitively impaired older adults’ compensation use decreased over the same period. Garrett and colleagues found older adults’ compensation use increased (a) if their education level was not consistent with their IQ, (b) if they perceived more memory errors, or (c) if their stress levels were higher (Garrett et al., 2010). Compensation may be an important mechanism of maintaining cognitive health with aging, a means of realizing and activating cognitive potential into late life (Baltes & Baltes, 1990; Dixon et al., 2008; Riediger et al., 2006). Increased use of compensatory mechanisms is perhaps not an achievement that will garner awards from historians or critics (as would the

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creative products of a renowned author or composer), and it may not be a success that brings the respect accorded to the wise sage. It is, however, a practical and functional process associated with both elite levels of technical and artistic performance and everyday or adaptive life skills such as driving, working, wayfinding, remembering, and performing various leisure activities (Dixon, 1995; Park & Reuter-Lorenz, 2009). CONCLUSIONS Cognitive aging is a vibrant field of the developmental sciences. The field of cognitive aging has become one of increasing theoretical complexity, methodological sophistication, interdisciplinary activity, and practical or clinical utility. Theoretical attention is given to diversity, directionality, multidimensionality, timing, context, and (of course) actual changes (and variability) with aging. Also notable is the fact that the researchable contexts of cognitive aging extend from the distal biological to the proximal neurobiological, from the cognitive-psychological to the psychosocial-affective, and from the social-interactional to the historical and cultural. This may be one reason that so many large-scale, epidemiological, interdisciplinary longitudinal studies of cognitive aging have been undertaken in many corners of the globe (Hultsch, 2004). Because cognitive aging reflects a dynamic and complex set of developmental phenomena intrinsically involving processes at many levels of analysis, with methods and techniques originating in disparate disciplines, it is profitably studied from several complementary perspectives. In this chapter, we briefly illustrated several domains of research in cognitive aging, as well as selected emerging trends. Although numerous handbooks and primers are available covering a broader range with more detail (e.g., Craik & Salthouse, 2008), we trust that this brief overview represents principal facets of this much broader and rapidly growing area of developmental science. REFERENCES Aleman, A., & Torres-Alem´an, I. (2009). Circulating insulin-like growth factor I and cognitive function: Neuromodulation throughout the lifespan. Progress in Neurobiology, 89, 256–265. Anstey, K. (2008). Cognitive aging and functional biomarkers. In S. M. Hofer & D. F. Alwin (Eds.), Handbook of cognitive aging: Interdisciplinary perspectives (pp. 327–339). Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage Publications. Anstey, K. J., Lipnicki, D. M., & Low, L.-F. (2008). Cholesterol as a risk factor for dementia and cognitive decline: A systematic review of prospective studies with meta-analysis. American Journal of Geriatric Psychiatry, 16, 343–354.

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CHAPTER 19

Personality Development in Adulthood and Old Age ROSANNA M. BERTRAND, EILEEN KRANZ GRAHAM, AND MARGIE E. LACHMAN

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND 476 THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVES ON PERSONALITY 476

THE SELF 485 CONCLUSIONS 490 REFERENCES 490

Personality development in adulthood and old age has been the focus of considerable research interest over the last several decades, amassing a body of literature that is richly diverse in its theoretical and methodological approaches (Mroczek & Little, 2006). Although some research shows that early experiences have a major influence on the developmental trajectory of personality (e.g., Caspi, 1987; Friedman & Martin, 2011), it is also generally accepted that experiences during adulthood can have an impact on personality (e.g., Haan, Millsap, & Hartka, 1986; Roberts, Wood, & Caspi, 2008). Current perspectives on personality focus primarily on the impact of individual differences in personality on health and well-being in multiple domains throughout the life span (Hampson, 2011; Lachman, 1989; Lachman & Bertrand, 2001; Mroczek & Little, 2006; Nesselroade, 1992), with less emphasis on questions regarding the stability or susceptibility to change across adulthood (Costa & McCrae, 1984). There is increasing evidence that individual differences in personality have important influences on outcomes in multiple domains (e.g., health, work, relationships) in adulthood and old age. By adopting a life-span approach for the study of personality in adulthood and aging, the impact of personality in relation to other factors such as gender, cohort, and culture can be modeled, and the effects of change can be tracked (Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 2006). In this chapter, we define and examine the nature of personality in adulthood and old age from multiple

perspectives. We first provide an historical overview of theoretical approaches, and then we present major theoretical perspectives in the field, including a discussion of relevant findings from key empirical studies. We examine trait approaches (e.g., McCrae & Costa, 1987; Roberts & DelVecchio, 2000; Terracciano, McCrae, & Costa, 2006) to the study of personality, with a focus on rank-order and mean-level consistency, as well as individual differences in personality and how these differences shape the experiences of older adults. We also examine theories within a life-span approach to personality, such as contextual models that incorporate person–environment interactions (e.g., Antonucci, Fiori, Birditt, & Jackey, 2010; Baltes, 1983; Caspi, 1987; Helson, 1984; Holt, J. K., 2009; Neugarten & Gutmann, 1958). A phenomenological approach to personality is also relevant to the study of adulthood and old age, and some of the major findings regarding subjective personality change (e.g., Fleeson & Baltes, 1998) and personality as a predictor of later life outcomes (e.g., Baker & Bichsel, 2006; Caspi, 1987; Welch & Poulton, 2009) are discussed. We consider specific aspects of the self-construct, such as identity (e.g., Sneed & Whitbourne, 2005), self-efficacy and control (e.g., Bandura, 1997; Lachman & Weaver, 1998), well-being (e.g., Ryff, 1989), and emotion regulation (e.g., Carstensen, Isaacowitz, & Charles, 1999; Charles, Mather, & Carstensen, 2003; Dougherty, Abe, & Izard, 1996; Lazarus & Folkman, 1984). Finally, we summarize the current state of the adult personality literature and make suggestions for the direction of future research.

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HISTORICAL BACKGROUND The view of development as a lifelong process can be traced to the 18th- and 19th-century philosophers Quetelet, Carus, and Tetens (Baltes, 1983). However, psychological development beyond young adulthood was not embraced by those studying human behavior until much later. Early theorists conceptualized development as a phenomenon unique to the early years of life, suggesting that beyond this point development was virtually nonexistent. This popular sentiment was epitomized in the classic statement by William James, when he wrote that by the age of 30, character is “set like plaster, and will never soften again” (W. James, 1890, p. 121). Others, such as Freud (1905), believed that psychological maturity was reached at an even younger age. According to Freud’s (1905) psychoanalytic theory, personality is determined at some time during middle childhood. Any observation of psychological change after this point in life was seen as the result of early experiences and not of continued development. The child-centric view of development has its roots in the work of Rousseau (1762/1948) and has been reinforced by the writings not only of Freud (1905) but also of other preeminent developmental theorists such as Piaget (1936/1974) and Bowlby (1982). A life-span view of personality development emerged in the early 20th century with work by C. Jung, C. Buhler, G. Stanley Hall, and E. Erikson. The most well-known of these perspectives vis-`a-vis personality are those of Jung and Erikson. Jung’s (1933) psychoanalytic theory dealt primarily with issues of balancing polarities such as masculinity and femininity or extraversion and introversion manifested as individuation throughout adulthood. Erikson’s (1963) psychosocial model of ego development expanded Freud’s theory to include developmental stages throughout the life span, including old age. Several empirical studies have advanced Erikson’s psychosocial theory of life-long development (e.g., Field & Millsap, 1991; Loevinger, 1976; Neugarten & Gutmann, 1958; Vaillant, 1977), and found support for the perspective that change in later adulthood can be discontinuous with childhood experiences. A recent surge of theoretical conceptualizations and empirical investigations has culminated in a sizable literature that adopts the view of personality as a lifelong process of development (e.g., Baltes, 1987; Baltes et al., 2006; Featherman & Lerner, 1985; Friedman & Martin, 2011; Lachman & Baltes, 1994; Lerner, 1976; Mroczek & Little, 2006; Roberts et al., 2008). The life-span approach is a useful perspective from which to study personality

development in later adulthood. First, the life-span approach represents the dynamic complexities inherent in the experiences of middle-aged and older adults. In addition, this approach integrates sources of variation such as sociocultural, historical, and genetic factors that are especially important to consider when examining the trajectory of development into adulthood and old age. Furthermore, the advancement of powerful methodological techniques has provided developmentalists with the tools necessary for effectively modeling personality and the self in later years within the context of the life span (e.g., Schaie, 1996; Schaie, Willis, & Caskie, 2004). Longitudinal research designs and multidimensional statistical techniques provide opportunities to model intraindividual change, so that complex patterns of development throughout the life span can be explored. With longitudinal designs and state-of-the art methodological techniques, confounding factors such as age and cohort effects can be teased apart, and contextual qualities such as historical period and socioeconomic status can be examined as moderators of change. The adoption of a life-span approach for the study of personality facilitates the investigation of antecedents and consequences of personality stability and change well into old age.

THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVES ON PERSONALITY The research on personality development in adulthood and aging has been guided by a variety of theoretical perspectives and conceptual models. A contextual life-span approach emphasizes the dynamic interaction between social and historical contexts on personality patterns (Schaie & Hendricks, 2000). Other studies utilize trait theories of development. The underlying premise of trait theory (e.g., Costa & McCrae, 1988; Roberts & DelVecchio, 2000) is that personality attributes are inherited or formed early in life and that they exhibit continuity across adulthood. Human personality in adulthood and old age is a complex, multifaceted phenomenon that is best represented using multiple perspectives. Trait Theories Perhaps the most well-known perspective on personality is the trait view (Costa & McCrae, 1984). A trait is commonly described as an enduring personality characteristic that remains stable over time and is consistent across situations. Purportedly, roots of traits can be traced to genetic

Personality Development in Adulthood and Old Age

components, and their expression is manifested in early temperament (Bouchard, 1997). From the perspective of trait theory, personality can be defined as the expression of sustainingly present, inherent attributes. The Big Five Although several trait taxonomies have been proposed to delineate the structure of personality, the five-factor model known as the Big Five is the most widely applied to adulthood and aging. The five-factor model includes the following dimensions: neuroticism, extroversion, openness to experience, agreeableness, and conscientiousness. There is widespread support for the Big Five using multiple measures, including the California Q-Set (McCrae, Costa, & Busch, 1986), the NEO Personality Inventory (McCrae & Costa, 1987), the Big Five Adjective ratings measure (e.g., Goldberg, 1992; John & Srivastava, 1999), and the MIDI personality inventory (Lachman & Prenda-Firth, 2004; Lachman & Weaver, 1998; Zimprich, Allemand, & Lachman, 2012), all of which have demonstrated convergent and discriminant validity in regard to self-reports. Stability and Change The preponderance of empirical research on adulthood points to rank-order stability across time on trait dimensions (e.g., Costa & McCrae, 1988; Haan et al., 1986; Roberts & DelVecchio, 2000). This finding implies that the ordinal position of individuals within a group remains the same relative to other individuals on trait dimensions over time. For example, using the California Q-sort (Block, 1971), Haan and colleagues (1986) found substantial stability over 50 years (i.e., ages 5–62) in the Oakland Growth and Berkeley Guidance studies. With one exception, occurring in the component of “warm/hostile” during the transition from late adolescence to early adulthood, all test-retest, interval-specific correlations were positive across the life span and into old age. Support for the stability position comes from longitudinal studies such as the Baltimore Longitudinal Study of Aging. Findings from these studies demonstrate remarkable stability on self-reports of personality behavior across approximately 30 years of adulthood (e.g., Costa & McCrae, 1984, 1988; McCrae & Costa, 1985, 1987, 1994). Meta-analyses conducted by Roberts and DelVecchio (2000) provide a more complex picture regarding stability. Their examination of 124 longitudinal studies revealed high levels of rank-order consistency

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on personality trait dimensions over time, but it was not until the period between middle and older adulthood, (i.e., ages 50–59 and 60–73) that trait consistency stabilized, a finding that conflicts with the earlier notion that trait stability peaks by the age of 30 (e.g., Costa & McCrae, 1988; W. James, 1890; McCrae & Costa, 1994). It is important to note that rank order stability does not imply stability at the mean level. Although there is strong evidence for trait consistency when considering rank order, there is also evidence from longitudinal investigations for normative, mean-level changes in some of the traits across measurement points, and suggestive support from cross-sectional studies for age differences (e.g., Allemand, Zimprich, & Hendriks, 2008; McCrae & Costa, 1994; Roberts, Walton & Viechtbauer, 2006; Schaie et al., 2004). For example, Roberts and DelVecchio (2000) reported that although high levels of rank-order stability were found in their meta-analysis, the estimates of between-age-group consistency were not high enough to argue that personality dimensions are impervious to change. This conclusion is supported in the findings from other studies that examine mean level change in personality traits. For example, in the Roberts et al. (2006) metaanalysis of longitudinal studies, significant mean-level increases were shown for all traits except neuroticism, which indicates that, as individuals age, they become less anxious but more likely to explore new experiences, more self-aware, more organized, and more motivated. Similarly, Haan et al. (1986) noted that in the Oakland Growth and Berkeley Guidance studies, substantial changes in personality continued to occur into later adulthood. These authors concluded that with increased age, people confront greater experiential change that, in turn, can lead to a change in the expression of personality. More recent analysis of the data from the BLSA has shown that there are mean-level changes in personality as well. Using hierarchical linear modeling, an average mean level change of 0.5 SD was found across adulthood (Terracciano et al., 2006). Further evidence for mean-level differences in personality across adulthood comes from the study of Midlife in the United States (MIDUS; John D. and Catherine T. MacArthur Foundation Research Network on Successful Midlife Development), insofar as trait attribute ratings are concerned. Findings from this nationally representative cross-sectional study revealed significant mean age-group differences between young, middle-aged, and older adults on some of the Big Five traits (Prenda & Lachman, 2001).

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Specifically, results indicated that scores on agreeableness were highest in the group of older adults, whereas scores on openness to experience and neuroticism were lowest among the older adults, and conscientiousness was highest in the midlife group. To supplement the cross-sectional analyses, longitudinal data from an 8- to 10-year interval are now available for the MIDUS study. The longitudinal analysis of the MIDUS data shows that neuroticism, extraversion, agreeableness, and openness all decrease significantly. Further, greater correlational stability was found in older adults, suggesting that individuals have greater stability with increasing age (Kranz Graham & Lachman, in press). Furthermore, when the traits are considered on the facet-level—that is, the individual components that make up each trait—there is a more precise pattern of meanlevel change. For example, data from the Bielefeld Longitudinal Study of Adult Twins (Bleidorn, Kandler, Riemann, Angleitner, & Spinath, 2009) and the Baltimore Longitudinal Study (Terracciano, McCrae, Brant, & Costa, 2005) showed that, within extraversion, the facets of gregariousness and excitement seeking decrease over time, while there is an increase in assertiveness and activity. Among the facets of openness, it appears as though fantasy decreases while other facets remain relatively stable (aesthetics, feelings, ideas, value). Finally, consistent with other findings, facet-level change analyses indicate that all aspects of conscientiousness increase, while all facets of neuroticism decrease (Bleidorn, et al., 2009; Terracciano, et al., 2005). From the discussion of rank-order and mean-level consistency in trait dimensions, it appears that to a large degree the findings vary based on the type of question asked and the type of methodology utilized to answer the question (see Roberts et al., 2008). Specifically, among the studies reported here, those investigating rank order across time by examining test-retest correlations largely demonstrated stability, whereas those interested in between-agegroup comparisons revealed mean-level differences on some personality dimensions. Moreover, mean-level differences were revealed in both longitudinal studies that examined intraindividual change in personality dimensions and cross-sectional studies that explored differences between age/cohort groups. Although the issue of stability versus change in personality development across the life span continues to be an interesting topic of study, the focus of personality research has shifted to the potentially more important question of how these stable personality styles impact the course of aging (e.g., Duchek, Balota, Storandt &

Larsen, 2007; Judge, Higgins, Thoresen, & Barrick, 1999), and how changes in these traits can potentially affect the aging process as well (Mroczek & Spiro, 2007). For example, Mroczek and Spiro (2007) found that men who increased in neuroticism over time had a greater risk of mortality than those who decreased. Another recent study found that increases in negative personality attributes (e.g. rigidity, apathy, egocentricity), are linked to clinical diagnosis of Alzheimer’s-type dementia (Balsis, Carpenter, & Storandt, 2005). These results indicate that such personality changes may aid in early detection of the disease and may further facilitate early interventions. Changes in personality are also associated with health and cognitive functioning, with evidence that either stability or changes in a socially desirable direction (e.g., decreases in neuroticism) are associated with better functioning (Kranz Graham & Lachman, in press; Turiano et al., in press). Personality Dimensions as Antecedents Personality attributes are believed to play a major role in the nature and course of development in adulthood and old age (Lachman & Bertrand, 2001). For example, on the one hand, it is possible that certain personality characteristics such as neuroticism may drive individuals toward risktaking behaviors that could negatively influence their life course and health status in older adulthood. On the other hand, personality styles such as conscientiousness may direct individuals to practice protective health behaviors that could delay morbidity and mortality in the later adult years (Friedman et al., 1995; Schwartz et al., 1995). Longitudinal evidence from the Terman Life Cycle Study of Children with High Ability supports the hypothesis that childhood personality dispositions predict later life outcomes. Findings demonstrated that certain childhood and early adult personality traits, such as conscientiousness, predict increased longevity (Friedman & Martin, 2011; Schwartz et al., 1995). The authors concluded that conscientious children were healthier and lived longer because they were more likely to adopt healthy self-care patterns that would prevent or delay illness. In addition, these children were more likely to avoid dangerous situations that would put their health at risk. In further support of this claim, recent evidence finds that childhood self-control is associated with physical health, substance abuse, financial stability, and criminality in adulthood (Moffitt et al., 2011). The issue of how the course of aging varies as a function of personality attributes will be addressed in greater detail in a subsequent section of this chapter.

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Contextual Models Contextual models of personality development are built on assumptions that are inherent in the life-span developmental perspective. Contextual models view developmental trajectories over an extended period of time; they incorporate multidisciplinary perspectives; and they consider cultural and historical contexts in their models—all tenets of the life-span perspective (Antonucci et al., 2010; Baltes, 1983; Holt, 2009), and the relational developmental systems perspective discussed by Overton and M¨uller (this volume). From this contextual framework, personality is the behavioral expression of the dynamic interaction between internal attributes and sociocultural and historical conditions, with a strong influence generated from the timing of transitions relative to socially prescribed age-graded roles, historical period, and nonnormative influences (Baltes, 1983). The timing of entry into age-graded roles is important in contextual models because the meaning of these social transitions can be internalized quite differently depending on the individual’s personal life history, socioeconomic resources, and the prevailing historical context. The dynamic interaction among these parameters is theorized to hold lasting developmental implications for the individual and to influence patterns of stability or change throughout the life course (Elder & Hareven, 1994). Sociocultural Context Some proponents of the contextual perspective focus on the impact of sociocultural contexts on personality (e.g., Caspi, Elder, & Bem, 1987; Dennissen, Asendorpf, & van Aken, 2008; Freund & Reideiger, 2006; Hopwood et al., 2011; Roberts, 1997; Roberts & Friend, 1998; Schwartz & Pantin, 2006). With age, the stability of personality characteristics leads to an increasingly congruent, consistent way of responding to experiences across time and across situations (Caspi, 1987; Caspi & Roberts, 1999, 2001). Moffitt and Caspi (Moffitt et al., 2011) maintain that a dynamic interaction between personality traits and environmental contexts reinforces the consistency of personality over time. Their findings show that childhood selfcontrol predicts physical health, substance dependence, personal finances, and criminal offense outcomes in early adulthood, and these effects could be disentangled from the effects of social class and intelligence. To explain and test the sustainability of the dynamic interaction between the environment and personality, Caspi et al. (1987) defined two interactional styles: cumulative continuity and interactional continuity. Cumulative

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continuity is the result of the process through which the individual’s personality attributes systematically select him or her into specific environments that in turn reinforce and sustain those attributes. For example, “maladaptive behaviors increasingly channel the individual into environments that perpetuate these behaviors; they are sustained by the progressive accumulation of their own consequences” (Caspi et al., 1987, p. 308). Interactional continuity refers to the reciprocal, dynamic interaction between individuals and their environment: “The person acts, the environment reacts, and the person reacts back” (Caspi et al., 1987, p. 308). Using longitudinal data from the Berkeley Guidance Study, Caspi et al. (1987) determined the impact of early personality dispositions (i.e., explosive, undercontrolled behavior) on the shape of the life course by examining the consistency of interactional styles over a 30-year span. They used data from 186 men and women who were interviewed at ages 10, 30, and 40. Initial data on childhood temper tantrums were obtained from clinical interviews with the participants and their mothers. Results from these analyses support the hypotheses proposed by Caspi and colleagues; patterns of maladaptive behavior persist over time and have lasting effects on the individual’s life trajectory. Individuals seek out and set up reciprocal person–environment interactions, thus demonstrating a coherent way of approaching and responding to their social world. Children who were reported to display uncontrolled temper tantrums in childhood experienced difficulty across several life tasks, such as jobs, marriage, and parenting (Caspi et al., 1987). In a related study, Caspi, Elder, and Bem (1988) examined the impact of childhood shyness on the transition to adulthood and explored the cumulative effects of this transitional phase on later-life outcomes. Results indicated that men who had demonstrated shyness as children experienced delayed age-graded transitions in adulthood, such as marriage, parenthood, and establishing a stable career. As a result of these off-time transitions for shy men, occupational status and stability, as well as marital stability, were compromised in adulthood. In contrast, women with a history of childhood shyness were more likely than other women to follow a conventional pattern of marriage, childbearing, and homemaking. It is quite interesting to note that the developmental trajectories for individuals with reported childhood shyness were moderated by gender. The findings reported by Caspi et al. (1987, 1988) lend support to the concepts of cumulative and interactional continuity; individuals with specific personality

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styles seek out a context that will support and reinforce personality homeostasis. In turn, the individual reacts to the environment in a way that further perpetuates sustaining personality dispositions. This work also demonstrated that the lives of individuals with similar personality dispositions can follow different developmental trajectories, given variance in social contexts. For example, middleclass individuals with an undercontrolled personality style showed a greater downward spiral in socioeconomic status than did their working-class peers. In addition, different life trajectories were revealed for men and women of similar personality dispositions. A final implication of this work is that late entry into age-graded transitions may lead to negative outcomes. As Neugarten (1977) and Helson, Mitchell, and Moane (1984) proposed, being off time on a given social clock can impede psychological adjustment, including well-being. Additional support for the interactional continuity model comes from an investigation conducted by Roberts and Friend (1998), in which data from the Mills Longitudinal Study were prospectively examined for the impact of personality and life context patterns on career momentum (i.e., the perception of mobility in one’s career). The ongoing Mills study was begun in 1958 with a group of predominately White, middle-class female seniors from Mills College in Oakland, California (see Helson & Srivastava, 2002). Initial assessment was conducted when the women were approximately age 21, with follow-up assessments at ages 43 and 52. Data on career momentum were collected when the women were approximately age 52. Results revealed that the classification of women as exhibiting high, maintaining, or low career momentum could be determined by examining personality dispositions from 30 years earlier. Specifically, women in the high career-momentum group were more confident and independent at age 21 than were women in the maintaining or low-momentum groups. Women who were classified as maintaining career momentum scored high on measures of effective functioning and well-being at initial assessment; however, their trajectories showed a precipitous drop from age 21 to 43. Finally, women in the low-momentum group scored low on measures of self-acceptance, independence, and well-being at each assessment point across adulthood (i.e., ages 21, 43, and 52). The findings also demonstrated that various life structures at age 43 were useful in predicting career momentum at age 52. For example, the high career–momentum women were engaged in higher-status occupations at age 43 than were women in the other groups. Taken together, these findings suggest that career

momentum status in later life cannot be reduced to either individual differences in personality traits or variations in life contexts. Rather, the findings provide support for the concept of interactional continuity by highlighting the importance of the integration of personality characteristics and contextual factors in determining consistency in later life outcomes (Roberts & Friend, 1998). Recent research has also noted the importance of the dynamic interaction between personality dispositions and environmental factors, and suggests the possibility of change as well as stability. For example, Hopwood and colleagues (2011) assessed the patterns and origins of changes in personality traits during the transition to adulthood. Analyzing three waves of data provided by twins between the ages of 17 and 29, results showed that variations in trait changes were a function of the timing of the transition. A greater magnitude of change was found in the first half of the transition to adulthood, with traits becoming more stable. In addition to genetic factors, nonshared environmental factors experienced by sets of twins accounted for personality change, thus supporting a sociocontextual view of personality development. Social Clock Neugarten (1977) and Helson (1984) were among the first to formulate contextual theories of development, basing their models on the concept of the timing of events. Development is marked by the pattern of entry into socially prescribed major life events and transitional phases. Neugarten (1977) theorized that development over the life span may occur on time or off time (early or late) with regard to cultural norms. When individuals confront events at culturally prescribed, age-appropriate times, they are considered on time, and the integrity of personality development is maintained because there is congruence between the societal expectation and the individual’s experience. On the other hand, when individuals face these events off time, they are perceived as more stressful to the individual because they are not consistent with societal expectations (Helson et al., 1984). Helson (1984) introduced the term social clock to represent the phenomenon of the timing of events, and argued that the degree to which the individual stays in tune with it throughout the life span determines personality consistency or change (Helson et al., 1984). In early studies, Helson et al. (1984) utilized data from the Mills Longitudinal Study to explore the usefulness of the social clock paradigm. Women were categorized into social clock groups according to the path they took to

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fulfill their family and work roles. Findings revealed that personality characteristics measured in young adulthood were effective in distinguishing between social clock patterns. Women who were assessed during their early 20s with high levels of achievement, socialization, intellectual efficiency, and well-being were more likely than their lower scoring peers to adhere to the feminine social clock (FSC). In contrast, women who in their early 20s demonstrated greater impulsivity, less awareness and internalization of conventional values, and less motivation to achieve socially structured goals were more likely than their peers to depart from the FSC pattern. In a reexamination of the Mills data (Mitchell & Helson, 1990) hierarchical regression analyses demonstrated that a sense of well-being in early midlife significantly predicted quality of life among women in their early 50s (Mitchell & Helson, 1990). In a related study, Helson and Wink (1992) examined personality change, and revealed evidence for inconsistency in personality dispositions in the early 40s, followed by a period of stability in the early 50s. Masculinity and femininity scores were among those that resulted in the greatest magnitude of change between the ages of 43 and 52. The women in this sample demonstrated an increase in variables that are associated with masculine traits, such as decisiveness and action orientation, and a decrease in those associated with feminine characteristics, such as vulnerability. This set of findings supports the gender-role crossover hypothesis raised by Neugarten and Gutmann (1958), which is discussed in the next section. Heckhausen (1997) and colleagues (e.g., Heckhausen, Wrosch, & Fleeson, 2001; Heckhausen, Wrosch, & Schulz, 2010; Wrosch & Heckhausen,1999) developed a theory of being on-time or off-time for developmental deadlines in terms of the interaction between age-graded constraints and individual control behavior. According to this theory, developmental deadlines are the upper boundaries of socially expected, age-graded developmental tasks. Within reasonable boundaries of the age-graded constraints, individuals select goals and strive for their attainment. As a developmental deadline passes, the opportunity for goal attainment diminishes, and there is a switch in the individual towards goal-disengagement (Wrosch & Heckhausen, 1999). In two related studies, Heckhausen and colleagues (2001) explored individuals’ developmental regulation around the task of childbearing. Findings from the first study demonstrated that women who are up against the biological clock reported the most goals related to child bearing and the fewest goals related to other categories.

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In contrast, women who passed the childbearing developmental deadline demonstrated disengagement in childbearing goals and reported the most goals that were focused on developing their self, their social network, and their health. Not surprisingly, women with children focused on family life. Findings from this study also suggest that dwelling on past developmental goals may result in negative psychological outcomes. Among passed-deadline women, positive affect was associated with recall of substitute goals and depressed recall of the positive value of having children, whereas negative affect was associated with recall of baby-relevant cues. In the second study by Heckhausen and colleagues (2001), differences were revealed between women who met the developmental deadline of childbirth and those who did not. On one hand, strategies related to goal engagement were higher in women who met the developmental deadline, as well as those who were nearing the outer boundary of it. On the other hand, goal disengagement, self-protection, and depression were higher among women who passed the developmental deadline. Results of these studies support the hypothesis that regulation is guided by the opportunity for attaining developmental goals within an upper boundary of age-graded deadlines. Gender-Role Crossover Hypothesis The early work of Neugarten and Gutmann (1958) also supports the existence of change in personality characteristics across adulthood. Utilizing a population of adults between the ages of 40 and 70 from the Kansas City Study of Adult Lives, they explored the use of projective techniques in the study of age and sex roles. Although using a cross-sectional design, the results of this study suggest that, with increasing age, there is a consistent shift in gender-role qualities. Respondents in the Kansas City study were presented with an ambiguous picture of an older and younger adult male and an older and younger adult female. They were then asked to create a story based on the picture. With age, respondents increasingly described the man as passive and no longer symbolizing masculine authority and the woman as assertive and controlling (Neugarten & Gutmann, 1958). These projective data, which demonstrate a cross-over of gendered attributes, with older women seen as becoming more agentic and older men as more communal (J. B. James, Lewkowicz, Libhaber, & Lachman, 1995), were interpreted as additional support for the hypothesis that personality has a dynamic quality and is susceptible to change. Further work is needed in this area to explore

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potential cohort differences, given the changes in gender roles over the past couple of decades. It will be of interest to see if more recent generations show a similar cross-over pattern in later life, or if the gender roles are more homogeneous throughout adulthood. Person-Environment Fit Earlier contextual views of personality emerged from the debate over activity (Cavan, Burgess, Havighurst, & Goldhamer, 1949) versus disengagement (Cummings & Henry, 1961) theories. Both the activity and disengagement theories are concerned with the way in which older adults adapt to decreasing roles and societal detachment. The activity theory, on one hand, proposes that detachment is imposed by society and negatively affects the well-being of the older adult unless the older adult is able to “resist the shrinkage of his social world” (Havighurst, Neugarten, & Tobin, 1996, p. 281). Older adults who remain active by finding new roles are expected to fare well. The disengagement theory, on the other hand, suggests that detachment from society is mutual, with the older adult withdrawing psychologically from social activities and relationships at the same time that society withdraws support and interest from the older adult. The mutuality of withdrawal results in successful aging according to the disengagement theory. Early research from the Kansas City study failed to support either the activity or the disengagement theory. Rather, personality was found to play an integral role in promoting successful adaptation in later life (Havighurst, Neugarten, & Tobin, 1968). Achieving a match in later life with one’s lifelong personal style was associated with the greatest adjustment. This finding led to the formulation of the continuity theory (Atchley, 1989), in which it was argued that either forced disengagement or forced activity leads to a loss of wellbeing. According to the continuity theory, older adults who are not allowed to maintain their desired level of involvement in society will suffer a loss of wellbeing. In some ways, this finding supports personality stability and the need to maximize person–environment fit (Schneider, Smith, & Goldstein, 2000). For some, remaining active was associated with well-being, and for others becoming less involved and withdrawing was adaptive. Sneed and Whitbourne (2005) noted that theories that are framed around loss through detachment and disengagement fail to acknowledge the resilience of the average aging adult. The person–environment fit concept is based on the hypothesis that the greater the

compatibility or alignment between people and their environment, the more positive the outcomes—regardless of age (Schneider et al., 2000). More recent thought regarding personality development of aging adults has moved beyond detachment and disengagement theories and is being replaced with theories that place greater emphasis on the adaptability of the older adult (Carstensen et al., 1999; Charles, 2010). For example, the socioemotional selectivity theory holds that given a change in motivational goals in later life, older adults are focused more on feeling good rather than acquiring knowledge. This change leads to a reduction in social networks and a focus on a smaller but more emotionally satisfying set of relationships. Similarly, Charles’s (2010) model of strength and vulnerability integration (SAVI) builds upon socioemotional selectivity theory by describing how the increased emotional strengths associated with aging (e.g., attention, appraisal, etc.) occur simultaneously with increased vulnerabilities (specifically, physiological flexibility), which thereby effect emotional well-being (Charles, 2010). In sum, the contextual model provides a rich, complex format from which to view personality development. Contextual models take a life-span approach by viewing development in an interdisciplinary, dynamic, interactive framework. From this perspective, it is believed that personality is formed by a continuous reciprocity between the personal style that the individual brings to a situation and the social structure of the prevailing historical time period. In concert, all of the theoretical models reviewed in this chapter have played a role in advancing the field of personality psychology by adopting a life-span view and by bringing to the forefront the importance of the context in which personality develops and evolves. With the current availability of sophisticated methodological and statistical techniques, future studies will be able to model the complex contextual frameworks to examine both short-term and long-term changes in personality in adulthood. Subjective Changes in Personality As we have seen thus far, there are many methods and measures available to examine personality development across the life span. Another approach is the phenomenological, and involves the examination of self-perceived changes. Studies of subjective change show that individuals typically report more change than they show with objective indexes. In a study by Woodruff and Birren (1972), the California Test of Personality (Kimber, 1947;

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Woodruff & Birren, 1971) was administered to a group of college graduates in 1944 when they were 21 years old and again in 1969 when they were approximately 46 years old. Participants were asked to complete the personality test two times during the 1969 testing occasion. Instructions given for the first test required that the respondents answer the questions based on their current personality status. Instructions for the second test required that they answer each question the way they thought they had answered in 1944 when they were 21 years old. Findings from this study revealed a high level of stability on the objective scores and the subjective personality ratings across the 25-year period. However, differences were found when the retrospective data were compared with the concurrent data. Results demonstrated that people remembered themselves as less well-adjusted than their actual scores indicated 25 years earlier. They believed that they had improved across adulthood, even though there was no evidence for such a positive change. This finding suggests that adults tend to expect change, especially improvement in personality, across adulthood. A study of 10-year changes in life satisfaction found a similar pattern in that adults had remembered their past satisfaction as lower than it actually was, and this was especially true for younger adults, whereas older adults were more accurate in their retrospective ratings (Lachman, R¨ocke, Rosnick, & Ryff, 2008). Other researchers (Fleeson & Baltes, 1998; Fleeson & Heckhausen, 1997; Lachman, 2004; Ryff, 1995) have also found that changes in personality are expected by a large percentage of adults. Participants were asked to rate their personalities in the past, the present, and the future, so that retrospective and prospective comparisons could be made relative to concurrent reports. In a study using representative samples from the United States and Germany, Fleeson and Baltes (1998) compared the predictive value of perceived changes relative to concurrent measures. A personality questionnaire (the NEO Personality Inventory; Costa & McCrae, 1988) was administered to 398 adults between the ages of 26 and 64. In addition, participants were asked to describe their own current personality, their personality when they were 20 to 25 years old, and their projected personality when they would be 65 to 70 years old. Fleeson and Baltes found that many participants anticipated change across adulthood. In addition, although they believed that late adulthood would contain more losses than gains, they expected gains at each life stage including late adulthood. It was also revealed that perceived changes in personality traits accounted for a significant amount of variance beyond the effects of

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concurrent ratings of personality when predicting health and well-being. This finding suggests that self-ratings of personality dimensions can add meaning when placed within the context of the life course (Fleeson & Baltes, 1998; Fleeson & Heckhausen, 1997). Even when highly stable, some adults are likely to perceive that they have changed. In the case of life satisfaction, R¨ocke and Lachman (2008) examined individual differences in trajectories of perceived life satisfaction with the MIDUS national samples for ages 25 to 85. Using cluster analysis, three typologies were identified: continuous high, incremental, and present low/decrement. The largest proportion was classified in the continuous high subgroup (40% at Time 1 and 59% at Time 2). This group showed perceived patterns that were consistent with the objective situation, as the average satisfaction was relatively high and it remained unchanged over the 10 years. In the incremental group, there were 27% at Time 1 and 20% at Time 2. The present low/decremental group had 32% at time 1 and 20% at Time 2. Thus, there are a substantial number of participants who reported they had changed. Nevertheless, those in the continuous high group showed the most adaptive pattern of adjustment, with a more socially desirable personality profile, a greater sense of control over their lives, and more supportive social relationships. In general, the findings of subjective personality studies illustrate that adults hold a relatively optimistic view of their developmental trajectory. Except under certain circumstances, such as a low sense of internal control or depression, adults typically expect to be consistent across age or to have more positive personality attributes and greater life satisfaction in the future than in the past. The inclusion of subjective reports in the picture of personality adds another dimension to the developmental trajectory and can be useful in predicting patterns of health and well-being in later life. Personality as a Predictor of Later Life Outcomes In addition to the empirical questions about stability and change, other interesting developmental issues can be addressed by studying the influence of individual differences on differential outcomes in adulthood (Costa & McCrae, 1988; Lachman, 1989). Outcomes in domains such as health and mortality, intelligence and wisdom, and adulthood roles (e.g., marital status and stability/satisfaction, family, work) can be predicted by individual differences in personality attributes assessed earlier in life (e.g., Arbuckle, Gold, Andres, Schwartzman,

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& Chaikelson, 1992; Baltes, Smith, & Staudinger, 1992; Schwartz et al., 1995). A key issue for personality research is how the course of aging varies as a function of personality attributes. There is a good deal of evidence for the long-term effects of early life temperament and behavioral characteristics on adulthood success in the family and workplace (e.g., Eigsti et al., 2006; Moffitt et al., 2011). Here we discuss two important domains, health and cognitive functioning, as examples of the work linking personality and adulthood functioning. Health There is growing evidence that personality characteristics can influence health through a variety of psychosocial mechanisms (Bogg, Voss, Wood, & Roberts, 2008; Lodi-Smith et al., 2010; Smith & Gallo, 2001; Tucker & Friedman, 1996; Welch & Poulton, 2009). For example, personality plays an important role in determining health behaviors, including exercise and diet (Bogg et al., 2008; Kern, Reynolds, & Friedman, 2010). Further, certain personality characteristics lead to unstable social relationships and initiate the onset of unhealthy behaviors (e.g., smoking and excessive drinking), both potential mechanisms for the link between personality characteristics and later life morbidity and mortality. Welch and Poulton (2009) conducted a prospective longitudinal study using a population-based cohort to test the contribution of personality traits at age 18 to smoking status at ages 26 and 32. Participants who scored higher on the measures of aggressiveness and alienation at age 18 were more likely to smoke at age 26, as opposed to those who scored higher on self-control and traditionalism at age 18, who were more likely to be nonsmokers at age 26. Furthermore, higher alienation scores at 26 predicted continued smoking at age 32. Personality change from age 18 to age 32 was associated with change in smoking behavior such that a decrease in negative emotionality and an increase in constraint were related to smoking cessation. Analyses of the Terman Life Cycle Study of Children with High Ability archival data were conducted to investigate the relationships between childhood personality characteristics and longevity and health outcomes across 70 years (Friedman & Martin, 2011; Tucker & Friedman, 1996). Participants in this study had been assessed on a variety of physical health and psychological factors every 5 to 10 years since 1922. A clear link between childhood personality dispositions and longevity was revealed. Specifically, social dependability and lack of impulsivity were the most significant predictors of longevity. In

addition, childhood conscientiousness predicted engagement in protective health behaviors that lead to the maintenance of good health and lower mortality risk in later adulthood. A more recent analysis of the Terman data explored the trajectories of health and longevity by obtaining death certificates for a sample of 1,312 participants (Friedman, Kern & Reynolds, 2010). Findings confirmed that personality traits predicted health-related outcomes in old age, although some were gender-specific. For example, neuroticism predicted a higher risk of mortality among women and a reduced risk among men, and conscientiousness predicted old-age productivity, but only among men. For both men and women, neuroticism predicted worse physical health and subjective well-being in old age, and extraversion predicted social competence in old age. Kern and colleagues (Kern et al., 2010) also explored patterns of leisure time physical activity across 40 years (1936–1972). Although a great deal of interindividual variability was revealed, childhood energy and sociability, and adult extraversion and neuroticism predicted higher levels of activity. Further evidence of personality traits predicting physical health outcomes through psychosocial mechanisms comes from two related studies (Lodi-Smith Jackson Bogg, et al., 2010). The investigators tested structural path models of conscientiousness predicting longevity and health outcomes in one study utilizing a community-based sample, and in the other study using a statewide sample. Evidence of an indirect predictive model was found. In both studies, conscientiousness predicted positive health outcomes, but the relationship was indirect through educational attainment and health-related behaviors. In addition to psychosocial mechanisms, there is growing evidence to support biological pathways through which personality type might impact longevity and physical health outcomes. One of the most well-studied pathways is through the perception of stress and its effect on endocrine regulation. This pathway can be inferred through findings from research on personality type and perceived stress, and interpreted in light of the studies on the effects of chronic stress on physical health outcomes. For example, a positive relationship between neuroticism and higher levels of perceived stress has been demonstrated in multiple studies (e.g., Ebstrup, Eplov, Pisinger, & Jørgensen, 2011), while openness, conscientiousness, and extraversion have been found to serve as a buffer against perceived stress (Brissette, Scheier, & Carver, 2002; Burgess, Irvine & Wallymahmed, 2010;

Personality Development in Adulthood and Old Age

Ebstrup, Eplov, Pisinger, & Jørgensen, 2011). Furthermore, chronic stress has been demonstrated in a large body of literature to have deleterious effects on physical health (Kiecolt-Glaser, McGuire, Robles, & Glaser, 2002; Lutgendorf & Costanzo, 2003). As suggested by Tucker and Friedman (1996), given the multitude of influences on longevity, the strong link to certain personality dispositions suggests that psychological health plays a major role in physical health. Cognitive Functioning There is also evidence that personality is associated with cognitive functioning and intelligence. For example, data from the Seattle Longitudinal Study, an ongoing study begun in 1956 (Schaie, 1996), were analyzed to examine whether a flexible personality style was related to intellectual aging. By computing cross-lagged correlations, Schaie found that a flexible personality style at midlife was related to the maintenance of higher levels of intellectual performance in old age. This finding implies that a rigid response style will result in earlier declines in intellectual performance in old age. Therefore, older adults who maintain flexibility may be better equipped to respond to the inevitable cognitive changes associated with advancing years (Schaie, 1996). Additional evidence for the role of personality traits in later life cognitive health is found in a study by Baker and Bichsel (2006). Using the Woodcock Johnson-III test of Cognitive Ability and the Big-Five conception of personality, they conducted a cross-sectional examination of younger and older adults. By breaking the older adults into two groups based on cognitive status (cognitively comparable or cognitively superior, relative to younger adults), they were able to explore how the personalities of cognitively superior older adults differed from other old adults and compared to younger adults. Findings indicated that, for younger adults, the best performance was associated with being high in openness and low in extraversion (excepting speed of processing, which is associated with high extraversion). For cognitively comparable older adults, high performance was associated with high extraversion and openness, while the superior older adults had high openness as well as high conscientiousness and low agreeableness. This pattern of findings indicates that personality characteristics may be associated with maintaining high cognitive abilities in later life (Baker & Bichsel, 2006; see also Willis, & Boron, 2008). Another recent study examined the Five Factor Model in relation to cognitive health in later life and found that older adults high in fantasy and feelings (facets of

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openness), and positive emotions (the facet of extraversion) performed more like younger adults, suggesting that the flexibility and emotional aspects of personality may have a strong influence on cognitive health in older adulthood (Kranz Graham & Lachman, in preparation). Other studies have utilized a longitudinal approach to examine how cognition and personality are related across the adult life span, and have primarily used personality to predict cognitive change. For example, Gow, Whiteman, Pattie, and Deary (2005) measured intelligence at two time points (when participants were aged 11 and again at age 79), and found that high neuroticism was associated with greater cognitive decline. In addition, recent work has found that personality stability, particularly maintaining low neuroticism and high levels of openness, are associated with better cognitive performance, and in older adulthood increased neuroticism is associated with poorer cognitive performance (Kranz Graham & Lachman, under review).

THE SELF The self is a multifaceted component at the core of personality (Markus, 1977). It is usually seen as a cognitive dimension that represents the way individuals think about and view themselves; the self is a cognitive representation of one’s identity. Hooker and McAdams (2003) proposed a distinction between personality traits and dynamic aspects of the self, referred to as personal actual constructs (PACs). Proponents of the psychology of the self believe that personality development is an evolving process in which new information from the environment is integrated into existing knowledge structures. These knowledge structures are called schemas and are the guides and regulators of behavior (Crocker & Wolfe, 2001). Schemas are subjective interpretations of past reality that either adjust to new experience or remain the same by filtering out new information that is interpreted as threatening to the self-concept (Markus, 1977). Individuals are continually facing experiences that require the adjustment of existing schemas or the rejection of environmental information. As a result, the selfconcept is in a continual state of flux between stability and change (Sneed & Whitbourne, 2005). Over long periods of time, however, various aspects of the selfconcept remain stable. As a result, they can be used as an anchor or resource for older adults who face later life changes.

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Identity In this section, we discuss various ideas about and facets of identity. Specifically, we review identity process theory, the concept of possible selves, the notion of sense of control, control beliefs and health, self-efficacy, primary and secondary control, well-being, and emotional regulation. Identity Process Theory The identity process theory (Whitbourne, 1986a, 1986b) is based on the idea that age-related changes in adulthood are negotiated through a dynamic equilibrium between identity assimilation and identify accommodation, with a balance between the two being viewed as the most adaptive approach to aging (see Sneed & Whitbourne, 2005). Identity styles are formed when the individual’s experiences are interpreted through the processes of assimilation and accommodation. Assimilation occurs by incorporating life events and new experiences into the identity. Assimilation can lead individuals to distort their views of themselves in order to preserve their self-concepts. Although it preserves a positive view of the self, in older adults an imbalance of assimilation has the potential for negative health effects. Individuals with a strong assimilative style are seen as rigid and inflexible and deny age-related changes such as physical limitations. For example, older adults may ignore the advice of a doctor who recommends limiting physical activity. They may react to a difficult situation either by placing blame elsewhere or by avoiding situations in which their physical abilities are challenged. In contrast to assimilation, accommodation is the process of changing the identity to conform to new experiences. An imbalance of accommodation can also bring about negative outcomes. These individuals have a weak, incoherent identity and overreact to changes. For example, the first sign of gray hair may be the catalyst that causes the adult to take on the identity of an old person. In addition, adults who rely heavily on an accommodative style fail to set goals or to make commitments. When in balance, the processes produce a healthy approach to new experiences and are associated with high self-esteem and lack of significant pathology (Sneed & Whitbourne, 2005). Empirical research testing the identify process theory have not fully supported the hypotheses described above. Contrary to expectations, identity assimilation was positively related to self esteem (Sneed & Whitbourne, 2005; Whitbourne & Collins, 1998) although, as expected, identity accommodation was negatively related to self

esteem. Separately, assimilation and accommodation are less adaptive than when used in concert with each other; however, it appears that when the scales are tipped toward identity assimilation, older adults maintain a positive view of themselves, even when they are faced with significant age-related changes. More recently, Jones, Whitbourne, Whitbourne, and Skultety (2009) have identified factors that impact memory and memory controllability, including an individual’s ability to integrate age-related change into their identity. Emphasizing strengths while minimizing weaknesses may be an effective and adaptive aging strategy. Whitbourne’s model of identity processing is useful for understanding the complexity and dynamic qualities of personality in adulthood and aging. It allows one to grasp the notion of an evolving identity and understand how change can occur across the life span. Possible Selves Another important aspect of self-concept relates to the ideas that people have about whom they could become, whom they would like to become, and whom they are afraid of becoming. Markus and Nurius (1986) developed a theory that describes the formation of identity across the life span by addressing these aspects of the self. Their concept of possible selves incorporates hopes and dreams for the self as well as fears and anxieties of undesirable selves. These constructs are integrated into the structure of the self and serve as motivators to achieve their hoped-for selves or to avoid their dreaded selves. When hopedfor selves are realized and feared selves are avoided, positive psychological outcomes occur. However, when the individual perceives that he or she has become the feared or dreaded self at the expense of the hoped for self, the self-concept becomes threatened, and negative outcomes may result. Early empirical evidence based on the theory of possible selves supported the belief that old age is a time of disengagement from future planning; with advancing age, adults generated progressively fewer hoped-for and feared possible selves (Cross & Markus, 1991). Although the findings suggested that older adults had fewer expectations of positive choices left in their lives as well as fewer fears, the findings did not support a view that the older adults have lost hope. On the contrary, hoped-for selves were still important to older adults, given that they were more likely than their younger peers to focus on developing and achieving in their current roles. The fears most frequently reported by older adults were in the physical and personal domains, no doubt reflecting physical and social changes that are associated with aging.

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More recent work refutes some of the earlier findings and supports the hypothesis that developing and maintaining a positive balance of possible selves, particularly in old age, serves as a resource for well-being (Smith & Freund, 2002). The hopes and fears of older adults aged 70 and over (ages 70–103), who were part of the 4-year longitudinal Berlin Aging Study, were examined for magnitude and direction of change. Contrary to the earlier findings of Cross and Markus (1991), this investigation demonstrated that, over time, older adults added new hopes (72%) in addition to new fears (53%). The most prominent domains of hopes and fears at both time points, health and personal characteristics, were similar to those found in earlier work. Smith and Freund concluded that the wide variability in the domains of hopes and fears, even among the oldest old, highlighted the highly personal and dynamic nature of the interaction between possible selves and changes in life circumstances. The theory of possible selves has been extended to dyadic relationships, such as married couples. Schindler and colleagues (2010) explored shared possible selves among late-midlife and older adult couples dealing with prostate cancer. As expected, shared selves were associated with greater psychological well-being for both age groups, and this relationship was mediated by the enjoyment of collaboration. On the other hand, an interaction between the frequency of collaboration and psychological well-being was obtained in older couples, but not in late-midlife couples. For older couples, infrequent collaboration resulted in a negative relationship between shared selves and well-being. The concept of possible selves provides a framework for understanding the way older adults adapt to changing roles and losses that are commonly associated with aging. Similar to the contextual model, possible selves suggest a multidirectional model in which an individual will change or adjust his or her possible selves in repose to external influences and personal growth. The Sense of Control The sense of control, a key aspect of the self, can be understood as the degree to which individuals believe that their behavior will influence outcomes in their lives (Rodin, 1986). The perception that one’s behavior will affect outcomes is likely to result in a different response than if one perceives that outcomes are due to chance or other people’s actions (Bandura, 1997). A sense of control has important implications for health and well-being in adulthood, especially in later life (Lachman, 2006; Lachman, Neupert, & Agrigoroaei, 2011). Although little is known

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about the origins of control beliefs, there has been some work tracing the origins to early childhood experiences, including how parents respond to children’s behavioral outcomes (see Lachman et al., 2011 for a review). Control beliefs have been found to have widespread effects in many different domains of life, including work, family, and health. Furthermore, beliefs about control may vary across these different domains (Clarke-Plaskie & Lachman, 1999; Lachman & Weaver, 1998). Research findings provide evidence that control beliefs change in adulthood. For example, based on findings from the MIDUS study, Lachman and Weaver (1998) found that adults increased their sense of control over their work, finances, and marriage. However, in the domains of sex life and children, there was evidence for reduced control. In addition, other studies have found age-related declines in perceived control for health and memory (Lachman, 1991). In the MIDUS study, there was evidence for both gains and losses in the sense of control during adulthood (Lachman, R¨ocke, & Rosnick, 2009). The general sense of personal mastery showed declines over time in the youngest and oldest cohorts. Those in midlife maintained their mastery levels. This pattern is consistent with findings that those in the middle of the life span also show the largest decrease in perceived constraints. There was a clear downward pattern in control with regard to control over children, especially for those from the mid-20s to the mid-50s. Declines in perceived control over health were found for the oldest cohorts, whose ages moved from the 60s and 70s to the 70s and 80s over the 10-year study period. Those people who had greater social support were more likely to maintain a sense of control, and those people with more adaptive personality profiles, better health, and higher cognitive functioning showed smaller declines in control over time. Control beliefs also play a role in maintaining life satisfaction in adulthood; those who had higher levels of control beliefs were more likely to maintain or increase their life satisfaction over time (Lachman et al., 2009). Control Beliefs and Health Although control beliefs are often associated with better outcomes, little is known about the mechanisms involved. An indirect link between control beliefs and physical health, including recovery from illness and disability in adulthood and old age, has been found (Bandura, 1997; Lachman & Firth, 2004). Individuals who believe that they are responsible for outcomes in their lives are more likely to engage in effortful and persistent behavior that

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is goal oriented. They believe that their health is within their own control, and they are confident in their ability to change. As a result, they will be more likely to act in harmony with the desired outcome by engaging in health-promoting behaviors such as exercise, a healthy diet, and regular physical examinations (Bandura, 1997; Lachman & Firth, 2004). Maintaining a sense of control in adulthood and old age may serve as an important psychosocial resource by fostering preventive and remedial health behaviors (Lachman & Bertrand, 2001). Indeed, there is compelling evidence that factors under personal control (e.g., alcohol use, smoking, mental stability, exercise, body mass index, coping mechanisms, and education) have a strong impact on psychological, physical, and social indicators of successful aging (Vaillant & Mukamal, 2001). Self-Efficacy The study of control beliefs has focused on many related constructs, including self-efficacy, locus of control, and primary and secondary control beliefs (e.g., Bandura, 1997; Heckhausen & Schulz, 1995; Lachman et al., 2011). Bandura (1997) argued that as adults age, they increasingly find themselves in situations in which they will benefit by a strong sense of self-efficacy. For instance, older adults will be faced with the task of establishing new relationships to replace those that have been lost through retirement, relocation, or death. A low sense of social efficacy in these situations will increase the older adult’s vulnerability to stress and depression, by inhibiting the formation of necessary social supports (Bandura, 1997). In another situation—the routinized, controlled environment in nursing homes and other residential institutions for older adults—there is an undermining of the individual’s sense of efficacy. Studies (e.g., Langer & Rodin, 1976) have shown that nursing home residents who have the opportunity to exert control over their environment have better physical and psychological health than those residents who do not (see Bandura, 1997). Primary and Secondary Control There are other manifestations of control during adulthood and old age, such as primary and secondary control beliefs. Heckhausen and colleagues’ (Heckhausen et al., 2010) life-span theory of control, and their model of primary and secondary control, are based on the hypothesis that the individual has a strong desire to control his or her interactions with the environment. This control is accomplished by maintaining a balance between the two strategies of control. Primary control strategies involve

working toward reaching a goal by changing the situation or the environment. Secondary control strategies focus on changing the self to accommodate the situation or environmental constraints. According to Heckhausen, Wrosch, and Schulz (2010), primary and secondary control strategies work in concert to cope with the demands and challenges encountered across the life span. Evidence is provided for the notion that, with aging, there is a shift from the use of primary to secondary control strategies when faced with uncontrollable situations or difficult challenges (Heckhausen & Schulz, 1995). Additional support for age-related shifts in control strategy use comes from a study in which age-related changes in physical, cognitive, and social processes were shown to influence the developmental trajectory and resulted in the older adult’s adoption of strategies to compensate for developmental losses (Heckhausen, 1997). Wrosch, Heckhausen, and Lachman (2000) found that the use of secondary control strategies was more adaptive for older adults, whereas the use of primary control strategies was more adaptive for younger and middle-age adults when faced with health or financial difficulties. Well-Being A common myth regarding older adults is that they are unhappy and depressed. According to Mroczek and Kolarz (1998), this misconception is the result of a belief in the social indicator model, in which social and demographic factors such as income, marital status, and age serve as markers for well-being. Because older adults often experience loss in the physical and social realms, an expectation of depression and low satisfaction could erroneously be made. However, evidence is building to support the argument that, regardless of the marked losses as gauged by the social indicator model, older adults are not unhappy or depressed. For example, based on the MIDUS sample, Mroczek and Kolarz (1998) found that the majority of older adults rated themselves as “very” or “pretty” happy. In general, they found that positive emotions increased and negative emotions decreased as adults reached midlife and beyond. This trend is consistent with the body of work that suggests a positivity effect in later life (Carstensen et al., 2011; Murphy & Isaacowitz, 2008), in which older adults have more effective emotional regulation and are able to focus on more positive emotions even in the face of negative experiences. Ryff (1989) defined well-being along six dimensions: positive relations with others, environmental mastery, self-acceptance, having a purpose in life, personal growth,

Personality Development in Adulthood and Old Age

and autonomy. She found that adults are more likely to maintain or increase well-being, in terms of selfacceptance, positive relations with others, autonomy, and environmental mastery, as they reach midlife and beyond. Purpose in life and personal growth was more likely to show declines in later adulthood. Cross-national data support findings that, worldwide, most adults report being happy (E. Diener & Diener, 1996). Across the 43 nations that were analyzed, 86% of all studies reported mean happiness and well-being ratings that were above neutral. Among older adults, the percentage of participants with positive subjective wellbeing was between 64% and 97%. These findings suggest that adulthood and old age seem to be periods in which there is a positive sense of well-being. Because wellbeing can be utilized as an indicator of successful aging, the implication of these findings for older adults is that successful aging is attainable even in the face of declines in physical health (Rowe & Kahn, 1998). Nevertheless, most of the work showing increases in well-being in later life have not considered the very old. The indication from the few studies of the oldest old (e.g., the Berlin Aging Study) is that well-being peaks in the decades of the 60s and 70s and then starts to wane thereafter (Isaacowitz & Smith, 2003). In the MIDUS longitudinal study, Lachman and colleagues (2008) examined actual and perceived trajectories of change in life satisfaction in adults aged 25 to 85. There was little actual change in satisfaction over 8 to 10 years, but there were age differences in anticipated change, with young adults expecting things to improve and the oldest adults expecting decline. When actual (present) ratings were compared with the corresponding past or future ratings, older adults showed more temporal realism (i.e., retrospective and anticipatory ratings matched actual levels) than did young and middle-aged adults. Young and middle-aged adults showed greater illusion (retrospective and prospective ratings overestimated or underestimated actual levels). At all ages, temporal realisms was associated with more adaptive current functioning than was illusion. This relation may reflect a motivational shift from a growth to a maintenance orientation (Ebner, Freund, & Baltes, 2006). Emotion Regulation Emotions have been defined as “the primary forces in organizing human thought and action . . . [namely] the emotional component of consciousness and experience that gives richness and meaning to individual life and relationships” (Dougherty et al., 1996, p. 17). Many argue

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that emotions maintain their salience and expressiveness across the life span (Dougherty et al., 1996). Socioemotional Selectivity Theory. Carstensen (1995) suggested that, with age, emotions become more important and emotional well-being improves (Carstensen et al., 2011). For example, in a study in which participants were presented with negative, positive. and neutral images, older adults recalled fewer negative images than positive or neutral, with the biggest age differences in negative images (Charles et al., 2003). Carstensen noted that emotions are especially important in the social interactions of older adults, where they serve as the motivating force in the choice and maintenance of relationships. Accordingly, the socioemotional selectivity theory (Carstensen et al., 1999) is a conceptual framework that describes the mechanisms involved in the change in social relationships across the life span. The theory posits that there is a fundamental change in quality and quantity of the motives for maintaining social relationships with age. Although similar goals function throughout the life course, there is a change in the importance of the goals, depending on the age of the individual. For adolescents and younger adults, information seeking is the most salient factor in their selection of social relationships. They select new partners frequently because they are seeking to gain information about their social world and their place in it relative to others. In contrast, for infants and older adults, emotion regulation is the most important factor in selecting relationships. For example, older individuals are highly selective in their social relationships and generally choose partners with whom they have an established relationship. According to Carstensen and colleagues (1999) emotion regulation is most salient for older adults for two primary reasons. First, with years of acquired experience, there are fewer individuals who can provide novel information to the older adult; second, as older adults become more aware of their limited time, they tend to base their relationships on the potential for emotional rewards. In this way, older adults cope with the realization that their time is limited by placing more emotional salience on the maintenance of meaningful, long-term relationships and less on relationships that serve to provide novel information. Recent work has also explored how to optimize this difference by tailoring information to older adults in such a way that they are not put at a disadvantage by focusing away from negative health-related information (Lockenoff & Carstensen, 2004).

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Coping. Coping in adulthood is a key contributor to successful outcomes, and individuals develop styles of coping that are akin to personality characteristics (Aldwin & Yancura, 2011). Lazarus (1996) noted that an understanding of coping processes is necessary to understand the concept of emotions. He argues that coping is a fundamental aspect of emotion because it incorporates the components of thinking, acting, and action impulses. Lazarus and Folkman (1984, p. 141) defined coping as “constantly changing cognitive and behavioral efforts to manage specific external and/or internal demands that are appraised as taxing or exceeding the resources of the person.” Adaptive aging can also be viewed through the model of selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC; see Baltes & Carstensen, 2003), which was originally proposed by Baltes and Baltes (1990). This model incorporates the processes by which adults select what is most important to them, optimize that which they have maintained, and cope with losses through compensatory processes. A relatively recent review emphasizes that the SOC model shows proactive coping to be one key factor to successful aging (Ouwehand, de Ridder, & Bensing, 2007). For example, a recent cross-sectional study of working adults showed that these adults, compared to younger adults, show higher levels of selection and optimization. Furthermore, older adults who did show these higher levels also had higher job performance, as compared to older adults who did now have these behavior patterns; these differences were not present among older adults. This difference indicates that the development of SOC strategies can help older adults maintain high levels of job performance (Yeung, 2009). Multilevel modeling in a second wave of this same study showed that older adults who had higher usage of the SOC strategies showed significant increases in sales.

CONCLUSIONS In this chapter we have presented an overview of the literature on personality development in adulthood and aging. We summarized theoretical perspectives, conceptual models, and empirical findings covering over six decades of work. The voluminous body of literature has enriched the field of personality development but has also made it necessary to be selective in the theory and research to be discussed in this relatively short chapter. An attempt was made, therefore, to present key theoretical and empirical work relevant most directly to personality development in adulthood and old age.

In turn, and as we have seen, researchers continue to conduct research to address issues of change and stability in personality dispositions across the life span. Nevertheless, the primary focus has shifted to include exploration of the underlying mechanisms involved in the processes of personality development (Hampson, 2011). The life-span perspective and the contextual models of development have supported investigations using more complex, multidimensional conceptual and analytical models, with many promising findings and new questions. The future of research on personality in adulthood and old age must cut across disciplines to include sociocultural contexts, prevailing historical influences, physical and psychological health, genetics and other physiological factors integrating body and mind, brain and behavior, and personal and interpersonal processes. Furthermore, the trajectory of development is multidirectional and operates as a dynamic reciprocal process involving internal and external forces. Given the worldwide demographic shifts toward a major increase in the percentage of older adults, a major concern for researchers, practitioners, and society at large is the delay and prevention of age-related disease and disability. Aspects of the self such as adaptive emotional regulation, effective coping strategies, and realistic control beliefs may provide an important linkage between early personality dispositions and later life outcomes. There is promising research focusing on the mediators of personality and adaptive outcomes. For example, there is an emerging body of work examining the mechanisms linking aspects of personality and the self with adaptive functioning and health in adulthood and old age (Hampson, 2011; Smith & Gallo, 2001). Specific personality characteristics have been linked with the onset and progression of diseases (e.g., Friedman & Martin, 2011; Tucker & Friedman, 1996). Identifying behavioral (e.g., smoking, physical exercise) and physiological (e.g., stress hormones, immune functioning) factors associated with personality can provide useful information for designing interventions to promote successful aging. Such interventions are likely to be most effective if they are tailored to take individual differences in personality into account. REFERENCES Aldwin C. M., & Yancura, L. (2011). Stress, coping, and adult development. In Contrada, R. J., & Baum, A. (Eds.), The handbook of stress science: Biology, psychology and health (pp. 263–274). New York, NY: Springer.

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CHAPTER 20

Social Relationships and Aging TONI C. ANTONUCCI, KIRA S. BIRDITT, AND KRISTINE J. AJROUCH

LIFE SPAN AND LIFE COURSE THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVES 495 THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVES ABOUT SOCIAL RELATIONS 496 DEVELOPMENTS IN THE SCIENCE OF SOCIAL RELATIONS 499

THE CONVOY MODEL AS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THEORETICAL DEVELOPMENTS 502 MECHANISMS AND CONTEXTS 503 CONCLUSIONS 509 REFERENCES 509

Social relationships have long held a central place in psychology, primarily because they are known to influence many aspects of life. While much of psychology is concerned with intraindividual experiences, it is clear that many, if not most, intraindividual experiences are influenced by interindividual interactions. Since people grow, develop, and change over time, as do their interactions, social relations have been a central focus of study by developmental psychologists. For example, extensive work has examined the mother–child relationship, peer and friendship relations, and more recently romantic relations among adolescents and emerging adults. In this chapter, we report on a parallel literature that examines the social relations of adults as they move from young to middle adulthood and especially into old age. We propose that both life span and life course perspectives are underlying frameworks with which to consider social relations. We begin with an examination of traditional theories, and consider their relevance for the study of adult social relations. We consider several additional contemporary theories, including the convoy model of social relations which both incorporates many aspects of the traditional theories and provides an organizing framework for the consideration of empirical evidence. Next, we consider the science of social relations. Empirical investigations of social relations have become increasingly sophisticated. In particular, important aspects of social relations have been identified, defined, and empirically examined with more representative and diverse samples. In this chapter, we review the structure, type, and

quality of support relations and consider the latest empirical literature on the exchange of social support within adult social relations. Furthermore, we provide an overview of the most recent literature available on the convoy model, especially highlighting those aspects of social relations that influence stress, health, and well-being. We end with concluding comments and recommendations for future directions.

LIFE SPAN AND LIFE COURSE THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVES It is now well understood that individuals grow and develop over the entire life span and that we age from birth to death (Baltes, 1987). Contrary to early psychological inquiry, which assumed that life could be easily segmented into age categories and then examined and understood within those categories, it is now widely recognized that the present builds on the past, while the future builds upon both the past and the present. Although some scientists continue to focus on specific periods in the life span (e.g., infancy, childhood, adolescence), most acknowledge that intraindividual development is a complex phenomenon that occurs over the life span. Those using a life-span perspective tend to focus on identifying individual differences in change over time—that is, those ways in which one individual grows, develops, and matures differently from another. The focus of study might be physical, cognitive, or social development. An important component of life-span development 495

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is individual differences in adaptivity and plasticity. Given the same apparent circumstances, why does one individual adapt while another does not; or why is one person able to change (i.e., show plasticity) while another does not? These questions are important because they also demonstrate the limits of individual development (Baltes & Smith, 2004). In the past, scientists have been concerned with how early it is possible for children to achieve a certain milestone. This question is also reflected in recent work with older adults that explores to what extent older adults can be trained on cognitive tasks, or how much variation there is in social relations among older people. Ramifications of intraindividual differences in lifespan experiences cannot be underestimated. As we seek to understand why some people have a majority of positive relations with others, a large network, and/or reciprocal relationships with others, it is often their lifetime experiences that explain their present circumstances and characteristics. Availability and allocation of resources can help explain individual differences and life-span development. Some people experience life with a maximum amount of social, psychological, economic, and/or physical resources, while others proceed through life with minimal resources in some or all of these areas. Needless to say, the cumulative effect of plentiful or scarce resources can have far-reaching influences on multiple aspects of life (Alwin & Wray, 2005). In the case of social relationships, warm, loving and supportive relationships in infancy have been shown to influence childhood, adolescent, and adult relationships (Fuller-Iglesias, Smith, & Antonucci, 2010). While the life-span perspective focuses on the individual’s development, the life-course perspective focuses on groups, organizations, role demands, and expectations (Elder & Shanahan, 2006). Individuals are connected to groups; they live within contexts. The life-course perspective assumes that context matters. While intraindividual development is the examination of how people change and develop over time, the life-course perspective examines how context influences the course of development. Examples include the study of age stratification and period or historical influences. Age stratification refers to the age groupings of the society within which each person is placed. With classification often comes expectations: the child is expected to go to school, the adult to be employed, the older person to behave in an age-appropriate manner (e.g., as a grandparent or wise elder). Similarly, people are influenced by the historical period within which they live. The Great Depression, for example, had a long-lasting influence on multiple aspects of life (Elder, 1974). Many children of the Great Depression

experienced significant financial limitations. They consequently placed great weight on job security and savings. But there was also a life-span influence on this life course experience. Those who were young had their life trajectory fundamentally altered, were often unable to seek advanced education, and were required to accept low-level employment to help their family meet basic financial obligations or even feed all family members. On the other hand, adults who had already achieved advanced education might have seen their present circumstances decline but were often able to recover once the economy recovered, and there were opportunities available to them since they had the educational background necessary. Many cohorts have experienced wars. Examples include the World Wars, the Vietnam War, the Korean War, and the Persian Gulf and Iraq Wars. Each are associated with different historical periods. In some cases there was general agreement that the war should be fought, while in others there was major disagreement. In certain wars people were drafted into military service, while others were fought by an all-volunteer army. These world events and the historical time within which they occurred mark important periods in our history and influence many aspects of development. It is clear that life-span and life-course experiences are bidirectional in their influence on the social relationships of adults (Overton & M¨uller, this volume). Children who experienced supportive relationships enter into and behave in adult relationships in ways that are very different from those who experienced limited or abusive relationships as a child. Membership in specific groups, be they ethnic-, community-, or culturally-based, is usually accompanied by certain expectations concerning behaviors based on one’s role within that group. An elder might be expected to offer warmth, wisdom, and advice to the young, but the middle-aged adult might be expected to be quiet and accepting of their elders while providing warmth and guidance to children. The life-span and life-course perspectives offer general insight on how to view social relations. We turn now to theories that specifically address social relations.

THEORETICAL PERSPECTIVES ABOUT SOCIAL RELATIONS In this section, we discuss several theories of development. We review attachment theory, the biopsychosocial model, the socioemotional selectivity theory, the strength and vulnerability integration model, and the convoy model.

Social Relationships and Aging

Attachment Theory Attachment theory was first introduced by John Bowlby (1969) and represented an integration of psychoanalytic, ethological, and evolutionary theories. In fact, it was considered revolutionary when it was first introduced. Attachment theory argued that infant attachment to the primary caregiver, usually but not always the mother, was the most critical aspect of early childhood and laid the groundwork for all future relationships. While not deterministic, it did suggest that the quality of this early relationship was formative. Attachments were thought to be secure, anxious, or avoidant. The more optimal development was observed among the securely attached infants, while more problematic developmental pathways were observed among children with anxious and avoidant attachment styles. Much research accumulated focusing on infants, then children, adolescents, and young adults, and much later on adults. The expansive influence of early attachment (e.g., on other attachment relationships, on childhood competence, on school achievement) was impressive. In this chapter, we focus on the application of attachment theory to adult relationships. Interestingly enough, Bowlby (1969) himself considered attachment a lifelong phenomenon and attachment theory a life-span theory, noting that attachment was experienced from the cradle to the grave, a perspective readily accepted by others (Antonucci, 1976). Adult researchers have examined attachment styles among adult romantic partners, noting that individuals with anxious or insecure attachments styles often had more problematic relationships than adults with secure attachment styles (Hazan & Shaver, 1987). In this early work extending attachment theory, attachment and goal-seeking behaviors were highlighted and successfully applied to adult relationships directly from the infancy literature. As would be expected, adult attachments are thought to develop from early attachment experiences. Thus, infants with secure attachments are more likely to develop secure adult attachments. There are two interesting caveats to this contention, however. While many have claimed considerable stability in attachment classification across childhood, there is also substantial evidence for change (i.e., securely attached children have been shown to become insecurely attached, and anxiously or avoidantly attached children have been documented to become securely attached). The best explanation of these changes can be interpreted in terms of the interaction of life-span and life-course experiences. Stability in each of these is thought to lead to consistency, while instability is likely to lead to change. A

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child with a warm, responsive mother in an economically and emotionally stable home is likely to develop a secure attachment that will remain so throughout adulthood, if circumstances do not change. However, if that child’s life circumstances change radically (e.g., the attachment figure is lost, or the economic circumstances of the family change), the home becomes less secure and the mother less warm and responsive, it is very likely that the child’s secure attachment will become anxious or even avoidant. The adult attachment literature has considered partner choice and quality of partner relationship, arguing that securely attached people provide more positive cues, make better partner choices, and provide better support to their partner. Studies have shown that they have higher-quality relationships (Feeney, Noller, & Callan, 1994). Interesting work has begun to examine the psychophysical reactions of individuals with different attachment styles, with evidence indicating significant and predictable differences in psychophysical reactions, for example, to distressful situations (Fraley & Shaver, 1997). In another but related vein, recent theoretical proposals suggest that the development of self-regulation is greatly influenced by attachment security, with securely attached infants being significantly advantaged in the development of and ability to selfregulate (Shaver, Mikulincer, & Chun, 2008). Additional work suggests that memory and information processing across the life span are also advantaged by secure attachment styles (Dykas & Cassidy, 2011). The Biopsychosocial Model The biopsychosocial model was first proposed by Engel (1977). Extensive interactions with patients led Engel to go beyond the traditional biomedical approach to illness by incorporating social, psychological, and behavioral as well as biological factors as important components of illness (Engel, 1977; Jackson, Brown, & Antonucci, 2004; Lindau, Laumann, Levinson, & Waite, 2003; National Research Council, 2001; Seeman, 2003). While he noted the importance of both positive and negative aspects of the environment, particular social and psychological pathways had not been specified until the most recent specification of the biopsychosocial model (Lindau et al., 2003; Seeman & Crimmins, 2001; Taylor, Repetti, & Seeman, 1997). Important pathways include positive and negative aspects of relationships, stress exposure, negative emotions, and coping strategies, among others. The combination of these new perspectives suggests an important innovative approach to examining the biological mechanism(s) that links social relationships and health.

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According to the biopsychosocial model, the broader social and psychological context influences biological systems associated with stress, which in turn affect psychological and physical health. This model and its various permutations have led to an unprecedented boom of research regarding biological measures linking social relationships and health. Socioemotional Selectivity Theory The socioemotional selectivity theory (SST) focuses on choices made concerning social relations across the life span, arguing that life span and life course circumstances influence the choices people make concerning social relations. The theory is grounded in both disengagement theory and selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC) theory (Carstensen, 1992; Lang, 2001). Building on empirical evidence that older people tend to engage in fewer social relations, Carstensen (1992) argues that people make active choices about the number and closeness of relationships in which they would like to invest. As people age, relationships become more, not less, important to them, but people prefer to invest their limited remaining time on relationships they consider close and important. Thus, with age, relationships are likely to become fewer but more significant. Carstensen (1992) argues that people begin to disengage from relationships they consider unimportant, but invest more fully in those that are important to them. Thus, the motivation for relationships changes over time, with young people seeking to explore and expand their relationships while older people seek to limit but deepen their existing relationships (Lansford, Sherman, & Antonucci, 1998). According to Carstensen (1992) and in accordance with disengagement theory (Cumming & Henry, 1961), people do disengage from some relationships, but only those that are less close and less important to them. Similarly, in accordance with SOC theory, people select the relationships that are important to them, optimize them by investing exclusively in them, and compensate for the less time they perceive available to them (in terms of years left to live) by limiting the number of relationships in which they invest. The Strength and Vulnerability Integration Model The strength and vulnerability integration (SAVI) model is an extension of socioemotional selectivity theory developed by Susan Charles (Charles, 2010; Charles & Piazza, 2009). Charles postulates that certain circumstances either

reduce or eliminate age improvements in emotion regulation. According to this model, age is associated with improvements in well-being unless older individuals are exposed to a great deal of stress, which attenuates those age-related improvements. The model originated from the SOC and SST models. According to the SST and SOC models, older adults become better able to regulate their emotions and thus develop better well-being over time. However, some older adults are not able to avoid stressful situations. For example, older adults who are caregiving, disabled, or who have multiple chronic health conditions are under chronic stress that is unavoidable. The Convoy Model The term convoy is used to describe the support provided by close relations as people move through time and circumstances confronting everyday circumstances as well as major life challenges (Antonucci, 1985). The convoy model describes the multiple influences that affect social relations. These include personal characteristics, such as age, gender, race, and religion, as well as situational characteristics, such as role expectations and demands. Personal characteristics most closely adhere to life-span developmental characteristics, while situational characteristics are more closely aligned with life-course characteristics. The type of social relations individuals have are influenced by these antecedent and ongoing characteristics. In addition, the convoy model specifies important distinctive elements of social relations (i.e., support structure, support exchange, and support quality). Convoys are expected to provide support and comfort as their members move through life and they are especially important when confronting stressful situations. Individuals are part of a dynamic network system or convoy that moves through time and circumstances, fundamentally influencing health and well-being. The convoy model incorporates many aspects of theories and perspectives previously considered (e.g., noting the importance of understanding the influence of individual life-span development and life-course circumstances). Also apparent is the importance of early relations, such as the first attachment relationships, as they set an early pattern for childhood and adult relationships, the biopsychosocial interplay, and considerations of time and circumstance that influence an individual’s relationship choices. Although, optimally, the influence of a convoy of support is positive, it is clear that relationships can have positive and negative qualities. Recent work explores the influence of positive or negative quality relationships but

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also recognizes that some relationships can be both positive and negative. Research on ambivalence suggests that this type of relationship may, in fact, be more common than either positive or negative relationships. Since a convoy usually consists of multiple members, recent research has explored the relative influence of different convoy members. For example, it is well-known that spousal relations are critical to overall life satisfaction and well-being, but can a poor-quality spousal relationship be offset by high-quality sibling and friendship relationships? Yes, but only to a degree (Birditt & Antonucci, 2007). In general, under optimal conditions, high-quality social relations create a convoy of support, which provides a protective base that is very similar to the secure base provided in secure-attachment relations. This secure base allows individuals to successfully meet the challenges they face while maximizing their health and well-being (Antonucci & Jackson, 2002).

DEVELOPMENTS IN THE SCIENCE OF SOCIAL RELATIONS The term social relations is an umbrella term which embodies the inherent multidimensionality that characterizes social relations. As noted above, moving from the general notion of a social tie or network to the type and quality of relations, the complex and dynamic nature of social relations now is widely accepted. Macro theories emphasize the mere existence of a social tie, while micro theories focus on individual experiences, including the type of support exchanged (e.g., instrumental, emotional) and whether the quality of the relationship is positive, negative, or ambivalent. Ideas about support exchange norms have also emerged. For instance, the notion of a support bank (Antonucci, 1990), veridicality (Acitelli & Antonucci, 1994; Antonucci & Israel, 1986), and invisible support (Bolger, Zuckerman, & Kessler, 2000), represent advances to better understanding the circumstances under which, as well as how, social relations facilitate support exchanges. Concepts changed and evolved as the science of social relations developed during the 20th century. We define and illustrate below the multiple dimensions of social relations: structure, type, quality, and support exchange. Structure The structure of social relations refers to social network characteristics, including size, contact frequency, geographic proximity, composition, and density. Size indicates the number of people identified as network members.

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mboxMethods used to name such people vary. For instance, respondents may be asked to list people with whom they might have discussed matters of importance in the past six months (Mardsen, 1987; Morgan, 1988). In a similar approach, the hierarchical mapping technique (Antonucci, 1986) presents respondents with a set of three concentric circles with the word “YOU” written in the middle. Network size is ascertained by first asking the respondent to name those individuals to whom they feel closest, then asking them to list others with whom they feel less close but still consider important, and finally asking them to list any others that they would include in their network (i.e., not as important but still important). This approach allows identification of the size of three levels of closeness in an individual’s network without using the demand characteristics that might be associated with role relationships. When network size is measured by asking respondents to name members, a negative association is found with age, in which older age is associated with smaller network size (Ajrouch, Antonucci, & Janevic, 2001). Another approach to measuring network size involves a tally of various categories, including family, friends, neighbors, and formal group membership (Pugliesi & Shook, 1998). With this approach, the association between age and size suggests older age is associated with a larger number of network members (Pugliesi & Shook, 1998). Contact frequency delineates various forms of connections with network members. Connections may be measured via face-to-face contact or other modes, such as phone, texting, e-mail, Skype, or a social networking site such as Facebook. Indeed, technological advancements have increased the multitude of ways by which people may initiate and maintain contact with one another and very likely has changed many aspects of relationships fundamentally. Previous research suggests older adults tend to have less frequent contact with their network members than do younger adults (Mardsen, 1987; Morgan, 1988; Taylor, 1986), even when comparisons are made between young–old and old–old adults (Antonucci & Akiyama, 1987). However, as older adults have access to e-mail, Skype, and other forms of electronic communication, this may be changing. For example, there is evidence that older adults use computers to keep in contact with family and friends (Selwyn, 2004). Grandparents now can frequently communicate with grandchildren, even if they live at great distances. It should also be remembered that contact type yields various results. For instance, visiting an elder once a week produces relations that are more tangible and visible; that is, one can see more immediately how the other is doing. Other modes that involve technology do not allow

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for the same tangible exchange, but nevertheless allow for connections, especially when physical contact is difficult or impossible due to long distances or work obligations. Geographic proximity concerns the physical distance relations live from one another. Older age is correlated with larger distances between network members (Ajrouch et al., 2001; Antonucci & Akiyama, 1987). Proximity is important, because it may indicate the feasibility and likelihood of support exchanges with network members. This may in turn have implications for policy, helping to shape how service programs may aid individuals during times of need. Composition concerns the makeup of one’s network. Proportion of kin is the aspect of network composition that has received the most attention in aging studies, because family members are expected to provide support should the need arise. Indeed, older age is associated with a higher proportion of kin in one’s network (Ajrouch et al., 2001). Yet recent findings suggest that well-being of older adults is enhanced when networks include friends and other nonfamily members. Density reflects the extent to which members of a single individual’s network are connected to one another. For instance, Granovetter (1973) distinguished various relationships by tie strength; that is, whether relations are strong or weak. He then advanced that tie strength yielded various outcomes for people. The theoretical “strength of weak ties” proposition now represents one way of understanding why those with insulated, strong ties are often more vulnerable than those whose relations include a substantial level of weak ties, or acquaintances. This notion has been used in new ways to demonstrate that the characteristics of network members have health implications for others in an individual’s network. Using the Framingham longitudinal study of health, findings suggest chances of experiencing obesity, happiness, and cardiovascular disease increase when one has relations with another whose networks members exhibit such characteristics (Christakis & Fowler, 2007, 2008; Fowler & Christakis, 2008). The spread of loneliness has also been identified, suggesting that emotional aspects of well-being are influenced by social network members’ characteristics (Cacioppo, Fowler, & Christakis, 2009). Type Type of social relations varies to reflect instrumental, emotional, and informational support. Instrumental support includes tangible and material support, such as aid in the realms of chores, finances, and sick care. Emotional

support involves nontangible support, such as affection and confiding. Informational support reflects the exchange of critical information, often related to health outcomes or problem solving. Though social contact in general is thought to benefit the well-being of older adults (Rowe & Kahn, 1998), support type experiences are by no means uniform in adulthood. Much research focuses on adults as the recipient of support as they face health challenges in mid- to later life. In one study, health status among low educated men was on par with their higher educated counterparts when instrumental and emotional support was perceived to be available from the child upon whom they rely the most (Antonucci, Ajrouch, & Janevic, 2003).Yet receiving too much support has also been identified as a source of poor well-being among older adults (Silverstein, Chen, & Heller, 1996). Moreover, there is growing evidence that older adults provide various types of support to younger generations. For instance, grandparents provide critical emotional support to grandchildren raised in single-parent families (Silverstein & Ruiz, 2006). Furthermore, elders may serve as a key resource to adult children who are unmarried or have low education (McIlvane, Ajrouch, & Antonucci, 2007). The dynamics of support type vary depending on age and life course circumstance. Quality Quality of social relations represents an area that has evolved quite dramatically over time. The science of social relations initially studied quality with an emphasis on positive aspects. The concept of intergenerational solidarity addresses quality of relationships that exist between older adults and their children. Intergenerational solidarity was first proposed including only positive aspects, such as affection and filial obligation. These positive characteristics were considered normative and were thought to dominate the nature of relations between parent and child generations (Bengtson & Schrader, 1982). An update to this notion is the intergenerational stake hypothesis that suggested older adults invest heavily in their children, and hence view relations more positively and with greater congruence than do their children (Bengtson & Kuypers, 1971; Giarrusso, Feng, & Bengtson, 2004). Later iterations included conflict as a critical, though previously unexamined, dimension of intergenerational relations in the context of solidarity (Parrott & Bengtson, 1999; Silverstein, Gans, Lowenstein, Giarrusso, & Bengtson, 2010). Negative social relations began to emerge as a critical area of inquiry among older adults.

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Negative aspects of social relations are found to be less prevalent among older adults compared to younger adults (Fiori, Antonucci, & Akiyama, 2008; Luong, Charles, & Fingerman, 2010; Windsor & Anstey, 2010). Yet, the prevalence of negativity in relationships appears to vary by relationship type. For instance, though negativity in relations is generally lower as people age, this does not necessarily characterize relations with a spouse (Akiyama, Antonucci, Takahashi, & Langford, 2003; Birditt, Jackey, & Antonucci, 2009). Negative relations do exist, and appear to directly influence well-being among older adults, often to a greater degree than do positive aspects of social relations (Rook, 1984; Rook & Pietromonaco, 1987). Moreover, women are more likely than men to report experiencing negativity in social relations (Antonucci, Akiyama, & Lansford, 1998). As empirical evidence concerning positive and negative relationship quality accumulated, the concept of ambivalence emerged to suggest that positive sentiments coupled with simultaneous irritations better reflect the nature of relationships between generations (L¨uscher & Pillemer, 1998), although the concept has now been extended to other relationships such as marital and peer relationships (Fingerman, Hay, & Birditt, 2004). Connidis and McMullin (2002a, 2002b) further elaborate the concept of ambivalence to highlight how social structure and individual agency concerning ambivalence in social relations must be examined simultaneously to better understand the nature of relations over the life course. For instance, intersecting hierarchies of class and gender may produce very different ambivalent situations for working women faced with the responsibility of caregiving for a parent. Connidis and McMullin (2002a, 2002b) argue that while a woman with a professional job may have the option of hiring others to provide hands-on care for her mother, a working-class woman would need to take vacation time, cut back on hours of paid employment, or quit altogether to provide this care. The source of ambivalence may hence derive from very different places; in the case of the professional woman, it may stem from acute challenges to her identity; in the case of the working-class woman, it instead impinges on her income. In other words, positive and negative aspects of relationships arise through the interplay of structural opportunities and constraints on individual action. Finally, studies of the positive, negative, and ambivalent aspects of the parent–child tie indicate a great deal of within and between family variations in how parents and children feel about one another. Parents report more positivity and investment than do their children (Giarrusso et al., 2004; Shapiro, 2004). However, parents also

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report feeling more tension and are more likely to use constructive strategies than their children (Birditt, Miller, Fingerman, & Lefkowitz, 2009; Birditt, Rott, & Fingerman, 2009). These seemingly contradictory findings may indicate the emotional complexity and ambivalence in this relationship, which occurs when there is imbalance in the needs for independence and closeness in the relationship. Moreover, ambivalence in intergenerational relationships appears to negatively influence health and well-being of both parties (Fingerman, Pitzer, Lefkowitz, Birditt, & Mroczek, 2008). In sum, relationship quality is complex and multifaceted. Documenting effects on health across the life course and in adulthood provides critical avenues for understanding the importance of social relationship quality, and further leads to a more informed appreciation of support exchanges. Exchanges The multiple ways that people engage in social relations across the life course concern expectations over time and perceptions of the giving and receiving of social support. Expectations and perceptions are informed by norms of reciprocity. Three conceptual advancements in the science of social relations illuminate recent thinking in the United States: support bank , invisible support, and veridicality. Each concept has particular significance for social relations in adulthood. Support Bank The term support bank was coined by Antonucci (1990) to describe an accounting system for exchanges of social support over the life course. People informally keep track of support provided and received, and in so doing allow themselves when and if they need support in later life to accept support without feeling indebted or as if they are a burden. The support bank account represents a potential reserve of support, which can be drawn on in time of need. Thus, people are motivated to provide support to those with whom they feel close. These essentially constitute deposits. For example, a mother who gave instrumentally and emotionally to her child as she raised her will feel that the support given at those times essentially covers the same type of support she may receive from her daughter in later life after recovering from open heart surgery. Such reserves facilitate feelings of positivity about the relationship, by virtue of the notion that the older adult is simply withdrawing support deposits made earlier in the life course.

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Invisible Support Advancements in dyadic data availability and analysis have led to conceptualizations that distinguish between visible and invisible support. Invisible support is defined as support that is provided, but the recipient does not recognize the provision of such support and hence retains feelings of autonomy and independence (i.e., he or she feels empowered, not dependent; Bolger et al., 2000). This notion has moved the field in new directions, tapping into the psychology of support by emphasizing people’s thinking about support exchanges. Previous assessments of support distinguished between actual receipt of support as opposed to the perception that support is available. Findings showed that perceived support is more beneficial to one’s health and well-being than received support, especially in the context of a stressful life event (Wethington & Kessler, 1986). Invisible support operates in a similar way, linking to better well-being outcomes when faced with high-stress situations (Bolger et al., 2000; Maisel & Gable, 2009; Shrout, Herman, & Bolger, 2006). Future research should, however, better distinguish types of support exchanges concerning invisible support. For instance, after accounting for the significant, positive impact of perceived instrumental and emotional support, receiving instrumental support had a negative effect on well-being, while receiving emotional support had a positive effect (Reinhardt, Boerner, & Horowitz, 2006). Distinguishing multiple support types (e.g., emotional, instrumental) concerning invisible support may increase understanding of how psychological assessments affect adaptation in adulthood and later life. Veridicality The extent to which people in social relationships agree upon the report of support provided and received constitutes veridicality. Like distinctions between received/ perceived support, and invisible/visible support, veridicality highlights the appraisal process. Allowing for a way to examine and acknowledge the experience of support from multiple perspectives, the notion of veridicality advances the science of social relations by giving voice to how interpretations of support situations may vary. Researchers have found that the effect of social support on health outcomes may be best understood through the appraisal process, suggesting that it is not social relations per se that are health protective, but how the activity is perceived and interpreted (Heller, Swindle, & Dusenbury, 1986). Yet, the experience of veridicality is not straightforward. Agreement (or disagreement) varies by relationship type. Antonucci and

Israel (1986) found that both specific and overall veridicality was highest between spouses, somewhat high among other family members, and lowest among friends. Feelings of closeness were significantly related to veridicality; spouses who reported feeling close to their network members had greater veridicality. Moreover, a study of older couples showed that meanings of social support in marriage varied within couples, and were more strongly related to the marital satisfaction and general well-being of wives more than husbands (Acitelli & Antonucci, 1994). Cohen, Lakey, Tiell, and Neeley (2005) examined agreement in social support exchanges among parents with Alzheimer’s disease and their adult daughter caregivers. They found that dyads agreed more regarding enacted than perceived support. Coriell and Cohen (1995) found only moderate agreement between dyads in enacted support among students and their identified primary support provider.

THE CONVOY MODEL AS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THEORETICAL DEVELOPMENTS The convoy model has evolved over time to recognize that social relations may not always directly influence health and well-being. Instead, the impact of social relations may be exceedingly potent in some situations as opposed to others. In other words, various aspects of social relations interact with characteristics or properties of the individual in meaningful ways to ameliorate the negative effects of stress on health and well-being. The potency of a buffering effect was first reviewed by Cohen and Wills (1985) as they examined effects of social support in terms of both structure (e.g., network attributes) and in functions (network type and quality). Buffering effects were identified when support was provided in response to a specific stressor (or stressful situation) but not when support was perceived to be globally available. Such findings indicate divergent processes through which social relations affect well-being. The incorporation of the stress-buffering hypotheses into the convoy model suggests that stress has less detrimental effects among people with stronger social support. Of particular interest is how social relations might help the individual cope with specific stressful life events and daily hassles. The convoy model recognizes not only the multidimensionality of social relations and the explicit nature of situations, but also highlights specificity of support source. We consider major findings below to illustrate how the convoy model advances theoretical developments in this area by distinguishing buffering effects in the context of chronic stress.

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Chronic Stress Chronic stress refers to situations for which there is no precipitating event; instead, they develop slowly, with constant and continuous force that strain a person’s ability to cope with daily life (Wheaton, 1997). In our previous work (Antonucci, Ajrouch, & Janevic, 2003), we followed the example of Wu and Rudkin (2000) to conceptualize low education as a chronic stressor due to the fact that it signifies resource limitations and restricts choices. Focusing on middle-aged men and women, we tested various dimensions of social relations, including the structure, type and quality of social relationships, as potential buffers in the established links between low education and poor health. The results of our analysis offer some insights into the often-stated but little-understood gender differences in social relations within the context of the buffering hypothesis. Findings suggest that buffering effects were present regarding the effects of chronic stress on health for men, but not women. Less-educated males had better health when they reported larger social networks and perceived availability of support (sick care, financial help if needed, and access to a confidant) from the child they rely on most. The nature of the data prohibits causal inference, but the fact that males with lower education levels have poorer health when they do not perceive these types of support to be available from their child suggests that the nuances of this relationship should be explored in more detail. The apparent benefit of such support to less educated males implies that in the presence of support, their health status is as good as that of their more highly educated counterparts. The finding that social relations moderate the association between education and health for men (and not women) is especially noteworthy in light of the enormous body of empirical work documenting the importance of the mother–child relationship (see A. Rossi & Rossi, 1990). The convoy model provides a framework for identifying the saliency of a personal characteristic, such as gender, and for informing a better understanding of how social relations operate in the stress-buffering process. The convoy model also identifies situational characteristics as important contexts for understanding the role of social relations in the stress-buffering process. Additional sources of chronic stress, such as living with high levels of neighborhood disorganization, food insufficiency, and everyday discrimination, constitute situational factors that may differentially influence the way social relations activate the effects of stress on well-being. Ajrouch, Reisine, Lim, Sohn, and Ismail (2010a) examined the influence of social support on two critical situational

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stressors prevalent among African American women living in poverty-stricken urban areas and caring for young children. They found that emotional support had little effect on how the stress of neighborhood disorganization and food insufficiency affected well-being, but that instrumental support did, although in divergent ways. Instrumental support exacerbated the effects of stress on wellbeing in the face of food insufficiency, but attenuated the effect of neighborhood disorganization on well-being. In a related study, instrumental support was a significant buffer among those who perceived moderate levels of everyday discrimination, but its effect weakened for those perceiving excessive everyday discrimination (Ajrouch, Reisine, Lim, Sohn, & Ismail, 2010b). These findings draw attention to the fact that though social support is often conceptualized as a resource, it may not necessarily buffer the effects of stress on psychological well-being. For instance, receiving support may indicate that one is under great stress and may undermine selfesteem. Furthermore, support does not guarantee that help is received (Bolger et al., 2000; Hagedoorn et al., 2000). In particular, receiving support may incur a cost. Hobfoll, Freedy, Lane, and Geller (1990) suggest that though social support constitutes a considerable resource, it is finite. Moreover, it may result in distress among people in need (Newsom & Schulz, 1998). In other words, it may have an initial positive effect, but over time lead to feelings of indebtedness to others or a fear of being considered a burden. This has significant implications for those living in poverty-stricken areas, where need is great. Socioeconomic contexts are particularly important for understanding the role of social relations in the stress-buffering hypothesis. While social support is often hypothesized to exert a positive effect on health in the face of high stress levels, instances may arise where social support does not completely offset the negative effects or exacerbates stress. In sum, the convoy model provides a framework for identifying the multiple ways social relations affect well-being during the stress process in adulthood and across the life course. We turn next to a consideration of mechanisms and contexts as an important scientific advancement in better understanding links between social relationships and health. MECHANISMS AND CONTEXTS We highlight three emerging areas to illustrate the importance of focusing on mechanisms and context in the scientific study of social relationships: biomeasures, dyads, and relationship transitions.

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Biomeasures The advent of the biopsychosocial model and new technology to examine biological indicators of health have led to a large body of research examining the biological mechanisms that may link social relationships and health. Indeed, although self-reported well-being measures are associated with objective indicators of health, such as mortality (Idler, Leventhal, McLaughlin, & Leventhal, 2004; Phillips, Der, & Carroll, 2010), physiological measures of well-being, such as cortisol, may provide important information regarding the pathways by which social relationships influence overall health and well-being. There are four primary physiological systems of interest in this area, including the sympathetic adrenomedullary system, the hypothalamic pituitary adrenocortical axis, the immune system, and the cardiovascular system. Sympathetic Adrenomedullary (SAM) System Activation of the sympathetic adrenomedullary (SAM) system is often referred to as the “fight or flight” response (Cannon, 1914); it is fast-acting, short-lived, and responsive to minor events. Activation of this system leads to the release of catecholamines, including epinephrine and norepinephrine, into the blood stream. SAM activity can be measured with levels of epinephrine, norepinephrine, and more recently, alpha-amylase (Baum & Grunberg, 1995; Granger et al., 2006). Unlike epinephrine and norepinephrine, which are measured in the blood or urine, alpha-amylase serves as a less invasive marker because it can be measured in saliva. Alpha-amylase is an enzyme produced by the salivary glands primarily to help with digestion of carbohydrates and to reduce bacteria (Granger et al., 2006). Alpha-amylase tends to peak 15 minutes prior to a response from the hypothalamic pituitary adrenocortical (HPA) axis (see later subsection), it increases in response to stressful situations (Nater et al., 2005; Takai et al., 2004), and is related to catecholamine levels and heart rate reactivity (Chatterton, Vogelson, Lu, Ellman, & Hudgens, 1996). Alpha-amylase is also associated with greater chronic stress and stress reactivity, and it has a diurnal rhythm with a decrease after awakening and an increase in activity over the day (Nater, Rohleder, Schlotz, Ehlert, & Kirschbaum, 2007). Nevertheless, levels of alpha-amylase are not correlated with HPA activity as measured by cortisol, indicating that alpha-amylase and cortisol most likely measure the activity of different biological systems (Chatterton et al., 1996). Research shows that children who have less close relations with teachers have higher alphaamylase levels, as well as more health problems (Granger

et al., 2006). Repeated activation of SAM in childhood can be damaging to the cardiovascular system and lead to cardiovascular health problems later in life (Repetti, Taylor, & Seeman, 2002). Byrd-Craven, Granger, and Auer (2010) found that co-rumination (which involves excessive discussion of problems) with a focus on negative affect was associated with higher levels of alpha amylase. The negative health implications of repeated SAM activation have also been established among middle-aged and older adults (Kaplan & Keil, 1993; McEwen & Seeman, 1999). Hypothalamic Pituitary Adrenocortical (HPA) Axis Unlike the quick-acting SAM, the HPA axis has a slower onset and longer duration. The HPA axis counteracts the SAM response by replenishing energy depleted during the SAM response. After a stressful stimulus is perceived, the hypothalamus releases corticotropin-releasing hormones, which stimulates the anterior pituitary to release adrenocorticotropic hormones (ACTH). ACTH, in turn, stimulates the adrenal cortex to release glucocorticoids (which, in humans, consist primarily of cortisol). This cascade of events has been termed the “stress response” by various authors (McEwen & Lasely, 2002; Sapolsky, Romero, & Munck, 2000; Selye, 1979). In short, the body responds to an acute stressful event with elevated levels of circulating glucocorticoids, which serve to mobilize energy reserves and curtail nonessential metabolic processes. The “stress response” is functional in response to acute challenges because it mobilizes energy for immediate use, in an effort to bring the body back to homeostasis—a process known as allostasis. However, a continued and chronic stress response is harmful and is often referred to as allostatic load (McEwen, 2003; McEwen & Seeman, 1999). Allostatic load may result from the inability to calm down after a stressful event and/or the inability to adapt to a repeated event. Increased cortisol is associated with distress, withdrawal, and avoidance, and cortisol increases when events are perceived as uncontrollable (Dickerson & Kemeny, 2004). The normal daily rhythm of glucocorticoids involves a peak after waking and a gradual decline over the course of the day. The inability to activate glucocorticoids in the morning or the inability to decrease later in the day may signify problems (Sapolsky, 1986). Granger and his colleagues (2006) found that high cortisol reactivity was associated with greater social withdrawal and anxiety. Negative emotions, including worry/stress and anger/frustration as well as poor well-being (low positive, high negative) are associated with increased cortisol among adolescents, middle-aged, and older adults (Adam, 2006; Adam, Hawkley, Kudielka, & Cacioppo, 2006; Adam,

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Klimes-Dougan, & Gunnar, 2007; Evans et al., 2007). Furthermore, consistently high levels of glucocorticoids may indicate chronic stress, which, over long periods of time, could result in physical damage. In addition to glucocorticoids, dehydroepiandrosteronesulfate (DHEA-S) has also been used to measure activity of the HPA. DHEA is an antagonist of cortisol produced by the adrenal gland. DHEA-S is synthesized from DHEA, but DHEA-S is generally measured because it remains in the bloodstream longer and has less variability than DHEA (Kroboth, Salek, Stone, Bertz, & Kroboth, 1999). Higher DHEA-S is associated with better health outcomes; DHEA is thought to serve as a buffer against the negative impacts of cortisol, facilitate cognitive processes, and reduce stress reactivity as well as depression and anxiety (Cruess et al., 1999; Melchior & Ritzmann, 1994; Wolf & Kirschbaum, 1999). DHEA is released simultaneously with cortisol, but under chronic stress or illnesses they may become disassociated (Kroboth et al., 1999). Examining the proportion of cortisol and DHEA-S is particularly informative, because a low cortisol/DHEA-S ratio is associated with less stress, depression, and anxiety (Goodyer et al., 1996; Van Niekerk, Huppert, & Herbert, 2001). Immune System If the stress response continues for long periods of time, the immune system is suppressed (Cohen, Miller, & Rabin, 2001; Kiecolt-Glaser, Glaser, Gravenstein, Malarkey, & Sheridan, 1996; McEwen, 2000). Although there are several immune markers, we highlight C-reactive protein (CRP), because elevated levels are associated with lower social integration, reductions in physical and cognitive health, increased cardiovascular risk, and increased mortality (Koenig et al., 1997; Reuben et al., 2002; Weaver et al., 2002). CRP can be measured noninvasively (via blood spots), and it is the most frequently assessed marker of inflammation. CRP is a general indicator of inflammation and is associated with increased perceived stress (McDade, Hawkley, & Cacioppo, 2006). CRP may be an important mechanism linking stressful environments to coronary heart disease and other diseases related to inflammation. Cardiovascular System This system includes the heart and blood vessels and is responsible for maintaining blood flow under changing environmental circumstances (Krantz & Falconer, 1995). Blood pressure is a measure of the functioning of this system (Crimmins & Seeman, 2000). Blood pressure is defined as the force of blood against the walls of the blood vessels. Systolic is the point of contraction and represents

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the peak pressure, whereas diastolic is the minimum pressure when the heart relaxes. Researchers have found that factors such as loneliness and increased stress are associated with increased blood pressure (Hawkley, Masi, Berry, & Cacioppo, 2006; Steptoe et al., 2003). It is especially important to examine hypertension among older adults, because high blood pressure is increasing among older populations and is associated with cardiovascular disease (Crimmins et al., 2005; Steptoe et al., 2002). A great deal of research has found links between social relationships and biological assessments of stress and well-being. The majority of this work has examined conflict in the laboratory setting and links with biomeasures. For example, hostile behaviors in the laboratory predict increased blood pressure among people with hypertension (Ewart, Taylor, Kraemer, & Agras, 1991), endocrine changes among newlyweds (Kiecolt-Glaser et al., 1993; Kiecolt-Glaser et al., 1997), and slower wound healing (Kiecolt-Glaser et al., 2005). Although some studies show that arguments are associated with increased physiological arousal and cortisol, other studies have found that people who use negative behaviors have a reduced cortisol response. For example, Fehm-Wolfsdorf, Groth, Kaiser, and Hahlweg (1999) found couples who used negative behaviors showed no change in cortisol, whereas couples with positive behavioral responses to conflict show an increase in cortisol. Similarly, Robles, Shaffer, Malarkey, and Kiecolt-Glaser (2006) found that couples with relationships rated as higher in quality showed a greater increase in cortisol in response to arguments, whereas couples with more negative relationships showed decreases in cortisol. We also recognize that physiological markers and social relationships are most likely bidirectionally associated. For example, altered cortisol rhythms may increase sensitivity to interpersonal slights and lead to a greater likelihood of tensions. The anticipation of arguments or tensions, rather than the experience of those tensions, may lead to poorer psychological well-being, an increased cortisol awakening response, or otherwise altered rhythms (Fries, Dettenborn, & Kirschbaum, 2009). The research on cortisol often examines the cortisol awakening response, a normal diurnal rhythm in which cortisol increases just after waking and peaks at about 30 minutes after waking. Researchers postulate that the cortisol awakening response (CAR) gives individuals a boost of energy to cope with the challenges that are anticipated for that day. For example, research shows that individuals experience a greater CAR on workdays compared to weekends, on days of greater interpersonal stress, and on competition days among competitive dancers (Rohleder, Beulen,

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Chen, Wolf, & Kirschbaum, 2007; Thorn, Hucklebridge, Evan, & Clow, 2006; W¨ust, Federenko, Hellhammer, & Kirschbaum, 2000). Interestingly, in our own preliminary work we have discovered that engagement in arguments and avoidance of arguments were differentially associated with well-being and cortisol depending on whether we examined same- or next-day effects (Birditt, Wardjiman, & Almedia, 2010). Overall, it appears that engaging in arguments is more harmful than avoiding arguments, but only when examining well-being on the day of the tension. In addition, interpersonal tensions are associated with a greater same day CAR. People may experience an increased cortisol response in the morning, because they are anticipating tensions. However, it is also possible that a steeper CAR causes individuals to be testier in interpersonal interactions and more likely to experience tensions. This finding is particularly exciting, because it shows that naturally occurring tensions are associated with biological indicators of stress. Avoidance was associated with higher cortisol and greater physical symptoms on the next day, compared to having no tension. Avoidant strategies may have a greater effect on next day well-being outcomes, because the problem is not resolved. Thus, avoidant coping strategies may be soothing in the short term but they may lead to long-term negative outcomes for health and relationships (Smith, Vivian, & O’Leary, 1990; Turner-Cobb & Steptoe, 1996). Indeed, avoidant strategies are less visible to social partners and judged as less effective in terms of solving problems and improving relationships compared to directly dealing with the problem (Drigotas, Whitney, & Rusbult, 1995). Research also shows that although people rate avoidant strategies as more successful in the short term, avoidance does not predict positive changes in relationships, whereas direct strategies are initially perceived as less successful but predict positive changes in relationships (Overall, Fletcher, Simpson, & Sibley, 2009). The higher cortisol levels on the next day are especially problematic, given that higher levels of cortisol are associated with poorer psychological and physical well-being (Adam, 2006; Adam et al., 2007). In other work, Hope and Birditt (2011) examined links between biological measures of health and relationship quality using the National Social Life, Health and Aging Project. They examined the quality of the spousal tie, friendships, and other family relationships, whether the quality of relationships are directly associated with biological measures of health (main effects), and whether the quality of the relationships buffers the effects of perceived stress on biological measures of health. Hope and

Birditt identified few main effects between social relationships and biological measures of health. However, they discovered several interactions between perceived stress and relationship quality when predicting biological measures of health, which indicate that social relationships may have an indirect effect on health by buffering or exacerbating the effect of stress. For example, there are greater associations between overall perceived stress level and indicators of poorer health (higher blood pressure, higher EBV) among individuals with greater negativity and lower positivity in their spousal relationship. The Dyadic Context Research examining support processes within a dyadic context reveals that support varies depending on a unique combination of stress and relationship quality. Hagedoorn and colleagues (2000) found that the links between enacted support and relationship satisfaction among spouses coping with cancer were much stronger under higher rather than lower levels of stress. In contrast, greater positive relationship quality (reciprocity, satisfaction) predicted greater enacted support in the context of daily stress, but not in the context of more severe stress (preparing for the bar exam) among cohabitating young adult couples (Iida, Seidman, Shrout, Fujita, & Bolger, 2008). Thus, under acute stress, support may be motivated by recipient need more than relationship factors. Unlike previous literature which examined these associations among romantic couples and spouses, in a recent study, Birditt, Antonucci, and Tighe (2012) assessed these issues among a middle-aged sample experiencing a variety of life events and across different types of relationships). In this study, individuals who experienced life events and two of their identified supportive network members were asked about the quality of their relationships and the support exchanged with regard to the event (enacted support). Birditt and colleagues found, as did Dunkel-Schetter and Skokan (1990) and Iida and colleagues (2008), that enacted support varies by stressor and relationship factors. The link between relationship quality and enacted support is moderated by the stress context. Critically, this study revealed that high-quality relationships tended to enact consistently high levels of support, irrespective of stress appraisals, whereas low-quality relationships enacted higher levels of support when principal respondents were more highly stressed. Consequently, it appears that high-quality relationships are more consistent in the level of enacted support, whereas low-quality relationships only enact support under conditions of high stress.

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Relationship Transitions Advancements in the scientific study of social relationships, especially transitions in relationships, have benefited from availability of longitudinal data, or repeated measures over time. Relationship quality is one area where new understandings have emerged. In contrast with crosssectional age differences, longitudinal studies have often concluded that relationship quality with network members is stable over time. For example, Wheaton (1990) found stability in marital and parental problems over two years among people across the adult lifespan (18 and older). Among older adults (65+), Krause and others have also found stability in negative relationship quality over 3- to 10-year spans (Boerner, Reinhardt, Raykov, & Horowitz, 2004; Krause, 1999; Shaw, Krause, Liang, & Bennett, 2007). Longitudinal studies of negative relationship quality in specific relationships also reveal that changes over time in negative relationship quality vary by developmental stage and type of relationship. Lindahl and colleagues (Lindahl, Clements, & Markman, 1998) examined spouses over the first 9 years of marriage and found that negative communication patterns (expression of negative affect, overt conflict) increased over time. Marital conflict also increases with parenthood (Gottman & Notarius, 2000; Veroff, Douvan, & Hatchett, 1995). Negative relationship qualities with children tend to increase when children are in early adolescence, but subsequently decrease across young adulthood (Paikoff & Brooks-Gunn, 1991; Steinberg, 1981). This decrease is consistent with solidarity theory, which suggests that parents and their children become increasingly positive about the relationship across adulthood (Bengtson, Giarrusso, Mabry, & Silverstein, 2002; A. Rossi & Rossi, 1990). Yet, the examination of negative relationship quality suggests a great deal of variability in patterns of negative relationship quality by type of relationship, age group, and consistency. Birditt and colleagues (2009) examined individual’s (ages 20 to 93) reports of the negative qualities of their spouse, child, and best friend relationships across two waves of data collected in 1992 and 2005. Compared to other relationships, the spouse/partner relationship was the most consistently negative over time. Negative relationship quality may simply be more common in close ties involving frequent contact due to greater opportunities for negative interactions (Akiyama et al., 2003). In addition, spouses/partners have to make decisions and deal with daily life stresses together. Both of these circumstances may lead to negative relationship

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quality. Indeed, when individuals were married to the same spouse in both waves, negative relationship quality increased over time. The stability and/or increases in negative relationship quality over time may be indicative of learned patterns of interaction that have been reinforced over time. Spouses/partners may become more comfortable and more expressive of negative emotions as they age (Lindahl et al., 1998). We did find, however that relationships with spouses/partners become less negative among people who divorced and had a new spouse in Wave 2. Several studies of spousal relationship quality have revealed different patterns of relationship quality over time. Examinations of age differences in marital quality show a U-shaped curve in which marital quality is high in the early years, declines when children are born, and increases after 20 to 30 years of marriage as children leave home and couples retire (Glenn, 1995; Orbuch, House, Mero, & Webster, 1996; Ross, Mirowsky, & Goldsteen, 1990). In contrast, longitudinal studies reveal people start out satisfied in marriages, but then satisfaction levels decline (Aron, Norman, Aron, & Lewandowski, 2002; Kurdek, 1998), and spousal strain and conflict increase (Birditt et al., 2009; Hatch & Bulcroft, 2004; Suitor & Pillemer, 1992, 1994). Other research suggests that there are qualitatively different trajectories for marital quality over time (Belsky & Rovine, 1990; Kamp Dush, Taylor, & Kroeger, 2008; Lavner & Bradbury, 2010). Relationship quality in the parent–child tie also changes over time. Although some studies showed that negative relationship quality with children increases when children are adolescents and steadily declines thereafter (Bengtson et al., 2002; Paikoff & Brooks-Gunn, 1991; Steinberg, 1981), other work indicates that relationships with children become less negative over time, especially among younger adult parents (Birditt et al., 2009). Children may become less demanding as they move from childhood to adolescence and adolescence to young adulthood. For example, as children start school, move out of the home, marry, and gain employment, they are more likely to be seen as successfully launched, leading parents to feel less ambivalence (Fingerman, Chen, Hay, Cichy, & Lefkowitz, 2006; L¨uscher & Pillemer, 1998; Pillemer & Suitor, 2002). Interestingly, in their study of negative relationship quality over time, Birditt and colleagues (2009) found that negative child relationship quality decreased over time, irrespective of whether the participants reported on different children or the same child in both waves of the study. The decrease may reflect developmental changes in parents and/or families. For example, parents may view

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their children differently or experience changes in emotion regulation over time. Many empirical studies have examined positive aspects of parent–child relationships over time. A longitudinal study of three generations of family members (Longitudinal Study of Generations) revealed that all three generations reported high levels of solidarity, and that the levels remained fairly stable over time (Bengtson, 2001). Silverstein and colleagues (1997) identified five types of families based on the six dimensions: tightknit (high on all dimensions) and detached (low on all dimensions) at the two extremes, and three types of families that are more varied (intimate but detached, obligatory, and sociable; Silverstein, Bengtson, & Lawton, 1997). A. Rossi and Rossi (1990) examined age-of-child effects on parents’ feelings of affective solidarity and feelings of closeness using cross-sectional data. They found that parents experience the greatest feelings of closeness with infants, the least closeness with adolescents, and moderate to high closeness for young adult and middle-age children, especially among mothers and daughters. Consistent with previous literature, Birditt and colleagues (2009) found that friend relationships were less negative than spouse and child relationships. Older people were less likely to report negative relationship quality with friends than young and middle-aged people, and friend negative relationship quality decreased over time (at least among the majority of individuals who had a different best friend in each time point measured). Older people may rate their friends as less negative because they have fewer roles and more time to invest in their friendships. Older adult friendships may have stood the test of time and thus may be extremely close and supportive. Friendships may represent an important source of support during older adulthood, especially as people are living longer and changing residences. The decrease in friend negative relationship quality over time may also be due to their voluntary nature (Crohan & Antonucci, 1989). One area in need of further research involves the examination of negative relationship quality with friends over time among adults. Because friendships are voluntary, people may decrease contact with bothersome friends, leading to a decrease in negative relationship quality over time. Another major question in the literature is whether conflict behaviors are consistent or change over time. The majority of the work in this area is on the marital tie. Behavioral theories of marriage, such as social learning theory or the enduring dynamics model, have proposed that couples enter marriage with individual differences that remain consistent over time and eventually predict divorce

(Caughlin, Huston, & Houts, 2000; Huston, Caughlin, Houts, Smith, & George, 2001). Thus, according to these theories, couples either show consistent conflict behaviors or increases in conflict behaviors over time. In support of these theories, research examining couples over relatively short periods of time (2 to 4 years) revealed that destructive and constructive conflict behaviors were stable over time (Gottman & Levenson, 1999; Kelly, Huston, & Cate, 1985). In contrast, developmental and accommodation theories have suggested that conflict behaviors may become less negative over time as couples become more tolerant of one another (Carstensen, Gottman, & Levenson, 1995; Lindahl et al., 1998). In one study of long-term marriages, couples retrospectively reported that their marriages became more enjoyable, tolerant, and comfortable, and that communication improved over time (Robinson & Blanton, 1993). Carstensen and colleagues (1995) found that older married couples were more affectionate and less negative with one another, compared to younger couples. Similarly, Lindahl and colleagues (1998) found that self-reported use of withdrawal and destructive behaviors decreased over 10 years of marriage among a small sample of 36 couples. The researchers hypothesized that, over time, couples become more tolerant and better able to use constructive rather than destructive or withdrawal behaviors to resolve conflict. Birditt, Brown, Orbuch, & McIlvane (2010) examined couples over 16 years of marriage and found that the patterns of conflict strategies over time varied by gender. Wives decreased the use of destructive behaviors and withdrawal, whereas husbands’ use of these strategies remained stable over time. Constructive behaviors remained stable over time among both husbands and wives. The decreases in withdrawal and destructive behavior support accommodation and developmental theories, indicating that behaviors become less negative over time. This is in contrast to social learning theories and research, which postulate that couples who are negative remain negative or increase in negativity over time (Caughlin et al., 2000; Huston et al., 2001). Studies that found stability in conflict behaviors over time examined marriages over 2 to 4 years (Gottman & Levenson, 1999; Kelly et al., 1985). The Birditt and colleagues (2010) study is more consistent with findings for long-term marriages, which show that relationships become more enjoyable and tolerant and have improved communication (Robinson & Blanton, 1993). Similarly, Lindahl and colleagues (1998) found that self-reported withdrawal and destructive behaviors decreased over 10 years.

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The finding that constructive behaviors remained consistent rather than increasing over time is somewhat surprising, but may be due to the high usage of this behavior among all couples over time. Because couples remained constructive and used fewer destructive and withdrawal behaviors over time, we believe the results are more supportive of accommodation theories than social learning theories. There are several possible explanations for the greater change in conflict behaviors over time among wives. The problems that cause wives to use more destructive and quiet withdrawal behaviors early in marriage may be resolved over time. Alternatively, relationships and the quality of relationships may be more central to the lives of women compared to men (Almeida & Kessler, 1998; Antonucci, Akiyama, & Lansford, 1998). Wives over the course of marriage may recognize that the use of destructive and withdrawal conflict behaviors is not effective, nor beneficial to the overall well-being and stability of their marriages. Wives may also gain more effective conflict skills and become better able to express their negative feelings. Husbands may not show this same decrease in withdrawal and destructive behaviors over time because they use more constructive and less destructive behaviors than wives and thus have fewer negative behaviors to change.

CONCLUSIONS We have examined the current state of theoretical and empirical knowledge concerning social relations in adulthood and among older people. We have reviewed the importance of taking both a life-span and a life-course perspective to social relations in order to gain a broader perspective of both antecedent and causal factors associated with social relations. Several theories relevant to the study of social relations were considered, including the attachment theory, the biopsychosocial model, the socioemotional selectivity theory, the strength and vulnerability integration model, and the convoy model. Each has contributed important elements to our current understanding of social relations. A review of empirical findings focused on the science of social relations and documented current knowledge concerning structure, type, quality, and exchanges. These findings indicate an increasingly detailed understanding of those factors most critical in social relations. The convoy model provides a broad theoretical framework for understanding how social relations influence well-being.

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Recent extensions of the model include the role of social relations in coping with stress, as well as a focus on mechanisms and contexts that illuminate key areas of new inquiry. The interplay between biological, psychological, and social elements provides the potential for achieving a fuller understanding of mechanisms that better situate how and under what conditions social relationships are helpful, or sometimes harmful. Context, including dyads and relationship transitions, offers specificities that uncover the complexity that surrounds the expression and experiences of social relationships. Attention to both mechanisms and contexts provide critical inroads to advance the science of social relationships over the life course. Research articulating the causes and consequences, mechanisms and contexts that influence social relations in adulthood offer exciting potential for maximizing the health and well being of individuals as they age.

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PART VI

Applied Developmental Psychology Across the Life Span

CHAPTER 21

Applied Developmental Science Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century CELIA B. FISHER, NANCY A. BUSCH-ROSSNAGEL, DANIELA S. JOPP, AND JOSHUA L. BROWN

APPLIED DEVELOPMENT SCIENCE: YESTERDAY AND TODAY 518 APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE AND INTRAINDIVIDUAL CONTINUITY AND CHANGE: FOSTERING LINKS AMONG THEORY, RESEARCH, AND APPLICATION 520 APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE: MULTILEVEL DYNAMICS IN PREVENTION RESEARCH AND PRACTICE 525

APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE, SOCIAL JUSTICE, AND SOCIOPOLITICAL WELL-BEING 529 AN APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE FOR THE 21ST CENTURY 534 CONCLUSION: THE FUTURE OF APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE 536 REFERENCES 537

This chapter focuses on promising directions for applied developmental science (ADS) in the next decade by charting the recent contributions and future potential for new ways of thinking about how we conceptualize and optimize development across the life course; the role of applied developmental science in public and private institutions; and obligations to promote a social justice agenda that contributes to social policies sensitive to diverse developmental challenges and inclusive in its offering of opportunities for individuals from different cultural, economic, and social positions. The chapter brings together theoretical concepts and frameworks, methodological advances, and emerging themes and controversies that are redefining ADS, highlighting areas that warrant further exploration and focusing attention on critical issues that should be addressed in future. Much has been written about the evolution of ADS from the roots of its beginnings in the 19th-century child saving movement to the 20th-century theoretical and methodological movement of the field from the laboratory to the streets, and to its more recent contributions in this century to promoting a civil society (e.g., Fisher & Lerner, 1994, 2005; Fisher, Murray & Sigel, 1996; Fisher & Tryon, 1990; Lerner, Fisher, & Weinberg, 2000a, 2000b; Lerner, Jacobs, & Wertlieb, 2003). In the first edition

of the Handbook of Psychology, Donald Wertlieb (2003) identified developmental psychology’s emergence as an applied developmental science, while Sherrod, BuschRossnagel, and Fisher (2004) distinguished ADS from the other developmental sciences in their chapter for the Handbook of Adolescent Psychology. Both chapters highlighted the advances of ADS at the end of the 20th century, as the traditional methods of developmental psychology began to be applied to real-world problems, and this momentum spurred new research on the contextual, intra-and interindividual, and dynamic nature of development across the life span. The first section of this chapter provides a brief history of applied developmental science, followed by examination of the field’s evolution and continued challenges during the past decade. The second section draws attention to the undervalued use of metatheory to direct and inform empirical investigations and methods of studying individual fluctuations in developmental change across context. We next turn to trends in studying multilevel dynamics as a necessary step in the bidirectional translation of research findings to practice and practice-based knowledge to research. We illustrate the promise of new multilevel modes of analysis through advances on schoolbased intervention programs that target multiple levels of school organizational systems to achieve multifaceted 517

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changes within and across levels. The section that follows frames contemporary and future research on the effects of poverty, ethnic diversity, and youth civic engagement with a vision of applied developmental science as a tool for promoting social justice and sociopolitical well-being.

APPLIED DEVELOPMENT SCIENCE: YESTERDAY AND TODAY Applied developmental science can trace its roots to the convergence, divergence, and then reconvergence of two streams concerned with child and family life in the United States that emerged at the turn of the 20th century (Youniss, 1990). One stream captured public attention as the “child saving movement” and emerged out of concern about developmental outcomes of immigrant children and families living in the poverty of rapidly expanding cities. Chicago was one of those cities, with a growing population surpassing one million—and 575 adolescents incarcerated along with adults in the city’s main jail. The potential for abuse was great, so individuals associated with what was to become Hull House requested that the Chicago Bar Association prepare legislation for a separate juvenile court (Durkin, 2006). The creation of the Juvenile Court of Cook County in 1889 was the first in the nation, but also led to a wave of legislation to control “wayward” children (Murray, 1983). The Morrill Act of 1862, creating the land-grant universities, mandated university outreach to identify and address problems faced by the state’s citizenry, with the result that home economists joined their agricultural colleagues in reaching out to communities and providing education and extension services to improve child development and family life (Murray, 1996). During the same period, G. Stanley Hall introduced a course on child study at Clark University and encouraged the participation of parents and educators. This opened up the academy to a wide variety of topics (including hygiene, cognitive development, and children’s attitudes) and diverse research methods, including observations, personal letters, and questionnaires.

The Evolving Prominence of Laboratory-Based Developmental Science During the early 20th century, the child saving movement and the child study movement complemented each other, with the latter providing information utilized by the

former. With time, the two streams diverged out of concerns within the child study movement about assumptions within the child saving movement of the moral superiority of certain religious and racial/ethnic values and the questionable methods and conditions under which data on child development was obtained. Hall’s work itself, although emphasizing empirical evidence, was grounded in a theory that assumed developmental superiority of white American Protestantism (Youniss, 1990). To overcome these concerns, Lawrence Frank helped turn the child study movement away from direct intervention into children’s lives and toward the objectivity of the laboratory. Frank, concerned that too much attention had been focused on pathology, also convinced the Laura Spellman Rockefeller Memorial Foundation to focus on studies of normal development, an effort that was later complemented by the steps taken by the National Research Council to conduct research fostering the development of women and children (Smuts & Hagen, 1986). The resulting laboratory investigations at the University of Iowa, the Merrill-Palmer Institute in Detroit, the University of Minnesota, the University of California at Berkeley, and Teachers College of Columbia University began to produce a detailed body of laboratory-based knowledge about children and their development, fostering a legacy of several generations of laboratory-trained developmental scientists. These scientists made great strides in the understanding of basic developmental processes, but the study of development in context and its applications languished. With time, the control of the laboratory served to separate the participants in the research studies, the children and their families, from the researchers and from the research itself. Standards for publishing in academic journals produced language that was difficult for parents, practitioners, and policy makers to apply to real-world settings. The distancing of developmental science from the developing person was highlighted by Bronfenbrenner’s now-famous observation that child development was “the science of the strange behavior of children in strange situations with strange adults for the briefest possible periods of time” (Bronfenbrenner, 1979, p. 19). The pioneering work of Bronfenbrenner and others brought in a wave of studies focusing on the ecological and external validity of laboratory studies to development in real-world settings with a new emphasis on contextual influences, including cohort effects on human development (Lerner & BuschRossnagel, 1981). During this period, the lengthening of the typical human life span spurred attention to development beyond adolescence (Nesselroade & Baltes, 1974). Studies of mid-life and older adults demonstrated that

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

plasticity was a characteristic of the entire life span, not just of the first two decades. Simultaneously, the sociopolitical movements of the late 20th century, civil rights, the war on poverty, women’s rights, and international human rights, and the pioneering contributions of developmental scientists Kenneth and Mamie Clark and Edward Zigler, challenged traditional assumptions about the universality of individual developmental trajectories and social interactions documented in laboratory research with largely white middle-class samples (K. Clark & Clark, 1939; Markowitz & Rosner, 1999; Zigler & Finn-Stevenson, 1999; Zigler & Styfco, 2010). By the 1990s, the field was ripe for the re-emergence of applied development science. The Re-Emergence of Applied Developmental Science In 1991, the first National Conference on Graduate Education in the Applications of Developmental Science across the Life Span was convened at Fordham University to identify the competencies needed to apply the developmental research knowledge base to social problems (Fisher et al., 1993). The participants were national scholars drawn from developmental science organizations spanning the full spectrum of human development, from the study of infancy to the study of our nation’s growing number of elders. The conference participants identified the scope of applied developmental science, emphasizing its applied, developmental, and science emphases, and presented a conceptual model for programs offering training in applied developmental science. The model’s identification of the levels of analysis of human systems (biological, individual, small group, organization, and community) and the contexts of human environments (physical-ecological, cultural, economic, political-legal, and historical) underscored the multilevel nature of human development and the multidisciplinary knowledge necessary for the successful application of developmental science to understanding and promotion of development across the life span. Applied Developmental Science Today Two decades after that groundbreaking conference, the promise and scope of that applied developmental science conceptual model are readily apparent in a review of the ADS research published since the last edition of the Handbook of Psychology. Building on the National Conference and other seminal work published in the late 1990s (Fisher & Lerner, 1994) earlier Handbook chapters (Sherrod, Busch-Rossnagel, & Fisher, 2004; Wertlieb, 2003)

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identified the key characteristics of applied developmental science as emphasis on multiple contextual developmental influences, a life-span perspective, the reciprocity of person–environment interactions, attention to the temporality of change across intra- and interindividual differences, and the bidirectionality of research and practice. Current Trends Applied developmental science emphasizes that development is the combined and interactive product of biology and the dynamic physical, social, politic, and cultural environments in which individuals live (Pinderhughes & Le, 2008; Schulenberg, 2006; Youngblade & Theokas, 2006; Zaff & Smerdon, 2009). The limits of our understanding of the combined and interactive influences of biology have become more apparent with the issues unleashed by the mapping of the human genome. Our increased awareness of genetic influences must always be tempered by the understanding that genetic expression can never be divorced from its context (Fisher, 2006; Fisher & Harrington, in press), a topic that will be explored later in this chapter. The theoretical and methodological influences of lifespan, ecological and developmental contextual theory (Baltes, 1987; Bronfenbrenner, 1979; Lerner, 1984, 1986) on applied developmental science has brought attention to the (a) role of biology, culture, geographic, social, economic, and political contexts on development; (b) the occurrence of age-graded, history-graded, and nonnormative (natural and person-made) events that promote or interfere with positive development; and (c) recognition that understanding of and intervention in human development calls for the involvement of multiple disciplines (Spiel, Reinmann, Wagner, & Schoberal 2008). One of the most notable sociohistorical changes affecting human development, the introduction of new technologies, has the potential to significantly alter the manner in which applied developmental scientists design and implement intervention to foster positive development (Bers, 2006). This richness in the description of the entire life course begs for integration into a more developmentally cohesive understanding of intra- and interindividual change across the life span, an endeavor to which recent work in life span metatheory can contribute. Other examples of the “new” applied developmental science abound. The integrative model of Schwartz, Pantin, Coatsworth, and Szapocnik (2007) goes beyond applied developmental science’s recognition of the reciprocity of person-environment interactions to highlight the importance of a development focus in prevention research.

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In the last decade, our understanding of reciprocity has expanded to delineate researcher–environment interactions as well. Recent and current work in civic engagement (Jensen & Flanagan, 2008), community-based participatory research (D’Alonzo, 2010), partnerships (Mitra, Sanders, & Perkins, 2010), and the relational framework for research ethics (Fisher & Fried, 2010) are all examples of this new understanding of reciprocity within applied development science. In a global society buffeted by economic downturns and natural and manmade emergencies, a concern with social justice and sociopolitical well-being represents both a return to the roots of applied developmental science and a new understanding of reciprocity between researcher, person, and environment. The timeliness of this reciprocity demands that we explore this particular characteristic of applied development science in greater depth. In the next three sections of this chapter, we review ADS accomplishments as realized over the past 10 years and identify future opportunities and challenges focusing on three central areas of ADS, namely (1) fostering links among theory, research and application to understand and promote intraindividual development; (2) constructing research designs that can apply and evaluate multilevel dynamics in prevention research and practice; and (3) the empirical examination and promotion of social justice and sociopolitical well-being. We conclude with a brief exploration of the role that community–university collaborations, engagement in humanitarian assistance, and a goodness-of-fit approach to applied developmental translational science will play in the continued evolution of applied developmental science.

APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE AND INTRAINDIVIDUAL CONTINUITY AND CHANGE: FOSTERING LINKS AMONG THEORY, RESEARCH, AND APPLICATION A central feature of applied developmental science is the study of the development of the individual with the goal of identifying the person and environment factors responsible for continuity and change in developmental risk and resilience (Fisher et al., 1993; Fisher & Lerner, 1994; Lerner, Fisher, & Gianinno, 2006). In this context, ADS has advanced substantially in determining factors associated with group patterns of developmental change that can be applied to development-promoting interventions. The study of intraindividual change and the implications of interindividual differences in development and response to interventions have yet to be fully realized in ADS. In this

section, we draw attention to the value of metatheory and methods of studying intraindividual continuity and change in meeting the promise of applied developmental science to inform and be informed by development-promoting interventions.

Fostering the Theory–Application Link One of the defining characteristics of ADS is that theory, research, and their application in the real world are interwoven, each informing and enriching the other (Fisher & Lerner, 1994; Fisher, Murray et al., 1993). Despite strong support for this model of scientific inquiry and application, however, theoretical and applied work often do not go hand in hand. The focus on application has led to an emphasis on evidence-based practices, and less emphasis on theory building and testing. Hendricks, Applebaum, and Kunkel (2010) described this conundrum for social gerontology, a field considered as “data-rich and theorypoor” (Birren & Bengtson, 1988, p. ix). In their review of 645 articles published in The Gerontologist, Journals of Gerontology, and Journal of Aging Studies, they found that 76%, 61%, and 35%, respectively, of the articles were of empirical nature with little or no theory. Interestingly, these numbers differed only slightly from a comparable review published more than 10 years earlier by Bengtson, Burgess, and Parrott (1997). When theoretical models concerning the individual and its development are put forth in scientific journals, they often do not include methodological strategies for empirically examining the complex individual and environmental influences proposed to affect development within real-world contexts.

Life-Span Theory and Applied Developmental Science Life-span theory is one of the foundational theoretical frameworks for contemporary applied developmental science (Fisher & Lerner, 1994). Life-span developmental theory conceptualizes individual development as a lifelong phenomenon from conception to death (Baltes, 1987, 1997, 2003; Brim & Wheeler, 1966; Dixon & Lerner, 1988; Staudinger & Lindenberger, 2003). With the aim of closing the gap between research focusing on either childhood or old age, Paul Baltes and his colleagues (e.g., Baltes, Cornelius, & Nesselroade, 1978; Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 1999) offered a heuristic model designed to “obtain knowledge about general principles of lifelong development, about interindividual differences and similarities in development, as well as about the

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

degree and conditions of individual plasticity or modifiability of development” (Baltes, 1987, p. 611). Besides understanding development as a multidimensional, multidirectional, and lifelong process of co-occuring gains and losses, the basic theoretical propositions of lifespan developmental theory stress the historical as well as the structural-contextual influences on the development of the individual. Together with highlighting the necessity to study development by integrating multidisciplinary perspectives, life-span developmental psychology strongly focused early on the interaction between individual and environment. Although the approach could be more strongly considered as an overarching orientation or set of propositions rather than a unified theoretical framework (Baltes, 1987), towards the end of the 20th century it gave impetus to tying empirical research to developmental theory rather than to focusing on the description of development. During the past decade, applied developmental science has advanced substantially in terms of adopting more and more propositions advocated by life-span theory. Researchers, for example, no longer assume that individual, inter-personal, societal, and environmental factors are equally salient in development of individuals at different points in their lives. For example, differentiating old and very old individuals has revealed that aspects such as health may no longer be that important for psychological well-being of the very old (Jopp, Rott, & Oswald, 2008; Jopp, Wozniak, Rott, & Oswald, 2012). In addition, it is recognized that some factors may even turn from resource into risk. Oswald and colleagues (2011), in studying personal and environmental predictors of life satisfaction, found that a large apartment was of benefit for individuals aged 65 to 79 years, whereas a greater number of rooms represented a risk for well-being of individuals 80 years and older, most likely due to health restrictions limiting their mobility. Theory and Significance of Longitudinal Data Although the life-span perspective has expanded our understanding of how specific aspects of the person or the context influence the individual at certain points in the life span, research continues to focus on specific developmental periods and cross-sectional data, rather than longitudinal studies. That such longitudinal studies can come to unexpected results contradicting established theory can be nicely illustrated using examples from the area of cognition and mental health. Schaie’s (2000) analysis of data

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from the Seattle Longitudinal Study contrasting crosssectional and longitudinal results exemplifies how findings can be biased by cohort effects. The analysis indicated that initial assumptions based on cross-sectional findings, which demonstrated that cognitive performance peaks in young adulthood, needed to be modified when longitudinal data indicated performance peaks in middle age. Combining the Berkeley Growth Study, Berkeley Guidance Study, and the Oakland Growth Study, Jones and Meredith (2000) were able to analyze indicators of psychological health over a time span of more than 50 years. The investigators found that psychological health appears to be stable in adolescence and to increase continuously between ages 30 and 60. The use of these longitudinal methods challenged the widely shared view that adolescence is a time of ups and downs in terms of psychological health, that adults face a normative crisis in midlife, and that loss in psychological health accompanies aging. The Bidirectional Relationship of Research and Practice Recently, European psychologists have drawn attention to how failure to integrate the efforts of research, foundations, service providers, and governments has become a major obstacle to improving older adults’ quality of life; they stressed the importance of concerting these efforts (Fernandez-Ballesteros et al., 2009). Early on, life-span pioneers focused on testing theory through intervention and designing interventions based on theory (e.g., Schaie, Willis, Hertzog, & Schulenberg, 1987; Willis & Schaie, 1986). For instance, to assess plasticity, one of the central theoretical propositions of life-span developmental psychology (Lerner, 1984), the testing-the-limits methodology was created, in which participants were trained in cognitive tasks until they reached the asymptote of their learning curve (Willis & Schaie, 1986, 1994). This method illustrated that older adults needed longer and did not show the same improvement despite identical training compared to younger individuals (Kliegl, Smith, & Baltes, 1989). Limited plasticity in older adults was then, in turn, considered as a means to detect the risk of Alzheimer’s disease (M. Baltes, K¨uhl, Gutzmann, & Sowarka, 1995). A recent example of the generation of a theoretical model and a related intervention program is the self-management theory of well-being proposed by Steverink, Lindenberg, and Slaets (2005), an approach to understand and foster successful aging. Epidemiological data are also a fruitful area in which to test theory and application. Berkman, Ertel, and Glymour (2011), for example, propose

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longitudinal studies that would test contrasting models of “sensitive” developmental periods for shaping later health outcomes that are critical to timing interventions for optimal effectiveness. Models to be tested include: (a) prenatal and early childhood as “critical periods”; (b) cumulative effects of risk factors over the life span; and (c) dynamic effects of early exposures to positive or negative factors influencing development that in turn influence later exposures, which in turn are linked to developmental outcomes. Metatheory and Mechanisms Underlying Development Another central aspect of life-span developmental theory with the potential for strengthening the link between theory and developmental science application is the theoretical formulation and testing of overarching, content-free mechanisms underlying development. Across the social and biological sciences, theoretical approaches to understanding the individual often do not consider development. Applied developmental scientists drawing on multidisciplinary data sources are often confronted with the absence of a developmental framework for determining how psychological processes emerge and change over time. To integrate development into theories that were originally formulated without considering transitions, metatheories of development, such as the theory of selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC; Baltes & Baltes, 1990), provide a fruitful area for testing the reciprocal effects of theory and application. Selection, Optimization, and Compensation (SOC) The SOC metatheory proposes three general processes that are critical to different domains of development at different points in the life span: selection, optimization, and compensation. Given natural limitations in resources inherent to human existence (e.g., time, energy), selection refers to processes of specification and narrowing of psychological or behavioral options, which in turn gives direction to an individual’s course of development. As development is considered a process toward higher levels of functioning, the second process, optimization, refers to the acquisition, allocation, and refinement of specific means needed to reach such higher levels. Since development also occurs within the context of individual and contextual restrictions, the third process, compensation, refers to the mechanisms of replacement of means or resources by alternatives when loss occurs to maintain functioning.

These three processes can be specified in the context of other theories and domains. For instance, SOC can be specified in the context of action theory. Selection strategies include choosing goals and setting priorities for one’s life. Individuals actively shape their development, by, for example, selecting their environment (e.g., Lerner & Busch-Rossnagel, 1981). Optimization strategies in this action-theoretic context involve, for example, choosing the right moment to act or to learn the skills required to reach one’s goals. They optimize development by striving to enhance one’s life or at least to maintain status quo. Development is also characterized by losses. When confronted with losses, individuals handle them by compensatory strategies, in order to reach the developmental outcome initially intended. Compensation strategies signify the replacement of a lost action means by another means, such as using an external aid, which could be glasses in the context of vision loss, a cane when walking becomes difficult, or a written shopping list when memory fails. These SOC life-management strategies have been investigated in various contexts and domains, including, for example, well-being (Freund & Baltes, 2002), adaptation in old age (e.g., Freund & Baltes, 1998; Jopp & Smith, 2006), industrial-organizational areas (Abraham & Hansson, 1995; Baltes & Dickson, 2001; Wiese & Freund, 2005; Wiese, Freund, & Baltes, 2002), and work-family conflict (Young, Baltes, & Pratt, 2007). The SOC theory has also inspired several researchers conducting applied studies to code reported or observed strategies as selection, optimization, and compensation. For example, Bouchard, Anas, Beamer, & Bajorek (2003) categorized coping strategies used by individuals facing age-related vision impairment to deal with everyday reading activities. Greenwood, Mackenzie, Cloud, and Wilson (2010) found SOC strategies in the reported coping strategies of caregivers of stroke patients. Lang, Rieckmann, and Baltes (2002) interpreted patterns of everyday activities according to SOC strategies. In an ongoing project, Jopp and Sanford (2012) asked elderly workers with disability how they deal with age-related difficulties using the computer for work purposes and classified the reported strategies as selection, optimization, and compensation. SOC at Different Developmental Periods Although the empirical work on SOC began with a focus on the old and very old (Freund & Baltes, 1999; Jopp & Smith, 2006), SOC processes have been investigated with individuals at almost all ages. For example, SOC theory has inspired research and theorizing on developmental regulation in adolescence (Lerner, Freund, De Stefanis,

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

& Habermas, 2001; Gestsd´ottir, Bowers, von Eye, Napolitano, & Lerner, 2010; Schmid et al., 2011), young, middleaged, and older adults (Freund & Baltes, 2002). As outlined by Lerner et al. (2001), the SOC model also offers mechanisms for hypothesizing which facets of individuals’ development and environment interact at different points in the life span. Sherrod (2001) also proposed that the SOC model would be beneficial when used to explain the transition of the young child’s relatively passive involvement in interaction with the environment to the developing person’s more proactive selection of environments and experiences. An additional benefit of the use of a metatheory such as SOC in applied developmental science is that it offers the opportunity to apply the same theoretical framework to different areas of life. For instance, one can identify the same mechanisms of dealing with difficulty in performance independent of whether the performance is memorizing a word list or walking on a narrow walking track. Li, Lindenberger, Freund, and Baltes (2001) conducted an experiment in which individuals were asked to walk on a narrow track while memorizing word lists. Participants were offered compensation strategies in both domains, walking and memory. Specifically, in the domain of walking, they could use a handrail to stabilize their walking. In the domain of memory, they were able to request extra time to enhance encoding. After extensive training, individuals were confronted with various difficulty conditions. When both tasks were made more difficult, older adults were more likely to use the handrail to compensate, whereas younger adults were more likely to use the memory aid. As falling represents a serious medical risk for older adults, prioritizing walking over memory has a higher value to them. In sum, findings indicate that comparing SOC mechanisms in different domains can increase our understanding of developmental similarities and differences in the interplay among goals, capacities, and adaptation across the life span and its implications for the timing and nature of preventive developmental interventions. Systems-Level Processes The study of SOC processes is not limited to the person level (i.e., preferred life-management strategies), but can also be an important explanatory model at the family level (i.e., how a family copes as a system with the loss of one of its members), and even at the societal level (M. Baltes & Carstensen, 1999; Boerner & Jopp, 2007). In the context of ADS, using SOC as a theoretical framework to investigate development within more complex social systems, such as interactions within a family, can inform

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intervention planning and evaluation. For instance, family members may cope with loss of a loved one differently: One may try to find ways to sustain previous patterns of family interactions (compensation) while another may seek to draw on the loss as a way of enhancing family interactions from previous levels (optimization). The SOC theory would predict that family members whose SOC strategies complement each other (orchestration) would have a systems advantage for dealing with loss and other family challenges. Benefits of Using Basic Mechanisms Theories in Applied Settings Metatheories such as SOC are not the only methods that allow the theoretical framing and prediction of development in real-world situations. Using theories formulated to understand the development of basic mechanisms, such as general coping tendencies, in applied settings also holds promise for enhancing our understanding of developmental processes across contexts and life stages (e.g., Hall, Chipperfield, Heckhausen, & Perry, 2010). Dual Process Theory and Coping With Disability Boerner’s (2004) investigation of coping with vision impairment drew upon Brandtst¨adter’s dual-process theory (Brandtst¨adter, 1999; Brandtst¨adter & Rothermund, 2002) to examine the use of assimilative coping (strategies aimed at changing the situation to meet individual needs) and accommodative coping (strategies aimed at changing the individual behaviors/skills to better handle the visual requirements of the situation). The dual process theory assumes that these strategies are antagonistic, that individuals have a preference for one of the two modes, and that, with advancing age, individuals shift towards the accommodative coping mode. When this model was tested within the vision loss setting, Boerner (2004) found that contrary to predictions, both mid-life and older individuals with progressive macular degeneration used active assimilative problem-solving rather than accommodative strategies. Thus, application of the meta-dual process theory to the study of coping with visual disability was informative for new intervention strategies as well as modifications in developmental aspects of the general dual-process theory. Control Theory and Health and Disability Another example of application of a theory geared at explaining development at a higher order level is represented in Heckhausen and Schulz’s (1995) life-span theory

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of control. For instance, Hall and colleagues (2010) examined health and survival in old and very old individuals and were able to formulate and test detailed hypotheses about the role of different control-enhancing strategies. Empirical assessment of the life-span theory of control in the context of vision impairment also demonstrated that individuals actually used many more control-enhancing strategies than proposed by the theory (Boerner, Brennan, Horowitz, & Reinhardt, 2010). Thus, formulating applied developmental research questions based on the more general life-span theory of control and taking into account more complex real-world situations not only could lead to better understanding, but also could inspire the refinement of the theories. Intraindividual Change Versus Average Population Development Applied developmental scientists are beginning to look for methods that help to distinguish specific different patterns of change and developmental trajectories of individuals from group averages (Hofer & Piccinin, 2010; von Eye & Bergman, 2003). One question of increasing social importance for individuals, their families, and policy is whether the increase in average age combined with high numbers of aging Baby Boomers reaching very old age will result in unsupportable health care costs during the next 30 years (Christensen, Doblhammer, Rau, & Vaupel, 2009; Crimmins & Beltr´an-S´anchez, 2010). To investigate this question, population-based theories propose either compression of morbidity—that larger numbers of the very old will not be accompanied by increasing costs, as the individuals who reach very old age are healthier and will develop serious health issues only shortly before death (Fries, 1980, 1989)—or expansion of morbidity—assuming that advancing into very old age comes with longer periods of life in disability (Gruenberg, 1977; Kramer, 1980; Olshansky, Carnes, & Butler, 2001). Looking at the population level tells a different story than looking at how individuals’ health changes over time. This difference can be illustrated using a study that followed centenarians until their death (Wozniak, Rott, & Jopp, 2012). Whereas levels of health of the total sample declined over time, seemingly supporting the theory of expansion of morbidity for this generation, many individuals within the sample showed stability in high levels of health during this period, providing support for the compression of morbidity hypothesis. These findings illustrate that ADS could benefit substantially from making use of individual change information rather than relying

on longitudinal change information aggregated across the group under consideration. Development as a Pattern of Individual Changes The shift from a perspective that focuses on population averages to an intraindividual change perspective represents the basis for other innovative approaches to understanding development in context. In recent years, researchers have begun to examine short-term variations of functioning to describe development (Nesselroade, 2004; Nesselroade & Ghisletta, 2000), arguing that short-term variations represent meaningful changes within the human system. Work by Li, Huxhold, and Schmiedek (2004) illustrates how individual fluctuations can also be observed in the context of adaptation and as a consequence of disturbance. When learning a new task, individuals usually show increasing performance; however, when looking more closely at task-by-task performance, there is variation that can be considered as functional diversity. When reaching the asymptote of the learning curve, individuals still vary in terms of performance, but the variation is less strong as their performance reaches a stable level. The pattern of intraindividual change can therefore also be used as an indicator of the status of a developing system. For instance, when individuals show more variability in their performance (e.g., cognition) or expression of a certain state (e.g., well-being or depression), this behavior can point to developmental phases during which the system becomes unstable and is likely to reach a different state after subsequent stabilization. Patterns of individual fluctuations have also been studied in other contexts, such as positive and negative affect, to examine differences between younger and older adults (R¨ocke, Li, & Smith, 2009). Studies have also shed light on how the shape of individual change trajectories may not depend on age, but rather on distance to death. First used to describe loss trajectories in cognition in advanced age (e.g., Berg, 1996; Hassing, Small, von Strauss, Fratiglioni, & B¨aackman, 2002; Sliwinski et al., 2006; Small & B¨aackman, 1999; Wilson, Beckett, Bienias, Evans, & Benett, 2003), terminal decline or drop has also been investigated in other areas of functioning, such as well-being (Gerstorf, Ram, Estabrook, Schupp, Wagner, & Lindenberger, 2008; Gerstorf, Ram, R¨ocke, Lindenberger, & Smith, 2008; Mroczek & Spiro, 2005). Wozniak and colleagues (2012) were also able to show that centenarians depict a comparable trajectory of decline when investigating their health changes. Specifically, centenarians depicted a health trajectory with accelerated decline before their death, and the models using

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

time to death compared to age resulted in superior model fits. Analyzing the changes in further detail, the decline trajectories were found to have points at which acceleration started. There was one group depicting accelerated decline about nine months before death. A second group showed hastened decline starting at an earlier point in time, namely about two years prior to death. Overall, the studies show that comparable developmental trajectories can be identified across different domains of functioning. Moving the Field Forward Applied developmental science has advanced substantially over the past ten years, drawing upon metatheory to direct and inform empirical investigations and methods of studying individual fluctuations in developmental change across context. Despite these advances maintaining a close connection between the theory, individual developmental trajectories and the design of effective developmentenhancing interventions remains challenging. Drawing on Hofer and Piccinin’s (2010) proposal for the future of life-span development, methods guided by integration of theory, design, and analysis; integration of results across different levels of analysis; and synthesis of results across studies on individual fluctuations in development will move applied developmental science forward in generating theory and data that will advance programs and policies to prevent developmental problems and promote the development of ADS in the 21st century.

APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE: MULTILEVEL DYNAMICS IN PREVENTION RESEARCH AND PRACTICE In this section, we describe how key principles of ADS have led to advances in our understanding of multilevel dynamics in prevention research and program practice aimed at promoting developmental well-being. Multilevel dynamics in the context of prevention research and practice include: (a) conceptualizing multiple levels of analysis; (b) precise measurement at each level; (c) understanding links between levels and how the processes linking these levels work; and (d) strategies to assess dynamic interactions over time (Masten, 2007). We illustrate these advances using current research on school-based intervention programs that target multiple levels of school organizational systems to achieve multifaceted changes within and across levels. The importance of the bidirectional translation of research findings to practice and practice-based knowledge

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to research in this area (Aber, Brown, Jones, Berg, & Torrente, 2011; Cicchetti & Toth, 2006; Greenberg, 2010; Toth, Pianta, & Erikson, 2011) will be highlighted. Finally, this section will conclude with the rapidly growing attention to research projects that incorporate dynamic interactions between genes and genetic processes and social environments (e.g., Meaney, 2010; Reiss, 2010), a small number of which have leveraged the rigor of randomizedcontrolled trial designs of preventive interventions to better understand the influence of multilevel dynamics on development (e.g., Brody, Beach, Philibert, Chen, & Murry, 2009). ADS Principles and Advances in Multilevel Dynamic Approaches to School-Based Prevention Research and Practice Dating back to its inaugural conference on graduate training (Fisher et al., 1993), and evidenced through more recent articulations (Fisher & Lerner, 2005; Lerner & Overton, 2008; Wertlieb, 2003), ADS has long emphasized reciprocally influential person–context relations. This focus has made the study of context and relations among levels of organization within the ecology of human development (e.g., biological, family, school, neighborhood, sociocultural) central for developmental analyses and programs (and policies) seeking to optimize developmental trajectories across the life span. Underlying these concepts is a developmental systems view of human development, in which development occurs as a function of an individual’s interactions with their changing contexts throughout their lives (Fisher et al., 1993; Fisher & Lerner, 1994; Lerner, Fisher, & Weinberg, 2000b). Also central to ADS is the appreciation of the bidirectional relationship between knowledge generation and knowledge application emphasizing the collaboration and co-learning between university researchers and community partners (Lerner & Fisher, 1994). Schools as Key Settings for Developmental Prevention Programs and Research While these core ADS principles are evident in numerous areas of current research, they are illustrated here through a focus on recent research on school-based programs designed to promote social-emotional learning and prevent the development of aggression/violence. Schoolbased prevention research was selected to highlight the contributions of ADS to prevention science and practice for several reasons. First, according to a major report

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published in 2009 by the National Research Council and Institute of Medicine (NRC/IOM, 2009), rates of mental, emotional, or behavioral (MEB) disorders among children are alarmingly high in the United States, with approximately 17% of U.S. children estimated to suffer from one or more MEB disorders. Based on the scarcity and underfunding of services for treatment, the report emphasizes the need for effective prevention strategies as a critical component of a national strategy to promote children’s mental health. Schools have therefore become increasingly popular settings in which to focus prevention strategies, given mandated attendance and the amount of time that children spend in school each year for many years, beginning at an early and formative period. Second, and relatedly, the processes of teaching and learning in schools have strong social, emotional, and academic components, with relationships among peers and with teachers playing a central role in success in these domains (Zins, Weissberg, Wang, & Walberg, 2004). Third, schools represent complex and nested social systems, providing the opportunity for prevention efforts to target and work synergistically within and across multiple organizational levels (e.g., school leaders, teaching staff, whole classrooms, individual children). Indeed, as posited by theoretical models of such schoolwide sustainable socioemotional learning programming (Axelrod, Devaney, Ogren, Tanyu, & Utne-O’Brien, 2007) recent findings from a quasi-experimental study of a coordinated prevention program between schools and community agencies involving 146 school districts in Pennsylvania indicated significant impacts on both risk and protective factors as well as outcomes in academic success, substance abuse, and delinquency (Feinberg, Greenberg, Osgood, Sartorius, & Bontempo, 2007; Feinberg, Jones, Greenberg, Osgood, & Bontempo, 2010). Lastly, recent research has suggested that school-based intervention may produce positive changes in neurocognitive functioning as well as behavior (Diamond, Barnett, Thomas, & Munro, 2007; Greenberg, Riggs, & Blair, 2007), and that programrelated improvements in executive functioning (inhibitory control and working memory) mediated reductions one year later in teacher-rated aggression (Riggs, Greenberg, Kusche, & Pentz, 2006). Multilevel Dynamics in School-Based Prevention Research and Practice It is increasingly recognized that school-based efforts to promote skill learning and positive behavior among children will be most effective if they target multiple levels of

a school’s ecology (Durlak, Weissberg, Dymnicki, Taylor, & Schellinger, 2011; Greenberg, 2010; Zaff, 2011). This focus includes principals, assistant principals and other school administrators (Kam, Greenberg, & Walls, 2003); teachers and classrooms (Jones, Brown, & Aber, 2008; Kellam et al., 2008); school staff such as lunch aides, playground monitors, and parent helpers who are rarely included in programs or research (LaRusso, Brown, Jones, & Aber, 2009); and of course children (Aber, Brown, & Jones, 2003; Clayton, Ballif-Spanville, & Honsaker, 2001; Conduct Problems Prevention Research Group, 1999, 2007; Jones, Brown, & Aber, 2011; Prothrow-Stith, 2007). Such an approach recognizes the school itself as a developmental system, comprising numerous microcontexts in which key proximal relationships develop over time (e.g., students–students; students–teachers; teachers–teachers; teachers–administrators) and which may afford opportunities for programmatic sequencing, alignment, and focus that establish noticeable changes in school climate (LaRusso et al., 2009; Maxwell, 2010). Only a few, however, are explicitly designed based on the idea that improving functioning in one domain of development (e.g., interpersonal interactions) influences functioning in other domains (e.g., academic engagement and attention) (Domitrovich et al., 2010; Guerra & Bradshaw, 2008), ultimately aiming to promote change at multiple levels in multiple developmental domains over time (e.g., Cox, Mills-Koonce, Propper, & Gariepy, 2010; Jones et al., 2008; Tseng & Seidman, 2007). Classrooms as Key Systems for Academic, Social, and Emotional Development Classrooms in particular have been conceptualized as key systems that both influence children’s social, emotional, and behavioral development (Jones, Brown, & Aber, 2008) and that are sensitive to prevention efforts that target relevant setting-level processes (Brown, Jones, LaRusso, & Aber, 2010). Specifically, evidence from numerous studies has demonstrated that compositional and relation-based features of classrooms are important sources of influence on children’s social, emotional, and academic development (Carrell & Hoekstra, 2009; Dmitrieva, Steinberg, & Belsky, 2007; Kellam, Ling, Merisca, Brown, & Ialongo, 1998; Pianta, Belsky, Vandergrift, Houts, & Morrison, 2008; Thomas, Bierman, Powers, & CPPRG, 2011). For example, Belsky and colleagues found that kindergarten children with limited or no childcare history showed more aggression (e.g., fighting and arguing) and higher academic achievement when

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

attending classrooms higher in concentration of peers who had extensive childcare histories (Dmitrieva et al., 2007). Similarly, in a sample of 3rd through 5th graders in 22 public elementary schools, Carrell and Hoekstra (2009) found that higher classroom concentrations of children who had experienced domestic violence significantly decreased the reading and math test scores of nonexposed peers and increased misbehavior in the classroom overall. While the processes underlying these effects are not yet well understood, they are likely driven in part by children’s overall experiences of their classrooms as comfortable and supportive versus worrying and stressful, and increased classroom disruptions may increase teacher stress and hinder effective instruction. Indeed, supportive relationships in the classroom, particularly between children and teachers, have been shown to promote children’s social and academic development (Hamre & Pianta, 2001; Pianta, Steinberg, & Rollins, 1995). Evidence suggests classrooms high in observed emotional and instructional supports may be particularly salient for high-risk children (Hamre & Pianta, 2005). Fortunately, as discussed next, an observational measure of the quality of key classroom relational processes called the Classroom Assessment Scoring System (CLASS; Pianta, LaParo, & Hamre, 2008) has been developed and demonstrates strong psychometric properties (Hamre, Pianta, Mashburn, & Downer, 2007). This tool has led many researchers to seek reliability training in the use of the instrument so they can import it into large-scale school-based prevention efforts to better understand the impact of classroom settings on children’s social, emotional, and academic development. A Multilevel Approach to Evaluating the Impact of School-Based Prevention Programs on Classroom Relational Quality The availability and strong psychometric properties of the CLASS has enabled advances in the rigorous evaluation of independently observed classroom-level processes (emotional support, instructional support, classroom organization) central to the theory of change of many schoolbased prevention programs. This use exemplifies the move towards increasingly precise measurement of a critical context for children in schools, and this precision has now enabled rigorous tests of the impact of school-level interventions directly on these classroom processes. Results to date are promising. In a randomized-controlled trial of the Reading, Writing, Respect and Resolution Program (4Rs),

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a schoolwide social and emotional learning and literacy intervention in 18 elementary schools, after one year of exposure to the program, intervention school classrooms were rated by trained independent observers as having higher-quality classroom interactions compared to control school classrooms (Brown et al., 2010). Similarly, Raver and colleagues’ (2008) Chicago School Readiness Project (CSRP) found that Head Start–funded preschool programs randomly assigned to receive behavior management training for classroom teachers coupled with weekly in-class mental health consultants were rated by independent observers as having significantly higher levels of positive classroom climate, teacher sensitivity, and behavior management than control classrooms. These findings highlight the importance of carefully measuring multiple systems within school-based prevention research and suggest future tests of whether classroom quality mediates the relationship between exposure to the intervention and changes in children’s developmental trajectories. Challenges for Longitudinal Multilevel Dynamic Models A central tenet of ADS concerns examining systematic and successive changes in human systems (Fisher et al., 1993; Fisher & Lerner, 1994), typically involving longitudinal research designs in which participants are tracked and assessed with comparable measures at consecutive time points. Such models have become increasingly prevalent in school-based prevention programs and research, demonstrating that short-term interventions yield little change in outcomes of interest (Greenberg, 2010). Instead, meaningfully altering school practices across multiple levels (school, teacher/classroom, child) to produce desired outcomes for children often requires several years of program implementation and repeated assessments, as understanding both short- and longer-term impacts may be critical for both theory and program revision (Aber et al., 2011; Conduct Problems Prevention Research Group,2011; Jones, Brown, & Aber, 2011). Assessing Contextual Influences on Development Across Multiple Contexts Longitudinal multilevel models, particularly in school contexts, present a number of significant challenges that have received little attention by applied developmental scientists. First, at least at the elementary school level, children are assigned (“nested”) to a single teacher/classroom

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typically for one year, receiving assignments to different teachers in subsequent years. Therefore, students assigned to a given teacher in one year are typically shuffled and receive assignments such that their class is dispersed in the following year across available teachers at the next grade level. Thus, each year students are grouped into classrooms with students with whom they will spend the year, after which they are dispersed across available teachers for the following year, where they will encounter a new classroom composition of students (some the same as the year before and some from other classes). This mixing of students across classrooms each year raises methodological challenges for estimating the effects of classroom characteristics (e.g., classroom relational quality, peer norms for aggression) on individual developmental trajectories across years. Some methodologists have recommended the use of cross-classification models (Hox, 2002) in which one first determines the number of possible combinations of yearly classroom assignments students could have, and then uses those (cross-classifications) to estimate developmental change as a function of each classification pattern. Second, estimating causal mediation (e.g., the relationship between school-level intervention assignment and childlevel behavioral outcomes is mediated by classroom-level interaction quality) in the context of even a randomized controlled trial is difficult. For example, in a schoolrandomized prevention trial, it may be hypothesized that the program will improve classroom interactions, which in turn will improve children’s outcomes; in other words, classroom interactions will mediate the impact of the intervention on children. In this example, the mediator (classrooms) is not randomized. Classrooms are therefore potentially influenced by other unobserved variables besides random assignment to intervention. Conducting such tests requires advanced methodological training in data analytic techniques (e.g., instrumental variable approaches) and have not yet been widely used by applied developmental scientists. Bidirectional Translation of Research Findings to Practice and Practice-Based Knowledge to Research There may be multiple points at which research is most effectively translated to inform practice and vice versa (Aber et al., 2011; Greenberg, 2010). Practitioner’s articulation of their program’s theory of change may be initially queried with research to best match theoretically and/or empirically grounded constructs prior to

large-scale deployment. Similarly, program theory may direct researcher attention to a particular ecological level and developmental process or outcome within that level, as well as ways in which it might be expected to interact with factors at other levels (e.g., intervention status and child-level behavioral risk at baseline; see Jones et al., 2011). For example, in the evolution of the research on the above-mentioned Reading, Writing, Respect and Resolution (4Rs) Program, there was an effective collaboration between the research team and the program developers and practitioners. The collaboration began with an understanding of the practice-based model, and a process of making the implicit practice-based theory of change explicit in order for the research team to develop, select, and/or adapt measures that would allow for the operationalizaion of the practice-based theory of change. The research team then drew on both theory and prior empirical research in the developmental and prevention sciences in order to query the intervention’s theory of change, leading to agreement about representative constructs that could be tested in the program logic model, using extant theory about causal influences on the development and prevention/promotion of that construct to inform further articulation of the program’s theory of change. Multilevel Dynamic Models Incorporating Gene-Environment Interactions Co-action between biological and environmental sources of risk and protective influences on development has recently received considerable attention by applied developmental scientists in special issues or special sections of Development and Psychopathology (see Cicchetti & Gunnar, 2008; Ellis & Boyce, 2011), and Perspectives on Psychological Science (see Reiss, 2010), as well as in numerous recent books (e.g., Hood, Halpern, Greenberg, & Lerner, 2010; Kendler, Jaffee, & Romer, 2011; Tremblay, van Aken, & Koops, 2009; Rutter, 2006). Current evidence suggests it is variation in biologically based sensitivity to contexts that may contribute to differences in the course of development, with context-sensitive individuals susceptible to both the adverse effects of unsupportive (development inhibiting) environments and the beneficial effects of supportive (development promoting) environments (Bakermans-Kranenburg & van IJzendoorn, 2006, 2007; Belsky, Bakermans-Kranenburg, & van IJzendoorn, 2007; Belsky & Pluess, 2009; Blair & Diamond, 2008; Boyce & Ellis, 2005; Ellis, Essex, & Boyce, 2005; Pluess & Belsky, 2009a, 2009b).

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

To date, evidence of biological and particularly gene-based differences in susceptibility to environmental influences on development has been limited by a disproportionate focus on a restricted range of typically adverse environments and maladaptive psychological and behavioral outcomes. These limitations potentially obscure our more complete understanding of human plasticity in developmental processes and thus also the mechanisms and outcomes of our intended development-promoting interventions (Belsky, Pluess, Stanton, Brummett, & Williams, 2009; Belsky & Pluess, 2009). Integrating biological measures into randomized prevention trials conducted with children and adolescents, where study designs to date have largely addressed processes only at the psychosocial and behavioral levels of analysis, holds great promise for improving our understanding of pathways contributing to intervention efficacy across multiple levels of influence (Beauchaine, Neuhaus, Brenner, & Gatzke-Kopp, 2008; Cicchetti & Gunnar, 2008; Moffitt, Caspi, & Rutter, 2006).

APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE, SOCIAL JUSTICE, AND SOCIOPOLITICAL WELL-BEING In this section, we present a description and vision of applied developmental science (ADS) as a tool for promoting social justice and sociopolitical well-being. This vision draws upon the field’s significant accomplishments in understanding the effects of poverty and racial discrimination on individual and family well-being and in promoting positive development through youth civic engagement programs. It also highlights potential linkages between ADS and other social science fields working to identify and eliminate societal barriers to human development. Social Justice and Social Inequities Definitions of social justice and its corollary, social inequities, focus on “societal structures, policies, and hierarchies that limit access to resources based on group or individual characteristics, including age, race, ethnicity, social class, poverty, religion, gender, immigration status, sexual orientation, and language” (Kenny & Romano, 2009, p. 22). ADS has addressed many elements of a social justice perspective in its focus on the multilevel correlates of developmental risk and resilience, evidencebased development promoting interventions, policy analysis, and community engagement (Bronfenbrenner, 2005; Fisher & Lerner, 1994, 2005; Fisher et al., 1993; Fisher

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et al., 1996; Higgins-D’Allesandro, Hamilton & Fisher, 1998; Lerner, 2004, 2010; Lerner, Fisher, & Weinberg, 2000a, 2000b; Sherrod et al., 2004). These contributions are tempered by small effect sizes (McCartney & Rosenthal, 2000), difficulty in constructing programs that can adequately address the diverse and multiple individual and contextual factors that result in cumulative risks (Geronimus, Hicken, Keene, & Bound, 2006; Lochman, 2004; Masten & Cicchetti, 2010; Timberlake, 2007), challenges in sustaining experimental prevention programs once they are proven successful (Balsano, 2005; Hyman, 2002; S´anchez-Jankowski, 2002; Zaff, Malanchuk, & Eccles, 2008), and the disjuncture between the pace of science and that of legislation (Huston, 2008; Shonkoff, 2000). Many of these challenges stem from systemic inequities that pose challenges to all applied sciences dedicated to promoting social justice (Kenny & Romano, 2009). Social Inequities as Structural Violence In his book Pathologies of Power, Paul Farmer (2003), the physician and medical anthropologist best known for his humanitarian work in Haiti, describes how extreme and relative poverty and social inequalities related to racism, gender, and other forms of discrimination are offenses against human dignity so grave in their damaging effect on well-being that they can be conceptualized as a form of sanctioned violence. Entrenched structural violence based on social class and race/ethnicity is characterized by pervasive structuring of disparities in access to health care, housing, safe neighborhoods, educational resources, occupational opportunities, and the resultant narrowing of life options. Social suffering, defined as the experience of entrenched structural violence at the individual and collective level (Bourgois, Lettiere, & Quesada, 1997) can have a “weathering effect” (Geronimus et al., 2006) on development across the life span through acute and chronic experience with social and economic adversity and political marginalization. These experiences result in persistent high-effort coping, which in turn leads to feelings of powerlessness and early health deterioration (Evans & Prilleltensky, 2005; Hart & Atkins, 2002). Social Justice and Prevention Science In their classic article on social justice and prevention science, Albee and Ryan-Finn (1993) argued that the biological and tertiary approaches to prevention characteristic of the time had the iatrogenic effect of maintaining an inequitable social order as a consequence of focusing on individual risks and remedies. To draw attention

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to the importance of including social justice in social science research, they proposed an incident formula in which mental and emotional distress is a direct function of environmental conditions that foster oppression and inequity divided by the strengths of individual and group to resist the negative effects of oppression. Substituting developmental well-being for mental health, the formula would predict that the incidence of developmental problems is a function of systemic conditions fostering oppression and unfair disparities in access to social capital and material resources divided by the strengths of the individual, family, and community to resist the negative effects of oppression. This conceptual formula highlights the fact that the more systemic influences are powerful, influential, sustained, transgenerational, and cumulative, the greater the denominator resources must be. The formula also suggests that prevention programs designed to strengthen individual and family resources may chip away at the overwhelming effects of oppression and social injustice, but the balance will never be achieved unless the numerator is similarly addressed.

On that basis, he suggests that the validity of research and empirically based interventions should include evaluation of the degree to which they incorporate knowledge of the sources, experiences, and consequences of oppression, the power dynamics operating at the psychological and political levels, and whether prevention strategies include promotion of psychological and political liberation in the personal, relational, and collective domains. In the language of ecological systems theory (Bronfenbrenner, 1979), oppression and social inequity are macrosystem influences, or what Bronfenbrenner (1974) termed “enduring factors” in development that are mediated through the ecological levels nested within it. From this perspective, psychopolitical validity in developmental science requires studies of human development and policy analysis that consider the pervasive and distal sociocultural sources and influences of oppression on other ecological levels and that develop preventive interventions that aim to transform these influences through changes toward liberation at the personal, interpersonal, organizational, and sociocultural levels; that is, the transformation of oppressive social structures.

Psychopolitical Well-Being and Psychopolitical Validity

Civic Engagement and Positive Youth Development

Prilleltensky (2003) has introduced the concept of psychopolitical well-being into community prevention science discourse. Psychopolitical well-being is understood in terms of the processes of oppression and liberation. Oppression has been variously defined in terms of its source and consequences (Gil, Vega, & Biafora,1998; Mulroy & Austin, 2004, p. 30; Van Soest & Garcia, 2003). For example, Prilleltensky and his colleagues (Prilleltensky & Gonick, 1994, 1996; Prilleltensky & Nelson, 2002) define it as “a state of asymmetric power relations characterized by domination, subordination, and resistance, whereby the controlling person or group exercise its power by processes of political exclusion and violence and by psychological dynamics of appreciation” (Prilleltensky, 2003, p. 195). The antidotes to oppression are processes that promote “liberation,” defined as the process of resisting oppressive forces and striving toward psychological and political wellbeing (Prilleltensky, 2003). Whereas oppression denies group members of their rights, liberation promotes their recovery. According to Prilleltensky (2003) the challenge for social scientists is to incorporate notions of oppression and liberation into their research and prevention strategies.

There is a growing and significant body of empirical research in applied developmental science illuminating the importance of civic engagement to positive youth development, to adult functioning, and to the sustainability and continued evolution of a civil society that supports freedom and social justice (Lerner, 2002, 2005; Lerner et al., 2009; Lerner, Dowling, & Anderson, 2003; Lerner, Fisher, & Weinberg, 2000a, 2000b; Lerner & Overton, 2008; Levine & Youniss, 2006; Obradovic & Masten, 2007; Sherrod, Flanagan, Kassimir, & Bertelsen, 2005). The study and examination of programs promoting civic engagement is one part of a new approach to guide youth research and policy that replaces the traditional research focus on problem behaviors and developmental risk with a conceptualization of youth as a community resource (Camino & Zeldin, 2002). This more nuanced concept of development includes the study of individual assets (cognitive and social competencies, positive values, a healthy identity) and environmental assets (caring adults, positive adult and peer role models, safe and healthy neighborhoods, and stimulating academic environments) (Barber, Eccles, & Stone, 2001; Eccles & Gootman, 2002; Larson, Hansen, & Moneta, 2006; Leffert et al., 1998; Lerner et al., 2005; Loder

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

& Hirsch 2003; Mahoney, Larson, Eccles, & Lord, 2005; Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003; Sherrod, 2003, 2005; Sherrod, Flanagan, & Youniss, 2002; Sherrod, Qui˜nones, & Davila, 2004; Tolan, Sherrod, Gorman-Smith, & Henry, 2004; Zaff, Boyd, Li, Lerner, & Lerner, 2010). In this framework, civic engagement in youth and early adulthood sets the groundwork for skills that can sustain positive developmental trajectories, resulting in individual and community benefits (Benson, 2006; Leffert et al., 1998; Theokas & Lerner, 2006; Youniss & Yates, 1997). However, the field is only beginning to grapple with how structural issues and social inequities result in the maintenance of a status quo that empowers some youth but marginalizes others (Benson, Mannes, Pittman, & Ferber, 2004; Scales, Benson, Moore, Lippman, Brown, & Zaff, 2008; Watts & Flanagan, 2007). One promising area is the study of neighborhood effect.

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in their communities (Balsano, 2005; Beyers, Goossens, Vansant, & Moors, 2003; Evans & Prilleltensky, 2005; Fisher, Jackson, & Villarruel, 1997; McLoyd & Wilson, 1991; Witherspoon, Schotland, Way, & Hughes, 2009). One of the process concepts applicable to a neighborhood community involves “community competence” (Fellin, 2001, p. 70), the capacity of neighborhood residents and service providers to engage in a process of identifying community needs, coordinating services, and/or facilitating problem-solving related to community concerns or resolving conflicts. Structural inadequacies in educational, medical, and law enforcement facilities and policies can also be an impediment to neighborhood collective efficacy, defined as the shared belief among community members that they are capable of working together for the common good (Browning, Burrington, Leventhal, & Brooks-Gunn, 2008; Sampson, 2001; Sampson, Morenoff, & Earls, 1999).

Neighborhood Effects Data on structural impediments to civic engagement has only begun to surface in the political development research. A fruitful area of applied developmental science research has focused on neighborhood influences on children’s development. This blend of sociological and psychological science methodologies owes a debt to Sampson’s influential social disorganization theory (Sampson, 1992, 1997; Sampson & Groves, 1989; Sampson & Laub, 1993, 1994). This theory draws attention to how collective and aggregate neighborhood characteristics influence neighborhood processes, which in turn influence developmental outcomes. In recent years, investigators have examined mediators and moderators of neighborhood level developmental risk (Leventhal & Brooks-Gunn, 2000; Roosa, Jones, Tein, & Cree, 2003). For example, youth living in urban or rural environments, where adult political participation is low and civic education opportunities to engage in clubs and teams are lacking, lag behind suburban adolescents in civic knowledge and civic participation (Dearing et al., 2009; Fauth, Roth, & Brooks-Gunn, 2007; Hart & Atkins, 2002; Morrissey & Werner-Wilson, 2005; Williams, Davis, Cribbs, Saunders, & Williams, 2002). In addition, living in unsafe, impoverished, conflict-ridden, and stressful environments can produce civic marginalization, by robbing youth of a sense of trust toward adults (who are expected to protect them from harm), strong formal and informal structures to supervise teenage peer groups, and positive expectations concerning the ability to implement meaningful change

Political Oppression and Civic Engagement Since Hispanics, Blacks, and Asians constitute higher proportions of urban-living youth than in the country as a whole, they may be more at risk for civic marginalization, especially if youth-serving organizations do not recognize the need to incorporate sensitivity to civic subcultures and context-appropriate civic opportunities (Roth & Brooks-Gunn, 2003; S´anchez-Jankowski, 2002; Timberlake, 2007). Historically, civic engagement by citizens of color was discouraged because of its potential to challenge the legitimacy of White privilege in American society and politics (Jacobson & Frye, 1991; S´anchez-Jankowski, 2002). A fruitful extension of civic engagement and positive youth development is the study of how policies and ideologies influence civic marginalization of youth and adults. Political marginalization can be characterized at the sociocultural level as the systemic exclusion of specific groups from democratic participation as a function of exclusionary or corrupt government structures. These influences can be illuminated through analysis of laws that permit redistricting of voting areas to nullify minority influences on local elections, lobbying and campaign finance laws that permit groups with more economic power to have a disproportionate influence on electoral politics and acts of Congress, and pervasive cultural ideologies that sustain racial and other forms of group inequities. Political oppression can also be assessed at the community and organizational levels through analysis of local voting

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registration laws that discourage or promote voter registration by oppressed groups, tactics designed to decrease or increase voting through scare tactics or get out the vote drives, respectively, and fragmentation and competition among and within oppressed groups for political power that dilutes group influence. Such policies prevent oppressed groups from influencing laws that affect distribution of economic resources and government programs directed toward their interests. While civic marginalization within racial/ethnic minority groups in the United States is influenced by contextual and interpersonal variables associated with impoverished neighborhoods, it is compounded by structural barriers to positive youth development created by historical and current racist ideologies and institutions. Institutional Racism, Sociopolitical Validity, and Psychopolitical Well-Being Institutional racism has been defined in terms of institutional structures and processes passed on from generation to generation that organize and promote racial inequity throughout the culture via institutional structures, ideological beliefs, and personal everyday actions of people in the culture (Jones, 1997, p. 472). Racism is rooted in an ideology of inferiority that categorizes, ranks, and differentially allocates societal resources to human population groups and that manifests itself in racial/ethnic disparities in criminal justice, employment, economic resources, health, and education (Griffith, Moy, Reischl, & Dayton, 2006; Pettigrew, 2004; Williams & Rucker, 2000). Racism in the United States has a long history marked by social and political constructions of group differences governed by the political and social interests of the ruling racial caste (Anderson & Massey, 2001; Miles, 1989; Fisher, 1999; Fisher et al., 1997). As a social construction, “race” reflects a division of individuals into groups rooted in historical racial oppression translated into locally prescribed ways of thinking about social groups and institutionalized inequities in access to economic, political, and social resources (Fisher et al., 1997). Categorizing individuals into socially constructed racial groupings has been used to exclude members of these groups from full participation in the U.S. political system (Almaguer, 1994; Ignatiev 1995). As such, “race” is very real in its continuing effects on practices of segregation and exclusion, distribution of wealth, health disparities, and concentration of political and economic power in groups that have explicitly or implicitly benefited from the racist past (Blanchard & Lurie, 2004; Durrheim, Hook, & Riggs, 2009; Saha, Arbelaez, & Cooper, 2003). Institutional racism also

contributes to treatment refusal rates based on cultural/ racial distrust or perceived discrimination (Do et al., 2010; Fisher et al., 2008; Fisher & Wallace, 2000; Hammond, 2010; White, 2005). In the all-too-recent past, research has been used to justify racist policies and demeaning stereotypes (Caughy, Nettles, O’Campo, & Lohrfink, 2006; Griffith et al., 2006; Helms, 1993; Fisher, 1999; Fisher et al., 2002; Laosa, 1985; Ponterotto, 1993; Trimble & Fisher, 2006; Tyack, 1995). Racism and Positive Youth Development Research on race and development within ADS has made great strides in recent years. illuminating how children and youth experience racial/ethnic discrimination and how racial/ethnic identity, parental socialization practices, and the racial/ethnic ecology of schools and neighborhoods mediate the effects of perceived discrimination (Brown, Meadows, & Elder, 2007; Fisher, Wallace, & Fenton, 2000; Hughes et al., 2006; Juvonen, Nishina, & Graham, 2006; Martinez, DeGarmo, & Eddy, 2004; Pahl & Way, 2006; Phinney & Ong, 2007; Rosenbloom & Way, 2004; Seaton, Caldwell, Sellers, & Jackson, 2010; Spencer, 2006; Supple, Ghazarian, Frabutt, Plunkett, & Sands, 2006; Uma˜naTaylor & Guimond, 2010). A small body of empirical studies is also emerging on the cumulative effects of societal racism on older adult mental and physical health (Henry & Sears, 2009; Merritt, Bennett, Williams, Edwards, & Sollers, 2006; Moody-Ayers, Stewart, Covinsky, & Inouye, 2005; Utsey, Payne, Jackson, & Jones, 2002). In so doing, developmental researchers have moved away from limited conception of race as phenotypic expressions of group genotypical characteristics to an understanding of race/ethnicity as a social constructions that are continuously changing (Fisher et al., 1997; Fisher et al., 2002). In addition, ADS research has begun to converge with data from other areas of the social sciences in illuminating how racist ideology and behaviors develop in majority groups through intra- and interracial group contact and friendships (Adams, O’Brien, & Nelson, 2006; Dovidio & Gaertner, 2004; Dovidio, Gaertner, Kawakami, & Hodson, 2002; Hamm, 2000; Hughes, Bigler, & Levy, 2007; Killen, Lee-Kim, McGlothlin, & Stangor, 2002; Kohatsu et al., 2000; McGillicuddy-De Lisi, Daly, & Neal, 2006; McGlothlin, Killen, & Edmonds, 2005; Molina & Wittig, 2006; Pahl & Way, 2006; Pettigrew & Tropp, 2006; Uma˜na-Taylor, 2004; Yip, Seaton, & Sellers, 2010). The field is only beginning to tackle methodologies to identify and change the systemic structures that support and sustain racism and unjust disparities in opportunities for health and human development.

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

Dismantling Racism To address entrenched racial inequities, Griffith and colleagues (2007) provide an innovative model called dismantling racism that is consistent with and complementary to the goals of civic engagement and positive youth development. This model takes a systems-level approach to promoting individual and collective political empowerment (Watts, Williams, & Jagers, 2003) through increasing knowledge, analytical skills, emotional faculties, and the capacity to address institutional racism, social injustices, and racial inequities within organizations and communities. According to Griffith and colleagues (2007), institutional racism operates through three levels of organization conceptually similar to Bronfenbrenner’s (1979) series of nested ecological systems: individual, intraorganizational, and extraorganization. At the individual level, racism operates through staff members’ attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors. One barrier to interventions aimed at reducing the toxic effects of racism at this level is the reluctance of service providers to believe that their own behaviors, the behaviors of their peers, and their institution’s policies are rooted in a history of racism and segregation in the provision of services (Geiger, 2006; Smedley, Stith, & Nelson, 2003). Failures of service providers to recognize their role in sustaining racist practices occurs because these attitudes and practices are embedded within the intraorganizational level, which perpetuates racial disparities through an organization’s internal climate, policies and procedures, and relationships among staff, all of which are rooted in formal and informal hierarchies and power relationships (Griffith et al., 2007). Thus, while critical to correcting racial/ethnic service inequities, interventions focused exclusively on staff cultural competency training will have limited effectiveness (Horner et al., 2004). Interventions addressed at the organizational level also face resistance, because explicit and implicit racial inequities in these settings reflect a reciprocal relationship between these organizations and the larger extraorganizational level influences at the community, state, and federal levels. The dismantling racism approach uses anti-racist community organizing as a strategy designed to illuminate where to intervene in ways that reduce individual, intraorganizational, and extraorganizational factors. It brings stakeholders together to increase their collective power to resolve disparities, and to hold those in power accountable to principles of justice and equity, while at the same time promoting empowerment for all involved (Jones, 2003). The approach requires multiracial partnerships of people

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with a common understanding of the problem and a commitment to antiracist community organizing. It involves stakeholders uncovering how power and racism are made manifest, how they affect organizational infrastructure, and how dismantling strategies can contribute to reconceptualization and improvement in organizational mission and functions. Applied Developmental Science: Liberating Sociopolitical Well-Being Liberation psychology draws on Prilleltensky’s psychopolitical validity model to include in the study of youth political development an understanding of the political, economic, cultural, and other systemic forces that shape society and shape developmental progressions in political knowledge, identity, the sense of individual and collective self-efficacy, and civic engagement (Bandura, 2001; Watts & Flanagan, 2007; Watts et al., 2003). This model challenges ADS to go beyond the study of individual, interpersonal, and local community resources to methods to understand and transform ineffective or oppressive social ideologies, policies, and institutions. For example, the psychopolitical validity framework challenges the efficacy of political development theories focused on promoting intergenerational transfer, arguing that this approach serves to sustain current conceptions of civic institutions. Instead, liberation psychology stresses the value of “replacement” theory in conceptualizing political development as a resource for correcting societal injustices perpetuated by these systems (Camino & Zeldin, 2002; Watts & Flanagan, 2007). This approach to civic engagement is beginning to take hold among applied developmental scientists, who are encouraging social scientists to question why marginalized groups should be motivated to engage in a system that has excluded them, to examine ways to promote “authentic youth–adult partnerships,” to encourage the role of peer-led collective political action, and to promote understanding and awareness of oppression and liberation strategies as an essential element of civic education (Camino & Zeldin, 2002; Obradovic & Masten, 2007; S´anchez-Jankowski, 2002; Youth Activism Project, 2004). This evolving perspective also calls for longitudinal studies of social disparities in the pathways to civic participation focused on living in a consistent civic context that provides opportunities for; participation in school extracurricular activities, adult modeling of civic behaviors, and inclusive attitudes; recognition of historical and current forms of oppression and liberation strategies as they relate to the demographic features of

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each community; and volunteer and community service (Lichter, Shanahan, & Gardner, 2002; Zaff et al., 2008).

AN APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE FOR THE 21ST CENTURY In the 21st century, ADS is evolving into a field emphasizing preventive interventions aimed at identifying and intervening to correct imbalances in power and access to social resources. It is beginning to look at the stability and continuity of oppressive majority group attitudes toward marginalized groups across the life course and to identify political, economic, and social factors that facilitate individual and group shifts toward liberating attitudes. It is building upon its success in understanding and promoting social justice through individual, interpersonal, and intraorganizational interventions to construct and promote evidence-based policies aimed at identifying and breaking down systemic ideologies, policies, and societal forces that lead to oppression and marginalization and to promote sociocultural systems that liberate human capacity and lifelong positive development. In reflecting on the first 10 years of publication of the journal Applied Developmental Science, Lerner, Fisher, and Gianinno (2006) noted that there had been both constancy and change in the scholarly work presented in the journal. Our review of ADS research points to the same conclusion, so we would like to end this chapter by identifying three opportunities for the further advancement of ADS in the next decade. Community Engagement At the turn of the 21st century, the challenge for ADS was to move from efficacy research to outreach scholarship (Lerner, Fisher, & Weinberg, 2000a, 2000b) and community partnerships (Jensen, Hoagwood, & Trickett, 1999; Kennedy, 1999; Lerner, 1999; Sherrod, 1999; Thompson, 1999); a decade later, our challenge is to move beyond outreach to true community engagement and the scholarship of community engagement. As defined by the Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching, community engagement “describes the collaboration between institutions of higher education and their larger communities (local, regional/state, national, global) for the mutually beneficial exchange of knowledge and resources in a context of partnership and reciprocity.” (Carnegie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching, 2010). An

elective category within the Carnegie classification system, the designation of community engagement requires substantial commitments in two areas, Curricular Engagement and Outreach and Partnerships. The classification was unveiled in 2006 and has contributed to advances in community engagement scholarship, as evidenced by new peer-reviewed journals such as the Journal of Community Engagement and Scholarship. The research of community engagement requires that the problem be identified through a community-participatory process and that the research disseminated reach not only other scholars but the general public. This requirement for community partnership and dissemination echoes the history of developmental psychology and parallels the reemergence of ADS through the reconvergence of intervention and research in the late 20th century. The challenge is to unleash the potential of applied developmental science to contribute to this newly emerging enterprise. ADS emphasizes multiple contextual influences. The emerging work of ADS, particularly metatheoretical life-span work, the incorporation of genetic influences, and the psychopolitical validity framework, should complement and enrich the work already done in community engagement at the macro levels. University Commitment to Community Engagement Scholarship Community engagement is consistent with the founding intent of America’s land-grant institutions, which were at the forefront of community outreach and the creation of knowledge to improve individual development; these and other public universities have led the way in the work of community engagement. Such public outreach is also the foundation of many religiously identified and historically black colleges and universities, many of them established to provide education to groups excluded from higher education, such as Jews, Catholics, and Blacks. Today these institutions are among the leaders in efforts devoted to social justice and the sociopolitical well-being of their communities. For example, recognizing the importance of understanding the methods and impact of their inner-city initiatives, the Association of Jesuit Colleges and Universities has established a network of community-based research and outreach initiatives in their member institutions to provide research and data to guide their outreach. The need for such a network demonstrates another challenge for ADS. The model of the German research university still predominates in American higher education, with funding decisions based in part on the prestige

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

of the institutions, with greater prestige accorded to basic research, particularly in the sciences. Although interdisciplinary work is credited with being the wave of the future, disciplinary-based departments still control faculty hiring and career development. Research detracts from teaching (defined as contact hours in the classroom) in the minds of many governing boards, and service, including community outreach, is relegated to administrators outside academic affairs, e.g., government relations or student affairs. Fisher and Osofsky (1997) identified the balance between publishable scholarly research and applied work and training as a tension for faculty in ADS. The new emphasis on community engagement exacerbates that tension, and young, tenure-track faculty in ADS thus face a dilemma: concentrating on disciplinary, often basic research with a higher probability of publication in established journals recognized by their peers, or embarking on multidisciplinary (and messy) projects requiring collaborations with community partners, with the goal of dissemination to the participants and policy makers rather than senior professors. What happens to the tenure clock when the community partners suffer cuts in funding during periods of economic downturn? Should communityengaged scholarship wait until tenure is achieved? Such questions illustrate the limitations of realizing lofty university mission statements that pair academic excellence and the good of society until the scholarly mission of the university expands to include not just basic research, but applied scholarship and the expansion of the audience for scholarship (McCall, 1996, 2009). The leadership of senior administrtors is crucial in this endeavor. While the foundation of faculty governance has established the American higher education system as peerless internationally, the peer-review system of tenure can deteriorate into the reinforcement of the status-quo under the guise of preserving academic standards (Gideonse, 1959). Deans and provosts can establish interdisciplinary centers for community engagement and scholarship, providing a supportive milieu for the applied research of tenure-track faculty members. The involvement and support of other administrators (e.g., government relations or student affairs) can facilitate such research by establishing enduring community partnerships and trust in the university that establishes a foundation for the efforts of new faculty. All administrators can provide publicity and recognition, even awards, for applied research, a practice that has grown for patents and other applied findings in the sciences.

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Globalization and Humanitarian Crises One notable absence from current scholarly work in ADS is explicit discussion of the interconnectedness of today’s global society and associated recognition of the limited contexts in which ADS theories and interventions have been explored. The new emerging profession of humanitarian assistance is a fertile ground for fostering links between ADS and the multicontextual nature of humanitarian crises (Cahill, 2010; Masten & Osofksy, 2010). Evolving in part from tropical medicine (which itself became international health), the profession of humanitarian assistance came into being when it became clear that well-intentioned interventions by outsiders were inadequate and in some cases iatrogenic to addressing the increasing number and impact of manmade and natural disasters (Cahill, 2006; Wessells, 2009). The field of humanitarian assistance has the potential to expand the contexts of study for ADS, to provide opportunities for ADS to expands its social justice framework, and to foster the blending of research and practice that is at the heart of ADS. Three steps, taken from ADS principles, will be required for success in this endeavor (Busch-Rossnagel, 2011). First, working within the context of humanitarian crises will expand theory, research, and applications to greater understanding of cultural and crisis-related variations in definitions of risk, resilience, and optimal developmental outcomes (Ager, Stark, Akesson, & Boothby, 2010); the application of the SOC paradigm can assist in this process. Second, involvement in humanitarian assistance will increase theory and research on the influences of crises on continuity and change in psychosocial wellbeing across the life span. Age-related factors influencing the effect of disasters during childhood have begun to be explored (Ager et al., 2010), but similar work in adulthood and aging is lacking, as is consideration of markers of developmental processes other than age. Finally, applied developmental science can help humanitarian assistant practitioners better understand developmental factors influencing reactions to disasters and to better assess the impact of helping activities within the life context of those they seek to assist. For example, ADS can help shift the current view of individuals in humanitarian disasters as passive recipients of the environment to recognition of the role individuals play in shaping their outcomes. An applied developmental perspective will also help sensitize the humanitarian assistance community to the goods and harms that can emerge when interventions

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are not matched to the cultural and sociopolitical contexts in which aid recipients live.

Translational Applied Developmental Science A final challenge facing ADS is potential scientific paralysis as one comprehends the true complexities of understanding and enhancing human development. How do applied developmental scientists address the multiple levels of functioning across both historical time and developmental periods as globalization both shrinks and expands the diversity of contexts while mastering the sophisticated methods of design and analysis? Although the field has made great strides in conceptualizing, operationalizing, and empirically disentangling multilevel effects, challenges remain in identifying ways to translate findings from single or multisite ADS interventions to the local communities across vast cultural, environmental, economic, and sociopolitical diversity of the United States and global community. One part of the answer lies in an understanding of best practices or good-enough interventions (Higgins, Fisher, & Hamilton, 1998). Moreover, best practices are not “onesize-fits-all,” because a best practice in ADS intervention, by definition must fit the community—and communities are unique (Fisher, in press; Fisher et al., 2002). As suggested by Jensen and colleagues (1999), applied developmental scientists must “move away from studies that ask what works under optimal, university-based, research conditions to investigations that examine what works that is also palatable, feasible, durable, affordable, and sustainable in real-world settings” (p. 206). Goodness-of-Fit in Applied Developmental Science Applied developmental interventions translatable to realworld context will benefit from the extension of Fisher’s goodness-of-fit model to development promoting research and application (Fisher, 2003a, 2003b, 2012, in press; Fisher & Goodman, 2009; Fisher & Masty, 2006; Fisher & Ragsdale, 2006). Fisher has called for investigators to approach research involving diverse populations within a framework that conceptualizes effective interventions in terms of a goodness-of-fit among good scientific design and the unique characteristics and developmental goals of the participant population. Conceptualizing effective interventions as a product of experimental design and participant/community attributes and goals shifts judgments regarding “best practices” away from an exclusive focus on the knowledge base of developmental science to (a) an

examination of the intervention design that may reduce, exacerbate, or have no immediate or lasting effect on participant developmental needs and (b) consideration of how the design and outcome measures can be constructed to best advance science and participant and social welfare. The goodness-of-fit model assumes that effective applied developmental interventions require more than slight modifications to traditional ways of conducting science. It requires critical reflection on whether the goals of developmental science within the academy are consistent with the goals of individuals and communities participating in ADS prevention and intervention studies. Colearning: The Process of Goodness-of-Fit The goodness-of-fit perspective views scientists, participants, and communities as equal partners in the construction of applied developmental interventions that reflect scientific value and scientific validity. It assumes that research design is deficient when it occurs in the absence of discourse illuminating the lens through which the participant population views its developmental needs and the extent to which a design will meet these needs. Colearning is grounded in the moral principle of respect (Fisher, 1999, 2000, 2003a, 2003b; Fisher & Ragsdale, 2006; Lerner & Fisher, 1994). It assumes that both investigators and participants have expertise to contribute to research design. The investigator brings expertise about the scientific method and empirical data on factors influencing development, and prospective participants and participating communities bring expertise about their lived experiences within the settings where interventions will occur, the real-world validity of proposed intervention methods and outcome measures, and the fears and hopes they bring to the applied developmental science intervention.

CONCLUSION: THE FUTURE OF APPLIED DEVELOPMENTAL SCIENCE Applied developmental science has entered the 21st century with a foundation of scientific knowledge and emerging theories and methods ripe with opportunity for enhancing the developmental and sociopolitical well-being of individuals across the life span. In the past decade, ADS has become more soundly grounded in the construction of metatheories of developmental processes and intraindividual change, methods for understanding and promoting multilevel and bidirectional prevention programs, and

Applied Developmental Science: Contributions and Challenges for the 21st Century

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CHAPTER 22

Disabilities and Development PENNY HAUSER-CRAM, AMANDA M. CANNARELLA, MIRIAM TILLINGER, AND ASHLEY C. WOODMAN

DISABILITIES AND DEVELOPMENT 547 PERSPECTIVES ON DISABILITY 548 CHILDREN’S DEVELOPMENT WITHIN THE FAMILY NETWORK 552

PARENTS’ ADAPTATION AND WELL-BEING 558 FUTURE DIRECTIONS 561 CONCLUSIONS 565 REFERENCES 565

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of federal initiatives to promote research investigations aimed at gaining a greater understanding of the etiology and course of this disability. The second force arises from the scientific community itself, which has been stimulated by advancing knowledge and new technical approaches resulting from analyses of the human genome. Research in genomics has resulted in rich and complex data on the DNA sequence for each chromosome, but it also has demonstrated the limits of our current understanding of the protein-coding portions of the genome and the genetic elements that regulate gene expression (The Encode Project Consortium, 2007). The advantages of genomic approaches to understanding specific disabilities are only beginning to be recognized. Genomics are currently applied to empirically assess the biological contributors to ASD, as well as to syndromes with a clear genetic etiology, such as Down syndrome, fragile X syndrome, and Williams syndrome. Such advances in gene mapping have not only led to greater knowledge of gene sequencing, but have also stimulated increased inquiry about gene by environment interactions (Meaney, 2010). These two forces—an upsurge in the number of children diagnosed with ASD and a rapidly expanding scientific base from which to investigate the genetic contributions to syndromes—have brought about a flurry of scientific activity and public interest in the estimated 10% to 20% of children in this country with developmental disabilities (Bethell, Read, Blumberg, & Newacheck, 2008; Snyder & Dillow, 2010). Although we are only at the early stages of many scientific investigations—and results

Public interest and scientific inquiry in the development of children with disabilities have expanded simultaneously over the last decade. Two forces have coalesced to promote such growth. The first is an increase in general public knowledge, advanced by the media and the experiences of parents themselves, in reaction to the rapid acceleration in the number of children now diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD). Current estimates indicate that 1 in every 88 children is diagnosed with ASD, which represents an estimated 78% increase since the Centers for Disease Control (CDC) report in 2007 (Centers for Disease Control and Prevention [CDC], 2012a). Although the number of school-aged children in the United States has only increased 5% from 1999 to 2008, the number of school-aged children diagnosed with a developmental disability has increased 21.7% (Larson & Lakin, 2010), mostly due to the heightened number of children diagnosed with ASD. Increases in children diagnosed with ASD have occurred in all states, and in 12 states the number of children with ASD now exceeds the number of those with other intellectual disabilities (Larson & Lakin, 2010). Although debate swirls around the reasons for this increase—and no single factor has been agreed upon to be the prime catalyst—it has resulted in a surge Preparation of this chapter was partially supported by grant R40 MC08956 from the Maternal and Child Health Bureau (Title V, Social Security Act), Health Resources and Services Administration, U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. 547

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have rarely coalesced to yield definitive findings—this is an intellectually invigorating time in which to be pursuing research and scholarship on developmental disabilities. Moreover, such endeavors are occurring at a moment when a strong disability rights movement focuses awareness on the societal and environmental constraints that limit an optimal developmental course for those with disabilities. Thus, an understanding of disability is advancing at multiple levels, from mapping various microdeletions or microreplications in the genome to exposing the ranging ideological views of a society. The field of developmental science is central to this understanding, as it provides a unique perspective in its theoretical underpinnings, its integration of constructs from psychology, biology, and sociology, and its technological advances in analyzing patterns of typical and atypical developmental trajectories. Like all scholarship in the field of developmental science, investigations examining developmental disabilities occur within a social and political context. In this chapter, we first provide a brief historical perspective on disabilities from which a contemporary discussion has emerged regarding issues of definitions and classification schemes. These classification schemes are inherently related to social concepts of disability, and we highlight the different epistemological views informing such classifications. We then discuss cultural views on disabilities, as such perspectives deepen an understanding of the term “typical” and reveal great differences in beliefs about causes, interventions, and social acceptance of variations in developmental functioning. We next consider theoretical models and empirical evidence emerging from current research on children with developmental disabilities within the network of family relationships. Parents of children with disabilities often have unique challenges, and we consider the processes of resilience in parental adaptation and the role of positive emotions in parental well-being. We conclude with a section on future research in which we first consider the need for an expanded perspective in research on the family. Finally, we propose that several of the scientific endeavors undertaken to understand development in those with disabilities are poised to inform critical issues in developmental science.

PERSPECTIVES ON DISABILITY The history of views on disability in the United States is one of synergistic relations between public viewpoints, social policy, and the perspectives of those with disabilities themselves. Although the full history is beyond the

scope of this chapter, several themes have emerged that are important to the scholarship on disability conducted within a developmental framework. Over the last few decades, psychology has increasingly recognized the role of context, including values, ideologies, settings, and the importance of human agency in optimizing development. These themes are equally valid in undertaking scholarship on children and adolescents with disabilities. A Brief Historical View: From Hospitalization to the Disability Rights Movement The proximal settings in which children with disabilities learn and are nurtured have changed over the years. Historically, children with disabilities living in the United States in the 1800s were sometimes raised at home but were more often abandoned to be raised in almshouses or hospitals, especially psychiatric wards (Switzer, 2003). The movement to transfer children from hospital settings for those with psychiatric disorders to institutions intended primarily for children with disabilities was, therefore, perceived as advancement. The first such residential institution opened at the Perkins Institution in Boston in 1848, followed by the construction of similar institutions in many states. Although such institutions originally aimed to educate and care for children, societal views toward individuals with disabilities became less charitable due to the influence of Sir Francis Galton’s “pseudo-scientific” eugenics movement. This movement created social fear through its implication that those with intellectual disabilities had criminal proclivities and should, therefore, be sterilized. In the Buck v. Bell case of 1927, the United States Supreme Court ruled that forced sterilization of people with disabilities was not a violation of their constitutional rights. By the 1970s, tens of thousands of individuals with disabilities had been sterilized without their consent (Pelka, 1997); this was also the time in which the number of individuals with disabilities living in public institutions peaked (Braddock & Parish, 2001). Societal perspectives changed with the de-institutionalization movement, which was ushered in by the President’s Panel on Mental Retardation appointed by John F. Kennedy in the early 1960s. In 1971, the Intermediate Care Facilities/Mental Retardation Act (ICF/MR) was passed as part of the Title XIX (Medicaid) program; it allowed states to receive federal funding for institutional services for people with intellectual disabilities. Such services were tied to federal standards of care, however, and the states often failed to meet such standards. Instead, the states began the process of deinstitutionalization along

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with the development of community living residences for those with disabilities. In addition, beginning in the 1970s, a series of court cases were mounted on children’s right to education (e.g., Pennsylvania Ass’n. Retarded Child v. Commonwealth of PA 1971). These led to the landmark Education for All Handicapped Children Act Amendments of 1975, which established the rights of all school-aged children with disabilities to a free, appropriate, public education in the “least restrictive environment.” This legislation was reauthorized in 1990 as the Individuals with Disabilities Education Act (P. L. 99–457) and the Individuals with Disabilities Education Improvement Act in 2004 (P. L. 108–446), which is currently under consideration for another reauthorization. Throughout its course, the disability rights movement has gained momentum from the civil rights movement. Two pieces of legislation banning discrimination illustrate the links between these movements. One is Section 504 of the Rehabilitation Act, which prohibits discrimination against people with disabilities by any entity receiving federal funds (National Council on Disability, 1997). A second is the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), passed in 1990, which bars discrimination against people with disabilities in employment, public services, and other public entities (Parry, 1995). Legislation can modify the behavior of individuals but not necessarily alter their attitudes and subjective beliefs; thus, it is not surprising that, despite legislation, various stereotypes persist regarding people with disabilities. Such stereotypes include perceptions of individuals with disabilities as those to be pitied due to their tragic fate, as people of unusual courage who are heroic in their extraordinary success, or as individuals who have brought a burden upon their families (Switzer, 2003). Current momentum in the area of disability rights centers on the right of self-determination. This construct derives from the “normalization principle” of Bengt Nirje (1976), which emphasizes the importance of “making available to [people with intellectual disabilities] the patterns and conditions of everyday life which are as close as possible to the norms and patterns of the mainstream of society” (Nirje, 1976, p. 363). Nirje proposed that normalization means being able to implement normal daily routines, make choices within a range of activities, and experience opportunities to engage in typical developmental events of the life cycle. While catalyzed by the notions of normalization, the self-determination movement also draws from constructs well-researched in psychology, including the importance of behavioral autonomy, motivation, and self-regulated behavior. For example, Sigafoos, Feinstein,

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Damond, and Reiss (1988) operationalized the construct of behavioral autonomy as behaviors related to self- and family-care, self-management, recreation, and social and vocational activities; such activities represent a blend of daily routines and personal preferences (Wehmeyer, 1996). The work of Deci and Ryan (1985) also contributed to the construct of self-determination through their analyses of intrinsically motivated acts, such as goal-setting and problem-solving. In addition, Bandura’s (1977) model of self-efficacy provided extensive insight into the role of agency in self-determination. Therefore, the construct of self-determination is at the intersection of a social movement of empowerment and a scholarly knowledge base regarding motivation, self-control, and self-efficacy. This blend of social ideology and academic scholarship also emerges in the attempts to resolve the quagmires associated with definitions of disability. Definitions, Diagnoses, and Classification Schemes “Developmental disability” is a broad term applied to a diverse group of individuals with a range of behaviors and etiologies. It is generally used, however, to describe individuals who have chronic conditions that result in substantially lower language, learning, self-help and/or independent living skill levels than those expected for their chronological age (CDC, 2012b). Although individuals with physical (but not cognitive) disabilities and those with traumatic brain injury are also considered within this broad definition, in this chapter our focus is on children with biologically based developmental disabilities that affect their acquisition of daily living, academic, and/or social skills. The most critical transformation in terminology that has occurred since the publication of our chapter in the last Handbook (Hauser-Cram & Howell, 2003) is the replacement of the term “mental retardation” with the term “intellectual disabilities.” This change was spearheaded by the American Association on Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities in 2007 and has been supported at the federal level by Rosa’s Law (PL 111–256; 2010); this legislation amends all federal enactments and regulations to replace all references to “mental retardation” with the term “intellectual disabilities.” Given the many prior stigmatizing terms for intellectual disabilities, including “feebleminded,” “imbecile,” and “idiot,” some question whether this may be yet another attempt to destigmatize individuals by changing terminology. Indeed, over the last century there have been 10 revisions to the clinical definition of intellectual

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disabilities (Siperstein, Pociask, & Collins, 2010), with each revision attempting to improve upon the prior stigmatizing one. For example, the use of the pejorative term “retard” is now part of popular slang, often intended to be a humorous criticism of someone who does not have intellectual disabilities. In a recent national study, the majority (86%) of youth aged 8 to 18 reported hearing the word “retard” used by their peers and were apt to laugh (22%), not care (23%) or do nothing (39%) when it was directed at an individual who was developing typically (Siperstein et al., 2010). Apparently, the stigma associated with the term “retard” is deeply entrenched in youth culture. Key researchers in the field of intellectual disabilities argue that although one impetus for this change in terminology may be to reduce stigma, the primary purpose is to be in concert with an international perspective on the construct of intellectual disabilities (Wehmeyer et al., 2008). In this regard, the World Health Organization, in its International Classification of Diseases (ICD), has proposed a construct of disability that acknowledges contextual factors as central to the understanding of human functioning. This contextual view has three key themes: (1) understanding the milieu in which behavior occurs; (2) recognizing the bidirectional relations between individuals and the contexts in which they function; and (3) acknowledging the importance of a sense of agency accrued to individuals as they play an active role in their own development (Luckasson et al., 2002). All three of these factors fit firmly within current perspectives of developmental systems theory, in which behavior is considered to be determined by multiple, rather than single, causes; development is sensitive to context; and genetic influences are not privileged (Johnston, 2010; Lerner, 2006). In addition to changes in terminology, the next decade will witness changes in diagnostic criteria led by revisions in the 5th edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM-5). These revisions are likely to have critical implications for those involved in research and intervention with children with disabilities. In particular, changes involving the diagnosis and classification of children with ASD have relevance to developmental science. Although there is strong evidence of a genetic component to ASD, research has yet to find a definitive biological marker (Abrahams & Geschwind, 2010), making diagnosis reliant on behavioral indicators. Moreover, such indicators have been used to define subtypes of ASD, resulting in ambiguity in the current diagnostic criteria and delineation between subtypes of ASD. The

DSM-IV defines ASD as a group of five closely related neurobiological disorders under the umbrella of pervasive developmental disorders: autistic disorder (AD), Asperger’s syndrome (AS), pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified (PDD-NOS), childhood disintegrative disorder (CDD), and Rett’s disorder (RD) (Phetrasuwan, Miles, Mesibov, & Robinson, 2009). The term “spectrum” implies that the conditions that fall under ASD are closely related and lie along a continuum, as opposed to having a specific set of diagnostic labels. According to the diagnostic criteria in the DSM-IV, however, the subtypes of ASD are mutually exclusive, a clear contradiction to the notion of a spectrum. Many clinicians have complained that the diagnostic criteria for ASD are unclear and that differences between AD and the other diagnoses along the spectrum are not well distinguished (Phetrasuwan et al., 2009). The difficulty in differentiating between diagnoses lies partly in the vast heterogeneity in both type and severity of symptoms among individuals with ASD. The fact that approximately 50% or more of individuals with a diagnosis on the Autistic Spectrum are given a diagnosis of PDD-NOS has given rise to the saying, “if you have seen one child with autism, you have seen one child with autism” (Toth & King, 2009, p. 235). To address these issues, revisions to the diagnostic criteria within the PDD category have been proposed for the upcoming DSM-5, which is scheduled for publication in 2013. These revisions, which fall under the responsibility of the Neurodevelopmental Disorders Work Group (American Psychological Association [APA], 2008), are intended to simplify and clarify diagnostic criteria for ASD. Most significant of these changes is the proposal that AS and PDD-NOS be subsumed under the existing disorder of ASD. In addition, there has been discussion of distinguishing RD and CDD as unique and separate disorders from ASD. Based on these changes, ASD subtypes would be eliminated (APA, 2008), and individual differences would be described not by subtypes, but instead in terms of dimensions of severity in symptoms, relative to developmental levels and chronological age (Lord & Bishop, 2010). These proposed revisions have led to much controversy and debate in the clinical community, among individuals with ASD and AS, and among the parents of these individuals. While some clinicians maintain that these revisions will simplify and clarify the diagnostic criteria, others claim that subsuming multiple disorders under one umbrella diagnosis will only make assessment and diagnosis more confusing and inconsistent. Moreover, there is concern that children currently diagnosed with

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AS or PDD-NOS may no longer fit the new criteria for ASD, and as a result may lose access to services. The changes in diagnostic criteria for ASD have implications not only for assessment and diagnosis as well as for services and treatment, but also for personal identity, social awareness and perceptions. There has been an increasing movement in the Asperger’s community to take pride in and ownership of the Asperger’s title. In addition, many individuals with AS have come to consider their diagnosis not as a syndrome, but as an identity that is distinct from “neurotypical.” By lumping AS into the much broader spectrum of ASD, many “Aspies” feel that they will be robbed of this unique and special identity (Elliman, 2011). In addition, many scholars bring a different perspective to the task of disability diagnosis, criticizing the emphasis in the biomedical model on the need for modification on the part of the individual (Fougeyrollas & Beauregard, 2001). In contrast, they propose that a social model of disability is more appropriate, as it emphasizes the inadequacy of the social environment rather than limitations of the individual (Williams, 2001). The goal of this approach is to further understand the complex relations between individuals and their social contexts, as well as to deconstruct ways in which the social exclusion process occurs. Such emphasis on the environmental variables and supports available to equalize opportunities has been included in planning tools used with people with intellectual disabilities in several states (American Association on Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities [AAIDD], 2010). Currently, definitions of developmental disabilities emerging from three well-known organizations—the World Health Organization (WHO), the American Psychological Association (APA), and the American Association on Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities (AAIDD)—converge on a view that the cognitive skills of those with disabilities are distinct from those of the typical population. Some scholars, however, question the construct of “normality” underlying most definitions of intellectual disabilities. Arguing from this perspective, Dudley-Marling and Gurn (2010) maintain that a statistical definition of normality, as determined by the “normal curve,” assumes distributions based on random events, yet such assumptions are faulty in relation to defining disability. They reason that intelligence, as operationalized by the intelligence quotient (IQ), is skewed by socially mediated behaviors, such as the quality of educational opportunities. Therefore, using cut-offs to place children within either the typical or disabled range is a misguided attempt to portray cognitive differences as intrinsic to the

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child rather than as socially constructed. An even broader view of the social construction of disability is evident when cultural perspectives on disability are considered. Cultural Views on Disability Stemming from efforts to “unpack” cultural influences on child development, culture has become increasingly conceptualized as a multidimensional and dynamic construct that serves to organize the values and beliefs of multiple systems. In this view, culture is at the core, rather than the periphery, of a causal framework of development (Garc´ıa Coll et al., 1996). The meaning ascribed to disability status, then, is largely determined by the cultural context. Cross-cultural studies on disability point to the power of social, cultural, and economic constraints, beyond physical or intellectual limitations, in determining life outcomes for individuals with disabilities (Groce, 1999). The experience of disability is universal, yet cultures differ in how disability is interpreted. A medical model dominates Western approaches to defining disability, and within this approach, relevant factors such as gender, socioeconomic status, and religion are largely ignored (Ariotti, 1999). Cross-cultural research supports the notion of disability as a social construction, with definitions of disability being influenced by the unique and longstanding cultural beliefs and practices, as well as the social and legal histories, of groups of people (Groce & Zola, 1993). In some cultures, a general category of disability does not exist (Whyte & Ingstad, 1995); rather, people are described by their specific limitations, such as “blind” or “deaf.” Indeed, using the word “disabled” to describe a group of people does not easily translate into many languages (Whyte & Ingstad, 1995). Nevertheless, given that disability is part of the natural human experience, most societies have complex systems of beliefs and practices regarding its causes (Groce, 1999). The perceived etiology of a disability or impairment plays a significant role in determining community and family attitudes toward a child with a disability (Groce & Zola, 1993). The birth of a child with a disability is viewed in many cultures as a form of divine punishment. The child is considered tangible evidence that the immediate family members or ancestors have sinned or violated a taboo (DeSantis, 1989; Maher, 1999). For instance, Skinner, Rodriguez, and Bailey (1999) found that a number of Puerto Rican– and Mexican-born mothers of young children with intellectual disabilities living in the United States viewed their child’s disability as a punishment or test from God. A breach of taboos is seen as a

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primary cause of chronic illness and disability within many Aboriginal groups living in Australia (Maher, 1999). The interpretation of a child with a disability as a form of punishment has direct implications for the support and resources available to the family. Extended family and members of the community may distance themselves from the family of a child with a disability for fear of associating with individuals who have done “evil” (Groce & Zola, 1993; Maher, 1999). This cultural belief impacts the attitudes of immediate family members as well. Mardiros (1989) found that parents who viewed their child’s disability as a form of punishment for their own personal actions played a more active role in promoting positive development in their children. The birth of a child with a disability may be attributed to other supernatural sources, such as sorcery or witchcraft. This belief is central to perspectives of health and illness found among several African, Caribbean, Pacific Basin, and Native American groups (Groce & Zola, 1993). For instance, DeSantis (1989) found that many Haitian mothers explained common illnesses among children on the basis of a supernatural-magical etiology. Although many mothers in this sample endorsed illnesses consistent with a biomedical model, several reported “folk illnesses” caused by spells placed on the child by evil people. Traditional health beliefs of Australian Aboriginal people also emphasize the role of sorcery as a cause of illness (Maher, 1999). Sorcerers are generally believed to be individuals outside the immediate community of the individual with a disability. This perception has been found to reinforce the interdependence of family members in traditional Aboriginal communities. Not all attributions of supernatural causes of disability are negative. In some cases, parents believe that God has trusted them with the special responsibility of caring for a child with a disability. Within a sample of MexicanAmerican parents of children with special health care needs, Mardiros (1989) found that some parents held the belief that a certain number of ill and disabled children would always be born in the world and they had been singled out by God due to their unique kindness to individuals with disabilities. Similar views of a positive sign from God were echoed within a sample of Latino parents of young children with intellectual or development disabilities (Skinner, Rodriguez, & Bailey, 1999). Many parents reported that God recognized them as unique individuals capable of raising a child with a disability. Likewise, some parents expressed the belief that God sent the child as a means for parents to become better people or as a sign for a better future.

Other diverse cultural explanations of disability exist. A child’s disability may be attributed to “bad blood” in the family, incest, transgression in a previous life, or an imbalance of humors in the body among other causes (Groce & Zola, 1993). Cultural interpretations of the source of disability have strong implications for the nature of an individual’s interactions across multiple systems of influence. Societal beliefs and values color a child’s experiences within his or her family and community environments. Culture should not be assumed to uniquely determine one’s views on disability, however, as culture interacts with many other contextual and individual characteristics (Garc´ıa Coll & Magnuson, 2000). Making meaning of a child’s disability is a dynamic process, as individuals actively reconstruct and reinterpret beliefs in light of new experiences (Hauser-Cram & Howell, 2003). The family often serves as a primary source of such processes.

CHILDREN’S DEVELOPMENT WITHIN THE FAMILY NETWORK Informed by theoretical scholars in developmental science (Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006; Lerner, 1991), researchers who investigate the well-being of children with disabilities and their families have increasingly moved away from a medical model, in which a child’s biology is considered the sole factor in predicting development, to embrace a systems perspective, in which the child’s functioning occurs in a series of intersecting systems, including the family (Guralnick, 2005; HauserCram, Warfield, Shonkoff, & Krauss, 2001). In studies constructed from the systems perspective, certain themes have emerged, some of which replicate those found in families of typically developing children and others of which have particular salience to families with children with disabilities. In this section, we discuss research on children’s development within the proximal network of their families. The complexity of studying relationships within families becomes apparent in any review of family processes, and such complexity is certainly evident in studies of families of children with disabilities. In consideration of such families, we begin with a brief discussion of research on the family system and then provide a summary of research on the parent–child relationship at the two life phases for which significant empirical evidence exists, early childhood and adolescence. For most children, siblings are a core part of the family network, and for children with disabilities, siblings often play

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an increasingly important role, so we focus on sibling relationships as part of this discussion on the proximal system of the family. The Family System Perspective Because the family is the primary system within which children are nurtured, learn, and grow (Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006), the quality of the relationships within the family are pivotal to children’s healthy development (Shonkoff & Phillips, 2000). The family itself is a complex system, and family systems theory addresses the centrality of the family environment for the child by integrating a broad conceptual model of family processes (Minuchin, 1988). From this perspective, the family is considered to be an interactive and open system that functions under a set of organized principles (Walsh, 1980). In addition, the individual is conceptualized as an interdependent contributing part of the system that guides his or her behavior. Specifically, four aspects of the family system are brought to light. First, the family systems model addresses the specificity and locus of relationships. This refers to the different dyads within the family system. For example, the mother–child relationship is an entity unique from the father–child relationship. Second, it highlights the individual’s regulatory role in the system, or how roles of individuals differ at various points in time. Third, this model includes the idea of the system within a larger context. All individuals within the family are also part of other dyads outside the family that can support or stress the entire family system. Finally, the internal concomitants of participation in a system are emphasized. In this final piece, individuals carry templates of patterns that they have been a part of, which provide a template for new interactions outside the family system (Minuchin, 1988). In summary, the family systems model demonstrates that changes in one family member can affect changes in other family members, which can then result in numerous iterative responses. The family systems perspective provides a unique framework for examining family relationships as it directs researchers to examine various concurrent effects of family members on each other, rather than only focusing on the unidirectional effects of one family member on another. The relationships within the family are both complex and bi- or multidirectional (Minuchin, 1988). In addition, as family systems theory points out, these relationships are intrinsically dynamic; changing pressures, influences, and needs affect the family differently over time (Lerner, 1991).

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In line with a family systems perspective, a recent body of research has emerged examining family climate in families of children with developmental disabilities. Most findings have indicated that families of children with disabilities do not differ from typical families in terms of family environment (Perry, Harris, & Minnes, 2004). Some findings, however, have pointed to critical predictors of the family environment among families of children with disabilities, including child behavior (Hassiotis, 1997; Herring et al., 2006), diagnostic ambiguity (Perry et al., 2004), and the child’s severity of disability (Mahoney, O’Sullivan, & Robinson, 1992). Generally, these families have been found to experience more challenges in adapting to change, but also tend to be well within the normal range in terms of family environment (Hassiotis, 1997; Perry et al., 2004). Aspects of family climate also have been examined, to a much lesser extent, in their role in outcomes for the child with a disability. More specifically, positive family relationships have been linked to higher levels of social skills in children with physical disabilities (Bennett & Hay, 2007). Authors of one longitudinal research study of children with developmental disabilities found that families who reported a more positive family climate had children who demonstrated greater positive trajectories of social skills from early to middle childhood (HauserCram et al., 2001). Family climate has also been shown to add unique variance in predicting both internalizing and externalizing behavior problems among adolescents with disabilities (Mitchell & Hauser-Cram, 2009). Although these findings are promising, studies examining the role of family climate as a predictive mechanism are limited in number and scope. Aspects of family relationships, like the mother-child interaction, have been selected as an object of inquiry, but more research is needed that examines the family environment more globally in predicting salient outcomes for this population. The Parent–Child Relationship at Two Life Phases Although there is a general understanding of the importance of the family system as a whole, much of the work on children with disabilities has been focused on the parent–child relationship. As with typically developing children, this dyadic (and sometimes, triadic) interaction is a critical component to the promotion of positive developmental pathways. Although such relationships have been most extensively researched during the early childhood years, the parent–adolescent relationship is an area of emerging research interest.

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Parent–Child Relationships During Early Childhood During the early childhood years, the bulk of research has focused on the mother–child relationship. This is likely due to the fact that mothers (although increasingly, fathers) are often the primary collaborators with the child during classic routines such as eating, bathing, and play. The mother, or other primary caregiver, is also the person on whom the young child relies during times of uncertainty or stress. Therefore, one line of inquiry has been to analyze whether children with developmental disabilities display similar attachment behaviors, especially contact seeking and contact maintaining with their mothers after a separation. Children with Down syndrome, for example, appear to be less emotionally aroused than typically developing children during separation episodes and rarely seek to maintain contact with their mother after seeking proximity to her during reunions (Vaughn, Goldberg, Atkinson, Marcovitch, Macgregor, & Seifer, 1994). In a meta-analysis of attachment behaviors in children with ASD, researchers reported that children with ASD showed less secure attachment than did children with other developmental disorders or typically developing children (Rutgers, Bakermans-Kranenburg, van IJzendoorn, & Van Berckelaer-Onnes, 2004). Because parental sensitivity is proposed as one of the causal contributors to children’s attachment security, van IJzendoorn et al. (2007) examined whether parental sensitivity differs in parents of children with ASD. Although they found that children with ASD showed more disorganized attachment, parent sensitivity of those children did not differ from that of other parents. Some researchers (Sigman & Capps, 1997) propose that the emergence of a secure working model occurs at a later age for children with ASD. Others (van IJzendoorn et al., 2007), however, suggest that children with ASD may need different types of input from parents, such as a strong nonverbal component; this suggests that sensitive parenting is not the same for all children but may differ according to the social processing skills of a child. Through their assertion that “autism challenges the validity of attachment theory” (p. 597), van IJzendoorn and colleagues suggest that fundamental theoretical principles of development may operate differently for children with certain types of disabilities, such as ASD. Such propositions offer an important challenge to the field of developmental science. Consistent with research on typically developing children, studies on children with disabilities point to the significant effects of the young child’s dyadic interactions with a caregiver during play and other daily

routines (Rosenblum, Dayton, & Muzik, 2009). In relation to children with intellectual disabilities, one consistent finding is that their mothers tend to provide high levels of directives to them during dyadic play interactions. These findings, which first emerged several decades ago and have been replicated over the years (Crawley & Spiker, 1983; Guralnick, Neville, Hammond, & Connor, 2008; Marfo, 1990), have stimulated a debate about the role of maternal directives with children with intellectual disabilities. A fundamental question is whether such directives assist the child in engaging in and learning from dyadic interactions, or prevent a child from developing a sense of agency. It appears that the answer lies in the issue of the quality and appropriateness of the caregiver’s interactions during such directives. Moore, Saylor, and Boyce (1998) studied medically fragile 2year-olds and found that, although greater amounts of maternal directives predicted lower IQ scores at school age, higher-quality directives (e.g., those that are lowkey and gentle) were positively correlated with higher IQ scores. This finding about the quality and appropriateness of directives has been found repeatedly in much research on mother–child interaction with children with a range of developmental disorders. In addition, it indicates that when children show low levels of responsiveness, directives play an adaptive and functional role as long as they are not intrusive to a child’s activity (Marfo, 1990). The growing literature base on mother–child interactions when a child has ASD, however, suggests that such interactions have a pattern that differs from those of other dyads in which a child has other forms of intellectual disability. Studies have found that parents of children with ASD tend to use more physical contact, more attentiongetting behaviors, and more nonverbal prompts, along with fewer social verbal approaches when interacting with their child in play sessions (Doussard-Roosevelt, Joe, Bazhenova, & Porges, 2003; Kasari, Sigman, Mundy, & Yirmiya, 1988). Some argue that such approaches may not indicate a lack of maternal sensitivity but, instead, be reasonable attempts to engage children whose social signals are difficult to interpret and who show decreased sensitivity to social stimuli (Gervais et al., 2004). Children’s difficulty regarding their social signaling systems has been hypothesized to relate to reduced activity in the purported mirror neuron system (Dapretto et al., 2006), implicated in typical children’s recognition and imitation of facial emotions. This system shows a lack of activation for children with ASD during social interaction tasks, which may lead to inadequate processing of parents’ efforts to engage them during dyadic interaction (Dapretto et al.,

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2006). Some intervention studies have shown promising results in relation to helping parents of children with ASD develop productive interactions, especially during daily routines (e.g., Mahoney & Perales, 2003) and communicative exchanges (e.g., Aldred, Green, & Adams, 2004). Once the results of such interventions have emerged from randomized controlled trials, more information will be available about effective interventions. Similar to prior research on children with other disabilities, however, an understanding of how parents can be effective in interacting with their child requires recognition of the child’s contributions and processing skills. Fathers’ play with infants and young children with disabilities is an underresearched area. Although mothers are typically the primary caregivers in families of children with disabilities, research shows that fathers also take an active role in caretaking, often participating in play interactions with their child. Simmerman, Blacher, and Baker (2001) found play to be one of the areas of greatest paternal involvement in families of children with substantial intellectual disabilities. In addition to play, the researchers found that fathers helped most in the areas of nurturing, discipline, and making decisions regarding services. One group of researchers (de Falco, Esposito, Venuti, & Bornstein, 2010) has investigated fathers’ interactions during play with their child with Down syndrome. They found that children showed a greater increase in symbolic play when they were involved in collaboration with fathers than when they were involved in solitary play. Such differences in symbolic play were especially pronounced within dyads where fathers showed high levels of emotional availability (including sensitivity, structuring, nonintrusiveness, nonhostility, responsiveness, and involvement). Similar to studies of interactions between mothers and children with ASD, Pisula (2008) found that fathers of children with ASD, in comparison to those of children with Down syndrome or typically developing, initiated more physical contact during interactions. In that study, children with ASD were also more likely to actively reject their fathers’ play suggestions and to exhibit negative emotions. Since children with ASD appear to place unusual demands on fathers and others who interact with them, this is an area of research that requires future inquiry. Parent–Adolescent Relationships Adolescence can be a challenging period for any parent–child relationship, as parental roles begin to shift and teens strive to gain autonomy and increasing

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independence from their parents. Given the challenges and stressors associated with raising a child with disabilities, one might expect this period to be particularly straining on the parent-adolescent relationship. Parents of adolescents with disabilities experience many of the same needs to realign their relationship with their teen as do other parents, while simultaneously needing to take on additional tasks such as future planning for vocational development and living situations, assisting with leisure-time activities, and for some, arranging for the adolescent’s lifelong dependent needs (Hauser-Cram, Krauss, & Kersh, 2009). Based on interviews with parents, this complex mixture of gratification and frustration has been exemplified through what Larson (1998) terms the “embrace of paradox” in the parenting experience: Despite what would appear as multiple limitations in their daily lives due to caretaking of a child with a disability, these mothers shared hopeful maternal visions and profound personal growth that emerged because of this experience. What surfaced . . . was a life metaphor, the embrace of paradox that was central to the mothers’ maternal work. The embrace of paradox was the management of the internal tension of opposing forces between loving the child as he or she was and wanting to erase the disability, . . . between maintaining hopefulness for the child’s future while being given negative information and battling their own fears. —Larson, 1998, p. 873

Although parents of adolescents with disabilities often encounter additional struggles, investigations generally point to these relationships as positive in many aspects (Mitchell & Hauser-Cram, 2010; Orsmond, Seltzer, Greenberg, & Krauss, 2006). Recent research has begun to move beyond simply comparing parent–child relationships among families of adolescents with and without disabilities and has, instead, begun to focus on exploring how aspects of the parent–adolescent relationship affect both parent and teen well-being in families of adolescents with disabilities. In addition, researchers are beginning to explore what factors are predictive of the quality of the parent–child relationship in these families. Research on typically developing children and adolescents has shown that the quality of the parent–child relationship can be an important factor for child adjustment and well-being (Overbeek, Stattin, Vermulst, Ha, & Engels, 2007). Although investigations exploring such relationships within families of children and adolescents with disabilities are just beginning to emerge, findings suggest that the quality of these relationships plays a similarly significant role in the adjustment of

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children with disabilities. Using a cross-lagged panel design, Smith, Greenberg, Seltzer, and Hong (2008) examined the effect of positive mother–child relationship processes on symptoms and behaviors in adolescents with ASD. Their findings indicated that higher levels of mother–child relationship quality were associated with fewer behavior problems and less social impairment in the adolescents. In an investigation of early childhood predictors of parent–adolescent relationship quality in adolescents with a range of developmental disabilities, Mitchell and Hauser-Cram (2010) found that it was not the level of the child’s functional skills but, rather, the extent of the child’s behavior problems in the early childhood years in addition to early parenting stress that predicted the quality of the parent–child relationship in the adolescent years. Similarly, Orsmond and colleagues (2006) found that certain child characteristics, including less severe maladaptive behaviors, were associated with more positive mother–child relationships in families of adolescents with ASD. In regard to parent characteristics, Orsmond and colleagues also found that certain mother characteristics, such as lower levels of pessimism, were associated with more positive mother–adolescent relationships. These findings are indicative of a transactional relation, as behavior problems displayed by adolescents often demand parental responses, while simultaneously, parental attitudes such as optimism or pessimism may temper or intensify parents’ responses, resulting in positive or deleterious relationships with their adolescent. While the role of fathers in child and adolescent development has been given increased attention in research on typically developing children (e.g., Lamb & Lewis, 2004), what little research there is on parent– adolescent relationships among families of adolescents with disabilities has focused almost exclusively on the mother–adolescent relationship. Some researchers, however, have begun to address this gap in the literature. Mitchell and Hauser-Cram (2010) explored possible differences in the relationships of mothers and fathers with their adolescents with disabilities. They found that although mothers and fathers did not report significant differences in their overall positive relationship with their adolescents, the effect of children’s behavior problems on the parent–child relationship differed for mothers and fathers. Only through replications and extension of such studies will we learn more about the father–adolescent relationship in families where the adolescent has a disability.

Sibling Relationships The sibling relationship is often considered to be the longest lasting and most complex relationship that an individual will experience in his or her lifetime (Seltzer, Greenberg, Orsmond, & Lounds, 2005). Given the estimation that 80% to 90% of individuals grow up with one or more siblings (Cicirelli, 1995), the sibling relationship represents a potentially complex and influential relationship on an individual’s life. The sibling relationship provides a unique context in which children develop emotional, social, and behavioral competencies (Dunn, 1999). Moreover, the influence of siblings may be even greater for individuals with a developmental disability due to limited peer networks; siblings are often their most consistent and primary sources of interaction (Guralnick, 1997). Sibling pairs in which one child has a disability have been characterized by role asymmetry (Knott, Lewis, & Williams, 1995). Though the sibling relationship in typically developing sibling pairs generally becomes reciprocal and egalitarian, the research examining the sibling relationship in pairs where one individual has a developmental disability has focused heavily on the power differential between the two siblings (Abramovitch, Stanhope, Pepler, & Corter, 1987; Stoneman, Brody, Davis, & Crapps, 1989). This asymmetry seems to become more marked when the child with a disability has fewer functional and language abilities (Dallas, Stevenson, & McGurk, 1993; Stoneman et al., 1989). In addition, as these children age, the relationship becomes more asymmetrical over time, whereas the relationship between two typically developing siblings becomes more symmetrical as children grow older (Orsmond & Seltzer, 2000; Stoneman et al., 1989). The sibling of a child with a disability often takes a more dominant role as they teach and assist their sibling. Indeed, role relationships between children with intellectual disabilities and older siblings have been found to be especially asymmetrical, with older siblings assuming frequent teacher, manager, and helper roles, whereas siblings of typically developing children are more likely to engage their brothers and sisters as playmates (Stoneman et al., 1989). Both older and younger siblings of children with disabilities have been found to take on more extensive caregiving roles when compared to their peers who have a typically developing sibling (Cuskelly & Gunn, 2003). This role dominance is especially salient for younger siblings who begin as the less dominant sibling and, as time progresses, eventually surpass their older sibling developmentally (Farber & Jenn´e, 1963). This experience, known as role crossover,

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contrasts to that found in typically developing sibling pairs, which follow a pattern of older sibling dominance (Dallas et al., 1993). The unique role experiences of siblings of a child with a disability have been found to have an impact on various aspects of the typically developing sibling’s life. The vast majority of studies examining siblings of a child with a disability take the perspective that having a sibling with a disability is detrimental for these individuals. Although these relationships have been shown to be positive in their interactions overall, many studies indicate that typically developing siblings tend to have more negative personal adjustment (Sharpe & Rossiter, 2002). Research examining pairs where one individual has a developmental disability shows the typically developing sibling to have difficulty in school functioning and internalizing behavior (Hannah & Midlarsky, 1999), lower social competence and cognitive performance (Sharpe & Rossiter, 2002), higher depressive symptoms (in a sample of children with ASD; Gold, 1993), and higher overall problem behavior (Cuskelly & Dadds, 1992). Despite a history of focusing on negative outcomes for siblings of children with a developmental disability, several more positive research trends have emerged. First, research has been recognizing that having a sibling with a developmental disability can have positive, as well as negative, effects (Fisman, Wolf, Ellison, & Freeman, 2000; Stoneman, 2005). Second, there has been a new concentration on contextual differences affecting siblings’ outcomes. Third, more importance has been given to sibling interaction patterns and relationship quality; and, finally, there has been an increased emphasis on siblings of children with ASD. The experience of learning to fulfill various roles may augment the sibling’s ability to understand the thoughts and feelings of others (Flavell, Botkin, Fry, Wright, & Jarvis, 1968). Cuskelly and Gunn (2003) found that, in a sample of siblings of children with Down syndrome, increased childcare behavior was associated with higher levels of empathy. Likewise, in a sample of siblings of children with and without intellectual disability, siblings of a child with an intellectual disability were found to have increased maturity compared to their peers, increased awareness and tolerance of differences, and an improved appreciation of their own abilities and health (Dyke, Mulroy & Leonard, 2009). In addition, compared to siblings of typically developing children, siblings of children with disabilities have been shown to display higher levels of cooperation and self-control (Mandelco, Olsen, Dyches, & Marshall, 2003). Given these findings, more emphasis is needed on possible factors and mechanisms that may

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lead to findings of both positive and negative adjustment for siblings of children with disabilities. Increasing amounts of research are focusing on contextual differences affecting the typically developing sibling’s adjustment rather than blanket comparisons of siblings of children with developmental disabilities versus siblings of typically developing children. Research examining the impact of contextual differences has focused almost exclusively on the family context. For example, siblings of children with developmental disabilities tend to perceive more maternal partiality toward their brothers or sisters than siblings of typically developing children (Bischoff & Tingstrom, 1991). However, when the sibling’s family is cohesive and supportive, the partiality is perceived as an appropriate response to the other child’s needs and, thus, has no impact on the sibling’s adjustment. If the sibling’s family is high in disorganization and conflict, on the other hand, the perceived partiality has been shown to lead to poor school functioning, depressive symptoms and anxiety (Stoneman, 1998). Indeed, family characteristics have been of increasing interest in recent inquiries regarding the adjustment of siblings of a child with a disability. In a sample of siblings of children with Down syndrome, family demands, resources, coping style, and communication style were found to relate to sibling social competence, behavior problems and selfconcept (Van Riper, 2000). Likewise, in a sample of siblings of children with severe disabilities, socioeconomic status, parent stress, family time and routines, family problem-solving and communication, and family hardiness were found to predict sibling daily stressors and coping (Giallo & Gavidia-Payne, 2006). Examination of more varied contextual differences, including peer, school, and neighborhood characteristics, is needed to further unpack influences on sibling adjustment in these sibling pairs. Having a sibling with a disability, as previously noted, has a significant impact on the sibling relationship. Overall, research has found that siblings of children with a developmental disability rate their sibling relationship as rewarding, positive, and nurturing (Rivers & Stoneman, 2003). Indeed, some lines of inquiry have even found siblings in this population to report their relationship as being more positive than that of typically developing sibling pairs (Cuskelly & Gunn, 2003; Fisman et al., 2000). In comparison to matched control children, siblings of children with disabilities engage in more parallel play and social play, and display more nurturing behavior toward their brothers and sisters (Lobato, Miller, Barbour, & Hall, 1991). Siblings of children with an intellectual disability report lower levels of conflict with their brothers and

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sisters as well as higher levels of positive affect, warmth, and fewer negative behaviors when compared to siblings of typically developing children. This trend to rate the sibling relationship as more positive in this population has been linked to fewer behavior problems and higher social competence at school for the child with a disability (Floyd, Purcell, Richardson & Kupersmidt, 2009; Roeyers & Mycke, 1995). Siblings of children with ASD or Down syndrome have reported greater admiration of their sibling as well as less quarreling and competition in their relationships compared to siblings of typically developing children (Kaminsky & Dewey, 2001). Finally, partially due to a recent increase in public interest, there has been a great deal of emphasis on siblings of children with ASD. Recent inquiries have looked at differences in the social and emotional skills of siblings of children with ASD compared to siblings of children with intellectual disability or no disability (Orsmond & Seltzer, 2007). Siblings of children with ASD have been found to have poorer facial recognition ability (Dorris, Espie, Knott, & Salt, 2004) and social impairment (Constantino et al., 2006), and higher emotional problems (Petalas, Hastings, Nash, Dowey, & Reilly, 2009) compared to siblings of typically developing children, as well as less engagement in prosocial behavior (Hastings, 2003). In addition, siblings of children with ASD score higher on both internalizing and externalizing behavior problems compared to siblings of children with Down syndrome (Fisman et al., 2000) and comparison siblings (Smith & Perry, 2005; Vert´e, Roeyers, & Buysse, 2003). In contrast, some studies have failed to find differences in behavior difficulties compared to siblings of children with Down syndrome (Bagenholm & Gillberg, 1991; Hastings, 2003) and siblings of typically developing children (Kaminsky & Dewey, 2001). Benson and Karlof (2008) suggest the reason for these mixed findings may be researchers’ failure to take into account the genetic basis of ASD; thus, siblings may or may not have some genetic components of ASD. Although siblings of children with disabilities have been more thoroughly investigated in the last decade or so, many gaps remain in the literature. First, very little is known about the impact of the sibling relationship on the adjustment of the child with a disability. Literature tends to focus on the adjustment of the typically developing sibling, but the sibling relationship may present an important opportunity for effective intervention for children with disabilities and, thus, the impact of the sibling relationship on these individuals must be further examined. Second, the role of culture in these sibling relationships has been

neglected. In order to more fully understand the processes involved in sibling relationships and sibling outcomes in this population, between-group differences must be illuminated. Finally, more investigation is needed to comprehend the mechanisms underlying research findings in this area. When investigating these sibling relationships, more contextual variables must be included in order to understand why sibling pairs where one child has a disability may differ from those sibling pairs where both children are typically developing. The presence of a disability alone is not a satisfactory explanation; the processes need to be illuminated in order to more accurately comprehend the dynamics of sibling relationships. Although much more is needed, the existing literature base provides a foundation for building our understanding of this critical relationship in terms of both the typically developing sibling as well as the sibling with a disability.

PARENTS’ ADAPTATION AND WELL-BEING Research on families of children with disabilities has been marked by a longstanding belief that the birth of a child with a disability is a tragedy entraining lifelong hardship for families (Risdal & Singer, 2004). An assumption of family pathology was at the center of many theoretical models used to examine family adjustment to a child with a disability, as frameworks of grief, crisis, and stress dominated early research and clinical practice (Risdal & Singer, 2004). Researchers, most notably Solnit and Stark (1961), proposed that the birth of a child with a disability was met with a period of mourning for the loss of an ideal, desired child. A stage theory model was used to explain parents’ transition through several phases of adjustment, from grief and anger to acceptance and adjustment (Parks, 1977). Some authors argued that parents never completely adjust to their child’s disability, but instead experience chronic sorrow that reemerges at key transition points in their child’s development (Olshansky, 1962). Others (Wolfensberger, 1983) claimed that parents experience “novelty shock” at the point of diagnosis of their child and mourn the “loss of the expected perfect child.” Such perspectives assume that parents experience a “crisis” that places somewhat unrelenting and undue strain on family life. The Process of Resilience A more optimistic view of family experiences emphasizes the resilient process families engage in when adapting to

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the needs of a child with a disability. Costigan, Floyd, Harter, and McClintock (1997) proposed that families experience resilient disruption at the time of the birth of a child with a disability. They emphasized families’ capacities to adjust to the initial disruption, however, by adapting family patterns and routines to regain equilibrium. Much research on the adjustment of parents raising children with developmental disabilities has been guided by the ABCX model of family adaptation (Hill, 1949). The family’s adaptation to an atypical event, such as the birth of a child with a disability, is explained by several factors, including the nature of the event, the internal and external resources of the family, and the meaning ascribed to the event. McCubbin and Patterson (1983) expanded Hill’s original model to account for changes in stressors, resources, and meaning over time. When applied to research on families of children with disabilities, the stressors in this extended model include both the event of having a child with a disability and the accumulation of daily hassles related to caregiving (e.g., preparing particular diets, taking child to appointments) (Perry, 2004). The impact of these stressors on family adaptation is explained in part by the family’s changing resources and appraisal of the meaning of having a child with a disability in the family. Although these models view either the birth or diagnosis of a child with a disability as a crisis, they also emphasize the family’s capacity to adjust and adapt to heightened caregiving demands. This concept is at the heart of stress-and-coping models, which have generated much research in psychology in general (Somerfield & McCrae, 2000) and research on families of children with disabilities in particular (for review, Perry, 2004). Stress-and-coping models represent a shift from an assumption of inevitable psychopathology to the belief that although families are stressed, many of them successfully cope with their stress (Dykens, 2005). These models acknowledge the considerable variability in the parenting experience among parents of children with disabilities. A goal of recent research has been to explain such variation (Neece & Baker, 2008). In line with a strengthsbased approach, research has investigated possible factors promoting processes of resilience among families raising children with disabilities (Glidden, Billings, & Jobe, 2006; Judge, 1998; Neece & Baker, 2008). One set of resources that individuals bring to the parenting experience is their skill in coping with stress. Coping can be defined as “constantly changing cognitive and behavioral efforts to manage specific external and/or

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internal demands that are appraised as taxing or exceeding the resources of the person” (Lazarus & Folkman, 1984, p. 141). Research on coping has largely focused on the distinction between problem-focused and emotionfocused strategies. Problem-focused ways of coping are strategies aimed at managing or altering the cause of the stressor, while emotion-focused ways of coping are strategies directed at regulating emotional responses to the stressor (Lazarus & Folkman, 1984). Among parents of children with disabilities, greater use of problem-focused strategies has been predictive of higher psychological well-being (Smith, Seltzer, TagerFlusberg, Greenberg, & Carter, 2008), higher-quality mother–child relationships (Abbeduto et al., 2004), lower depressive symptoms (Abbeduto et al., 2004; Seltzer, Greenberg, & Krauss, 1995), and lower pessimism (Abbeduto et al., 2004). Greater use of emotion-focused coping strategies has been associated with lower psychological well-being (Glidden et al., 2006; Smith, Seltzer, et al., 2008), lower-quality mother–child relationships (Abbeduto et al., 2004), higher depressive symptoms (Abbeduto et al., 2004; Glidden et al., 2006; Seltzer et al., 1995; Smith, Seltzer et al., 2008), higher pessimism (Abbeduto et al., 2004), greater feelings of anger (Smith, Seltzer, et al., 2008), and greater feelings of caregiving burden (Essex, Seltzer, & Krauss, 1999) among parents of children with disabilities. Researchers have found that parents prefer problemfocused strategies when dealing with issues related to their child with a disability (Judge, 1998). Social support is another family resource that has received considerable attention in research on families of children with disabilities. Social support has been extensively researched in this population, since it is seen as a potential point of intervention (Dunst, Trivette, & Jodry, 1997). Programs like early intervention enhance the helpfulness of social support by connecting parents to other families of children with disabilities and creating access to knowledgeable service providers, which makes it possible to mobilize the resources necessary to meet their needs (Hauser-Cram & Howell, 2003). Social networks supply emotional and instrumental support to individuals. Formal supports, such as professionals or service providers, and informal supports, such as friends and neighbors, may compose social networks for families of children with disabilities. Social support is often measured as the objective size of the support network (e.g., number of supports available to the family) or the perceived helpfulness and supportiveness of the network. Research on families of children with

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disabilities has generally endorsed the importance of an individual’s satisfaction with the helpfulness of their social support network, rather than the size of their social support network, in predicting parent well-being (Crnic & Stormshak, 1997). Social support has been found to predict various aspects of parent and family well-being. For instance, social support has been associated with marital satisfaction, satisfaction with parenting, and general life satisfaction among parents of children with disabilities (Hauser-Cram & Howell, 2003). Despite the increased emphasis on the process of resilience among families of children with disabilities, there is a continued focus on deleterious outcomes in research. Parental stress is an outcome that has received considerable attention in the literature. Overall, parents of children with disabilities generally report greater levels of stress than parents of children without disabilities (Baker et al., 2003). Child behavior problems are thought to contribute to parents’ heightened levels of stress, although there is growing support that there is a transactional relationship between child behavior problems and parenting stress (Baker et al., 2003). In a review of the research on stress, Hastings and Taunt (2002) point out that although parents of children with disabilities tend to experience higher levels of stress, they do not report fewer positive outcomes than other parents. Nevertheless, the elevated level of stress experienced by parents of children with disabilities is often related to the characteristics of the child, such as the level of behavior problems, and not to the demands of the parenting role involving caregiving and other daily routines (Innocenti, Huh, & Boyce, 1992). Orr, Cameron, Dobson, and Day (1993) examined age-related differences in stress among mothers of children with developmental delays and found that stress was highest for mothers of schoolaged children as compared to mothers of preschoolers or adolescents, pointing to the middle childhood period as a particularly stressful period of development for parents. Over the past several decades, maternal depression has also been highlighted as one possible response to raising a child with a disability. Several researchers have reported higher levels of depressive symptoms among mothers of children with disabilities as compared to mothers of children without disabilities (Roach, Orsmond, & Barratt, 1999), while others have reported no significant differences between these groups (Seltzer, Greenberg, Floyd, Pettee, & Hong, 2001). In a meta-analysis of comparative studies, Singer (2006) found that in the studies reviewed, nearly one third (29%) of mothers of children

with disabilities experienced depression. Mothers of children with disabilities, especially mothers of children with ASD and mothers of young children, were at an elevated risk of depression compared to mothers of children without disabilities. Beyond parent outcomes such as stress and depression, researchers have also examined the impact of raising a child with a disability on the quality of the parents’ marital relationship. Similar to the literature on parental stress and depression, research on marital adjustment has focused on comparing parents of children with disabilities to parents of children without disabilities (Risdal & Singer, 2004). Several studies have found significantly lower levels of marital satisfaction and higher rates of divorce and separation among parents of children with disabilities (e.g., Witt, Riley, & Coiro, 2003), while others have found no differences (e.g., Seltzer et al., 2001). In a meta-analysis of comparative levels of marital satisfaction/discord in parents of children with and without disabilities, Risdal and Singer (2004) found an overall effect size of d = 0.21 for marital adjustment between the groups, with parents of children with disabilities reporting higher levels of divorce and separation and lower levels of marital satisfaction and adjustment than parents of children without disabilities. The percentage of marriages that ended in divorce was 5.97% higher among couples when one of their children had a disability. This increase is considerably smaller than would be expected by the family tragedy model. Nevertheless, this elevated rate of divorce highlights the importance of examining factors that promote marital adjustment among couples when there is a child with a disability in the family. Such examination is important not only for the benefit of the child but also for the well-being of the parents themselves. For example, in a study of parents of children with a range of developmental disabilities, Kersh, Hedvat, Hauser-Cram, and Warfield (2006) found that the quality of the marital relationship affected other aspects of parental wellbeing, including depressive symptoms, parenting stress, and parenting efficacy. The Role of Positive Emotions The historic assumption of family hardship following the birth of a child with a disability has influenced the nature of the research questions, the outcome measures chosen, and the interpretation of findings in research on families of children with disabilities. Many studies make the assumption that families are stressed and attempt to assess the extent to which they are hanging in there

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and managing their stress (Dykens, 2005, p. 1). Often, family adaptation is conceptualized as the absence of pathology. Measures of adaptation and potential benefits of raising a child with a disability have been largely excluded in research, a trend that began to be questioned in the mid-1980s. Turnbull, Blue-Banning, Behr, and Kerns (1986) argued that existing research had a negative bias, where negative outcomes were overgeneralized and positive outcomes were ignored. Turnbull, along with other researchers with family members with disabilities, has played a key role in reorienting the research agenda to include measures of positive adaptation (Hastings & Taunt, 2002). In this regard, one line of research has emphasized the adaptation parents make to their family’s everyday routines. Families of children with disabilities actively respond to the customary demands of everyday life (Bernheimer & Weisner, 2007). Accommodations are the intentional adjustments made by families to maintain a daily routine in the face of child “hassles,” from changes in work schedules to alterations in the home. Many parents of children with disabilities build and organize the home environment to give meaning and direction to their lives (Bernheimer & Weisner, 2007). Dykens (2005) emphasizes that the term “intellectual disabilities” is based on what an individual cannot do; although that deficit approach has permeated the field, much work needs to be undertaken to study positive emotions and experiences of children with disabilities and their family members. Frameworks of positive psychology, risk and resilience, and psychological wellbeing are beginning to be applied to research on families of children with disabilities. Branching away from the family tragedy metaphor, these frameworks aim to identify predictors of well-being and the role of positive emotions among parents. Many parents view their child with a disability as a positive contributor to their family and to their quality of life (Glidden, 2012). For example, in a mixed-methods study of mothers of children with disabilities, Green (2007) reported that parents often feel emotionally rewarded, as opposed to saddened, as they raise their child. Others have studied a range of positive parental perspectives and found that constructs such as optimism (Baker, Blacher, & Olsson, 2005; Ekas, Lickenbrock, & Whitman, 2010), hope (Padencheri & Russell, 2002), positive perceptions (Hastings, Allen, McDermott, & Still, 2002), and hardiness (Judge, 1998) predict parent well-being. These studies highlight the importance of examining the full spectrum of human experience to accurately portray the experience of parents, siblings, and children with disabilities themselves.

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FUTURE DIRECTIONS This is a time in which much intellectual power is being directed toward learning about the development of children with disabilities, especially in relation to examining the etiology and course of disabilities such as ASD. Over the past decade, the psychological research on the development of children with disabilities within the network of the family has slowly accumulated, although many gaps exist. The biological research focusing on genetic markers of different disabilities has accelerated exponentially, yet the yield still remains small in relation to the enormity of the developmental questions. The promise of understanding the role of gene-by-environment interactions is at the forefront of much thinking in developmental science, yet this area too demands actualization. In this section, we highlight areas of potential future research related to children with developmental disabilities and emphasize that such research would benefit the construction of a more complete understanding of the science of development. Expanding Research on Families of Children With Disabilities Several implications for future research emerge from the review in this chapter. One is the need to expand an understanding of the dynamics of the family beyond the conventionally studied mother–child relationship during early childhood. Although research studies on adolescents with developmental disabilities and their families are slowly accruing, we know little about such relationships within the middle childhood period, despite some research pointing to the high levels of stress experienced by parents during that life phase of their child with a disability (Hauser-Cram et al., 2001; Orr et al., 1993). Such findings indicate the need for a greater understanding of the family processes that lead to high stress levels during the middle childhood period, including child contributions, bidirectional processes, and societal constraints. Our review also points to the need to include a range of family members in studies of families of children with disabilities. Fathers’ experiences are understudied, yet many fathers are highly engaged in the lives of their children with disabilities. Studies are slowly emerging in this area, but a greater emphasis on research examining fathers’ psychological well-being is needed to understand how to promote fathers’ own physical and mental health. In addition, more research is needed on the ways in which fathers can support the optimal development of their children with disabilities. Sibling relationships are also a

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growing area of research, and investigations in this area would benefit from a more intricate consideration of the factors each sibling brings to the relationship, as well as a more nuanced understanding of the family context in which such relationships thrive. These dyadic (and often triadic or more) multidynamic relationships are not only a central part of family processes but also are likely integral to the well-being of the individual with disabilities beyond the childhood years. Future work also needs to expand the outcomes studied in children, parents, and other family members. The philosophical and empirical inspiration for this emphasis has come largely from the growing field of positive psychology (Seligman, Steen, Park, & Peterson, 2005), which points to the need to expand the spectrum of outcomes traditionally used in research on families with a child with a developmental disability. In noting that many studies in the field of disability lack theoretical models that capture such positivity, Blacher and Baker (2007) highlight three ways in which the child’s effects on the family could be studied. The first, and most common, perspective assumes that the absence of negative effects, such as normative scores on inventories of parent stress or depression, implies positive outcomes. As previously noted, the bulk of research on parenting children with disabilities has taken this approach. A second perspective emphasizes the common benefits of raising a child experienced by almost all parents, such as the pleasures of simple interactions. Although, as illustrated, many empirical studies have considered mother–child interaction, few have focused on parent pleasure in those interactions or on the emotional rewards of having a child with disabilities. Moreover, as discussed previously, some research has focused on positive parental traits, such as optimism, and indicates promising findings. Finally, a third view endorses the unique aspects of having a child with a disability and highlights the unusual benefits that parents often accrue, such as a strong support network and increased self-efficacy from learning to navigate across systems, such as health and education, to benefit their child. Related to the need to examine expanded outcomes in children, parents, and families is the need for a greater understanding of how aspects of the family system provide critical mechanisms for advantageous developmental change in children with disabilities. The family climate appears to be an area of promising research, both because of its predictive power but, also, because it is an area of potential intervention. Nevertheless, few studies have considered such mechanisms and, in this regard, research on children with disabilities lags behind the larger research

base in developmental science. Mechanisms may operate differently in families of different socioeconomic levels or with different ethnotheories of parenting (Harkness & Super, 1996). A sophisticated understanding of how such mechanisms operate in different types of families would provide suggestions for promising pathways to promote optimal development of children with developmental disabilities. Conducting Research on Disabilities to Inform Developmental Processes Beyond a call to expand the direction of research on families of children with disabilities, there is an additional need to recognize the ways that research on children with disabilities might further inform typical developmental processes. Two decades ago, Robert Hodapp and Jacob Burack (1990) described ways in which research findings concerning children with disabilities have advanced our understanding of development more broadly. They focused on two key issues in the field at that time: developmental sequences and cross-domain relations. For both topics, the primary question was the extent to which children with intellectual disabilities, such as Down syndrome, are developmentally similar to other children. Most of the investigations suggested that although timing may differ, the sequencing of basic cognitive phases and the structure of cross-domain relations do not differ for those children (e.g., Cicchetti & Beeghly, 1990). The results of such work imply that the basic tenets of developmental theory apply generally to all children, including those whose development differs from the course expected based on chronological age. The next wave of research investigations, however, followed a different path by considering the unique developmental strengths and weaknesses associated with children of specific genotypes. Such studies considered the ways in which children with specific syndromes differed in their behavior. For example, children with Down syndrome and those with Williams syndrome both display lower than average language skills, but the patterns of strengths and weaknesses of language skills within each syndrome differ remarkably. Although toddlers with Williams syndrome have similar receptive vocabularies to toddlers with Down syndrome, they show relative advantages in expressive vocabulary, often using unique phrases (Mervis & Robinson, 2000). These differences are attributed to the relative strengths in verbal short-term memory of those with Williams syndrome; in contrast, children with Down syndrome rely more on semantics than on verbal

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short-term memory when acquiring new vocabulary and make use of gestures to aid their communication skills (Mervis & Klein-Tasman, 2000). These different avenues to language development have implications for children within the range of typical development as well, as they are also likely to rely on areas of relative strength in developing their language skills. Developmental systems perspectives also provide guidance in considering the complexities of many current investigations in areas like molecular biology. Recent studies use new technologies that provide a higher resolution when analyzing the human genome. As a result of such advances, we now know that some developmental disabilities are a result of rearrangements, often microdeletions or microduplications, within a segment of the genome (Venkitaramani & Lombroso, 2007). For example, fragile X syndrome, the most commonly known cause of genetically based intellectual disabilities, has been identified as relating to a break point that is present in one of the X-chromosomes. This break point indicates a microduplication that occurs between 200 and 1000 times, in comparison to only 6 to 50 times in most individuals. Because it is carried on the X-chromosome, females who have this microduplication do not usually show the same level of intellectual impairment as do males, although they tend to have difficulties with visual-spatial and some memory tasks (Venkitaramani & Lombroso, 2007). Nevertheless, about 20% of men who carry this mutant version of the gene do not have intellectual disabilities, suggesting that even for disabilities with such a strong known genetic contribution, deterministic views of outcomes are misleading. Molecular biologists have also contributed to our growing understanding of the genetic contributions to ASD. Although at least 10 genes have been implicated in ASD, no single gene accounts for the triad of symptoms typical of ASD: impaired social interaction, communication, and restricted and repetitive interests (Happ´e, Ronald, & Plomin 2006). For example, one set of researchers (Weiss et al., 2008) has identified a recurrent microdeletion and reciprocal microduplication on chromosome 16p.11.2 in some children with ASD and, although it has been found on only a small proportion of children with ASD (1%), this finding lends support to hypotheses regarding genetic contributions to this disorder. Such work in molecular biology will undoubtedly add to the understanding of the genetic components of many biologically based disabilities. Nevertheless, investigations with developmental scientists will be critical to achieve a more complete understanding of both individual variation and the role

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of contextual differences, including family processes and specific interventions, on children’s outcomes. Beyond beginning to identify genetic components of specific disabilities, some research investigations are branching into examinations of the role of gene-byenvironment interactions. One well-researched interaction focuses on children with phenylketonuria (PKU), a disorder caused by a gene mutation. Children with PKU raised in a typical environment (i.e., given a typical diet) will develop intellectual disabilities. Thus, a gene (i.e., genetic mutation) by environment (i.e., typical diet) interaction occurs to produce a deleterious effect. When such children are provided with a diet free of phenylalanines, however, they are much more likely to develop typical intellectual skills (Chinsky & Steiner, 2009). Other gene-by-environment interactions indicate that specific environments do not exert the same effect on all children; instead, the effect of an environmental factor on children’s behavior is dependent on their genotype. The most well-known example of this interaction in the psychological literature derives from the diathesis-stress model, which has been used to test the role of such interactions in the development of a psychopathological disorder, such as depression (Rende & Plomin, 1992). According to this model, the heritability of the disorder will be higher for individuals in high-risk environments (O’Connor, Caspi, DeFries, & Plomin, 2003). One of the best known studies of this sort was conducted by Caspi and colleagues (2003); they found that individuals with a specific genotype (based on whether they had two copies of the short allele, one copy of the short allele, or two copies of the long allele on the 5-HTTLPR gene) varied in their acquisition of depression under the conditions of having been exposed to high levels of life stress. Although they found no main effect of genotype on depressive symptoms, interaction effects demonstrated the importance of the synergy of genotype and life stress. Those individuals carrying a single short allele, compared to the other two groups, were significantly more likely to report depressive symptoms when they had been exposed to a larger number of stressful life events (e.g., employment, financial, relationship, housing, and health life stressors). The logic of these results is supported by prior work indicating that the short allele is associated with lower transcriptional efficiency of the serotonin transporter, and the reuptake of serotonin is implicated in depressive disorders. Despite advances in genetics leading to greater knowledge of the contributions of genes to the potential acquisition of specific syndromes and to the probability of patterns of strength and weaknesses associated with

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certain disabilities, the work on gene-by-environment interaction makes clear that genes contribute to, but do not specify, behavior. Experience can affect behavior in several ways, one of which is through changes at the molecular level. Johnston (2010) describes how experience affects behavior by changing the underlying neural circuitry, promoting strengthening or weakening of particular synaptic connections, and resulting in new networks of connection. In particular, experience directly affects the electrochemical activity of nerve cells; such activity indirectly produces changes in the activity of genes within their nuclei. Those changes, in turn, produce changes in neural growth and connectivity, resulting in experience-dependent changes in behavior. One particular intriguing aspect of this process occurs within a class of genes known as immediate-early genes (IEGs). A number of these have been identified, all of which have the common characteristic that their transcription responds quickly to changes in experience. The proteins produced by IEGs are transcription factors that regulate the expression of other genes, which, in turn, are thought to lead to developmental changes in behavior (Johnston, 2010). By working in tandem, neuroscientists focusing on genetic differences and developmental scientists concerned with cognitive and social processes can provide a more complete science of the range of behavioral outcomes displayed by all children, those with and without known developmental disabilities. Karmiloff-Smith (2009) advocates that neuroscientists and psychologists follow a neuroconstructivist stance in which they study how the brain, cognition, and the environment interact multidirectionally and over time. A truly developmental approach is rarely taken in studies of children with developmental disabilities; instead, such children are often compared to chronological age–matched or mental age–matched peers. Although such comparisons have yielded important information about relative strengths and weaknesses of children with particular disabilities, Karmiloff-Smith reasons that they, by design, have several limitations. First, they have neglected to consider intraindividual developmental change. How do the brains of children with disabilities dynamically restructure over the course of development? Few neuroimaging studies have been designed to test the neural trajectories of individuals as they develop (Karmiloff-Smith, 2010). Much of that restructuring may be the result of complex interactions over time. Second, matched-pair designs often lead to conclusions about domain-specific areas of weakness, but obscure understanding of associations across domains. For example, children with Williams syndrome

have weaknesses in face processing, numerical processing, auditory processing, and spatial processing (KarmiloffSmith, 2009). Only by considering the difficulties such children have in feature processing across these domains does it become apparent that these may be related. Additional studies on infants with Williams syndrome indicate that these difficulties all may originate in “sticky fixation,” possibly resulting from an inability to plan rapid saccadic eye movements (Brown et al., 2003). Such findings indicate how neurocircuits may be organized, but also suggest a potentially important area of intervention for infants with Williams syndrome. In addition, studies on children with developmental disabilities can further inform mainstream work within developmental science itself. An excellent example of this already exists in studies of social cognition of children with ASD (Mundy, 2009). These studies have led to important findings about the role of different types of joint attention—responding to joint attention and initiating joint attention—in the self-organizing role of social learning. The dissociation between these two aspects of joint attention was first proposed through a series of studies on toddlers with ASD (Mundy, Sigman, & Kasari, 1994) in which the researchers found that those with lower mental age had deficits in both aspects of joint attention, whereas those with higher mental age had deficits only in initiating joint attention. A similar dissociation has been found in a wide range of studies of children with ASD, as such children do not necessarily have deficits in responding to joint attention or in processing the attention of gaze (Nation & Penny, 2008), but have consistent difficulties in initiating joint attention (Mundy, 2009). These findings suggest that these two aspects of joint attention may reflect distinct combinations of developmental processes. Neuropsychological studies add further support to this speculation. Responding to joint attention in the second year of life appears to be related to the posterior orienting and perceptual attention systems and is considered to be relatively involuntary in its origins (Posner & Rothbart, 2007). In contrast, initiating joint attention is believed to be supported by the anterior attention systems, which develop later than the posterior attention systems and which control volitional goal-directed activity (Mundy & Newell, 2007). Mundy (2009) speculates that the dissociation of these two aspects of joint attention found in children with ASD is indicative of similar dissociations in joint attention evident in the course of typical development. Thus, research of children with ASD has resulted in a more sophisticated understanding of the processing of social cognition in all children.

Disabilities and Development

CONCLUSIONS Ideally, research on developmental disabilities will proceed in many directions. More in-depth understanding of family processes in a range of family constellations and backgrounds is likely to yield valuable information for intervention and clinical work. In addition, cross-field investigations between psychologists and biologists will probably produce important findings about specific geneby-environment interactions. Those, in turn, may provide novel information about mechanisms of development and also lead to the construction of valuable interventions. Finally, a greater understanding of the developmental processes of children with disabilities may both challenge and enrich current models about development in all children.

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CHAPTER 23

Child Development and the Law MICHAEL E. LAMB AND LINDSAY C. MALLOY

CHILD DEVELOPMENT AND THE LAW 571 PROTECTING THE CHILDREN OF DIVORCE CHILDREN AS VICTIMS/WITNESSES IN LEGAL SETTINGS 575

CHILDREN AS SUSPECTS/OFFENDERS IN LEGAL SETTINGS 581 CONCLUSIONS 586 REFERENCES 587

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their strengths and limitations as eyewitnesses. They have documented age-related changes in adolescent development and decision-making abilities. Neuroscientific technology has allowed researchers to document the relation between these changes and physical development in the brain. All of this information can be of value to policy makers and jurists, but the impact has hitherto been less thoroughgoing than it should be. Developmental science can inform many areas of law, but this chapter will focus on three areas in which legal practice concerning youth has been at least somewhat responsive to scientific input. Making reference primarily to review articles and summaries, we examine these three topics closely because they illustrate both (a) how applied and basic research by developmentalists and other researchers (e.g., criminologists, neuroscientists) have combined to offer compelling recommendations for policy affecting the lives and futures of vulnerable children; and (b) how slowly the insights gleaned from scientific research affect both the letter of the law and practices in the field. In the first section of the chapter, we discuss the ways in which research on parent–child relationships and on the effects of divorce create a knowledge base that can be used to guide those professionals who must make decisions about children’s living arrangements when their parents divorce or separate. In the second section, we review research on the extent to which children are capable of providing detailed testimony about their experiences— particularly their experiences of child abuse. We illustrate the ways in which forensic interview procedures informed by developmental research improve the quality of information provided by alleged victims and discuss

CHILD DEVELOPMENT AND THE LAW “The law,” broadly conceived, touches the lives of increasing numbers of children and youths in a variety of different ways. For example, legal authorities intervene when parents cannot agree with one another regarding the custody and care of their children following divorce, when parents appear incapable of caring for their children appropriately, when children are suspected victims of abuse, and when children or youths have committed crimes. Although legal intervention in these cases is often justified by reference to children’s best interests, the interventions themselves are only sporadically informed by reference to developmental theory or the results of scientific research. Indeed, political ideology and cultural values, rather than scientific knowledge, tend to guide the development of policies like those requiring parents to seek employment or job training in exchange for public support, those that emphasize family preservation rather than the removal and adoption of children who have not received adequate care from their parents, or those that permit the prosecution of juvenile offenders as though they were adults. The failure of policy makers and enforcers to take advantage of a burgeoning and increasingly sophisticated understanding of child development is unfortunate, because superior public policy and law would surely emerge if principles derived from developmental science were considered more fully when making legal policy relevant to youth. Researchers actually know a great deal about children’s attachments to parents and their ability to tolerate separations from them. They are increasingly aware of children’s language, memory, and suggestibility, as well as 571

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emerging areas of research concerning how to further enhance children’s testimony. Finally, in the third section, we review research concerning juvenile justice, specifically the characteristics of juveniles that influence their vulnerability in interrogations, their culpability, and the implications of their characteristics for their treatment in the legal system. Throughout the chapter, it is clear how scholarly research can inform practice, promoting children’s welfare and best interests in the process. In all cases, furthermore, close study of children’s actual experiences and performance in real world settings (the forensic interview, the interrogation room, the detention center, the disintegrating family) has enhanced our cumulative understanding of developmental processes. This point deserves emphasis, because academic psychologists too often view applied research as intellectually and methodologically inferior, unlikely to enhance our broader understanding. We hope to demonstrate in this chapter how “basic” research and “applied” research can complement one another and how a complete understanding of developmental processes may only be obtained when we are able to examine youth in experimental, analog, and real-world contexts.

PROTECTING THE CHILDREN OF DIVORCE Many social scientists have documented the extent to which children’s development can be affected by their parents’ separation, and applied developmental psychologists have, in turn, shown how psychological research not only helps explain these effects, but also informs the development of social policies and practices that can help ameliorate the more negative effects. Divorce and parental separation clearly affect many children: According to the U.S. Census Bureau, about half the children in the United States spend at least part of their childhood living with a single parent, and similar experiences affect considerable (though slightly smaller) numbers of children in most other industrialized countries. Researchers have clearly demonstrated that, on average, children benefit from being raised in two biological or adoptive parent families rather than separated, divorced, or never-married single-parent households (see reviews by Amato & Dorius, 2010; Clarke-Stewart & Brentano, 2006; Fabricius, Braver, Diaz, & Velez, 2010; Hetherington & Kelly, 2002), although there is considerable variability within groups, and the differences between groups are relatively small. Indeed, although children growing up in fatherless families are, on average, disadvantaged relative

to peers growing up in two-parent families with respect to psychosocial adjustment, behavior, and achievement at school; educational attainment; employment trajectories; income generation; involvement in antisocial and even criminal behavior; and the ability to establish and maintain intimate relationships, the majority of children with divorced parents enjoy average or better-than-average social and emotional adjustment as young adults (ClarkeStewart & Brentano, 2006; Hetherington & Kelly, 2002; Kelly & Emery, 2003; Lamb & Kelly, 2009). Approximately 25% of children in post-separation and divorced families give evidence of adjustment problems, compared to 12–15% in married families. Thus, the majority of children from separated families evince no psychopathology or behavioral symptoms, although they are likely to experience psychic pain for at least some period of time. For researchers, of course, it is important to determine why some children are adversely affected by their parents’ separation. The Development of Infant–Parent Attachments The effects are best understood in the context of normative developmental processes. Scholars have long recognized that the attachments formed to parents are among the most critical achievements of the first year of life (Bowlby, 1969), and that attachment formation depends on reciprocal interactive processes that foster the infants’ ability to discriminate their parents from others and to develop emotional relationships with their parents. These relationships or attachments are consolidated by the middle of the first year of life and are characterized by the onset of separation anxiety and separation protest. Infants who receive sensitive, responsive care from familiar adults in the course of feeding, holding, talking, playing, soothing, and being physically close become securely attached to them (Ainsworth, Blehar, Waters, & Wall, 1978; DeWolff & van IJzendoorn, 1997; Thompson, 2006). Even adequate levels of responsive parenting foster the formation of infant–parent attachments, although some of these relationships may be insecure. Children are nonetheless better off with insecure attachments than without attachment relationships, because these enduring ties play essential formative roles in later social and emotional functioning, promoting a sense of security, self-confidence, and trust in other human beings (Thompson, 2006). Most infants form meaningful attachments to both of their parents at roughly the same age (six to seven months; Lamb & Lewis, 2010) even though most fathers spend less time with their infants than mothers do (Pleck,

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2010). Most infants come to “prefer” the parents who take primary responsibility for their care (typically their mothers), but this does not mean that relationships with their fathers are unimportant; provided interaction is regular, the amounts of time infants spend with their two parents do not affect the security of either attachment relationship. Although some studies of both infant–mother and infant–father attachment fail to reveal significant associations between the quality of parental behaviors and the security of infant–parent attachment, meta-analyses reveal that, in both cases, the quality of parental behavior is reliably associated with the security of infant–parent attachment (DeWolff & van IJzendoorn, 1997; van IJzendoorn & DeWolff, 1997). Not surprisingly, therefore, children in both two- and single-parent families appear better adjusted when they enjoy warm positive relationships with two actively involved parents (Amato & Gilbreth, 1999; Lamb & Kelly, 2009). The empirical literature also shows that infants and toddlers need regular interaction with their “attachment figures” in order to foster and maintain the relationships (Lamb & Kelly, 2009). Extended separations from either parent are undesirable, because they unduly stress developing attachment relationships (Bowlby, 1973). In addition, infants need to interact with both parents in a variety of contexts (feeding, playing, diapering, soothing, putting to bed, etc.) to ensure that the relationships are consolidated and strengthened. In the absence of such opportunities for regular interaction across a broad range of contexts, infant–parent relationships fail to develop and may instead weaken. For the same reason, it is extremely difficult to reestablish relationships between infants/young children and their parents when these have been disrupted (Kelly & Lamb, 2003). Instead, it is considerably better to avoid such disruptions in the first place. In general, relationships with parents play a crucial role in shaping children’s social, emotional, personal, and cognitive development (Lamb & Lewis, 2011), and there is a substantial literature documenting the adverse effects of disrupted parent–child relationships on children’s development and adjustment. Children who are deprived of meaningful relationships with one of their parents are at greater risk psychosocially, even when they are able to maintain relationships with their other parents (Amato & Dorius, 2010; Lamb, 2002; Lamb & Kelly, 2009). Stated differently, there is substantial evidence that children are more likely to attain their psychological potential when they are able to develop and maintain meaningful relationships with both of their parents, whether or not the two parents live together. If the parents lived together prior

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to the separation, and the relationships with both parents were of at least adequate quality and supportiveness, the central challenge is to maintain both infant–parent attachments after separation/divorce. Maintaining Relationships with Parents Who Live Apart Influenced by Freud (e.g., 1940) and others following in his tradition, developmental psychologists initially focused exclusively on mothers and infants, presuming fathers to be quite peripheral and unnecessary to children’s development and psychological adjustment. When parents separated, therefore, neoanalysts emphasized the importance of continuity in the relationships between infants and mothers, with children living with their mothers and having limited contact with their fathers (Goldstein, Freud, & Solnit, 1973). When such recommendations were implemented, infants or toddlers who were accustomed to seeing both parents each day abruptly began seeing one parent, usually their fathers, only once every week (or two weeks) for a few hours. Such arrangements were often represented by professionals as being “in the best interests” of the child due to the mistaken belief that infants had only one significant or primary attachment. The resulting custody arrangements sacrificed continuity in infant–father relationships, with long-term socioemotional and economic consequences for children. Very large research literatures now document the adverse effects of severed father–child relationships as well as the positive contributions that nonresident fathers can make to their children’s development (see Fabricius et al., 2010; Lamb & Kelly, 2009, for reviews). It is thus preferable to seek arrangements that preserve the continuity of relationships with both parents. The quality of the relationships between both parents and their children remains important in the majority of divorcing families, just as in the majority of two-parent families. Unfortunately, however, most contemporary custody and visitation decrees do not foster the maintenance of relationships between children and their noncustodial parents. Furthermore, initially restrictive awards are often followed by declining levels of paternal involvement over time, with increasing numbers of children having less and less contact with their nonresident parents as time goes by (e.g., Furstenberg & Cherlin, 1991; Kiernan & Mensah, 2010). To the extent that contact is beneficial, of course, such data suggest that many children are placed at risk by the withdrawal or apparent disappearance of their noncustodial fathers. Many fathers drift away from their children after divorce, perhaps because they are

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deprived of the opportunity to be parents rather than visitors. Most noncustodial parents are awarded visitation, and they function as visitors, taking their children to the zoo, to movies, to dinner, and to other special activities in much the same way that grandparents or uncles and aunts behave. Children may well enjoy these excursions, and may not regret the respite from arguments about getting homework done, getting their rooms cleaned up, behaving politely, going to bed on time, and getting ready for school, but the exclusion of fathers from these everyday tribulations is crucial, ultimately transforming the fathers’ roles and making these men increasingly irrelevant to their children’s lives, socialization, and development. Parents not only need to spend adequate amounts of time with their children, but also need to be involved in a diverse array of activities with their children, in a variety of functional contexts (feeding, play, discipline, basic care, limit-setting, putting to bed, etc.), so that they can continue playing psychologically important and central roles in the lives of their children (Lamb, Sternberg, & Thompson, 1997). Evening and overnight periods are especially important psychologically for young children because they provide opportunities for crucial social interactions and nurturing activities, including bathing, soothing hurts and anxieties, bedtime rituals, and comforting in the middle of the night. These everyday activities promote and maintain trust and confidence in the parents while deepening and strengthening child–parent attachments, and thus need to be encouraged when decisions about custody and access are made (Lamb, 2012). One implication is that even young children should spend overnight periods with both parents, even though neo-analysts have long counseled against this (Lamb, 2012; Lamb & Kelly, 2009). To minimize the deleterious impact of extended separations from either parent, furthermore, attachment theory tells us that there should be more frequent transitions than would perhaps be desirable with older children, ensuring the continuity of both relationships and promoting security and comfort during potentially stressful periods. From the third year of life, the ability to tolerate longer separations begins to increase, so that most toddlers can manage two consecutive overnights with each parent without stress. Schedules involving separations spanning longer blocks of time, such as 5 to 7 days, should be avoided, as children this age may still become upset when separated from either parent for too long. Interestingly, psychologists have long recognized the need to minimize the length of separations from attachment figures when devising parenting plans, but they have typically focused only on separations from mothers,

thereby revealing their presumption that young children are not meaningfully attached to their fathers. To the extent that children are attached to both of their parents, however, separations from both parents are stressful and at minimum generate psychic pain, so it is important to ensure that the parenting plans implemented allow meaningful child–parent relationships to develop and flourish. A number of recent studies in Australia, both intensive and large-scale, have highlighted the need to focus not only on the amounts of time that children spend with their parents post-divorce, but crucially on the quality of those relationships both before and after the parents’ separation (Cashmore et al., 2010; Kaspiew et al., 2009; McIntosh, Smyth, & Keleher, 2010; McIntosh, Smyth, Wells, & Long, 2010). Taken together, these studies revealed that children adjusted best when they had supportive relationships with both parents pre-separation and when the parenting plans enjoyed thereafter promoted the maintenance of these relationships. Children often did not benefit when they began spending much more time with parents who were previously neither highly involved nor supportive of their children’s psychological development, and these parenting plans were often changed quite quickly. The research by McIntosh and her colleagues also illustrated that children may be affected differently by their parents’ separation depending on their temperaments, with children (especially boys) who had attentional difficulties especially vulnerable. Professionals have long cautioned that personality differences among children needed to be considered more carefully than they had been, but these recent findings may prompt further research on this little-studied issue. When they occur, the adverse long-term effects of divorce on children appear to be associated with the disruption of one or both of the child–parent relationships, typically the father–child relationship, but it is important to recognize that divorce is associated with a number of other adverse circumstances as well. First, the family’s financial status is adversely affected by the loss of a major source of income, usually the principal breadwinner. Even in the best of circumstances, furthermore, it is more expensive to maintain two households than one, and the standards of living thus tend to decline. Second, because single mothers need to work more extensively outside the home to support themselves and their children, adults are less likely to be present and the supervision and guidance of children becomes less intensive and reliable in single- than in two-parent families. Third, conflict between the parents commonly precedes or emerges during the divorce process. High conflict is associated with poorer child outcomes following divorce (Johnston, 1994; Kelly, 2000; McIntosh,

Child Development and the Law

Smyth, Wells, & Long, 2010), especially when the conflict has its roots in pre-separation dynamics and continues at high levels of intensity, often in front of the children or with them drawn into it. Fourth, single parenthood is associated with a variety of social and financial stresses with which individuals must cope, largely on their own. Researchers have shown that all of these factors have adverse effects on children’s adjustment, and it is thus not surprising to find that the co-occurrence of these factors at the time of divorce has adverse consequences for children (Amato & Dorius, 2010; Cashmore et al., 2010; Lamb, 2002; Lamb & Kelly, 2009). Less clear are the specific processes by which these effects are mediated, yet an understanding of how divorce and custody arrangements affect child development is absolutely crucial if we as a society are to minimize or reverse the adverse effects of divorce on children. Step-parenthood and remarriage further complicate efforts to understand the effects of diverse post-divorce custody arrangements on child well-being, because these shape family dynamics and child adjustment in complex ways (Marsiglio & Hinojosa, 2010). Conclusions and Future Directions If noncustodial parents are to maintain and strengthen relationships with their children, in other words, they need to participate in a range of everyday activities that allows them to function as parents rather than simply as regular, genial visitors. Unfortunately, those constructing custody and visitation awards do not always appear to understand what sort of interaction is needed to consolidate and maintain parent–child relationships, and as a result, their decisions seldom ensure either sufficient amounts of time or adequate distributions of that time (overnight and across both school and nonschool days) to promote the maintenance of healthy parent–child relationships. Research on normative developmental processes, supplemented by the results of descriptive studies designed to elucidate the effects of divorce and various access arrangements on child development, have combined to identify the deficiencies of common practices and to articulate ways in which child adjustment could be promoted.

CHILDREN AS VICTIMS/WITNESSES IN LEGAL SETTINGS Child maltreatment can affect children’s adjustment, and many aspects of cognitive, social, emotional, and even physical development, in both the short and long term (see

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reviews by Cicchetti, 2010; Egeland, Yates, Appleyard, & van Dulmen, 2002; Shonk & Cicchetti, 2001; Sternberg, Lamb, Guterman, & Abbott, 2006). Thus, it is critical to identify victims of child maltreatment as early as possible in order to intervene appropriately and protect children from future harm. Early identification is challenging, however, because of the difficulties associated with investigating this particular crime. Most children are abused by known and trusted perpetrators (e.g., Hershkowitz, Horowitz, & Lamb, 2005; Kendall-Tackett, Williams, & Finkelhor, 1993), with abuse typically occurring in private, leaving no witnesses who can testify about the incident(s) except for the child and suspect. Not surprisingly, the child and suspect often provide conflicting accounts. Especially in the case of sexual abuse, furthermore, it is rare to find corroborative evidence, either because the nature of the abuse does not lend itself to physical evidence (e.g., fondling), or physical evidence has disappeared due to delayed reporting, which is quite common (Goodman-Brown, Edelstein, Goodman, Jones, & Gordon, 2003; London, Bruck, Ceci, & Shuman, 2005; Pipe, Lamb, Orbach, & Cederborg, 2007). Physical evidence, even when it exists, may not identify a specific perpetrator (e.g., in the case of bruises). Early identification thus involves getting firsthand accounts of children’s experiences by talking to them directly. Due to the critical nature of children’s eyewitness testimony, it is imperative that children’s reports be clear, consistent, detailed, and accurate. Because it is most common for children to testify about maltreatment, this chapter will focus on their abilities to testify about such experiences. However, children may also be called upon to provide statements as victims or witnesses to other crimes (e.g., domestic violence) or in civil proceedings (e.g., custodial disputes, removals of children or adults from their homes) (Bruck et al., 2006; Lamb, 2003; Lamb, Hershkowitz, Orbach, & Esplin, 2008). Investigative interview techniques, which will be described below, facilitate communicating with children to obtain the most complete and accurate reports possible regardless of the specific event in question. To improve the quality and quantity of information obtained from children via developmentally sensitive interview protocols, it was important for researchers first to identify children’s strengths, weaknesses, and characteristics. Over the last few decades, hundreds of studies with implications for children’s testimony have been conducted by an international and disciplinarily diverse group of researchers. Both basic and applied, these studies have revealed much about the factors that influence children’s

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capacities and limitations as eyewitnesses. The research summarized here has helped identify such factors, thereby facilitating improvements in the quality of forensic interviewing. A full review of the factors that influence children’s informativeness is beyond the scope of this chapter, but we will discuss several key factors briefly before examining how best to maximize children’s informativeness in light of what psychologists have learned about children’s abilities and tendencies.

Factors Influencing Children’s Informativeness In this section we discuss several key influences on children’s informativeness. These factors include language development and communicative competence, memory, and suggestibility. Language Development and Communicative Competence Linguistic immaturity and lack of communicative competence may make it difficult for children to describe their experiences to adults in an intelligible manner. Although children may have 8,000 or more words in their repertoire by the age of 6 (H. Clark & Clark, 1977), the vocabularies of young children are often much more limited, less descriptive, and more idiosyncratic than those of adults (Dale, 1976). It is not uncommon for children, especially preschoolers, to use words that they do not yet fully understand or to misunderstand some apparently simple concepts, such as “any,” “touch,” and temporal terms such as “yesterday” (Orbach & Lamb, 2007; Walker, 1999), and they cannot draw upon an array of past experiences to enrich and clarify their descriptive accounts. The social or pragmatic aspects of communication can also be challenging for children. They are still learning how to participate effectively in conversations and how to structure coherent narratives about past events (Nelson & Fivush, 2004; Warren & McCloskey, 1997). Also, young children may respond literally to questions that older children and adults view as requests for additional information (e.g., Interviewer: “Do you remember his name?”; Child: “Yes.”) (Walker & Warren, 1995). Furthermore, because young witnesses may not understand what is considered “forensically relevant,” they may fail to identify the target incident(s) or fail to provide the amount or type of information being sought by interviewers. Finally, children are used to being “tested” by knowledgeable adults but unaccustomed to being unique informants about their experiences, and this has implications for their understanding of

what is expected of them as eyewitnesses (Lamb, Orbach, Warren, Esplin, & Hershkowitz, 2007). The previously mentioned aspects of language development and communicative competence may pose challenges in legal settings for children (and for the adults trying to elicit their testimony). Laboratory studies demonstrate that the accuracy of children’s accounts is greatly influenced by the linguistic style and the complexity of the language addressed to them by questioners, with misunderstanding occurring when interviewers use words, sentence structures, question types, or concepts that are complex, ambiguous, and/or age-inappropriate (Evans, Lee, & Lyon, 2009; Saywitz & Camparo, 1998; Saywitz, Nathanson, & Snyder, 1993; Walker, 1999; Zajac & Hayne, 2003). Children’s seemingly large vocabularies may lead interviewers to overestimate their overall linguistic abilities. How, then, are interviewers to obtain organized and sufficiently-detailed accounts from children? Memory Basic experimental memory research has demonstrated clearly that many of the same factors and processes that affect adults’ memory also affect children’s memory. For example, regardless of age, memory is a reconstructive process: We actively work on memory traces to organize and recall them. As time passes, information is forgotten by children just as it is forgotten by adults. Whenever events recur with any regularity, both children and adults tend to blur distinctions among incidents and establish script memories (representations of averaged or typical events rather than particular incidents). Accounts based on script memories are likely to contain fewer distinctive details than are memories of discrete incidents (Nelson & Gruendel, 1981), and the passage of time between experiences and recall increases the tendency to rely on scripts (Myles-Worsley, Cromer, & Dodd, 1986). As discussed in more detail below, both children and adults are more accurate when their recall rather than recognition memory is accessed. Finally, although children are more likely to remember personally meaningful and salient experiences as opposed to meaningless items and events (see Ornstein, Gordon, & Larus, 1992, for a review), there is no “special” memory mechanism for stressful or traumatic events (Cordon, Pipe, Sayfan, Melinder, & Goodman, 2004). Memories of stressful or traumatic events are affected by the basic memory principles of forgetting and reconstruction, for instance (Howe, Toth, & Cicchetti, 2006). Despite the similarities in memory processes and structure of children and adults, there is, of course, considerable development in memory across childhood.

Child Development and the Law

As children grow older, the length, informativeness, and complexity of their recall memories increase (Schneider & Bjorklund, 1998). Across development, children are able to remember their experiences over longer periods of time as well. Young children tend to provide briefer accounts of their experiences than do older children and adults, but their accounts tend to be equivalently accurate (e.g., Goodman & Reed, 1986; Johnson & Foley, 1984; Marin, Holmes, Guth, & Kovac, 1979; Oates & Shrimpton, 1991). It is important to distinguish between memory performance and memory capacity. Young children’s accounts may be brief not only because their memories are poor but also because, as discussed above, their vocabularies are much more limited and less elaborate than those of adults. Experimental research in the last two decades makes clear that the distinction between recall and recognition testing is crucial when evaluating children’s memory capacities and the ways in which memories are accessed (Dale, Loftus, & Rathbun, 1978; Dent, 1982, 1986; Goodman, Hirschman, Hepps, & Rudy, 1991; Hutcheson, Baxter, Telfer, & Warden, 1995; Oates & Shrimpton, 1991; Orbach & Lamb, 2001; Peterson & Bell, 1996). These researchers have shown that, when children (and adults) are asked to describe events from free recall (“Tell me everything you remember . . . ”), their accounts tend to be incomplete and sketchy, but are likely to be very accurate. When prompted for more details using open-ended prompts like “Tell me more about that” or “And then what happened?” children often recall additional details, and their accuracy remains high. When interviewers prompt with focused questions—especially option-posing or yes–no questions (e.g., “Was the touch over or under your clothes?”), however, they shift from recall to recognition testing, and the probability of error rises dramatically. Recall memories are not always accurate, of course, especially when the events occurred long before the interview or there have been opportunities for contamination (Leichtman & Ceci, 1995; Poole & Lindsay, 1995; Quas et al., 2007; Warren & Lane, 1995), but they are more likely to be accurate than those elicited via recognition prompts. As we describe below, knowledge concerning recall versus recognition memory helped to develop interview questions that maximize the opportunities for free recall. Suggestibility In the 1980s, highly publicized allegations of child sexual abuse in daycare centers around the world highlighted the suggestibility of children and the potential for counterproductive questioning to render their testimony flawed and

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inaccurate (Bruck et al., 2006; Ceci & Bruck, 1995). These cases pointed not only to the critical importance of careful interviewing but also to the profound need for empirical research on children’s testimony. The alarm raised by these cases prompted hundreds of studies designed to help clarify our understanding of suggestibility (for reviews, see Ceci & Bruck, 2006; Malloy & Quas, 2009) thus providing an excellent example of how legal cases and practice can influence the direction of research. Analysis of these notorious cases helped draw attention to many potentially problematic investigative interview techniques (e.g., Garven, Wood, Malpass, & Shaw, 1998; Garven, Wood, & Malpass, 2000; Schreiber et al., 2006). Decades of laboratory and field research demonstrate that suggestibility is a multifaceted concept involving social, communicative, and memory processes. For example, social factors (e.g., peer pressure, obedience to authority) and cognitive factors (e.g., imagination, strength of memory traces) influence children’s susceptibility to misinformation (Ceci & Bruck, 2006). Children may acquiesce to suggestions and respond inaccurately because they infer that the interviewer would prefer a particular response, because they conclude that the interviewer was not satisfied with their initial response, because they are uncomfortable saying, “I don’t know,” or because they are experiencing source monitoring confusion (Poole & Lindsay, 1997). Importantly, some studies have demonstrated that children can resist misleading questions or suggestions even when they are repeated (e.g., Goodman & Aman, 1990; Goodman, Aman, & Hirschman, 1987; Goodman, Bottoms, Schwartz-Kenney, & Rudy, 1991; Goodman, Rudy, Bottoms, & Aman, 1990; Lyon, Malloy, Quas, & Talwar, 2008), whereas others have highlighted the power of suggestion to change or even create reports or “memories” of events that were never experienced (e.g., Bruck, Ceci, Francoeur, & Barr, 1995; Bruck, Ceci, & Hembrooke, 2002; Ceci et al., 1994; Ceci, Loftus, Leichtman, & Bruck, 1994; Quas et al., 1999; Quas et al., 2007; Strange, Garry, & Sutherland, 2003). In one classic study, Ceci and colleagues (1995) asked 3- to 6-year-olds to repeatedly imagine experiencing a fictitious event (e.g., getting their finger caught in a mousetrap and going to the hospital to have it removed). Many children later claimed to have experienced these events, and even after debriefing, some of the children refused to accept that the events were only imagined. Obviously, false reports can have devastating consequences in real-life circumstances, as highlighted by the legal cases described above (Ceci & Bruck, 1993, 1995). Although children, particularly preschoolers,

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appear especially vulnerable, suggestibility effects are not limited to children: Several studies demonstrate that adults too may come to produce detailed “memories” of entirely fictitious events (see Loftus, 1997, 2003, for reviews). Clearly, it matters a great deal how children are interviewed, and the manner in which children are questioned has profound implications for what is “remembered.” Importantly, it is not just the types of questions asked that can have contaminating effects but also the interview context itself (see Quas et al., 2007). Most of the laboratory analogue studies revealing high levels of suggestibility involved “highly misleading” suppositional-type questions (e.g., “When Sam Stone ripped the book, did he do it because he was angry, or by mistake?” when the book was not ripped; Leichtman & Ceci, 1995). In addition to such suggestive questions, interviewers can also create a biased context by, for example, instructing children to pretend or imagine what might have happened, introducing information not reported by the child, pressuring children to provide a response or to comply with propositions made by the interviewer (e.g., by telling children they will feel better if they tell, alluding to statements made by other children or adults including parents, highlighting the interviewer’s status, introducing stereotypes about the alleged perpetrator), providing children with incentives to acquiesce to suggestions, and repeating the same questions within interviews. A combination of several techniques is especially damaging (Ceci et al., 1994; Garven et al., 1998). Interview context can have powerful effects on what is said in interviews (see Malloy & Quas, 2009). Laboratory studies conducted by developmental psychologists and analysis of actual interview transcripts has advanced knowledge about the importance of careful interviewing and certainly what not to do in forensic interviews. The incorporation of such findings into the legal system will be discussed in the following sections. Maximizing Children’s Informativeness Understanding of the factors influencing children’s informativeness (language development and communicative competence, memory, suggestibility) has informed professional recommendations about the ways in which forensic interviews with children should be conducted (e.g., American Professional Society on the Abuse of Children (APSAC), 1997; Bruck, Ceci, & Principe, 2006; Home Office, 1992, 2007; Lamb et al., 2008; Poole & Lamb, 1998; Sattler, 1998; Saywitz, Goodman, & Lyon, 2002). First, it is critical for interviewers to communicate their needs and expectations clearly. Children must be

adequately prepared for their role as “experts” by being told that interviewers have little, if any, knowledge of the alleged events. Given their tendency to answer any question posed to them, children should be reminded that they can say “don’t know” if they do not know the answer and be empowered to correct interviewers should miscommunication occur. Second, interviewers should establish rapport with children before addressing substantive issues. Third, and also before substantive issues are discussed, many experts recommend introducing children to the interviewing style by having them practice providing detailed narrative descriptions of events (Roberts, Brubacher, Powell, & Price, 2011; Saywitz, Snyder, & Nathanson, 1999; Sternberg et al., 1997). Finally, to the extent possible, it is imperative to address open-ended invitations that access free-recall memory when addressing substantive issues. More focused questions should be used only when necessary and as late in the interview as possible. Certainly, interviewers should avoid suggestive or coercive questions and other techniques known to be risky (e.g., asking children to imagine what might have occurred). Throughout the interview, questions and statements must be worded carefully, with due consideration for the child’s age and communicative abilities. Unfortunately, several field studies demonstrated that despite the international consensus and best practice guidelines concerning the ways that interviews should be conducted, research indicated that investigative interviews were typically not conducted in accordance with these recommendations. Studies in Israel, the United States, the United Kingdom, and Sweden revealed similar and disappointing results: Interviewers continued to ask dangerously high proportions of closed or focused questions (e.g., “Where did he touch you?”) and few open-ended prompts (see Lamb et al., 2008, for a review). Although it was a sobering lesson, the widespread similarities in interview practices across countries and cultures raised questions about the effectiveness of guidelines that are not rigorously evaluated in the field and underscored the need for greater investment in ongoing training and supervision to bring about major changes in the quality of investigative interviewing (Lamb, Orbach, Hershkowitz, Esplin, & Horowitz, 2007). In response to interviewer needs and research findings demonstrating that interviewer performance could be improved via training (e.g., Lamb, Sternberg, Orbach, Esplin, & Mitchell, 2002), researchers developed detailed guidelines to make it easier for interviewers to achieve best practice (e.g., Cognitive Interview, Fisher, Brennan, & McCauley, 2002; Finding Words technique or the

Child Development and the Law

RATAC [Rapport, Anatomy Identification, Touch Inquiry, Abuse, and Closure] protocol, Walters, Holmes, Bauer, & Vieth, 2003; and the NICHD [National Institute of Child Health and Human Development] Investigative Interview Protocol, Lamb et al., 2008). We will discuss the NICHD Protocol in greater detail because it is the only procedure to have been extensively and internationally validated in the field. The NICHD Investigative Interview Protocol was designed to translate research-based recommendations into operational guidelines in order to maximize the retrieval of detailed and accurate accounts of alleged incidents of abuse by young victim/witnesses (see Lamb et al., 2008). It is also intended to guide interviewers to use prompts and techniques that maximize the amount of information elicited from free-recall memory. This is accomplished in several ways during the pre-substantive and substantive parts of the interview, with an important emphasis on preparing children for the task at hand and adapting interview practices and language to children’s developmental levels. Presubstantive Part One of the goals of the “pre-substantive” portions of forensic interviews is to ensure that children understand the unique demands of forensic interview contexts. In the introductory phase, the interviewer introduces himself/herself, clarifies the child’s task, and explains the ground rules and expectations (i.e., that the child can and should say, “I don’t remember,” “I don’t know,” “I don’t understand,” or correct the interviewer when appropriate). This phase is mindful of the legal system’s need to establish that children understand the difference between true and false statements. Because children struggle with defining abstract concepts like truth and lies (Lyon, 2000; Lyon et al., 2008; Lyon & Saywitz, 1999), this is done in a developmentally appropriate manner. In light of evidence that children are more likely to be cooperative when interviewers are friendly (e.g., Bottoms, Quas, & Davis, 2007; Hershkowitz, 2011; Quas, Wallin, Papini, Lench, & Scullin, 2005), interviewers next try to establish rapport with children by creating a relaxed, supportive environment. To familiarize children with open-ended questions and the level of detail expected of them in the substantive phase, children are prompted to describe a recently experienced neutral event in detail (Roberts et al., 2011). In a transitional part between the pre-substantive and the substantive parts of the interview, a series of prompts are used to identify the target event/s under investigation nonsuggestively and with prompts that are as open as possible.

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The interviewer only moves on to some carefully worded and increasingly focused prompts if the child fails to identify the target event/s. Substantive Part In the substantive part, the core questions of the interview are addressed. Taking into consideration the extensive empirical knowledge concerning the potential effects of question types and interviewer biases on children’s reports, the free-recall phase begins with an invitation (“Tell me everything . . . ”), followed by other free-recall prompts or invitations. As soon as the first narrative is completed, the interviewer asks whether the incident occurred “one time or more than one time” and then proceeds to secure incident-specific information using follow-up (“Then what happened?”) and cued invitations (e.g., “Earlier you mentioned a [person/object/action]. Tell me everything about that”), making reference to details mentioned by the child to elicit uncontaminated free-recall accounts of the alleged incident/s. Only after exhaustive free-recall prompting and if the account is incomplete do interviewers proceed to directive questions (focused recall questions that address details previously mentioned by the child and request information within specific categories [e.g., time, appearance], such as “When did it happen?” or “What color was that [mentioned] car?”). If crucial details are still missing, interviewers then ask limited option-posing questions (mostly yes/no or forced-choice questions referencing new issues that the child failed to address previously). Suggestive utterances are strongly discouraged. Through intensive efforts to create and maintain a constructive relationship based on mutual respect and good faith, the NICHD Investigative Interview Protocol was implemented and evaluated. Implementation was difficult, because practitioners were reluctant to admit that their current methods were not effective. It is quite common for interviewers to sincerely believe that they are following best practice guidelines, even when they are not (e.g., Aldridge & Cameron, 1999; Powell & Wright, 2008; Warren et al., 1999). After implementation of the Protocol, findings obtained in independent field studies in four countries (Cyr & Lamb, 2009; Lamb et al., 2008; Orbach, Hershkowitz, Lamb, Esplin, & Horowitz, 2000; Sternberg, Lamb, Orbach, Esplin, & Mitchell, 2001) showed dramatic improvements in the quality of forensic interviews. For example, when using the Protocol, interviewers use at least three times more open-ended and approximately half as many option-posing and suggestive prompts as they do when exploring comparable incidents, involving children of the same age, without the Protocol. Interviewers using

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the Protocol also introduce option-posing and suggestive questions later in the interview process than do peers not using the Protocol. Because option-posing and suggestive questions by definition involve the introduction of information by investigators, they may contaminate later phases of the children’s reports, especially when younger children are involved (D. Bjorklund, Bjorklund, Brown, & Cassel, 1998; Ceci & Bruck, 1995; Memon, Wark, Holley, Bull, & K¨ohnken, 1996). Thus, their delayed utilization is forensically important. Essentially, appropriate use of the structured interview protocol minimizes opportunities for contamination of the children’s accounts. In each study, about half of the informative and forensically relevant details and more than 80% of the initial disclosures of sexual abuse were provided in response to open-ended prompts. This is important because, as noted earlier, details elicited using free recall or open-ended prompts are more likely to be accurate than details elicited using more focused prompts (Dale et al., 1978; Dent, 1986; Dent & Stephenson, 1979; Goodman et al., 1991; Hutcheson et al., 1995; Lamb & Fauchier, 2001; Lamb et al., 2007; Orbach & Lamb, 2001). Furthermore, all of the above findings were replicated in the United States, the United Kingdom, Israel, and Canada. Simply publishing best-practice guidelines may not work, but interviewers can be trained to conduct better interviews, regardless of their jurisdiction or profession (Lamb et al., 2008). Unfortunately, another sobering lesson was learned soon afterward. Improvements in interviewer performance occurred after interviewers started reviewing and receiving critical feedback from expert consultants and fellow interviewers, but improvements rapidly diminished when this close monitoring and feedback was terminated (Lamb, Sternberg, Orbach, Hershkowitz, Horowitz, & Esplin, 2002). In fact, within 6 months after the training/supervision ended, police officers in the United States were conducting interviews that resembled their original interviews more than when they were getting the expert feedback (Lamb et al., 2002). For this reason, training in use of the Protocol has always been accompanied by efforts to provide continued support, guidance, and feedback after interviewers start using the Protocol. These strategies are supported by the results of experimental research in other contexts (Adams, Field, & Verhave, 1999; Clark, 1971; Frayer & Klausmeier, 1971; Gully, 1998; Sweet, 1966). Clearly, it is possible to improve forensic interviewing. However, it is critical to ensure the maintenance of best practices and not just their initial implementation.

Enhancing Children’s Informativeness The research discussed thus far has largely focused on children who are willing to report their experiences yet may be hindered by various cognitive, social, and linguistic characteristics and limitations. The existing interview protocols were designed to elicit accurate testimony from forthcoming children and to help interviewers guard against distortion and false allegations. Although research on children’s memory and eyewitness capabilities has mushroomed over the last few decades (see Bruck, Ceci, & Principe, 2006 for a review), there has been less research on children’s willingness to report events and on the potential sociomotivational impediments to disclosure. Over the last few years, considerable debate and controversy has arisen concerning how children disclose abuse, especially the extent to which they are reluctant to report and recant their claims. In recent reviews, London, Bruck, Ceci, & Shuman (2005, 2007) concluded that a majority of children delay disclosure of child sexual abuse, often until adulthood, with some never disclosing. Even in laboratory analogue studies, young children often fail to disclose the wrongdoing of adults, especially when they are asked to keep transgressions secret or given incentives to do so (e.g., Bottoms, Goodman, Schwartz-Kenney, & Thomas, 2002; Bussey & Grimbeek, 1995; Lyon & Dorado, 2008; Lyon et al., 2008; Pipe & Wilson, 1994; Talwar & Lee, 2008). Children may fail to disclose or delay disclosure because they fear negative consequences (Malloy, Brubacher, & Lamb, 2011), they have close relationships with the perpetrator (Hershkowitz, Horowitz, & Lamb, 2007), or they have been sworn to secrecy, for example. They may recant or take back their allegations for similar reasons (Malloy, Lyon, & Quas, 2007). Nondisclosure, delayed disclosure, and inconsistent reporting by child victims are problematic because they can prevent or delay intervention, hinder prosecution, and provide opportunities for further victimization. More research is clearly needed to address children’s maltreatment disclosure patterns and to develop effective strategies for interviewing reluctant children without being suggestive. Recent research has pointed to some promising directions. For example, Hershkowitz, Orbach, Lamb, Sternberg, & Horowitz (2006) found that when interviewers gave priority to open-ended strategies and techniques in NICHD Protocol interviews, there were significant increases in the number of facilitators and other supportive comments addressed to child witnesses, which encouraged children to be more cooperative. Lyon et al. (2008)

Child Development and the Law

found that a developmentally appropriate version of the oath enhanced true disclosures among maltreated children who played with a forbidden toy and were coached to lie about their involvement. Currently, a revision of the NICHD Investigative Interview Protocol is being tested in the field (Hershkowitz, Lamb, Katz, & Malloy, under review). The researchers have crafted the revised Protocol so that it provides interviewers with more tools to decrease children’s reluctance: rapport building is more empathetic and may last longer, and communication rules are discussed after rapport building so as not to impede the development of trust. Interviewers also provide nonsuggestive support (e.g., thanking children for talking) during the interview. Preliminary findings from a study of 811 interviews using the revised Protocol showed a significant increase in the numbers of suspected victims who disclose intrafamilial abuse (Hershkowitz, Lamb, & Katz, under review). Further research on the dynamics of these interviews is currently underway to identify the Protocol’s utility in enhancing children’s informativeness. Conclusions and Future Directions As increasing numbers of children are viewed as potential eyewitnesses, it is important to be aware of the vital role that forensic interviews play in the investigation of child maltreatment and child protection. Information originating from investigative interviews likely affects legal and administrative decisions that may profoundly affect the lives of children, families, and suspects, so it is imperative that children’s reports be detailed and accurate. As we highlighted here, professional consensus and guidelines based on hundreds of basic and applied studies did not yield significant changes in interviewers’ behavior. That is, studies demonstrating that children can be much more useful informants when they are effectively interviewed also documented the difficulties associated with altering legal practice in the field. The NICHD Investigative Interview Protocol and its training model illustrates an effective collaboration between psychology and law, with researchers and practitioners working together to generate solutions to real-world problems. Continued evaluation of the Protocol has elucidated further questions for researchers to address. For example, a version of the Protocol can be used when interviewing witnesses who are not victims (Lamb, Sternberg, Orbach, Hershkowitz, & Horowitz, 2003). Also, the Protocol can affect the ways in which cases are evaluated and adjudicated (Pipe, Orbach, & Lamb, 2008) and may be useful for interviewing young suspects (Hershkowitz,

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Horowitz, Lamb, Orbach, & Sternberg, 2004), as we discuss in more detail in the next section. Finally, it is imperative to determine how to effectively interview children who have learning or mental difficulties—an important question, because such individuals are disproportionally likely to be victimized and are also more likely to have their statements challenged or disregarded in legal contexts (Henry, Bettenay, & Carney, 2011; Hershkowitz, Lamb, & Horowitz, 2007; Sullivan & Knutson, 2000).

CHILDREN AS SUSPECTS/OFFENDERS IN LEGAL SETTINGS Because most crimes are committed by adolescents, researchers have long documented the “age-crime” curve, which distinguishes two primary groups of offenders— adolescent limited and life-course persistent (Moffitt, 1993). After adolescence, most juveniles cease offending, regardless of whether they come into contact with the legal system. Few adolescent offenders become adult perpetrators of crime, and these life-course persistent offenders are responsible for most criminal activity thereafter (e.g., Moffitt & Caspi, 2001; Moffitt, Caspi, Harrington, & Milne, 2002; Odgers et al., 2008). Thus, most juveniles who commit delinquent acts during adolescence later “age out” of criminal behavior by the time they enter young adulthood. Perhaps recognizing this, the American juvenile justice system initially respected developmental differences between adolescents and adults and placed emphasis on the need to rehabilitate, rather than simply punish, adolescents. Rehabilitation was thought possible because youths’ immaturity made them more malleable and thus more amenable to treatment than adults. In the 1980s, public concern about juvenile crime led policy makers to move towards a more punitive system, leading some to dub these marked changes the “criminalization” of the juvenile justice system (Feld, 1993; see Fagan, 2008; Steinberg, 2009; Steinberg & Scott, 2003, for reviews). Adolescents were increasingly transferred to adult court, where they faced harsher and more punitive sanctions. In the United States, up until less than a decade ago, offenses committed as a juvenile could even result in a death sentence. Legal professionals and policy makers must make difficult decisions concerning many aspects of adolescents’ legal involvement. For example, they must decide how to question juvenile suspects about their potential involvement in crime, whether to transfer juveniles to adult court, whether they are competent to stand trial, and whether they

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are amenable to rehabilitation. Developmental science can and should guide these decisions and processes. In this section, we first review key factors that influence youths’ participation in the legal system. Then, building on the above analysis of research on child witnesses, we discuss the interrogation of juvenile suspects before discussing the treatment of juvenile offenders, and the seminal role that developmental research has played in rethinking the sentencing of juveniles. Factors That Influence Youths’ Participation in the Legal System as Suspects/Offenders In this section, we discuss influences on youth participation in the legal system as suspects or offenders. These factors include brain development, decision-making capacity, peer influence, and the characteristics of juvenile offenders. Brain Development Adolescence is a time of considerable physical development and change. Pubertal changes (e.g., voice deepening, breast development) are often outwardly evident— noticeable even to adolescents themselves. However, there are also critical changes that are not so obvious— changes that occur in the brain, the center of cognition and decision making. Anatomical differences between the brains of adolescents and adults demonstrate that adolescent brains are not fully mature until adulthood—that is, after age 18 (see Scott & Steinberg, 2008; Steinberg, 2007, 2008, for reviews). The frontal lobes, areas of the brain that play critical roles in executive function, planning, and decision making, show key changes as we transition from adolescence to adulthood. Steinberg (2008, 2009) discusses a dual systems model, whereby two important brain systems (the socioemotional system and cognitive control system) develop at different rates, which affects adolescent sensation seeking and risky decision making (see the following section). Essentially, as Steinberg (2009) explains, the remarkable increase in dopaminergic activity in the socioemotional brain system, linked to sensation seeking, occurs before and more rapidly than the cognitive control system develops. Thus, adolescents experience a surge in emotion and reward seeking without a concomitant increase in the ability to self-regulate. Decision-Making Capacity Adolescents tend to live for the moment, and this tendency can have serious implications when their behavior involves dangerous or criminal activities. Adolescents also tend to

be more emotionally volatile than adults. Their deficiencies in emotional regulation and their psychosocial immaturity foster more immature judgments about social situations (Cauffman & Steinberg, 2000; Steinberg, 2009). When considering the future consequences of their actions, adolescents tend to focus on potential short- rather than long-term consequences, perhaps because they are more sensitive to rewards than risks (Steinberg & Cauffman, 1996; Steinberg et al., 2008; Steinberg et al., 2009). Laboratory research using several creative paradigms (e.g., the Iowa Gambling Task) has found that adolescents are more impulsive and less future-oriented than adults (e.g., Cauffman et al., 2010; Steinberg et al., 2008; Steinberg et al., 2009) while recent studies point to heightened risk awareness among juveniles, especially those who grow up in circumstances where they are exposed to poverty and frequent violence. Youth may take risks because they overestimate the likelihood that they will die prematurely, and their expectations of a truncated life may lead them to engage in risky behavior (Borowsky, Ireland, & Resnick, 2009). Whether or not juveniles are aware of risks, they appear to evaluate risk in ways that impair their decision-making abilities. Some of this poor decision making may have legal implications. As adolescents grow older, legal reasoning improves, but younger suspects tend toward decisions that increase their vulnerability in contexts like the interrogation room (e.g., Grisso et al., 2003; Peterson-Badali & Abramovitch, 1993; Redlich, Silverman, & Steiner, 2003). For example, younger suspects often waive their Miranda rights, perhaps in part because they do not understand the Miranda warnings and the legal rights that they afford. Younger juveniles also tend to waive their right to lawyers or fail to ask for one to be present (Grisso, 1980; Viljoen, Klaver, & Roesch, 2005; see Grisso, 1981, 1997, for reviews). Peer Influence Adolescents are more affected by peer influence than adults (Brown & Larson, 2009; Lerner & Steinberg, 2009; Steinberg, 2010; Steinberg & Monahan, 2007). In general, adolescents take more chances and make more risky decisions when in groups. Their increased susceptibility to peer pressure may have serious long-term consequences for themselves or others when peers are engaging in risky or illegal behavior or pressuring them to do so. Typically, adolescents commit crimes in pairs or groups, whereas adults tend to be solo offenders (e.g., Zimring, 1981). To understand the importance of peers and their role in adolescent behavior, simply consider the evidence concerning getting behind

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the wheel of a car, a frequent and legal activity among teenagers. When teenage drivers are transporting peer passengers, their already high risk for accidents, including fatal accidents, increases (see Allen & Brown, 2008). Gardner and Steinberg (2005) studied this phenomenon in the laboratory by having adolescents and adults engage in a computerized driving task alone or with two friends. Their findings confirmed the real-world accident statistics: Adolescents make riskier decisions when “driving” with friends than when “driving” alone. In their study, the mere presence of two friends doubled the chances that adolescents would speed through a cautionary yellow light instead of braking. By contrast, adults did not modify their risk-taking behavior when peers were present. Characteristics of Juvenile Offenders The above factors affect adolescent development generally. However, young suspects/offenders are often characterized by additional risk factors that influence their development and their ability to participate effectively in the legal system. Specifically, youths who are involved in the judicial system often have impaired intellectual abilities, mental health symptoms, and substance use disorders (e.g., Cauffman, 2004; Closson & Rogers, 2007; Quinn, Rutherford, Leone, Osher, & Poirier, 2005). Gender differences are also evident: Female juvenile offenders are more likely to experience mental health problems than male juvenile offenders (Cauffman, 2004; Cauffman, Lexcen, Goldweber, Shulman, & Grisso, 2007; Teplin, Abram, McClelland, Dulcan, & Mericle, 2002). Such mental health issues among juvenile offenders (e.g., conduct disorder, substance abuse) may increase the likelihood that youth commit delinquent acts in the first place while also affecting their performance when being questioned, having their competence examined, or making treatment decisions. Interrogation of Juvenile Suspects As discussed above, several key factors influence adolescents’ legal participation and differentiate between juvenile suspects/offenders and adult suspects/offenders. These factors may increase youths’ vulnerability in the interrogation room in various ways. For example, adolescents may become confused about their involvement in a crime; they may wish to protect peer co-offenders; or they may emphasize the short-term consequences of uncomfortable interrogations over the long-term consequences of confession. These risks may be exacerbated when adolescents have mental health issues or low IQs (Gudjonsson, 1990;

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Redlich, Summers, & Hoover, 2009), thus putting adolescents in “double jeopardy” (Redlich, 2007, p. 610). Unfortunately, however, developmental research has not influenced the way young suspects are interviewed as much as it has affected the questioning of young victims and witnesses, even though there is much at stake for these young people as well (see Owen-Kostelnik, Reppucci, & Meyer, 2006). The Reid Technique (Inbau, Reid, Buckley, & Jayne, 2001) is the most commonly used interrogation method in the United States (Kassin et al., 2010). More than 500,000 investigators in the United States and worldwide (e.g., Canada, Europe, Asia, the Middle East) have been trained in this technique over the past few decades (Reid & Associates, 2010), and many acknowledge employing it (e.g., Kassin et al., 2007; Leo, 1996; Meyer & Reppucci, 2007). To elicit a confession, interrogators using the Reid Technique create a confrontational environment. Several tactics (e.g., lying to suspects, presenting false evidence, asking suspects to report hypothetical details of the crime) are employed to prompt confessions, even though these tactics are known to increase the risk of false reporting by children and adults (e.g., Garven et al., 1998; Libby, 2003; Wade, Garry, Read, & Lindsay, 2002; see Loftus, 1997, 2003, for reviews). Despite the adolescent vulnerabilities summarized above, the Reid training manual recommends that, when interrogating adolescents, “the same general rules prevail as for adults” (Inbau et al., 2001; p. 99), and proceeds to recommend the outright exploitation of youthful offenders’ developmental characteristics, for example by advising focus on juveniles’ deficits in attention span or their susceptibility to peer pressure. Self-report and observational studies confirm that Reid-like techniques are being used with juveniles (Feld, 2006; Meyer & Reppucci, 2007); some investigators claim that the techniques are used as frequently with adult and juvenile suspects (Meyer & Reppucci, 2007). Further, although the most recent version of the training manual (Inbau et al., 2001) recommends taking some precautions with juvenile suspects (e.g., “This technique [presenting false evidence] should be avoided when interrogating a youthful suspect with low social maturity” (p. 429)), it is not clear that police interrogators have the knowledge or skills to judge adolescents’ social maturity in general or in high-stress interrogation contexts, and the problematic methods are not proscribed for suspects of any age. Why is the manner in which youth are interrogated critically important? For one thing, people sometimes confess to crimes that they did not commit, and youth are

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disproportionately likely to do so. Although it is quite counterintuitive, proven false confessions have been documented around the world (Kassin et al., 2010). In 15% to 25% of more than 200 DNA exonerations in the United States, a false confession or admission contributed to the wrongful conviction (Garrett, 2008; Scheck, Neufeld, & Dwyer, 2000; Innocence Project, 2009). False confessions, whether in a police interrogation room or in a contrived laboratory situation, occur at all ages. However, developmental characteristics put youth at increased risk, and young people’s developmental capacities and limitations have been largely ignored (and perhaps exploited) in the interrogation room. Several high-profile cases point to the power and effectiveness of Reid-like tactics in obtaining confessions from juvenile suspects. In New York City, five adolescent boys confessed to a violent assault and rape in Central Park (commonly referred to as “the Central Park jogger case”). After confessing, each of the five boys recanted, claiming to have confessed so that he could go home. They were incarcerated for up to 12 years, until DNA and confession evidence confirmed the identity of the true perpetrator (Kassin, 2002; People of the State of New York v. Kharey Wise et al., 2002). In addition to such case studies, empirical evidence from the “real world” demonstrates that juveniles are overrepresented among false confessors. In one well-known study of “proven false confession cases,” Drizin and Leo (2004) found that one-third of the cases involved false confessions from juveniles. Gross, Jacoby, Matheson, Montgomery, and Patel (2005) studied individuals exonerated with DNA evidence: 42% of the juveniles, as opposed to only 13% of the adults, had falsely confessed. Self-report and vignette studies also reveal alarming percentages of youth who claim to have falsely confessed when interrogated (6% to 14%; Gudjonsson, Sigurdsson, Asgeirsdottir, & Sigfusdottir, 2009; Gudjonsson, Sigurdsson, Asgeirsdottir, & Sigfusdottir, 2006; Gudjonsson, Sigurdsson, Sigfusdottir, & Asgeirsdottir, 2008; Viljoen et al., 2005) or would falsely confess when asked about hypothetical interrogation situations (25%; Goldstein, Condie, Kalbeitzer, Osman, & Geier, 2003). In an experimental study, Redlich and Goodman (2003) revealed clear linear age differences in the risk of making a “false confession” about pressing a forbidden key and crashing a computer while completing a laboratory task. Young adults were the least likely to take responsibility for crashing the computer (59%). Twelve- and 13-year-olds were the most likely (78%) to do so; 15- and 16-year-olds did so 72% of the time.

Juvenile interrogation falls at the intersection of developmental psychology and the law, and it is an area in desperate need of reform. Certainly, knowledge about youth development could inform and reform current practices. In a recent review summarizing what is currently known about police-induced false confessions, Kassin et al. (2010, p. 30) state, “There is a strong consensus among psychologists, legal scholars, and practitioners that juveniles and individuals with cognitive impairments or psychological disorders are particularly susceptible to false confession under pressure. Yet little action has been taken to modulate the methods by which these vulnerable groups are questioned when placed into custody as crime suspects.” The authors recommend that law enforcement officers who conduct interviews and interrogations with juveniles need to be specially trained. Such training could review the vulnerability of juvenile suspects and members of other at-risk groups (e.g., those with mental retardation or mental illness). Also, there is a glaring need for research on alternative interrogation techniques. Hershkowitz and colleagues (2004) tested the utility of the NICHD Investigative Interview Protocol with young suspects (ages 9–14). Using a modified version of the Protocol, the researchers interviewed alleged perpetrators of sexual abuse. Surprisingly, open-ended prompts (e.g., “Tell me what happened.”) were effective in eliciting testimony from suspects who fully or partially admitted their involvement. Meissner, Hartwig, and Russano (2010) call for a collaborative approach in which researchers work with law enforcement agencies to identify, via experimental testing, interrogation methods that elicit more accurate confessions. They note that, although it is useful to identify risky and undesirable interrogation practices, it is time to improve practice, as has happened with respect to the interviewing of young victims and witnesses. Finally, investigators should also recognize possible biases when evaluating statements by young victims/ witnesses and young suspects. For example, when interviews with young victims involve suggestive interviewing practices, or when young victims recant, their credibility is damaged. This is not the case with young suspects, however (see Malloy & Lamb, 2010). As described above, the techniques used with juvenile suspects can be highly suggestive, yet adults tend to believe confessions from juvenile suspects even when they are coerced and retracted (Najdowski, Bottoms, & Vargas, 2009; Redlich, Ghetti, & Quas, 2008). By contrast, victim testimony provided in response to suggestive questions is often doubted (Quas et al., 2005; Tubb, Wood, & Hosch, 1999).

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Treatment of Juvenile Offenders: Culpability and Sentencing The U.S. Supreme Court’s abolition of the death penalty for adolescents illustrates the effective use of psychological research in the juvenile justice system. Several cases set the stage for the 2005 decision (Roper v. Simmons) that the execution of offenders for crimes committed at the age of 16 or 17 violated the Eighth Amendment to the Constitution. First, the death penalty was abolished for those under age 15 (Thompson v. Oklahoma, 1988), but deemed legal for 16 and 17-year-olds in Stanford v. Kentucky (1989). In 2002 (Atkins v. Virginia), the U.S. Supreme Court ruled out the death penalty for individuals with intellectual disabilities, in part, because of their “disabilities in areas of reasoning, judgment, and control of their impulses.” To a certain extent, adolescents share these characteristics, as discussed above. In Roper v. Simmons, the court decided that adolescents’ (specifically those under age 18) developmental status limited their culpability. How did the court reach this decision? In part, a large and diverse coalition of academic professional bodies summarized evidence concerning adolescent development and submitted an amicus curiae brief (American Medical Association et al., 2004). The brief highlighted well-established findings concerning adolescent development and adolescent offending and included evidence from the fields of developmental psychology (cognitive, social, and moral development), criminology, and neuroscience. The primary claim of the amicus brief was that “Older adolescents behave differently than adults because their minds operate differently, their emotions are more volatile, and their brains are anatomically immature” (p. 4). In the Roper v. Simmons decision, Justice Kennedy (writing for the majority) noted characteristics of adolescence that had been described in the amicus brief (and in the first part of this section of the chapter), including their diminished decision-making capacity and their related tendency to engage in risky and irresponsible behavior, their increased susceptibility to external pressure, and the changing nature of their identity. Abolishing the death penalty for adolescent offenders was a notable success in the field of juvenile justice, and psychological research played a key role in this decision. Currently, there is considerable debate and controversy about the sentencing of juveniles to life in jail without parole, which Feld (2008) refers to as “a slower form of death.” Juveniles are increasingly transferred to adult court in many countries, including the United States and the United Kingdom, with some U.S. states having no

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minimum transfer age (see Bishop, 2000; Fagan, 2008). Once juveniles are transferred to criminal court, they may face mandatory life without parole sentences without consideration of their age (see Feld, 2008). Some have argued that the “proportionality” analysis used in the Roper case should be applied to “life without parole” sentences, too (see Feld, 2008; Logan, 1998). Because many more adolescent offenders are eligible for life without parole sentences than were eligible for the death penalty, it is important for developmental researchers to address this legal issue. It is also imperative to understand how incarceration affects development. Incarcerated adolescents spend their formative years in very different contexts from adolescents who come of age in normative contexts with access to networks of family members, friends, and neighbors. Incarceration is stressful and is associated with mental health problems such as depression and anxiety, as well as substance abuse (Brown & Ireland, 2006; Liebling, 1999; MacKenzie, Goodstein, & Flanagan, 1995; Shulman, Goldweber, & Cauffman, 2009). Regardless of relationship quality, parental visits are associated with better adjustment (fewer symptoms of depression), however (Monahan, Goldweber, & Cauffman, in press), and this finding has implications for visitation policies. Monahan et al.’s findings suggest that, to the extent possible, facilities should allow and encourage parental visits for incarcerated youth. Incarceration may also jeopardize the safety and future prospects of juveniles, who may leave incarcerated settings with little education, vocational training, or experiences forming and maintaining relationships (especially romantic relationships) with others (e.g., Bishop & Frazier, 2000; Cesaroni & Peterson-Badali, 2005; Forst, Fagan, & Vivona, 1989). Furthermore, instead of having a deterrent or rehabilitative effect, incarceration may achieve the opposite (Bishop & Frazier, 2000; Fagan, 2008; Singer & McDowall, 1988), with young offenders becoming more adept offenders—a tendency that Dishion, McCord, and Poulin (1999, p. 756) called “deviancy training” (also see Dishion, Spracklen, Andrews, & Patterson, 1996). Such iatrogenic effects of incarceration should be considered when recommending group therapy, for example. Future Directions Adolescents have characteristics and tendencies that enhance their risk but diminish their culpability as suspects/offenders. Researchers have accumulated evidence with implications for how alleged offenders should be treated in the legal system. Crucial reforms, most notably the U.S. Supreme Court’s abolition of the death penalty

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for adolescents, have used developmental knowledge successfully, but relevant knowledge has not yet informed practice with respect to juvenile interrogation, juvenile transfer laws, and youths’ eligibility for life without parole sentences.

CONCLUSIONS When developmental psychology emerged as a distinct subdiscipline about a century ago, it focused very heavily on applied issues, with prominent scholars offering generous and often definitive advice to parents, pediatricians, and teachers (Clarke-Stewart, 1998; Sears, 1975). By the middle of the century, however, many psychologists shifted their focus to basic research questions, often implying in the process that the concern with applied issues made developmental psychology less credible as a science. Today, we see a new appreciation of applied research, which may provide a forum for meaningful contributions to children’s welfare and at the same time permit insight into normative developmental processes that could not be obtained by conducting basic research alone. All three of the topics discussed in this chapter illustrate well the multifaceted value of applied developmental science. In one instance, basic research on early social development and descriptive research on the multifaceted correlates of divorce have together yielded a clearer understanding of the ways in which divorce affects children. This has in turn helped us to understand better the multidetermined complexity of socialization processes while offering legal practitioners practical advice regarding ways in which they can minimize the adverse effects of divorce on child development. In particular, psychologists have been reminded how complex the socialization process really is. In order to make their studies interpretable and manageable, researchers have tended to oversimplify, typically focusing on single issues, such as early experiences or mother–child relationships. The literature reviewed above makes clear that children are not only shaped by relationships with both of their parents (and others) but that these are dynamic relationships, which must be nourished through continuing interactions to ensure that the benefits continue to flow. Many other social relationships, and many other social, emotional, and cognitive experiences, shape development as well. Children are not inoculated from psychological harm by positive early experiences, furthermore—their susceptibility to influence and change continues throughout the lifespan. This fact notwithstanding, the burgeoning literature on

divorce and its effects underscores the resilience of many children and the fact that children can thrive in diverse contexts, some of which would appear pathogenic. Meanwhile, basic research on the development of memory, communication, and social perceptions allowed researchers to devise and implement forensic interview processes that greatly improved the informativeness of child witnesses. Research on investigative interviews in turn fostered an enhanced understanding of basic developmental processes, such as the richness and reliability of children’s memories, and we can expect these lessons to affect many aspects of research in the years ahead. Developmental psychologists have learned a great deal about memory development from experimental research, and many of those findings (such as those concerning the superior accuracy of information obtained using recall rather than recognition prompts, for example) clearly apply outside the experimental laboratory. There are limitations to the validity and generalizability of experimental research, however. The extent to which experiences are remembered varies depending on the salience and meaningfulness of those experiences: Experienced events are not the same as nonsense syllables or tokens, and the motivation to remember or recall information or events clearly influences the amount of information retrieved. Only through field studies of forensic interviews have researchers come to recognize how much young children can recall when the importance of complete reporting is stressed and they are urged in diverse ways to recount detailed episodic information, not simply asked a single question (“Can you tell me what happened?”). Both laboratory analog and field studies of these processes have clearly advanced our understanding of memory development more generally (Lamb & Thierry, 2005). Research concerning adolescent development has informed legal practice and has begun to change the ways juvenile offenders are sentenced, at least making juveniles under the age of 18 categorically ineligible for execution in the United States (Roper v. Simmons, 2005). Juvenile justice research has simultaneously informed our understanding of normative developmental processes. For example, research on young offenders has helped clarify the decision-making processes and capacities of adolescents in very serious or potentially dangerous situations. Furthermore, research on juvenile suspects/offenders has helped to elucidate factors that influence risky or aggressive behavior. During the formative years of adolescence, it is common for youth to complete key “developmental tasks” (Steinberg, 2009). For instance, juveniles obtain education

Child Development and the Law

and training, develop romantic relationships, and set goals for the future. Researchers have studied young suspects/offenders to learn about how young people develop when in very different developmental contexts (e.g., when incarcerated). Such research has allowed us to understand better the potential iatrogenic effects of incarceration and the extent to which peers influence behavior during adolescence. Research on the effects of divorce, viewed in the context of research on socialization, has implications for policy and practice. Most importantly, we have learned that children benefit from supportive relationships with both of their parents, whether or not those parents live together. We also know that relationships are dynamic and are thus dependent on continued opportunities for interaction. To ensure that both adults become or remain parents to their children, post-divorce parenting plans need to encourage participation by both parents in as broad as possible an array of social contexts on a regular basis. Brief dinners and occasional weekend visits do not provide a broad enough or extensive enough basis for such relationships to be fostered, whereas weekday and weekend daytime and nighttime activities are important for children of all ages. In the absence of sufficiently broad and extensive interactions, many fathers drift out of their children’s lives. Their children are thereby placed at risk psychologically and materially, because involved fathers are much more likely to contribute financially to the costs of raising their children. The research on forensic interviews of alleged abuse victims has clear implications for policy and practice. In particular, researchers have shown that children are capable of providing considerable amounts of forensically valuable information about their experiences, provided they are carefully interviewed by investigators who explain the importance of the interviews, empower the children to correct them or admit ignorance, motivate the children to be as informative as possible, use ageappropriate terms, and help children to recall information rather than to select from among options generated by the interviewers. Such practices have been incorporated into the NICHD Investigative Interview Protocol, which increases the quality of information provided by alleged victims when implemented in the field. Unfortunately, simply understanding the components of an effective interview does not guarantee that interviewers continue to interview effectively. Clearly, then, investment in intensive training and ongoing supervision can permit practitioners to benefit from the fruits of many years of research. This, in turn, can permit the legal system to intervene more judiciously on children’s behalf.

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Finally, there are several policy and practice implications stemming from research on juvenile suspects/ offenders in legal settings. Many agree that critical reforms are needed when it comes to how juveniles are interrogated as suspects (see Kassin et al., 2010). It is time to recognize that youth are vulnerable in the interrogation room—not just when they are questioned as victims/witnesses. As Owen-Kostelnik et al. (2006) state, “Our assumption is that ‘kids are kids’ no matter the context in which they find themselves; being suspected of committing a crime does not make a child an adult.” Based on findings from basic and applied research, it is clear that alternative and empirically based methods of interrogation are needed. Finally, although the death penalty is off the table for juveniles sentenced in the United States, many adolescents may face life without parole sentences (some of them mandatorily so after being transferred to adult court). Developmental research can and should weigh in on the debates concerning juvenile transfer laws (e.g., no minimum age of transfer in some states, automatic transfers for certain offenses) and life without parole sentences. REFERENCES Adams, B. J., Field, L., & Verhave, T. (1999). Effects of unreinforced conditional selection training, multiple negative comparison training, and feedback on equivalence class formation. The Psychological Record , 49, 685–702. Ainsworth, M. D. S., Blehar, M. C., Waters, E., & Wall, S. (1978). Patterns of attachment: A psychological study of the Strange Situation. Hillsdale, NJ: Erlbaum. Aldridge, J., & Cameron, S. (1999). Interviewing child witnesses: Questioning technique and the role of training. Applied Developmental Science, 3, 136–147. doi:10.1207/s1532480xads0302_7 Allen, J. P., & Brown, B. B. (2008). Adolescents, peers, and motor vehicles: The perfect storm? American Journal of Preventive Medicine, 35, S289–S293. doi:10.1016/j.amepre.2008.06.017 Amato, P. R., & Dorius, C. (2010). Fathers, children, and divorce. In M. E. Lamb (Ed.), The role of the father in child development (5th ed., pp. 177–200). Hoboken, NJ: Wiley. Amato, P. R., & Gilbreth, J. G. (1999). Non-resident fathers and children’s well-being: A meta-analysis. Journal of Marriage and the Family, 61, 557–573. doi:10.2307/353560 American Medical Association, American Psychiatric Association, American Society for Adolescent Psychiatry, American Academy of Child & Adolescent Psychiatry, American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law, National Association of Social Workers, Missouri Chapter of the National Association of Social Workers, & National Mental Health Association. (2004, July). Amici curiae brief submitted to Roper v. Simmons, 543 U.S. 551 (2005). Atkins v. Virginia, 536 U.S. 304 (2002). Bishop, D. (2000). Juvenile offenders in the adult criminal system. Crime and Justice: A Review of Research, 27, 81–167. Bishop, D., & Frazier, C. (2000). Consequences of transfer. In J. Fagan & F. Zimring (Eds.), The changing borders of juvenile justice (pp. 227–277). Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press. Bjorklund, D., Bjorklund, B., Brown, R., & Cassel, W. (1998). Children’s susceptibility to repeated questions: How misinformation

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CHAPTER 24

Health and Human Development FRED W. VONDRACEK AND ANN C. CROUTER

HEALTH AND HUMAN DEVELOPMENT 595 A DEVELOPMENTAL SYSTEMS PERSPECTIVE OF HUMAN DEVELOPMENT AND HEALTH 596 CHANGING CONCEPTIONS OF HEALTH 599 POSITIVE PSYCHOLOGY AND HEALTH 600 CONTEXTUAL ASSETS/AFFORDANCES THAT PROMOTE HEALTH AND POSITIVE DEVELOPMENT 605

INDIVIDUAL AND CONTEXTUAL STRENGTHS AND ASSETS IN PERSPECTIVE 607 METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS 608 CONCLUSIONS 609 REFERENCES 610

HEALTH AND HUMAN DEVELOPMENT

(e.g., Seligman, 1998; Snyder & Lopez, 2007, 2009) has been growing. The immense scope of the topic “health and human development” represents both a daunting challenge and an opportunity to select topics that promise to be most salient in the decades ahead. Accordingly, we will begin by examining emerging conceptions of human development and demonstrate how these are likely to shape our ideas about health and well-being. We will document how a convergence on “systems thinking” in the fields of health (e.g., Jones, Hofman, & Quinn, 2009) and human development (e.g., Lerner, 2006) represents an opportunity for integration and innovation in theory, research, and practice. In the past, there has been a tendency in the life sciences to “take a person apart,” with each branch specializing in different human “parts” (e.g., the biological, psychological, behavioral, and social person). The consequence of this approach has been the creation of specialty silos, with knowledge generation in depth, but without integration of such knowledge in breadth (Laszlo, 1996). Moreover, there has been a marked persistence in dichotomous thinking that has resulted, for example, in the artificial separation of physical health from mental health. Clearly, what is needed to overcome this is a theoretical framework that can show how all the “parts” fit together, function, and develop cooperatively to create a unified person-in-context entity. A theoretical framework that can do that has been created, tested, and effectively applied in many physical and life sciences. Usually referred to

It is difficult to imagine a topic that is more important than that of health and human development. It is also a topic that has been addressed from many different theoretical perspectives in the scientific literature and from a diversity of policy perspectives, as exemplified by the Human Development reports of the United Nations that have been published annually starting in 1990. The 1990 report explicitly recognizes that the reduction of poverty and the creation of wealth are only means, and that the ultimate goal in any efforts to foster human development must be human well-being, including the opportunity to lead long and healthy lives. It is particularly noteworthy that every report of the United Nations Development Program since 1990 has included health (as well as education and living standards) as a major focus (Alkire, 2010). In contrast, the scientific study of human development has typically been focused on explaining why individuals develop as they do and on the role of biopsychosocial influences on development across the lifespan. Health has not been a major focus of studies in human development (for exceptions, see Hurrelmann, 1989; Schulenberg, Maggs, & Hurrelmann, 1997), although interest in health promotion (e.g., Polan & Taylor, 2007), thriving (e.g., Ford & Smith, 2007; Lerner, 2004), flourishing (Fredrickson & Losada, 2005; Keyes & Haidt, 2003; Seligman, 2003), wellness (e.g., Jamner & Stokols, 2000), and human strengths 595

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as general systems theory (von Bertalanffy, 1968), the framework deals with the functioning of systems regardless of content and has been instrumental in the development of what is variously referred to as systems theory, systems science, or a systems approach (Skyttner, 2005). The soundness and usefulness of “systems thinking” have been so extensively demonstrated in multiple fields that it is now widely recognized as an effective, validated, and practical model for theory building and guiding creative applications, including in the life sciences and professions (e.g., Gottlieb, Wahlsten, & Lickliter, 2006; Guastello, Koopmans, & Pincus, 2009; Jaques, 2002). Even more important for the field of human development, a developmental systems theory has been articulated in considerable detail (Ford & Lerner, 1992). The significance and scope of changes in how scientists and practitioners view human development, precipitated by viewing individuals as living systems, is matched by equally impressive changes that have emerged in conceptions of health and well-being. Exciting scientific advances that were accomplished in the beginning of the 20th century regarding the etiology of disease, coupled with great optimism regarding the prevention and treatment of disease prompted by the discovery of antibiotics and numerous technological advances, led to a predominant emphasis on the biology of diseases and a corresponding neglect of health as a focus of theory and research. At the beginning of the 21st century, however, there is an emerging consensus that “approaches to understanding health that are broad, holistic, and interdisciplinary, that emphasize the health implications of interactions between humans and their physical and biological environments, are something for which we should strive . . . ” (Roberts, 2009, p. 13). Other authors speak about a paradigm shift in thinking about human wellbeing that began as early as 1947 in definitions of health advanced by the World Health Organization (WHO). Specifically, they note that “our capacity to feel healthy takes place as a mode of interaction between body, culture and society” rather than being a matter simply of bodily function (Petersen & Wilkinson, 2008, p. 3).

A DEVELOPMENTAL SYSTEMS PERSPECTIVE OF HUMAN DEVELOPMENT AND HEALTH Conceptual models or metatheories set boundaries and delineate and define the range of variables that are considered to be relevant and important. Arguably the most comprehensive conceptual model in human development,

developmental systems theory (DST; Ford & Lerner, 1992) grew out of a tradition fostered in Penn State’s College of Human Development, first by its founding dean, Donald H. Ford, and later by faculty he recruited to develop the College’s programs, including Paul B. Baltes and Richard M. Lerner. Ford recognized that human development and human concerns were typically divided into pieces and parts addressed by discipline-bound professional guilds. Reflecting on his 10-year tenure as dean of the College of Human Development (1966–1976), he noted that one of the principal drivers of the success of the new college was that it required people of different backgrounds to work together across their historic disciplinary boundaries (Ford, 1976). Moreover, rejecting the predominant emphasis on remediation in the human professions, he was an early proponent of a focus on positive development (Ford, 1976, p. 6). Practicing what he preached as an administrator, Ford (1987) later produced a monumental, integrative scholarly work entitled Humans as Self-Constructing Living Systems: A Developmental Perspective on Behavior and Personality. The integration of this “Living Systems Framework (LSF)” with Richard Lerner’s developmental contextualism resulted in the articulation of Developmental Systems Theory: An Integrative Approach (Ford & Lerner, 1992). The systems thinking represented by this approach is particularly well-suited to an examination of both health and human development, because both areas require the comprehensive representation of complex patterns of person variables across time and contexts. Moreover, this thinking includes specific proposals about the content of the living, personin-context system as well as the processes that are central to its functioning. A brief summary of some of these key features of DST follows: The Person-in-Context Is the Basic Unit of Analysis DST is a comprehensive, integrative theory of human functioning and development in context. It is a unique and innovative effort to overcome the well-known limitations of mechanistic and organismic models and of sociogenic, psychogenic, and biogenic explanations of development that are, ultimately, reductionistic and represent “split conceptions of human development” (Lerner, 2004, p. 62). In contrast, a core feature of DST is that all levels of organization of the person-in-context (i.e., the ecology of human development) are integrated or fused (i.e., they dynamically interact), thus avoiding dualistic conceptions of nature versus nurture, stability versus instability, and continuity versus discontinuity (Lerner, 2006). The

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person-in-context is the basic subject of DST, the relations among levels of organization, ranging from the biological and physiological to the social, cultural, and historical, represent the fundamental units of analysis. Importantly, neither biology nor context is accorded primacy within this framework. Linear Conceptions of Cause and Effect Are Replaced by Conceptions of Change That Are Characterized by Changing Relations Between Levels of Organization in the Person-in-Context System To understand living systems, the traditional mechanistic, linear sequence model of cause and effect (typically analyzed with standard regression equations and path models) must be replaced with a view that a person’s functioning occurs through multivariate causal fields. A causal field is composed of a set of variables that interact in a complex linear and nonlinear fashion with other causal fields to enable a larger unit to function in an integrated, flexible way. In simplified terms, causal fields pertaining to cognition (e.g., beliefs about the self and one’s health and well-being), affect, decision making, motivation, and learning (e.g., exploring healthy lifestyles) are generally presumed to explain people’s choices and behaviors pertaining to these choices. Each causal field is composed of parts interacting in a complex fashion with other causal fields to predict, for example, health-related behavioral patterns and outcomes. Thus, relations between levels of organization and not an isolated level per se become the key focus of studying change in living (human) systems. This means that both the action of the context on the individual and the action of the individual on the context are integral components in the analysis of health and human development. Ford and Lerner (1992) stress that in response to changes in one level of organization accommodations may be necessary in the rest of the system making up the person-in-context unit in order to preserve the unitary (integrated) functioning of the person: “For example, an elaborative change at one level (e.g., the growth of a malignant tumor in the brain) may produce decremental changes at other levels (e.g., loss of some cognitive or behavioral capabilities). Or a decremental change at one level (e.g., the death of a few neurons in the brain) may be accommodated locally and not affect other levels. Or a change at one level (e.g., loss of sight) may require changes in many other aspects (e.g., lifestyle changes) to accommodate the disruption” (p. 49). These observations have important implications for prevention

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and intervention, including the possibility that multiple levels of organization may be targeted for simultaneous interventions to promote specific changes. A Distinctive Strength of All Human Development Is the Capacity for Systematic Change (Plasticity) DST assumes that the capacity for systematic change persists across the entire life span, albeit at reduced levels as individuals age (e.g., developmental trajectories established in adolescence limit the range of possible future trajectories later in life). In fact, changing individual-context relationships may serve to on the one hand enhance and facilitate, and on the other hand reduce or impede, plasticity. Nevertheless, the potential for plasticity in human development warrants an optimistic view that anticipates the possibility of systematic interventions into the personin-context system, designed to align individual strengths and contextual affordances in such a way as to promote health and well-being. Because the person-in-context system functions as an integrated unit at many different levels of organization, each level of organization, either alone or in concert with other levels, may be utilized as a focal point of intervention, opening up the possibility of coordinated interventions at multiple levels. Such coordinated interventions represent an as yet often unrealized ideal, in part because different health professions tend to have their own specialty language, and communication and coordination across specialties are often inadequate. Nevertheless, there is growing realization that disciplinary boundaries get in the way of advancing the fields of human development and health. The Utilization of Developmental Systems Theory Requires Multidisciplinarity, Interdisciplinarity, and Transdisciplinarity The analysis of human development and health from a developmental systems perspective involves variable attention to the multitude of fused person and context levels of organization, ranging from the molecular to the physiological and the familial to the macro-environmental. By necessity, expertise from multiple disciplines is necessary to address issues involving this great diversity of variables and the causal patterns formed by them. To move beyond merely combining and juxtaposing concepts from their own disciplines, scientists and practitioners often move beyond multidisciplinarity and create interdisciplinary integration of their respective disciplinary concepts. Optimally, different disciplines embrace

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transdisciplinarity created by working together over extended periods of time led to new conceptual and methodological frameworks that transcend disciplinary roots (Stokols, Hall, Taylor, & Moser, 2008). By including both basic and applied research in the transdisciplinary dialogue, outcomes are likely to be enhanced from discovery to development, delivery, and policy (Abrams, 2006). An illustrative example of both the promise and the peril of relying on multiple disciplines comes from the area of early childhood, where “state-of-the-art knowledge . . . is multidimensional and cross-disciplinary. It extends from painstaking efforts to understand the evolving circuitry and biochemistry of the immature brain to large-scale investigations of how family characteristics, neighborhood influences, and cultural values affect the well-being of children as they grow up” (National Research Council and Institute of Medicine, 2000, p. 385). Successfully translating knowledge gained from these diverse research efforts into useful information for parents, educators, health care professionals, and policy makers remains, however, an elusive goal. The difficulties involved in integrating the work of multiple disciplines are by no means confined to the area of early development. Lerner (2006, p. 7) has noted that “to understand human development, one must appreciate how variables associated with person, place, and time coalesce to shape the structure and function of behavior and its systematic and successive change.” No one discipline is likely to deal effectively with the diversity of persons, contexts (places), and time (including historical time) without being tempted to resort to some form of reductionism. This is one reason for the insistence of early proponents of human development as an academic discipline on multidisciplinary approaches to their subject matter (e.g., Bronfenbrenner, 1979; Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006; Ford, 1987). Similar reasons have caused researchers and practitioners in the health field to increasingly embrace projects and programs that cut across disciplinary boundaries. For example, the partnerships that are essential to the formation of transdisciplinary efforts are particularly helpful in addressing complex problems in the behavioral aspects of public health that are likely to involve multiple governmental agencies, communities, and nongovernment organizations (Harper, Neubauer, Bangi, & Francisco, 2008). A particular challenge to health research is that dialogue across disciplines often has to transcend different conceptual models as well as different cultural narratives (PanterBrick & Fuentes, 2009). Inclusive frameworks such as DST have the potential to minimize these challenges

because they make it possible for molecular biologists, genomics researchers, sociologists, psychologists, and anthropologists, among others, to not only share a common conceptual framework but also a common language to communicate their findings with each other and the rest of the world. Progress toward such conceptual integration has already been truly transformational in medicine, which adopted the organ system model of disease and diagnosis, largely as a result of the explosion of knowledge from cutting-edge research in systems biology (e.g., Rigoutsos & Stephanopoulos, 2007a, 2007b). Understanding the biological person as an elaborate network of mutually influential semi-autonomous biological component systems has led to recognizing multilevel influences on health and illness (e.g., dietary imbalances can create biological dysfunctions; substance abuse changes brain functioning, producing physiological, psychological, and behavioral dysfunctions). Evidence of the important role of psychological, behavioral, and social processes in human health and illness is stimulating elaboration of medical education and practice (Jones et al., 2009). Significant progress is being made toward viewing the health and well-being of the population as “a ‘systems’ problem, occurring on a continuum over the human lifespan as well as across a variety of levels of analysis, ranging from the cellular to the molecular to individual and interpersonal behaviors, to the community and society and to macro-socioeconomic and global levels” (Mabry, Olster, Morgan, & Abrams, 2008, p. 213). The adoption of systems thinking is progressing inexorably across all fields concerned with health and human development, although it is not without significant implementation challenges, for example, in public health modeling (e.g., Trochim, Cabrera, Milstein, Gallagher, & Leischow, 2006). Systems conceptions of health are likely to permanently change how scientists and practitioners proceed going forward only if they are firmly supported by models and methodologies that are capable of accommodating the complex array of levels of biological, environmental, and behavioral organization that make up the person-incontext system. The guiding assumptions of developmental systems theory (Ford & Lerner, 1992, pp. 88–90) offer a roadmap for the systems conceptualization of health and human development: 1. The person must be understood as a dynamic unit composed of biological structures and psychological/ behavioral processes that are embedded in multilevel environments.

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2. The person’s functioning (including health and wellbeing) and development occur as a result of changes in the dynamic organization of variables between and within levels of organization. 3. All individuals are unique in their genetic endowment (as well as the prenatal influences to which they are exposed) and in the environments within which they are embedded during their lifetimes and in how these interact to influence behavior and development. Both biology and environment may act as constraining and facilitating influences on development and functioning, although neither strictly determines psychological/behavioral functioning. This is particularly important when considering circumstances that may constrain or facilitate healthy functioning or dysfunction and disease. 4. The dynamic interaction of genetic endowment and environments creates individually unique facilitating and constraining conditions (boundaries) for each person’s development and functioning, both positive and negative. Within such boundaries, a finite number of developmental pathways are possible, meaning that developmental outcomes are probabilistic, not predetermined, and may be influenced by both necessity and chance. Moreover, contextual realities help to define what are “positive” and “negative” outcomes; outcomes that may be functional in one set of circumstances (e.g., war, famine) may be dysfunctional in others (e.g., peace time, periods in which food is abundant and easy to obtain). 5. People function in proactive as well as reactive ways by, for example, selecting their environments and attending to some aspects of their environments in preference to others, thereby increasing (or decreasing) risk of developing, for example, coronary heart disease or atherosclerosis. 6. Individuals function to maintain coherent intraperson organization and also to maintain coherent person– context patterns of organization. The extent to which individuals are successful in creating and maintaining a good fit between their personal characteristics and functioning and the demands and opportunities of their contexts, which may change over time, may be considered an indicator of competence and may contribute to a sense of well-being and health.

CHANGING CONCEPTIONS OF HEALTH As early as 1947, the WHO defined health as “a state of complete physical, mental, and social well being” (Polan

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& Taylor, 2007, p. 4). This definition has been identified as a turning point, after which widely accepted conceptualizations of health have departed from the traditional view of health as being a reflection merely of bodily functions toward a broader view that sees health as resulting from complex interactions between body, culture, and society (Petersen & Wilkinson, 2008). The “traditional” conceptualization of health is also commonly referred to as the Western biomedical model in which health is defined as the absence of physical evidence of disease. Conceptions of health vary widely among indigenous populations in Africa, Asia, and South and Central America, among Pacific Islanders, and among various cultural and ethnic subgroups within the United States (e.g., Huff & Kline, 1999). For example, in many non-Western models, health represents equilibrium or balance between opposing forces, such as hot and cold (in Hispanic culture) or yin and yang (in indigenous Chinese culture) (Takagi & Juang, 2005). Such indigenous and non-Western models of health have typically been broader in scope than the Western models that relied heavily on scientific findings in anatomy, physiology, and biochemistry, and they could be considered precursors of dynamic systems models that represent the whole person-in-context. In spite of the growing recognition that the time has come for a broader and more inclusive definition of health, it has been acknowledged that “traversing the view of function, health, and disease from the molecular and genomic to the psychosocial, cultural, and behavioral has always been a breathtaking stretch of mind and consciousness” (Sierpina & Perlman, 2009, p. viii). The recognition that psychosocial, cultural, and behavioral factors (along with biological factors) are essential in understanding human functioning, health, and disease, has slowly gained ground in the scientific and professional communities. This has been accompanied by a growing understanding that a single-minded focus on treating disease and eliminating deficits in human functioning, represented by the traditional medical model of health and disease, may have been appropriate and beneficial when medicine and applied psychology were first able to demonstrate their value in reducing human suffering and in prolonging life well beyond common expectations. Concerns about the cost and inefficiency of the predominant disease and deficit models of health have facilitated the development of alternative models focused on prevention and health promotion. Moreover, the current enthusiasm for studying and promoting positive health, wellness (e.g., Jamner & Stokols, 2000), and well-being (e.g., Huppert, 2009) is firmly rooted in an appreciation

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of the need to leave behind the past emphasis on disorder and dysfunction and instead to focus on positive aspects of human development and functioning in the contexts of family, work, and community, representing, essentially, a developmental model of health and disease. In psychology, the most important consequence of this developmental perspective is the realization that the predominant emphasis in the 20th century has been the search for effective interventions to treat mental illness and dysfunctions of everyday behaviors, and that there has not been sufficient attention to promoting wellness and optimal development. Clearly, psychology has a long history of applying findings from its research laboratories to alleviate human suffering and to help people to cope more successfully with mental illness and problems of everyday living. Clinical psychologists and counseling psychologists, in particular, continue to play important roles in the provision of services to populations in need and to populations at risk. The services they provide will continue to be vitally important as the development of evidence-based interventions continues. However, another complementary emphasis has been emerging as an increasingly powerful force in psychology that explicitly focuses on human strengths and the potential for positive development.

POSITIVE PSYCHOLOGY AND HEALTH In their introduction to positive psychology, Seligman & Csikszentmihalyi (2000) observe that psychology has made significant contributions to alleviating human suffering and to helping people cope in times of social upheaval, war, and stress. At the same time, they bemoan the fact that psychologists have not yet acquired a good understanding about how “normal people flourish under more benign conditions” (p. 5). In an optimistic assessment of the prospects for positive psychology, Seligman (2003, pp. xvi–xvii) suggested that the field’s three pillars consist of “the positive subjective experience of the past, present, and future,” the investigation of individuals’ strengths and virtues, and the study of positive institutions and communities. This perspective is closely related to the emergence of the integrative and relational theoretical framework that has fundamentally changed our understanding of human development with its emphasis on the capacity of human beings to change at any stage of the lifespan, to change the environments in which they function, to seek environments in which they experience the optimal match between their personal strengths and the contextual

affordances that are offered and thus to become active agents in their own positive development (Lerner, Theokas, & Jeliˇciˇc, 2005). Arguably, the most exciting consequence of this paradigm shift lies in the realization that positive development is possible and may be promoted across the human life course, “through the identification and alignment of resources in individuals and their contexts that foster health and positive growth” (Lerner, 2006, p. 4). Elder’s (1974) research on children of the Great Depression offers great insight into how individuals exercise agency by making life choices (or by not making choices) in their efforts to adapt to challenging circumstances. Moreover, Elder (1998, p. 965) has observed that “agency in the selection of particular roles or situations represents a mechanism through which life advantages and disadvantages may begin to cumulate.” By taking account of agency in the life course, it becomes clear that individual biographies are not simply shaped by macrostructures but also by the active participation of individual actors (Heinz & Kr¨uger, 2001). The life-course perspective on human development is thus quite consistent with the developmental systems view of humans as proactive creatures, capable of self-direction and self-construction, and both have far-reaching implications for developmental science and for the professional practice of psychology. In fact, the promotion of positive development for individuals as well as families has become the focus of considerable efforts in recent years (e.g., Lerner, 2004; Shatte, Seligman, Gillham, & Reivich, 2003). At the core of the positive development paradigm lies the assumption that the human capacity for competence and for making contributions to the lives of others and to their communities explains how people can learn and thrive in the most diverse contexts (Damon, 2004). Thriving is similar to what has been called human flourishing (e.g., Fredrickson & Losada, 2005; Keyes & Haidt, 2003) and what some have called well-being (e.g., Huppert, Baylis, & Keverne, 2005), or happiness (e.g., Argyle, 2001). According to Ford & Smith (2007, p. 153), thriving can be achieved when a person’s “goals, capability beliefs, context beliefs, and emotions are amplified in dynamic, mutually reinforcing patterns.” The emphasis on positive development has received much of its impetus from research on positive youth development (e.g., Benson, Scales, Hamilton, & Sesma, 2006; Damon, 2004; J. V. Lerner, Phelps, Forman, & Bowers, 2009; Lerner, 2004; Lerner, Dowling, & Anderson, 2003), although the basic premises of this approach are applicable across the lifespan (e.g., Isaacowitz, Vaillant, & Seligman, 2003). It should be noted, however, that the history and

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philosophical underpinnings of the positive development paradigm are quite different from those of the prevention and health promotion approaches (Lerner & Overton, 2008). Prevention and health promotion efforts have typically focused on populations, families, individuals, and communities identified as being “at risk” for undesirable outcomes. Consequently, considerable research has been focused on identifying “risk factors,” i.e., factors that increase the likelihood of bad outcomes, as well as finding “protective factors,” i.e., factors that help overcome risk (e.g., Panter-Brick & Fuentes, 2009; Schoon, 2006). Much of that research has resulted in intervention programs and policies that have been effective in reducing the overall incidence of selected health problems and increasing the well-being of some at-risk populations. There is no question that health promotion and prevention efforts are valuable and should continue, and that psychologists play important roles in these efforts. Focusing on healthy, positive development and wellbeing does not eliminate the need to identify populations at risk and to address them with prevention strategies so as to minimize the occurrence of problems and reduce their severity and duration. What distinguishes the positive psychology approach, however, is its emphasis on identifying and building strengths (developmental assets) both within the person and in the important contexts within which the person can thrive and experience well-being and happiness. This balance between focusing on the person as well as on the context recognizes that the traditional personological focus in psychology (i.e., a focus on the person independent of the person’s context) has severely limited our understanding of processes that are critical in the health and well-being of the person-in-context system and the effectiveness of interventions designed to optimize its functioning (Lerner & Overton, 2008). In contrast to health promotion and prevention, the most important focus in the positive development movement is on the recognition and fostering of personal and contextual assets and strengths that promote positive outcomes, including health and happiness. Benson (1990, 2003) has described a framework of what he called “developmental assets,” in which features of the context (external assets) are linked to personal skills and capacities (internal assets) as dynamically interconnected “building blocks” that prevent problems and facilitate “thriving” (Benson et al., 2006). Although the work of Benson and his colleagues is focused on youth development, they stress that what they call developmental assets reflect processes that have age-related parallels in infancy and childhood. Moreover, it does not require a leap of faith

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to assume that developmental assets exist and can be nurtured throughout the course of human life. For example, the work of Baltes and his colleagues (e.g., Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 1998, 2006) clearly demonstrates that positive development can occur well into old age. Consequently, strategies to foster positive development are applicable not just to populations at risk, and not just to youth, but to the general population. Moreover, identifying individual and contextual assets that promote health and positive development is a critically important task for researchers in the variety of fields that deal with individual functioning in context. In the next section, we review some of the individual assets that have been identified as playing important roles in health and human development. Individual Assets/Resources That Promote Health and Positive Development There are numerous attributes of the person that are linked to health and positive development. We discuss here several prominent instances of such attributes. Genes Common folklore maintains that good health and longevity are, more or less, the result of having inherited “good” genes. In fact, however, the completion of the Human Genome Project (Collins, Morgan, & Patrinos, 2003) only represented one important milestone on the road to understanding how genes influence health and disease. Although some important discoveries were made with regard to so-called single-gene disorders, they account for only about 2% of the disease incidence in the developed world (Strohman, 2000). Gene regulation consists of interdependent layers of control that involve complex interactions of DNA with regulatory proteins and RNA; and gene expression depends on a complex array of both nongenomic biological and environmental factors. Progress in understanding the human genome’s contributions to health and disease is leading to optimistic predictions regarding the future of genomic medicine (Feero, Guttmacher, & Collins, 2010). Nevertheless, there is general agreement that understanding the complex role of genes in the etiology of disease has advanced far more than understanding their role in health and well-being (Strohman, 2000). Temperament One practical approach to conceptualizing temperament has been to describe it as a “biologically based but

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environmentally influenced set of traits that influence an individual’s reactivity to the external environment as well as his or her internal regulation” (Schwebel & Barton, 2006, p. 52). Temperament dimensions measured in childhood or early adolescence have been shown to be heritable to a considerable extent (Bouchard, 1994; Buss & Plomin, 1984), and they are moderately stable across situations and time. They show linkages to health status in childhood (e.g., Schwebel & Barton, 2006) that may persist into adulthood and across the lifespan (Wills, Cleary, Shinar, & Fegan, 2002). For example, attentional orientation and positive emotionality, conceptualized as protective temperament dimensions related to self-control abilities, were found to be inversely related to substance use (cigarettes, alcohol, & marijuana) in a large sample of 6th-grade students (Wills, Sandy, Yaeger, & Shinar, 2001). This is particularly noteworthy because such early onset of substance use has been linked to the likelihood of substance abuse in adulthood (e.g., Kandel & Davies, 1992). Overall, temperament dimensions have been shown to be related to substance abuse and risk-taking behaviors in adolescence and adulthood, although it is clear that the expression of temperamental dimensions in childhood and their adult expressions in adulthood should not be understood as simple, linear relationships (e.g., Kagan, 2010; Wills et al., 2002). Another example of the link between temperament and health is exemplified by research examining the relationship of various temperamental traits to unintentional injury in children. In the developed world, unintentional injury is more likely to lead to death in childhood than the next 10 causes combined. Moreover, unintentional injuries of children have very high human and economic costs in terms of medical care, school and work days missed, pain and psychological suffering, family strain, and longterm disability. Research in this area is complicated by the fact that there is a lack of agreement regarding the various dimensions of temperament and how to assess them. It is not surprising, therefore, that some researchers have failed to find evidence that temperamental dimensions are predictably related to unintentional injuries in children (e.g., Horwitz, Morgenstern, DiPietro, & Morrison, 1988). Nevertheless, in a comprehensive review of the pertinent research, Schwebel and Barton (2006) identified three temperamental traits—inhibitory control, impulsivity, and activity level—as key traits implicated in child unintentional injury, with children low in inhibitory control and high in impulsivity and activity level being most likely to be injured or killed. As is the case in studies relating temperament dimensions with eventual

substance abuse, the relationships between unintentional childhood injury and these temperamental traits are complex and best viewed from a person-in-context perspective. Consistent with this perspective, Schwebel and Barton (2006, pp. 62–63) hypothesized that certain temperamental behavior patterns tend to increase children’s exposure to hazardous environments and influence how they deal with such environments and whether they actively choose to adopt safe behaviors. In addition, they proposed that when children are exposed to potentially hazardous situations, temperament determines, in part, how adults respond to them and how children, in turn, respond or fail to respond to adults. Character Certain character strengths, defined as “positive traits reflected in thoughts, feelings, and behaviors,” have been shown to be substantially associated with life satisfaction and subjective sense of well-being (Park, Peterson, & Seligman, 2004a, p. 603). Based on a large Internet sample of adults, these authors identified hope, zest, gratitude, love, and curiosity as particularly important character strengths associated with well-being. One could speculate about a developmental story behind these findings, as gratitude represents positive feelings about the past, hope represents a positive orientation about the future, and zest, curiosity, and love signal a fulfilling and satisfying condition in the present. What happens to character strengths and life satisfaction when illness and disorder strike? As might be expected, they test both character and the capacity to feel satisfied with life. In a retrospective study of more than 2,000 adults, Peterson, Park, and Seligman (2006) discovered that individuals who recover from illness or disorder emerge with even more robust character strengths than they possessed before their illness and regain their life satisfaction promptly. Interestingly, character strengths associated with recovery from physical illness (bravery, kindness, and humor) were different from those associated with recovery from psychological disorder (appreciation of beauty and love of learning). One particularly important feature of life events and their impact on character strengths and on development is their timing in the individual’s life course as well as in historical time (Elder, 1998). The influence of health problems, in particular, depends to a significant extent on when in the life course they occur. For example, when health problems occur early in life, they may disrupt relationships, curtail opportunities, and influence self-assessments, decision making, and goal setting. As a consequence, even when healthy functioning is restored,

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a person’s outlook on life (including concepts of self) may have been changed by the experience (Crosnoe & Elder, 2002). Personality There is little doubt that temperament, character, and personality traits are closely related constructs, and while they may share some common variance, they also have unique aspects (Park, Peterson, & Seligman, 2004b). The relationship between temperament and personality has been the subject of considerable research (e.g., see V. Molfese & Molfese, 2000; Saucier & Simonds, 2006), and both have been related to health and other important life outcomes (Roberts, Kuneel, Shiner, Caspi, & Goldberg, 2007). Although temperament, character, and personality may be substantially influenced by genetic factors, gene expression is ultimately determined by the individual’s perception, selection, and utilization of his or her environments (Steger, Hicks, Kashdan, Krueger, & Bouchard, 2007). The relationship of personality and health has been a topic of lively interest ever since the publication of research on the link between Type A personality and heart disease (Friedman & Rosenman, 1974). Although that research has been widely criticized as methodologically unsound, efforts to link personality types (and the behaviors associated with them) to various health outcomes have persisted over the years. More recently, research has focused on Type D personality, a personality type identified by Denollet (2005) as the “distressed” personality type, and differentiated from depression as a more chronic and covert form marked by the experience of negative emotions and the inhibition of self-expression in social interactions. In a recent review of prospective studies that examined the relationship of Type D with various cardiovascular outcomes among heart patients, Denollet, Schiffer, and Spek (2010) reported that Type D was associated with a threefold increase in risk of distress and of poor prognosis for cardiovascular outcomes. Moreover, because Type D is conceptualized as a chronic risk factor for coronary disease, it is clearly distinct from depression, which may represent an episodic risk. Finally, Denollet and colleagues (2010) emphasize that Type D represents a normal personality trait (albeit one characterized by high neuroticism, low extraversion, and low conscientiousness), while depression refers to a psychiatric disorder. Another line of research on personality and health has examined the link between personality and subjective well-being. Somewhat surprisingly, neither health nor wealth is a reliable determinant of subjective well-being,

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and this finding appears to be generally true across the lifespan (Lucas & Diener, 2000). Although the relationship between personality and subjective well-being is complex, most researchers consider subjective well-being to be heritable to a considerable extent (e.g., Kagan, 2010; Lykken & Tellegen, 1996), and involve the experience of positive affect (and the absence of negative affect) and general satisfaction with life. Positive Emotions Although there has long been a common assumption that positive emotions are associated with good health, empirical research has begun to support this folk wisdom and led to the claim that positive emotions may be cultivated to optimize health and well-being (Fredrickson, 2000; Tugade, Fredrickson, & Feldman Barrett, 2004). Much of this empirical research was guided by a theoretical model for understanding the unique effects of positive emotions (e.g., joy, interest, contentment, love), called the “Broaden-and-Build Theory of Positive Emotions” (Fredrickson, 2001). Essentially, the theory postulates that positive emotions “share the ability to broaden people’s momentary thought–action repertoires and build their enduring personal resources, ranging from physical and intellectual resources to social and psychological resources” (Fredrickson, 2001, p. 219). In effect, the theory thus describes a virtuous cycle, in which positive emotions lead to a broad range of novel thoughts, activities, and relationships. These, in turn, lead to the building of enduring personal resources, including social support, resilience, skills, and knowledge, which ultimately lead to enhanced health, survival, and fulfillment, which then lead to more positive emotions not only for self but for others (Cohn & Fredrickson, 2009, p. 16). Specific empirical findings have linked emotional states to physical health (e.g., Salovey, Rothman, Detweiler, & Steward, 2000). Others have shown that positive emotions increase dopamine levels in the brain (Ashby, Isen, & Turken, 1999), improve immune function (Cohen Doyle, Turner, Alper, & Skoner, 2003), broaden cognitions and behavioral options (Kahn & Isen, 1993), and expand attention (Derryberry & Tucker, 1994). Cohn and Fredrickson (2009) maintain that a likely explanation for these findings is that positive emotions function to lift people out of stressed, narrow states. In a short-term longitudinal study, positive emotions predicted well-being weeks later (Fredrickson & Joiner, 2002). Moreover, in a study that spanned several decades, it was shown that nuns who, early in their lives, had written autobiographies that contained many positive statements lived, on average, 9 years

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longer than nuns who were in the lower half of the distribution according to the number of positive statements they made in their autobiographical statements (Danner, Snowdon, & Friesen, 2001). In a comprehensive review of studies of the association between positive affect and health, Pressman and Cohen (2005) differentiated between trait positive affect and state positive affect, with the former reflecting a relatively stable, dispositional construct and the latter a short-term elevation of positive emotions. In spite of the presence of significant methodological and theoretical diversity, they were able to conclude that trait positive affect is associated with lower mortality in community-dwelling individuals over the age of 60, and with decreased symptoms and pain. Associations between state positive affect and other health outcomes are more difficult to ascertain, in part because of the likely effect of positive affect on perception (of the severity of symptoms) and decision making (e.g., about seeking medical care). Positive Beliefs Complementing research on the effect of positive emotions on health and well-being is research on the effect of positive beliefs on these same outcomes. The assumption that holding positive beliefs is generally beneficial, particularly when facing adverse or challenging circumstances, is widespread in the popular culture. In spite of this, empirical evidence to support this assumption has been scarce, although some provocative ideas are beginning to stimulate work in this area. Two such stimuli have been Taylor’s (1983) theory of cognitive adaptation and Seligman’s (1991) work on learned optimism. Based initially on an analysis of data obtained from women with breast cancer and their family members, Taylor proposed that women’s process of adaptation to their serious diagnosis centered around three themes: (1) a quest to find meaning in the experience, (2) an effort to gain mastery or control over the event (or over life in general), and (3) an effort to enhance one’s self-esteem. Cast in terms of positive beliefs, these themes suggest that one can find meaning even in the most devastating life events, that it is possible to gain mastery over one’s circumstances, and that one can feel good about oneself in spite of difficult circumstances. These positive beliefs, even when quite unrealistic and essentially consisting of positive illusions, were associated with positive psychological functioning, which was not negated even when these illusory beliefs clashed with reality. In explaining these counterintuitive findings, it was noted that positive illusions often characterize normal thought and appear to have protective

psychological effects, especially for individuals who are faced with serious crises, such as a potentially lifethreatening illness (Taylor, Kemeny, Reed, Bower, & Gruenewald, 2000). Even more impressive is the finding that such positive beliefs can actually have a beneficial, protective effect on the progression of disease, such as HIV infection (Bower, Kemeny, Taylor, & Fahey, 1998). Self-Esteem, Self-Efficacy, Identity Various labels have been used by psychologists to describe the person’s collection of mental representations of the self, and numerous empirical studies have demonstrated that when these self-representations are negative, they are associated with health-compromising behaviors such as drug and alcohol abuse, as well as with negative mental health outcomes including depression and suicide (e.g., McGee & Williams, 2000). Studies documenting the health-enhancing effects of positive self-views are few and far between. Nevertheless, findings of the relationship between positive self-views and health have been quite consistent (Mann, Hosman, Schaalma, & de Vries, 2004; Marmot, 2003). For example, there is strong evidence that self-esteem can serve as a protective factor by leading to behavior that is protective against contracting AIDS (e.g., Rolf & Johnson, 1992). Others have noted that positive self definitions can play an important role in developing “emotional and behavioral resources that enable healthy lifestyle choices” (Pender & Farchaus Stein, 2002, p. 38). Higher self-esteem in adolescence predicts better health and lower levels of criminal behavior in adulthood (Trzesniewski et al., 2006). Studying a large sample of retirement community residents, Benyamini, Leventhal, and Leventhal (2004) concluded that self-reported general health, as well as self-reported oral health, independently explained a significant amount of variance in measures of self-esteem and life satisfaction. After reviewing the evidence supporting the beneficial role of self-esteem in physical and mental health, Mann and colleagues (2004) recommended that the future of this construct in health promotion and prevention programs be reconsidered. Thus, in as far as self-esteem represents a positive self-appraisal of a person’s value in different life domains (Markus & Nurius, 1986) it has the potential to successfully promote healthy functioning as reflected in achievements in education and occupation, as well as in satisfying interpersonal and familial relationships. In a longitudinal examination of self-esteem changes from young adulthood to old age, health experiences were found to moderate interindividual differences in change trajectories, accounting, for example, for

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self-esteem differences between men and women (Orth, Trzesniewski, & Robins, 2010). Self-efficacy is seen as having a regulatory function in a variety of health domains, where it can have a salutary effect on the planning, implementation, and maintenance of health-enhancing behaviors such as medication compliance, coping with pain and stress, eating nutritional foods, exercising regularly, and recovery from disease (Luszczynska & Schwarzer, 2005). Understanding the process by which self-efficacy leads to positive health outcomes is of special importance because it has direct implications for helping people to lead healthier lives. The Health Action Process Approach (HAPA) represents a theoretical model that addresses this issue by postulating that three sets of cognitions are necessary for a person to adopt health-promotive behaviors: (1) a belief that one is at risk (risk perception), (2) a belief that changing one’s behavior would reduce the risk (outcome expectancy), and (3) the belief that one has the capability to exercise control over a given difficult behavior (perceived self-efficacy) (Schwarzer & Renner, 2000). A particularly significant empirical finding, based on this model, was that a focus on making people aware of their coping resources (i.e., their strengths) was more effective than emphasizing the health risks inherent in not making behavioral changes. Health-Enhancing Skills Some of the personal assets or strengths discussed thus far have a well-established genetic/biological basis. Although some skills may also depend to some extent on biological capabilities (e.g., talent, intelligence, body shape), it is generally accepted that most skills can be learned by most individuals, albeit not to the same level of expertise. The field of health education, in collaboration with the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC), has been most involved in defining health-enhancing skills and in developing curriculum guidelines for the teaching of health-enhancing skills (e.g., CDC, 2007). In addition, the WHO has recognized the significance of promoting the learning of health-enhancing skills in culture-sensitive ways across the world (WHO, 2003). Most programs focused on health-enhancing skills are aimed at children, adolescents, and young adults who can be reached through schools, training programs, or youth organizations. Some make a distinction between life skills and specific health-enhancing skills: Life skills are abilities for adaptive and positive behaviour that enable individuals to deal effectively with the demands and challenges of everyday life (WHO definition). In particular, life skills are psychosocial competencies and

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interpersonal skills that help people make informed decisions, solve problems, think critically and creatively, communicate effectively, build healthy relationships, empathise with others, and cope with managing their lives in a healthy and productive manner. —WHO, 2003, p. 8

Specific health-enhancing skills involve techniques and competencies such as personal hygiene, first aid, or sexual health (WHO, 2003). Other specific skills that have received considerable attention include exercising regularly, eating a nutritious diet, getting adequate sleep, brushing one’s teeth, and following prescribed safety practices such as wearing bicycle helmets or car seat belts (e.g., Turbin et al., 2006). The predominant focus is quite appropriately on teaching health-enhancing skills to young people who are more easily reached in schools and organized programs. Nevertheless, many of the healthenhancing skills that are so important for young people continue to be critically important across the entire life span, and the need for teaching these skills across the life span has been recognized by employers and insurance companies, resulting in innovative wellness programs that use both rewards and punishments to encourage employees to engage in health-enhancing behaviors and discourage them from engaging in unhealthy behaviors (e.g., Andrews, 2007). The U.S. government has put its weight behind an ambitious national effort to promote healthy behaviors and life styles through its Healthy People 2010 and Healthy People 2020 programs (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, 2000, 2010).

CONTEXTUAL ASSETS/AFFORDANCES THAT PROMOTE HEALTH AND POSITIVE DEVELOPMENT Previously, we have noted that the person-in-context represents the proper unit of analysis for examining health and human development. At the same time, for expositional reasons, it makes sense to identify individual and contextual health-related assets separately. An excellent model for proceeding in this manner has been presented by Benson and his collaborators in relation to internal and external assets for positive youth development (Benson et al., 2006). The indisputable importance of contextual assets and affordances in health and development across the life span has been reflected in most of the major theoretical statements of the past two decades (e.g., Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 1998, 2006; Brandtst¨adter, 1999; Bronfenbrenner & Morris, 2006; Ford & Lerner,

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1992; Lerner, 2006). Moreover, empirical findings have demonstrated that contextual factors may be even more important than individual assets. For example: . . . protective and risk factors assessed across the family, peer, school, and neighborhood contexts add a substantial increment to the account of variation in involvement in health-enhancing behaviors beyond that provided by individual-level protection and risk and by sociodemographic background.

environmental design to reduce the likelihood of illness and injury, as well as stimulating, challenging, novel design features that promote a sense of competence, creativity, and wellness. In addition, Stokols views social support networks, organizational flexibility and responsiveness, and health-promotive media as essential in promoting social connectedness and high quality of life. In fact, the relationship of social support and health has been the focus of considerable research for several decades.

—Turbin et al., 2006, p. 452

Nevertheless, it should be understood that complex and dynamic patterns of personal assets and pertinent contextual resources are the ultimate determinants of health and wellness. Moreover, what may function as a healthpromotive environment or as social support for one person may not function in the same way for another. In adopting a developmental systems perspective with the person-incontext as the principal unit of analysis, it is important to be mindful of the fact that a person’s characteristics and goal-directed behaviors play an important role in determining whether a particular environmental or contextual circumstance actually functions in a health-enhancing or supportive manner for that person. Keeping in mind these cautions, we will now turn to a review of some of the most important contextual assets that may promote and maintain healthy human development. Health-Promotive Environments Interest in identifying and studying “external” or contextual assets for healthy development emerged simultaneously with the shift from an almost exclusive focus on medical treatment of disease toward a socioecological paradigm of wellness promotion, which started in the 1970s (Stokols, 2000a). Instead of focusing almost exclusively on individual health behaviors, researchers, practitioners, and policy makers recognized the need to address the complex interdependencies among individual characteristics and socioeconomic, environmental, cultural, and organizational determinants of health and illness (Jamner, 2000). Complementing the socioecological paradigm of health promotion, the concept of health-promotive or wellness-promotive environments was introduced, along with the recognition that “healthfulness” includes multiple facets, including physical health, emotional well-being, and social cohesion (Stokols, 2000b, pp. 136–137). According to Stokols, corresponding environmental resources and affordances include such things as nontoxic, nonpathogenic, and user-friendly

Social Support The social connectedness (or lack thereof) of people has been a well-researched feature of social science for more than 100 years (e.g., Durkheim, 1897/1951). Numerous studies have examined both the positive impact of connectedness and the negative impact of social isolation (e.g., Brummett et al., 2001). In the fields of health and human development, the study of social support has focused primarily on the impact of social support (or lack thereof) on physical disease (for a review, see Reblin & Uchino, 2008). For example, prognostic studies have consistently shown that low support negatively affects cardiac and all-cause mortality (Barth, Schneider & von K¨anel, 2010). There is also evidence that shows a positive effect of social support on length of survival from infectious disease (Lee & Rotheram-Borus, 2001) and lower mortality rates from cancer (Hibbard & Pope, 1993). Particularly noteworthy about these and most findings in this area is that they characteristically result from studies of the impact of social support on mortality or the course of disease. The salutary impact of social support on health in healthy individuals is rarely addressed, although the evidence that social relationships and social support have a health-protective causal effect is significant (e.g., DuPertuis, Aldwin, & Boss´e, 2001; House, Landis, & Umberson, 1988; Uchino, 2009a, 2009b). In spite of the large number of studies dealing with the relationship of social support to various health outcomes (Barth et al., 2010, reported screening 1,700 pertinent studies), relatively little is known about the development of social support, the developmental contexts that promote social support, or the mechanisms that link it to mortality on the one hand and health and wellness on the other. Uchino (2009a) has proposed that the separate measurement and consideration of perceived and received support should be a first step in clarifying the link between social support and health outcomes, in part because they arise from different, “developmentally

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salient antecedent processes” (p. 238). Moreover, he concluded that perceived social support tends to be relatively stable and has been consistently shown to have a positive impact on physical health; findings on received support are more variable and even include some negative health outcomes. Others have found that receiving social support had no impact on mortality among older married adults, but that providing support significantly reduced mortality (Brown, Nesse, Vinokur, & Smith, 2003). A further proposal has been made to utilize a life-span perspective to construct a comprehensive model of the social support–physical health relationship, including its developmental antecedents, underlying mechanisms, and differential functioning for younger and older adults (Uchino, 2009a, 2009b). Social support may be provided by different individuals or groups, depending on the circumstances of the support recipient. Thus, family members, friends, coworkers, or health professionals may be sources of support that may affect health outcomes for individuals. The relative importance of these different sources of social support appears to vary widely depending on many factors, leading to seemingly contradictory findings. Thus, some studies have reported that family members are increasingly important providers of support as individuals get older. Other studies have reported that support from friends and neighbors is at least as important as family support, and in some cases may be more important, especially for elderly individuals with health problems (e.g., Barker, 2002). Health Policy Social policies related to health represent another potential asset in fostering health and well-being. Lerner (2004) has noted that public policies are expressions of values and represent standards of conduct for individuals, organizations, and institutions. Consequently, social policies should result from collaborations between researchers, health care and social services providers, employers, end-users, and ordinary people (Delle Fave & Massimini, 2005). Policies designed to promote health and well-being cover an enormously complex domain, and although health and well-being are more or less universal values, how to actualize them through social policy depends, among other things, on the cultural, socioeconomic, and political circumstances at a given time and place. In spite of these complexities, there are tools available to health policy analysts (e.g., quantitative health policy analysis) that permit estimates of how different policies can optimize available resources and how they

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are likely to affect human health behavior and future health outcomes (Ganiats & Sieber, 2000). One particularly promising direction for health policy development is being pursued in Great Britain, focused on encouraging patients to take active roles in managing their health care, especially when confronted with chronic conditions (Gilmartin, 2009). Such a focus in the area of health policy clearly represents a convergence with the life course and developmental systems perspectives of individuals as active agents in their own development.

INDIVIDUAL AND CONTEXTUAL STRENGTHS AND ASSETS IN PERSPECTIVE Associated with the identification of these important individual and contextual assets is evidence that the more assets an individual has, the better the individual’s chances to prevent bad outcomes and the greater the individual’s chances to create positive outcomes. This idea of the cumulative power of assets is referred to as the “principle of vertical pile up” (Benson et al., 2006, p. 908), and it applies to both individual strengths and supportive contexts. Another perspective on the cumulative and generative effects of individual and contextual strengths is Fredrickson’s “broaden-and-build” theory of positive emotions. It explains how some individual resources, in this case positive emotions, have the effect of broadening and, at the same time, making more flexible people’s thoughts and actions, resulting in response tendencies that build additional, enduring personal assets, which, in turn, enhance health and well-being (Fredrickson, 2001). Another example regarding individual (internal) assets is based on the observation that mutually reinforcing patterns of goals, personal agency beliefs, and emotions can have a powerful motivating effect (Ford & Smith, 2007). A related observation regarding external assets is that when multiple supportive contexts collaborate, they create an enhanced positive impact on the individual. It must be emphasized that what is critically important is not simply to have more assets but to arrange for “mutually beneficial and sustaining exchanges between individuals and contexts” (Lerner, 2004, p. 87). That suggests that optimally, the individual’s strengths (i.e., internal assets) are developed and nurtured in such a way as to match up with contextual assets (affordances), while at the same time, contextual affordances are identified, developed, and nurtured to offer the most extensive and varied support and opportunities. The logical question suggested by these observations is: “What does it take to make

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this happen?” In the past, psychologists have tended to concentrate their intervention efforts on helping people to change themselves, to be more effective problem solvers, to think differently (e. g., through cognitive restructuring), and to deal more effectively with their emotions. The emerging role for psychologists still contains these important types of interventions, but it is much broader in scope. Dealing with the person-in-context means that person and context must be addressed in any comprehensive program designed to promote positive development. Moreover, as Granger (2002) has suggested, interventions should be aimed at both the will to change (addressing motivation) and the capacity to make changes (addressing skills and capabilities). A good example of such a comprehensive approach is the “thriving with social purpose” approach to the development of optimal human functioning, presented by M. E. Ford and Smith (2007). Specifically, the approach describes and explains how people can maintain strong motivation, and how concern for others, personal optimism, tenacity in overcoming obstacles, and intentional efforts to align emotions with circumstances can facilitate goal progress and ultimately competence development and personal and social well-being. Notwithstanding such innovative approaches (for other examples, see Benson et al., 2006; and Lerner, 2004), psychologists generally have had more experience with interventions to change the person or the context than with interventions designed to change person-context systems. The logical next step is to focus the attention of psychologists and others in the field of health and human development on conducting research that enhances understanding of the person-in-context system so that methods designed to change the person-in-context system can be more effective not only to reduce illness but also to increase health and well-being. The accumulation of individual and contextual assets is clearly not uniformly (or randomly) distributed across the population. People’s ability to actually pursue health and well-being by obtaining proper health care is compromised, in large part, because of a lack of opportunity freedom: The capability to enjoy healthcare requires that the health clinic exist, that it is staffed, that medical supplies are stocked, and that the patient is not refused treatment for lack of money or because of gender, race, age, or religion. —Alkire, 2010, p. 41

Nevertheless, even when opportunity freedom exists in theory, it may not translate into the desired outcomes.

For example, in reviewing research on rural women’s health, it became apparent that even when considerable external assets were available, poverty, lack of transportation, and various belief systems still kept individuals from accessing needed health services (Coward et al., 2006).

METHODOLOGICAL CONSIDERATIONS Thus far we have argued that the topic of health and human development encompasses such a broad range of phenomena that traditional, typically reductionistic, discipline-bound, and exclusively variable-focused approaches are no longer adequate for moving the field forward. Instead, we suggested that “systems thinking” in general, and utilization of developmental systems theory in particular, could lead to multidisciplinary and transdisciplinary collaborations that would create opportunities for significant advances in knowledge and very likely also lead to big improvements in applying such knowledge to promote health and wellness across the life span. Finally, we offered a selective review of research that demonstrates the potential of individual assets and of contextual assets to prevent illness and other undesirable outcomes and to promote healthy development and well-being. As illustrated by our necessarily limited review of pertinent findings, there is little doubt that current research in health and human development has produced important findings and advanced both science and practice. It is also clear, however, that significant challenges remain. One of these challenges is to better understand the relative contribution of internal versus external influences (which could be conceptualized as assets or impediments) on the person’s functioning and development. The most commonly used research design measures two or more variables at one time in any given sample and then analyzes patterns of interindividual variability in these variables. Unfortunately, these types of design do not generate valid information about the intraindividual organization of variables within persons. Thus, it is one thing to recognize that it is no longer adequate to study individual responses or response patterns as if they occurred in a vacuum, or to study contexts or various environments with the assumption that they interact with different individuals in similar ways, and it is another thing to design research that is ecologically valid and actually examines human functioning in context. Nesselroade and Ford (1987, pp. 64–75) summarized some of the key methodological considerations

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necessary when modeling relationships from a living systems perspective: 1. Living systems (i.e., humans) are vibrant and dynamic, and attributes of interest in humans are unlikely to be fixed or static. People display considerable intraindividual variation. Thus, “the kind of stability that characterizes individuals’ functioning is consistency in patterns of intraindividual variability (i.e., steady states)” (p. 65). Most importantly, such steady states are usually linked to person-specific contextual conditions. Consequently, steady-state consistencies in individuals can only be ascertained on the basis of multiple occasions of measurement in specified contexts. 2. Response variables need to be understood in terms of the person’s current behavior–environment organization. Two types of organization need to be accounted for: (1) the complex organization of biological and psychological variables that make up the individual person, and (2) the complex organization of transactional and environmental variables that account for person–environment relations. “It is not just the nature and status of each variable, but also the pattern of their organization in a given context as it flows through time that gives individuals their identity and that makes their functioning predictable across contexts and occasions” (p. 67). It follows that studying individual behaviors without regard to how they are organized in context cannot result in valid conclusions about behavioral change or development. 3. Knowledge about general characteristics of individuals (nomothetic knowledge) depends on knowledge about consistency and change in intraindividual patterns of variability (idiographic knowledge). Such idiographic information can be obtained only by sampling “across multiple variables (to identify how the variables are organized into patterns) and across multiple occasions (to identify how the patterns are organized and change across time and contexts) for each person selected for study” (p. 72). Once such idiographic information is obtained, it is possible to examine similarities and differences across persons and to thus accumulate nomothetic information. 4. Methods need to be used “that are capable of simultaneously attending to multiple individuals, multiple variables, and multiple occasions of measurement” (p. 74). A number of important trends with implications for health and human development have emerged in the years following Nesselroade and Ford’s (1987) articulation of these important implications of using a living

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systems framework. The first of these is the development of modern conceptualizations of dynamic, complex processes and sophisticated methods for modeling them. Examples include the application of dynamic systems in the study of the development of motor behavior in infants (Thelen & Smith, 2006), the use of dynamic factor analysis for the study of psychological processes such as affect (e.g., Browne & Nesselroade, 2005; Ferrer & Nesselroade, 2003), the development of principles that guide dynamic behavioral pattern formation and change in living systems (Kelso, 2000), quantitative modeling of developmental processes (e.g., Nesselroade & Molenaar, 2003; Newell & Molenaar, 1998), and the use of time-series models obtained in analyses of intraindividual variation to provide feedback–feedforward guidance in real time (Molenaar & Campbell, 2009). Particularly noteworthy for its utility in multidisciplinary, health-related research, the latter is leading to the development of a sophisticated, patientspecific, real-time control strategy for automated insulin delivery (Zhou et al., 2010). A second important trend is the return to prominence of idiographic methods that are, essentially, bringing the person back into psychological inquiry (e.g., Magnusson, 2000; Molenaar, 2004). Although it may seem counterintuitive, scientific study of the individual person has been relegated to occasional, out-of-the-mainstream studies in both psychology and medicine for most of the past century. The methods used in most studies of human mental, biological, and psychological processes have been methods well-suited to studying interindividual variation in various populations of subjects, often defined by demographic variables or health/illness status. It has been shown conclusively, however, that findings obtained in this manner are not applicable to individual members of any population studied in this manner, except in rare cases (Molenaar, 2004). It is essential, therefore, to complement currently popular probability models and techniques by refocusing attention on the neglected time-dependent variation within a single individual and conceive of each person “as a possibly unique system of interacting dynamic processes, the unfolding of which gives rise to an individual life trajectory in a high-dimensional psychological space” (Molenaar & Campbell, 2009, p. 202).

CONCLUSIONS We started this chapter by noting that helping people to live long and healthy lives has been one of the key

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goals of the United Nations Development Program for many years. Efforts to accomplish this have ranged from broadbased programs to eliminate poverty to large-scale prevention efforts aimed at, for example, smoking, malaria, and HIV/AIDS, as well as health promotion programs and policies implemented by employers and insurance companies. The variety and scope of these efforts is mind-boggling, especially when one takes into account the fact that, to be effective, they must be tailored to be responsive to national, regional, and local political and socioeconomic realities; they must be sensitive to cultural differences; and they must address the varied needs of developing individuals, males and females, located along the entire life-span continuum. Appreciating the complexity of the task and addressing potential barriers to achieving optimal health for every individual is the most important challenge for the foreseeable future. We proposed that adopting a systems model may be the most effective way to conceptualize the many levels of variables affecting health and development, ranging from the human genome to individual health behavior and psychological characteristics, as well as social, cultural, and physical contexts. However: . . . in order to realize the potential within the systems approach for identifying parsimonious pathways to promoting health, it is crucial that health researchers, health practitioners, and policy makers maintain an exceptionally broad vision of the range of activities and targets that may fall within the health promotion mandate. —Jamner, 2000, p. 2

It is clear, then, that the broad mandate of promoting health requires precisely the kind of inter-, multi-, and transdisciplinary collaborations discussed previously. There are, nevertheless, unique contributions to health promotion that are likely to be made by those who have special expertise in human development and developmental science. To be sure, there are many potential points of entry for interventions into the person-in-context system, ranging from individual persons (e.g., Zhou et al., 2010) to families, friends, and neighbors (e.g., Halverson & Deal, 2001; Uchino, 2004), neighborhoods and communities (e.g., Lerner, 2004), and nations (e.g., Scriven & Garman, 2005). Moreover, although important, the prevention of health-compromising behaviors and contexts is not sufficient for fostering healthy development and behavior. That is accomplished most effectively through the development and enhancement of health-promoting assets in individuals and in the contexts within which they function (Lerner, 2004).

Our selective review of research on individual and contextual assets that promote health and positive development has been focused primarily on assets that develop over time and that have been shown to have lifelong health consequences. Moreover, we have emphasized assets that have the potential to be fostered through “engaging the developmental system” (Lerner, 2004, p. 111). For example, longitudinal studies have demonstrated that personality traits and temperament dimensions identified in childhood can predict health outcomes many years later (e.g., Bates, 2001; Caspi et al., 1997; Hampson, Goldberg, Vogt, & Dubanoski, 2006; Martin et al., 2002; Pulkki-R˚aback, Elovainio, Kivim¨aki, Raitakari, & Keltikangas-J¨arvinen, 2005; Pulkkinen, 1995). Others have demonstrated that early environmental influences can also have lifelong health consequences (for a review, see Barker, 2005). Developmental scientists must see these and related findings as pointing the way to research that will help them to better understand the processes that link these antecedents to various health outcomes. That, in turn, would greatly enhance the design of interventions that foster assets and strengths to promote health and well being throughout the life span.

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CHAPTER 25

Successful Aging ALEXANDRA M. FREUND, JANA NIKITIN, AND MICHAELA RIEDIGER

CHARACTERISTICS OF OLD AGE 616 SUCCESSFUL AGING—DEFINITION AND CRITERIA 619 PROCESSES RELATED TO SUCCESSFUL AGING 622

MODELS OF SUCCESSFUL AGING 627 CONCLUSIONS 631 REFERENCES 632

What is successful aging? At first glance, this seems like an easy enough question. After all, don’t we all want to be happy, healthy, wealthy, and beloved well into old age? However, taking into account that aging people likely encounter health-related problems, maybe healthy should be skipped from the list. Similarly, when people advance into very old age, the loss of their spouse or partner and of close friends is the norm rather than the exception. Considering this, “beloved” might take on a different meaning than in younger age groups. Finally, happiness seems such an elusive state that we might not want to make this the criterion for successful aging. Maybe, then, it is not so easy to answer the question of what successful aging is after all. In this chapter, we will approach the concept of successful aging from three different perspectives. Specifically, we will discuss the following questions:

In the following section, we will then address the question of how to define “successful aging.” There are primarily two reasons that render the term difficult to define: 1. The notion of “successful aging” could imply that there is some sort of discontinuity in developmental processes when people enter old age. If there was continuity, it would make more sense to speak more generally of “successful development.” If, on the other hand, the term refers less to discontinuity of developmental processes, but to the specific age-related (internal and external) conditions of a phase in the life span, one would expect a compartmentalization into “successful childhood development,” “successful adolescent development,” “successful young adult development,” and “successful midlife development.” In agreement with a continuity model of developmental processes, we will use the term “successful aging” in this latter sense, and elaborate some characteristics that are specific to old age when compared to earlier phases in the life span. 2. The term “success” implies some sort of normative judgment on desirable and undesirable end states. This, in turn, raises two other problems: (1) what could be considered as a meaningful end state of development? and (2) which criteria should be employed to evaluate the desirability of those end states? The criteria for success are necessarily relative to social and cultural values. Whereas for certain cultures youthfulness might seem the most valued developmental state, for others, spiritual wisdom might be what people aspire to throughout their development. Not surprising, then,

1. What are the characteristics of older people that differentiate old age from earlier phases in the lifespan? 2. How can “successful aging” be defined? What are the criteria for “successful aging”? 3. What are the processes and conditions fostering “successful aging”? In the next section, we will focus on the context of old age. What are the external and internal changes that distinguish old age from younger age groups? What are the characteristics of old age that might render old age a time in life that is feared rather than hoped for? Why is it, as the saying goes, that everybody wants to get old but nobody wants to actually be old? 615

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there is no generally accepted definition of “successful aging.” On an abstract level, however, there is agreement that successful development encompasses a simultaneous maximization of gains and minimization of losses. (Baltes, 1989; Brandtst¨adter, 1998) In the final section of this chapter, we will discuss the currently most influential models of developmental regulation in old and very old age. These models shift the focus from a criteria-oriented approach addressing the question “what is successful aging?” to a more process-oriented approach addressing the question “how do people age successfully?” These models underscore that motivational processes of setting, pursuing, and maintaining personal goals are of central importance for understanding how individuals manage to age well.

CHARACTERISTICS OF OLD AGE When is a person considered to be old? Old age, the final phase in life, is commonly thought to begin somewhere between the ages of 60 and 70. An often cited, somewhat arbitrary, threshold is the age of 65. For employees, retirement represents a cultural marker of entering old age. However, chronological age does not tell much about a person’s biological (e.g., functional capacity), psychological (e.g., feelings, attitudes, interests, future perspectives), or social age (e.g., life activities, occupied roles; see Aiken, 1989). Even within a given person, aging is not a uniform process. Different organs and organ systems, as well as capacities in various functional and psychological domains, show differential patterns and rates of aging (Baltes, 1989). For example, the reproductive system usually ages more rapidly than the nervous system. Furthermore, other variables, such as poor nutrition, illness, or disuse, affect the rate and degree of agingrelated decline (e.g., Aiken, 1989; Bales & Payne, 2009). In other words, old age, like any other phase in life, is characterized by tremendous inter- and intraindividual variability. Nevertheless, in the subsequent sections, we will try to delineate some general characteristics of old age. Aging is a complex process, and it is beyond the scope of this chapter to attempt a comprehensive characterization of that life phase (for an overview see, for instance, P. Baltes, Staudinger, & Lindenberger, 1999; Birren & Schaire, 2006; Hofer & Piccinin, 2010). After characterizing aging as a “young” phenomenon, we will restrict our discussion to two broad domains of functioning that demonstrate marked age-related changes in old age: (1) physiology and health, and (2) cognition.

Old Age Is Still Young Until relatively recently in human history, only a small proportion of people survived long enough to become old in today’s sense (Vaupel, 1995). Up to about the beginning of the 19th century, life expectancy at birth (i.e., the average life span of persons born in a given year) was low for most populations, namely, only between 20 and 30 years. This was largely so because a large proportion of newborns (about one-third to one half) died before reaching the age of 5. Even for children surviving to age 5, the expected remaining lifetime was only 30 to 40 years. Only a small minority of people survived diseases, wars, and other life-threatening dangers to become 50. For them the remaining life expectancy was probably only about 10 to 15 years. Only during the past two centuries has world life expectancy at birth increased from approximately 25 years at the beginning of the 19th century to approximately 68 years at the beginning of the 21st century (Riley, 2001; United Nations, 2009). Prior to 1950, the increase in life expectancy was largely due to reductions in death rates at younger ages and particularly in infant mortality. The continuing growth of life expectancy since 1950, in contrast, is attributable to the fact that older people live longer (see Oeppen & Vaupel, 2002). In most countries, the increase in life expectancy has been co-occurring with a decline in fertility rates (i.e., a decrease in the average number of children per woman in child-bearing age). Both trends together (i.e., declining mortality and fertility rates) have drastically altered the population’s composition—with the growth of the older population outpacing the total population’s growth. Older people constitute increasingly large proportions of the world’s (or a nation’s) population. This trend will continue in the future, with the fastest expanding group being the “oldest-old” (United Nations, 2009). This lengthening of the average human life might be viewed by many as one of the most precious achievements in recent human history. It does, however, also pose new challenges to cultural and societal developments. Societies need to develop policies that ensure, despite declining proportions of working-aged people, adequate income, housing, and health care as well as living conditions that provide opportunities for an independent, integrated life for a growing number of old people (Treas & Twyla, 2009). To meet these challenges, gerontology needs to provide information about conditions promoting positive aging and try to give answers to such questions as what represents adequate housing for the elderly or how to support independent living in old age. As a

Successful Aging

first step in approaching the topic of successful aging, in the next section we will briefly outline the specific conditions of old age. We have selected two domains of functioning that have been identified as the strongest predictors of everyday competence in old age (Baltes, Maas, Wilms, Borchelt, & Little, 1999): (1) physiological or health-related functioning and (2) cognitive functioning. Physiological and Health-Related Changes in Old Age Aging is characterized by physiological changes that lead to progressive structural and functional decrements in all tissues and organs (for an overview see Kaiser, 2009). Most obvious to the lay observer are typical changes in appearance—for example, aging skin, graying or whitening hair, changes in body shape and stature, decreased muscular strength and endurance, increased stiffness in the joints, as well as a general slowing, increased sway and insecurity while walking or performing other motor tasks. Aging is also accompanied by impairments in the functioning of all the sense organs—vision, hearing, taste, smell, vestibular senses (necessary for the maintenance of posture and balance)—and sensitivity to touch, pain, and temperature. Physiological aging is furthermore characterized by gradual deterioration of internal organs, leading to a reduced efficiency of the body’s vital systems. Ageassociated changes in the various systems generally interact. Cardiovascular functions, for example, are influenced by age-associated changes in respiratory function, which in turn are influenced by changes in the musculoskeletal system (Fortin, Dubois, Hudon, Soubbi, & Almirall, 2007; Steinhagen-Thiessen, Gerok, & Borchelt, 1994). Overall, the physiological changes accompanying aging result in reduced functional capacity, impaired biological resilience in the face of stress, lessened ability to physiologically adapt to environmental changes, prolonged phases necessary to physically recuperate from strenuous effort, and, most importantly, increased susceptibility to acute and chronic diseases (Rockwood & Mitnitski, 2007; Spriduso, Francis, & MacRae, 2005). However, age-associated physiological changes, although inevitable, do not represent a uniform biological process. The type and magnitude of age-related changes vary greatly from individual to individual. Furthermore, physiological changes interact, for example, with psychological, social, environmental, and lifestyle factors in determining the course and rapidity of aging (Bales & Payne, 2009; Fries, 1990). For example, attitudes and personality characteristics may influence the degree to which an old person seeks intellectual stimulation or engages in physical or social

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activities, which, in turn, decelerate and attenuate decline in relevant functional domains (L¨ovd´en, Ghisletta, & Lindenberger, 2005). In this sense, physiological decline associated with aging is not entirely uncontrollable. Particularly lifestyle habits, such as regular exercise, balanced nutrition, and social and intellectual stimulation through active participation might, at least temporarily, postpone or attenuate physiological decrements associated with aging (Franklin & Tate, 2009). On the other hand, reduced mobility due to physiological impairment might obstruct such activities, precipitating further decline. To summarize, physiological changes accompanying aging result in a reduction of the organism’s functional capacity and an increased vulnerability to chronic and acute illnesses. These detrimental effects of physiological aging become particularly pronounced in very old age (85 years and beyond). Although unavoidable, physiological aging is no uniform progress. It is in part determined by lifestyle factors and, thus, particularly in young old age, temporarily and within boundaries, modifiable. Cognitive Abilities in Old Age Popular views on aging often seem to comprise the belief that cognitive abilities generally and drastically decline with age (Lachman, 2006). Older adults are expected to become more and more forgetful, have trouble learning new things, and to not think as clearly as younger persons. In contrast, most people believe that “wisdom” is a domain of older adults and is expected to increase with age (e.g., Goldberg, 2006). The story that psychological research tells about cognitive aging, however, is more complex and differentiated (Dixon, McFall, Whitehead, & Dolcos, this volume). Building on the recognition that cognitive functioning is influenced by biological as well as cultural processes, two main categories of intellectual abilities have been distinguished—the mechanics and pragmatics of cognition (P. Baltes et al., 1999). The mechanics of cognition stand as metaphor for the largely neurophysiological basis of cognition as it evolved during biological evolution. They become evident in the speed, accuracy, and coordination of basic information-processing operations. The pragmatics of cognition, in contrast, comprise the culturally transmitted bodies of knowledge that individuals acquire in the course of their socialization. Typical examples of pragmatic abilities include reading, writing, language, or professional skills. Mechanics and pragmatics are assumed to determine intellectual functioning in their interaction: There would not be pragmatics without

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mechanics, and vice versa; mechanics without pragmatics would lack the very medium in which to unfold. There is a great deal of empirical evidence that the cognitive mechanics show a pattern of rapid growth during infancy and childhood into adolescence, followed by a monotonic and roughly linear decline during adulthood, and a further acceleration of decline in very old age (Craik & Bialystok, 2006; Taylor, 2005). Specific training can to some degree counteract this trajectory of loss in the cognitive mechanics. Training studies show that the majority of healthy older adults are able to improve performance in tasks reflecting mechanic abilities during training (for a review see Noack, L¨ovd´en, Schmiedek, & Lindenberger, 2009). Such training gains, however, are highly taskspecific. Transfer to related abilities or generalization to everyday functioning is unlikely (e.g., Noack et al., 2009). L¨ovd´en and colleagues (L¨ovd´en, B¨ackman, Lindenberger, Schaefer, & Schmiedek, 2010) propose that, in order to maximize the generality or applicability of the intervention effect, cognitive interventions should train cognitive processes that involve those areas of the cognitive architecture and the brain that are relevant for a wide range of different cognitive tasks. The authors propose the executive system to be most important in this regard. The executive system controls and manages other cognitive processes and is responsible, for example, for planning, cognitive flexibility, abstract thinking, rule acquisition, action initiation and action inhibition, or selective attention. Initial evidence suggests that training of executive control might have the desired transfer effects to cognitive functioning in everyday life (Karbach & Kray, 2009). Pragmatic abilities show a more favorable life span trajectory than the mechanics. They remain stable or increase well into “young” old age and only after that show some decline, the acceleration of which is much less pronounced than the decline in the cognitive mechanics (e.g., wisdom: see Baltes, Gl¨uck, & Kunzmann, 2002; complexity and differentiation of self-representation: see Diehl, 2006; skill-specific expertise: see Krampe & Charness, 2006). A prototypical example that many associate with a positive age-related trajectory in the cognitive pragmatics is wisdom (Clayton & Birren, 1980). The Berlin Wisdom Project (Baltes & Smith, 1990; Baltes & Staudinger, 1993) conceptualized wisdom as an expertise in the meaning and conduct of life that involves a mature insight into complex and uncertain problems of human affairs with usually no “clear cut” optimal solutions. Cross-sectional studies suggest that wisdom-related performance increases sharply during adolescence and young adulthood, and remains relatively stable during middle adulthood and young old

age (Clayton & Birren, 1980; Staudinger & Pasupathi, 2003). Peak performances, however, seem to be more likely in middle and early old adulthood (i.e., in the fifth and sixth decade; e.g., Baltes, Staudinger, Maercker, & Smith, 1995). Empirical data (Baltes et al., 2002) suggest that wisdom-related performance may decline in very old age (beginning at around 75 years of age). This final decline has been attributed to age-related impairments in the mechanics of cognition. Thus, “being old” is not a sufficient condition for “being wise.” As mentioned before, mechanics and pragmatics conjointly influence cognitive performance in all age groups. Particularly important for understanding the development of cognitive abilities in old age are two observations: 1. Up to a certain threshold in impairment of the cognitive mechanics, pragmatic knowledge can be efficiently utilized to compensate for age-based losses in mechanics. Evidence for this has been provided by quasi-experimental studies on age- and skill-related differences in chess (e.g., Roring & Charness, 2007), bridge (e.g., Charness, 1987), and transcription typing (e.g., Salthouse, 1984). A classic illustration is a study on aging typists (Salthouse, 1984) where age was negatively related to typing speed, but positively related to eye–hand span. Older typists compensated the slowing of their typing (as an expression of cognitive mechanics) by looking further ahead in the to-be-typed text (i.e., a strategy pertaining to knowledge-based pragmatics). The idea that the knowledge-based pragmatics efficiently compensate mechanic decline in older adulthood is further supported by the finding that, compared to standard psychometric assessments using artificial and isolated cognitive tasks, negative age trajectories tend to be attenuated in familiar (i.e., knowledge-relevant) domains with everyday relevance, such as everyday problem solving (e.g., Blanchard-Fields, 2007; Willis, 1996) or memory in context (Hess & Pullen, 1996). Blanchard-Fields (2007) showed that older adults can even outperform younger adults in everyday problem solving, especially in emotionally salient and interpersonal problems. This advantage is based on the greater flexibility of older adults’ use of problem-solving strategies (they tailor their strategies to the context of the problem, whereas young adults are more rigid in their strategy use) and an effective use of a combination of instrumental and emotion-regulation strategies (Blanchard-Fields, 2007).

Successful Aging

2. If the mechanic information-processing capabilities fall below some critical threshold, they delimit the overall capability of cognitive integrity and, consequently, also impair intellectual functioning in the pragmatic domain (Baltes, 1997). Individuals reaching a very advanced age are, therefore, particularly vulnerable to attaining such levels of impairment in mechanic abilities that intellectual functioning in a more global manner is substantially diminished. This is supported by the observation that correlations among abilities both between and within the cognitive pragmatics and mechanics are higher in very old adults than in younger or middleaged adults (e.g., Ghisletta & Lindenberger, 2003; but see Johnson, Logie, & Brockomole, 2010). Moreover, this “de-differentiation” in very old age appears to transcend the cognitive domain and also affects sensory and sensorimotor functioning (e.g., Ghisletta & Lindenberger, 2005). These findings point to the importance of domain-general processing constraints in very old age. This is furthermore supported by empirical evidence that in very old age, the differences in the directionality of the development of pragmatic and mechanic abilities seem to disappear and give way to negative age-gradients in both domains (Ghisletta & de Ribaupierre, 2005). In sum, there is evidence for age-related decline in the biologically based cognitive mechanics. At least up to a certain point, this development can be compensated by culturally determined, knowledge-based cognitive pragmatics. Most older adults are cognitively well able to manage everyday life problems. In very advanced old age, however, a somewhat different picture emerges. Here, the cognitive mechanics might reach a level of impairment that the efficiency of intellectual functioning declines in a more global manner.

Conclusions: Physiological, Health-Related, and Cognitive Aging We have characterized the life phase of old age regarding typical changes in physiological, health-related, and cognitive functioning. From this discussion, we infer, on a more abstract level, three central characteristics of old adulthood: 1. Aging is not a uniform process. There exists a large degree of heterogeneity both among and within persons. Different functional domains are differentially affected by aging processes.

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2. Overall, with advancing old age, the balance of developmental gains and losses becomes increasingly negative. 3. Old adults in their 60s and 70s typically exhibit high levels of functioning in different life domains and, therefore, are not extremely different from middle-aged adults. In very old age (85 years and older), however, detrimental effects of aging become most pronounced. It is therefore necessary to differentiate between a “young old” and an “old old” age. Having portrayed characteristics of old age in general, we will next turn to the question of whether and how one can characterize successful aging. Following that, we will review a number of theoretical approaches to successful aging, focusing on emotional and motivational processes proposed to help managing the changing balance of gains and losses across adulthood.

SUCCESSFUL AGING—DEFINITION AND CRITERIA For several decades, gerontology has struggled to understand and define successful aging. As of yet, however, no commonly accepted definition delineating criteria characterizing successful aging exists. In general, there has been a shift away from defining successful aging solely in terms of adaptation to age-related changes in a given context (e.g., Havighurst, 1963) to emphasizing the balance between a person’s needs and competence on the one hand and environmental demands and opportunity structures on the other (Lawton & Nahemow, 1973; Thomae, 1976). In accordance with life-span developmental approaches (e.g., Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 1998; Brandtst¨adter, 1998; Lerner, 1998; Lerner & Busch-Rossnagel, 1981; Magnusson, 1996), these newer conceptualizations of successful aging assume that development is best described as an ongoing and dynamic interaction of a person with his or her environment. This implies that criteria for successful aging should not exclusively comprise factors within the person (e.g., happiness), but should also consider how well a person is doing in a given context (e.g., living in a nursing home). Criteria of Successful Aging Attempts to define criteria on how well an aging person is doing have—at least on a theoretical level—shifted from a monocriterion approach (mostly using subjective

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well-being as the only criterion signaling successful aging) to a multicriteria approach (e.g., Bowling, 2007). The multiple criteria that have been proposed as characterizing successful aging comprise objective and subjective, shortterm and long-term, domain-specific and general, static and dynamic criteria (see Table 25.1). Thus far, however, no consensus has been reached on the question which of these criteria have to be met and what their relative importance is for determining successful aging. A straightforward way to investigate successful aging is to ask older adults directly how successfully they age. To the question of how strongly they agree or disagree with the statement “I’m aging successfully (or aging well),” 50.3% of older adults agreed strongly (Strawbridge, Wallhagen, & Cohen, 2002). In another study, even 75% of older adults rated themselves as aging “very well” or “well” (Bowling & Dieppe, 2005). While these results show that a large number of older adults subjectively feel that they are aging successfully, they do not reveal anything about the criteria respondents used for defining successful aging. Addressing the high prevalence of health-related problems in old age, Rowe and Kahn (1987, 1998) defined successful aging as the ability to maintain a low risk of disease and disease-related disability, high mental and physical function, and active engagement with life. Riley (1998) criticized this approach by arguing that it neglects social structures as an important aspect supporting successful aging. Results of recent studies (McLaughlin, Connell, Heeringa, Li, & Roberts, 2010; Strawbridge TABLE 25.1 Central Dimensions of Criteria for Successful Aging: Examples from Two Domains of Functioning Considered Important for Successful Aging (Well-Being, Health) Domains of Functioning Dimensions

Well-Being

Health

Objective

Household income

Subjective

Satisfaction with financial situation

Short-term Long-term

Last week’s happiness Meaning in life

Recovery from hip surgery Progression of multiple sclerosis

General Specific

Life satisfaction Marital satisfaction

General functional capacity Blood pressure

Static

One-time assessment of life satisfaction Change in life satisfaction over time

Health status at a given point in time Healthy lifestyle (e.g., exercise, balanced diet)

Dynamic

Number of medical diagnoses Subjective physical health

et al., 2002) show that Rowe and Kahn’s definition of successful aging is very rigorous. Few older adults (only 11.9% in McLaughlin et al., 2010) meet the criteria put forth in Rowe and Kahn’s definition. One might argue that even chronically ill older adults can age successfully if they use compensatory psychological and/or social mechanisms to maintain functioning and everyday competence (Young, Frick, & Phelan, 2009). Additionally, socially defined status (e.g., education) is predictive of successful aging, which underlines the importance of sociostructural factors for aging well (see also Pruchno, WilsonGenderson, Rose, & Cartwright, 2010). Recent approaches to successful aging emphasize the necessity of models that are multidimensional, use a continuum rather than dichotomous cut-offs for “success,” and distinguish between predictors and constituent variables of successful aging (e.g., Bowling, 2007). Ryff and colleagues (e.g., Gruenewald, Mroczek, Ryff, & Singer, 2008; Ryff & Singer, 2009), for example, argued for integrating sociostructural, individual-level, and biological factors in this respect. They found multiway, nonlinear interactions of these factors in predicting affective experience in various phases of the adult lifespan (Gruenewald et al., 2008). For example, neuroticism interacted with work stress in young adulthood and with health status in older adulthood in predicting negative affect, respectively, and it interacted with marital quality in middle adulthood in predicting positive affect. Future empirical and theoretical work is needed to more clearly establish the interplay of such factors in predicting successful aging (Gruenewald et al., 2008). This recent development is in line with the approach of Paul Baltes and Margret Baltes (1990), who argued for integrating objective (i.e., observable) and subjective (i.e., self-reported) criteria for defining successful aging. Integrating objective and subjective criteria, according to P. Baltes and Baltes (1990), is important because on the one hand, considering exclusively subjective criteria, such as self-reported well-being, might lead to a neglect of optimizing environmental conditions that support successful aging. On the other hand, a prescriptive definition specifying exclusively objective criteria for successful aging is based on the specific value system of the scientific community and might not be shared by the elderly person. The approaches discussed above do not pay attention to the proactive and agentic role of the older person in interacting with his or her environment. Importantly, however, a person does not only passively adapt to environmental conditions, but proactively shapes his or her environment (Lawton, 1989). Proactive choices can have

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long-term consequences in their effect on how well the environment fits personal demands. According to Lawton, one of the consequences of a good person–environment fit is subjective well-being and life satisfaction. Accordingly, Lawton (1989) proposed to define “the good life” (or, in a gerontological context, “successful aging”) along four independent dimensions, including both subjective and objective criteria in different life-domains: 1. Perceived life-quality (subjective satisfaction with various life-domains, such as family, friends, housing, etc.) 2. Psychological well-being (happiness, optimism, congruence between desired and attained goals) 3. Behavioral competence (health, motor behavior, cognition) 4. Objective environment (such as income, living conditions, etc.). There are several aspects in this definition of successful aging worth being pointed out. Note first that perceived life-quality is not conceptualized as a global evaluation of one’s life as a whole, but rather as a multifaceted concept comprising satisfaction with various life-domains. Note second that psychological well-being, in Lawton’s sense, is a broader concept than emotional well-being. It not only includes positive emotions (happiness), but also includes optimism, “the global expectation that good things will be plentiful in the future and bad things, scarce” (Peterson, 2000, p. 47). According to Seligman (1991), optimism is a generalized expectancy of the controllability of outcomes. Feeling in control of events might lead elderly persons to actually take more control over their lives and proactively shape their environments in a way that matches their needs. Note third, that, as in the definition of Rowe and Kahn, health is one of the criteria that Lawton lists for identifying successful aging. As Lawton, however, considers the interaction of a person with his or her environment as crucial for determining successful aging, impaired or sick elderly nevertheless have the potential for aging well. Even sick or impaired elderly can successfully interact with their environment by modifying their environment and/or their activities (i.e., environmental proactivity) and thereby enhance the person–environment fit. In this way, although it lists criteria for successful aging that might imply a static view, Lawton’s model of successful aging represents a dynamic perspective focusing on the person–environment interaction. Taking a similar approach, Baltes and Carstensen (1996) suggested addressing the problem of defining successful aging by going away from a criteria-oriented approach, which implies the assessment of an “end state,”

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to a process-oriented approach. Focusing, for instance, on the achievement of long-term goals as a criterion for successful aging as proposed by Lawton, might neglect that goals—whether they will be achieved or not—have a positive function for individuals by organizing and guiding behavior over time and across situations (e.g., Emmons, 1996) and by giving life a purpose (e.g., Klinger, 1977; Scheier et al., 2006). Because they organize behavior and contribute to a sense of purpose in life, the very process of having and pursuing personal goals can be viewed as one aspect of successful aging, regardless of the actual achievement of the respective goals. This adds a new dimension in defining criteria for successful aging, namely, the dimension of a static versus dynamic approach. According to Baltes and Carstensen, it is not only important to assess whether an elderly person has achieved positive outcomes (e.g., health, good living conditions, personal goals) but also whether the ongoing process of getting there is one that maximizes gains and minimizes losses. That is, the gains associated with achieving desired outcomes have to be balanced with the costs associated with its attainment (Freund, Li, & Baltes, 1999). If meeting a certain criterion (e.g., financial security) can only be achieved at high cost (e.g., suffering a number of years in an unfulfilling, boring job), this method of goal-pursuit cannot be regarded as being successful (Freund et al., 1999). A dynamic approach to successful aging also points out another difficult question that has not yet been resolved in the literature: namely, the time window one should best consider when evaluating how successfully an individual is aging. Usually, “snapshots” of living conditions and well-being of elderly persons are taken with one-time assessments (see, e.g., Diener, Suh, Lucas, & Smith, 1999). Taking a static view on successful aging, such snapshots are sufficient to determine how well older people are doing and the relationship between living conditions and subjective well-being in the elderly at a given point in time. Taking a dynamic view on successful aging, however, only multiple assessments in various life domains over time can reveal whether a person interacts with his or her environment in a manner that promotes successful aging in the long run (Freund et al., 1999; Hoppmann & Riediger, 2009). Taken together, on a very abstract and general level, successful aging can be defined as the simultaneous maximization of gains and minimization of losses. However, when it comes to differentiating concrete criteria indicating how well a person is aging, no generally accepted definition is available. As Pulkkinen (2000, p. 278) put it:

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“Successful development is not uniform but polyform.” Because successful development can take many different expressions, it seems more appropriate to specify criteria depending on the specific research question at hand than to propose a single, necessarily abstract, definition of successful aging. These specific criteria can vary along several dimensions, such as objective versus subjective, short-term versus long-term, domain-specific versus general, and static versus dynamic. In Table 25.1, we summarized these dimensions of criteria for successful aging, giving examples for two life-domains that are frequently considered as central to successful aging: well-being and health. An alternative route to studying successful aging is to shift the focus away from attempting to define criteria as end-points of successful aging and toward identifying processes of developmental regulation in old age. Although such a process-oriented approach does not resolve the question of criteria of successful aging, it redirects the attention to the psychologically more interesting question of which developmental processes are central in the interaction of an aging person with his or her environment (Baltes & Carstensen, 1996). As elaborated by E. Kahana and Kahana (1996, p. 25), this question lies at the heart of the different models of developmental regulation in old age that we will discuss in the following sections, after setting the stage by reviewing recent evidence on emotional and motivational processes in adult development and aging.

PROCESSES RELATED TO SUCCESSFUL AGING For a long time, the investigation of processes related to successful aging has been dominated by two opposed conceptions—disengagement theory (Cumming & Henry, 1961) and activity theory (e.g., Maddox, 1963). Disengagement theory posited that coinciding with a decrease in social roles in old age (e.g., because of retirement) and the anticipation of one’s death, diminished energy would lead to a change in orientation away from activity and toward preoccupation with one’s inner aspects, life review, and death. In contrast to disengagement theory, activity theory posited that the maintenance of social roles and activities were crucial for successful aging. The debate on whether disengagement is the central process promoting successful aging or whether only those who continue to be actively involved in life are to be considered successful agers has been largely resolved in newer models and approaches, which we will discuss

in more detail below. Despite differences among these approaches, they converge in emphasizing the central role of motivational processes for successful aging. Based on the assumption that people can take an active part in shaping their development, personal goals (i.e., future states a person desires to attain or wishes to avoid) are seen as playing an important role in a person’s aging process. Personal goals motivate and organize behavior over time and across situations, giving directionality to development. Personal goals also serve as a standard of comparison, determining how well a person feels he or she is doing (e.g., Carver & Scheier, 1990). In this sense, the level of aspiration is also associated with subjective wellbeing—a fact that should be of particular relevance to aging when the likelihood of being confronted with unobtainable or permanently blocked goals increases. Here, as particularly Brandtst¨adter and Greve (1994) and Schulz and Heckhausen (1996) argue, adjustment of goal standards should help to protect older persons’ psychological well-being. Successful Aging: A Matter of Socioemotional Selectivity? One of the currently most influential theories of successful aging, the socioemotional selectivity theory (SST) by Carstensen and her colleagues (Carstensen, 2006; Carstensen, Isaacowitz, & Charles, 1999) addresses the phenomenon of reduced social contacts in old age—a phenomenon that disengagement theory claims to be a sign of withdrawal from society toward life review and preparation for death, and that activity theory views as problematic for the elderly. Similar to disengagement theory, SST posits that reduced social contacts in old age are due to a limited time perspective; that is, to the fact that older people tend to perceive their remaining time to death as relatively limited. In contrast to disengagement theory, however, SST postulates that the reduced network size does not primarily result from a deliberate withdrawal from society, but from the specific motivation for particular types of social relations in situations where time perspectives are limited. An extended future time perspective is more strongly associated with knowledge-related goals for social interactions. A limited time perspective, in contrast, brings about a stronger presence-orientation involving goals related to feeling states, emotional meaning, and satisfaction. Emotional meaning and satisfaction, as well as emotion regulation, are easier established with familiar and close social partners than with unfamiliar or less important persons. The driving force for

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reducing the number of social partners in old age, thus, is a predominance of the motivation for emotion regulation over knowledge acquisition, because of the older adults’ limited future time perspective. Several empirical studies have demonstrated that the reduction of social network size in old age is primarily due to focusing on the closest social partners, such as family and confidants (e.g., Field & Minkler, 1988; Lang & Carstensen, 1994; Lang, Staudinger, & Carstensen, 1998). The change in the ranking of knowledge-related and emotional goals in social relations, however, is only agerelated, not age-caused. When younger people are faced with endings and future social opportunities are perceived as limited, the salience of emotion goals also increases. This has been shown experimentally when younger adults were asked to imagine a limited future and older adults to imagine an expansive future (e.g., Fredrickson & Carstensen, 1990) as well as in field studies with younger samples who actually experienced a very limited future time expansion, such as HIV-infected persons (Carstensen & Fredrickson, 1998) or residents of Hong Kong two months before the handing-over to the People’s Republic of China (Fung, Carstensen, & Lutz, 1999). SST suggests that there is no universal process of continued activity or disengagement in old age, but that it is perceived time expansion that best explains whether older people prefer to focus on close, familiar social partners or are motivated to gain knowledge through novel and knowledgeable social partners. Socioemotional selectivity theory has been frequently referred to as a theoretical basis for explaining age-related differences in emotional and motivational processes in adulthood and old age, which we will discuss next. Emotional Processes Related to Successful Aging Evidence is mounting that older adults’ typical emotional well-being is as good as (e.g., Diener et al., 1999; Kunzmann, Little, & Smith, 2000) or better than (e.g., Carstensen, Pasupathi, Mayr, & Nesselroade, 2000; Charles, Reynolds, & Gatz, 2001; Mroczek & Kolarz, 1998; Riediger, Schmiedek, Wagner, & Lindenberger, 2009) that of younger age groups. Only with impending death does emotional well-being typically start to decline (beginning prototypically 3 to 5 years prior to death; Gerstorf et al., 2010). Overall, the empirical evidence thus suggests positive trajectories of emotional well-being, rather than decline, across adulthood and into old age. What are the processes underlying this positive adult development of emotional well-being?

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Many attempts to explain adult trajectories in emotional well-being have focused on the notion of resilience; that is, on older adults’ ability to adjust to losses and major life events (Staudinger, 2000). There is, however, also evidence that in addition to the ability to deal with major life events, age-related differences in mundane dayto-day experiences might also contribute to the high levels of emotional well-being in young-old age, and that motivational differences in everyday life may play an important role in this respect. Riediger and Freund (2008), for example, found that an age-related decrease in the frequency of day-to-day motivational-conflict experiences appears to be among the factors that contribute to a positive age trajectory of everyday emotional well-being. Motivational conflicts, such as feeling that one wants or should do something other than what one is doing, are accompanied by momentarily diminished emotional well-being. Older adults, however, experience fewer such motivational conflicts in their daily lives, and this appears to be among the factors that contribute to the higher average day-to-day emotional well-being of older as compared to younger adults. Other explanatory attempts, too, focused on age-related motivational changes, but in the context of people’s attempts to regulate or control their emotional experiences (Blanchard-Fields, 2007; Carstensen, 2006; Heckhausen & Schulz, 1995; Heckhausen, Wrosch, & Schulz, 2010). As discussed above, socioemotional selectivity theory (SST; Carstensen, 2006; Carstensen et al., 1999), for example, holds that “anticipated endings such as the sense that lifetime is running out give primacy to enhancing emotionally gratifying experiences in the moment as opposed to maximizing future rewards” (Scheibe & Carstensen, 2010; p. 135). Thus, emotion-regulation goals directed at maximizing one’s emotional well-being in the here and now are assumed to gain in importance as people age. Riediger and colleagues (2009) indeed found in an extensive experience-sampling study investigating a heterogeneous sample ranging from adolescence to old adulthood that older adults more frequently reported prohedonic motivations of wanting to maintain positive affect and dampen negative affect in their daily lives than younger age groups did. Importantly, these age differences in prohedonic motivation could not be attributed to age-related differences in daily-life emotional experiences, activities, or social partners. This suggests that part of the positive emotionality that is characteristic for older adulthood might be intentionally sought and maintained by the individual.

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In line with this idea, older adults have been found to report regulating their emotions more frequently than younger adults (e.g., John & Gross, 2004), and to report preferentially using efficacious and physiologically healthy emotion-regulation strategies, such as cognitive reappraisal (Gross, 2002; Gross & John, 2003). Evidence further suggests that older adults use a more diverse repertoire of problem-solving and emotion-regulation strategies than younger adults when facing emotional, interpersonal problems, and that they adjust these strategies to the context of the problem (e.g., Blanchard-Fields, 2007). There also is initial evidence suggesting that emotion regulation may be less effortful for older as compared to younger adults (Scheibe & BlanchardFields, 2009). Other researchers have argued that the age-related improvement of emotional well-being is a consequence of cognitive decline (Cacioppo, Berntson, Bechara, Tranel, & Hawkley, 2011; Labouvie-Vief, 2003). The dynamic integration theory (Labouvie-Vief, 2003) poses that elderly adults compensate for a decrease in cognitive–affective complexity (i.e., coordination of feelings in the here and now with past and future feelings and with those of other people) with an optimization response. Declining complexity “implies reduced integration of negative affect so that as individuals age, they might find it more difficult to tolerate negative feelings” (Labouvie-Vief, 2003; p. 202). Supporting this view, Labouvie-Vief and colleagues (cf. Labouvie-Vief, 2003) found positive correlations between cognitive–affective complexity and negative affect. Moreover, complexity was positively correlated with cognitive functioning and declined with advancing age (Labouvie-Vief & Diehl, 2000). The aging brain model (Cacioppo et al., 2011), using a neuroscience approach, comes to similar conclusion as the dynamic integration theory. Cacioppo and colleagues argue that age-related changes in amygdala structure and function lead to a diminished processing of negative information. According to dynamic integration theory, then, improved emotional well-being is a byproduct of brain degradation. However, this idea is inconsistent with findings that the fewer cognitive resources older adults have, the less they are able to selectively attend to positive and avoid negative stimuli (e.g., Knight et al., 2007; Mather & Knight, 2005). Therefore, future research needs to combine behavioral and neuroscience approaches to link brain degradation and motivation in successful emotional aging (see Scheibe & Carstensen, 2010).

“Positivity/Negativity Avoidance” Effects in the Processing of Emotional Information In line with the idea that older adults are motivated to regulate their emotions are findings on age-related differences in attending to, and processing, emotional information (Carstensen & Mikels, 2005). Various studies have shown that older adults tend to process more positive than negative information, whereas no such “positivity effect” appears to exist among younger adults. This has been found with respect to different forms of processing emotional information, such as attention to positive and negative stimuli (e.g., Isaacowitz, Toner, Goren, & Wilson, 2008; Isaacowitz, Wadlinger, Goren, & Wilson, 2006; Mather & Carstensen, 2003); memory for positive and negative information (e.g., Mikels, Larkin, ReuterLorenz, & Carstensen, 2005); increased true and false recognition for happy faces and more positive judgments for both happy and angry faces (e.g., Werheid et al., 2010); autobiographical memory for positive and negative events (e.g., Kennedy, Mather, & Carstensen, 2004); and memory for own positive and negative decisions (Mather, Knight, & McCaffrey, 2005; but see Murphy & Isaacowitz, 2008, for a meta-analysis of memory and attention tasks). Recent studies found the “positivity effect” also at the level of neural activation (Sammanez-Larkin & Carstensen, 2011). Although it is not clear if the effect is based on an enhanced focus on positive or a reduced focus on negative information, it has been argued that either way the relatively more positively tuned processing of emotional information of older adults as compared to younger age groups can benefit their well-being (e.g., Johnson, 2009; see also Scheibe & Carstensen, 2010). The “positivity/negativity avoidance effect” is diminished or disappears when older adults pursue information-gathering goals (L¨ockenhoff & Carstensen, 2007), in the face of threat (Mather & Knight, 2006), and when high-arousal as compared to low-arousal stimuli are to be processed (Kensinger, 2008), which might be adaptive exceptions to positivity (see Scheibe & Carstensen, 2010). Although the “positivity/negativity avoidance effect” is assumed to serve emotion-regulatory purposes (e.g., Carstensen, Mikels, & Mather, 2006), direct empirical evidence supporting this claim is still lacking. In sum, research on emotional aging suggests that, on average, this is an area of functioning demonstrating positive developmental trajectories into old age. It needs to be noted, however, that there are interindividual differences in emotional functioning in old age. Not all aging individuals show the same positive development in emotional well-being. Regarding the experience of negative

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emotions, for instance, individuals high in neuroticism do not exhibit declines in negative affect with advancing age (Charles et al., 2001). Regarding the “positivity effect,” dispositional avoidance motivation predicts longer gaze times for angry and less longer for happy faces also for older adults (Nikitin & Freund, 2011). Emotion regulation, emotional experience, and emotional biases are currently highly active research areas and will bring about a more differentiated picture of interindividual as well as contextual factors impacting on emotional functioning in old age. Motivational Processes in Old Age Human development and aging cannot be understood adequately without considering ways in which individuals influence their own life course. Future-oriented motivation, that is, setting goals, plays an important role in this respect. Through the selection of goals, individuals bring direction to their lives. Shaping one’s life course in aspired directions also requires goal-directed action. Motivational processes are among the phenomena that show positive development throughout adulthood. For example, Sheldon and Kasser (1995, 2001) reported that older as compared to younger adults (a) tend to select their goals more with a sense of choice and self-expression and less because they would otherwise feel ashamed, guilty, or anxious; (b) aim their goals more toward intrinsic values (e.g., community involvement) and less toward extrinsic values (e.g., property); and (c) are more concerned with “mature” issues sensu (Erikson, 1959), namely, generativity and ego integrity, and less concerned with identity formation. Similarly, Bauer and McAdams (2004) reported that older adults are more likely to express in their goals the aspiration to grow personally than are younger adults. The step from setting to realizing one’s goals is often a big one. People work on some of their goals, but fail to work on others. The identification of motivational factors that contribute to the initiation and long-term maintenance of goal-directed behaviors thus has important implications for understanding the active role of the individual in shaping his or her environment and life course. Riediger and colleagues showed that facilitative relations among a person’s goals, which result, for example, from instrumental relations between goals or from overlapping goal attainment strategies, are among the factors that are associated with the longer-term maintenance of goal-directed action (Riediger, 2007; Riediger & Freund, 2004). They also demonstrated that the transition from middle to later adulthood—a phase in life when resource limitations

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become increasingly pronounced—is characterized by a substantial increase in the extent of mutual facilitation among goals (Riediger & Freund, 2006; Riediger, Freund, & Baltes, 2005). This aging-related increase in intergoal facilitation is related to an increase in motivational selectivity in terms of focusing on subjectively central and similar goals, but not to an increase in motivational selectivity in terms of restricting the number of goals. Higher motivational selectivity in terms of focusing the content of goals thus appears to have an important behavioral function in a life phase that is characterized by an accelerated increase in aging-associated resource losses. It seems to allow older adults to stay involved in the pursuit of their goals, despite increasingly pronounced resource limitations, and thus to actively influence the direction of their own development (Riediger & Freund, 2006). Goal-Orientation: Shifting from Optimizing Gains to Compensating for Losses Across Adulthood As elaborated above, adulthood can be characterized as shift in the balance of resource gains to losses (Baltes, 1998; Baltes et al., 2006; Heckhausen, Schulz, & Wrosch, 1998; Staudinger, Marsiske, & Baltes, 1995). Is the shift in resources across adulthood reflected in the orientation of goals towards achieving gains or avoiding losses and their adaptiveness across adulthood? Throughout the lifespan, accumulating and conserving resources is of high importance, as they are essential for survival and, going beyond mere survival, allow a more pleasurable and attractive lifestyle. However, one might argue that the importance of acquiring new gains versus maintaining resources and shielding them from losses might change across adulthood. Young adulthood typically provides environments that offer maximum access to resources and favor acquisition of skills and improvement of functions. Accordingly, younger adults might be more likely to be primarily motivated to strive for growth. Younger adults need to build up their potentials before they can invest in conserving them. A strong orientation toward growth allows them to generate new resources and to improve functioning, which is crucially important in their phase of life. A stronger orientation towards achieving new gains in young adults might help optimizing opportunities for improvement in young adulthood. Compared to young adults, middle-aged and older adults may feel that they have already achieved many resources that are worth conserving. Loss of resources is highly aversive, as it can instigate a downward spiral (Hobfoll, 1989). For instance, losses in mobility due to health-related problems might prevent a person from

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going to certain social events, which, in turn, might lead to more losses in social contacts. As threats of losses increase across adulthood, then, the motivation for maintenance and loss-avoidance should increase. Moreover, due to the decline in resources, it becomes increasingly difficult to acquire new ones, as the acquisition of new resources is often cost-intense (e.g., learning a new skill requires time, effort, and often also money and social support). Therefore, attempting to achieve new outcomes and improving functioning instead of investing in repairs of losses might be too costly for older adults. Taken together, then, in middle and later adulthood, a stronger orientation toward maintenance and prevention of loss might help overcoming and dealing with challenges to resources. Testing the hypothesis of an age-related shift in the orientation toward optimizing gains or compensating for losses, a study by Li, Lindenberger, Freund, and Baltes (2001) demonstrated that, compared to younger adults, older adults make increasingly more use of compensatory aids when the system of performance is subject to experimentally induced losses in goal-relevant means. There is also converging evidence for a motivational shift in the literature on personal goals. Ogilvie, Rose, and Heppen (2001) found that motivational orientation toward maintenance was more frequent in the personal goals of older adults as compared to middle-aged adults or adolescents. Similarly, Heckhausen (1997) reports that younger adults hold more goals in life-domains associated with a gain orientation (e.g., professional goals) and fewer goals in domains associated with the avoidance of losses than middle-aged or older adults (e.g., health). Ebner, Freund, and Baltes (2006) also found clear evidence for a motivational shift across adulthood using self-rated goal orientation. Whereas younger adults rated their personal goals as primarily gain-oriented, maintenance and prevention of loss became more and more important across middle and older adulthood. Moreover, Ebner and colleagues could show that the shift in motivation is related to the perceived availability of resources. When younger adults perceived their resources as limited, they oriented their goals towards maintenance and avoidance of loss to the same degree as older adults. Addressing the question of whether the shift in goal orientation is adaptive, Ebner and colleagues found that maintenance orientation is positively related to subjective well-being in older adults. In contrast, being highly motivated to prevent losses is negatively related to subjective well-being in younger adults. Going beyond subjective well-being as an indicator of adaptiveness, Freund (2006) investigated age-differential effects of goal-orientation

on persistence in goal pursuit. Younger adults persisted longer in pursuing an experimentally induced optimization goal, whereas older adults were more persistent when counteracting experimentally induced losses. Together, these studies provide evidence that goal orientation not only reflects the changing balance of gains and losses in resources across adulthood but also shows that this shift in goal orientation is adaptive both in terms of subjective well-being and actual goal pursuit. Goal Focus and Successful Development People often pursue long-term goals, such as losing and maintaining weight, starting to work out regularly, or writing one’s memoirs. Such long-term goals might be particularly important to successful aging, as they provide direction and meaning over time. However, the pursuit of such long-term goals is often difficult, as it requires self-regulation over extended periods of time. The pursuit of long-term goals necessitates the repeated initiation of goal-relevant actions, the monitoring of progress over time, resistance toward temptations that offer more immediate gratification (e.g., eating a tasty chocolate cookie instead of a cucumber), and coping with setbacks and failure on the way to the desired end-state. As has been shown by Baumeister and colleagues, self-regulation is resource demanding, particularly regarding cognitive control processes (Baumeister, Vohs, & Tice, 2007) that are in turn subject to age-related decline (see above). How, then, do older adults manage to successfully engage in long-term pursuit and maintenance? There is some empirical evidence that a process focus might foster successful goal pursuit (e.g., Pham & Taylor, 1999) and help to cope with setback and failure (HouserMarko & Sheldon, 2008). For instance, Hennecke and Freund (2010) found in a study with overweight women who all shared the goal of losing weight that focusing on the process (i.e., dietary behaviors) rather than on the outcome of dieting (i.e., weight loss) was associated with more successful goal pursuit and achievement over time. Process focus was related to successful self-regulation in the context of dieting and to weight loss. Freund, Hennecke, and Riediger (2010) have argued that older adults might be at a motivational advantage as they focus more on the process than the outcome of goal pursuit. In a study with young and older exercise beginners, they assessed how much participants focused either on the outcome of exercising (e.g., “wanting to lose weight,” “improving one’s appearance”) or on the process (e.g., “wanting to have fun,” “socializing”). They found that older adults focused more on the process

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of exercising, whereas younger adults focused more on the outcome. Importantly, a stronger process focus was longitudinally associated with exercise frequency, positive goal evaluations as well as positive well-being. In sum, there is increasing evidence that motivational changes in goal orientation and goal focus help manage the changing ratio of gains and losses across adulthood. With increasing age and increasing losses in resources, goal orientation shifts from a primary gain orientation in younger adults to the increasing importance of maintenance and loss prevention in older adults. Moreover, older adults focus more on the process than the outcome of goal pursuit, which might contribute to the maintenance of emotional well-being in old age.

MODELS OF SUCCESSFUL AGING In the final part of this chapter, we will turn to the discussion of three dominant life-span theories of successful aging. First, we will present a metatheoretical framework of successful development—the model of selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC) first formulated by Paul Baltes and Margret Baltes (e.g., 1990). Following that, we will discuss two important theories of successful development and aging that center around the notion of control: The theory of primary and secondary control by Heckhausen and Schulz (1995; Heckhausen et al., 2010), and the model of assimilative and accommodative coping by Brandtst¨adter and his colleagues (Brandtst¨adter, 2006; Brandtst¨adter & Greve, 1994; Brandtst¨adter & Rothermund, 2002). Both models suggest that under conditions of reduced controllability—such as those that occur in old age because of health-related reductions in functional capacity and activity radius—disengagement from, rather than persistence in, the pursuit of desired activities promotes successful aging. Selection, Optimization, and Compensation: A Metamodel of Successful Aging The model of selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC) provides a general framework for conceptualizing the processes of successful aging (P. Baltes & Baltes, 1990). The SOC model is based on the assumption that throughout the lifespan, individuals continually seek to successfully manage their lives through the orchestration of three processes of developmental regulation: selection, optimization, and compensation. As a metamodel, the SOC theory represents a framework for understanding

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developmental continuity and change across different periods of the life span (e.g., adulthood, aging), across different levels of analysis (e.g., individual, group), and across different domains of functioning (e.g., social, cognitive, physical). Selection, optimization, and compensation are proposed to be universal processes of developmental regulation that can vary greatly in their phenotypic expression depending on the sociohistorical and cultural context, domain of functioning as well as unit of analysis at hand (Baltes, 1997). The SOC model in its general formulation, therefore, does not designate any specific content or mechanisms to its proposed developmental regulatory principles. In this sense, the model represents a “relativistic” heuristic framework. To understand specific manifestations of the SOC processes in particular developmental domains, it is necessary to specify the SOC processes by linking the metamodel with more specific theories pertaining to the phenomena of interest. In our discussion of the processes of selection, optimization, and compensation below, we will use an action-theoretical specification (e.g., Brandtst¨adter, 1999) of the model to illustrate specific expressions of the general-purpose processes in the domain of personal goals. Selection Throughout the life span, biological, social, and individual opportunities and constraints both provide and limit the variety of developmental pathways a person can potentially take. The number of those options, however, is usually larger than the amount of resources available to the individual. Selection —that is, focusing one’s resources on a subset of potentially available options—thus functions as a precondition for “canalization” and developmental specialization. In an action-theoretical framework, selection can be defined as developing, elaborating, and committing to personal goals. On this level of analysis, selection directs development, because personal goals guide and organize behavior across situations and time (e.g., Emmons, 1996). Successful goal selection requires that goals be developed and set in domains for which resources are available or can be attained and that match a person’s needs and environmental demands (Freund, 1997; Heckhausen, 1999). The SOC model distinguishes between two kinds of selection, elective selection and loss-based selection. Both aspects of selection differ in their specific developmental regulatory function. Elective selection denotes the delineation of goals in order to advance the match of persons’ needs and motives with the given or attainable resources and opportunity structures. It aims at achieving higher

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levels of functioning. In contrast, loss-based selection occurs as a response to losses in previously available goalrelevant means threatening the maintenance of a goal. Loss-based selection involves changes in goals or the goal-system, such as reconstructing one’s goal-hierarchy by focusing on the most important goal(s), adapting standards, or substituting no longer achievable goals (see also our discussion of assimilative coping, Brandtst¨adter & Wentura, 1995, and, compensatory secondary control, Heckhausen, 1999, later in the chapter). The SOC model posits that loss-based selection is an important process of life-mastery. Loss-based selection allows the adaptive focus or redirection of resources when other means for the maintenance of positive functioning as a substitute for the loss (compensation) are either not available or would be invested at the expense of other, more promising goals (Baltes, 1996; Heckhausen, 1999). One of the central functions of selection is thus to efficiently utilize the limited amount of available resources. In old and very old age, when resources become more constrained, selection should hence be of particular importance. Consistent with this view, Staudinger and Freund (1998) found that selecting few life-domains on which to focus was particularly adaptive for older people with highly constrained resources. The importance the SOC model places on the process of selection is consistent with Kanfer’s resource model (e.g., Kanfer, 2005; Kanfer & Ackerman, 2004), which proposes that when resources decrease with age (e.g., fluid intelligence), so do the expected payoffs for investing effort into tasks requiring the decreasing resources. Hence, older adults are expected to invest less effort in tasks involving resources on the decline. In contrast, when older adults have sufficient or even increasing resources at their disposal (e.g., crystallized intelligence), the expected payoff for investing effort also increases. Effort, then, should be invested primarily into tasks involving resources that are increasing. In other words, older adults are expected to spend their resources wisely on goals for which they possess sufficient resources and that promise a good return on investments. Optimization Whereas selection is the first step towards positive functioning, the SOC model posits that for achieving desired outcomes in selected domains, it is crucial to acquire, apply, and refine goal-relevant means, a process referred to as optimization. Which means are best suited for achieving one’s goals varies according to the specific goal domain (e.g., achievement versus social domain), personal

characteristics (e.g., gender), and the sociocultural context (e.g., institutional support systems). It is possible, however, to identify a number of general processes involved in the acquisition, application, and refinement of goalrelevant means (see Baltes, 1997; Freund & Baltes, 2000; Freund et al., 1999). Below, we will briefly discuss some prototypical instances. On the most general level, some sort of monitoring of the discrepancy between the actual and the desired state (goal) needs to take place (e.g., Carver & Scheier, 1990). This continuous monitoring, which might occur outside of conscious awareness (Wegner, 1992), allows a constant adaptation of goal-related action. Progress toward the goal motivates the continuation of the invested goal-relevant means, whereas lack of progress or even an increase in the distance to the goal indicates that other means might be better suited for achieving the respective goal. Another example of a general process related to optimization is the delay of immediate gratification for the sake of a more long-term payoff (e.g., Mischel, 1996). Long-term goals often require investing resources without immediate gains. Not giving in to temptations that offer short-term gratifications is thus a precondition for the persistent pursuit of a goal over an extended period of time. One of the most important general processes of optimization is practice. As has been shown in the expertise literature, deliberate practice is a key factor for acquiring new skills and reaching peak performance (Ericsson, 1996). Repeated practice leads to the refinement of skill components, their integration, and their automatization. So that the skill components thereby become less resource-demanding and free resources that can be devoted to other goal-related means. In old age, optimization continues to be of great importance for life-management, because engaging in growthrelated goals has, in general, positive regulative functions (as has been shown in a number of studies with younger adults, e.g., Coats, Janoff-Bulman, & Alpert, 1996; Elliot & Church, 1997; Emmons, 1996). In fact, data from the Berlin Aging Study supports the positive function of optimization in old age: Older people who reported engaging in optimization also reported more positive emotions and higher satisfaction with aging (Freund & Baltes, 1998). Compensation How do older people manage to maintain positive functioning in the face of health-related constraints and other losses in plasticity and reserve capacity? In old age, the limitation of resources and associated compensatory needs become more evident than in younger ages. This decline is also apparent in subjective reports on the nature of

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life-span development. When adults are asked about their expectations of changes during the adult life span, the ratio of expected gains to losses becomes increasingly less favorable and less controllable with age (Heckhausen & Baltes, 1991). The maintenance of positive functioning in the face of losses is thus as important for developmental regulation in old age as a sustained growth focus. One relevant strategy for the regulation of losses, lossbased selection, was mentioned earlier. When losses are not too pervasive, however, goals can often be maintained, even in the face of losses, by using alternative means. This process is referred to as compensation. Compensation denotes the acquisition and use of means to counteract loss or decline in goal-related means. Typical instances are the substitution of previously available goal-relevant means by acquiring new or activating unused internal or external resources (e.g., B¨ackman & Dixon, 1992; Carstensen, Hanson, & Freund, 1995). On a general level, such aspects of self-regulation as delay of gratification, control beliefs, and practice play an important role in the acquisition and investment of compensatory means. Compensation, in contrast to optimization, aims at counteracting or avoiding losses rather than at approaching positive states. Because of the losses associated with increasing age, aging individuals have to allocate more and more of their resources to the maintenance of functioning and resilience against losses rather than into processes of growth (Staudinger et al., 1995). The negative effects of avoidance goals for younger age groups mentioned earlier (Coats et al., 1996; Elliot & Church, 1997; Emmons, 1996) might be less pronounced or even absent in old age, when a focus on maintenance might be experienced as something positive (Freund & Baltes, 2000; Heckhausen, 1999). SOC and Successful Aging Several studies using a self-report measure of SOC support the positive relationship of selection, optimization, and compensation with subjective indicators of successful development and aging. In young and middle adulthood, SOC helps managing successfully the multiple demands of work and family (Wiese, Freund, & Baltes, 2000, 2002), particularly in very demanding situations (Young, Baltes, & Pratt, 2007). Although selection, optimization, and compensation are conceptualized as general processes of developmental regulation that function throughout the lifespan, these processes also undergo developmental changes. Regarding old age, one can make two predictions: On the one hand, older adults might become better at the use of

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SOC strategies because of a continued increase in life experiences. On the other hand, the use of SOC strategies itself is resource-dependent and effortful. As the resources available to older persons decrease, engagement in SOCrelated behaviors might become more difficult. In old age, SOC-related behaviors might therefore decline. Consistent with the latter argument, cross-sectional data revealed a decrease in self-reported SOC with increasing age (Freund & Baltes, 2002). Despite such a decline in self-reported SOC behaviors, however, SOC was found to be positively related to everyday functioning (Baltes & Lang, 1997) and various subjective indicators of successful development throughout adulthood (Freund & Baltes, 2002) and even into very old age of adults aged between 72 and 102 years (Freund & Baltes, 1998). As was found for younger adults juggling work- and family-related demands (Wiese et al., 2000, 2002; Young et al., 2007), SOC was found to be particularly helpful for older people who have few resources at their disposal (Jopp & Smith, 2006; Lang, Rieckmann, & Baltes, 2002). Interestingly, there is even evidence supporting the view that older adults become more skilled in the development and formulation of personal goals, in that they concentrate on goals related to life domains highly important to them and they select goals that are less conflicting and more converging than younger adults do (Freund & Riediger, 2006; Riediger et al., 2005). In addition to the question of whether older people are able to use the SOC strategies, it is also important to know whether they need the strategies. Freund, Nikitin, and Ritter (2009) argued that due to the compensatory relationship between external regulation through social norms and expectations on the one hand and self-regulation on the other, self-regulation might be more important after retirement, when older adults are more involved in rather poorly defined life domains such as leisure and social relations. In contrast, young and middle-aged adults are confronted with social norms and expectations that strongly guide and direct the selection and pursuit of goals during these life phases. According to Freund and colleagues, selfregulation might be therefore more important in older adulthood, when there are fewer and less well-defined norms and social expectations. The trend to the higher importance of self-regulation in older age as compared to young and middle adulthood might be even amplified by increased longevity. Freund and colleagues (2009) posit that a longer future time perspective results in segmentation of the life course into phases of pursuing primarily work-related and familyrelated goals in early and middle adulthood, and goals

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related to leisure and spending time with friends after retirement. If certain goals can be postponed until a later time, it might lead to the perception that they should be postponed. This idea is supported by empirical findings that both younger and older adults seem to associate retirement with more freedom and self-direction, fewer obligations, and chance to engage in interests and activities of their own choice (e.g., Keller, Leventhal, & Larson, 1989). Self-regulation might therefore gain in importance after retirement. First evidence for the increase in selfregulatory skills in older adults is provided by Hennecke and Freund (2010). In a study with young, middle-aged, and older overweight women who shared the goal of losing weight, these authors found that older adults are more successful in implementing important self-regulatory processes (e.g., follow the dietary requirements to lose weight, inhibit competing impulses, etc.) that, in turn, were related to successful goal achievement (here, weight loss). Older adults also reported engaging in more compensatory behaviors after having given in to temptations. Unfortunately, due to the cross-sectional nature of this study it cannot be ruled out that the effects might be due to cohort-related effects. In the following, we will present two models of successful aging that are compatible with the SOC model but place a particular emphasis on the controllability of events: the model of primary and secondary control by Heckhausen and Schulz (1995; Heckhausen et al., 2010), and the model of assimilative and accommodative coping by Brandtst¨adter and colleagues (e.g., Brandtst¨adter & Renner, 1990). The Model of Optimization in Primary and Secondary Control (OPS) Converging with the SOC model, the model of optimization in primary and secondary control (OPS model) by Heckhausen and Schulz stresses the importance of selectivity and compensation for developmental regulation and successful aging (Heckhausen & Schulz, 1995, 1999; Schulz, 1986; for a recent review, see Heckhausen et al., 2010; Schulz & Heckhausen, 1996). Different from the SOC model, Heckhausen and Schulz (1998, pp. 55–56) “conceptualize optimization as a higher order regulatory process” balancing and maintaining selectivity and compensation. In the OPS model, selectivity denotes the focused investment of resources in selected goals, whereas compensation refers to strategies helping to attain a selected goal when internal resources are insufficient or when faced with failure or losses.

Focusing on the role of control in the regulation of ontogenetic change, Heckhausen and Schulz propose that the challenges of selectivity and failure/loss can be mastered by jointly employing two modes of control: primary and secondary control. According to their model, humans have an innate need to control their world. The primary way to achieve control is by employing instrumental efforts to modify the environment according to one’s goals (i.e., primary control). The proposed adaptiveness of primary control implies that primary control striving has benefits for the individual. In line with this proposition, the beneficial effects of primary control have been shown to improve or maintain health and/or functional capacities (e.g., Wrosch & Schulz, 2008), reduce depressive symptoms (e.g., Wrosch, Schulz, & Heckhausen, 2002), and lower mortality risk (e.g., Gitlin, Hauck, Winter, Dennis, & Schulz, 2006), to name but a few. If primary control strategies directed at the external world are not available or fail, an internal focus on changing one’s goals and standards or engaging in selfprotective attributions or social comparisons takes over (i.e., secondary control). The main function of secondary control is to focus and protect motivational resources for primary control. This is particularly important in old age, when losses become more prominent and less controllable, thereby depleting the potential for primary control (Schulz, 1986). Thus, in old age, secondary control strategies should gain more and more in importance for successful developmental regulation. In line with this proposition, secondary control striving increases with age. Older adults report using more goal disengagement, more downward goal adjustment, and more reinterpretations of events and failures that allow the individual to protect the self and its motivational resources (e.g., Heckhausen, 1997; Wrosch, Bauer, & Scheier, 2005; Wrosch & Heckhausen, 1999). Moreover, goal-disengagement seems to be positively related to change in positive affect over time in older adults but negatively in younger adults (e.g., Wrosch & Heckhausen, 1999). To specify how the cycles of goal engagement and disengagement with developmental goals unfold over a lifetime, the OPS model was expanded by the action-phase model of engagement and disengagement (Heckhausen, 2000; see also Heckhausen et al., 2010). According to the model, when people make a goal choice, their mode of functioning shifts to goal engagement. During goal engagement, secondary control strategies enhance the effectiveness of primary control strategies. When the goal pursuit is perceived as too costly, people shift to goal disengagement (especially when an alternate

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goal can be pursued). During goal disengagement, compensatory secondary strategies are involved. Finally, information processing is biased to support function of either goal engagement or goal disengagement. Empirical evidence for these propositions is still rare. Research has begun to address questions regarding information processing related to goal engagement and disengagement (e.g., visual fixation and incidental memory; Light & Isaacowitz, 2006; Wrosch & Heckhausen, 1999), the effective use of control strategies for goal engagement and disengagement (e.g., downward social comparisons and causal attributions avoiding self-blame; Bauer, Wrosch, & Jobin, 2008), and processes involved in the shift from one phase to the other (e.g., the facilitating availability of alternative or substitutive goals for goal disengagement; Duke, Leventhal, Brownlee, & Leventhal, 2002). Evidence to date supports many of the propositions of the action-phase model (for a summary, see Heckhausen et al., 2010). The Model of Assimilative and Accommodative Coping Brandtst¨adter and his colleagues (Brandtst¨adter & Greve, 1994; Brandtst¨adter & Renner, 1990; Brandtst¨adter & Wentura, 1995; Brandtst¨adter, Wentura, & Rothermund, 1999) proposed a model that addresses the question of what processes can explain the “paradox” of stability in well-being despite the many losses and constraints older persons encounter. According to their model, people use primarily two distinct, complementary forms of coping to achieve “a match between actual developmental outcomes or prospects and personal goals and ambitions” (Brandtst¨adter et al., 1999, pp. 375–376), namely, assimilation and accommodation. Assimilation refers to tenacious goal-pursuit by modifying the environment or the circumstances so that they fit personal goals. The assimilative mode involves actional (i.e., intentional) neutralization of a mismatch between the current and the desired states. In contrast, accommodation denotes processes of flexible goal adjustment by changing, downgrading, or discarding personal goals, or lowering one’s level of aspirations so that they fit the circumstances. The accommodative mode, then, is characterized by mental neutralizations of a mismatch between actual and desired state that work primarily on a nonintentional, unconscious level. Brandtst¨adter (e.g., Brandtst¨adter et al., 1999) posits that people first use assimilative strategies to cope with loss; that is, they will first try to overcome obstacles blocking their goals by actional neutralizations. If goals

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remain blocked despite assimilative attempts, however, a gradual shift to the accommodative mode occurs. The gradual shift from the assimilative to the accommodative mode is theorized to occur in the following order: When attempts at altering the situation do not succeed, auxiliary activities will be activated or acquired. When these auxiliary attempts do not lead to the desired outcomes, external aids or support systems might be engaged (the concept of “proxy control” by Bandura, 1982). When all of these instrumental actions do not help to alter the situation in the desired way, people will, according to Brandtst¨adter, feel helpless and depressed. This state, however, is only temporary and marks the shift to accommodative processes, such as disengagement from goals or adjustment of standards. Note, however, that Brandtst¨adter and colleagues (1999) pointed out that the shift from assimilative to accommodative coping does not always follow this fixed temporal pattern, but depends on personal and situational factors. With regard to aging, Brandtst¨adter and colleagues predict a general shift from assimilative to accommodative coping. When losses begin to occur, people should first respond with assimilative coping directed at actively counteracting losses. When, with increasing age, losses begin to become more widespread and hence both the probability of success and the resources to engage in assimilative actions decline, accommodative coping should gain in importance. This theoretically expected pattern, which has been empirically confirmed (Brandtst¨adter & Renner, 1990; Brandtst¨adter, Rothermund, & Schmitz, 1997), is seen as important for successful aging. Brandtst¨adter and Renner (1990) could show that accommodative tendencies, such as flexible goal-adjustment, buffer the negative association between perceived developmental deficits and life satisfaction, as well as the negative effect of healthrelated problems on subjective well being (Brandtst¨adter, Wentura, & Greve, 1993).

CONCLUSIONS Old age is a relatively new phenomenon, as life expectancy has only fairly recently extended into old age. This has a number of consequences that are detrimental for old age: As argued by Paul Baltes (1997; see also Baltes, Lindenberger, & Staudinger, 2006), the evolutionary selection benefits decrease with age. This leads to less effective genetic material, mechanisms, and expressions for developing or maintaining high levels of functioning in old age. Moreover, the recency of longer

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life expectancy did not give the culture enough time to provide opportunity structures to the elderly comparable to those for children. This leads to the paradoxical effect that in old age, a time when culture would be most needed to compensate for the biologically based decreases in functioning, it provides the least support. Moreover, there is a decreased efficiency of cultural support in old age (i.e., older people can make lesser use of the provided support). Taken together, these processes imply that the balance of growth (gains) and decline (losses) becomes less favorable with increasing age. Given this unfavorable ratio of gains to losses, the term successful aging sounds like an oxymoron. This leads us to the question of how to best define successful aging. Presumably because of the inherent judgmental aspect of trying to delineate a set of criteria for successful aging, there is no generally accepted criterion-based definition of successful aging. On an abstract level, however, successful aging can be defined as the simultaneous maximization of gains and minimization of losses. What exactly constitute gains and losses, however, has to be specified depending on the specific research question at hand. Shifting the focus away from a criterion-centered approach to defining successful aging to a more processoriented approach to studying developmental regulation in old age, the role of proactive processes in aging has been emphasized. A basic assumption underlying this notion is that development is a dynamic process of both reacting to and proactively shaping one’s environment as well as oneself (e.g., Lawton, 1989; Lerner & Busch-Rossnagel, 1981). Models of successful aging stress the role of motivational processes for understanding developmental regulation in old age, such as the model of selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC model; P. Baltes & Baltes, 1990; Freund et al., 1999), the model of assimilative and accommodative coping (e.g., Brandtst¨adter & Greve, 1994; Brandtst¨adter & Renner, 1990), and the model of primary and secondary control (e.g., Heckhausen & Schulz, 1995; Heckhausen et al., 2010). According to these models, an important way in which individuals play an active role in their development is by choosing, committing to, and pursuing personal goals. By adapting goals and standards to the changing availability of resources, older people can maintain their well-being and a certain degree of control. At this point in time, most of the research on processes of developmental regulation in old age is primarily concerned with understanding how and under what conditions these processes contribute to successful aging. Hopefully,

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CHAPTER 26

Developmental Technologies Technology and Human Development MARINA UMASCHI BERS AND ELIZABETH R. KAZAKOFF

AN OVERVIEW 640 POSITIVE TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT 646 CHOICES OF CONDUCT IN DIGITAL COMMUNITIES 652

CONCLUSIONS 653 REFERENCES 654

The word technology comes from the Greek language, and it is composed by the words techne, meaning “art, skill, craft,” and logia, meaning “study of.” The MerriamWebster Dictionary defines technology as “the practical application of knowledge especially in a particular area” and as “a capability given by the practical application of knowledge.” The term can be applied to any specific area, such as medical technology or information technology; however, in this chapter we are applying it to the process of human development. This chapter focuses on how new technologies are having an impact on the way children and youth engage in cognitive, personal, social, emotional, physical, spiritual, and civic development. We define new technologies as emerging digital tools that involve cutting-edge developments. New technologies today come in various forms and platforms such as computer-mediated software programs, video/audio learning instruments, robotic building kits, electronic toys, handheld and mobile devices, and sensors embedded in everyday objects. New technologies can engage a child playing by herself or can involve multiple children; they can be used as stand-alone devices, connected to the Internet, or integrated into classroom curriculum. New technologies make possible different kinds of learning opportunities, new ways for peer social interactions, and many possibilities for creativity, social, and cognitive development. Technological devices have changed dramatically in the past 40 years, thanks to less expensive and more

powerful batteries, LCDs, touch screens, and increased memory power. Children now have access to cell phones, digital cameras, digital book readers, digital media players, and smart toys. As computers and other technological devices are getting faster, smaller, and cheaper, their use is becoming more widespread, having an impact on most aspects of young people’s lives (Resnick, 2002; Shore, 2008). Young people use computers to communicate with friends, to listen to and exchange music, to meet new people, to share stories with relatives, to organize civic protests, to shop for clothing, to engage in e-mail therapy, and to find romantic partners, among many other uses (Buckingham & Willett, 2006; Ito et al., 2009; Subrahmanyam & Greenfield, 2008). New technologies are changing the developmental landscape for young people (Bers, 2010b). Children born after the early 1980s are considered digital natives, meaning they are a generation of children who will grow up never knowing what life was like before the Internet, cell phones, GPS systems, DVRs, iPads, etc. (Oblinger, 2003; Prensky, 2001; Tapscott, 1998). These digital natives are poised to grow up surrounded by current new digital technologies and emerging innovations we have yet to imagine. In this chapter, we are looking at technologies as the practical applications and the capabilities and skills resulting from these applications as they can promote or hinder child and youth development. When technologies are used to support or enhance an individual working toward a 639

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developmental milestone, we use the term developmental technologies; thus, the major focus of this chapter is the positive impact of new technologies on child and youth development. However, technologies can also be used in ways that hinder development, which will be addressed throughout this chapter. As with other form of cultural activity, the role of technology in human development cannot be studied without understanding the sociocultural context of its usage. Though digital technologies are ubiquitous in our society, it is important to keep in mind that only around 1 billion of the world’s 6 billion people actually have access to these technologies (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). Socioeconomic status, even when controlling for basic Internet access, is a key predictor of how the Internet is integrated into everyday life (Hargittai, 2010).

AN OVERVIEW In this section, we discuss the history of fears and concerns that have existed in society regarding new technologies. We note the ubiquitous nature of new technologies and point to the role of new technologies in education. Fears and Concerns Through the centuries, the invention of all new technologies has been associated with a consistent fear regarding their impact on society, and children in particular. This fear happened with the invention of books, movies, film, radio, and now the Internet and mobile devices. However, one of the differences between the old concerns and the new ones is the interactive nature of digital technologies (Wartella & Jennings, 2000). In the digital world, children not only consume but can also create content and interact with others (Bers, 2010a, 2010b). These increased interactivities can yield potential benefit but also harm if children are exposed early, and many times without supervision, to the World Wide Web. As children and youth spend many hours connected and looking at a screen for many different needs, some researchers believe that there might be fundamental brain changes occurring due to reading information online and rapid access to information. The dozens of links to click online may be limiting human abilities to read deeply and concentrate (Carr, 2010; Small & Vorgan, 2008; Wolf, 2007). The American Academy of Pediatrics (1999) recommends no screen time (including television, computers, and handheld devices) before the age of 2; however, some

products, such as Your Baby Can Read and Baby Einstein are designed against this recommendation and may prove problematic to child development due to the increased screen time which some researchers fear is impeding on a critical developmental period (American Academy of Pediatrics, 1999; Kaiser, 2005). In addition, the American Academy of Pediatrics (1999) also recommends limited amounts of screen time of “high quality educational” content for children over the age of 2. However, with no government regulations or educator “stamp of approval,” parents are forced to rely on marketing and advertising to distinguish “good quality” (Kaiser, 2005). Parents and teachers fear that with digital media, through the computer or the mobile devices, it is difficult to monitor and protect children from accessing negative advertising, violent, or sexual content. Older adults are not the only ones who have concerns around cell phone use; 85% of teachers surveyed by the Sesame Workshop in 2008 believe cell phones have no place in schools. This response was consistent even among teachers in their early 20s, who had, themselves, grown up with cell phones (Shuler, 2009a). The free, wide-ranging, always-on accessibility provided by tools such as the Internet mean access to a world of information, which is a powerful tool for knowledge. However, this largely unregulated access also means access to misinformation, pornographic and violent content, and communication with potentially dangerous people. Unlike television, there is less control and moderation over online content (Belvins & Anton, 2008), and those who use the Internet must be able to critically evaluate the information found online (American Association of School Librarians, 1998). However, despite these concerns, digital technology use is widespread. Children today, on average, spend more time with digital media than engaged in any other activity other than sleeping (Roberts & Foehr, 2008). In just a few decades (the World Wide Web debuted in 1991) billions of people worldwide have invented and adopted digital technologies—hundreds of years faster than the printing press. Furthermore, no generation has yet lived their whole lives in this digital culture (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). The children born in the 1990s are the first generation of children with access to new technologies, such as smart phones and YouTube, from birth. They have their e-mail and social networking programs, such as MySpace, Facebook, and Twitter, all in their pockets. The class of 2012 is the first group to come to cognitive maturity with the new digital technologies of today (Buckleitner, 2009). Young children are coming of age surrounded by new technologies that will be prominent forces in their lives

Developmental Technologies: Technology and Human Development

(I. Berson & Berson, 2010). A large body of interdisciplinary research on technology and early childhood has been conducted in the past three decades. Efforts focused on the impact of technology on children’s cognitive and academic development (Clements, 2002; FletcherFlinn and Gravatt, 1995) and socioemotional development (Crook, 1998; Medvin, Reed, Behr, and Spargo, 2003; Muller and Perlmutter, 1985; Shade, Nida, Lipinski, & Watson, 1986; Wang & Ching, 2003). Digital natives’ social interactions are fundamentally changing due to the use of digital technologies. They do not know a time when it was common practice to send a handwritten note rather than an e-mail or call someone up for a date, rather than texting or Facebook-messaging them. To the digital natives, the “real” world and the “online” world are one and the same (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). Children spend almost as much time with digital technologies as they do learning in school, leading to an opportunity to leverage these technologies (Shuler, 2007). Thus, we should ask ourselves not only what kinds of technologies young people are using, how often, and in what context, but most importantly, what are young children doing with these technologies. Are the children using the technologies in a way that is consistent with developmentally appropriate practice? Are the technologies supporting the children to engage in developmental tasks appropriated for their age? The Ubiquitous Nature of New Technologies Whether children are formally introduced to new technologies through the adults in their lives or just encounter them in their surroundings, they are a large part of children’s lives and, therefore, important to study. Currently, 75% of all households have broadband Internet access (Pew Research Center [Pew], 2010a) and around 84% of households have some access to the Internet (Kaiser, 2010). Individual technological device access, however, varies by age. In a large-scale study (Rideout, Vandewater, & Wartella, 2003), parents reported children under the age of 6 spending, on average, 2 hours per day with screen media, which is the same amount as they reported their child played outside and almost three times as much times the child spent reading or being read to. In addition, 93% of children ages 6 to 7 live in a home with a cell phone (Sesame, 2007). Of children in kindergarten through 2nd grade, 19% have access to cell phones with Internet connectivity (Project Tomorrow, 2009), 32% have access to an mp3 player, 53% have access to a

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desktop computer (Project Tomorrow, 2009), and 31% have access to a laptop (Project Tomorrow, 2009). In turn, 27% of 5- to 6-year-olds use these computers for an average of 50 minutes per day, using Skype to chat with grandparents, watching movies and TV shows, and playing games, to name a few examples. For children and youth 8 to 18 years old, device ownership has increased dramatically in the past 5 years. Of 8- to 18-year-olds, 76% own an mp3 player (up from 18% in 2004), 66% own a cell phone (up from 39% in 2004), and 29% own a laptop (up from 12% in 2004) (Kaiser, 2010). For 18- to 34-year-olds, 95% own a cell phone, 57% own a desktop, 70% own a laptop, 74% own an mp3 player, 63% own a game console, 5% own an e-reader, 5% own a tablet computer, and 1% did not own any of the devices (Zickuhr, 2011). A gap in computer access has developed, however, between African American, Latino American, rural households, and Caucasian households. This phenomena, often called the digital divide, refers to the difference in access to new technologies across different socioeconomic, cultural, and geographic groups in America. While 77% of Caucasian adults accessed the Internet in 2010, only 65% of Latino and 66% of African American adults went online (Pew, 2011). This difference could be due to the rate of broadband Internet connections in homes. Only 45% of Latino households, 50% of rural households, and 52% of African American households had broadband access in their homes, compared to 65% of Caucasian households. In addition, in 2010, 85% of Caucasian adults owned a cell phone, compared to 79% of African American adults and 76% of Latino adults. Controlling for factors such as level of education and income, however, the usage differences disappeared, meaning, the divide appears to have more to do with socioeconomic status than with ethnicity (Pew, 2011). U.S. Census reports back up this hypothesis. Census data has shown computer ownership for children ages 3 to 17 is correlated with household income. In 2003, 60% of homes with a $20,000 per year income had a computer versus 90% of homes with an income of $60,000 or more. Furthermore, children from higher income households were more than twice as likely as children from the lowest income households to use a computer to complete homework assignments (Roberts & Foehr, 2008). Increasingly, Internet connectivity for these groups, and people across the globe, comes in the form of mobile technologies (Shuler, 2009a). In the United States in 2010, despite differences in cell phone ownership among these groups, 41% of African Americans, 31% of Latinos, and 29% of

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Caucasians accessed the Internet from their mobile phone (Pew, 2011). The U.S Government understands the need to decrease the digital divide. The National Broadband Plan, which began under the Clinton administration and continues under President Obama, would make high-speed Internet available to 98% of Americans. This plan would give rural areas access to the Internet, enabling rural businesses to reach customers, giving families and students access to the resources the World Wide Web provides, and enabling law enforcement to access state-of-the-art communication tools (www.broadband.gov/plan). However, some researchers argue that simply providing access is not enough; it is also important to understand the social context of use (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008; Zillien & Hargittai, 2009). One large study of children (Jackson et al., 2008) found African American boys were the least intensive users of computers and the Internet; however, both African American and Caucasian boys were the most intense users of videos games. In contrast, African American females were the most intense users of the Internet, and females, particularly African American females, were the most intense users of cell phones. This study also found African American children, both males and females, were more likely to search for religious/spiritual information online than any other group. For adults, the most popular activities online are e-mail, using a search engine, and looking up health information (Pew, 2010b). For teens, online blogging has actually decreased in popularity (14% in 2010 versus 28% in 2006), while blogging for adults has remained steady at around 10% (Pew, 2010b). For those who access the Internet, 73% of teens and 47% of adults use social networking sites. Popularity of these sites varies by age and race. While young adults and older adults have almost equal use of Facebook (71% vs. 75%), younger adults are much more likely to have a MySpace page (66% vs. 36%) (Pew, 2010b). However, this is for the general population. Researchers have begun to look closer at the user makeup of both Facebook and MySpace. Although they have roughly equal unique visits in 2009, Facebook tended to attract users with higher socioeconomic status and more Caucasian users than MySpace (Boyd, 2009). In 2009, 8% of Internet users aged 12 to 17 used Twitter, which is the same for virtual worlds for this age group. This use is much less common than text messaging, which 66% of teens this age participate in, or searching for news and political information online, an activity in which 62% of 12- to 17-year-olds participate (Pew, 2010b).

In 2010, according to a study of 1,200 households by the Entertainment Software Association [ESA], 67% of American households played video games; 64% of parents believed that games were a positive part of their children’s lives, and 48% of parents played videogames with their kids at least once per week (ESA, 2010). The term video games, as it is used here, refers to software supported by any type of computer, console, mobile or virtual platform that involves interaction with a user interface to generate visual feedback on any display by manipulating an input device, such as a game controller, joystick, keyboard, or mouse. Games are goal-directed and competitive activities conducted within a framework of agreed rules. This ample definition makes room for different genres of games: ludic games, in which players win by taking action and developing strategies; narrative games, in which players solve conflicts by choosing different paths of action; and simulations, in which players can observe emerging behavior patterns to understand how a particular system functions in different circumstances. Playing games might involve racing, solving puzzles, doing sports, engaging in action and adventure, playing with rhythm and music, developing strategies, participating in simulations, fighting, first-person shooting, or roleplaying. As of 2009, the best-selling video games were sport games (19.6%) and action games (19.5%), followed by family entertainment (15.3 %) and shooter games (12.2%) (ESA, 2010). The top games sold for families were the Super Mario Brothers®, several Wii games such as Wii Play® and Wii Sports®, The Sims, and World of Warcraft (ESA, 2010). Some of the most popular games for children are music games such as Guitar Hero® and Rock Band®. A 2010 nationally representative survey of 2,002 3rdthrough 12th-grade students done by the Kaiser Family Foundation on children’s media use found a significant increase in video gaming over the past 10 years, from an average of 26 minutes daily in 1999 to 49 minutes in 2004 and 73 minutes in 2009. According to the Kaiser report (2010), this increase appears to be largely a function of the growing use of handheld devices for game playing. On any given day, 60% of young people play video games and spend an average of 1 hour and 13 minutes at it. Video game playing peaks among 11- to 14-year-olds, especially for console playing. The Kaiser report found that just as children begin to make the transition into adolescence, their media use explodes (Kaiser, 2010). There remains a substantial difference between boys and girls in console video game playing, with boys spending an average of almost an hour a day playing and

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girls just under 15 minutes. However, contrary to the public perception that media use displaces physical activity, young people who are the heaviest media users report spending similar amounts of time exercising or being as physically active as other young people their age who are not heavy media users. While levels of physical activity do vary by age and gender, they do not vary by time spent using media (Kaiser, 2010). Only a few years ago gaming was mostly viewed in the best-case scenario as a waste of time, and most commonly as a risky activity that might lead to antisocial behavior, aggression and violence, as well as reinforced gender stereotypes (Gr¨usser, Thalemann, & Griffiths, 2007; National Institute on Media and the Family, 2008). More recently, a growing body of research is starting to focus on “serious games” that might have a positive impact in young people (Squire and The Games-to-Research Team, 2003). For example, there is an increasing interest and expertise in developing serious computer games for promoting health (Kato, Cole, Bradlyn, & Pollock, 2008; Lieberman, 2001), education (Gee, 2007) and civic engagement (Bers, 2010b) The 2008 Pew Internet & American Life Project’s report found that 44% of youth play games that teach them about a problem in society, while 52% play games that engage them in thinking about moral and ethical issues. The report also suggests that youth who have these kinds of civic gaming experiences are more likely to be civically engaged in the offline world, and are also more likely to go online to get information about current events, try to persuade others how to vote in an election, become committed to civic participation, and raise money for charity. Although public debate often frames video games as either good or bad, research shows that the context in which the video games are played and the content of the video games matter more than the amount of play time. Some video games might promote prosocial behavior and cognitive problem solving, while others might hinder it. Video games offer the opportunity to bring civic education back to life by engaging young people in simulations of political processes and immersing them in experiences in which making civic-based decisions is highly rewarded (Bers, 2010b). For example, researchers such as Barab and Squire (2004) have studied the positive learning impact of playing the historical simulation game Civilization. Although video games are popular, virtual worlds are becoming the most rapidly growing third places for children in elementary school. In a 2008 report published by the Association of Virtual Worlds,

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approximately 110 virtual worlds are categorized for kids, 115 for tweens, and 140 for teens (Association of Virtual Worlds, 2008). As of the second quarter of 2008, the largest virtual world for adults (over age 20) had 13 million registered users, while the largest for children had 90 million users (KZERO Research, 2008). Virtual worlds such as Neopets (www.neopets.com) are designed for children 6 to 12 years old. They can create their own Neopet by choosing its species, gender, personality, set up his or her own shop, feed them, and look after them, as well as communicate with others, play games, and create their own Web pages. Children can also submit content for the weekly electronic newspaper called The Neopian Times and participate in a peer-based Neopets community. Children create artifacts and master new skills. As of August 10, 2008, 237,138,604 Neopets had been created. The eMarketer report found that 24% of the 34.3 million U.S. child and teen Internet users visited virtual worlds once a month in 2007; this number was up to 34% in 2008 (Williamson, 2008). As an example of the increasing popularity of virtual worlds for children, the site Webkinz increased its visits by 1,141% in a year (Prescott, 2007), from less than 1 million to over 6 million (Tiwari, 2007). Club Penguin doubled in size, from 1.9 million to 4.7 million visitors (Shore, 2008). This popularity, however, is related to commercial endeavors. For example, Club Penguin was acquired by Disney, the popular Webkinz animals come with a code needed to enter the virtual world, and the Bratz fashion dolls are sold with a USB key necklace so the child can unlock the Be-Bratz.com virtual world (Beals & Bers, 2009). Cell phone use is quickly becoming ubiquitous. More than half the world’s population owns a cell phone. Children under 12 are the fastest-growing group of mobile technology users (Shuler, 2009a). Between 2005 and 2008, mobile device ownership among children ages 4 to 14 doubled (NPD Group, 2008). Cell phones are cheaper, easy to transport, and easier to repair than traditional computers, which has led to their rapid growth in countries outside the United States. Whereas Americans tend to own multiple devices, many other countries use cell phones exclusively for their Internet access (World Economic Forum, 2010). With cell phones come apps (mobile applications). Almost half of the 100 best-selling apps for smartphones (47%) in 2009 were designed for preschool and elementary aged children; by April of 2009, there were already 21,000 app games for young children compared to just

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a couple hundred for Nintendo DS or Playstation PSP (Shuler, 2009b). Thirty-five percent of apps are aimed at preschool aged children and, of the top 25 apps, over half are designed for the preschool age group (Shuler, 2009a). The most popular areas are early literacy, foreign language, and math, and the apps cost between 99 cents and $2.99. The low cost of these apps and the widespread availability of mobile devices make apps a key area of development for educational material in the coming years (Shuler, 2009a; Shuler, 2009b). Popular apps for adults are entertainment based (games, food, sports, travel) and provide information (news, directions, weather); however, only 35% of the U.S. adult population has a cell phone with apps (44% of 18–29 year olds). Cell phone users are more likely to take a picture (76%), send text messages (72%), access the Internet (38%), or send e-mail (34%) (Pew, 2010c). New Technologies in Education During the last 50 years, the role that computers and other computer-based technologies play in education has grown dramatically. Koschmann (1996), borrowing from Kuhn’s notion of scientific paradigms, identified four major paradigms in the evolution of the realm of educational technology. Each of these paradigms contains different pedagogical and methodological approaches to conceive and integrate computer-based technology in the teaching and learning process. However, early promises within each paradigm regarding educational technology’s potential to reshape and reform the educational system still remain unfulfilled. The earliest paradigm in educational technology was called computer-assisted instruction (CAI). Koschmann (1996) marked the arrival of this paradigm with IBM’s release of the program Coursewriter I (Suppes & Macken, 1978) in 1960. This program allowed educators to create digital instructional aids—even if the educators had little knowledge of programming. These applications filled the specific needs of the classroom as identified either by the teachers or by the designers of the CAI applications. In essence, CAI programs allowed educators to extend themselves by using computer software as an aid to teach children through programmed instruction (Koschmann, 1996). The basis of the CAI paradigm rested on the concept that the role of a teacher was “to acquire formal knowledge, find efficient ways of sharing it, and determine whether pupils have learned what was taught.” (Cuban, 1993) Most of the educational technologies

designed with the CAI paradigm served as a new medium for the presentation and the delivery of information to students in the form of drill and practice. Within the CAI paradigm, developers of new educational technology wore the lenses of behaviorism and believed the effectiveness of a technology was situated in its instructional efficacy (Koschman, 1996). In the early 1970s, the paradigm of intelligent tutoring systems (ITS) emerged in the CAI-dominated field of educational technology. The shift resulted from researchers in the field of artificial intelligence migrating into the developing world of educational technology (Wegner, 1987); a shift which brought a more cognitive approach to the behaviorist-dominated field. Information processing theory, the foundation of artificial intelligence, held that problem solving was a method of determining three things: (1) the initial state of the learner, (2) the goal state for the learner, and (3) the steps or operations required to move the learner from the initial state to the goal state (Koschmann, 1996). Just as a skilled educator could modify a lesson plan to fit the needs of an individual student during a one-on-one session, ITS researchers aimed at creating educational software that adapted itself to the user. Unlike static CAI applications, ITS educational software incorporated an interactive component, with each student receiving a different type of instruction based on skill level and ability. As the foundation of the ITS paradigm, designers believed that a high level of instructional competence was tantamount to the successful use of an educational technology. The third paradigm, which Koschman (1996) identifies as the Logo-as-Latin paradigm, is firmly based in the constructionist theory of learning developed by pioneer Seymour Papert. To remind readers of the Piagetian roots of his philosophy, Papert coined the term “constructionism,” replacing the “tiv” of “constructiv ism” with the “tion” to stress the importance of constructions in the world, most specifically in the computer screen, to support the construction of knowledge in our heads. Papert was a mathematician and an expert in artificial intelligence who worked with Piaget and early in the 1960s believed in the potential of the computer for helping children learn new things in new ways (Papert, 1980). At the time, given that computers were big expensive machines that required advanced mathematical skills, it wasn’t so clear that Papert’s vision would one day be realized. However, in 1967, based at the MIT Artificial Intelligence Laboratory, he led the team that developed the first programming language for children, Logo, to immerse them

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in the joy of math land. Logo, a child-friendly version of the programming language LISP, allowed children to manipulate a turtle on the computer screen to follow their instructions and draw geometrical shapes. In the process, they explored in a fun way concepts of geometry, variables, and recursion, while thinking about their own ways of learning. Constructionists assert that computers are powerful educational technologies when used as tools for supporting the design, the construction, and the programming of personally and epistemologically meaningful projects (Bers, 2008; Resnick, Bruckman, & Martin, 1996). Constructionism is situated in the intellectual trajectory started in the 1960s by the MIT Logo Group, under the direction of Seymour Papert, based first at the Artificial Intelligence Laboratory at MIT and later at the MIT Media Laboratory. Although the Logo Group members held many different research agendas and goals, the collective vision of the group rested primarily on at least four major pillars. First, the group believed in the constructionist approach to education. Based on Piaget’s (1928) constructivism, Papert’s theory of constructionism emphasizes the need for technological environments to help children learn by doing, by actively inquiring and by playing. The interaction with the technological materials around them provides children with the opportunity to design and make meaningful projects to share with a community. Second, the group understood the importance of objects for supporting the development of concrete ways of thinking and learning about abstract phenomena. In this context, computers acquired a salient role as powerful tools to design, create, and manipulate objects in both the real and the virtual world. The group envisioned this technology existing not only in the form of current desktop computers, but also as tiny computers embedded in LEGO® bricks that could be programmed to move and respond to stimulus gathered by touch or light sensors (Bers, Ponte, Juelich, Viera, & Schenker, 2002; Martin, Mikhak, Resnick, Silverman, & Berg, 2000). Third, the group valued the notion that powerful ideas empower the individual. Powerful ideas afforded individuals new ways of thinking, new ways of putting knowledge to use, and new ways of making personal and epistemological connections with other domains of knowledge (Papert, 2000). Constructionists envisioned the computer as a powerful carrier of new ideas and particularly as an agent of educational change. Computers allowed users to take on different roles in the educational setting, moving past the traditional position of teacher as the producer of information and student as the consumer of information.

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Fourth, the group embraced the premium of selfreflection. The best learning experiences occur when individuals are encouraged to explore their own thinking process and their intellectual and emotional relationship to knowledge, as well as the personal history that affects the learning experience. Constructionism viewed the programming of a computer as a powerful way to gain new insights into how the mind works and learns. Following the constructionist tradition, several programming languages for children have been developed over the years (Bers & Horn, 2010). For example, one of the most successful ones is Scratch, a free graphical programming language also developed by researchers at MIT (Resnick et al., 2009). Since the launch of Scratch in 2007, more than 2 million people have downloaded the software. There is a vibrant online community (http://scratch.mit.edu), where students around the world share more than 1,500 new Scratch projects every day. With Scratch, students can program their own interactive stories, games, animations, and simulations. By snapping together graphical programming blocks in Scratch, children can create a story with characters that dance, sing, and interact with one another, or they can create an interactive birthday card for a friend. In the process, children learn important literacy and mathematical concepts, and they develop valuable problem-solving skills (Resnick, 2007b). Papert’s constructionism became widespread in the world of education in 1980 with the publication of his pioneering book Mindstorms: Children, Computers and Powerful Ideas. In Mindstorms, Papert (1980) advocated for providing children with an opportunity to become computer programmers as a way to learn about mathematics and, more importantly, to learn about learning. Papert argued that Logo, or the language of the turtle, was an easy and natural way to engage students in programming. Logo allowed students to actively create artifacts in a process of discovery-based learning—a process directly aligned with the cognitive constructivist model of learning (Papert, 1980). Although Papert was one of the key researchers involved in the first implementations of Logo, the benefits of programming, in Papert’s view, would extend far beyond the world of Logo. Through the process of designing and debugging computer programs, students would develop a metacognitive approach towards problem-solving and learning. The fourth and most recently developed paradigm, computer supported collaborative learning (CSCL), shifts the view of the process of cognition as residing within the head of one individual to the view that cognition

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is situated within a particular community of learning or practice (Lave & Wenger, 1991). Therefore, educational technologies designed within this paradigm take seriously the need to provide tools for community building and community scaffolding of learning. The contributions from the fields of sociology, anthropology, and linguistics, along with the work done by neo-Piagetians and social constructivists, created the school of thought that constructed education as essentially a social process (Ernest, 1995). Additionally, the Vygotskian theory of culturalhistorical psychology (van der Veer & Valsiner, 1991) and the theories of situated cognition resulted in the use of collaborative learning as the underlying theory of instruction for the CSCL paradigm (Brown, Collins, & Duguid, 1989; Lave & Wenger, 1991; Rogoff, 1994). This pedagogical switch occurred concurrently with the fast-growing uses of the Internet in education and the development of different virtual learning communities. The four paradigms identified above summarize the state of the art of educational technology and the different approaches taken with regard to theories of learning, pedagogical stances, research questions, and notions of what constitutes evidence of success. Despite all four paradigms proposing, each in its own distinct way, the advent of computers as major agents of educational reform, new technologies entered the classrooms without necessarily producing the expected outcomes. Too quickly the technological tools became “oversold and underused” (Cuban, 2001). While these tools have the potential to enhance learning, Papert (1987) reminds us of the dangers of falling into the technocentric fallacy, the assumption that technology by itself can produce changes. New tools encompass only one of the many elements of the social and cultural context in which learning occurs. It is na¨ıve to expect the entire system to change with the introduction of a new, singular element. The technocentric fallacy tainted the past of educational technology and continues to saturate the present. For example, research found that, despite the large investment nationwide in new equipment, most of the computers “end up being souped-up typewriters” used in unimaginative ways (Cuban, 2001). Teachers are poorly prepared to effectively integrate technology into curriculum or to rethink curriculum in light of emerging technologies. These problems are due in part to a technocentric approach that puts too much emphasis on the actual technology and too little on the conditions where the technology will be used. Making it possible for educators and children to use computers expressively and in creative ways involves not just the deployment or development of new tools, but also

a framework to provide social support for learning and new supporting structures at both the micro and macro levels of the educational system (Bers, 2008).

POSITIVE TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT We now focus on the positive uses of technologies for child and youth development. Following the positive technological development (PTD) framework (Bers, 2010a, 2010b, 2012), this section organizes the different kinds of technology-mediated behaviors that young people engage in throughout their lives. PTD is a framework that guides the design of technologically rich educational programs for children and teenagers; however, in this chapter it will be used to elucidate the role that technology can play in supporting positive youth development. The following sections focus on six behaviors that are supported by the use of new technologies and provide examples of how those play out differently throughout the developmental span. As technologies constantly change, there is a need of a framework to conceptualize what is unique about the potential of developmental technologies to engage children and youth in positive behaviors. These technology-mediated behaviors are: • Content creation. Through programming languages or computer applications that engage users in working with text, video, audio, graphics, animations. Through the process of creating digital content, children also develop technological fluency by learning how to solve problems in the technological world. • Creativity. The ability to transcend traditional ideas, rules, patterns, relationships, or interpretations and to create and imagine original new ideas, forms and methods using new technologies. Most constructionist tools that support content creation also support creativity. • Choices of conduct. The opportunity to make choices about our behaviors and actions in the digital world and experience its consequences helps us shape a moral compass that guides the use of technology in responsible ways. • Communication. The process of interchanging thoughts, opinions, or information by using technologies. New developments on social media promote new ways of communication. • Collaboration. The opportunity to work with others and to willingly cooperate towards a shared task. Most technologies that support collaboration also provide ways for people to connect and communicate.

Developmental Technologies: Technology and Human Development

• Community building. An active stance towards using technology to enhance the community and the quality of relationships amongst the people of that community. Content Creation The notion that children can create digital content was first advanced by Papert’s constructionism in the late 1970s (Papert, 1980). Constructionism claims that children learn better when making their own projects, constructing their own ideas, and designing their own solutions to problems. Therefore, researchers have developed a variety of computational tools to support and augment the playful design of “objects to think with” (Kafai & Resnick, 1996). Early on, constructionism focused exclusively on using programming languages as one of the most expressive ways to create digital content. Following the Logo tradition, authoring systems and programming environments, both software and hardware, invite children to become designers and programmers of personally and epistemologically meaningful projects (Resnick et al., 1996). While Logo grew from Papert’s love of mathematics, other constructionist programming systems engage children in learning about complex systems (Resnick, 1994); encourage peer learning and collaboration in virtual communities (Bruckman, 1998); promote storytelling skills and the exploration of cultural identity and moral values (Bers, 1998, 2001); and engage children in engineering by making their own robots (Bers, 2008; Bers et al., 2002; Martin et al., 2000; Rogers & Portsmore, 2004). Most recently, the Scratch programming environment was developed by Mitchel Resnick and his Lifelong Kindergarten group at the MIT Media Lab. Scratch makes it easy to create interactive stories, games, and simulations by snapping together digital programming elements or blocks, as one would snap together LEGO® bricks or puzzle pieces. These projects can then be shared with an active online community consisting of more than 400,000 registered members. In the process of creating and sharing projects, young people learn core computational concepts, while also learning important strategies for designing, problem solving, and collaborating (Resnick et al., 2009). Digital Literacies While the constructionist tradition puts programming at the center of the children’s content creation, a different group of researchers and practitioners, also concerned with providing opportunities for children to create content, focuses on new digital literacies (Buckingham, 2003;

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Buckingham & Willett, 2006; Coiro, Knobel, Lankshear, & Leu, 2008). This approach is an extension of the media literacy work started in the United States in the early 20th century with the study of film as an active process of consumption, rather than a passive one (National Association for Media Literacy Education [NAMLE], 2009). Through the process of content creation, children develop competence regarding 21st-century skills such as digital literacy (Ba, Tally, & Tsikalas, 2002; Karlstrom, Cerratto-Pargman, & Knutsson, 2008; McMillan, 1996). The term 21st-century literacy means connecting digital dots across mediums, including areas yet to be developed (Jones-Kavalier & Flannigan, 2008) and gaining skills in areas beyond the traditional subjects of reading, writing, and arithmetic. The 21st-century skills include literacies in media, information, and communication technologies; in global awareness; and in finance, business, entrepreneurship and civic engagement (Wang et al., 2010). Scholars of new digital literacies suggest that with the advances of social media applications, knowledge of computer programming is no longer necessary. Youth can engage in other forms of content creation practices, such as instant messaging, blogging, making a Web site, creating and sharing music videos, podcasting and videocasting, working with images and photo sharing, participating in online discussions, e-mailing, using online chat, and creating and sharing digital mashups (see Black, 2008; Coiro, 2003; Gee, 2007; Jenkins, 2006; Kist, 2007; Lankshear & Knobel, 2006). The definition of digital literacy also varies. Digital literacy has been described as a broad range of topics of understanding, using several different labels: computer literacy, information literacy, even comperacy, (McMillan, 1996) a term based on Papert’s letteracy (Karlstrom et al., 2008). Digital literacy has also been defined as the habits children develop to use digital technology for entertainment, socialization, fun, and education (Ba, Tally, & Tsikalas, 2002) or as a survival skill that includes more than just the ability to use digital technologies correctly. Eshet-Alkalai’s framework also includes cognitive and emotional components of digital literacy (Aviram & Eshet-Alkalai, 2006; Eshet-Alkalai, 2004; Eshet, 2005), in particular those used for communication and collaboration. Use of digital tools for content creation varies by age. The most powerful way in which children can use new technologies is to create personally meaningful projects. In the same way that young children use paintbrushes and clay to make art projects, new technologies provide a new

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medium to add interactivity to their creations. Children and youth of all ages use digital cameras and voice recorders to create their own movies, stories, and slide shows (Ching, Wang, & Kedem, 2006). Young children can take advantage of new touch-screen interfaces, which are more user-friendly for little fingers (and for universal access for those with disabilities) than a keyboard and mouse (Holzinger, 2003). And children can use one of the many drawing and paint apps now available for touchscreen tablet computers and phones. Although young children are not expected to be developmentally ready to engage with sophisticated programming tools, research has shown that, when presented with developmentally appropriate interfaces, children as young as 4 years old can use different technologies to make their own projects come alive (Bers, 2008; Bers & Horn, 2010, Bers et al., 2006; Johnson, 2003). Children are not merely consuming information technology; they take an active role in creating, manipulating, and disseminating information (Berson, 2003). Older children and youth, as they gain autonomy with digital devices and develop the use of language, start accessing digital media that requires the use of language to create content. In addition, these children and youth may use the resource of the Internet to teach themselves how to create new digital content to share online; they are personally motivated to learn in order to express themselves online in forms of Web sites, blogs, or just changing the color scheme on their profiles (Livingston & Bovill, 2001). Two-thirds of teens who are online have engaged in some form of content creation (Lenhart, Madden, Macgill, & Smith, 2007). YouTube is flooded with videos of children and teens showing off their talents—whether it be music, acting, comedy, remixing, or how-to videos. There are over 6 billion videos on YouTube. Teens aged 15 to 19 make up 17% of the viewers, and 17% of these teens generate their own content (Chau, 2010). Youth also create blogs around thousands of topics and contribute to communities centered on their passions. Reports have claimed up to 52% of all blogs are maintained by teens aged 13 to 19, while others report 39% to 40% of blogs are maintained by children and youth under the age of 20 (Huffaker & Calvert, 2006). One example of teen-generated content is fan fiction, where youth expand on existing stories by creating their own stories using popular characters (Jenkins, 2006), such as those from Jane Austen novels, Harry Potter, and Star Trek (Black, 2008). However, this form of content creation is producing its own 21st-century problems, with arguments over the legality of using intellectual

property for purposes of writing fan fiction (Jenkins, 2006) or creating “remixes” of existing content (using words, photos, videos, etc.) (Diakopoulous, Luther, Medynskiy, & Essa, 2007; Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). Content creation is also happening in mobile phone devices, as well, with tools like Google App Inventor (http://appinventor .googlelabs.com) that enable children, youth, and adults to create their own apps. Content creation has a dark side, however. While, historically, there has been concern over youth exposure to online content generated by others (e.g. pornographic images), the popularity of social networks, blogs, and sites like YouTube have now made it possible for youth to create their own negative and problematic content (Boyd, Ryan, & Leavitt, 2011). This content ranges from the distribution of gang fight videos on YouTube to the creation of social networks around self-injurious behaviors such as anorexia and cutting (Boyd et al., 2011). While gang fights and self-injurious behaviors have been unfortunate components of youth subculture for years, there is concern around making this content easily accessible on the Internet (Wilson, Peebles, Hardy, & Litt, 2006). On one hand, the Internet makes it easier to find this problematic content. On the other hand, the Internet can become a resource for helpful information and a way to reach out to teens with these issues. While most regulation at this point focuses on censoring this type of content online, it is important to understand and treat the underlying causes of this behavior (Boyd, Ryan, & Leavitt, 2011).

Creativity New technologies that offer opportunities to create content, make projects, and develop new skills also promote creativity. The creativity supported by these technologies, and that the PTD framework refers to, has a “little c”—it is everyday creativity and refers to everyone’s potential to create and imagine in original ways, as opposed to Creativity with a “big C” of significant geniuses such as Einstein or Mozart (Sawyer, 2006). Despite early worries that computers might stifle creativity (Cordes & Miller, 2000; Oppenheimer, 2003), research has found that when used well, open-ended constructionist type of software can actually help creativity to bloom (Clements & Sarama, 2003; Resnick, 2007). Mitchel Resnick presents a vision of how children might use computers in a creative way, “more like paintbrushes and less like televisions, opening new opportunities for

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children to playfully explore, experiment, design, and invent” (Resnick, 2006). Computers can be programmed so they can be anything to anyone, taking on a “thousand forms” for a “thousand functions” and appeal to a “thousand tastes” (Papert, 1980). This is the power of digital technology as an expressive tool. New technologies that integrate multimedia tools allow children to generate new ideas and express them in innovative ways. Using basic computer programs such as Microsoft® Paint or PowerPoint afford children opportunities to draw and manipulate objects and pictures. For example, when a 4-year-old uses KidPix to create a story, animates the characters with motion and music, and then presents a slideshow to her parents, or when a 5-year-old uses the CHERP (Bers and Horn, 2010) robotic programming language to make animals that can dance and move around in search of food, technology is opening a door to creativity (Bers, 2008; Johnson, 2003). By combining recyclables and traditional art materials with technological components, young children can take a robotic base and turn it into anything they want; from a monster truck to a kitty cat to a flower for an interactive garden (Bers, 2008; Bers et al., 2002; Rusk, Resnick, Berg, & Pezalla-Granlund, 2008). Robots are not just already-made creatures such as Wall-E and R2D2; robotics can be a creative play space for storytelling and self-expression. Information and communication technologies can also incite creativity (I. I. Berson & Berson, 2010). Remixing audio, video, photographs, and text; writing fan fiction: recording movies, skits, and movies; writing blogs; creating Web sites and podcasts; and developing apps are all different ways in which new technologies are used to express creativity (Diakopoulous et al., 2007; Jenkins, 2006; Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). Collaboration Over the last 20 years there has been a great amount of research looking at how computers support collaborative work and collaborative learning (Grudin, 1994). The low cost and nearly instantaneous sharing of ideas, knowledge, and skills facilitated by the Internet has made collaborative processes dramatically easier. The nonhierarchical structure of the technology also allows for new forms of self-organization and leadership to emerge through these collaborations. Collaboration can happen across the ocean or with the neighbor next door; with people we already know, or with those who share a niche interest and meet online for the sole purpose of working together. In technical terms, collaboration can be co-located or

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geographically distributed, and individuals can collaborate synchronously (at the same time) or asynchronously (not at the same time). A broad range of tools enable adults and youth to work together in all of these different ways: social networking, instant messaging, team spaces, Web sharing, blogs, wikis, and audio and video conferencing. Research has shown that computers might promote new forms of collaboration among young children, such as helping and instructing behaviors, discussion, and cooperation (New & Cochran, 2007). Children engage more frequently at turn taking, cooperative play, and language use at a computer than when using puzzles and blocks (Genishi, McCollum, Strand, & Hamilton, 1985). Children also prefer to work in teams rather than individually when using computers. Furthermore, computers allow for collaboration via e-mail, electronic field trips, and video conferencing with other classrooms, social interactions that were previously not possible due to physical location (National Association for the Education of Young Children [NAEYC], 1996). For young children who are in a developmental process of learning how to work with others, the design features of the technology might promote social and prosocial development. Classic developmental theorists such as Piaget (1928) and Vygotsky (1978) both discussed the influence of children on one another in order to further develop cognitively. Early childhood is a time of egocentrism. Collaboration with other children while using technology might help to foster interactions between peers who may otherwise be focused on their own thoughts and might also engage in partnerships that expand the child’s zone of proximal development (Vygotsky, 1978). For example, a child who is better skilled at using the mouse or browsing the Web might work together with a child who had less exposure to it; a child who has used a digital camera at home might show another child which button to press; and children may show each other their favorite smartphone apps and instruct each other on initial play instructions. Research shows that there is more spontaneous peer teaching and helping at a computer screen than during other classroom activities (Clements & Nastasi, 1992). New technologies also have the benefit of being smaller, from netbooks to iPhones. Computers no longer fill up entire rooms! This is beneficial for a child to collaborate with others. A piece of technological equipment can be easily picked up and brought across the room to a friend, teacher, or parent. This also gives the child the opportunity to move her body; there is no need to just sit at a computer. Children can make their own songs and

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videos to dance to, or act out the actions of their robots. Children can carry the laptop to show off their work to anyone around them or can climb on top of Dad’s lap to explore an iPad app together. The mobility of new technologies lends itself to interactions and a new phenomenon commonly referred to as the pass-back effect (Chiong & Shuler, 2010), which refers to the parent and child sharing in use of a technological device by passing it back and forth to each other. For older children, youth, and adults, online collaboration has contributed to development and culture in a variety of ways. Wikipedia is probably the most notable example of both creativity and community contribution (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008), which contains more than 6 million articles. On Wikipedia, everyday people, who are not necessarily “experts,” contribute content in order to define terms, people, places, and any concept imaginable. Virtual worlds and massively multiplayer online games (MMOGs) are also mediums in which people of all ages collaborate through play and engage in online play, creating content for these worlds while collaborating in missions, quests, and games (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008; Steinkuehler, 2004). Examples include Second Life, World of Warcraft, and EverQuest. Major companies, such as IBM, even use Second Life as a way for global employees to interact and conduct business (Morrison, 2009). The Internet is also being used for formal as well as informal educational collaborations. Over the past 6 years, online higher education has grown faster than standard higher education enrollments, with 4.6 million students taking at least one online course in the fall of 2008 (Allen & Seaman, 2009). With a growth rate of enrollment steadily increasing each year (17% in 2008) (Allen & Seaman, 2009) collaboration in online course environments may prove to be an important skill in the coming years. Furthermore, with an economic recession, more and more high schools are turning to online courses in order to remediate students or provide advanced placement courses that only a few students wish to take (Harrison, 2011). Communication Humans are meaning-making individuals. Communication is the process by which meaning is assigned and conveyed in an attempt to create shared understanding. New technologies support different forms of communication (e.g. text, voice, sound, pictures, and videos) through synchronous and asynchronous methods of connecting with one another. Although communication in the online

world and social media applications involve some risks, they also create enormous possibilities for sharing ideas, thoughts, and feelings and for forming new social relationships and maintaining old ones. Technologies that effectively facilitate social interaction also promote language and literacy development. Activities around technologies that support interactions among peers by encouraging peer learning, peer teaching, and cooperation inevitably become venues for languagerich exchanges. At the computer, for example, research has shown that children speak twice as many words per minute than at other nontechnology-related play activities, such as Play-Doh® and building blocks (New & Cochran, 2007), and speak to their peers nine times more than when working on traditional puzzles (Muller & Perlmutter, 1985). With products such as Skype, children are able to communicate face-to-face with their grandparents and loved ones. This can potentially eliminate the problems that arise when children, having not yet grasped object permanence (Piaget, 1954), try to engage in non-faceto-face communication. With wikis, Web sites, Google groups, and dozens of photo-sharing programs, children’s work and pictures from the day can be posted online on password-protected pages for parents to view, thus bringing the classroom to the parents and providing the parent and child many specific discussion points beyond “what did you do in school today?” While even stand-alone drill and practice computer software can help children read and strengthen their vocabulary recall, the impact of technology is greatest with regard to language development when it is also used to facilitate peer interaction rather than as a replacement for teachers or tutors (New & Cochran, 2007). Research shows that when children are using computers, they are more likely to ask other children for advice and help, even if an adult is present, thus increasing socialization (Wartella & Jennings, 2000). Even in situations where each child has an individual computer or their own piece of digital equipment to work with, children still choose to form groups (Druin, 1998). Children learn from each other and build communication skills by sharing, discussing, and asking questions about the new technologies they are using. They begin to move past parallel play to engage with the technology and each other. In addition, as children begin to explore virtual worlds, they utilize conversational scripts to continue learning about conversational patterns and communicating with others— the parent sitting next to them and the child across the globe.

Developmental Technologies: Technology and Human Development

Wireless communication allows a new generation of teenagers to meet online anytime and anywhere. However, today’s teens struggle with issues of identity as much as past generations. Adolescence is a time to form a sense of individuality; to become aware of personal strengths and weaknesses. According to Erickson, adolescents experience identity vs. role confusion (Erikson, 1963, 1982). As they transition from childhood to adulthood, they need to explore the question “Who am I?” while pondering the multiple roles they could play in the adult world. Adolescents know that the decisions they make now might have an impact in their future. They want to take their place in society, either by finding more or less conventional roles or by challenging established ways. At the same time, they need to find a sense of purpose, a stable and generalized intention to accomplish something that is at once personally meaningful and of consequence to the world (Damon, Menon, & Bronk, 2003). Adolescence is characterized by the tension between differentiation and identification: the need to find boundaries between self and others and the need for integration into a major whole consisting of family, culture, and society. Erikson talks about adolescence as a psychological moratorium, a “time out” when one can suspend decisions concerning long-term commitments and gain new experiences, encounter adventures, and experiment with multiple roles. Sherry Turkle, a psychoanalytically trained psychologist and sociologist, a professor at MIT, and a pioneer in studying people’s personal relationships with technology, applied Erikson’s concept of moratorium to the study of how adolescents use online environments as a “social laboratory for experimenting with the constructions and re-constructions of self that characterize postmodern life” (Turkle, 1995). The pioneering work of Turkle has shown that technology serves to explore concepts of self as adolescents “cycle through” their own identities through playful experimentation. Virtual worlds, among other online environments, may serve as spaces for moratorium. For example, the Habbo world (www.habbo.com) is popular among adolescents. Habbo uses the metaphor of a hotel in which youth can “meet new and existing friends, play games and simply have fun. It is a richly colorful, multi-dimensional virtual community and game environment to which [sic] users join by creating a fully customized online character called a Habbo” (Beals, 2010). Users can design their avatars and their rooms and use furniture that can be purchased from a catalogue. There is a code of conduct, called the “Habbo Way,” that includes rules to which users should

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adhere, including, for example, not giving out passwords, not using hate speech, not telling people information about their location in real life, and not acting out violent acts. According to the 2010 Pew and American Life Project report (2010b), 93% of teens ages 12 to 17 go online. Once there, they do different things. Nearly three quarters (73%) of online teens visit social network sites. The older online teens, ages 14 to 17 (82%), use online social networks more than younger teens ages 12 and 13; 8% of online teens visit virtual worlds like Gaia, Second Life or Habbo Hotel; 62% of online teens get news about current events and politics online; 48% bought books, clothing, or music online; 31% of online teens get health, dieting, or physical fitness information from the Internet; and 17% gather information online about topics that are hard to discuss with others, such as drug use and sexual health (Pew Research, 2010b). Online communication is also an avenue for exploring social aspects of youth culture in a new digital form. One example, which exists in the offline world as well, is navigating relationships. This can be both a positive and negative experience. Connecting with friends, classmates, and family members one does not see often has been made easier with the invention of e-mail and social networks. Teens can use the Internet as a place of growth (Turkle, 1995), a way to practice skills like flirting without risking face-to-face embarrassment. Youth with particular interests can find solace in groups online communicating over shared mutual interests. Gay and lesbian youth learn they are not alone (Maczewksi, 2002). Teens also learn how to create and monitor their own social presence and self-identity; however, this can create a problems when a teen tries to balance his/her “coolness” for friends with acceptability for parents, college admissions counselors, and future employers (Boyd, 2007). Sherry Turkle writes extensively about relationships in the digital age, which, she concludes, are leading to anxiety. Teens, due to the anonymity online and the lack of face-to-face interactions with others, create an environment in which they have a much easier time writing negative criticism of each other online. In addition, teens report being afraid of who is on the other end of a chat or a text message, and teens are more and more likely to feel like they cannot turn off their digital communications, afraid they will miss an important text, call, or Facebook message. Teens are also growing up in a world, because of digital technology, where they no longer believe in privacy (Turkle, 2011). Cyberbullying is a negative aspect of youth communication online that has received attention lately with suicide

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deaths (e.g., Megan Meier, Phoebe Prince) blamed on bullying and harassment online. This has led to legal action around cyberbullying laws and criminal prosecution of the bullies. Forty-three percent of teens have been bullied online, and this is most prevalent among 15- to 16-year-old girls (National Crime Prevention Council [NCPC], 2007). Cyberbullying is particularly harmful because it lacks the face-to-face communication needed for empathy and, in a way, rationalizes behavior because it seems less “real” (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). Cyberbullying takes place not just online but also through text messages and can be further exacerbated by photos taken with digital cameras on cell phones and the ability to manipulate photos with photo editing software (Li, 2006). In addition, due to free speech laws, it is sometimes difficult to patrol negative speech online (Li, 2006). Community Building New technologies can facilitate behaviors such as community building that lead to contribution to society in the form of community service, activism, and advocacy (Bers, 2012). For example, current research shows the many opportunities for civic engagement beyond geographic boundaries offered by new technologies. Researchers contend that the Internet can be a venue for helping young people develop a sense of volunteerism and activism, for engaging in new forms of civic activities such as online petitioning and civic dialogues, and for promoting traditional types of civic activities such as voting, as well as to experience the challenges of democratic participation (Bers, 2008, 2010; Blumler & Coleman, 2001; Cassell, 2002; Cassell, Huffaker, Tversky, & Ferriman, 2006; Earl & Schussman, 2008; Montgomery, 2008; Montgomery, Gottlieb-Robles, & Larson, 2004; Rheingold, 2008). The 2008 Pew Internet & American Life Project’s report found that 44% of youth play games that teach them about a problem in society, while 52% play games that cause them to think about moral and ethical issues (Lenhart et al., 2008). The report also suggests that youth who have these kinds of civic gaming experiences are more likely to be civically engaged in the offline world, and are also more likely to go online to get information about current events, try to persuade others how to vote in an election, become committed to civic participation, and raise money for charity. The election of Obama has been mentioned as one of the first examples of large-scale use of digital media, including blogging, videos, social networks, and text messaging, for a cause; the campaign used technology for

relationship building, spreading information, and organizing offline rallies and gatherings (Harfoush, 2009). These tools have also been used in global politics. Facebook, Twitter, and social networks in general have been mentioned as resources for arranging gatherings and protests against former Egyptian President Mubarak and former Libyan President Gadhafi. Both governments shut down the Internet in early 2011, in an apparent effort to stop community organization happening on these sites (Chen, 2011). People also use social networking sites and the Internet as a place to donate to charities and causes with Web sites such as Kiva, which allows people all over the world to donate money towards third-world business startups (www.kiva.org) or new social media sites such as Help Attack (www.helpattack.com) in which users donate money to charity for each Facebook update or Tweet (Twitter message), in addition to donating to traditional charities. Texting campaigns, where you text a number and automatically charge a donation to your cell phone bill, have recently gained popularity. Online petition signing is also a faster and easier way to gain signatures for a cause. It seems that the power of digital technologies and community building facilitate offline traditional means of action (e.g., protests) while creating a new medium for donations and information dissemination (Van Laer & Van Aelst, 2010).

CHOICES OF CONDUCT IN DIGITAL COMMUNITIES The open-ended and decentralized nature of new technologies gives freedom to children to make authentic choices and to experience consequences. The process of making choices is an important aspect for building a strong sense of character (Bers, 2012). Of course, the freedom to choose their choices will be determined by the age of the child and her developmental needs, as well as the comfort zone of the adult in charge. From a moral development standpoint, early childhood is a time of egocentrism and an early development of perspective taking. It is around this time that children begin to understand the concept of fairness (Colby & Kohlberg, 1987). New technologies may support this process by providing children with the opportunity to experiment with “what if” questions and potential consequences, and to provoke examination of values and exploration of character traits. Most explorations of the moral and ethical domain though new technologies

Developmental Technologies: Technology and Human Development

happen later on, when children are avid users of the Internet and might face cyberbullying (Li, 2006, 2007) and temptations of piracy (Chiou, Huang, & Lee, 2005; Logsdon, Thompson, & Reid, 1994). However, it is never too early to begin teaching and modeling appropriate cyber-safety and “netiquette” to young children (M. Berson & Berson, 2004; Shea, 1994; Straker, Pollock, & Burgess-Limerick, 2006). Virtual communities designed for young children, such as Panwapa (www.panwapa.org) and Disney’s Club Penguin (www.clubpenguin.com) do have safety features built in, such as preset chat scripts. These begin to provide models for appropriate behavior. Web sites such as Webkinz (www.webkinz.com) provide an opportunity for children to learn about taking care of pets and also integrate a social networking component. In addition, Webkinz integrates a physical component (stuffed animal) with the virtual world. However, sites such as Webkinz have been criticized for promoting consumerism, consumptionism, and competition (Dellinger-Pate & Conforti, 2010). As previously mentioned, there are some legal issues around licensing and copyright for youth engaged in digital remixing or mash-ups. One way to combat this issue is by using and distributing media under a creative commons license (www.creativecommons.org). People who use the content produced under a creative commons license are using that content legally, since the creators of the content have chosen to provide their content free for anyone’s use, so long as credit is given to the original content creators. Also previously mentioned was the area of bullying. This is a huge moral conflict for youth online. The government has started an antibullying initiative and has partnered with the MIT Media Lab and the social network site Formspring to create tools to detect cyberbullying and migrate the content elsewhere when it does occur. In addition, Facebook will be launching a reporting system for inappropriate content, and the National Education Association has initiated an antibullying campaign called “Bully-Free: It Starts with Me,” among other federal programs (see White House, 2011). Most youth online break the law regularly, and they may or may not even know it. Teens rarely pay for music; they download it for free. Teens also watch TV and movies online, which are not always there legally. It started in 2008 with Napster, an easy-to-use P2P (peer-topeer) file-sharing network. At its peak, 30 million people were using Napster—40% of whom were college students (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). However, the music upload by users onto Napster to share was done so illegally. Napster

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was sued by the record companies and shut down, but that did not stop the P2P networks. They are easy to use and popular, and dozens exist today. A survey of college students in 2003 found 72% believe downloading copyrighted material was acceptable (Palfrey & Gasser, 2008). Digital technologies are powerful tools and uncharted territories. It imperative that parents, educators, and society teach children and youth how to behave appropriately online, make them aware of the consequences of their behaviors, teach them to critically evaluate the difference between accurate and inaccurate information, and to understand the importance of laws surrounding illegal use and download of photos, TV shows, movies, and music. By teaching children and youth to use new technologies appropriately and be good digital citizens, we can, as a society, harness the power of these new technologies to their full potential.

CONCLUSIONS Children are exposed to new technologies before ever making it to their preschool classroom. In the early days of personal computing, there was lively debate over the developmental appropriateness of technology. Today, however, the pressing question is “How are these technologies having an impact on child and youth development?” The answers appear to be mixed. New technologies lend themselves well to fostering development in key areas such as socioemotional development, identity development, the development of language, and cognition—if used appropriately. The power of digital tools, especially the Internet, has made widespread, global communication possible along the same networks that one can use to communicate with the neighbors or classmates from school. But how do we know what is appropriate and not? The PTD framework suggests that the best uses of technologies to support positive development put the child in the role of producers, rather than consumers. This framework advances the notion that technologies should engage young users in creating digital content, creativity, choices of conduct, communication, collaboration, and community building. As new technologies are constantly evolving, it is the kind of activities and behaviors they support that we should focus on. These should be aligned with supporting developmental milestones, as opposed to hindering them. This is where more research is needed in the field.

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Author Index

Aalsma, M. C., 354 Aaronson, D., 177 Abbacchi, A., 558 Abbeduto, L., 559 Abbott, C. B., 575 Abbott, R. D., 330, 381, 382, 386 Abe, J. A., 475, 489 Abecassis, M., 255 Abeles, R., 112 Aber, J. L., 351, 357, 525–528 Ablin, D. S., 577 Aboud, F. E., 244, 410 Abo-Zena, M., 530 Abra´ıdo-Lanza, A. F., 352 Abraham, J. D., 62, 78, 522 Abrahams, B. S., 550 Abrahamsson, N., 176 Abram, K., 583 Abramovitch, R., 257, 556, 582 Abrams, D. B., 598 Abreu, J. M., 352 Abwender, D. A., 417, 419 Acebo, C., 312 Acher, J. D., 456 Achermann, P., 312 Acitelli, L. K., 499, 502 Ackerman, P. L., 628 Acock, A., 384 Acredolo, L. P., 52, 107, 155 Adam, E. K., 504–506 Adams, B. J., 580 Adams, C., 555 Adams, G. R., 350, 532 Adamson, L., 97, 102 Adelgais, A., 256 Adelson, J., 291 Adenzato, M., 46

Adler, L. L., 274 Adler, N. E., 300 Adler, S. A., 65 Adolfsson, R., 456 Adolph, K. E., 143–146, 150, 152, 153, 162, 163 Adrian, C., 401 Agans, J. P., 377, 378 Ager, A., 535 Ageton, S. S., 416 Agnew, R., 409 Agras, W. S., 505 Agrigoroaei, S., 487, 488 Aguilar, E., 293 Aguirre, A. N., 352 Ahadi, S. A., 217, 220 Ahluwalia, J., 71 Ahnert, L., 135 Aiken, L. R., 616 Ainsworth, M. D., 198 Ainsworth, M. D. S., 104, 108, 109, 153, 220, 225, 572 Aisen, P. S., 438 Aitchison, E., 505 Aitken, K. J., 101, 103, 106 Ajrouch, K. J., 499, 500, 503 Akesson, B., 535 Akhtar, N., 160, 161, 186 Akiba, M., 321 Akinci, A., 311 Akiyama, H., 499–501, 507, 509 Aksan, N., 99, 108, 112, 221, 250 Aksglaede, L., 296 Akshoomoff, N., 80 Alant, E., 149, 154, 162 Albee, G., 529 Albers, E. M., 135 659

Albert, D., 582 Albert, M., 505 Albrecht, A. K., 405 Albrecht, R. E., 383 Albus, K. E., 109 Alden, L., 350 Aldred, C., 555 Aldridge, J., 579 Aldwin, C. M., 490, 606 Aleman, A., 460 Alessandri, S. M., 217 Alessandroni, R., 222 Alfieri, L., 218 Alibali, M. W., 162 Alink, L. R. A., 99 Alkire, S., 595, 608 Alkon, A., 132 Allahar, A. L., 340, 345, 357 Allard, M., 437 Allemand, M., 477 Allen, D., 463 Allen, E., 650 Allen, J. J. B., 223 Allen, J. M., 399 Allen, J. P., 402, 404, 405, 407, 408, 413, 415, 583 Allen, J. R., 63 Allen, L., 351, 357 Allen, R., 561 Allen, T. W., 70 Allen, V., 412 Alley, D., 505 Allister, L., 93 Allport, G., 33 Allred, C. G., 382, 384 Almaguer, T., 532 Almas, A., 250

660

Author Index

Almeida, D. M., 462, 463, 509 Almerigi, J., 365, 373–375, 381, 530 Almgren, P., 445 Almirall, J., 617 Almkvist, O., 624 Alper, C. M., 603 Alp´erovitch, A., 460 Alpert, A., 227, 404 Alpert, N., 628, 629 Als, H., 102 Alsaker, F., 300 Al-Shaikhli, B., 67 Altermatt, E. R., 257, 411 Altham, P. M., 505 Altham, P. M. E., 294 Alvarez, J. M., 244 Alwin, D. F., 496 Aman, C., 577 Amaral, D. G., 125 Amato, P. R., 572, 573, 575 Ambady, N., 274 Ambridge, B., 184 Ames, E. W., 61, 63 Amigo, E., 440 Amsel, G., 73 Amso, D., 65, 72 Ananiadou, K., 327 Anas, A., 522 Anderman, E. M., 324 Anderman, L. H., 324, 412 Andersen, C., 29 Andersen, S. L., 131 Anderson, C. J., 79, 80 Anderson, D. I., 101–103 Anderson, E., 532 Anderson, G. F., 440 Anderson, K. E., 406 Anderson, N. D., 468 Anderson, P., 530 Anderson, P. M., 290, 600 Anderson, S. E., 296, 297 Anderson, S. J., 396, 398, 400, 401 Andersson, H. W., 62 Andersson, T., 301 Andres, D., 484 Andrews, A. M., 133 Andrews, D. W., 386, 412, 415, 585 Andrews, H., 101 Andrews, J., 404 Andrews, K., 412

Andrews, M., 605 Andrews, M. H., 127 Andruski, J. E., 161 Angelillo, C., 150, 151 Angell, A. L., 148 Angleitner, A., 478 Angold, A., 230, 290, 299–301, 311 Angus, R. M., 370 Ansbacher, H. L., 259 Ansbacher, R. R., 259 Anstey, K. J., 452, 454, 458–460, 465, 501 Antell, S. E., 75 Anthony, E. J., 91 Anthony, J. C., 402 Anton, B. S., 386 Anton, F., 640 Antoni, M. H., 505 Antonucci, T. C., 475, 479, 496–503, 507–509 Antony, M. M., 223 Appel, K., 134 Appelbaum, M. I., 103 Applebaum, R., 520 Appleyard, K., 109, 112, 575 Appugliese, D., 296, 298, 309, 312 Aquan-Assee, J., 257 Aragaki, T., 504 Aragon, S. R., 327 Arbeit, M. R., 376, 377 Arbelaez, J., 532 Arbib, M. A., 155 Arbuckle, T. Y., 484 Archer, S. L., 356 Archibald, A. B., 396 Arcus, D., 247 Argyle, M., 600 Arievitch, I. M., 40 Ariotti, L., 551 Arking, D. E., 563 Arlman-Rupp, A., 159 Armbrister, A. N., 352 Armenta, B. E., 351, 352, 355 Armer, M., 411 Arnett, J. J., 265, 339–341, 347, 348, 350, 353, 356, 437 Arnold, J., 439 Arnold, M. L., 401 Arnold, S. E., 463, 464 Arnsten, A. F., 126

Aron, A., 507 Aron, E. N., 507 Aronson, J., 325 Arrufat, O., 381, 383 Arseneault, L., 478, 479, 484 Arsenio, W. F., 397 Arte, A., 439 Arterberry, M. E., 76 Arthur, M. W., 381, 382, 386 Arum, R., 326, 327 Ary, D. V., 417 Asai, M., 398 Asatol, M. R., 291 Aschersleben, G., 104 Asendorpf, J. B., 19, 290, 479 Asgeirsdottir, B. B., 584 Ashburn, L. A., 159 Ashby, F. G., 603 Asher, S. R., 409, 412, 413 Ashman, A. F., 255 Ashman, S. B., 93 Aslin, R. N., 62, 65, 68, 69, 72, 78, 161, 189, 190 Asmussen, L., 397 Asquith, P., 396, 397 Assor, A., 325 Astor, R. A., 327 Atchley, R. C., 482 Atkins, R., 529, 531 Atkinson, C., 204 Atkinson, J., 64 Atkinson, L., 554 Attar, B. K., 229 Atwater, J. D., 65 Atzaba-Poria, N., 250 Au, R., 440, 442 Auer, B. J., 504 Auerbach, J., 222 Auerbach-Major, S., 219 August, D., 148 August, G. J., 412 Augustyn, M., 109 Austin, M., 530 Avenevoli, S., 247 Aviram, A., 647 Avlund, K., 444 Axelrod, J., 526 Ayduk, O., 484 Ayoub, C. C., 102 Azmitia, M., 258, 351, 357 Azuma, H., 97, 154, 158, 164

Author Index

Ba, H., 647 B¨aackman, L., 524 Bachner-Melman, R., 247 Bachrach, L. K., 296 B¨ackman, L., 452, 456, 465, 467, 468, 524, 618, 629 Badenoch, M., 71, 72 Bagenholm, A., 558 Bagwell, C. L., 410, 412 Bahrick, L. E., 63, 69–71, 101 Bailey, C. A., 416 Bailey, D. A., 311 Bailey, D. B., 551, 552 Bailey, J. A., 382 Bailis, L. N., 333 Baillargeon, R., 63, 64, 72, 73 Baird, G., 80 Baird, J. A., 64 Bairey Merz, C. N., 441 Bajema, C. J., 299 Bajorek, S., 522 Bakeman, M., 97 Baker, B. L., 555, 559–562 Baker, C., 462, 624 Baker, E., 94 Baker, N. D., 191 Baker, T. J., 65, 475, 485 Bakermans-Kranenburg, M. J., 91, 95, 99, 110, 121, 131, 133, 528, 554 Bakersmans-Kranenburg, M. J., 102, 103 Baldelomar, O. A., 357 Baldwin, D., 186, 187 Baldwin, D. A., 64, 78, 159 Baldwin, J. M., 7, 38 Bale, T. L., 125 Bales, C. W., 616, 617 Balfanz, R., 328 Ball, K. K., 465 Ballif-Spanville, B., 526 Balota, D. A., 445, 478 Balsano, A., 374, 378, 383, 529, 531 Balsis, A., 478 Balsis, S., 445 Baltes, B. B., 522, 629 Baltes, M. M., 367, 468, 490, 521–523, 617, 620–622, 627–629, 632 Baltes, P. B., 3, 4, 6, 366, 367, 373, 375, 383, 384, 441, 452, 454,

458–461, 464, 466–468, 475, 476, 479, 483, 484, 489, 490, 495, 496, 518–523, 601, 605, 616, 618–621, 625–629, 631, 632 Balu, S., 312 B´amaca-G´omez, M., 351 Bandura, A., 49, 290, 326, 348, 408, 475, 487, 488, 533, 549, 631 Banerjee, I., 293 Bangi, A. K., 598 Banich, M. T., 79, 582 Bank, L., 259 Banks, M. A., 66 Banks, M. S., 62 Barab, S., 643 Baram, T. Z., 125, 126 Barber, B., 398, 530 Barber, B. K., 224, 229 Barber, B. L., 329, 333 Barbour, L., 557 Barbu-Roth, M. A., 101–103 Barch, D. M., 468 Barefoot, J. C., 444, 606 Barends, N., 400 Barker, D. J., 127 Barker, D. J. P., 610 Barker, E. T., 396 Barker, J., 607 Barker, R. G., 416 Barlow, J., 128, 443 Barnett, M., 648 Barnett, W. S., 526 Baron-Cohen, S., 71, 80 Barr, C. S., 133 Barr, R. G., 97, 577 Barratt, M. S., 560 Barrera, G., 124 Barrera, M. E., 71 Barrera, M. J., 405 Barrett, K. C., 98, 215 Barrett, L. F., 100, 217 Barrick, M. R., 478 Barry, R. A., 108, 110, 133 Barsalou, L. W., 46, 52 Barss, A., 178 Bartels, M., 346 Barth, J. M., 419, 606 Barthel, M., 135 Barton, B. A., 295, 296, 298 Barton, B. K., 602

661

Bartrip, J., 71 Basak, C., 465 Baskar, A. D. S., 459 Bass, P. F., 444 Bassett, H. H., 253 Bates, E. A., 31, 68, 80, 162, 179, 199, 207 Bates, J. E., 98–100, 107, 216, 220, 221, 223, 247, 248, 299, 302, 304, 305, 308, 309, 404, 412, 415, 610 Bateson, M. C., 157 Bateson, P., 39 Batki, A., 71 Battle, A., 257 Baudrillard, J., 33 Bauer, A. M., 130 Bauer, G., 579 Bauer, I., 630, 631 Bauer, J. J., 625 Baum, A., 504, 621 Baum, A. S., 136 Baum, S. K., 350 Bauman, E., 412 Bauman, K. E., 413 Baumeister, R. F., 344, 347, 355, 357, 626 Baumert, J., 332 Baumgartner, T., 134 Baumrind, D., 248, 251, 403 Baumwell, L., 158, 186 Baxter, J. S., 577, 580 Bayles, K., 223 Bayley, N., 148 Bazhenova, O. V., 554 Beach, S. R. H., 525 Beals, L. M., 643, 648, 651 Beamer, M., 522 Beard, K. S., 323 Beardsall, L., 257 Bearer, E., 5 Beaton, E. A., 223 Beauchaine, T. P., 407, 529 Beaudoin, G., 468 Beauregard, L., 551 Beauregard, M., 468 Bebiroglu, N., 377, 530 Bechara, A., 624 Beck, T. L., 444 Becker, B. J., 218 Becker, G. S., 404

662

Author Index

Becker, M. L., 133 Beckett, L. A., 524 Bedeau, M. A., 209 Bednar, J. A., 71 Beebe, B., 101, 153 Beeghly, M., 93, 101–104, 106, 107, 109, 110, 112, 562 Been, P., 80 Beery, S. H., 417, 419 Beets, M. W., 384 Befu, H., 164 Begg, D., 610 Behne, T., 40 Behr, D., 641 Behr, S., 561 Beilin, H., 199, 200, 202, 204 Beiser, A., 440, 442 Bejˇcek, J., 344 Bekkering, H., 65 Belansky, E., 413 Belin, P., 554 Bell, C., 79 Bell, K., 404, 408, 415 Bell, M., 66, 68, 577 Bell, M. A., 129 Bell, R. Q., 406 Bellah, L. D., 577 Belliston, L. M., 404 Bellmore, A D., 327 Bellmore, A., 255 Belmaker, R. H., 222 Belsky, D., 478, 479, 484 Belsky, J., 95, 96, 99, 108, 121, 131, 225, 227, 247, 294, 299, 302–304, 306, 308, 309, 311, 400, 507, 526–529 Beltr´an-S´anchez, H., 524 Belvins, J. L., 640 Bem, D. J., 479 Benasich, A. A., 66 Benbenishty, R., 327 Bendell, D., 93 Benenson, J. F., 395 Benet-Mart´ınez, V., 353, 355, 356 Benett, D. A., 524 Benga, O., 244 Bengel, D., 133 Bengtson, V. L., 500, 501, 507, 508, 520 Bengtsson, C., 463 Benjamin, J., 222

Bennett, D. A., 444, 463, 464 Bennett, D. S., 223 Bennett, G., 532 Bennett, J., 507 Bennett, K. S., 553 Benning, S. D., 131 Benoit, D., 94 Bensing, J. M., 490 Benson, P. L., 365, 366, 368, 369, 373, 378, 380, 385, 386, 387, 530, 531, 600, 601, 605, 607, 608 Benson, P. R., 558 Benton, A., 440 Benyamini, Y., 604 Benzies, K., 233 Berch, D. B., 465 Bereiter, C., 200, 204 Berenbaum, S., 107 Berenson, G. S., 296 Berg, C. A., 487 Berg, J., 525, 527, 528 Berg, K. M., 65 Berg, R., 645, 647, 649 Berg, S., 460, 524 Berg, W. K., 65 Berga, S. L., 294 Berger, A., 76 Berger, L. E., 407 Berger, P. L., 40 Berger, S., 504 Berglund, G., 445 Berglund, L. M., 379, 380, 382, 384, 386 Bergman, B. A., 94 Bergman, K., 128 Bergman, L. R., 524 Bergsten-Brucefors, A., 299 Berk, L., 150 Berk, M., 311 Berkas, T. H., 333 Berkel, C., 354 Berkman, L. F., 134, 440, 521 Berkowitz, G. S., 127 Berkowitz, M. W., 252 Berkowitz, N., 440 Berlin, L. J., 109, 111, 112 Berliner, D. C., 334 Berlyne, D. E., 61 Berman, S., 62, 78

Berman, S. L., 349, 355, 357, 381, 383, 386 Bermudez, J. L., 52 Bernard, K., 135 Berndt, T. J., 394, 395, 397, 409–413 Bernhardt, T., 462 Bernheimer, L. P., 146, 561 Bernicot, J., 176 Bernier, A., 102 Bernstein, R. J., 31 Berntson, G. G., 624 Berry, J. D., 505 Berry, J. W., 268, 272, 350, 351, 353, 354 Bers, M. U., 519, 639, 640, 643, 645–649, 652 Berson, I. R., 641, 647–649, 653 Berson, M. J., 641, 649, 653 Bertelsen, A., 530 Bertenthal, B. I., 63 Bertin, E., 71 Bertrand, J., 183 Bertrand, R. B., 475, 478, 488 Bertz, R. J., 505 Berzonsky, M. D., 343–345 Bethell, C. D., 547 Bettenay, C., 581 Bettinardi, V., 179 Beulen, S. E., 506 Bever, T. G., 179 Beveridge, M., 127 Beyers, W., 342–345, 347, 349, 352, 356, 357, 531 Bhadha, B. R., 403 Bhagwat, J., 76 Bhana, K., 63 Bhanot, R., 353, 357 Bhapkar, M. V., 296, 298 Bharucha, J., 274 Bhatt, R. S., 71 Bhavnagri, N., 395, 416, 417 Bi, X., 445 Biafora, F., 530 Bialystock, E., 177 Bialystok, E., 24, 26, 618 Bichsel, J., 475, 485 Bickerton, D., 175 Bickhard, M. H., 22, 33 Bidell, T., 204, 205, 209 Bidell, T. R., 6

Author Index

Bidrose, S., 577 Biederman, J., 132 Biehl, M. C., 300 Bienias, J. L., 444, 463, 524 Bierman, K., 412, 415 Bierman, K. L., 526 Biesecker, G., 225, 395 Bigelow, A. E., 155 Bigelow, B. J., 409 Bigler, R., 532 Bild, D. E., 443 Billings, F. J., 559 Billino, J., 462 Billy, J., 412 Binder, E. B., 134 Birch, H., 69 Birch, L. L., 298, 309 Birditt, K. S., 463, 475, 479, 499, 501, 506–508 Birdsong, D., 177 Biringen, Z., 103 Birk, J., 177 Birkett, M., 327 Birmaher, B., 136 Biro, F. M., 294–299, 311, 314 Birren, J. E., 452, 458, 460, 482, 483, 520, 616, 618 Bischoff, L. B., 557 Bishop, D., 585 Bishop, D. I., 342 Bishop, D. V. M., 178 Bishop, S. L., 550 Bissell, J., 259 Bissenden, J. G., 66 Bitner, V., 441 Bittanti, M., 639 Bjorklund, B., 580 Bjorklund, D. F., 577, 580 Blacher, J., 555, 560–562 Black, R., 647, 648 Blackwelder, D. E., 406 Blackwell, L. S., 325 Blaga, O. M., 63, 64, 66, 67, 79 Blair, C., 26, 130, 504, 526, 528 Blair, K. A., 219 Blanchard, J., 532 Blanchard-Fields, F., 460–463, 618, 623, 624 Blanton, M. G., 61 Blanton, P. W., 508 Blaser, E., 67

Blass, E. M., 128, 129 Blazer, D. G., 440, 505 Blehar, M., 220, 225 Blehar, M. C., 104, 108, 109, 572 Bleidorn, W., 478 Bloch, M. N., 154 Block, J., 477 Blonigen, D. M., 479, 480 Bloom, L., 143, 161 Blos, P., 290, 397 Blount, B. G., 160 Bluck, S., 394 Blue, S. Z., 62 Blue-Banning, M., 561 Blum, M., 299 Blum, R. W., 379, 380, 385 Blumberg, S. J., 547 Blumenfeld, P. C., 322, 323 Blumenthal, J., 291 Blumler, J. G., 652 Blyth, D. A., 330, 333, 369, 387, 395, 420, 530, 531 Bo, I., 414 Bobek, D., 373, 374 Boddaert, N., 554 Boerner, K., 502, 507, 523, 524 Boesch, E. E., 40, 48 Boeve, B. F., 441 Bogaert, A. F., 303, 304 Bogan, H., 439 Bogartz, R. S., 64 Bogenschneider, K., 417 Bogg, T., 484 Bohlin, G., 223 Boitor, C., 368 Boivin, J., 127 Boivin, M., 254, 408, 412 Bokhorst, C. L., 131, 254 Bolch, M. G., 327 Bolea, N., 466 Bolger, N., 244, 499, 502, 503, 506 Bolton, P., 80 Bomar, J. A., 408 Bonatti, L. L., 190 Bond, M., 353, 356 Bongiovanni, A. M., 298 Bonjour, J. P., 311 Bontempo, D., 526 Bontempo, R., 398 Boodoo, G., 199

663

Bookheimer, S. Y., 554, 555 Boom, J., 43 Boomsma, D. I., 438 Booth, A. E., 77 Booth, C. L., 411 Boothby, N., 535 Booth-LaForce, C., 409, 411 Bor, W., 301 Borchelt, M., 617 Borduin, C. M., 401 Boring, E., 198 Boring, E. G., 4 Boris, N. W., 105 Borke, J., 107 Born, J., 128 Bornstein, M., 150, 152, 265, 273, 274, 276, 277, 279, 282 Bornstein, M. C., 228 Bornstein, M. H., 76, 77, 79, 97, 107, 129, 145, 146, 150, 151, 153, 157–159, 161–164, 186, 191, 396–400, 402, 403, 406, 407, 419, 555 Boron, J. B., 485 Borowsky, I. W., 582 Borthwick-Duffy, S., 550 Bosdet, L., 406 Bosma, H. A., 345, 350, 355, 357 Boss´e, R., 606 Bossom, J., 52 Bost, K. K., 224 Bosworth, H. B., 437–443, 606 Botkin, P. T., 557 Bottoms, B. L., 577, 579, 580, 584 Botuck, S., 71 Botwinick, J., 454 Bouchard, C., 311 Bouchard, R. E., 522 Bouchard, T., 199, 602 Bouchard, T. J., 477, 603 Bouffard, S. M., 531 Boulton, M. J., 255 Bouma, E. M., 133 Bound, J., 529 Bourdieu, P., 253 Bourdony, C. J., 296, 298 Bourgois, P., 529 Bourgouin, P., 468 Bourguignon, J. P., 294, 297 Bovill, M., 648 Bower, J. E., 604

664

Author Index

Bower, T. G. R., 69 Bowers, E., 348, 523 Bowers, E. P., 91, 365–367, 373–378, 381, 385, 600 Bowker, A., 396, 409 Bowker, J. A. W., 257, 408, 409, 412 Bowlby, J., 38, 42, 108–111, 129, 225, 406, 476, 497, 572, 573 Bowling, A., 620 Bowman, L. L., 187 Boxer, A., 298 Boyce, C., 532, 536 Boyce, G. C., 554, 560 Boyce, W. T., 91, 93, 94, 111, 121, 130–132, 296, 302–304, 309, 528 Boyd, D., 322, 639, 642, 648, 651 Boyd, M. J., 375, 376, 523 Boykin, A., 199 Boykin, A. W., 350 Boylan, A., 105 Boyle, J. M. E., 254 Boyle, M. H., 290 Boyle, P. A., 463, 464 Bradbury, T. N., 507 Braddick, O., 64 Braddock, D. L., 548 Bradley, R., 399, 402 Bradley, R. G., 134 Bradley, R. H., 102, 146–148, 296, 298, 309, 312 Bradlyn, A. S., 643 Bradshaw, C. P., 386, 526 Brady, A. E., 113 Brady, C. B., 452, 454, 459, 460 Braillon, P., 311 Brainerd, C., 198, 200, 204 Brand, R. J., 78, 159 Brand, S. R., 93, 94, 127 Brandtst¨adter, J., 3, 4, 6, 7, 49, 271, 366, 369, 468, 523, 605, 616, 619, 622, 627, 628, 630–632 Branje, S. J. T., 343, 344, 346, 347, 356, 411 Brannon, E. M., 75 Brant, L. J., 478 Bratberg, G. H., 297, 311 Braungart, J. M., 105 Braungart-Rieker, J., 233

Braungart-Rieker, J. M., 98, 102, 223 Braver, S. L., 572, 573 Braver, T. S., 468 Brazelton, T. B., 96, 97, 101, 102, 110, 144, 145, 150, 154, 159, 265, 274, 275 Breant, B., 127 Bremner, J. G., 63 Brendgen, M., 254, 408, 412 Brendtro, L. K., 380 Breneiser, J., 458 Brennan, K., 645, 647 Brennan, K. H., 578 Brennan, M., 524 Brennan, S. L., 440 Brennan, W., 61 Brenner, E., 219 Brenner, S. L., 529 Brent, H. P., 71 Brent, M. R., 192 Brentano, C., 290, 572 Brentano, E., 49 Bretherton, I., 102, 104, 107, 110, 112, 218, 406 Breton, C., 127 Brettschneider, W., 329, 332 Brewer, D. J., 322 Brez, C. N., 79 Bridger, W. H., 70 Bridges, L. J., 216 Bril, B., 152, 153 Brim, O. G., 520 Bringuier, J.-C., 199, 201–204, 206, 207 Briones, E., 352, 355, 357, 381, 383 Brissette, I., 484 Brittian, A., 373–375, 530 Broadbent, J. M., 581 Brockomole, J. R., 619 Broderick, J. E., 444 Brodersen, L., 128 Brody, G. H., 258, 259, 295, 300, 324, 396, 525, 556 Brody, N., 199 Brokenleg, M., 380 Bronfenbrenner, U., 3, 6, 7, 25, 228, 267–269, 272, 280, 290, 366, 373, 407, 408, 518, 519, 529, 530, 533, 552, 553, 598, 605 Bronfman, E., 101, 110

Bronk, C. K., 651 Bronk, K. C., 367 Bronson, G., 129 Brookes, S., 187 Brookmeyer, K. A., 326, 327, 331–333 Brookmeyer, R., 459 Brooks, P. J., 218 Brooks, R., 78, 187 Brooks-Gunn, J., 107, 146–148, 217, 300, 303, 305, 310, 367, 373, 379–381, 384–387, 396, 507, 531 Brown, A. L., 209 Brown, B. B., 274, 275, 339, 398, 401, 409, 410, 419, 531, 582, 583 Brown, C., 107 Brown, C. H., 354, 378, 526 Brown, C. S., 354 Brown, E., 70–72, 76, 78, 497, 506, 508 Brown, E. C., 381, 382, 386 Brown, E. G., 403, 417 Brown, G. W., 416 Brown, J., 564 Brown, J. L., 525–528 Brown, J. R., 258 Brown, J. S., 532, 646 Brown, K., 258 Brown, L. M., 408 Brown, M., 404 Brown, M. M., 223 Brown, N., 191 Brown, R., 161, 206, 341, 580 Brown, S. B., 409, 419 Brown, S. L., 585, 607 Brown, S. R., 107 Browne, M. W., 609 Brownell, C. A., 93, 100 Brownell, H. H., 178 Browning, C. R., 531 Brownlee, S., 631 Brubacher, S. P., 578–580 Brubaker, R., 341 Bruce, J., 136 Bruck, M., 575, 577, 578, 580 Bruckman, A., 645, 647 Brueckner, L., 64 Brugman, G. M., 466, 467 Brumaghim, J. T., 252

Author Index

Brummett, B. H., 529, 606 Bruner, J., 7, 146, 149, 197, 198, 200, 203, 204, 206, 277 Bruns, A., 67 Brunt, J., 77 Bryan, C., 103 Bryant, A. R., 350 Bryk, A. S., 176, 190, 326 Bub, D. N., 46 Buccino, A., 222 Buchanan, C. M., 330, 333, 369, 399, 413 Buchanan, L., 395 Buchsbaum, H. K., 104 Bucht, G., 456 Buck, G. M., 289, 294 Buck, K., 101 Buck, M. J., 403 Buckhalt, J. A., 130, 228 Buckingham, D., 639, 647 Buckleitner, W., 640 Buckley, J. P., 583 Buck Louis, G. M., 296, 298 Budge, M. M., 442, 444 Budreau, D. R., 71 Bugental, D. B., 249, 251, 395, 406 Buhl, H. M., 344 Buhrmester, D. P., 397, 408, 409, 410 Buist, K. L., 415 Buitelaar, J. K., 93, 94, 554 Bukacha, C. M., 71 Bukowski, W. M., 244, 254, 255, 408–412, 414 Bulcroft, K., 507 Bulf, H., 71 Bull, R., 580 Bullock, B. M., 405, 418 Bullock, K., 533 Bullock, M., 107 Bundick, M. J., 24 Bundy, R. S., 62 Buntinx, W. H. E., 550 Burack, J. A., 231, 562 Burbach, D. J., 401 Burchinal, M., 96, 398 Burchinal, M. R., 322, 324–326 Bureau, J.-F., 110 Buresh, J. S., 176 Burge, D., 401 Burgess, E. O., 520

Burgess, E. W., 482 Burgess, K. B., 409, 411, 412, 415 Burgess, L., 484 Burgess, M., 441 Burgess-Limerick, R., 653 Burian, R. M., 39 Buriel, R., 216, 399, 401, 402 Burk, J. P., 290 Burk, W., 411 Burk, W. J., 312 Burkitt, I., 344, 346, 355 Burklund, L. J., 134, 135 Burns, B. J., 290, 299 Burraston, B., 331, 332 Burraston, B. O., 136 Burrington, L. A., 531 Burt, K. B., 232, 371 Burt, S. A., 479, 480 Burton, D., 410 Bus, A. G., 148 Busch, C. M., 477 Busch-Rossnagel, N. A., 517, 518, 519, 522, 529, 535, 619, 632 Bush, G., 129 Bushnell, I. W. R., 71 Bushnik, T., 253 Buskirk, A. A., 412 Buss, A., 602 Buss, A. H., 220 Buss, D. M., 406 Buss, K., 105, 222 Buss, K. A., 121, 135, 221 Bussey, K., 580 Butler, J. B., 487 Butler, R., 524 Butterworth, G. E., 71, 76 Buttner, G., 325 Buunk, B. P., 503, 506 Buysse, A., 558 Bybee, D., 349 Bynner, J. M., 340, 356 Byrd-Craven, J., 504 Cabeza, R., 462, 463, 468 Cabral, H., 109 Cabrera, D. A., 598 Cabrera, N., 107, 145 Cacioppo, J. T., 500, 504, 505, 624 Cadman, D. T., 290 Cadoret, R. J., 402, 405 Cahill, C., 535

665

Cairns, B. D., 4, 395, 410, 412, 413, 414 Cairns, E., 216, 224, 229, 230 Cairns, R. B., 4, 7, 395, 410, 412, 413 Cajochen, C., 312 Calabrese, J. R., 232 Caldera, Y. M., 102, 108 Calder´on, M., 148 Calderon, M., 322 Caldji, C., 134 Caldwell, C. H., 532 Caldwell, K., 412 Calkins, S., 132 Calkins, S. D., 92, 99, 100, 102, 103, 105, 216, 218, 219, 223, 411 Call, J., 40, 175 Callan, V. J., 497 Callanan, M. A., 187 Calvert, S. L., 648 Cameron, A., 127 Cameron, D., 67 Cameron, J. L., 123 Cameron, S., 579 Cameron, S. J., 560, 561 Camino, L., 530, 533 Camparo, L., 576 Campbell, C. G., 609 Campbell, D. T., 272, 385 Campbell, R., 43 Campbell, S. B., 216, 224, 225, 228, 230, 232 Campione-Barr, N., 399 Campo, A. E., 354 Campos, J. J., 63, 98, 101–104, 129, 164, 215 Campos, R. G., 215 Cannon, W. B., 504 Cano, M. A., 354, 357 Cantu, C., 351, 357 Capaldi, D., 417 Capirci, O., 155 Caplan, M., 96 Cappa, S. F., 179 Cappell, K. A., 465, 467, 468 Capps, L., 554 Card, J., 68 Carey, S., 69, 72–75, 198 Carlo, G., 341, 351 Carlson, C., 462

666

Author Index

Carlson, E. A., 110, 111, 226 Carlson, J. J., 108 Carlson, M., 135 Carlson, M. C., 466 Carlson, S. E., 79 Carlson, S. M., 102, 125 Carlson, V. J., 146 Carnes, B. A., 524 Carney, D. P. J., 581 Caronongan, P., 531 Carot, J. M., 222 Carpendale, J. I. M., 25, 40 Carpenter, B. D., 445, 478 Carpenter, M., 40, 70, 104, 106, 155, 175, 184, 187 Carpenter, W., 532 Carr, D., 368 Carr, N. G., 640 Carr, S., 93 Carraher, D. W., 206 Carraher, T. N., 206 Carrell, S. E., 526, 527 Carrion, V. G., 136 Carroll, D., 504 Carroll, M. D., 440 Carskadon, M. A., 312, 331 Carstensen, L. L., 445, 457, 461–463, 475, 482, 488–490, 498, 508, 523, 621–624, 629 Carter, A. S., 559 Carter, R., 300, 301 Cartwright, F., 620 Carver, C. S., 484, 622, 628 Carver, L. J., 80, 104 Casasola, M., 76 Case, A., 420 Case, R., 198, 200, 204–209 Casey, B. J., 66, 67, 291, 292, 484 Casey, R. J., 71 Casey, V. A., 299 Cashmore, J., 574, 575 Cashon, C. H., 73, 74 Caskie, G. I. L., 476, 477 Caspi, A., 121, 133, 220–222, 230, 232, 246, 247, 300, 301, 303, 306, 308, 346, 347, 394, 397, 463, 475, 476, 478, 479, 484, 529, 563, 581, 603, 604, 610 Cassano, M., 219 Cassel, W., 580

Cassell, J., 652 Cassia, V. M., 71 Cassidy, J., 105, 108–112, 216, 225, 406, 497 Cassidy, K., 192, 258 Cassidy, K. W., 218 Cass Lorente, C., 381, 383, 386 Castellano, J. M., 293 Castellanos, F. X., 291 Castellanos, I., 70 Castillo, L. G., 352, 354, 357 Caswell, L. W., 463 Catalano, R. F., 290, 330, 368, 379–382, 384, 386, 387, 412 Cate, R., 508 Cattell, R., 454 Cauce, A. M., 404 Caudill, W., 154, 164 Cauffman, E., 303, 304, 309, 582, 583, 585 Caughlin, J. P., 508 Caughy, M., 532 Cavan, R. S., 482 Cavanagh, S., 328 Caver, K. A., 352 Ceci, S., 199 Ceci, S. J., 575, 577, 578, 580 Cecire, S., 155 Cederborg, A.-C., 575 Cejka, E., 648 Cellerier, G., 201 Ceppi, E., 135 Cerratto-Pargman, T., 647 Cesaroni, C., 585 Chaikelson, J., 484 Chakofsky-Lewy, N., 148 Chakraborty, S., 298 Chakraborty, T. R., 298 Chalabaev, A., 323 Champagne, D. L., 123, 124 Champion, C., 400 Champion, K. M., 527 Chan, A., 395, 411, 414 Chandler, M. J., 21 Chang, L., 248, 251, 252, 409, 410 Chao, L. L., 46 Chao, R., 401 Chapman, M., 406 Charles, S., 462, 501 Charles, S. T., 461–463, 475, 482, 489, 498, 622, 623, 625

Charman, T., 80 Charness, N., 618 Chase, P., 377, 381, 385, 394 Chase, W. P., 61 Chatterton, R. T., 504 Chatzisarantis, L. D., 325 Chau, C., 648 Chaudhary, N., 252 Chaudhuri, J., 7 Chavajay, P., 266 Chavous, T. M., 324 Chawla, S., 177 Cheatham, C. L., 68, 79 Chee, M., 505 Chee, M. W. L., 463 Cheh, A. I., 505 Chen, E., 123, 506 Chen, H., 101 Chen, J. T., 438 Chen, P. C., 507 Chen, R., 404 Chen, S., 164, 353, 356 Chen, T. M., 652 Chen, X., 396, 398, 408–410, 500 Chen, Y., 525 Chen, Y. R., 341, 351 Chen, Y.-F., 324 Cherlin, A. J., 340, 573 Chernausek, S. D., 296 Cherney, I. D., 395 Chesney, M., 437 Chess, S., 98–100, 220, 223 Chevalley, T., 311 Chiarello, C., 178 Chiarello, R. J., 179 Chicz-DeMet, A., 93 Chicz-Demet, A., 127 Chilcoat, H. D., 402 Chin, J., 244 Ching, C. C., 641, 648 Chinsky, J. M., 563 Chiong, C., 650 Chiou, J., 653 Chipperfield, J. G., 523, 524 Chipuer, H. M., 325, 326 Chisholm, K., 135, 250 Chistovich, I. A., 161 Chistovich, L. A., 161 Chiu, C.-Y., 349 Choi, D. C., 122, 125 Choi, S., 162

Author Index

Choi, S. H., 163, 275 Chomsky, N., 69, 173, 180, 198, 206, 207 Choudhury, N., 66 Chow, S.-M., 233 Choy, J., 191 Christakis, N. A., 500 Christakos, A., 395 Christensen, H., 465 Christensen, K., 524 Christie, M., 164 Christopherson, S. B., 408 Christopoulos, C., 404 Chrousos, G. P., 123, 294, 299, 309, 311 Chumlea, W. C., 294, 296, 297 Chun, D. S., 497 Chung, H. L., 78 Church, M. A., 628, 629 Cicchetti, D., 91, 94, 102, 105, 107, 112, 135, 136, 216, 226, 229–232, 252, 372, 376, 525, 528, 529, 562, 575, 576 Cichy, K. E., 507 Cicirelli, V. G., 556 Cifuentes, R. F., 127 Cillesen, A. H. N., 255 Cizza, G., 311 Claes, M., 404, 408 Clancey, W. J., 457 Clancy, P., 187 Clapp-Channing, N. E., 606 Clark, C. M., 445 Clark, C. R., 463 Clark, D. C., 580 Clark, E. V., 184, 187, 576 Clark, H. H., 68, 576 Clark, J., 532 Clark, K. B., 519 Clark, K. E., 415 Clark, M. M., 245 Clark, M. P., 519 Clark, R., 221 Clarke-Plaskie, M., 487 Clarke-Stewart, A., 253, 255, 256, 572 Clarke-Stewart, A. K., 96 Clarke-Stewart, K. A., 586 Clark-Lempers, D. S., 401 Claus, E., 582 Claussen, A., 404

Clayton, C. J., 526 Clayton, P., 293 Clayton, V. P., 618 Clearfield, M. W., 75, 76 Cleary, S. D., 602 Clements, D. H., 641, 648, 649 Clements, M., 507, 508 Clifford, A., 66 Clifton, R., 65 Clifton, R. K., 67 Clinton, W., 223 Closson, M., 583 Cloud, G., 522 Clow, A., 506 Clowa, A., 505 Coan, J. A., 223 Coart, 445 Coats, E. J., 628, 629 Coatsworth, J., 386, 387, 519 Coatsworth, J. D., 232, 233, 353, 372 Cobb, S., 134 Cocas, L. A., 76 Cochat, P., 311 Cochran, M. M., 414, 420 Cocker, K. D., 66 Coez, A., 554 Coffey-Corina, S., 179 Coffino, B., 111 Cogburn, C., 324 Cohen, A.-L., 451, 457, 458, 460 Cohen, D., 277 Cohen, D. J., 216 Cohen, G., 325 Cohen, H. J., 505 Cohen, J. D., 79 Cohen, J. L., 502 Cohen, L. B., 63, 64, 66, 68, 73, 74, 76, 77, 247 Cohen, M., 421 Cohen, M. R., 31 Cohen, R., 258 Cohen, R. D., 620 Cohen, S., 502, 505, 603, 604, 621 Cohler, B. J., 91 Cohn, D., 404 Cohn, J. F., 103, 225 Cohn, M. A., 603 Coie, J. D., 224, 412, 415 Coiro, J., 647

667

Coiro, M. J., 560 Colangelo, M., 467 Colby, A., 652 Coldren, J. T., 63, 65, 76 Cole, H., 407 Cole, M., 5, 7, 48, 204, 206, 207, 265, 266, 270, 271, 277 Cole, P. M., 216, 218 Cole, S., 207 Cole, S. W., 123, 643 Coleman, C., 417 Coleman, C. C., 421 Coleman, J. W., 353 Coleman, S., 652 Coleman, S. T., 350 Colin, V. L., 216 Coll, C. G., 146–148 Collins, A., 646 Collins, F. S., 601 Collins, K. J., 486 Collins, M. A., 550 Collins, W. A., 396, 397, 399, 400, 402, 403 Collman, G. W., 296, 301, 313 Colman, K. A., 299 Colombetti, G., 46, 48, 52 Colombo, J., 62–68, 76, 79, 80 Colvin, M., 79 Colwell, L. H., 583 Colwell, M. J., 102, 108, 218, 219 Comas, A. P., 298 Comblain, C., 462 Comfort, C., 412 Comings, D., 310 Compas, B., 219 Conant, D., 80 Conboy, B. T., 179 Concepcion, W., 532 Conde de Borrego, L., 298 Condie, L., 584 Condon, L. M., 128 Cone, R. D., 123 Conforti, R. J., 653 Conger, K. J., 95, 96 Conger, R. D., 221, 295, 300, 301, 333, 396, 401, 402, 405 Connell, C. M., 620 Connell, J. P., 381 Connellan, J., 71 Connidis, I. A., 501 Connolly, J., 395, 419

668

Author Index

Connor, R. T., 554 Conroy, M. M., 128 Constantino, J. N., 558 Conti, R., 347 Cook, T., 417 Cooper, C. R., 281 Cooper, F., 341 Cooper, L., 532 Cooper, R. G., 74 Cooper, R. P., 62, 78, 161 Cooperman, G., 217 Coots, J., 146 Copeland, W., 300, 301 Coplan, R. J., 408, 411 Coppola, M., 176 Corbie-Smith, G., 533 Cordes, C., 648 Cordes, S., 75 Cordon, I. M., 576 Core, C., 190 Coriell, M., 502 Corley, R., 177 Cornelius, S. W., 520 Cornelius, W., 354 Cornell, D., 326, 327 Cornog, M., 533 Correa-Ch´avez, M., 155, 253 Corsico, A., 133 Corter, C., 257, 556 Corwyn, R. F., 146–148, 296, 298, 309, 312 Costa, F. M., 605, 606 Costa, P. R., 346 Costa, P. T., 441, 475–478, 483 Costa, P. T. J., 400 Costanzo, E. S., 485 Costanzo, P. R., 400 Costello, E. J., 230, 290, 299–301, 311 Coster, W. J., 107 Costigan, C. L., 396, 559 Costigan, K. A., 66 Cˆot´e, J. E., 340–345, 347–349, 356, 357 Cote, L. R., 162 Cottrell, G. W., 71 Coulter, D. L., 550 Coulthard, R. M., 149 Counselman, K. P., 398 Courage, M. L., 63, 66 Couzin-Frankel, J., 445

Covinsky, K., 532 Cowan, C. P., 227, 228, 408 Cowan, P., 204 Cowan, P. A., 227, 228, 408 Cowie, H., 255 Cox, A., 401 Cox, C. L., 467 Cox, M. J., 103, 226, 227, 407, 408, 526 Coy, K., 396, 397 Coy, K. C., 105 Coyle, M., 311 Coyne, J. C., 231, 232, 445 Crago, M. B., 178 Craig, E. M., 550 Craig, I. W., 133, 230, 247, 563 Craig, W., 254, 255 Craik, F., 618 Craik, F. I. M., 24, 26, 452, 453, 455, 464, 465, 469 Crain, S., 174, 182 Crapps, J. M., 556 Craw, S., 577 Crawford, A., 396, 398, 400, 401 Crawford, J. R., 458 Crawford, P., 296, 298 Crawley, S. B., 554 Cree, G. S., 46 Cree, W., 531 Creed, P. A., 325, 326 Creem, S. H., 67 Creemens, P. R., 102, 108 Cribbs, J., 531 Crick, N. R., 224, 394, 397, 415 Crimmins, E. M., 445, 497, 505, 524 Criqui, M. H., 478, 484, 610 Criss, M., 250 Crittenden, P., 404, 407 Crnic, K., 551, 560 Crocetti, E., 343, 344 Crockenberg, S. C., 223 Crocker, J., 485 Crockett, L., 298 Crockett, L. J., 417 Crohan, S. E., 508 Cromer, C., 576 Crone, D. A., 148 Crook, C., 641 Crosby, L., 412

Crosnoe, R., 327–330, 332, 333, 603 Cross, D., 217 Cross, S., 486, 487 Cross, S. E., 349, 357 Crouter, A. C., 251, 257, 259, 399 Crowe, P. A., 395 Crowley, K., 29 Crowley, M. L., 333 Croyle, K. L., 463 Cruess, D. G., 505 Csako, G., 311 Csibra, G., 66, 80 Csikszentmihalyi, M., 6, 397, 405, 408, 414, 600 Csordas, T. J., 48 Cuban, L., 644, 646 Cuffman, E., 294, 299 Cuijpers, P., 397, 412 Cullinan, W. E., 122 Cumberland, A., 215, 219 Cumberland-Li, A. J., 400 Cumming, E., 498, 622 Cummings, A. C., 215 Cummings, E., 482 Cummings, E. M., 96, 98, 215–217, 219, 224, 226–234, 400, 406, 408 Cummings, J. S., 228, 233, 406 Cumsille, P. E., 438 Cunningham, M., 371 Curtis, W. J., 94 Curtiss, S., 176, 178 Curtner-Smith, M. E., 404 Cusack, S. A., 466 Cuskelly, M., 556, 557 Cutler, G. B., 294 Cutrona, C. D., 324 Cutrona, C. E., 295, 396 Cutting, A. L., 218 Cymerman, E., 191 Cyphers, L., 146, 164, 186 Cyr, M., 579 Czerwinski, S. A., 296 Daddis, C., 394–396, 412 Dadds, M., 557 Dadlani, M. B., 484 D’Agostine, R. B., 440 D’Agostino, R. B., 440, 442, 444

Author Index

Dahl, R. E., 128, 131, 291, 294, 299, 312, 314, 330, 331 Dahlin, E., 465 Dai, J., 439, 445 Dailey, M. N., 71 Dale, P. S., 162, 177, 178, 576, 577, 580 D’Alessio, A. C., 124 Dallal, G. E., 296 Dallapiccola, B., 222 Dallas, E., 556, 557 Dallman, M. F., 122, 123 D’Alonzo, K., 520 Daly, M., 532 Daly, M. J., 563 Damasio, A. R., 38, 39, 46, 47 Damon, A., 299 Damon, W., 21, 24, 200, 203, 204, 265, 269, 282, 365, 367, 368, 382, 385, 600, 651 Damond, M., 549 D’Andrade, R. G., 267 Daniels, D., 405 Daniels, E., 412 Daniels, S. R., 295, 296, 298 Danish, S. J., 413 Dannemiller, J. L., 62, 64, 71 Danner, D., 604 Dapretto, M., 253, 554, 555 D’Argembeau, A., 462 Dariotis, J. K., 253 Darling, N. E., 224, 248, 401, 403, 404, 417, 419, 420 Darling-Hammond, L., 322 Darnaudery, M., 127 Daruwala, A., 463 Darvasi, A., 247 Dasen, P. R., 266, 267, 269 Das Gupta, M., 110 Dasgupta, S. D., 398 Davatzikos, C., 463 Davey, A., 438–441 David, L., 311 Davidov, M., 249, 252, 253 Davidow, J., 73 Davidson, D., 217, 218 Davidson, R. J., 128, 130, 132, 222 Davies, I. R. L., 66 Davies, K. I., 163 Davies, M., 602

Davies, M. S., 554, 555 Davies, P. T., 96, 215, 216, 219, 224, 226–228, 230–232, 234, 400 Davila, C., 531 Davis, A. M., 293 Davis, B., 404 Davis, B. T., 227 Davis, C., 373 Davis, C. H., 556 Davis, E. P., 93, 121, 127, 129 Davis, L., 531 Davis, S. L., 579 Davis, T. C., 444 Davis-Kean, P., 321, 323, 326, 328, 330, 332 Davison, K. K., 298, 309 Dawes, N. P., 370 Dawson, D. V., 445 Dawson, G., 93, 129 Dawson-Hughes, B., 299 Day, D. M., 560, 561 Dayton, C. J., 554 Dayton, E., 532 Deal, J. E., 610 Deardorff, J., 296, 302–304, 309 Dearing, E., 531 Dearing, R. L., 217 DeArth-Pendley, G., 232 Deary, I. J., 460, 485 Deater-Deckard, K., 247, 248, 250–252, 412 Deaton, A., 444 de Bellis, M. D., 136 DeCarlo, C. A., 96, 215 Decety, J., 46 Deci, E. L., 347, 549 DeClercq, B., 346 DeCorcia, J. A., 105 DeCourcey, W., 407 Decuyper, M., 346 De Deyn, P. P., 445 Deeg, D. J. H., 459 de Faire, U., 460 de Falco, S., 97, 555 DeFrancisco, B. S., 65 de Frias, C. M., 452, 453, 458, 468 DeFries, J. C., 563 de Frutos, R., 222 DeFruyt, F., 346

669

DeGarmo, D., 532 Degirmencioglu, S. M., 395, 408, 411, 413 Degnan, K. A., 100 de Groat, C. L., 354 de Groot, R. H. M., 452, 457 De Haan, J. T., 413 de Haan, M., 126, 132, 222, 352 Dehaene, S., 179 DeHart, G., 294, 299, 303, 304, 309 de Heering, A., 71 DeJesus, O., 94 DeJong, G. M., 503, 506 de Kloet, E. R., 123, 124, 128 DeKlyen, M., 108, 109 Dekoviae, M., 352 Dekovi´c, M., 404, 405, 415 Delemarre-van de Waal, H. A., 297 de Lemos, J. A., 445 de Leon, M. J., 459 Del Giudice, M., 130 Delle Fave, A., 607 Dellinger-Pate, C., 653 Delmas, P. D., 311 Delonis, M. S., 101, 102, 110 De Los Reyes, A., 406 DeLuca, A., 222 DelVecchio, W. F., 99, 221, 347, 475–477 Demerath, E., 296 Demetriou, A., 23, 25, 27 De Meyer, G., 445 Demick, J., 6 Demirtas, H., 438 DeMulder, E., 219 Demuth, K., 190 Denessen, E., 323 Denham, S., 244, 408 Denham, S. A., 216, 217, 219, 253 Denison, S., 69 Dennett, D., 49 Dennis, J., 417 Dennis, M. P., 630 Dennis, N. A., 468 Dennis, T., 216, 218 Dennissen, J. A., 479 Denollet, J., 603 Dent, C., 410 Dent, H. R., 577, 580 Depping, M., 377

670

Author Index

Der, G., 504 Derby, C. A., 459 de Ribaupierre, A., 619 de Ridder, D. T. D., 490 Derks, E. M., 438 DeRosier, M. E., 410, 411, 412 de Rosnay, M., 216, 218 Derryberry, D., 218, 603 Deruelle, C., 71 DeSantis, J., 417 DeSantis, L., 551, 552 Descartes, R., 28 de Schonen, S., 66, 71 Deshmukh, I., 92, 96 Desimone, L. M., 322 Desmond, J., 80 Despr´es, J. P., 311 De Stefanis, I., 348, 523 DeThorne, L. S., 247 Dettenborn, L., 124, 505 Detterman, D. K., 62 Dettling, A. C., 130 Detweiler, J. B., 603 Deuschle, M., 311 Deutch, G., 178 Devaney, E., 526 Deveau, T. C., 134 de Villiers, J., 186 Devlin, A. M., 124, 127 de Vries, H., 413 de Vries, N. K., 604 de Weerth, C., 93, 94, 135 Dewey, D., 327, 558 Dewey, J., 7, 34 De Winter, A. F., 247, 248 De Witte, H., 344 De Wolff, M., 218, 225 DeWolff, M. S., 110, 111, 572, 573 Dexter, A., 253 Diakopoulous, N., 648, 649 Diamond, A., 79, 105, 526, 528 Diaz, E. M., 327 Diaz, I., 70 Diaz, P., 572, 573 Diaz, S., 129 Dick, A. S., 52 Dick, D. M., 301 Dickerson, S. S., 504 Dickinson, S. L., 505 Dickson, M. W., 522

Dickson, N., 478, 479, 484, 581, 610 Dickson, P., 164 Dickstein, S., 110 DiCorcia, J. A., 105 Diego, M., 93 Dieguez, C., 293 Diehl, M., 461, 618, 624 Diehr, P. H., 444 Diener, C., 489 Diener, E., 489, 603, 621, 623 Dieppe, P., 620 Diesendruck, G., 184 Dieter, J., 93 Dietz, C., 554 Dietz, W. H., 296, 311 Dignath, C., 325 Dik, M. G., 459 Dill, J. R., 519, 520, 525, 527, 529 Dillihunt, M. L., 350 Dillow, S. A., 547 Dilthey, W., 32 Dilworth-Anderson, P., 440 Dimartino-Nardi, J., 293, 301 Dimas, J. M., 354 Dimitropoulou, K. A., 162, 163 DiModugno, M. K., 79 Dinh, K. T., 354 Dionne, G., 177 DiPietro, J. A., 66, 94 DiPietro, L., 602 Dishion, T. J., 248, 351, 352, 354, 386, 401, 405, 411–413, 415, 417, 418, 585 Dishon, T. J., 331, 332 Dix, T., 406 Dixon, R. A., 4, 441, 451–461, 464, 465, 467–469, 520, 629 Dixon, S., 96, 97, 144, 145, 150, 154, 159, 265, 274, 275 D’Mello, M., 577, 578 Dmitrieva, J., 526, 527 Do, Y., 532 Dobbs, A., 457 Dobkins, K. R., 80 Doblhammer, G., 524 Dobrich, W., 148 Dobson, L. A., 560, 561 Dockray, S., 312 Dodd, D., 576 Dodd, S., 311

Dodge, K. A., 224, 248, 251, 252, 299, 302, 304, 305, 308, 309, 397, 404, 412, 415 Doernberger, C. H., 232 Doherty, N. A., 407 Doi, T., 164 Dolan, C. V., 438 Dolcos, F., 462, 463 Dollaghan, C., 183 Domitrovich, C. E., 526 Donelan, N., 258 Donellan, M. B., 604 Dong, Q., 605, 606 Donnelian, M. B., 479, 480 Donnellan, M. B., 221, 346 Donnermeyer, J. F., 412 D’Onofrio, B. M., 302, 303, 306, 308–310 Donzella, B., 128–130, 132, 135 Dorado, J., 579, 580 Doran, M. M., 65, 66, 76, 77 Dore, G. A., 439, 440, 442, 444 Dorham, C., 351, 352, 354 Dorius, C., 572, 573, 575 Dorn, L. D., 289, 294, 299, 301, 309, 311–314 Dornbusch, S. M., 248, 401, 404, 417, 419, 420 D¨orner, J., 467 Dorris, L., 558 Dosher, B. A., 67 Doudin, P. A., 218 Dougherty, L. M., 475, 489 Douglas-Palumberi, H., 133 Doussard-Roosevelt, J. A., 554 Douvan, E., 507 Dovidio, J., 532 Dowey, A., 558 Dowling, E., 7, 530 Dowling, E. M., 290, 381, 600 Downer, J. T., 527 Downey, G., 231, 232 Doyle, A., 399, 530 Doyle, A. B., 408 Doyle, W. J., 603 Dozier, M., 109, 110, 135, 136 Dragan, W. L., 247 Drake, D., 369, 530, 531 Draper, P., 302, 303, 308, 309, 311 Dreyfus, H. L., 32 Dreyfus, S. E., 32

Author Index

Drigotas, S. M., 506 Drinkwater, M., 396, 398, 400, 401 Drizin, S. A., 583, 584, 587 Drop, M. J., 413 Druin, A., 650 Dryfoos, J. D., 379, 381, 386 Duara, R., 440 Dubanoski, J. P., 610 Dubas, J. S., 251, 253 DuBois, D. L., 373 Dubois, M.-F., 617 Dubrow, N., 229 Duchek, J. M., 445, 478 Ducimeti´ere, P., 460 Duckett, E., 397, 419 Duckworth, A. L., 333, 334 Dudgeon, S., 466 Dudley-Marling, C., 551 Dufouil, C., 460 Duguid, P., 646 Dukakis, K., 379 Duke, J., 631 Dukewich, T. L., 226 Dulay, M., 532 Dulcan, M., 583 Duncan, S. C., 417 Duncan, T. E., 417 Dunger, D. B., 311 Dunham, F., 186 Dunham, K., 408 Dunham, P. J., 186 Dunkel-Schetter, C., 506 Dunn, E., 127 Dunn, J., 95, 144, 176, 218, 257, 258, 556 Dunn, L., 148 Dunne, G., 218 Dunphy, D. C., 409 Dunst, C. J., 559 Dunstan, J., 93 DuPertuis, L. L., 606 Dupous, E., 179 Dur´an, L., 229 Duran, R., 322 Duriez, B., 343–345, 347, 357 Durkheim, E., 606 Durkin, K., 518 Durlak, J. A., 384, 386, 526 Du Rocher Schudlich, T. D., 98, 227, 232, 233

Durrant, C., 133 Durrheim, K., 532 Duscherer, K., 46 Dusenbury, L., 502 Duster, T., 532, 536 Dutta, R., 279 Dutton Stepick, C., 352 Duursma, E., 148 Dvoskin, R. L., 133 Dwairy, M., 349 Dweck, C. S., 325 Dworkin, J., 348 Dworkin, J. B., 370 Dwyer, J., 299, 584 Dyches, T., 557 Dykas, M. J., 497 Dyke, P., 557 Dykens, E. M., 559, 561 Dykstra, P. A., 340 Dymnicki, A. B., 526 Dymov, S., 124 Dziurawiec, S., 71 Earl, J., 652 Earl, N. E., 445 Earls, F., 135, 531 Early, D., 413 Easterbrook, M. A., 71 Easterbrooks, M. A., 92, 95, 96, 100, 104, 107, 108, 110–113, 225–227 Eastmond, E., 645, 647 Eaton, K. L., 218 Eaves, L., 133 Eaves, L. J., 230, 400 Ebner, N. C., 489, 626 Ebstein, R. P., 222, 247 Ebstrup, J. F., 484, 485 Eccard, C. H., 136 Eccles, J. S., 220, 321–334, 366, 369, 370, 385, 400, 404, 413, 416, 417, 529–531, 534 Echevarria, D. J., 124 Eckensberger, L H., 40, 49 Eckensberger, L. H., 40, 270, 271 Eckerman, C. O., 65 Eckhorn, R., 67 Eddy, J., 532 Edelbrock, C., 560 Edelman, G. M., 21, 39, 46–48 Edelstein, R. S., 575

671

Eder, D., 395, 411 Edmonds, C., 532 Edmundson, M., 92 Edwards, C., 532 Edwards, C. P., 151 Edwards, J. D., 465 Egan, E., 381, 382, 386 Egeland, B., 110, 111, 575 Egelston, B. L., 444 Eggum, N. D., 130 Ehlert, U., 134, 504 Eibach, R., 36 Eichas, K., 383 Eichelsheim, V. I., 251 Eicher, S. A., 409 Eichorn, D., 300 Eichorst, D. L., 162 Eickholt, C., 404 Eigsti, I., 484 Eimas, P. D., 179 Einfeld, S., 553 Einstein, G. O., 457, 458 Eisdorfer, C., 440, 442 Eisele, S., 94 Eisenberg, M. E., 327 Eisenberg, N., 100, 105, 130, 215, 219, 244, 249, 254, 397, 400 Eisenberger, N. I., 134, 135 Eisengart, J., 182 Eisenmann, J. C., 123 Ekas, N. V., 561 Ekkekakis, P., 123 Ekman, P., 462 Elder, G., 417 Elder, G. H., 3, 4, 6, 300, 301, 327, 328, 330, 333, 366, 373, 402, 479, 496, 532, 600, 602, 603 Eley, P. C., 133 Eley, T. C., 177, 178 Elfers, T., 247 Elias, M. F., 439–442, 444 Elias, M. J., 323, 325, 326 Elias, P. K., 439, 440, 442, 444 Elicker, J., 406, 415 Elkind, D., 200, 204, 347 Elkins, I. J., 395, 396 Ellenbogen, M. A., 400 Elliman, L., 551 Elliot, A. J., 628, 629 Elliott, D. S., 416

672

Author Index

Ellis, B. J., 93, 130, 131, 296, 299, 302–305, 308, 309, 528 Ellis, R., 46 Ellis, W. E., 254 Ellison, D., 557, 558 Ellman, A. B., 504 Ellman, L., 93 Elman, J., 68, 80, 199 Elman, J. L., 31, 192 Elmore-Staton, L., 228 Elmquist, J. K., 123 Elovainio, M., 610 Elsabbagh, M., 80 El-Sheikh, M., 130, 226, 228, 231 El Shieikh, M., 504 Emans, S. J., 296 Embry, D., 526 Emde, R. M., 128, 129 Emde, R. N., 100, 103, 104, 108, 227, 246 Emery, N. J., 125 Emery, R. E., 227, 300, 302, 303, 306, 308–310, 572 Emirbayer, M., 348 Emmerich, W., 3 Emmons, R. A., 621, 627–629 Eng, E., 533 Engel, A. K., 46, 48 Engel, G. L., 497 Engel, S. M., 127 Engelborghs, S., 445 Engels, R. C. M. E., 312, 409, 413, 555 Engle, R. W., 79 Englund, M., 406, 415 Engstr¨om, G., 445 Ennett, S. T., 412, 413 Ennis, M., 27, 33, 49 Ennis, R., 204 Entwisle, D. R., 413 Eplov, L. F., 484, 485 Epstein, J. L., 409, 411–413 Epstein, J. N., 148 Epstein, L. H., 257 Epstein, M. P., 134 Erath, S., 226, 231, 412 Erath, S. A., 130 Ercolani, A.-P., 404 Erdem, G., 233 Ereky-Stevens, K., 218 Erera, P., 407

Erickson, K. I., 466 Erickson, M. F., 525 Ericsson, K. A., 628 Erikson, E. H., 25, 41, 43, 91, 108, 112, 243, 340–345, 348, 355, 356, 466, 476, 625, 651 Erikson, J. M., 466 Erkanli, A., 290, 299, 311 Ernest, P., 646 Erngrund, K., 456 Ernst, M., 223 Ernst, R. M., 325 Ersner-Hershfield, H., 488, 489 Ertel, K. A., 521 Eshet, Y., 647 Eshet-Alkalai, Y., 647 Eskandari, F., 311 Espelage, D. L., 327 Espie, C. A. E., 558 Espinosa-Hernandez, G., 352 Esplin, P. W., 575, 576, 578–580 Esposito, G., 555 Essa, I. A., 648, 649 Essex, E. L., 559 Essex, M. J., 221, 247, 296, 302–304, 308, 309, 528 Estabrook, R., 441, 444, 524 Eto, K., 504 Euler, J., 532 Euling, S. Y., 296–298, 314 Evans, A. D., 576 Evans, A. E., 369 Evans, C., 652 Evans, D. A., 463, 524 Evans, D. E., 220 Evans, L., 128 Evans, P., 505, 506 Evans, S., 529, 531 Evanson, N. K., 123, 125 Everitt, B. J., 67 Evert, J., 439 Ewart, C. K., 505 Ewell, K. K., 417, 419 Fabes, R. A., 100, 249, 254, 400 Fabricius, W. V., 572, 573 Fadjukoff, P., 344 Fagan, A. A., 382 Fagan, J. F., 62, 79, 581, 585 Fagen, J. W., 65

Fagernessa, J. A., 132 Fagot, B. I., 415 Fahey, J. L., 604 Faircloth, B. F., 233 Faircloth, B. S., 398, 412 Falconer, J. J., 505 Fallone, M., 93 Fan, X., 327 Fantz, R. L., 61–63 Farber, B., 556 Farchaus Stein, K., 604 Farivar, S., 256 Farkas, G., 328 Farmer, P., 529 Farmer, T., 414 Farmer, T. W., 254 Farrar, M. J., 187 Farrell, A. D., 413 Farrell, D., 227 Farrell, M., 400 Farrell, R., 252 Farrington, D. P., 401 Farver, J. M., 152, 247, 403 Farwell, C. B., 190 Fashola, O. S., 322 Fauchier, A., 580 Faulkner, R. A., 311 Fauth, R. C., 531 Fawcett, L. M., 256 Fay, K., 374, 378, 383 Fazio, F., 179 Fearon, P., 135 Featherman, D. L., 476 Federenko, I., 506 Feeney, J. A., 407, 497 Feerick, M. M., 229 Feero, W. G., 601 Fegan, M., 602 Fehm, H. L., 128 Fehm-Wolfsdorf, G., 505 Feigenson, L., 75 Feinberg, M. E., 407, 526 Feinstein, C. B., 549 Feiring, C., 395 Feld, B. C., 581, 583, 585 Feldman, D. H., 6, 200–202, 204, 205, 207–210, 276 Feldman, J. A., 199, 205 Feldman, J. F., 70, 79 Feldman, P. J., 505 Feldman, R., 106, 107

Author Index

Feldman, S. S., 395 Feldman Barrett, L., 603 Feldstein, S., 101 Fellin, P., 531 Fellman, V., 66 Felt, B. T., 129 Feng, D., 500, 501 Fenson, L., 162 Fenton, R. E., 532 Fenwick, K. D., 70 Ferber, S. G., 95 Ferber, T., 378, 531 Ferguson, C. A., 159, 160, 190 Ferguson, C. J., 221 Ferguson, G., 398 Fergusson, D., 409 Fergusson, D. M., 302, 304, 305 Ferketich, S. L., 223 Ferland, M. B., 70 Fernald, A., 161 Fernandez, G., 148 Fernandez, J. B., 505 Fernandez, S. C., 190 Fernandez-Ballesteros, R., 521 Fernandez-Fernandez, R., 293 Fernyhough, C., 110 Ferrari, S., 311 Ferreiro, E., 147 Ferrer, E., 609 Ferrer-Wreder, L., 381, 383, 386, 395, 397 Ferrie, J., 441 Ferriman, K., 652 Ferris, S. H., 440 Ferrucci, L., 440, 441, 505 Ferry, A. L., 77 Fidler, J. A., 301, 302 Field, D., 476, 623 Field, L., 580 Field, S., 328 Field, T. M., 93, 155 Fielder, A. R., 66 Fiese, B. H., 252 Fifer, W. P., 93, 94 Figueiredo, H., 122 Filipp, S. H., 134 Fillenbaum, G. G., 440, 445 Filograsso, N., 222 Finch, B., 354 Fincham, F. D., 227, 229, 408 Findling, R., 232

Fine, G., 209 Fine, M., 404 Fineberg, D., 258 Fingerman, K. L., 463, 501, 507 Finkel, D., 460 Finkelhor, D., 575 Finkenauer, C., 409 Finn, J. D., 322 Finnegan, R. A., 415 Finn-Stevenson, 519 Fiori, K. L., 475, 479, 501 Firth, K. M. P., 477, 487, 488 Fischel, J. E., 148 Fischer, H., 624 Fischer, K. W., 6, 21, 24–26, 107, 198, 200, 204–206, 209 Fiser, J. Z., 69 Fisher, C. B., 7, 182, 192, 382, 517, 519, 520, 525, 527, 529–532, 534–536 Fisher, L. A., 413 Fisher, P. A., 121, 136, 218, 220, 251 Fisher, R. P., 578 Fisk, N. M., 127 Fiske, D. W., 385 Fisman, S., 557, 558 Fitch, M., 294, 299 Fitzgerald, H. E., 66, 642 Fitzgerald, P. J., 67 Fitzsimmons, C. M., 183 Fivush, R., 187, 576 Flanagan, C., 330, 333, 530, 531, 533 Flanagan, C. A., 330, 333, 520, 530, 531, 533 Flanagan, T. J., 585 Flannigan, S. L., 647 Flavell, J. H., 197–201, 204, 557 Flay, B. R., 382, 384, 410 Fleckenstein, L. K., 65 Fleeson, J., 112, 406, 407 Fleeson, W., 475, 481, 483 Flegal, K. M., 440 Fleming, C. B., 290, 368, 381, 382, 387 Fleming, S. E., 294, 299 Fletcher, A. C., 419, 420 Fletcher, G. J. O., 506 Fletcher-Flinn, C. M., 641

673

Flint, J., 133 Flom, R., 70 Flores, E., 354 Flores, G., 533 Fl´orez, K. R., 352 Floyd, F. J., 558–560 Fluck, C. E., 127 Flynn, V., 162, 163 Flyr, M. L., 417 Fodor, J., 42, 192, 198, 204, 207 Foehr, U. G., 640, 641 Fogel, A., 105–107, 153, 159, 164 Foley, D. L., 230 Foley, M. A., 577 Folkman, S., 215, 475, 490, 559 Folstein, M. F., 440 Folstein, S. E., 440 Fonagy, P., 110 Fondacaro, K. I., 219 Fonzi, A., 410 Forbes, E. E., 312, 330, 331 Ford, C., 309 Ford, D. H., 5–7, 13, 366, 596–598, 606, 608, 609 Ford, M. E., 595, 600, 607, 608 Forehand, R. L., 303, 307 Foreman, N. S., 223 Forman, Y., 365–367, 600 Forst, M. A., 585 Forster, K. I., 178 Forsyth, J. S., 79 Forte, D., 505 Fortenberry, J. D., 354 Fortenberry, K. T., 487 Forthun, L. F., 342, 344, 345, 349, 352 Fortier, J. L., 394 Fortin, M., 617 Fossdal, R., 563 Foster, D. L., 291–293, 295 Foster, E., 131 Foster, J., 93 Foster, K., 63 Foster, P. M., 296, 301, 313 Foster, W., 384, 386 Fougeyrollas, P., 551 Foutz, L., 219 Fowler, C., 209 Fowler, J. H., 500 Fox, M. A., 133

674

Author Index

Fox, N. A., 68, 92, 93, 99, 100, 102, 105, 106, 107, 128, 129, 132, 219, 222, 223, 231, 411 Frabutt, M., 532 Fradley, E., 110 Fraleigh, M., 401 Fraley, C. R., 406, 407 Fraley, R. C., 497 Francis, D., 134 Francis, K., 617 Francisco, V. T., 598 Francoeur, E., 577 Frank, D. A., 109, 532, 536 Frank, K. A., 328, 329, 332 Frank, M. C., 65, 73 Frank, R. A., 459 Frank, S. J., 394 Frankel, K. A., 223 Frankenhaeuser, M., 124 Franklin, A., 66 Franklin, N. C., 617 Fraser, E., 342 Frasier, K., 413 Fratiglioni, L., 454, 459, 465, 524 Frayer, D. A., 580 Frazier, C., 585 Fredericks, L., 323, 325, 326 Fredhoi, C., 505 Fredricks, J., 333 Fredricks, J. A., 322, 323 Fredrickson, B. L., 595, 600, 603, 607, 623 Freedman, D. S., 296 Freedman-Doan, C., 330 Freedy, J., 503 Freeman, T., 412, 557, 558 Freeman, W., 52 Freeseman, L. J., 63 French, D., 398 French, S., 351, 357 Frenn, K., 131 Frensch, P. A., 521 Frenzel, A. C., 326, 332 Freud, A., 290, 573 Freud, S., 108, 290, 476, 573 Freund, A. M., 4, 348, 367, 375, 468, 479, 487, 489, 522, 523, 621, 623, 625–630, 632 Frey, S., 312 Frick, J., 102 Frick, J. E., 63, 64, 67

Frick, K. D., 620 Fried, A. L., 520 Fried, L. P., 443, 466 Friederici, A. D., 66 Friedes, D., 69 Friedman, H. S., 475, 476, 478, 484, 485, 490, 610 Friedman, M., 603 Friedman, S., 63 Friedman, S. L., 303, 304, 309 Friedrich, M., 66 Friend, W., 479, 480 Fries, E., 124, 505 Fries, J. F., 524, 617 Friesen, W., 604 Friesen, W. V., 462 Frigerio, A., 135 Frijns, T., 342, 343, 357, 409 Fry, C. L., 557 Frye, K., 531 Fuentes, M., 101, 102, 110 Fujimi, K., 459 Fujita, K., 506 Fuld, P. A., 440 Fuligni, A. J., 351, 354, 357, 394, 404, 416, 417 Fuller-Iglesias, H., 496 Fumerton, R., 44 Fung, H. H., 164, 462, 623 Fung, J. J., 248 Furay, A. R., 125 Furman, W., 395 Furrer, S. D., 77 Furrow, J. L., 368 Furstenberg, F. F., 339, 417, 573 Fuster, J. M., 79 Futterweit, L. R., 70 Gaab, J., 504 Gable, S. L., 502 Gabriel, A., 67 Gaensbauer, T. J., 129 Gaertner, S., 532 Gagnon, L. M., 457 Gail, A., 67 Galambos, N. L., 386, 394, 396, 405 Galambos, N. S., 417 Galanko, J., 532 Galasko, D., 459 Galef, B. G., 245

Gallagher, R. S., 598 Gallagher, S., 46, 52 Galles, N. S., 179 Gallese, V., 46, 51 Gallimore, R., 271 Galliven, E., 311 Gallo, L. C., 484, 490 Gallo, M. V., 291 Galuska, D. A., 311 Galv´an, A., 255 Galvez, M. P., 296 Galvin, J. E., 441 Gambone, M. A., 381 Gang, H. X., 293 Ganger, G., 177 Ganiats, T. G., 607 Ganiban, J. M., 216 Gans, D., 500 Gapenne, O., 52 Garbarini, F., 46 Garbarino, J., 229 Garber, J., 299, 303, 305, 401 Garca Coll, C. T., 280, 281, 551, 552 Garcia, A. J., 383 Garcia, A. S., 124 Garcia, B., 530 Garcia, C. D., 341 Garcia, M., 148, 164 Garcia, V., 69 Garcia Coll, C., 5 Garcia-Mila, M., 29 Garcia-Reid, P., 326 Gardin, J. M., 443 Gardner, E., 534 Gardner, F. E. M., 253 Gardner, H., 178, 197–200, 204, 207 Gardner, J. M., 62, 69, 299 Gardner, M., 366, 409, 583 Gariepy, J. L., 412, 526 Garite, T. J., 93, 127 Garmezy, N., 372 Garrett, B., 584 Garrett, D. D., 465, 467, 468 Garrett, M., 178 Garry, M., 577, 583 Garton, A. F., 256 Garven, S., 577, 578, 583 Garwood, H., 80 Garwood, M. M., 223

Author Index

Gaskins, S., 276, 278 Gasser, U., 640–642, 648–650, 652, 653 Gathercole, S. E., 330, 334 Gathercole, V. C. M., 181 Gatz, M., 461, 463, 623, 625 Gatzke-Kopp, L., 529 Gaunt, J. T., 462, 624 Gauthier, S., 71 Gauvain, M., 245 Gavidia-Payne, S., 557 Gawande, A., 438 Gay, J., 206, 266 Gazelle, H., 409, 412 Gazzaniga, M., 178 Ge, X., 295, 300, 301, 324, 396, 401, 402, 405 Geangu, E., 244 Gearhart, M., 206 Gebotys, R., 219 Gecas, V., 400, 418 Geda, Y. E., 441 Gee, J. P., 643, 647 Geier, J., 584 Geiger, H. J., 533 Geiger, M., 149, 154, 162 Geldart, S., 71 Geldhof, J., 375 Gelernter, J., 133 Gelertner, J., 133 Gelhbach, H., 324, 325 Geller, P., 503 Geller, V., 222 Gelman, R., 52, 70, 199–201, 204, 206, 207 Gelman, S. A., 163 Gendall, K. A., 303, 307 Genishi, C., 649 Gentner, D., 162 Gentzler, A., 219 George, L. J., 508 George, L. K., 505 George, T. P., 413 Georgieff, M. K., 127 Gerhard, G., 380 Gerhardstein, P., 65 Gerken, L., 69, 189 Gerok, W., 617 Geronimus, A., 529 Gerris, J. R. M., 251, 253 Gershkoff-Stow, L., 183

Gershoff, E. T., 251, 400 Gersten, M. S., 107 Gerstman, L., 153 Gerstof, D., 441, 444, 452 Gerstorf, D., 524, 623 Gertner, J. M., 296 Gertner, Y., 182 Gervai, J., 133 Gervais, H., 554 Geschwind, D. H., 550 Gesell, A., 95 Gest, S. D., 372 Gestsd´ottir, G., 27 Gestsd´ottir, S., 348, 365–367, 373–375, 377, 381, 385, 523, 530 Gettman, D. C., 399 Geuze, R. H., 65 Geva, R., 62 Ghazarian, S. R., 532 Ghera, M. M., 66, 132 Ghetti, S., 584 Ghisletta, P., 524, 617, 619 Giallo, R., 557 Gianaros, P. J., 438 Giangrande, S. K., 223 Gianinno, L., 520, 534 Gianino, A., 101 Giarrusso, R., 500, 501, 507 Gibbons, F. X., 295, 324, 396 Gibson, E. J., 69, 202, 409, 410 Gibson, J. J., 48, 69 Gideonse, H. D., 535 Giedd, J. N., 291 Gielen, U. P., 274 Giggey, P. P., 442 Gil, A., 530 Gilbert, S. F., 35, 39 Gilbreth, J. G., 573 Gilger, J. W., 175 Gill, T. M., 461 Gillberg, C., 558 Gilles, R. M., 255 Gillette, J., 191 Gilley, J., 79 Gillham, J., 325 Gillham, J. E., 600 Gilmartin, J., 607 Gilmore, R., 564 Gilovich, T., 36 Gini, G., 256

675

Gini, M., 97 Ginsburg, H., 200–204 Giorda, R., 135 Gist, Y. J., 439 Gitau, R., 127 Gitlin, L. N., 630 Glaser, B., 136 Glaser, R., 123, 485, 505 Glastre, C., 311 Gleitman, H., 186, 191 Gleitman, L. R., 69, 175, 186, 191, 192 Glenn, N. D., 507 Glick, J., 200, 206, 266 Glidden, L. M., 559, 561 Gliozzi, V., 77 Glover, V., 93, 94, 127, 128 Gl¨uck, J., 618 Gluckman, P. D., 93, 296, 297 Glymour, M. M., 521 Glynn, L., 93 Glynn, L. M., 127 Glynn, R. J., 440 Godley, P. A., 532 Goeke-Morey, M. C., 215, 216, 224, 226, 228–230 Goetz, T., 326, 332 Goffaux, V., 71 Gogate, L. J., 70, 155 Gogtay, N., 291 Gohlke, B., 296 Going, J., 367, 368 Gold, C., 609, 610 Gold, D. P., 484 Gold, N., 557 Gold, P., 311 Gold, P. W., 132 Goldberg, E., 617 Goldberg, L. R., 477, 603, 610 Goldberg, S., 405, 554 Goldberg, W. A., 95, 96, 111, 226, 227 Goldhaber, D. D., 322 Goldhamer, H., 482 Golding, J., 79, 93, 127, 311 Goldin-Meadow, S., 155, 175, 192, 207 Goldman, D., 222 Goldsmith, D., 97 Goldsmith, H., 98 Goldsmith, H. H., 220, 221

676

Author Index

Goldsteen, K., 507 Goldstein, A. P., 409 Goldstein, H., 353 Goldstein, H. W., 482 Goldstein, J., 573 Goldstein, M., 404 Goldstein, M. H., 62 Goldstein, N., 584 Goldstein, R. F., 65 Goldweber, A., 583, 585 Golinkoff, R., 161 Golinkoff, R. M., 78, 150, 157, 158 Golub, M. S., 296, 301, 313 G´omez, R. L., 69 Gomez, R. L., 69, 189 G¨onc¨u, A., 146, 151, 152, 275, 276 Gong, G., 93 Gonick, L., 530 Gonzales, N., 247, 404 Gonzales, N. A., 354 Gonzales-Backen, M., 341, 351 Good, J. M. M., 34, 48, 49 Goodenow, C., 328, 412 Goodman, G. S., 575–578, 580, 584 Goodman, J., 191 Goodman, S. H., 93, 94, 231 Goodman, S. J., 536 Goodman-Brown, T. B., 575 Goodnow, J. J., 146, 153, 154, 165, 248, 251, 265, 267, 268, 270–273, 276, 277, 280, 281, 403, 405 Goodstein, L., 585 Goodwin, R., 100 Goodwyn, S. W., 52, 107, 155 Goodyer, I. M., 294, 505 Goossens, L., 342–345, 347, 352, 356, 357, 531 Gopnik, A., 162, 199, 203, 207, 209 Gopnik, M., 178 Gordis, E. B., 229 Gordon, B. N., 576 Gordon, D., 401 Gordon, D. S., 575 Gordon, E., 463 Gordon, M. K., 135, 136 Gore, J. S., 349, 357 Goren, D., 462, 624 Gorlick, P. B., 460

Gorman, A. H., 223, 229 Gorman, S. A., 63 Gorman-Smith, D., 229, 531 G¨otestam Skorpen, C. G., 461 Gotlib, I. H., 231, 300 Gottfredson, D. C., 327 Gottfredson, G. D., 327 Gottfredson, N. C., 327 Gottfried, A. W., 70 Gottleib, G., 80 Gottlieb, G., 4–7, 13, 21, 24, 25, 39, 51, 121, 123, 202, 207, 210, 245, 366, 596 Gottlieb, L. N., 258 Gottlieb-Robles, B., 652 Gottman, J. M., 95, 96, 224, 254, 400, 409, 410, 507, 508 Gottschalk, M., 296 Gou, Z., 66 Gould, O. N., 457 Gould, R., 400 Gould, S. J., 108 Gourgiotis, L., 311 Gow, A. J., 485 Goyet, L., 66 Grabe, H. J., 134 Graber, J. A., 300, 303, 305, 396 Grady, C. L., 468 Graef, R., 397 Graham, C. A., 110 Graham, F. K., 65, 67 Graham, J. W., 438 Graham, S., 322–324, 327, 532, 582 Gralinski, J. H., 107 Grandmaison, E., 466 Granger, D. A., 129–131, 504 Granger, R. C., 608 Granovetter, M. S., 500 Granrud, C. E., 72 Grant, J., 187 Grasso, D., 133 Gravatt, B., 641 Gravenstein, S., 505 Gray, K., 553 Gray, L. E. J., 296, 298 Gray, M., 574 Gray, S., 459 Gray, T., 558 Green, A., 440 Green, E. G. T., 353, 354 Green, J., 555

Green, J. A., 218 Green, S. E., 561 Greenbaum, C., 107 Greenberg, B. D., 133, 222 Greenberg, D. J., 62, 63, 66, 68 Greenberg, G., 5, 24, 25, 39, 528 Greenberg, J. S., 555, 556, 559, 560 Greenberg, M. T., 108, 109, 323, 325, 326, 525–528 Greenberger, E., 387 Greene, A. D., 354 Greene, M. L., 324, 395, 401 Greenfield, P. M., 199, 204, 208, 209, 228, 266–268, 275, 639 Greenhoot, A. F., 66, 67 Greeno, J. G., 457 Greenspan, L. C., 296 Greenstein, D., 291 Greenwood, N., 522 Greenwood, P. M., 463 Gregory, A., 327 Gregory, A. M., 133 Greulich, F. K., 107 Greusing, S., 312 Greve, W., 622, 627, 631, 632 Greytak, E. A., 327 Grieg, A., 218 Grieser, D. L., 160 Griesler, P. C., 399, 411, 412 Grieve, S. M., 463 Griffin, P. W., 463 Griffin, S. F., 369 Griffin, T., 324 Griffith, D., 532, 533 Griffiths, M., 643 Griffiths, P., 24, 39 Griggs, C., 131 Grigsby, J., 440 Grimbeek, E. J., 580 Grimes, S., 301, 311 Grimm, K., 296, 299 Grimshaw, J., 182 Grisso, T., 532, 536, 582–584, 587 Groce, N. E., 551, 552 Grodzinsky, Y., 182 Grogan-Kaylor, A., 251 Grolnick, W. S., 157, 251 Gronlund, S. D., 462 Grose-Fifer, J., 94 Gross, J. J., 104, 218, 219, 461–463, 624

Author Index

Gross, J. N., 217 Gross, S. R., 584 Grossberg, S., 67 Grossman, K. E., 111 Grossmann, T., 66 Grotevant, H. D., 41, 341, 342 Groth, T., 505 Grove, K., 404 Groven, C., 344 Groves, W., 531 Grudin, J., 649 Gruenberg, E. M., 524 Gruendel, J., 576 Gruenewald, T. L., 604, 620 Grumbach, M. M., 292–294 Grunau, R., 124, 127 Grunberg, N., 504 Gruno, M., 624 Grusec, J. E., 248–253, 405, 406 Gr¨usser, S. M., 643 Grych, J. H., 229, 408 Gs¨odl, M., 564 Guajardo, N. R., 218 Guarente, L. P., 445 Guastello, S. J., 596 Guberman, S., 206 Gudjonsson, G. H., 583, 584, 587 Gueguen, A., 441 Guerin, B., 354 Guerra, N. G., 229, 386, 526 Guiang, S. F., 127 Guilmet, G. M., 154 Guimond, A., 351, 532 Gully, S. M., 580 G¨ung¨or, D., 398, 406 Gunn, P., 556, 557 Gunnar, M., 105, 135, 222 Gunnar, M. R., 93, 94, 121–124, 127–132, 135, 136, 222, 250, 505, 506, 528, 529 Guo, X., 463 Guralnick, M. J., 552, 554, 556 Guralnik, J. M., 440 Gureckis, T. M., 77 Gurn, A., 551 Gustafson, D., 463 Gutchess, A. H., 463 Guterman, A., 440 Guterman, E., 575 Guth, M., 577 Guthrie, I. K., 100

Gutman, L. M., 369 Gutmann, D. L., 475, 476, 481 Gutteling, B. M., 93, 94 Guttmacher, A. E., 601 Gutzmann, H., 521 Guyer, A., 223 Guynn, M. J., 458 Ha, T., 555 Haan, N., 475, 477 Haas, E., 415 Habermas, T., 348, 394, 523 Haertel, G., 412 Hagedoorn, M., 503, 506 Hagedorn, A., 445 Hagekull, B., 223 Hagen, J. W., 518–520, 525, 527, 529 Hagenauer, M. H., 312 Hagger, M. E., 325 Haggerty, K. P., 290, 381, 382 Hahlweg, K., 505 Hahn, C.-S., 79, 153, 158, 397, 400 Hahn, S., 462 Hahn, T., 127 Haidt, J., 595, 600 Haight, W. L., 151, 176, 190 Haigis, M. C., 445 Hains, S. M. J., 71 Hainsworth, J., 443 Haith, M. M., 63, 65 Hakuta, K., 177 Halberda, J., 75 Halberstadt, A. G., 218 Hale, W. W., 342, 343, 346, 347, 356, 357 Hall, C. B., 459, 524 Hall, G., 223 Hall, G. S., 290, 466 Hall, K. L., 598 Hall, L. J., 557 Hall, N. C., 523, 524 Hallett, D., 21 Hall-Haro, C., 73 Hallinan, M. T., 395, 398 Halpern, C. T., 528 Halpern, D., 199 Halpern-Felsher, B. L., 304 Halverson, C. F., 220, 610 Ham, L. S., 357 Hamburger, V., 39

677

Hamer, D. H., 222 Hamilton, M. A., 372, 529, 536 Hamilton, R., 532 Hamilton, S. F., 11, 365, 367, 372, 379–381, 384, 386, 600, 601, 605, 607, 608, 649 Hamilton, W. D., 249 Hamm, J. V., 398, 401, 412, 532 Hammen, C., 401 Hammer, L. D., 312 Hammond, A., 219 Hammond, M. A., 220, 400, 554 Hammond, W. P., 532 Hampel, H., 459 Hampson, S. E., 475, 490, 610 Hampton, D., 341 Hamre, B. K., 527 Hamsher, K., 440 Hanbidge, A. S., 219 Hancox, R. J., 478, 479, 484, 581 Hand, K., 574 Handl, A., 80 Handwerger, K., 131 Hane, A. A., 93, 105, 231 Hanisch, M., 325, 326 Hannah, M. E., 557 Hannon, E. E., 76 Hansen, D. M., 332, 370, 530 Hanson, K., 382 Hanson, K. A., 629 Hanson, M. A., 93, 296, 297 Hanson, N. R., 31, 41, 44 Hansson, R. O., 522 Happaney, K., 395, 406 Happ´e, F., 563 Harber, K. D., 323 Harden, K. P., 300 Hardin, D. S., 296 Hardin, M. G., 223 Hardway, C., 231 Hardy, C. L., 409, 414 Hardy, J., 459 Hardy, K. K., 648 Hardy, S. A., 341 Hare, T. A., 291, 292 Harel, O., 444 Hareven, T. K., 479 Harfoush, R., 652 Hargittai, E., 640, 642 Hariri, A. R., 121, 133 Haritatos, J., 353, 355

678

Author Index

Harkness, S., 97, 265, 267 Harlan, E. T., 108, 129, 216 Harman, G. H., 44 Harmon, R. J., 107, 112, 129 Harms, P., 484 Harold, G. T., 127, 215, 216, 228 Harold, R., 642 Harold, R. D., 400, 413 Harpalani, V., 371 Harpending, H., 302, 303 Harper, G. W., 598 Harre, R., 48 Harriger, J. A., 103 Harrington, H., 133, 478, 479, 484, 563, 581, 610 Harris, J. R., 402, 406, 412 Harris, K., 553 Harris, K. D., 66 Harris, M., 187 Harris, P. L., 216, 218 Harris, S., 299 Harris, S. E., 460 Harris, T., 505 Harris, T. O., 416 Harris, Z., 68 Harris-Britt, A., 324 Harrison, D., 650 Harrist, A. W., 404 Hart, B., 176 Hart, C. H., 395 Hart, D., 21, 529, 531 Hart, J., 132, 222 Hart, S., 218 Harter, K., 408 Harter, K. S. M., 559 Harter, S., 215, 244, 257 Hart-Johnson, T., 349 Hartka, E., 475, 477 Hartle, L., 647 Hartmann, D. P., 413 Hartup, W. H., 409 Hartup, W. M., 411 Hartup, W. W., 255, 409–411 Hartwig, M., 584 Harwood, R. L., 97, 146, 267, 279, 280 Hasegawa, T., 76 Haselager, G. J. T., 411 Hasemeier, C. M., 296, 298 Hasher, L., 468 Haskins, D., 381, 385

Haslett, S. J., 342 Hassing, L. B., 524 Hassing, Y., 159 Hassiotis, A., 553 Hastings, P. D., 411 Hastings, R. P., 558, 560, 561 Hata, J., 459 Hatano, G., 146, 153, 154, 165, 267, 268, 270–273, 276, 277, 280 Hatch, L. R., 507 Hatchett, S., 507 Hattie, J., 322–326, 332 Hauck, W. W., 630 Haugen, R. G., 130 Hauser, S., 404, 405 Hauser-Cram, P., 549, 552, 553, 555, 556, 559–561 Hausman, D. B., 439 Havighurst, R. J., 482, 619 Haviland-Jones, J. M., 217 Hawkins, A. J., 399 Hawkins, J. A., 411, 412 Hawkins, J. D., 290, 330, 379–382, 384, 386, 412, 416 Hawkley, L. C., 504, 505, 624 Hay, D. A., 553 Hay, D. F., 93, 96, 127, 155 Hay, E. L., 461, 501, 507 Hayashi, K. M., 291 Hayatbakhsh, M. R., 301 Haycock, K., 322 Hayden, A., 71 Hayes, J. R., 68 Hayes, R. A., 70, 76 Hayhoe, M. M., 65 Hayne, H., 576 Haynes, M. O., 191 Haynes, O. M., 79, 146, 153, 158, 163, 397, 400 Hays, J. C., 505 Hayward, C., 300, 301, 312 Hazan, C., 497 Hazin, R., 80 Hazlitt, J. E., 458, 460 He, Y., 409, 410 Head, D., 456 Head, M. R., 251 Heath, A. C., 400 Heath, S. B., 143, 146–149, 151, 160 Heaton, J., 312

Heaven, P. C. L., 404 Hebb, D. O., 68 Hebrank, A., 463 Hecht, M. L., 352, 354 Heck, K. E., 379–381, 385 Heckhausen, J., 366, 452, 461, 481, 483, 488, 523, 524, 622, 623, 625–632 Hedblad, B., 445 Hedden, T., 457 Hedges, L. V., 176 Hedvat, T. T., 560 Heeringa, S. G., 620 Heflin, A. H., 404, 416 Hegel, G. W. F., 33 Heils, A., 133 Heim, C., 122, 123, 136 Hein, A., 52 Heine, S. J., 265, 273, 274 Heinrichs, M., 134 Heinz, A., 222 Heinz, W. R., 600 Hektner, J. M., 412 Held, R., 52 Heller, K., 500, 502 Hellhammer, D. H., 126, 134, 506 Helmers, K. F., 465 Helms, J., 532 Helms, M. J., 444 Helms, R. W., 438 Helms-Erikson, H., 259 Helsen, M. M., 342 Helson, R., 475, 480, 481 Hembrooke, H., 577 Heming, G., 408 Hempel, C. G., 30 Henderson, H. A., 92, 93, 100, 132, 223, 411 Henderson, S., 417 Henderson, V. K., 227 Hendricks, C., 400 Hendricks, J., 520 Hendricks, P. A., 380 Hendricks Brown, C. C., 526 Hendrieckx, C., 344 Hendriks, A. A. J., 477 Henig, K. H., 402 Hennecke, M., 626, 630 Hennig, K. H., 252, 256 Henrich, C. C., 326, 327, 331–333 Henry, D., 531

Author Index

Henry, J. D., 458 Henry, L. A., 581 Henry, M. J., 311 Henry, P. J., 532 Henry, W. E., 482, 498, 622 Heppen, J. B., 626 Hepps, D., 577, 580 Herbert, J., 294, 505 Herbert, J. S., 65 Herbison, G. P., 303, 307 Herlitz, A., 456 Herman, C., 502 Herman, J. P., 122, 123, 125, 126 Herman-Giddens, M. E., 296–298, 314 Hermann, B. A., 442 Hernandez, A., 124 Hernandez-Reif, M., 63, 70, 93 Herold, B., 66 Heron, A., 266 Heron, J., 93, 127 Herrell, R., 133 Herrera, A., 128 Herrera, C., 258 Herring, S., 553 Herr-Stephenson, B., 639 Hershenson, M., 61 Hershey, K. L., 217, 220 Hershkowitz, I., 575, 576, 578–581, 584 Herskovitz, M. J., 272 Hertenstein, M. J., 101–103 Hertzog, C., 457, 465, 521 Herwehe, S., 312 Heslington Tichovolsky, M., 97 Hespos, S. J., 77, 106 Hess, R. D., 154, 164 Hess, T. M., 618 Hesse, E., 111 Hesser, J., 258 Hessl, D., 136 Hetherington, E. M., 257, 402, 403, 405, 572 Heuser, I., 311 Hibbard, J. H., 606 Hicken, M., 529 Hicks, B. M., 603 Hidajat, M., 623 Hieger, L., 62 Higgins, C. A., 478 Higgins-D’Allesandro, A., 529, 536

Highwater, J., 278 Higley, J. D., 133 Hill, A., 105, 219 Hill, D., 129 Hill, E. A., 161 Hill, J. P., 395, 420 Hill, L., 311 Hill, M. N., 123 Hill, R., 559 Hillard, C. J., 123 Hill-Soderlund, A. L., 103 Hilmert, C. J., 134, 135 Hilton, S. C., 66 Himes, J. H., 294, 296 Hinojosa, R., 575 Hinshaw, S. P., 400 Hiraga, Y., 404 Hiraki, K., 76 Hiroto, D., 401 Hirsch, B., 531 Hirsch, J., 5, 176 Hirschi, T., 405, 416 Hirschman, J. E., 577, 580 Hirsh-Pasek, K., 78, 150, 161 Hitlin, S., 341 Hitt, S. F., 294, 301 Ho, M. W., 5, 6, 39 Hoagwood, K., 532, 534, 536 Hobart, C. J., 258 Hobel, C., 127 Hobel, C. J., 93 Hobfoll, S. E., 503, 625 Hodapp, R. M., 562 Hodge, G. D., 532 Hodges, E. V. E., 254, 415 Hodgins, S., 400 Hodgson, D. M., 66 Hodson, G., 532 Hoefnagel-Hohle, M., 177 Hoehl, S., 66, 80 Hoekstra, M. L., 526, 527 Hoeve, M., 251 Hofer, C., 105, 130 Hofer, M., 129 Hofer, S. M., 437, 438, 444, 452, 455, 521, 524, 525, 616 Hofer, T., 104 Hoff, E., 173, 176, 178, 186, 187, 190, 191, 221 Hoff-Ginsberg, E., 149, 176–178, 186, 191

679

Hoffman, C., 440 Hoffman, J. E., 65, 66, 76, 77 Hoffman, L., 444 Hoffman, M., 248, 249 Hoffman, M. L., 402, 404 Hofman, L., 595, 598, 599 Hofstede, G., 344 Hogan, M. J., 519, 520, 525, 527, 529 Hogan, R., 53 Hogue, A., 411 Hoh, J., 133 Holden, G. W., 110, 403 Holland, P. B., 326 Holland, R. W., 323 Holleque, K. M., 342 Holley, A., 580 Hollich, G. J., 71, 78, 161 Holloway, S., 164 Holm, S. M., 331 Holmbeck, G., 397, 419 Holmboe, K., 80 Holmen, T. L., 297, 311 Holmes, A., 66, 121, 133 Holmes, D. L., 577 Holmes, L., 579 Holmes, M. E., 123 Holsboer, F., 312 Holt, J. K., 475, 479 Holzinger, A., 648 Homans, G. C., 4 Homer, B. D., 147 Hommer, D., 222 Honeycutt, H., 25, 38, 39, 70 Hong, J., 556, 560 Hong, M., 132 Hong, Y.-Y., 349 Honsaker, M. D., 526 Hood, B. M., 64 Hood, K. E., 528 Hoogenhouts, E. M., 452, 457 Hook, D., 532 Hooker, K. S., 440–442, 485 Hooven, C., 95, 96, 224 Hoover, S., 583 Hoover-Dempsey, K. V., 400 Hope, S., 506 Hopkins, B., 152, 153 Hopkins, J. R., 146, 152, 153 Hoppmann, C. A., 440, 452, 621 Hops, H., 227, 404, 417

680

Author Index

Hopwood, C. J., 479, 480 Hori, S., 466 Horn, J. L., 229, 454 Horn, M., 645, 648, 649 Horner, R. D., 533 Hornstra, L., 323 Horowitz, A., 502, 507, 524 Horowitz, D., 575, 578–581, 584 Horowitz, F. D., 62, 63, 76, 210 Horowitz, H., 52 Horst, H. A., 639 Horton, N. J., 352 Horwitz, S. M., 602 Horwood, L. J., 302, 304, 305, 409 Hosch, H. M., 584 Hosman, C. M. H., 604 Hossain, Z., 155 House, J., 507 House, J. S., 606 Houser-Marko, L., 626 Houshyar, S., 133 Houssyar, S., 133 Houston-Price, C., 64 Houts, R., 296, 299, 304, 526 Houts, R. M., 294, 299, 303, 309, 508 Hovav, M., 578 Howe, D., 218 Howe, G., 405 Howe, M. L., 63, 576 Howe, N., 257, 258 Howell, A., 549, 552, 559, 560 Howes, C., 96, 111, 152, 255 Hox, J., 528 Hoy, W. K., 323 Hoyer, W. J., 440 Hoyert, D. L., 440 Hoyle, S. G., 409 Hrdy, S. B., 144 Hsiao, S. S., 66, 67 Hsu, A. Y. C., 461 Hsu, H., 153 Hu, F. B., 443, 444 Hu, J.-F., 77 Hu, S., 222 Huang, B., 294, 296, 298, 301, 311, 312 Huang, C., 274, 653 Huang, F., 327 Huang, M.-H., 505 Huang, S., 378

Hubbard, E. M., 101–103 Hubbard, J., 372 Hubbard, J. A., 224 Huckeby, E. R., 62 Hucklebridge, F., 505, 506 Hudgens, G. A., 504 Hudon, C., 617 Huffaker, D. A., 648, 652 Hugdahl, K., 124 Hughes, D., 357, 531, 532 Hughes, D. L., 151 Hughes, J., 532 Huh, K., 560 Huizinga, D., 416 Hultsch, D. F., 441, 453, 455, 457, 469 Hunnius, S., 65 Hunt, J., 329, 333 Hunt, J. M., 63 Hunt, J. S., 351, 352 Hunter, F. T., 254 Hunter, K., 380 Hunter, M. A., 63 Hunter, S. C., 254 Hunziker, U. A., 97 Huotilainen, M., 66 Huppert, F. A., 505, 599 Hurley, E. A., 350, 354 Hurley, S., 49 Hurrelmann, K., 595 Hurwitz, D., 440 Huston, A., 529 Huston, T. L., 508 Hutcheson, G. D., 577, 580 Hutchins, B., 414 Hutchinson, J. E., 183 Huttenlocher, J., 176, 190, 191 Huxhold, O., 524 Huynh, Q.-L., 355, 357 Hyams, N., 180 Hyde, J. S., 221 Hyltenstam, K., 176 Hyman, J. B., 529 Hymel, S., 254, 396, 408, 412 Iacoboni, M., 103, 253, 554, 555 Iacono, W. G., 395, 396, 479, 480 Ialongo, N. S., 526 Iannotti, R. J., 408 Iarocci, G., 247 Ib´an˜ ez, L., 301

Ibanez, L. V., 80 Ibrahim, F., 398 Ide, J. K., 412 Idler, E., 504 Iedema, J. J., 342 Ignatiev, N., 532 Iida, M., 506 Inbau, F. E., 583 Inder, P. M., 411, 413 Ingersoll, G. M., 301 Ingold, T., 34, 48 Ingoldsby, E. M., 250 Ingstad, B., 551 Inhelder, B., 201, 203 Innis, S. M., 79 Innocenti, M. S., 560 Inoff-Germain, G. E., 294, 299 Inouye, S., 532 Irby, M., 378 Ireland, C. A., 585 Ireland, M., 582 Irizarry, N. L., 267, 279, 280 Ironson, G., 505 Irvine, F., 484 Irwin, C. E., 300 Irwin, W., 130 Isaac, S., 530 Isaacowitz, D. M., 461, 462, 475, 482, 488, 489, 600, 622–624, 631 Isabella, R. A., 227 Isen, A. M., 603 Ismail, A., 503 Israel, B., 499, 502 Israel, S., 246, 247 Ito, M., 639 Ittel, A., 301 Iverson, J. M., 155, 159, 161 Ivnik, R. J., 441 Ivorra, J. L., 222 Iwaki, T., 459 Izard, C. E., 475, 489 Jablonka, E., 5, 6, 39 Jaccard, J., 300, 301, 383 Jack, C. R., 438, 441 Jacka, F. N., 311 Jackey, L. H., 475, 479 Jackey, L. M. H., 501, 507, 508 Jackson, E. S., 532 Jackson, I., 66

Author Index

Jackson, J., 52, 484, 531, 532 Jackson, J. S., 497, 499, 532 Jackson, L. A., 642 Jackson, P. L., 46 Jackson-Newsom, J., 399 Jacobs, C., 505 Jacobs, F., 7 Jacobs, F. H., 113 Jacobson, K., 417 Jacobson, R. P., 351 Jacobson, S., 531 Jacobson-Dickman, E., 298 Jacobvitz, D., 109 Jacoby, K., 584 Jaddoe, V. W. V., 121, 133 Jaenicke, C., 401 Jaffe, J., 101 Jaffee, S., 528 Jager, J., 398, 419 Jagers, R., 533 Jagust, W. J., 438 Jahoda, G., 274 Jambunathan, S., 398 James, J. B., 481 James, L., 340 James, N., 257 James, W., 34, 67, 476, 477 Jamner, M. S., 606, 610 Janevic, M. R., 499, 500, 503 Jang, S. J., 405 Jankowski, J. J., 70, 79 Janoff-Bulman, R., 628, 629 Jansson, S. M., 405 Jantzi, D., 330 Jaques, E., 596 Jarrett, R., 370 Jaruszewicz, C., 647 Jarvin, L., 24 Jarvis, L. H., 351, 352 Jarvis, P. E., 557 Jayne, B. C., 583 Jazwinski, S. M., 445 Jeffries, N. O., 291 Jeffries, V., 533 Jeliˇciˇc, H., 373, 374 Jelii, H., 600 Jellison, W. A., 341 Jenkins, H., 647–649 Jenkins, J., 257 Jenkins, J. M., 215 Jenkins, R., 551

Jenkins, V. Y., 71 Jenn´e, W. C., 556 Jenni, O. G., 312 Jennings, B., 92 Jennings, N., 640, 650 Jensen, L., 265, 269, 277, 520 Jensen, L. A., 353 Jensen, P. S., 534, 536 Jeon, J., 93 Jessor, R., 605, 606 Jeste, D. V., 467 Jeune, B., 437 Jia, G., 177 Jiang, J. C., 445 Jiao, Z., 411, 412 Jobe, B. M., 559 Jobe, J. B., 465 Jobin, J., 631 Jobse, J., 159 Jodl, K. M., 407, 415 Jodry, W., 559 Joe, C. M., 554 Jo¨els, M., 123, 125 Johansson, B., 444 Johansson, L., 463 John, O. P., 346, 477, 624 Johnson, A., 419 Johnson, B., 256 Johnson, D., 441, 532 Johnson, D. J., 357 Johnson, D. K., 441 Johnson, D. R., 624 Johnson, D. W., 255, 325 Johnson, E. K., 68, 69 Johnson, J., 199, 310, 604, 648, 649 Johnson, K. O., 66, 67 Johnson, L. L., 444 Johnson, M., 46, 53, 210, 252 Johnson, M. A., 439 Johnson, M. C., 105 Johnson, M. H., 31, 68, 71, 77, 80, 564 Johnson, M. J., 71 Johnson, M. K., 327, 330, 577 Johnson, R. J., 416 Johnson, R. T., 255, 325 Johnson, S., 421 Johnson, S. P., 63, 65, 68, 69, 72, 73, 76 Johnson, T. R. B., 66 Johnson, W., 619

681

Johnson, W. F., 104, 108 Johnston, D. K., 408 Johnston, J. R., 574 Johnston, M., 505 Johnston, T. D., 550, 564 Joiner, T., 603 Jolles, J., 452, 457 Jones, A. M., 532 Jones, B., 303 Jones, C. J., 521 Jones, D., 187, 526 Jones, D. P. H., 575 Jones, D. S., 595, 598, 599 Jones, D. W., 222 Jones, J., 466 Jones, J. M., 532 Jones, K. J., 533 Jones, K. M., 462, 486 Jones, R. M., 291, 292 Jones, S., 531 Jones, S. M., 525–528 Jones, S. S., 183 Jones, W., 80 Jones-Kavalier, B., 647 Jonker, C., 459 Joosten, J., 159 Jopp, D. S., 461, 521, 522, 524, 629 Jordan, K. Y., 412, 415 Jørgensen, T., 484, 485 Jorm, A. F., 461 Jourdan, C., 175 Jovanovic, B., 104 Jover, M., 222 Joy, M. E., 99 Juang, L., 353, 599 Jud, A., 504 Judge, S. L., 559, 561 Judge, T. A., 478 Juelich, K., 645, 647, 649 Juffer, F., 99 Juhnke, C., 254 Jung, C., 476 Jusczyk, P. W., 78, 179 Jussim, L., 323 Juul, A., 294, 296, 297, 314 Juvonen, J., 255, 323, 327, 330, 412, 532 Ka˘gitc¸ibas¸i, C., 350 Kaciroti, N., 296, 298, 309, 312 Kafai, Y. B., 645, 647

682

Author Index

Kaffman, A., 124 Kagan, J., 91, 98–100, 108, 131, 132, 222, 231, 602, 603 Kahana, B., 622 Kahana, E., 622 Kahana-Kalman, R., 151, 158, 159, 162, 186 Kahn, B. E., 603 Kahn, R. L., 466, 489, 500, 620 Kahne, J., 652 Kainz, H. P., 53 Kaiser, A., 505 Kaiser, J., 445 Kaiser, R. M., 617 Kaitc¸ibai, C., 265–268, 271, 275 Kako, E., 175 Kalakanis, L., 72 Kalbeitzer, R., 584 Kaldy, Z., 72 Kalish, C. W., 218 Kalkwarf, H., 301, 311 Kalleberg, A. L., 340, 349 Kaltiala-Heino, R., 302, 312 Kam, C. M., 526 Kamei, N., 151 Kaminsky, L., 558 Kamp Dush, C. M., 507 Kanazawa, S., 200 Kandel, D. B., 257, 410–413, 602 Kandler, C., 478 Kane, M. J., 79 Kane, P., 401 Kanfer, R., 628 Kannass, K. N., 68, 79 Kannel, W. B., 440 Kaplan, A., 325 Kaplan, E. B., 445 Kaplan, G. A., 504 Kaplan, H. B., 416 Kaplan, L. A., 128 Kaplan, L. J., 95 Kaplan, N., 110, 111 Kaplan, P. S., 62 Kaplowitz, P. B., 296, 298 Kapoor, A., 127 Kaprio, J., 301, 303, 307 Karasik, L. B., 143–146, 150, 152, 153, 163 Karbach, J., 618 Karbon, M., 254 Karcher, M. J., 373

Karelitz, T. M., 24 Karjalainen, A., 409 Karlamangla, A., 505 Karlof, K. L., 558 Karlstrom, P., 647 Karmel, B. Z., 62 Karmiloff-Smith, A., 31, 68, 80, 199, 201, 202, 207, 208, 564 K¨arn¨a, A., 255 Karos, L. K., 257 Kartner, J., 107 Kasari, C., 554, 564 Kashani, J. H., 290 Kashdan, T. B., 603 Kashiwagi, K., 154, 164 Kaspiew, R., 574 Kasser, T., 625 Kassimir, R., 530 Kassin, S. M., 583, 584, 587 Kathmann, N., 624 Kato, K., 463 Kato, P. M., 643 Katz, I., 574, 575 Katz, L., 420 Katz, L. F., 95, 96, 224 Katz, M., 524 Katz, M. J., 459 Katzel, L. I., 444 Katzmarzyk, P. T., 311 Kauffman, A. S., 293 Kaufman, J., 133 Kauh, T. J., 253 Kavanagh, K., 386 Kawai, M., 159, 164 Kawakami, K., 532 Kawas, C., 459 Kawashima-Ginsberg, K., 381 Kaye, K., 102, 440 Kazdin, A. E., 406 Keating, D. P., 75 Kedeker, D., 438 Keeble, S., 73 Keefe, K., 410 Keefer, C. H., 96, 97, 144, 145, 150, 154, 159, 265, 274, 275 Keeler, G., 290, 311 Keenan, K., 105 Keene, D., 529 Keeney, J. M., 579 Keesler, V., 330 Kegeles, S. M., 300

Keijsers, L., 343, 344, 356 Keil, F., 198, 204, 207 Keil, J. E., 504 Kekes, J., 466 Keleher, M., 574 Kelkar, A., 160 Kellam, S. G., 526 Keller, E. F., 5 Keller, H., 107, 144, 146, 153, 154, 228, 266, 267 Keller, M. L., 630 Keller, P. S., 226, 231, 232 Kellman, P. J., 72 Kello, C., 192 Kelly, C., 508 Kelly, J., 572 Kelly, J. B., 572–575 Kelly, J. F., 463 Kelly, M. H., 189 Kelso, J. A. S., 609 Keltikangas-Jarvinen, L., 409, 610 Kemeny, M. E., 504, 604 Kempna, P., 127 Kendall, P. C., 218 Kendall-Tackett, K. A., 575 Kendler, K. S., 246, 528 Kendon, A., 155 Kennedy, A., 412 Kennedy, B., 205 Kennedy, E., 415 Kennedy, E. M., 534 Kennedy, K. M., 456 Kennedy, M., 438 Kennedy, Q., 462, 624 Kenny, M. E., 529 Kensinger, E. A., 624 Keplas, A. L., 410 Kerig, P. K., 227 Kermoian, R., 129 Kern, M. L., 484 Kern, W., 128 Kerns, G., 561 Kerns, K. A., 112, 415, 419 Kerr, D. C. R., 218, 219 Kerr, M., 395–397, 405, 406, 411, 417 Kersh, J., 555, 560 Kertes, D. A., 130 Kesek, A., 125 Keshavan, M. S., 136 Kessen, W., 65, 72, 143, 197, 204

Author Index

Kessler, E.-M., 467 Kessler, R. C., 499, 502, 503, 509 Kevin, C., 377 Keyes, C. L. M., 595, 600 Khan, L. K., 296 Khazan, I., 407 Khoury, P., 298, 311 Kiang, L., 351, 354, 357 Kiecolt-Glaser, J. K., 123, 485, 505 Kielsmeier, J. C., 333 Kiely, M. K., 373–376, 523 Kiernan, K. E., 573 Kiesner, J., 411, 413 Kilbride, J. E., 152 Kilbride, P. L., 152, 153 Kill, K. G., 330 Killaspy, H., 327 Killen, J. D., 301, 312 Killen, M., 532 Killian, C. M., 417 Kim, B. K., 352 Kim, C., 505 Kim, I. J., 295, 396 Kim, J. Y., 259 Kim, K., 303, 305, 306 Kim, K. H. S., 176 Kim, K. J., 396 Kim, M., 382 Kim, S. Y., 108, 354, 355, 445 Kim, U., 266, 275 Kimber, J. A. M., 482 Kim-Cohen, J., 133, 232, 247 Kimmel, C. A., 296, 301, 313 Kindermann, T. A., 409, 410, 412, 413 King, A., 256 King, B. H., 550 King, K. M., 368, 382, 387 King, M., 327 King, P. E., 24, 368, 381 King, R., 404 Kinsella, K., 439 Kirchler, E., 408 Kirkham, N. Z., 68, 69, 73 Kirkpatrick, E. A., 453, 454 Kirschbaum, C., 121, 124, 126, 134, 136, 504–506 Kisilevsky, B. S., 71 Kisley, A., 128 Kist, W., 647 Kistler, D. J., 252

Kitayama, S., 7, 275, 277, 349 Kitzman, K. M., 227 Kitzmann, K. M., 258 Kivim¨aki, M., 610 Kivlighan, K. T., 131, 504 Klahr, D., 26, 198, 204 Klapproth, D. M., 149 Klauer, T., 134 Klausmeier, H. J., 580 Klaver, J., 582, 584 Klein, M. H., 221 Kleiner, K. A., 71 Kleiner-Gathercoal, K. A., 71 Kleinschmidt, A., 462 Klein-Tasman, B. P., 563 Kleis, A., 107 Klem, A. M., 381 Kliegl, R., 521 Kliewer, W., 219 Klimes-Dougan, B., 505, 506 Klimstra, T. A., 342–344, 346, 347, 356, 357 Klin, A., 80 Klinger, E., 621 Klinger, L. G., 129 Klisz, D., 62 Klorman, R., 252 Knaack, A., 108, 112, 216 Knafo, A., 246, 247 Knibbe, R. A., 413 Knight, G. P., 351, 354 Knight, M. R., 462, 624 Knight, W. G., 109 Knight-Schwarz, J., 176 Knobel, M., 647 Knobil, E., 292 Knoblauch, D., 323 Knott, F., 556, 558 Knutson, J. F., 581 Knutson, K. L., 312 Knutsson, O., 647 Kobak, R., 407 Kobayashi, T., 76 Koch, G., 296, 298 Kochanska, G., 99, 105, 108, 110, 112, 129, 133, 216, 217, 223, 250, 254, 402 Kochenderfer, B. J., 421 Koedel, C. R., 321, 322 Koenig, B. W., 327 Koenig, H. G., 505

683

Koenig, J. L., 108 Koester, L. S., 153 Kohatsu, E. L., 532 Kohlberg, L., 198, 652 K¨ohnken, G., 580 Kohnstamm, G. A., 220 Kojima, H., 164 Kokko, K., 344 Kolarz, C. M., 461, 463, 488, 623 Kolenic, A., 642 K¨oller, O., 332 Konarski, R., 395 Kondo-Ikemura, K., 406 Konner, M. J., 97, 153 Koopman, R., 63 Koopmans, M., 596 Koot, H. M., 99, 397, 412 Kopp, C. B., 93, 100, 105, 107, 129 Koren-Karie, N., 110 Korn, J. M., 563 Kornhaber, M., 198, 199, 204 Korosi, A., 125, 126 Kosawa, Y., 154, 158 Koschmann, T., 644 Kosciw, J. G., 327 Koslowski, B., 101, 110 Kostaki, A., 127 Kostelny, K., 229 Kosterman, R., 330, 386 Kosunen, E., 302 Koterba, E. A., 159, 161 Kotowicz, M. A., 311 Kouros, C. D., 226, 228, 231 Kovac, P., 577 Kovacs, M., 219 Kovacs, S. L., 52 Kozhevnikova, E. V., 161 Kraatz-Keily, M., 412 Kraemer, H. C., 312, 505 Krall, E. A., 299 Kramer, A. F., 465, 466 Kramer, D. A., 454 Kramer, L., 95, 96 Kramer, M., 524 Krampe, R. T., 618 Krantz, D. S., 441, 505 Kranz, D., 468 Krause, N., 507 Krauss, M. W., 552, 553, 555, 556, 559, 561

684

Author Index

Kraut, M. A., 463 Kray, J., 618 Kreppner, K., 7 Krettenauer, T., 252, 256, 342 Kreutzer, T., 111 Krewer, B., 274 Kreye, M., 222 Krieger, N., 438 Krljes, S., 80 Kroboth, F., 505 Kroboth, P. D., 505 Kroeger, R. A., 507 Kroger, J., 342 Krojgaard, P., 72 Kronmal, R. A., 443 Kroonenberg, P. M., 266 Krueger, R. F., 479, 480, 603 Kr¨uger, H., 600 Kruger, A. X., 184 Kryla-Lighthall, N., 461–463 Krystal, J. H., 133 Kryzer, E., 132, 222 Kuchirko, Y., 148, 164 Kudielka, B. M., 504 K¨uhl, K.-P., 521 Kuhl, P., 203, 207, 209 Kuhl, P. K., 70, 160, 161, 180 Kuhn, C., 93 Kuhn, D., 29 Kuhn, J., 230 Kuhn, T. S., 31, 44 Kuijer, R. G., 503, 506 Kuijpers, C., 80 Kulin, H. E., 294, 296, 297 Kulis, S., 352, 354 Kumar, M., 505 K¨un, W., 468 Kundurthi, S., 79 Kuneel, N. R., 603 Kung, H. C., 440 Kunkel, S., 520 Kunnen, E., 345, 350, 355 Kunnen, E. S., 357 Kunz, S., 505 Kunz-Ebrecht, S., 505 Kunzmann, U., 467, 618, 623 Kuo, Z.-Y., 5, 7 Kupanoff, K., 399 Kuperminc, G. P., 407, 408, 415 Kupersmidt, J. B., 224, 398, 399, 410, 411, 412, 415, 558

Kurdek, L. A., 255, 404, 412, 507 Kurland, B. F., 444, 461 Kurtines, W. M., 381, 383, 386 Kurtz, D. A., 351, 357 Kurtz-Costes, B., 324, 333 Kusche, C. A., 526 Kushnerenko, E., 66 Kutnick, P., 256 Kuyper, H., 257 Kuypers, J., 500 Labont´e, B., 124 LaBounty, J., 218, 219 Labouvie-Vief, G., 461, 462, 624 Lacerda, F., 161, 180 Lachapelle, Y., 550 Lachman, M. E., 475–478, 481, 483, 487–489, 617 Lacourse, E., 404 Ladd, G. W., 395, 403, 408, 412, 413, 415–417, 421 La Fon, D., 583 LaFreniere, P., 415 LaFromboise, T. D., 350 LaGaipa, J. J., 409 Lagattuta, K. H., 217 Lahey, B. B., 438 Laible, D., 112 Laing, R. D., 52 Laird, N. M., 132 Laird, R. D., 412, 415, 417 Laitinen-Krispijn, S., 296 Lajonchere, C., 558 Lakatos, I., 31, 45 Lake, R. E., 400 Lakey, B., 502 Lakin, K. C., 547 Lakoff, G., 46, 53 Lalonde, C., 105 Lalonde, C. E., 21 Lam, C., 532 Lam, S., 164 Lamb, M., 135 Lamb, M. E., 95, 98, 107, 556, 572–581, 584, 586 Lamb, M. J., 5, 6, 39 Lambert, B., 80 Lamberty, G., 551 Lamborn, S. D., 248, 404, 409, 417, 419

Lamm, C., 330 Lampman-Petraitis, C., 397 Lancy, D., 276 Land, D. J., 415 Landau, B., 183 Landis, K. R., 606 Landrine, H., 275 Landry, S. H., 106 Lane, C., 503 Lane, J. D., 218, 219 Lane, P., 577 Lang, F. R., 468, 498, 522, 623, 629 Lange, G., 218 Lange, P., 639 Langer, E., 488 Langer, J., 52, 64, 204 Langley, J., 610 Langlois, J. H., 71, 72 Lankford, H., 322 Lankshear, C., 647 Lansford, J. E., 248, 251, 252, 498, 501, 509 Lany, J., 69, 189 Lanz, M., 344 Laosa, L., 532 La Paro, K., 527 Laplante, D. P., 71 Lapsley, D. K., 347 Larkin, G. R., 624 Larsen, R., 445, 478 Larson, B., 630 Larson, D. B., 505 Larson, E., 555 Larson, E. B., 461 Larson, G., 652 Larson, J., 582 Larson, M. G., 440 Larson, R. W., 290, 323, 332, 339, 365, 367, 370, 385, 395, 397, 398, 405, 408, 413, 419, 530, 531 Larson, S. A., 547, 579 Larsson, A., 465 Larsson, M., 460 Larus, D. M., 576 LaRusso, M. D., 526, 527 Larzelere, R. E., 251 Lasley, E. N., 504 Laszlo, E., 595 Latour, B., 31, 32, 34, 37

Author Index

Latz, E., 66, 68 Lau, A. S., 248 Laub, J. H., 405, 531 Laubichler, M. D., 39 Laudan, L., 31, 44, 45 Laughlin, L., 253 Laumann, E. O., 497 Laursen, B., 178, 221, 396, 397, 410, 411, 419 Lave, J., 646 Lavner, J. A., 507 Lawes, C. M., 443 Lawler, H., 439 Lawrence, J. A., 40 Lawton, L., 508 Lawton, M. P., 619–621, 632 Lazarus, R. S., 215, 475, 490, 559 Le, H., 519 Leach, A.-M., 583 Leach, L. S., 465 Leaper, C., 412 Leary, M. R., 347 Leavell, A., 158, 159, 162 Leavitt, A., 648 LeBlanc, L., 327, 328 Leboyer, M., 554 Lederer, A., 191 LeDoux, J., 46 LeDoux, J. E., 128 Lee, C. D., 371 Lee, H., 653 Lee, I., 466 Lee, J. M., 296, 298, 309 Lee, K., 576, 580 Lee, K.-M., 176 Lee, M., 606 Lee, M. M., 298 Lee, P. A., 294–297, 314 Lee, R. M., 354 Lee, T. M., 312 Lee, V. E., 323, 326, 330–333 Lee-Kim, J., 532 Leen-Feldner, E. W., 300 Leerkes, E. M., 218, 223 Leeton, J., 303 LeFevre, J., 148 Leff, S., 398 Leffert, N., 369, 387, 396, 530, 531 Lefford, A., 69

Lefkowitz, E. S., 352, 501, 507 Le Grand, R., 71 Legters, N., 328 Lehman, B. J., 134, 135 Lehnart, J., 290 Lehner, T., 133 Lehrman, D. S., 5 Leibner, M. J., 405 Leichtman, M. D., 163, 577, 578 Leiderman, P. H., 96, 97, 144, 145, 150, 154, 159, 265, 274, 275, 401 Leischow, S. J., 598 Leithwood, K., 330 Leiwo, M., 80 Lele, U., 439, 440 LeMare, L., 396 Lemerise, E. A., 397 Lemery, K. S., 221 Lemery-Chalfant, K., 219 Lemeshow, S., 505 Lempers, J. D., 401 Lench, H., 579, 584 Lengua, L. J., 247 Lenhart, A., 648, 652 Lenneberg, E., 175 Lennon, E. M., 70 Lens, W., 356 Leo, R. A., 583, 584, 587 Leon, A. C., 438 Leonard, G., 291 Leonard, H., 557 Leone, L., 404 Leone, P. E., 583 Leont’ev, A. N., 271 Leppanen, P. H. T., 80 Lepper, M. R., 251 Lerner, J. V., 348, 365–367, 373–378, 381, 383, 530, 600 Lerner, R. M., 3–8, 13, 14, 20, 21, 23, 25, 27, 31, 40, 91, 99, 113, 209, 210, 276, 278, 290, 348, 365–367, 369, 370, 373–378, 380–387, 476, 517–523, 525, 527–531, 534, 536, 550, 552, 553, 595–598, 600, 601, 606–608, 610, 619, 632 Leroux, J.-M., 468 Lesage, J., 127 Lesch, K. P., 133 Leshikar, E., 463

685

Le Sieur, K. D., 417 LeSieur, K. D., 408, 416 Leslie, A. M., 72, 73 Lester, B. M., 93 LeTendre, G. K., 321 Lettiere, M., 529 Leukefled, C. G., 301 Leung, M. C., 395, 412 Leveck, M. D., 465 Levenson, R. W., 400, 462, 508 Leventhal, E., 504 Leventhal, E. A., 604, 630, 631 Leventhal, H., 504, 604, 631 Leventhal, T., 531 L´evesque, J., 468 Levine, C. G., 341, 342, 343–345, 348, 349, 356 Levine, J., 222 Levine, P., 530 LeVine, R. A., 96, 97, 144–146, 150, 153, 154, 159, 165, 265, 267, 268, 270–277, 280 LeVine, S., 122, 128, 135, 136, 191 LeVine, S. E., 96, 97, 144, 145, 150, 154, 159, 265, 274 Levinson, D., 400 Levinson, W., 497 Levitas, J., 219 Levitt, P., 92, 93 Levy, D., 440 Levy, S., 532 Lewandowski, G., 507 Lewedeg, V., 190 Lewin, D. S., 312 Lewin, K., 7, 412 Lewin-Bizan, S., 91, 348, 365, 373, 375, 377, 378, 383, 385 Lewinsohn, R. M., 300 Lewis, C., 25, 556, 572, 573 Lewis, D. H., 291 Lewis, G., 133 Lewis, H. L., 346 Lewis, J. M., 227 Lewis, K., 325 Lewis, M., 21, 25, 33, 92, 107, 108, 209, 216, 217 Lewis, M. D., 330 Lewis, T. L., 71 Lewis, W., 189 Lewkowicz, C., 481

686

Author Index

Lewkowicz, D. J., 23, 69–71 Lewontin, R. C., 24, 51 Lexcen, F. J., 583 Leyendecker, B., 146 Lezer, S., 222 Li, F., 417 Li, J., 296 Li, K. K., 384 Li, K. Z. H., 4, 523, 621, 626, 628, 632 Li, L., 222, 445 Li, L. W., 620 Li, Q., 652, 653 Li, S.-C., 4, 468, 524 Li, Y., 367, 373–377, 464 Liang, E., 148, 164 Liang, J., 507 Liang, K. Y., 133 Liang, R., 297 Libby, L. K., 583 Liben, L. S., 36, 37, 53, 203 Libertus, M. E., 75 Libhaber, J., 481 Licata, L., 353, 354 Lichter, D., 534 Lichtheim, M., 466 Lichtwarck-Aschoff, A., 357 Lickenbrock, D. M., 561 Lickliter, R., 5, 24, 25, 38, 39, 70, 71, 121, 123, 210, 596 Lieber, E., 403 Lieberman, D. A., 643 Lieberman, M., 399 Lieberman, M. D., 134, 135 Liebo, R., 128 Lieven, E. V. M., 176, 184, 185, 186 Light, J. C., 631 Lightman, S. L., 133 Li-Grining, C. P., 527 Lilly Shanahan, L., 300, 301 Lim, S., 503 Lim, S. A., 330 Lin, E. S., 381 Lin, M.-H., 217 Lindahl, K. M., 507, 508 Lindau, S. T., 497 Lindblom, B., 180 Lindenberg, S., 247, 248, 521 Lindenberger, U., 3, 4, 6, 366, 384, 441, 444, 452, 454, 456, 457,

459–461, 464, 465, 468, 475, 476, 520, 523, 524, 601, 605, 616–619, 623, 625, 626, 631 Lindhiem, O., 136 Lindquist, K. A., 100 Lindsay, D. S., 577, 583 Lindsey, E., 417 Lindsey, E. W., 102, 108, 219 Ling, X., 526 Linke, S. F., 441 Linkins, M., 325 Links, P. S., 290 Linnemeyer, S. A., 66 Lipinski, J., 641 Lipnicki, D. M., 459 Lippman, L., 531 Lipschitz, D., 133 Lipton, R. B., 459, 524 Lisonbee, J. A., 504 Litt, I. F., 300, 312, 648 Little, T. D., 617, 623 Liu, C. H., 101, 102, 110 Liu, G. C., 354 Liu, H., 161, 291, 410 Liu, H.-M., 180 Liu, J., 93, 376, 377 Liu, L., 354 Liu, W., 134 Livingstone, S., 648 Livson, N., 299 Liwag, M. D., 215 Lobato, D. J., 557 Locantore, J. K., 468 Lochman, J., 412, 415, 529 Lockenhoff, C. E., 441, 624 Lockenoff, C. E., 489 Lockwood, R. L., 258 Loder, T., 531 Lodi-Smith, J., 484 Loeb, P. A., 440 Loeber, R., 396, 398, 400, 401, 409 Loevinger, J., 204, 476 Loewenstein, D. A., 440 Loftus, E. F., 577, 578, 580, 583 Logan, T. K., 301 Logan, W. A., 585 Logie, R. H., 619 Logsdon, J. M., 653 Lohrfink, K., 532 Lollis, S. P., 417

Lombroso, P. J., 563 Lonczak, H. S., 379, 380, 382, 384, 386 London, K. L., 575, 580 London, R. A., 379 Long, C., 574, 575 Long, J. D., 131 Long, P. J., 303, 307 Longhi, E., 564 Longhurst, T. M., 160 Lonigan, C. J., 147 Looney, L. B., 257 Lopez, C., 532 Lopez, S. J., 595 Lopez, V. A., 354 Lord, C., 550 Lord, H., 370, 531 Lord, S., 413 Lorenz, F. O., 396 Loriaux, D. L., 294 Losada, M. F., 595, 600 Losoya, S., 244 Loucks, T. L., 294 Lounds, J., 556 L¨ovd´en, M., 452, 465, 618 Love, B. C., 77 Loving, T. J., 505 L¨ow, R., 29 Low, C., 560 Low, L.-F., 459 Low, M. J., 123 Lowe, S. R., 373 Lowenstein, A., 500 Lu, T., 406 Lu, Y., 504 Lu, Z. L., 67 Lubbers, M. J., 257 Lucas, R. E., 603, 621, 623 Lucca, N., 398 Luckasson, R. A., 550 Luckmann, T., 40 Lucky, A. W., 295, 296, 298 Ludemann, P., 158, 159 Ludtke, O., 326, 329, 332 Lugo-Gil, J., 148 Luhmann, N., 35 Luijk, M. P. C. M., 121, 133 Lumeng, J. C., 296, 298, 309, 312 Luna, B., 291 Lund, K. E., 342 Lund, T., 531

Author Index

Luong, G., 501 Lupien, S. J., 122, 123 Lurie, N., 532 L¨uscher, K., 501, 507 Lusk, L., 291 Lussky, R. C., 127 Lustig, C., 456, 465 Lustig, R. H., 294, 299 Luszcz, M. A., 452 Luszczynska, A., 605 Lutfey, K., 399, 402 Lutgendorf, S. K., 485 Luthar, S. S., 231, 232, 233 Luther, K., 648, 649 Lutkenhaus, P., 107 Lutz, A. M., 623 Lutz, M., 558 Luu, P., 129 Luyckx, K., 341–345, 347, 349, 350, 352, 354–357 Luze, G., 146–148 Lykken, D., 603 Lynam, D., 301 Lynch, A. D., 377, 378, 383 Lynch, C. D., 289 Lynch, D., 411 Lynch, K., 223 Lynch, M., 229 Lynch, M. E., 395 Lynch, S. K., 302, 303, 306, 308–310 Lynskey, M., 409 Lyon, T. D., 576–580 Lyons, D. M., 126 Lyons, T., 176, 190 Lyons-Ruth, K., 101, 109, 110, 225 Lyons-Ruth, L., 110 Lyotard, J., 32 Lytle, B. L., 606 Lytton, H., 406 Lyytinen, H., 80 Ma, S., 124 Maas, I., 617 Maassen, B., 80 Mabry, J. B., 507 Mabry, P. L., 598 MacCallum, R. C., 505 Maccoby, E. E., 224, 248, 250, 251, 258, 395, 402, 403

MacDonald, H. Z., 109 MacDonald, K. B., 394 MacDonald, M. C., 192 MacDonald, R., 256 MacDonald, R. A. R., 256 MacDonald, S. W. S., 441, 452, 455, 456, 458, 460, 464 Macek, P., 344 Macgill, A. R., 648, 652 MacGregor, D., 554 Macgregor, F. C., 153 MacIver, D., 186, 330, 333, 369 Macken, E., 644 Macken, M. A., 190 MacKenzie, D. L., 585 Mackenzie, A., 522 MacKinnon, C., 258, 259 MacKinnon, D. P., 438 Mackinnon, A. J., 465 MacKinnon-Lewis, C. E., 404, 421 MacLean, K., 155 MacLeod, M. S., 458 MacMurray, J., 310 MacRae, P. G., 617 MacWhinney, B., 25, 26, 192 Maczewksi, M., 651 Madden, D. J., 440 Madden, M., 648 Maddox, G. L., 622 Maercker, A., 618 Maes, H. H., 230, 400 Maestas, M., 351 Magai, C., 463 Maggs, J. L., 417 Magnuson, K., 280, 552 Magnusson, D., 3, 6, 7, 32, 38, 301, 303, 366, 409, 412, 416, 609 Mahadevan, M., 532 Maher, P., 551, 552 Mahler, J., 134 Mahoney, G., 553, 555 Mahoney, J. L., 370, 381, 413, 414, 531 Maier, N. R. F., 5 Maikranz, J. M., 63, 66, 67, 79 Main, M., 101, 110, 111 Mairesse, J., 127 Maisel, N. C., 502 Maital, S., 162 Maitland, S. B., 456 Malanchuk, O., 529, 534

687

Malarkey, W. B., 505 Malcarne, V., 219 Maldonado-Molina, M., 353 Malloy, L. C., 577, 578, 580, 584 Malone, M., 415 Malone, P. S., 248, 252 Maloney, J., 645, 647 Malpass, R. S., 577, 578, 583 Mandelco, B., 557 Mandler, J. M., 77 Mangelsdorf, S., 105, 121, 135, 222 Mann, M., 604 Mannes, M., 378 Manni, M., 135, 136 Manning, W. D., 349 Manson, J. E., 443, 444 Manuck, S. B., 438 Manzi, C., 341 Mao, H., 505 Marachi, R., 324, 325 Maratsos, M., 181, 186, 188 Marceau, K., 296, 299 Marcell, M., 70 Marcelli, E., 438 Marchman, B., 199, 207 Marcia, J. E., 11, 342, 350, 355 Marcoen, A., 112, 399 Marcovitch, S., 23, 554 Marcus, G. F., 192 Marcus, M., 296, 298 Marcus, R. F., 410 Marcus, S. M., 127 Mardiros, M., 552 Mardsen, P. V., 499 Marek, L., 380 Marfo, K., 554 Margett, T. E., 103 Margolin, G., 229 Margolis, J., 52 Margrett, J., 457 Mariano, J. M., 367, 368 Marin, B. V., 577 Mark, D. B., 606 Markese, S., 101 Markham, R. G., 70 Markiewicz, D., 399, 408 Markkovic, J., 192 Markman, E. M., 78, 183, 191 Markman, H. J., 507, 508 Markow, D. B., 183

688

Author Index

Markowitz, G., 519 Marks, K. S., 76 Markson, L., 184 Markus, H. R., 7, 146, 153, 154, 165, 267, 268, 270–273, 275–277, 280, 349, 485, 486, 487, 604 Marmot, M., 441, 505, 604 Marsh, H. W., 329, 332 Marsh, P., 415 Marshall, E., 557 Marshall, P. J., 132, 411 Marshall, S. K., 350, 406 Marshall, T. R., 99 Marshall, W. A., 294, 298 Marsiglia, F. F., 352, 354 Marsiglio, W., 575 Marsiske, M., 465, 468, 625, 629 Martikainen, P., 441 Martin, A., 46 Martin, C. A., 301 Martin, C. L., 107 Martin, F., 645, 647 Martin, J., 224, 230, 247, 258 Martin, J. A., 403 Martin, L. R., 475, 476, 478, 484, 490, 610 Martin, M., 303, 307 Martin, N. G., 400 Martin, P., 439–441 Martin, R. M., 218 Martin, R. P., 220 Martin, S., 189, 216, 218 Martin, S. S., 416 Martinez, C., 532 Martinez, P., 311 Martinez, Y., 577 Martinez-Chavez, C. C., 293 Martini, A. C., 293 Martire, L. M., 621 Marttunen, M., 302, 312 Mary, S., 459 Masataka, N., 160 Mascolo, M. F., 21, 24–26, 107 Mash, C., 77 Mashburn, A. J., 527 Masi, C. M., 505 Maslin, C. A., 223 Mason, C. A., 342, 345, 354, 356, 404

Mason, M., 533 Mason, U. C., 63 Masse, L. C., 341, 351 Massey, D., 532 Massie, K. P., 159 Massimini, F., 607 Masson, M. E. J., 46 Masten, A. S., 91, 232, 233, 348, 371, 372, 529, 535 Masty, J. K., 536 Masur, E. F., 162, 163 Matatyaho, D. J., 155 Matchock, R. L., 303, 306 Mather, E., 78 Mather, M., 445, 461–463, 475, 489, 624 Matheson, C., 146 Matheson, D. J., 584 Matsui, Y., 459 Matsuzaki, T., 459 Mattes, E., 93 Matthews, K. A., 621 Matthews, S. G., 127 Mattock, A., 72 Maturana, H. R., 22 Maughan, A., 229 Maughan, B., 300, 301, 328 Maumary-Gremaud, A., 412, 415 Maurer, D., 71 Maxwell, L. E., 526 Mayer, K. U., 441 Mayor, J., 77, 78 Mayr, U., 461, 462, 623 Mayraz, G., 623 Mazza, J. J., 382 Mazzanti, C., 222 Mazziotta, J. C., 178 Mazzocco, M. M., 75 McAdams, D. P., 346–348, 485, 625 McAdams, L., 410 McAdoo, H. P., 146–148, 551 McArdle, J. J., 452, 454–456, 464 McBride, K. E., 453, 454 McCabe, A., 187 McCabe, P., 505 McCaffrey, M., 624 McCall, R. B., 220, 535 McCarthy, K., 413 McCarthy, M. M., 293 McCarthy, S., 93

McCartney, K., 96, 223, 395, 405, 529 McCarton, C. M., 70 McCauley, M. R., 578 McClay, J., 230, 247 McCleery, J. P., 80 McClelland, G., 583 McClintic, S., 217 McClintock, J. C., 559 McCloskey, L. A., 576 McClowry, S. G., 223 McCollam, K., 76 McCollom, T. L., 409, 410 McCollum, P., 649 McColskey, W., 325 McConnell, M., 407 McConvill, D., 326, 327 McCord, J., 415, 585 McCoy, S. L., 467 McCrae, R. R., 346, 400, 475–478, 483, 559 McCubbin, H. I., 559 McCurry, S., 72 McDade, T. W., 505 McDaniel, M. A., 457, 458 McDermott, K., 561 McDevitt, T., 164 McDonald, K. L., 408, 409 McDonald, L., 96 McDonough, L., 191 McDougald, P., 412 McDougall, P., 396 McDougall, W., 61 McDowall, D., 585 McDowell, D. J., 417 McDowell, M. A., 440 McDuff, P., 396 McEldoon, K. L., 192 McElhaney, K. B., 404, 405, 407, 415 McEvoy, C. L., 465, 466 McEwen, B. S., 91, 93, 94, 111, 121–123, 504, 505 McFadden, K. E., 144, 151, 157, 158 McFadyen-Ketchum, S., 299, 305, 308, 309 McFarland, C., 415 McGee, T. R., 301 McGillicuddy-De Lisi, A. V., 532 McGlothlin, H., 532

Author Index

McGowan, P. O., 124 McGregor, L., 325, 326 McGue, M., 395, 396, 479, 480 McGuffin, P., 133 McGuinness, D., 67 McGuire, L., 485 McGuire, S., 95 McGurk, H., 556, 557 McHale, J., 407 McHale, S. M., 253, 257, 259, 399 McHugh, P. R., 440 McIlvane, J. M., 500, 506, 508 McIntosh, A. R., 468 McIntosh, J. E., 574, 575 McIntyre, L. L., 560 McKay, H. A., 311 McKenna, K., 558 McKenzie, J., 353 McKinnon, J., 396 McLaughlin, J., 504 McLaughlin, M., 379 McLaughlin, S. J., 620 McLaurin, K. A., 577 McLeod, I., 303 McLoyd, V. C., 401, 531 McMahon, R. J., 405, 417 McManis, M., 231 McMillan, S., 647 McMullin, J. A., 501 McMurray, B., 65 McNeill, D., 299 McPherran, C., 378, 383 Mead, G. H., 408 Mead, M., 144, 153 Meadows, S. O., 532 Meaney, M., 91, 92, 95 Meaney, M. J., 39, 121, 124, 127, 134, 245, 525, 547 Means, B., 206 Medici Skaggs, N., 418 Medvin, M., 641 Medynskiy, Y. E., 648, 649 Meece, J. L., 324, 333 Meeks, T. W., 467 Meeus, W. H. J., 342–344, 346, 347, 356, 411, 415 Mehler, J., 179, 190 Mehta, P. D., 459 Mei, Z., 296 Meijer, A. M., 404, 405 Meins, E., 110

Meissner, C. A., 583, 584 Meja-Arauz, R., 155 Melander, O., 445 Melchior, A., 333 Melchior, C. L., 505 Melinder, A., 576–578 Melstein, D. A., 151, 159 Meltzoff, A. N., 62, 70, 73, 78, 187, 199, 203, 207, 209 Memon, A., 580 Mendelow, D., 129 Mendelson, M., 410 Mendelson, M. J., 70, 258 Mendes de Leon, C. F., 463 Mendle, J., 300, 302, 303, 306, 308–310 Mendola, P., 294 Mennen, I., 177 Menon, J., 367, 651 Menon, T., 349 Menon, U., 279 Mensah, F. K., 573 Mensour, B., 468 Mercer, K. B., 134 Meredith, W., 521 Mericle, A., 583 Merikangas, K. R., 133 Merin, N., 80 Merisca, R., 526 Mero, R. P., 507 Merrilees, C. E., 216, 224, 229, 230 Merrilees, C. M., 229 Merriman, W. E., 187 Merritt, M., 532 Mervielde, I., 346 Mervis, C., 183 Mervis, C. B., 107, 562, 563 Mesch, G., 413 Meseck-Bushey, S., 259 Mesibov, G. B., 550 Mesman, J., 99, 102, 103 Messinger, D. S., 80 Metcalf, D., 128 Metter, E. J., 178 Mettetal, G., 254, 410 Metzger, A., 399 Metzger, M., 527 Meunier, P. J., 311 Meyer, D., 312 Meyer, I. H., 327 Meyer, J. D., 583, 587

689

Meyer, J. R., 583 Meyer, S., 105 Meyerson, P. M., 401 Michelakou, S., 353 Michelson, D., 311 Middaugh, E., 652 Midgley, C., 324, 325, 330, 333, 369, 412 Midlarsky, E., 557 Mielke, M., 466 Miell, D., 256 Miers, A. C., 131 Migaud, H., 293 Miikkulainen, R., 71 Mikels, J. A., 445, 461, 462, 624 Mikhak, B., 645, 647 Mikulincer, M., 497 Milbrath, C., 203 Miles, M. S., 550 Miles, R., 532 Mill, J., 230, 247 Miller, A. M., 146 Miller, C. T., 557 Miller, D. T., 563 Miller, E., 648 Miller, E. K., 79 Miller, G., 123 Miller, G. E., 505 Miller, J. D., 180 Miller, J. G., 40, 48, 267, 268, 279, 280, 398 Miller, J. Y., 412 Miller, L. M., 501 Miller, L. S., 441 Miller, P., 146, 153, 154, 165, 267, 268, 270–273, 276, 277, 280 Miller, P. H., 197, 198 Miller, P. J., 151, 164, 265 Miller, S., 300, 301 Miller-Johnson, S., 412, 415 Mills, C. J., 346 Mills, D. L., 179 Mills, M., 401 Mills, R. S. L., 396 Millsap, R. E., 475, 476, 477 Mills-Koonce, R., 526 Mills-Koonce, W. R., 103 Millstein, S. G., 300 Milne, B. J., 581 Milstein, B., 598 Minami, M., 187

690

Author Index

Minghetti, M., 293 Minkler, M., 623 Minnes, P., 553 Mintz, J., 164 Minuchin, P., 553 Miranda, S. B., 62 Mirhej, G., 532 Mirowsky, J., 507 Mirwald, R. L., 311 Mische, A., 348 Mischel, W., 484, 628 Misiak, H., 4 Misri, S., 124, 127 Mistry, J., 5, 7, 21, 40, 48, 92, 96, 146, 151, 152, 265–268, 275, 276, 279, 281, 282 Mistry, S., 311 Mitchell, D. B., 553, 555, 556 Mitchell, D. W., 62, 63, 65, 68, 76 Mitchell, L., 256 Mitchell, M. B., 441 Mitchell, P. M., 233 Mitchell, S., 578–580 Mitchell, V., 480, 481 Mitnitski, A., 617 Mitra, D. L., 520 Mitra, M., 463 Mittelmark, M. B., 443 Mix, K. S., 75 Miyake, K., 97, 164 Miyao, K., 458–460 Mize, J., 130, 403, 417, 419, 504 Moane, G., 480 Mochizuki, K., 349, 355, 357 Modi, N., 94 Moerbeek, M., 438 Moffett, A., 61, 63 Moffitt, T. E., 121, 133, 222, 230, 232, 246, 247, 300, 301, 303, 306, 308, 409, 478, 479, 484, 529, 563, 581, 604, 610 Mohammed, S. A., 354 Molenaar, P. C. M., 26, 209, 609, 610 Molfese, D. L., 603 Molfese, V. J., 603 Molina, L., 532 Moll, H., 40 Mollen, E., 129 Moloney, L., 574 Molto, M. D., 222

Monahan, K. C., 368, 382, 387, 582 Mondloch, C. J., 71 Moneta, G., 332, 370, 397, 419, 530 Mong, J. A., 293 Monk, C., 128 Monk, C. E., 94 Monk, C. S., 223 Monroy-Hernandez, A., 645, 647 Montgomery, K., 652 Montgomery, M. J., 343, 352, 355, 357, 381, 383, 386 Montgomery, N., 584 Montrosse, B., 325 Moody-Ayers, S., 532 Mooney, K., 325 Moore, C., 408, 415 Moore, D. S., 76, 245 Moore, G., 225 Moore, G. A., 102, 103, 221 Moore, J. B., 554 Moore, K. A., 531 Moore, L., 253 Moore, R. W., 61 Moors, E., 531 Moos, R. H., 394, 397 Morelli, G. A., 96, 97, 150, 151, 279 Morenoff, J. D., 531 Morgan, D. L., 499 Morgan, G. D., 598 Morgan, J., 190 Morgan, M., 601 Morgan, R., 70 Morgenstern, H., 602 Moriceau, S., 125 Morikawa, H., 154, 158 Morilak, D. A., 124 Morison, S. J., 135, 250 Morison, V., 72 Morris, A. S., 95, 247, 397 Morris, J. C., 441 Morris, M. C., 463 Morris, M. L., 349, 357 Morris, M. W., 349 Morris, N. M., 299 Morris, P. A., 3, 6, 7, 25, 269, 280, 366, 373, 407, 408, 552, 553, 598, 605 Morrison, C. L., 602 Morrison, F. J., 526 Morrison, J. A., 295, 298, 311 Morrison, K. R., 354

Morrison, S., 650 Morrissey, K., 531 Morrongiello, B. A., 70 Mortensen, E. L., 444 Mortimer, J. T., 399, 402 Morton, J., 71 Moscovitch, M., 457 Moseley, M, J., 66 Moser, R. P., 598 Moshman, D., 340, 350 Mosier, C., 146, 151, 152, 275, 276 Mounoud, P., 46 Mounts, N. S., 248, 398, 404, 409, 412, 413, 416, 417, 419 Mouyi, A., 25, 27 Moy, E., 532 Moy, G., 46 Moya, P. R., 133 Mroczek, D. K., 441, 461, 463, 478, 488, 501, 524, 620, 623 Mu, Q., 463 Mueller, A. S., 328, 329, 332 Mueller, M. K., 378 Mueller, N. K., 122 Mueller, R. A., 381 Mugitani, R., 76 Muhleman, D., 310 Muir, D. W., 71, 155 Mukamal, K., 488 Mulhern, R. K., 406 Mullen, M. K., 163 Muller, A. A., 641, 650 Muller, C., 328, 329, 332 M¨uller, U., 21, 24, 25, 29, 33, 40, 46, 49, 51, 52 Mulroy, E., 530 Mulroy, S., 557 Mumme, D. L., 104, 215 Munafo, M. R., 133 Munakata, Y., 31, 204 Munch, A. U., 504 Munck, A. U., 123 Mundy, P., 68, 101, 106, 107, 554, 564 Munholland, K. A., 102, 110, 112 Munro, S., 526 Munroe, R. H., 274 Munroe, R. L., 274 Munsinge, H., 66 Muraven, M., 344, 355, 357 Murdock, T. B., 327

Author Index

Murphy, B. C., 249, 254 Murphy, D. L., 133, 222 Murphy, G. L., 76 Murphy, M. M., 559 Murphy, N. A., 488, 624 Murphy, S. L., 440 Murray, F., 200 Murray, G., 312 Murray, J. P., 518–520, 525, 527, 529 Murray, K. T., 105, 108, 129, 216, 250 Murray, L., 384, 386 Murray, P., 155 Murry, V. M., 300, 324, 525 Must, A., 296, 297, 299 Mustanski, B. S., 303, 307 Mustillo, S., 290, 311 Muzik, M., 554 Mychasiuk, R., 233 Mycke, K., 558 Myers, J., 246 Myers, M. M., 93 Myers, S. S., 95 Mylander, C., 192 Myles-Worsley, M., 576 Myowa-Yamakoshi, M., 105 N¨aa¨ t¨anen, R., 66 Nachmias, M., 105, 121, 135, 222 Nachson, I., 71 Nagano, K., 164 Nagell, K., 155, 175, 184, 187 Nagy, Z., 442 Nahapetyan, L., 439 Nahemow, L., 619 Naigles, L. R., 162, 176, 182, 186, 187, 191, 192 Najafi, B., 253 Najdowski, C. J., 584 Najman, J. M., 301 Nakai, S., 64 Nakamura, E., 458–460 Nakamura, Y., 293 Napolitano, A., 70 Napolitano, C. M., 348, 375–377, 381, 385, 523 Nappa, R., 192 Narang, S., 403 Nash, A., 96, 155 Nash, S., 558

Nasir, N. S., 323, 333, 334 Nastasi, B. K., 649 Nater, U. M., 504 Nathanson, R., 576, 578 Nation, K., 564 Natsuaki, M. N., 300 Naumann, L. P., 346 Naumova, E. N., 299 Navarro, R. L., 341 Navarro, V. M., 293 Nawaz-Khan, I., 291 Nazareth, I., 327 Nazzi, T., 66 Neal, A., 532 Neal, C., 127 Neale, M. C., 246, 438 Neberich, W., 290 Nebesio, T. D., 298 Nederhof, E., 133 Neece, C., 559 Needham, A., 72, 73 Neeley, L. C., 502 Negriff, S., 300, 310, 312 Neiderhiser, J. M., 402, 405 Neinstein, L. S., 294, 299 Neisser, U., 105, 106, 199 Nelson, C. A., 72, 92, 93, 126 Nelson, E. E., 223 Nelson, G., 530 Nelson, J., 532 Nelson, K. E., 147, 153, 191, 576 Nelson, S. E., 405, 418 Nemeroff, C. B., 136 Neppl, T. K., 221 Nesmith, K., 462, 624 Nesport, M., 190 Ness, A. R., 311 Nesse, R. M., 607 Nesselroade, J. R., 4, 26, 366, 373, 383, 461, 462, 475, 488, 489, 518, 520, 524, 609, 623 Nestor, S., 161 Nettles, S., 532 Netto, D., 70 Neubauer, L. C., 598 Neufeld, P., 584 Neugarten, B. L., 482 Neugarten, B. T., 475, 476, 480, 481 Neuhaus, E., 529 Neupert, S., 463 Neupert, S. D., 487, 488

691

Neville, B., 554 Neville, H. J., 176, 178, 179 New, R., 96 Newacheck, P. W., 547 Newcomb, A. F., 410, 412 Newcombe, R., 133, 247 Newell, L., 80, 101, 106, 564 Newman, A. B., 443 Newman, J. L., 46, 52 Newman, T. K., 133 Newport, E. L., 5, 68, 69, 78, 177, 186, 189–191, 199 Newsom, J. T., 503 Newton, T., 505 Newton-Cheh, C., 445 Ng, F. F., 158, 159, 162, 164 Nguyen, A.-M. D., 353, 355 Niaura, R., 131 Nicely, P., 157 Nichols, K. E., 106, 107, 132, 217 Nichols, S. L., 334 Nicholson, G. C., 311 Nicholson-Crotty, S., 354 Nicol, J. L., 178 Nicotera, N., 280, 281 Nicotra, E., 411, 413 Nida, R., 641 Niebur, E., 66, 67 Niemiec, C. P., 325 Nievar, M. A., 218 Nigg, J. T., 400 Nikitin, J., 375, 629 Nilsen, T. I., 297, 311 Nilsson, L.-G., 456, 458, 460 Ninio, A., 146, 149, 188 Nirje, B., 549 Nisbett, R. E., 274, 457 Nishikawa, Y., 504 Nishina, A., 323, 327, 532 Niwa, E., 151 Nixon, S., 406 Noack, H., 618 Noam, G., 404, 405 Noddings, N., 322 Noe, A., 52 Noll, E., 371 Noller, P., 497 Nordin, S., 460 Norenzayan, A., 265, 273, 274 Norman, C., 507 Norman, D. A., 209

692

Author Index

Northstone, K., 311 Notarius, C. I., 507 Nottelmann, E. D., 294, 299 Novelli, G., 222 Novikoff, A. B., 5, 7 Nsamenang, B., 278 Ntoumanis, N., 325, 331 Nucci, L., 151 Nuland, S. B., 443 Nunno, M., 579 Nurius, P., 486, 604 Nyberg, L., 456, 460, 465 Nye, F. I., 405 Oakes, J., 331, 332 Oakes, L. M., 64, 68, 73, 74, 77 Oates, K., 577 Oatley, K., 215 Oberklaid, F., 220, 411 Oberlander, T. F., 124, 127 Oblinger, D., 639 Obradovi´c, J., 371 O’Brien, L., 532, 582 O’Brien, M., 76, 218, 323, 325, 326 Oburu, P., 248 O’Callaghan, M. J., 301 O’Campo, P., 532 Ochs, E., 145, 147, 148, 151, 154, 156, 157, 160, 161 Ochsner, K. N., 463 O’Connor, T., 404 O’Connor, T. G., 93, 94, 127, 128, 563 Oddone, E. Z., 443 Odgers, C. L., 581 Oeppen, J., 616 Oesterle, S., 290, 381, 382, 386 Oetting, E. R., 412 Offer, D., 290 Offer, J., 290 Offord, D. R., 290 Ogden, C. L., 440 Ogden, T. H., 52 Ogilvie, D. M., 626 Ogino, M., 97, 146, 158, 164 Ogren, K., 526 Ohnishi, H., 398 Ohr, P. S., 65 Oitzl, S., 123, 124 Ojeda, S. R., 296, 298

Okamoto, Y., 207, 208 Okazaki, S., 398 Olchowski, A. E., 438 Old, J. L., 466 Oldehinkel, A. J., 133, 247, 248 O’Leary, K. D., 506 Olguin, R., 175 Oliver, B., 178 Oller, D. K., 190 Olofsson, J. K., 460 Olsen, S. F., 557 Olshansky, S. J., 524, 558 Olson, B. D., 346–348 Olson, S. L., 218, 219 Olsson, M. B., 561 Olster, D. H., 598 Olver, R., 204 Olweus, D., 409 O’Neil, K., 411 O’Neil, R., 417 Ong, A., 532 Ong, A. D., 341, 350, 351, 354 Ong, K. K., 311 Oniszczenko, W., 247 Ontai, L. L., 221 Oppenheim, D., 97, 110 Oppenheimer, D. M., 648 Opper, S., 200–204 Oransky, M., 532 Orbach, Y., 575–581, 584 Orbuch, T. L., 506, 507, 508 Ordy, J. M., 61 O’Reilly, A. W., 419 Orellana, M. F., 281 Ormel, J., 133, 247, 248 Ornstein, P. A., 576 Orprecio, J., 65 Orr, D. P., 301 Orr, R. R., 560, 561 Orsmond, G. I., 555, 556, 558, 559, 560 Orth, U., 605 Orvaschel, H., 290 Ory, M. G., 437 Osborn, D., 327 Osborn, P., 381 Osborne, C., 349 Osborne, L. N., 408 Osgood, W. D., 526 O’Shaughnessy, B., 52 Osher, D. M., 583

Oshima-Takane, Y., 160 Oskay, G., 345 Osman, D., 584 Osofsky, J. D., 535 ¨ Ostling, S., 463 Ostrander, M. M., 122, 125 O’Sullivan, P., 553 Oswald, F., 521 Ounsted, C., 394, 396 Ouwehand, C., 490 Overall, N. C., 506 Overbeek, G., 555 Overton, W. F., 3–7, 13, 14, 19, 20, 22–28, 30–33, 35, 36, 39, 40, 42, 45, 48–52, 199, 207, 209, 267, 269–273, 276–279, 365, 366, 381, 525, 530, 601 Owen, M. T., 96, 227 Owen, N., 505 Owen-Kostelnik, J., 583, 587 Owens, E., 251 Owens, E. B., 421 Oyama, S., 204 Oyserman, D., 340, 349 Ozc¸akar, L., 311 ¨ ¸ aliskan, S., 155 Ozc Ozonoff, S., 80 Pabst, S. R., 301, 311, 312 Paden, L., 63 Padencheri, S., 561 Padgug, E. J., 160 Padilla-Walker, L., 113 P´aez, M. M., 351 Pagani, L., 396, 411 Pahl, K., 324, 351, 357, 532 Paikoff, R. L., 396, 507 Painter, K., 162 Painter, K. M., 191, 400 Pajares, F., 325 Pakaslahti, L., 409 Palacios, N., 281 Palardy, G. J., 328 Palermiti, A. L., 303, 306 Paley, B., 226, 227, 407, 408 Palfrey, J., 640–642, 648–650, 652, 653 Palkovitz, M., 222 Palmonari, A., 408 Palmrus, K., 248 Paluch, R., 257

Author Index

Palumbo, L., 80 Pan, B. A., 146–148 Panagiotides, H., 129 Pancratz, C. N., 63 Pantin, H., 342, 345, 353, 354, 356, 386, 387, 479, 519 Papafragou, A., 192 Papandonatos, G. D., 131 Papert, S., 201, 204, 644–647, 649 Papini, S., 579, 584 Papouˇsek, H., 153 Papouˇsek, M., 153 Papp, L. M., 226–228 Papsdorf, M., 124, 127 Paquette, V., 468 Paradise, M., 218 Paradise, R., 154, 155 Pardo, C., 229 Parent, A. S., 294, 297 Pariante, C. M., 133 Parikh, C., 161 Paris, A. H., 322, 323 Parise, E., 80 Parish, S. L., 548 Parisi, D., 31, 68, 80, 199 Park, D., 266 Park, D. C., 274, 457, 463–465, 468, 469, 521 Park, I. J. K., 354 Park, N., 562, 602, 603 Park, S., 162 Park, Y. S., 266 Parke, R., 253, 255, 256, 410, 416 Parke, R. D., 216, 394, 395, 399, 401, 402, 417 Parker, C., 133 Parker, J. G., 244, 255, 408, 409, 410, 412, 413 Parker, K. J., 126 Parker, L. N., 293 Parker, R. M., 444 Parker, S., 94 Parker, S. T., 290 Parker, W. D., 346 Parkerson, J., 412 Parkinson, P., 574, 575 Parks, B., 533 Parks, R., 558 Parpal, M., 250 Parra, M., 190

Parra-Medina, D., 369 Parritz, R. H., 105, 121, 135, 222 Parrott, T. M., 500, 520 Parry, J., 549 Parsons, E., 101, 110 Parsons, S., 71 Partridge, T., 5, 25, 39 Pascalis, O., 71 Pasch, L. A., 354 Pasco, J. A., 311 Pascual, L., 162 Pasley, K., 418 Passman, R. H., 406 Pasupathi, M., 461, 462, 618, 623 Patel, S., 584 Patrick, D. L., 461 Patrinos, A., 601 Patterson, C. J., 222, 398, 399, 404, 410, 411 Patterson, G. R., 248, 251, 258, 259, 401, 405, 411–413, 415, 417, 585 Patterson, J. L., 148 Patterson, J. M., 559 Patterson, M. L., 70 Patterson, S., 564 Pattie, A., 485 Patton, G. C., 294, 313 Patulny, R., 574, 575 Pauen, S., 72 Paulesu, E., 179 Paulhus, D., 350 Paus, T., 291 Pausova, Z., 291 Pawlby, S., 93 Paxton, J. L., 468 Payne, A. A., 327 Payne, A. C., 148 Payne, M. E., 616, 617 Payne, Y. A., 532 Pe˜na, M., 190 Pearce, N. J., 332, 370 Pearl, R., 254 Pears, K. C., 136, 218 Pearson, B. Z., 190 Pearson, J., 294, 328, 329, 332, 505 Pechtel, P., 92 Peck, S. C., 323, 325, 326, 331, 333, 334, 415 Pedersen, N. L., 444, 460, 463 Pedersen, S., 411

693

Pedlow, R., 220 Peduto, A. J., 463 Peebles, R., 648 Peirce, C. S., 44 Pekrun, R., 326, 332 Pel´aez-Nogueras, M., 155 Pelka, F., 548 Pellegrini, A. D., 148 Peloso, E., 135, 136 Peltz, J., 374, 378, 383 Pender, N. J., 604 Peng, K., 353 Penke, L., 290 Penn, H., 274 Pennisi, E., 445 Penny, S., 564 Pentz, M. A., 526 Pepler, D., 254, 255, 257 Pepler, L., 556 Pepper, S., 33 Perales, F., 555 Perani, D., 179 Perez, P., 532 Perez, S. M., 245 Perez-Edgar, K., 223, 231 Perkins, A., 258 Perkins, D. F., 520 Perlman, A., 599 Perlman, S. B., 218 Perlmutter, M., 641, 650 Perls, T. T., 439, 440 Perra, D., 93 Perraudin, S., 46 Perron, M., 291 Perry, A., 553, 558, 559 Perry, D. A., 415 Perry, D. G., 254, 415 Perry, R. P., 326, 523, 524 Perryman, J. I., 312 Perry-Parrish, C., 219 Persson, J., 465 P´erusse, L., 311 Pescovitz, O. H., 296, 298 Peske, H. G., 322 Petalas, M. A., 558 Petersen, A. C., 291, 298, 300, 396, 596, 599 Petersen, J. H., 296 Petersen, R., 218 Petersen, R. C., 441 Petersen, S., 67

694

Author Index

Peterson, B., 380 Peterson, C., 187, 562, 577, 602, 603 Peterson, G. L., 621 Peterson, K. M., 232 Peterson, N. A., 326 Peterson, S. A., 75 Peterson-Badali, M., 582, 585 Pethick, S. J., 162 Peto, J., 416 Petre, C. O., 124 Petri, S., 133 Petrie, S., 409 Petrill, S. A., 178, 247 Pettee, Y., 560 Pettigrew, T. F., 532 Pettit, G. A., 299, 305, 308, 309 Pettit, G. S., 248, 302, 304, 305, 403, 404, 408, 412, 415–417, 419 Pezalla-Granlund, M., 649 Pfeifer, J. H., 554, 555 Phalet, K., 350 Pham, D. L., 463 Pham, L. B., 626 Phelan, E. A., 461, 620 Phelps, E. D., 365–367, 373–378, 381, 383, 523, 530, 600 Phelps, E. M., 375, 376 Phetrasuwan, S., 550 Philibert, R. A., 110, 133, 525 Phillips, A. C., 504 Phillips, C., 380 Phillips, D. A., 132, 222, 272, 553 Phillips, J., 159, 160 Phillips, L. H., 458 Phillips, M. L., 331 Phillips, S. M., 299 Phillips, T., 311 Phillips, T. M., 349 Phinney, J. S., 341, 350–352, 357, 532 Phoenix, A., 341 Piaget, J., 24, 25, 38, 42, 43, 50, 69, 197–204, 206, 244, 408, 476, 645, 649, 650 Pianta, R. C., 525–527 Piazza, J. R., 463, 498 Piccinin, A. M., 437, 524, 525, 616 Pickens, J., 155 Pickens, J. N., 63, 69, 155

Pierce, K., 80 Pierce, S., 132 Pierro, A., 404 Pieters, S., 312 Pietromonaco, P., 501 Pigliucci, M., 39 Pike, A., 250, 405 Pike, B., 291 Pilgrim, C., 411, 413 Pillemer, K., 501, 507 Pina, A. A., 300, 301, 383 Pincus, D., 596 Pinderhughes, E. E., 519 Pine, J. M., 184, 185, 186 Pinker, S., 47, 177, 181 Pinney, S. M., 296 Pinquart, M., 521 Pipe, M.-E., 575, 576, 577, 580, 581 Pipp, S., 107, 112, 200, 204, 205 Pipp-Siegel, S., 107 Pisinger, C., 484, 485 Pisula, E., 555 Pitiot, A., 291 Pitkanen, A., 128 Pittman, J. F., 349 Pittman, K., 378, 531 Pitzer, L., 501 Pizzagalli, D. A., 92 Place, S., 190 Plant, T. M., 292 Plaut, D., 192 Plaut, V. C., 354 Pleck, J. H., 573 Plihcik, S., 533 Plomin, R., 5, 177, 178, 220, 222, 246, 402, 405, 563, 602 Plotsky, P. M., 134 Pluess, M., 95, 121, 247, 528, 529 Plunkett, K., 31, 68, 77, 78, 80, 199 Plunkett, S. W., 532 Pociask, S. E., 550 Poduska, J. M., 526 Poerksen, B., 22 Poirier, J. M., 583 Polak, J. F., 443 Polan, E. U., 595, 599 Polazzi, L., 254 Polivy, J., 345 Pollak, S. D., 134, 218, 250, 252, 294

Pollard, J. A., 382 Pollock, B. H., 643 Pollock, C., 653 Pollock, S., 344, 345, 357 Pombeni, M. L., 408 Pomerantz, E. M., 164, 251, 257, 411 Ponirakis, A., 299 Pons, F., 216, 218 Ponte, I., 645, 647, 649 Ponterotto, J., 532 Ponterotto, J. G., 353 Poole, D. A., 577, 578 Poon, L. W., 437–441, 445 Poortinga, Y., 266, 268 Poortinga, Y. H., 267, 268 Poortman, A.-R., 340 Pope, C. R., 606 Popelyuk, D., 327 Popp, D., 411 Popper, K., 44 Porfeli, E. J., 341 Porges, S., 66 Porges, S. W., 124–126, 128, 554 Portes, A., 324, 351, 352, 354 Portis, C., 301 Porto, M., 93 Portsmore, M., 647, 648 Posada, G., 406 Poskiparta, E., 255 Posner, M., 67 Posner, M. I., 76, 105, 129, 564 Posthuma, D., 438 Potau, N., 301 Poteat, V. P., 327 Pott, M., 97 Pottinger, A. M., 398 Poulin, F., 331, 332, 395, 411–415, 418, 585 Poulin-Dubois, D., 76, 77 Poulton, R., 230, 247, 475, 484, 563, 604 Pound, A., 401 Pouton, R., 133 Powell, B., 373 Powell, D., 228 Powell, M. B., 578, 579 Power, T. G., 150 Powers, B. J., 443 Powers, C. J., 526 Powers, S. I., 404, 405

Author Index

Pozzoli, T., 256 Prakash, K., 411 Prasada, S., 191 Pratt, A. K., 522, 629 Pratt, M. W., 401 Pratt, R. J., 66, 68 Premack, D., 175 Prenda, K., 477 Prensky, M., 639 Presaghi, F., 404 Prescott, C. A., 246 Prescott, L., 643 Prescott, S. L., 93 Pressman, S. D., 604 Pribram, K. H., 67 Price, H. L., 578, 579 Price, J. M., 410, 412 Price, T. S., 178 Prilleltensky, I., 529–531 Primma, S., 311 Principe, G. F., 575, 577, 578, 580 Prinz, R. J., 229 Prior, M., 220, 411 Proctor, J., 155 Proctor, L. J., 229 Proctor, P., 148 Proffitt, D. R., 67 Profilet, S. M., 403, 417 Propper, C. B., 102, 103, 221, 526 Prosch, H., 28 Prothrow-Stith, D., 526 Pruchno, R. A., 620 Puckering, C., 401 Pugliesi, K., 499 Pulkkinen, L., 303, 307, 344, 610, 621 Pulkki-R˚aback, L., 610 Pullen, S. M., 618 Purcell, S. E., 558 Putallaz, M., 400, 404, 416 Putnam, H., 28, 34, 45 Putnick, D. L., 97, 400 Pye, C., 160 Pylyshyn, Z. W., 75 Qu, L., 574, 575 Quas, J. A., 130, 132, 577–580, 584 Quatman, T., 395 Queenan, P., 219 Quesada, J., 529

Quevedo, K. M., 121, 124, 128, 129, 131 Qui˜nones, O., 531 Quine, W. V., 45 Quine, W. V. O., 182 Quinn, M. M., 583 Quinn, N., 248 Quinn, P. C., 65, 66, 70, 76, 77 Quinn, S., 595, 598 Quint, J., 326 Quint, N., 72 Quinton, D., 229 Raaijmakers, Q. W., 346, 347, 356 Rabain-Jamin, J., 152 Rabin, B. S., 505 Racettea, S., 132 Racine, C. A., 468 Racine, P., 21, 24, 25, 33 Racine, T. P., 39 Radke-Yarrow, M., 404 Raeff, C., 21, 26, 270, 271 Rae-Grant, N. I., 290 Raffaelli, M., 352, 417 Raftopoulos, A., 23 Ragan, P., 222 Raggi, M. E., 135 Raglioni, S. S., 70 Ragsdale, K., 536 Raikes, A. H., 102 Raikes, H. A., 146–148, 218 Raikes, H. H., 102 Raine, A., 247 Rainey, W. E., 293 Raitakari, O. T., 610 Rajpert-De Meyts, E., 296, 301, 313 Rakison, D. H., 73, 74, 76, 77 Ram, N., 296, 299, 441, 444, 488, 489, 524, 623 Ramachandran, A., 459 Raman, A., 294, 299 Ramey, C. T., 62 Ramirez, M., 372 Ramsey, D., 217 Ranchor, A. V., 445 Rand, W. M., 299 Randall, J. H., 30 Ranganath, V. K., 398 Ranganath, V. M., 398 Rankin, J. H., 405 Rantanen, P., 302, 312

Rao, V., 353 Rapoport, J. L., 291 Rash, S. J., 76 Rathbun, L., 577, 580 Rathunde, K., 6 Rathunde, K. R., 414 Ratner, H. H., 184 Rattansi, A., 341 Rau, R., 524 Rauch, S. L., 131 Rauers, A., 452, 457 Raver, C. C., 219, 527 Ravert, R. D., 348 Ray, R. D., 136 Raykov, T., 507 Raz, G., 39 Raz, N., 454, 456, 463 Razza, R. P., 130 Read, D., 547 Read, J. D., 583 Ready, D. D., 323, 331 Ready, R. E., 462 Realmuto, G. M., 412 Ream, R. K., 328 Reardon, L. E., 300 Reblin, M., 606 Recchia, H. E., 258 Recchia, S., 217 Redlich, A. D., 582–584, 587 Redmond, G., 574, 575 Reed, A., 71 Reed, D., 641 Reed, D. S., 577 Reed, G., 604 Reed-Sutherland, B. C., 93 Reese, E., 187 Reese, H. W., 4, 25, 35, 36, 366, 373, 383 Reeve, A., 550 Rehkopf, D. H., 438 Rehnman, J., 456 Reid, J. B., 248, 259, 413 Reid, J. C., 290 Reid, J. E., 583 Reid, M. J., 220, 407 Reid, R. A., 653 Reid, R. G. B., 39 Reid, R. J., 326 Reid, V. M., 80 Reideiger, M., 479 Reid-Quinones, K., 219

695

696

Author Index

Reilly, D., 558 Reilly, J., 179 Reimann, R., 519 Reinhardt, J. P., 502, 507, 524 Reinhart, T., 182 Reininger, B., 369 Reisberg, B., 440 Reischl, T., 532 Reisine, S., 503 Reisman, J. M., 408 Reisner, M., 100 Reiss, A. L., 136 Reiss, D., 402, 405, 525, 528, 549 Reiss, J. E., 65, 66, 76, 77 Reiter, E., 309 Reiter, E. O., 295, 296, 301, 313 Reitz, E., 404, 405 Reivich, K., 325, 600 Relkin, N. R., 176 Remsberg, K. E., 296 Renaud, E., 129 Rende, R., 257, 563 Renner, B., 605 Renner, G., 630–632 Renninger, K. A., 322 Ren-Patterson, R., 133 Repetti, R. L., 303, 497, 504 Reppucci, N. D., 583, 587 Resnick, M., 209, 639, 645, 647–649 Resnick, M. D., 327, 582 Resnick, S., 110 Resnick, S. M., 463 Resnik, H., 323, 325, 326 Ressler, K. J., 134 Reuben, D. B., 505 Reuman, D., 330, 333, 369 Reuter-Lorenz, P. A., 456, 464, 465, 467, 468, 469, 624 Reynolds, C. A., 460, 461, 463, 484, 623, 625 Reynolds, E. L., 294 Reynolds, G. D., 66 Reynolds, J., 311 Reynolds, S. L., 505 Reznick, J. S., 99, 132, 162, 177, 222 Rheingold, H., 652 Rhines, H. M., 108, 112 Rhodes, J. E., 373, 380 Rice, D., 440

Rice, F., 127 Richard, P., 395, 408 Richards, J. E., 63, 64, 66, 67 Richards, M., 298 Richards, M. H., 395, 397, 419 Richardson, G. S., 312 Richardson, S. L., 458 Richardson, S. S., 558 Richardson, U., 80 Richman, A., 96, 97, 144, 145, 150, 154, 159, 265, 274, 275 Richman, K. D., 583 Richman, W. A., 63, 66, 67, 79 Ricoeur, P., 30, 32 Rideout, V. J., 641 Ridge, B., 223 Rieckmann, N., 522, 629 Riediger, M., 452, 457, 468, 621, 623, 625, 626, 629 Riegel, K. F., 3, 444 Riegel, R. M., 444 Rieger, B. P., 353 Riegle-Crumb, C., 328–330, 332, 333 Riemann, R., 478 Rieser-Danner, L. A., 71 Rigby, K., 256 Riggs, D., 532 Riggs, N. R., 526 Riksen-Walraven, J. M., 135, 411 Riksen-Walravena, J. M., 135 Riley, A. W., 560 Riley, B., 230 Riley, J. C., 616 Riley, M. W., 620 Rimm, E. B., 443, 444 Rimpela, M., 302, 312 Riordan, K., 110 Risch, N., 133 Risdal, D., 558, 560 Risley, T., 176 Ritchie, R. A., 383 Ritter, J. M., 71 Ritter, J. O., 629 Ritter, P., 401 Ritzmann, R. F., 505 Rivas-Drake, D., 324 Rivera, S. M., 64 Rivers, J. W., 557 Rizzardi, M., 222 Rizzolatti, G., 103

Rizzoli, R., 311 Roach, M. A., 560 Robbins, L. J., 440 Robbins, M. A., 439, 440, 442, 444 Robbins, T. W., 67 Roberson-Nay, R., 223 Robert, J., 24, 34, 39 Roberts, B. W., 99, 221, 346, 347, 463, 475–480, 484, 603 Roberts, C., 596 Roberts, C. R., 341, 351 Roberts, D., 401 Roberts, D. F., 640, 641 Roberts, J. E., 322, 324–326 Roberts, J. S., 620 Roberts, K. P., 578, 579 Roberts, K. R., 76 Roberts, L. M., 341 Roberts, R. E., 341, 351 Roberts, R. O., 441 Roberts, W., 249 Robine, J. M., 437 Robins, R. W., 217, 346, 463, 604, 605 Robinson, B. F., 562 Robinson, C., 550, 553 Robinson, C. W., 69–71 Robinson, J., 177 Robinson, J. L., 102, 246 Robinson, L., 639 Robinson, L. C., 508 Robinson, L. R., 95 Robles, T. F., 485, 505 Rochat, P., 70, 106 Roche, A. F., 294, 296, 297 R¨ocke, C., 483, 487, 489, 524 Rockett, J. C., 289 Rockwood, K., 617 Rocroi, C., 78 Rodgers, A., 443 Rodgers, J. L., 259 Rodgers, K., 345 Rodin, J., 487, 488 Rodkin, P. C., 254 Rodrigue, K. M., 456 Rodriguez, E. T., 146–148 Rodriguez, J., 357, 532 Rodriguez, L., 342, 344, 345, 353, 354 Rodriguez, P., 551, 552 Roe, A., 453, 454

Author Index

Roede, M. J., 294 Roemmich, J. N., 257 Roenker, D. L., 465 Roesch, R., 582, 584 Roeser, R. W., 220, 321–328, 330–334, 369, 385, 412, 413 Roeyers, H., 558 Rogers, C., 647, 648 Rogers, K. M., 583 Rogers, S. J., 80 Roggman, L. A., 71 Rogoff, B., 7, 92, 96, 97, 107, 144, 150, 151, 154, 155, 204, 206, 253, 265–267, 270–272, 275–278, 280, 646 Rogosch, F. A., 112, 136, 376 Rohleder, N., 504, 506 Roisman, G. I., 304 Rolf, J., 604 Rollins, H., 200 Rollins, K. B., 527 Romano, J., 529 Romans, S. E., 303, 307 Romer, D., 528 Romero, A., 341, 351 Romero, L. M., 123, 504 Romero, N. K., 257 Romero-Contreras, S., 148 Romney, D. M., 406 Ronald, A., 563 R¨onnlund, M., 456, 460 Roodin, P. A., 440 Rook, K. S., 501 Roosa, M., 531 Roosa, M. W., 354 Roring, R. W., 618 Rosch, E., 52 Rosch, R., 209 Roscigno, V. J., 333 Rose, H. A., 345 Rose, K. M., 626 Rose, M., 620 Rose, R. J., 301, 303, 307 Rose, S. A., 70, 79 Rose, S. R., 294 Rose-Jacobs, R., 109 Rose-Krasnor, L., 397, 408, 409, 411 Rosen, D., 647 Rosen, S., 182 Rosenberg, S., 400

Rosenblat-Stein, S., 331 Rosenbloom, S., 532 Rosenblum, K. L., 554 Rosenfeld, P., 128 Rosenfield, R. L., 296 Rosenman, R. H., 603 Rosenthal, R., 529 Roseth, C. J., 325 R¨osler, A., 462 Rosner, D., 519 Rosnick, C., 483, 487, 489 Ross, C. E., 507 Ross, H. S., 258, 417 Ross, S. M., 64 Rossi, A. S., 503, 507, 508 Rossi, P. H., 503, 507, 508 Rossion, B., 71 Rossiter, L., 557 Rotenstein, D., 294, 301 Roth, J. L., 367, 373, 379–381, 384, 385, 386, 387, 531 Roth, T. L., 125 Rothbart, M. K., 98–100, 105, 107, 129, 216–218, 220, 221, 223, 247, 564 Rothbaum, F., 97, 279 Rothen, N., 312 Rotheram-Borus, M. J., 606 Rothermund, K., 468, 523, 627, 631 Rothman, A. J., 603 Rothstein-Fish, C., 275 Rotman, T., 407 Rott, C., 461, 521, 524 Rott, L., 501 Rourke, M., 218 Rousseau, J. J., 476 Roux, M., 176 Rovee-Collier, C., 65 Rovine, M., 227, 507, 609, 610 Rowden, L., 396 Rowe, D. C., 4, 259, 402 Rowe, J. W., 466, 489, 500, 505, 620 Rowe, M., 161 Rowe, M. L., 155 Rowland, C. F., 184, 185, 186 Rowley, S. J., 322, 324–326 Roy, A., 66, 67 Roy, J. R., 298 Roysircar-Sodowsky, G., 351

697

Rozeboom, W. W., 44 Rubenstein, A. J., 72 Rubin, C., 311 Rubin, K. H., 92, 100, 132, 222, 223, 244, 255, 396, 397, 408–412 Rubini, M., 343, 344 Ruble, D. N., 107, 244, 406 Rucker, T. D., 532 Rudkin, L., 503 Rudmin, F. W., 356 Rudolph, K. D., 412 Rudy, D., 248 Rudy, L., 577, 580 Rueter, M. A., 405 Ruiz, S., 500 Rule, B., 457 Rumbaut, R. G., 324, 351, 352, 354, 355 Rumberger, R. W., 328, 330 Rumiche, R., 190 Rundell, L. J., 73, 74 Rusbult, C. E., 506 Rusconi, M., 135 Rushton, J. P., 5 Rusk, N., 645, 647, 649 Russano, M. B., 584 Russell, A., 419 Russell, G., 399 Russell, J., 44, 49 Russell, P. S. S., 561 Russell, S. L., 257 Russell, S. T., 327 Rutgers, A. H., 554 Rutherford, R. B., 583 Rutledge, T., 441 Rutter, M., 110, 222, 229, 230, 328, 372, 394, 397, 398, 528, 529 Ruusuvirta, T., 66 Ryan, A. S., 296 Ryan, J., 648 Ryan, J. A. M., 379, 380, 382, 384, 386 Ryan, N. D., 136, 331 Ryan, R. M., 325, 347, 356, 549 Ryan-Finn, K., 529 Ryder, A., 350 Ryff, C. D., 400, 475, 483, 488, 489, 620 Ryskina, V. L., 161

698

Author Index

Saam, M., 67 Saarni, C., 104, 105, 215, 216, 219 Saayman, G., 61, 63 Sabatelli, R. M., 408 Sabatier, C., 152, 350 Sabatos, M. G., 159 Sabini, J., 36 Sabol, S. Z., 133 Sadeh, A., 331 Saenger, P., 293, 296, 301 Saenz, D., 354 Saenz de Rodriguez, C. A., 298 Saffran, J. R., 68, 69, 78, 161, 189, 190 Safyer, A., 404, 405 Sagi, A., 229, 266, 279 Sagi-Schwartz, A., 97, 111 Saha, S., 532 Sakai, A., 94 Sakovits, L. J., 63 Salapatek, P., 62, 65, 71, 72 Salazar, W., 533 Salek, F. S., 505 Salisbury, A., 93 Sallquist, J., 130 Salmivalli, C., 255 Salovey, P., 219, 603 Salt, J., 558 Salthouse, T. A., 452, 453, 455, 464, 465, 467–469, 618 Saltzman, J., 155 Salva, J., 438, 441 Salvioli, G. P., 222 Salvy, J., 257 Sam, D. L., 350, 351, 353, 354 Samanez-Larkin, G. R., 488, 489 Sameroff, A. J., 7, 110, 231, 322–325, 417 Sammanez-Larkin, G. R., 624 Sampson, E. E., 48 Sampson, R. J., 405, 531 Samuels, C., 71 Samuelson, L., 183 Sanchez, M. M., 121, 135 S´anchez-Jankowski, M., 529, 531, 533 Sanchez-Mazas, M., 353, 354 Sander, L., 93 Sanderman, R., 445, 503, 506 Sanders, F. C., 520 Sanders, J. T., 48

Sandhu, D. S., 398 Sandler, H. M., 400 Sandler, I. N., 386 Sandman, C. A., 93, 127 Sands, T., 532 Sandy, J. M., 602 Sanford, E. C., 453, 454 Sanford, J., 522 Sanjuan, J., 222 Sanson, A., 411 Sanson, A. V., 220 Santesso, D. L., 222 Santos, A. J., 410 Santostefano, S., 25, 52 Santucci, A. K., 219 Sapir, E., 153 Sapolsky, R. M., 122, 123, 125, 504 Sarama, J., 648 Saraswathi, T. S., 265–268, 279, 398 Sarawathi, T. S., 274, 275 Sardin, L., 527 Sarkar, P., 94, 128 Sarkar, S., 35 Sarrazin, P., 323 Sartorius, J., 526 Sasaki, A., 124 Sasaki, K., 459 Sasano, H., 293 S¨atc¸u¨ , A., 311 Sathish Kumar, C. K., 459 Sattler, J., 578 Saucier, G., 603 Saunders, J., 531 Savander, V., 128 Savin-Williams, R. C., 326, 327, 397, 412 Savoy, H. B., 341 Sawyer, J., 407 Sawyer, K., 219 Sawyer, R., 648 Saxbe, D. E., 303 Saxe, G., 206 Saxe, G. B., 52 Saxe, G. N., 109 Saxe, R., 74 Saxon, T. F., 64, 67 Saxton, J., 440 Sayer, A., 339 Sayfan, L., 576

Saylor, C. F., 554 Saywitz, K. J., 576, 578, 579 Scabini, E., 341 Scales, P. C., 333, 365, 366, 368, 369, 373, 380, 381, 385, 386, 387, 530, 531, 600, 601, 605, 607, 608 Scanlan, J. M., 463 Scaramella, L. V., 221 Scarborough, H. S., 148 Scarmeas, N., 459 Scarr, S., 223, 395, 405 Schaaf, J., 577, 578 Schaalma, H. P., 604 Schacter, D. L., 456 Schaefer, K., 353 Schaefer, S., 452, 465, 618 Schaeffer, J., 178 Schaie, K. W., 438, 440, 441, 453–455, 457, 476, 477, 485, 521 Schaire, K. W., 616 Schalock, R. L., 550 Schanberg, S., 93 Scheck, B., 584 Scheibe, S., 462, 467, 488, 489, 623, 624 Scheier, C., 52 Scheier, M. F., 484, 621, 622, 628, 630 Schell, L. M., 291 Schellinger, K. B., 526 Schenker, J., 645, 647, 649 Schermerhorn, A. C., 96, 215, 216, 224, 227–230, 233 Schetter, C. D., 127 Schieche, M., 135 Schiefelbein, V. L., 312 Schiefele, U., 321, 323, 326, 328, 330, 332 Schieffelin, B. B., 150, 154, 156, 160 Schiffer, A. A., 603 Schildkraut, D. J., 341, 353 Schiller, K. S., 328, 329, 332 Schiller, M., 110 Schilling, T. H., 64 Schindler, I., 487 Schiro, K., 246 Schliemann, A. D., 206 Schlotz, W., 504

Author Index

Schmid, K. L., 375, 376, 378, 383, 523 Schmidt, L. A., 92, 100, 132, 222, 223 Schmidt, L. C., 396, 398, 400, 401 Schmidt, M., 438 Schmiedek, F., 452, 457, 465, 524, 618, 623 Schmitz, S., 246 Schmitz, U., 631 Schneider, B. H., 327, 330, 409, 410, 482 Schneider, J. A., 463, 464 Schneider, S., 606 Schneider, W., 577 Schneiderman, N., 505 Schneider-Rosen, K., 105 Schneidman, L. A., 176 Schneirla, T. C., 5, 7, 69 Schnierla, T. C., 92 Schober, B., 519 Scholl, B. J., 72 Scholmerich, A., 97 Sch¨oner, G., 52 Schonert-Reichl, K. A., 290, 412 Schoon, I., 601 Schore, A. N., 93 Schorr, L. B., 386 Schotland, M., 531 Schrader, S. S., 500 Schraedley, P., 300 Schreiber, N., 577 Schroll, M., 444 Schroots, J. J. F., 452 Schubert, C. M., 294, 296, 297 Schuder, M., 135, 250 Schulenberg, J. E., 231, 519, 521 Schulkin, J., 132, 223 Schultz, W., 381 Schulz, A., 134 Schulz, M. S., 408 Schulz, R., 452, 461, 481, 488, 503, 523, 622, 623, 625, 627, 630–632 Schulze, P. A., 97 Schupp, J., 441, 444, 524, 623 Schussman, A., 652 Schwahn, C., 134 Schwartz, B., 341 Schwartz, C. E., 131

Schwartz, D., 223, 229 Schwartz, E. B., 504 Schwartz, J. E., 444, 478, 484, 610 Schwartz, R., 582 Schwartz, S. J., 341–345, 347, 349–357, 378, 386, 387, 479, 519 Schwartz, S., 376 Schwartz, S. H., 251 Schwartz-Kenney, B. M., 577, 580 Schwartzman, A., 484 Schwarzer, R., 605 Schwebel, D. C., 602 Schweiger, U., 311 Scott, A. A., 554, 555 Scott, D. M., 350 Scott, E., 581, 582 Scribner, J. P., 321 Scribner, S., 204, 206 Scullin, M. H., 579, 584 Se˜nor, M., 190 Seaman, J., 650 Searle, J., 28, 36 Sears, D. O., 532 Sears, R. R., 586 Seaton, E. K., 532 Sebanc, A. M., 132 Secher, S. M., 294, 505 Seckl, J. R., 127 Seeley, J. R., 300 Seeman, T. E., 497, 504, 505 Seff, M., 400 Segal, U., 398 Segall, M. H., 267, 272 Segers, J. E., 61 Seidenberg, M. S., 192 Seidler, R., 465 Seidman, E., 351, 357, 526 Seidman, G., 506 Seif, H., 327 Seifer, R., 110, 312, 554 Seiffge-Krenke, I., 342, 344 Selevan, S. G., 296, 297, 314 Self, P., 63 Selfhout, M. H. W., 411 Seligman, M. E. P., 325, 333, 334, 562, 595, 600, 602–604, 621 Seligman, M. P., 600 Sellers, R. M., 532 Selman, R., 244

699

Seltzer, L., 134 Seltzer, M., 176, 190 Seltzer, M. M., 400, 555, 556, 558–560 Selvam, S., 459 Selwyn, N., 499 Selye, H., 122, 504 Seminara, S., 292 Semlyen, J., 327 Sempere, T., 293 Semsa, A., 380, 386 S´en´echal, M., 148 Senghas, A., 176 Sentse, M., 247, 248 Sepulveda, S., 136 Seshadri, S., 440 Sesma, A., 600, 601, 605, 607, 608 Sessa, F. M., 247 Settles, I. H., 341 Sexton, V. S., 4 Seymour, T. L., 462, 624 Sfaello, I., 554 Shaddy, D. J., 63, 66–68, 79, 80 Shade, D., 641 Shaffer, V. A., 505 Shah, P., 465 Shah, S. H., 445 Shahar, G., 326, 327, 331–333 Shallcross, W. L., 159 Shamir, H., 227, 229 Shanahan, L., 95 Shanahan, M. J., 3, 6, 496, 534 Shand, N., 154, 158 Shannon, C., 133 Shannon, J. D., 107 Shanon, B., 49 Shantz, C. U., 258 Shapiro, A., 501 Shapiro, F., 445 Sharma, A., 369, 530, 531 Sharma, S., 134 Sharp, D., 93, 206 Sharp, D. W., 266 Sharpe, D., 557 Shatte, A. J., 600 Shattuck, P., 559 Shatz, M., 162, 175, 176, 186, 188 Shaughnessy, E., 200 Shaver, P. R., 225, 497 Shaw, B. A., 507 Shaw, D. S., 105, 219, 250, 421

700

Author Index

Shaw, J. S., 577, 578, 583 Shaw, L., 438 Shaw, P., 133 Shea, V., 653 Sheasby, J., 443 Sheeber, L., 227, 404 Sheets-Johnstone, M., 52 Sheldon, K. M., 625, 626 Shelton, K. H., 215 Shelton, S., 94 Shen, Y., 563 Sheras, P., 327 Sheridan, J., 505 Sherman, A., 250 Sherman, A. M., 498 Sherrod, L. R., 517, 519, 523, 529, 530, 531, 534 Sheskin, M., 80 Shields, B. J., 219 Shiers, H. M., 294, 505 Shih, T.-H., 327 Shimpi, P. M., 176 Shin, L. M., 131 Shin, N., 353, 357 Shinar, O., 602 Shiner, R., 603 Shiner, R. L., 346, 347 Shinskey, J. L., 64 Shinwell, E., 222 Shipley, M., 441 Shirlow, P., 229, 230 Shirtcliff, E. A., 130, 250, 294, 296, 302–304, 309 Shoda, Y., 484 Shonk, S. M., 575 Shonkoff, J., 272, 529 Shonkoff, J. P., 91, 93, 94, 111, 121, 272, 529, 552, 553, 561 Shook, S. L., 499 Shoppe-Sullivan, S., 227 Shore, R., 639, 643 Shrimpton, S., 577 Shrout, P. E., 107, 502, 506 Shuler, C., 640, 641, 643, 644, 650 Shulman, E. P., 582, 583 Shulman, P. E., 585 Shuman, D. W., 575, 580 Shuyun, Z. A., 463 Shweder, R. A., 7, 146, 153, 154, 165, 265, 267, 268, 270–273, 276, 277, 279, 280

Sibley, C. G., 506 Siddiqui, A. A., 258 Sieber, W. J., 607 Siegel, D. J., 94 Siegler, I. C., 437–442, 445, 606 Siegler, R. S., 29, 31, 198, 199, 203, 204 Siepmann, M., 36 Sierpina, V. S., 599 Siervogel, R. M., 296 Sigafoos, A. D., 549 Sigfusdottir, I. D., 584 Sigman, M. D., 79, 554, 555, 564 Sigurdsson, J. F., 584 Silbereisen, R. K., 367, 384, 521 Silberg, J., 230 Silk, J. S., 95, 219, 247, 398, 399 Sills, S., 352, 354 Silva, K. G., 155 Silva, P. A., 221, 303, 306, 308, 610 Silverberg, S., 395, 416 Silverman, B., 645, 647 Silverman, M., 582 Silverman, W. K., 300, 301, 381, 383, 386 Silverstein, M., 500, 507, 508 Simard, M., 466 Simbartl, L. A., 295 Simion, F., 71 Simmerman, S., 555 Simmons, R. G., 330 Simon, A. E., 301, 302 Simon, T. J., 75 Simonds, J., 603 Simons, R. L., 295, 300, 324, 396, 405 Simonsick, E. M., 440 Simons-Morton, B., 404 Simpkins, S. D., 381, 410, 417, 531 Simpson, J. A., 108, 506 Sinclair, H., 201 Sinclair, J. M., 149 Sinclair, R. J., 412 Singer, B. H., 620 Singer, D., 150 Singer, G. H. S., 558, 560 Singer, J. M., 65 Singer, L. T., 79 Singer, M., 532 Singer, S., 462 Singer, S. I., 585

Singer, W., 68 Singh, L., 161 Singh-Manoux, A., 441 Sinha, C., 199 Sinha, D., 268 Sinha, P., 252 Siperstein, G. N., 550 Sippola, L. K., 409, 414 Siqueland, E. R., 179 Sirois, S., 66 Sisk, C. L., 289, 291–293, 295 Siskind, J. M., 190, 192 Skakkebæk, N. E., 294, 296, 297 Skinner, B. F., 290 Skinner, D., 551, 552 Skinner, M. L., 417 Sklar, P. B., 132 Skoe, E. E., 401 Skokan, L., 506 Skoner, D. P., 603 Skoog, I., 463 Skorikov, V. B., 341 Skultety, K. M., 486 Skyttner, L., 596 Slade, A., 110 Slaets, J. P. J., 521 Slater, A. M., 62, 63, 70–72, 76, 79 Slavin, R., 322 Slemmer, J. A., 65, 68, 69, 72 Slesnick, N., 233 Sliwinski, M. J., 452, 455, 459, 524 Sloan, R. P., 93 Slomkowski, C., 257, 258 Slora, E. J., 296, 298 Sloutsky, V. M., 69–71 Small, B. J., 452, 455, 456, 464–466, 524 Small, G., 640 Small, M., 97 Small, S. A., 345 Smalls, C., 324 Smart, D., 411 Smart, D. F., 220 Smeekens, S., 135 Smeenk, W., 251 Smerdon, B., 519 Smetana, J. G., 394–397, 399, 402, 405 Smider, N. A., 221 Smith, A., 648

Author Index

Smith, A. B., 411, 413 Smith, A. D., 441, 442 Smith, C. A., 405 Smith, C. C., 132 Smith, D., 232 Smith, D. A., 506 Smith, D. B., 482 Smith, D. J., 327 Smith, D. M., 607 Smith, E., 532 Smith, E. P., 357 Smith, H. L., 621, 623 Smith, J., 323, 326, 330, 332, 484, 487, 489, 496, 521, 522, 524, 618, 623, 629 Smith, K. E., 106 Smith, L., 207–209 Smith, L. B., 5–7, 13, 42, 52, 80, 183, 366, 609 Smith, L. E., 556, 559 Smith, P. B., 350 Smith, P. K., 255, 303, 305, 306, 327 Smith, P. R., 595, 600, 607, 608 Smith, R., 372, 400 Smith, S., 508 Smith, S. S., 398 Smith, T., 558 Smith, T. M., 322 Smith, T. W., 484, 490 Smith, V., 340 Smith, W. C., 72, 73 Smits, I., 343–345, 347 Smock, P. J., 349 Smolin, L., 34 Smoller, J. W., 132 Smuts, A. B., 518 Smyth, B., 574, 575 Sneed, J. R., 339, 475, 482, 485, 486 Snellman, L. W., 128 Snhalatha, C., 459 Snidman, N., 98–100, 131, 132, 222, 231 Snow, C. E., 148, 151, 156, 157, 159, 177, 188 Snowdon, D., 604 Snyder, C. R., 595 Snyder, F. J., 384 Snyder, G., 218 Snyder, J., 258

Snyder, L. S., 576, 578 Snyder, S. S., 204 Snyder, T. D., 547 Snydersmith, M., 505 Sobel, D. M., 73 Soberman, L. H., 386 Soenens, B., 342–345, 347, 349, 352, 356 Sohn, W., 503 Sokol, B. W., 21 Sollers, J., 532 Solnit, A., 558 Solnit, A. J., 573 Sols, J., 253 Somashekar, D., 312 Somerfield, M. R., 559 Somers, M., 72 Somerville, L. H., 291 Song, L., 158, 159, 162 Sørensen, K., 296 Sørensen, T. I., 296, 297, 314 Soto, C. J., 346 Soubbi, H., 617 Southam-Gerow, M. A., 218 Sowarka, D., 521 Sowell, E. R., 291 Sowers, M. R., 311 Spaemann, R., 29 Spain, P., 532 Spangler, G., 135 Spanoudis, G., 25, 27 Spargo, E., 641 Spatzier, A., 354 Speaker, C. J., 64 Spears, R., 341, 355 Spears, W. C., 61, 62 Spek, V., 603 Spelke, E., 199 Spelke, E. S., 5, 63, 69, 70, 72, 73, 75, 80 Spellman, B. A., 73, 74 Spellmann, M. E., 148 Spencer, M. B., 370, 371 Spencer, R., 532 Sperling, G., 67 Spicer, P., 357, 532 Spieker, S., 111 Spiel, C., 519 Spiker, D., 554 Spilman, S. K., 221 Spinath, F. M., 478

701

Spinrad, T. L., 100, 130, 215, 219, 244, 249 Spiro, A., 440–442, 452, 454, 459, 460, 463, 478, 524 Spitzer, C., 134 Spracklen, K. M., 415, 417, 585 Spriduso, W. W., 617 Springer, A., 178 Spruijt-Metz, D., 311 Squire, K., 643 Srinivasan, S. R., 296 Srivastava, S., 477, 480 Sroufe, L. A., 21, 91, 109–112, 225, 226, 230, 406, 407, 415 St. Clair-Thompson, H. L., 330, 334 St. Jacques, P., 462, 463 Stack, D. M., 155 Stacy, A., 410 Stadfeld, J. A., 579 Staffieri, A., 256 Stampfer, M. J., 443, 444 Stams, G., 352 Stanbury, K., 132 Stang, H. J., 128 Stanger, C., 216 Stangl, D. K., 290, 299 Stangor, C., 532 Stanhope, L., 257, 556 Stansbury, K., 129, 132, 222 Stanton, M., 529 Stanton, M. E., 65 Stark, L., 535 Stark, M., 558 Starkey, P., 70, 74 Starnes, R., 421 Starr, J. M., 460 Staska, M., 62, 78 Staszowski, K., 648 Staton, L., 226, 231 Staton, M., 301 Stattin, H., 3, 6, 32, 38, 303, 366, 395, 397, 405, 406, 409, 411–414, 416, 417, 555 Staudinger, U. M., 3, 4, 6, 366, 384, 452, 454, 459, 461, 464, 466, 467, 468, 475, 476, 484, 520, 601, 605, 616, 618, 619, 623, 625, 628, 629, 631 Stawski, R. S., 524 Stechler, G., 66, 68 Steele, H., 110

702

Author Index

Steele, M., 110 Steen, T. A., 562 Stegall, S., 219 Steger, M. F., 603 Steiger, A., 312 Stein, A., 207 Stein, J., 36 Stein, N. L., 215 Steinberg, L. D., 95, 224, 247, 248, 251, 292, 294, 299, 302, 303, 308–311, 330, 366, 387, 394–404, 407, 409, 411–413, 416, 417, 419, 420, 507, 526, 527, 581–583, 586 Steinberg, M. S., 527 Steinberg, W., 396, 400 Steiner, H., 582 Steiner, N., 352, 354 Steiner, R. D., 563 Steinhagen-Thiessen, E., 617 Steinkuehler, C. A., 650 Steinmetz, P. N., 66, 67 Stenberg, C. R., 98, 104 Stepanich, L., 160 Stephen, J., 342 Stephens, B. R., 62, 71 Stephens, J. C., 321, 326, 333 Stephenson, G. M., 580 Stepick, A., 352 Steptoe, A., 505, 506 Stern, D., 101, 105, 106 Stern, D. N., 157 Stern, W., 7, 38 Stern, Y., 459 Sternberg, E., 311 Sternberg, E. M., 132 Sternberg, K. J., 574, 575, 578–581, 584 Sternberg, R. J., 24, 200, 467 Sterzer, P., 462 Stetsenko, A., 40 Stevens, K. N., 180 Stevens, N., 409 Stevenson, H., 532 Stevenson, H. C., 357 Stevenson, J., 556, 557 Steverink, N., 521 Steward, W. T., 603 Stewart, A., 532 Stewart, E. A., 327 Stewart, E. B., 326, 328, 333

Stewart, L. K., 93 Stewart, M. A., 402, 405 Stewart, R. A., 467 Stewart-Brown, S., 128 Stice, E., 247, 405 Stiegel-Moore, R., 296, 298 Stifter, C. A., 100, 102, 105 Stifter, C. S., 223 Stigsdotter Neely, A., 465 Stiles, J., 179 Still, D., 561 Stine-Morrow, E. A. L., 465 Stipek, D. J., 104, 107, 217 Stirnimann, F., 61 stling, S., 463 Stocker, C. M., 227 Stokols, D., 598, 606 Stolk, M. N., 99 Stoltzfus, J., 371 Stone, A. A., 444 Stone, M., 329, 333, 530 Stone, R. A., 505 Stoneman, Z., 258, 259, 556, 557 Stoner, R., 80 Stoolmiller, M., 136, 417 Storandt, M., 441, 445, 478 Stormshak, E., 560 Stouthamer-Loeber, M., 401, 405 Stovall-McClough, K. C., 109, 135 Stowell, J. R., 505 Straker, L., 653 Strand, E., 649 Strange, D., 577 Stratakis, C. A., 309, 311 Strauss, C., 267 Strauss, M., 404 Strauss, M. S., 63, 64, 76 Strauss, S., 207 Strawbridge, W. J., 620 Strayer, J., 249 Streeten, D. H., 442 Striano, T., 66, 80 Striegel-Moore, R. H., 295 Strohman, R. C., 601 Strok, R., 577 Stromswold, K., 177, 178 Stroud, L. R., 131 Strough, J., 457 Stryker, S., 341, 355 Sturaro, C., 397, 412

Sturge-Apple, M. L., 112, 226, 227, 232 Styfco, S. J., 519 Styne, D. M., 293, 294 Suanda, S. H., 75 Su´arez-Orozco, M. M., 324, 326, 330, 334, 351, 352 Suarez-Orozco, C., 324, 326, 330, 334, 351, 352 Subrahmanyam, K., 639 Subramaniam, A., 379–381, 385 Succop, P. A., 296 Suchecki, D., 128 Suess, G. J., 111 Suess, P. E., 129 Sugarman, D., 404 Sugarman, S., 23 Sugden, K., 133, 563 Suh, E. M., 621, 623 Suitor, J. J., 507 Sullivan, C. J., 255 Sullivan, H. S., 38, 243, 408, 409 Sullivan, L. M., 440, 442, 444 Sullivan, M., 216, 217 Sullivan, P., 370 Sullivan, P. M., 581 Sullivan, R. M., 125 Summers, A., 583 Sumter, S. R., 131, 254 Sun, S. S., 294, 296, 297 Sung, H., 440 Sung, M., 300 Suomi, S. J., 51 Super, C. M., 153, 265, 267 Suppes, P., 644 Supple, A. J., 532 Surbey, M. K., 303, 307 Susman, E. J., 289, 294, 296, 298–301, 303, 304, 306, 309–312 Sussman, S., 410 Sutherland, R., 577 Sutton, B. P., 463 Sutton, R. E., 326 Suwalsky, J. T. D., 97, 400 Suzuki, L. K., 275 Suzuki, M., 466 Suzuki, T., 293 Svartengren, M., 460 Swank, P. R., 106 Swanson, D. P., 371

Author Index

Swanson, J., 219 Swarr, A., 395 Swearingen, L., 421 Sweeney, D., 553 Sweep, F. C., 135 Sweet, R. C., 580 Sweeting, G., 466 Swihart, A. A., 440 Swindle, R. W., 502 Swinson, R. P., 223 Swisher, R., 327, 328 Switzer, J. V., 548, 549 Syed, M., 351, 353, 357 Sykes, M., 62 Syme, S. L., 134 Symonds, L., 70 Syvertsen, A. K., 365, 366, 368, 369, 373, 380, 385 Szalacha, L. A., 281, 324, 328 Szapocznik, J., 342, 345, 350, 352–354, 356, 357, 386, 387, 519 Szatmari, P., 290 Szewczyk-Sokolowski, M., 224 Szuber, A., 148 Szyf, M., 124, 134 Tabery, J., 24 Tadmor, C. T., 353 Taffe, J., 553 Tager, F., 93 Tager-Flusberg, H., 559 Tagliabue, S., 344 Tai, S. S., 327 Tajfel, H., 351 Takagi, M., 599 Takahashi, Langfahl, E. S., 501, 507 Takai, N., 504 Takeshita, H., 105 Tal, J., 158, 159 Talge, N. M., 127, 128 Tally, W., 647 Talmud, I., 413 Talwar, V., 577, 580 Tamis-LeMonda, C. S., 97, 107, 143–148, 150–153, 157–159, 162–164, 186 Tamplin, A., 294 Tan, J. C., 463 Tang, Y., 463, 464

Tangney, J. P., 217 Tanizaki, Y., 459 Tannenbaum, B., 134 Tanner, J. L., 356 Tanner, J. M., 294, 295, 298 Tanyu, M., 526 Tapanya, S., 252 Tapscott, D., 639 Tardif, T., 162, 163, 178 Tarr, J. A., 331 Tarr, M. J., 71 Tasker, J. G., 123 Tass´e, M. J., 550 Tate, B. A., 312 Tate, C. A., 617 Tate, E., 417 Taunt, H. M., 560, 561 Taylor, A., 133, 247, 563 Taylor, A. Z., 322, 324 Taylor, B., 291, 300 Taylor, B. J., 438 Taylor, B. K., 598 Taylor, C., 30, 49 Taylor, C. B., 312, 505 Taylor, D., 72, 394, 396 Taylor, D. J., 369 Taylor, D. M., 354, 355, 357 Taylor, D. R., 595, 599 Taylor, I. M., 325, 331 Taylor, L. M., 618 Taylor, M. G., 507 Taylor, R. D., 345, 526 Taylor, R. J., 499 Taylor, S. E., 133–135, 497, 504, 604, 626 Tayor, A., 232 Teberosky, A., 147 Tees, R. C., 78, 180 Teicher, M. H., 131 Teilman, G., 296, 297, 314 Teilmann, G., 294, 297 Tein, J., 354, 531 Teixeira, J. M., 127 Telfer, K., 577, 580 Tellegen, A., 220, 372, 603 Teller, D. Y., 62 Templeton, J., 331 Tenenbaum, H. R., 218 Tennes, K., 128, 222 Teo, G., 349, 355, 357 Teplin, L., 583

703

ter Bogt, T. M. F., 411 Terracciano, A., 346, 441, 475, 477, 478 Terry, K., 349 Terry, R., 412, 415 Terwilliger, R., 291 Tessier, N., 409 Tetlock, P. E., 353 Thal, D. J., 162, 179, 199, 207 Thalemann, R., 643 Thapar, A., 127 Tharner, A., 121, 133 Tharp, R., 271 Thatcher, J. E., 252 Thayer, J. F., 442 Theakston, A., 185, 186 Thelen, E., 5–7, 13, 21, 42, 48, 52, 207–209, 366, 609 Theokas, C., 365, 373–375, 377, 381, 519, 530, 531, 600 Thiel, K. S., 395, 420 Thierry, K. L., 586 Thiessen, E. D., 161 Thomae, H. E., 619 Thomas, A., 98–100, 220, 223 Thomas, D., 526 Thomas, J., 526 Thomas, K. M., 66, 126 Thomas, M., 256, 579 Thomas, S. N., 580 Thompson, E., 38, 48, 52, 209 Thompson, J. K., 653 Thompson, L., 209 Thompson, L. A., 247 Thompson, L. S., 534 Thompson, P. M., 291 Thompson, R. A., 100, 104, 105, 109–113, 129, 216–218, 220, 225, 252, 266, 402, 572, 574 Thompson, W. J. A., 466 Thoresen, C. J., 478 Thorn, L., 506 Thorndike, E. L., 197 Thorne, B., 281 Thornton, R., 182 Tice, D. M., 626 Tiell, K., 502 Tiemeier, H., 121, 133, 136 Tighe, L. A., 506 Tilson, H. H., 444 Tilton-Weaver, L. C., 406

704

Author Index

Timberlake, J., 529, 531 Timpano, K. R., 133 Tingstrom, D. H., 557 Tinker, E., 143, 161 Titcomb, A., 380 Titz, W., 326 Tiwari, N., 643 Tobach, E., 5, 24, 92 Tobin, M., 354 Tobin, S. S., 482 Toda, S., 97, 146, 159, 164 Todd, J., 186, 187 Todd, R. D., 558 Todorova, I., 352 Toga, A. W., 291 Tolan, P. H., 229, 531 Tolley-Schell, S. A., 252 Tolson, J. M., 395, 408 Tomada, G., 409, 410 Tomasello, M., 40, 104, 106, 155, 175, 182, 184–187, 206, 207 Tomaskovic-Devey, D., 333 Tomlinson, M., 77 Tomlinson-Keasey, C., 478, 484, 610 Tommasini, N. R., 223 Tompson, W., 75 Toner, K., 624 Tonge, B., 553 Tononi, G., 39, 46 Toppari, J., 294, 296, 297, 301, 313 Torrente, C., 525, 527, 528 Torrente, I., 222 Torres, L., 351, 354 Torres-Alem´an, I., 460 Torvik, S., 311 Toth, K., 550 Toth, S. L., 112, 136, 230, 525, 576 Toulmin, S., 27, 31 Tout, K., 132, 222 Townsend, E. L., 127 Toyinbo, P., 526 Trabasso, T., 200, 215 Tracy, J. L., 217 Tracy, R., 505 Trainor, L. J., 222 Tranel, D., 624 Trauner, D., 179 Trautwein, U., 329, 332 Treas, J., 616 Treiber, K., 459

Tremblay, A., 311 Tremblay, R. E., 327, 328, 396, 411, 412 Tremoulet, P. D., 72 Treue, S., 67 Trevarthen, C., 101, 103, 106, 157 Triandis, H. C., 97, 275, 349, 355, 357, 398 Trick, L. M., 75 Trickett, E. J., 534, 536 Trickett, P. K., 229, 300, 310 Trivette, C. M., 559 Trochim, W. M., 598 Trojanowski, J. Q., 438, 445, 459 Tronick, E. Z., 93, 96, 98, 101–103, 105, 106, 110 Tropp, L., 532 Trost, K., 406 Troughton, E., 402, 405 Trouilloud, D., 323 Troy, M., 415 Trueswell, J. C., 192 Truong, N. L., 327 Tryon, W. W., 517 Trzesniewski, K., 463 Trzesniewski, K. H., 325, 604, 605 Tsai, J. L., 461, 462 Tsao, F., 161 Tsao, F.-M., 180 Tsay, J., 417 Tschann, J. M., 300, 354 Tse, H. C., 409 Tse, J., 65 Tseng, V., 352, 526 Tsikalas, K., 647 Tubb, V., 584 Tucker, D., 94 Tucker, D. M., 603 Tucker, J. S., 478, 484, 485, 490, 610 Tucker, L., 80 Tucker, M., 46 Tuckey, M., 110 Tugade, M. M., 603 Tulving, E., 456 Tulviste, P., 271 Tun, P. A., 467 Turan, B., 488, 489 Turati, C., 71 Turbin, M. S., 605, 606 Turiel, E., 204, 220

Turken, A. U., 603 Turkewitz, G., 69–71 Turkheimer, E., 300, 302, 303, 306, 308–310 Turkle, S., 651 Turnbull, A. P., 561 Turner, A., 443 Turner, J. C., 351 Turner, R. A., 300 Turner, R. B., 603 Turner, V. D., 252 Turner-Cobb, J. M., 506 Tversky, D., 652 Tweed, D. L., 290, 299 Twyla, H., 616 Tyack, D., 532 Tyler, C. M. B., 350 Tyler, K. M., 350 Tzischinsky, O., 312 Tzourio, C., 460 Tzur, G., 76 Uchihashi, K., 504 Uchino, B. N., 606, 607, 610 Udry, J. R., 299, 303, 412 Ueno, K., 322 Uher, R., 121, 133 Ulbrecht, J., 609, 610 Ulrich, B. D., 21 Ulrich, C., 462 Ulrich-Lai, Y. M., 122, 125, 126 Uma˜na-Taylor, A., 532 Uma˜na-Taylor, A. J., 341, 351, 353, 355, 357 Umberson, D., 606 Underdown, A., 128 Unger, J. B., 350, 352–354, 357 Uno, H., 94 Updegraff, K. A., 257, 259, 341, 399 Urban, J. B., 378, 385 Urberg, K. A., 395, 408, 411, 413 Urbina, S., 199 Urdan, T. C., 321, 326, 333, 412 Usborne, E., 354, 355, 357 Usher, E. L., 325 Utne-O’Brien, M., 526 Utsey, S. O., 532 Uttal, D. H., 36 Uzefovsky, F., 247 Uzgiris, I. C., 63

Author Index

Vaccaro, B. G., 104 Vaillant, G. E., 476, 488, 600 Vaillant-Molina, M., 70 Vaituzis, A. C., 291 Valadian, I., 299 Valdez, G., 324, 326, 334 Vale, W. W., 125 Valentine, C. W., 61 Valentino, K., 135, 136 Valian, V., 180 Valiente, C., 219 Vallotton, C. D., 107 Valois, R. F., 369 Valrie, C. R., 324 Valsiner, J., 19, 29, 40, 265, 646 Van´ıcˇ kov´a, J., 344 Van Acker, R., 254 Van Aelst, P., 652 van Aken, M. A. G., 415 van Aken, M. G., 479 van Bakel, H. J. A., 135 Van Berckelaer-Onnes, I. A., 554 Van Bockern, S., 380 van Boxtel, M. P. J., 452, 457 van Breukelen, G. J. P., 413 Vance, D. E., 465 van Daalen, E., 554 Vandell, D. L., 96, 221, 381 Vandell, L., 421 van den Bergh, L., 323 van den Boom, D. C., 110 van den Bree, M., 127 van den Oord, E. J. C. G., 402 van der Elst, W., 452, 457 van der Ende, J., 121, 136, 296 Vandergrift, N., 526 Vander Hoorn, S., 443 van der Laan, P. H., 251 van der Leij, A., 80 Van der Linden, M., 462 van der Maas, H., 209 van der Sluis, S., 438 Vanderstichele, E., 445 van der Veen, R., 123, 124 van der Veer, R., 29, 646 van der Vegt, E. J. M., 121, 136 Van Der Vorst, H., 312 Van Der Werf, M. P. C., 257 van de Schoot, R., 343, 344, 356 van de Vijver, F. J. R., 350 Van de Walle, G., 69

Vandewater, E. A., 641 van Dulmen, M. M. H., 132, 575 van Eekelen, J. A., 93 Van Egeren, L. A., 394 van Engeland, H., 554 Vangeepuram, N., 296 van Geert, P., 24, 208, 209 van Geert, P. L. C., 357 van Herten, M., 80 van Hoof, A., 342, 344 van IJzendoorn, M. H., 91, 95, 97, 99, 102, 103, 110, 111, 121, 131, 133, 148, 218, 225, 229, 266, 279, 528, 554, 572, 573 van Jaarsveld, C. H., 301, 302 van Kammen, W. B., 401 Van Laer, J., 652 Van Leeuwen, K. G., 346 van Leeuwen, T., 80 van Lier, P. A. C., 397, 412 van Lieshout, C. F. M., 411 Van Niekerk, J. K., 505 van Pelt, J., 131 Van Petegem, S., 343, 347, 357 Van Riper, M., 557 van Ryzen, M. J., 222 van Ryzin, M. J., 132 Vansant, I., 531 Van Soest, D., 530 Vansteenkiste, M., 325, 342–345, 347, 356 Van Tyne, K., 352 van Wieringen, J. C., 294 van Zeijl, J., 99 Varela, A., 383 Varela, F. J., 52, 209 Vargas, M. C., 584 Vargas-Chanes, D., 341 Varma, S., 79 Vasan, R. S., 440 Vasilyeva, M., 176, 191 Vasquez Garc´ıa, H., 551 Vatten, L. J., 297, 311 Vaughan, J., 105 Vaughn, B. E., 406, 410, 554 Vaupel, J. W., 437, 524, 616 Vazquez, D., 123 Vazsonyi, A. T., 404 Vear, D., 186 Vedder, P., 350, 351 Veenstra, R., 247, 248

705

Vega, W., 530 Vega, W. A., 354 Velders, F. P., 121, 133 Velez, C. E., 572, 573 Venkitaramani, D. V., 563 Venuti, P., 97, 555 Verdugo, M. A., 550 Verghese, A., 445 Verghese, J., 459, 524 Verhave, T., 580 Verhoef, H., 151 Verhulst, F. C., 121, 136, 247, 248, 296 Verma, S., 339, 413 Vermulst, A. A., 409, 555 Vernberg, E. M., 417, 419 Veroff, J., 507 Versace, M., 67 Verschueren, K., 112, 399 Vert´e, S., 558 Vevea, J., 176 Vida, M., 333 Viechtbauer, W., 346, 477 Vieira, C., 312 Viera, A., 645, 647, 649 Vieth, V., 579 Vignoles, V. L., 341, 345, 350, 354, 355 Vigorito, J., 179 Vijay, V., 459 Viken, R. J., 301, 303, 307 Viljoen, J., 582, 584 Villalobos, M., 395, 396 Villareal, M. J., 398 Villarruel, F., 531, 532 Viltart, O., 127 Vincent, M. L., 369 Viner, R., 294, 313 Vinik, J., 250, 252 Vinokur, A. D., 607 Vinokus, A. D., 327 Visser, M., 459 Vitak, J., 652 Vitaliano, P. P., 463 Vitaro, F., 254, 327, 328, 396, 408, 411, 412 Vivian, D., 506 Vivona, T. S., 585 Voeten, M., 255, 323 Vogel, G., 445 Vogelsong, K. M., 504

706

Author Index

Vogt, T. M., 610 Vohs, K. D., 626 Volein, A., 80 Vollebergh, W. W., 342 Volling, B., 227, 421 Volterra, V., 155 V¨olzke, H., 134 Von Bargen, D. M., 65 von Bertalanffy, L., 5, 7, 35, 376, 596 Von der Schulenburg, C., 71 Vondra, J. I., 105, 421 Voneche, J., 48 von Eye, A., 348, 365, 373–375, 377, 381, 523, 524, 530, 642 von K¨anel, R., 606 von Salisch, M., 244 von Strauss, E., 524 von Wright, G. H., 41, 50 Vorgan, G., 640 Vorster, J., 159 Voss, M. W., 466, 484 Vraa, R., 369 Vuchinich, S., 384 Vul, E., 65 Vygotsky, L. S., 5, 7, 25, 200, 206, 207, 252, 256, 272, 277, 649 Vyt, A., 162 Wachtel, G. A., 183 Wacker, M. E. E., 405 Wade, K. A., 583 Wadhwa, P. D., 93, 127 Wadley, V. G., 465 Wadlinger, H. A., 462, 624 Waern, M., 463 Wagner, G. G., 441, 444, 524, 623 Wagner, L., 182 Wagner, P., 519 Wagner, S. H., 63 Wahl, H.-W., 521 ˚ 456–458 Wahlin, A., Wahlstein, D., 210 Wahlsten, D., 5, 24, 121, 123, 596 Wainwright, A. B., 224 Wainwright, P., 79 Wainwright, R., 110 Waite, L. J., 497 Waizenhofer, R. N., 399 Wake, W., 198, 199, 204 Wakeley, A., 64

Walberg, H., 412 Walberg, H. J., 322 Walden, B., 395 Waldstein, S. R., 442, 444 Walker, A. G., 576 Walker, D., 79 Walker, D. K., 463 Walker, K. C., 70, 370 Walker, L. J., 252, 256, 402 Walker-Andrews, A. S., 70 Wall, S., 104, 108, 109, 220, 225, 572 Wallace, I. F., 70 Wallace, R. B., 440 Wallace, S. A., 532 Wallhagen, M. I., 620 Wallin, A. R., 579, 584 Walls, C. T., 526 Walls, T., 366 Wallymahmed, A., 484 Walters, R. H., 408 Walters, S., 579 Walton, K. E., 346, 477, 484 Walvoord, E. C., 296 Wang, C., 605, 606 Wang, H.-X., 454, 459, 465 Wang, L., 296 Wang, M. C., 322 Wang, Q., 163, 609, 610 Wang, S. C., 355, 357 Wang, S.-H., 64 Wang, T. J., 445 Wang, W., 354, 526 Wang, X. C., 641, 647, 648 Wanner, E., 69 Wapner, S., 6 Warden, D., 254, 577, 580 Wardle, J., 301, 302 Warfield, M. E., 552, 553, 560, 561 Wark, L., 580 Warner, S., 312 Warren, A. E. A., 374, 375 Warren, A. R., 576, 577, 579, 580 Warren, H., 244 Warren, M. P., 303, 305, 310 Wartella, E. A., 640, 641, 650 Wasik, B. H., 551 Wasserman, R. C., 296, 298 Wasserman, S., 63 Watamura, S. E., 130 Waterfall, H., 176

Waterman, A. S., 342, 344, 345, 347, 349, 352 Waterman, P. D., 438 Waters, C. S., 93 Waters, E., 104, 108, 109, 220, 225, 226, 229, 406, 415, 572 Watson, J., 62, 217, 641 Watson, J. B., 7, 197 Watson, J. S., 103 Watson, P. C., 467 Wattam-Bell, J., 64 Watts, R., 531, 533 Waxman, S. R., 77, 78, 183, 191 Way, B. M., 133 Way, N., 151, 324, 351, 357, 395, 401, 531, 532 Weaver, J. D., 505 Weaver, S. L., 475, 477, 487 Webb, N. M., 256 Weber, B., 311 Weber, E. K., 151 Weber-Fox, C. M., 176 Webster, P. F., 507 Webster-Stratton, C., 220, 400, 407 Wechsler, D., 440 Weems, C. F., 136 Weets, I., 344 Wegner, D. M., 628 Wegner, E., 644 Wehmeyer, M. L., 549, 550 Weidauer, S., 462 Weinberg, J., 124, 127 Weinberg, R. A., 7, 382, 517, 525, 529, 530, 534 Weinberger, D. R., 222 Weinberger, M. I., 462 Weiner, J., 445 Weiner, M. B., 377 Weiner, M. W., 438 Weinfield, N., 110, 111 Weinstein, H., 154 Weis, J. G., 416 Weisenburg, T., 453, 454 Weisgram, E. S., 342 Weisner, T. S., 146, 280, 561 Weiss, B., 404 Weiss, H., 531 Weiss, L. A., 563 Weiss, M., 216

Author Index

Weissberg, R. P., 322, 323, 325, 326, 526 Weisskirch, R. S., 342, 344, 345, 354, 355, 357 Weisz, J. R., 97, 386 Weizmann, F., 66, 68 Welch, D., 475, 484 Wellman, H. M., 198, 217–219 Wells, J. C., 311 Wells, L. E., 405 Wells, Y., 574, 575 Welsh, D. P., 405 Welsh, K. A., 445 Wen, Z., 463 Wendland, J. R., 133 Weng, Y., 463 Wenger, E., 646 Wentura, D., 628, 631 Wentzel, K. R., 255, 257, 325, 412, 415, 421 Wenz, H., 128 Wereha, T. J., 39 Werheid, K., 624 Werker, J. F., 70, 78, 79, 105, 180 Werkman, S. H., 79 Werner, E., 93, 372 Werner, H., 24, 25, 38, 43, 69, 270 Werner, R. S., 218 Werner-Wilson, R., 531 Wertlieb, D., 7, 517, 519, 525 Wertsch, J. V., 5, 7, 40, 48, 271, 272, 277 Weshues, A., 219 Wessel, A., 192 Wessells, M., 535 West, R. L., 463 Westenberg, P. M., 131, 254 Westfahl, S. M.-C., 76 Westheimer, K., 328 Weston, R., 574, 575 Westra, T., 152, 153 Wethington, E., 502 Wewerka, S., 131 Wexler, K., 180–182 Weylman, S. T., 178 Whalen, S., 414 Whalley, L. J., 460 Wheatcroft, G., 129 Wheaton, B., 503, 507 Wheeler, H. A., 345 Wheeler-Anderson, J. R., 342

Wheelwright, S., 71 Whipple, N., 102 Whitbourne, S. B., 486 Whitbourne, S. K., 339, 353, 475, 482, 485, 486 White, H. R., 382 White, K., 368, 381 White, R., 532 White, R. F., 442 Whitehouse, R. H., 294 Whitehurst, G. J., 147, 148 Whiteman, M. C., 485 Whiteman, S. D., 259 Whitfield, K. E., 521 Whiting, B. B., 146, 151, 274 Whiting, J. W., 146 Whiting, J. W. M., 274 Whitman, T. L., 561 Whitney, G. A., 506 Whittaker, K. S., 441 Whyte, S. R., 551 Wichstrøm, L., 301 Widaman, K. F., 221 Wiebe, D. J., 487 Wiehe, S. E., 354 Wiers, R. W., 312 Wierson, M., 303, 307 Wiese, B. S., 522, 629 Wiesner, M., 301 Wigfield, A., 321, 323, 325, 326, 328, 330, 332, 333, 369, 385 Wiglesworth, A., 93 Wiik, K. A., 340, 349 Wilber, N., 463 Wilcox, B. M., 71, 519, 520, 525, 527, 529 Wilcox, H. C., 526 Wilcox, T., 72, 73 Wild, M., 417 Wilensky, U., 209 Wiley, E., 177 Wilkie, F., 442 Wilkinson, I., 596, 599 Willatts, P., 79 Willcox, B. J., 466 Willcox, D. C., 466 Willemsen, G., 505 Willett, R., 639, 647 Willett, W. C., 443, 444 Williams, B., 133, 247 Williams, D. R., 354, 532

707

Williams, E. M., 52 Williams, G., 551 Williams, G. M., 301 Williams, J., 531 Williams, K. A., 180 Williams, L. M., 463, 575 Williams, N., 533 Williams, R., 529, 532 Williams, S., 604 Williams, T., 531, 556 Williams, V. A., 419 Williamson, A., 456 Williamson, D., 379 Williamson, D. A., 643 Willis, S. L., 440, 458, 460, 465, 476, 477, 485, 521, 618 Wills, T. A., 502, 602 Wilms, H.-U., 617 Wilson, B. A., 467 Wilson, D. M., 301, 312 Wilson, E. O., 4 Wilson, H. R., 462, 624 Wilson, J., 229 Wilson, J. C., 580 Wilson, J. L., 648 Wilson, K. S., 421 Wilson, L., 531 Wilson, N., 522 Wilson, R., 189 Wilson, R. S., 444, 463–465, 524 Wilson, S., 339 Wilson-Genderson, M., 620 Wimer, C., 531 Winberg, J., 93 Winblad, B., 456, 624 Windle, M., 409 Windsor, T. D., 501 Wines, J. V., 294 Wingard, D. L., 478, 484 Wingfield, A., 467 Wink, P., 481 Winnicott, D. W., 38, 52, 92, 105 Winograd, C. H., 440 Winter, L., 630 Winter, M. A., 227 Wintre, M. G., 345 Wippman, J., 415 Wise, S., 102 Wismer-Fries, A. B., 250 Wissink, I., 352 Wit, J. M., 294

708

Author Index

Witchel, S. F., 296, 298 Witherington, D. C., 33, 42, 101–103, 129 Witherspoon, D., 531 Witkow, M. R., 357 Witt, W. P., 560 Wittgenstein, L., 53 Wittig, M., 532 Wobbes, T., 503, 506 Woelfle, J., 296 Woitach, M. J., 226, 227 Wojslawowicz, J. C., 411, 412 Wolf, J. M., 506 Wolf, L., 557, 558 Wolf, M., 444, 640 Wolf, O. T., 505 Wolf, P. A., 440, 442, 444 Wolfe, C. D., 66, 68 Wolfe, C. T., 485 Wolfensberger, W., 558 Wolff, M. S., 296 Wolfson, A. R., 312 Wolke, D., 79 Wong, C. A., 324 Woo, J., 291 Wood, C., 303 Wood, D., 370, 475, 476, 478, 484 Wood, J. M., 577, 578, 583, 584 Wood, K., 465 Woodall, C. E., 579 Woodard, J. L., 441 Woodruff, D. S., 482, 483 Woods, R. J., 72, 73 Woods, R. W., 109 Woodward, A. L., 176, 183, 191 Woodward, C. A., 290 Woodward, H. R., 294, 299, 314 Woodward, L., 302, 304, 305 Woodward, S., 231 Woolard, J., 582 Woolfolk Hoy, A., 323 Wormley, B., 230 Wornham, W. L., 152 Worthington, R. L., 341 Worthman, 290, 299 Worthman, C. W., 299, 300 Wosinski, M., 254 Wozniak, D., 521, 524 Wray, L. A., 496 Wright, A. F., 460 Wright, C., 443

Wright, C. I., 131 Wright, J. C., 557 Wright, R., 579 Wright, V., 405 Wrosch, C., 452, 461, 481, 488, 621, 623, 625, 627, 630–632 Wu, I., 164 Wu, J., 5, 7, 40, 48, 281 Wu, M., 417 Wu, S. Y., 440 Wu, T., 294 Wu, Z. H., 503 W¨ust, S., 506 Wyatt, T., 253 Wyckoff, J., 322 Wynn, K., 69, 76 Wyse, A. E., 330 Xie, H., 414 Xie, J., 463 Xu, F., 69, 72, 73, 75, 163 Xu, J. Q., 440 Xu, Y., 247, 403 Yagmur, ˘ S., 352 Yaeger, A., 602 Yager, J., 247 Yamaguchi, M., 504 Yamakia, L. H., 132 Yancura, L., 490 Yando, R., 93 Yang, B. Z., 133 Yasui, M., 351, 352, 354 Yates, M., 531 Yates, T., 575 Yates, W., 402, 405 Yau, J., 397 Yazedjian, A., 351 Yazici, K. M., 311 Ybarra, O., 354 Yeager, D. S., 24 Yehuda, R., 127 Yeung, Y. L. D., 490 Yi, S., 163 Yin, Y., 396, 398, 400, 401 Yip, T., 354, 532 Yirmiya, N., 554 Yodanis, C., 404 Yoder, A., 349 Yonas, M., 533 Yoon, J. E., 108

Yoshikawa, H., 158, 159, 162 Young, G. S., 80 Young, L. M., 522, 629 Young, Y., 620 Youngblade, L. M., 227, 519 Younger, B. A., 76, 77 Youngstrom, E. A., 232 Youniss, J., 254, 409, 417, 419, 518, 530, 531 Yovsi, R., 107 Yu, Y.-F., 349, 355, 357 Yuan, S., 192 Yudilevitch, L., 578 Yull, A., 161 Zaff, J. F., 381, 519, 526, 529, 531, 534 Zahn-Waxler, C., 217, 246, 394, 397, 404, 408 Zajac, R., 576 Zamboanga, B. L., 342, 344, 345, 349–355, 357 Zarbatany, L., 254 Zarrett, N., 381 Zarrett, N. R., 331, 333 Zayas, L. H., 532, 536 Zayas, V., 484 Zdaniuk, B., 621 Zeanah, C. H., 93, 94, 105 Zeanah, P. D., 93 Zeglis, M., 129 Zehr, J. L., 289, 292 Zeiders, K. H., 354 Zeira, A., 327 Zeisel, S. A., 322, 324–326 Zelazo, P. D., 51, 125, 330 Zeldin, S., 530, 533 Zelli, A., 251 Zeman, J., 219 Zhang, H., 605, 606 Zhang, J., 463 Zhang, W., 376 Zhang, Z., 247 Zhao, Y., 642 Zhou, J., 609, 610 Zickuhr, K., 641 Ziegler, T., 134 Zigler, E., 7, 232, 519 Zijdenbos, A., 291 Zilbovicius, M., 554 Zillien, N., 642

Author Index

Zimmer-Gembeck, M. J., 325, 326, 397 Zimmerman, L., 96 Zimmerman, S., 374, 375, 378, 383 Zimprich, D., 477 Zimring, F. E., 582

Zingman de Galperin, C., 97 Zins, J. E., 322, 323, 325, 326 Ziv, M., 207 Zohar, A., 29 Zola, I. K., 551, 552 Zonderman, A. B., 441, 442, 463 Zosuls, K. M., 107

Zubernis, L. S., 218 Zuckerman, A., 499, 502, 503 Zuckerman, M., 347 Zukow-Goldring, P., 155, 258 Zullig, K. J., 369 Zwarts, F., 80 Zweig, J., 353

709

Subject Index

ABCX model, 559 Abduction, 43–45 Acculturation, 11 agency, 353 biculturalism, 353 demographic and contextual factors, 354 discrimination, 354 heritage culture, 352 immigrant and minority individuals, 354 mass immigration and globalization, 353 national boundaries, 353 socialization agents, 352 Achievement goal theory, 324 Action theory behavior, 50 communication, 50 experience, 50–51 expressive action, 50 intention, 49 Active system, metatheory, 22 Activity theory, 482 AD. See Autistic disorder (AD) Adaptive system, metatheory, 23 Adolescence and emerging adulthood achievement, 321 age/stage, 395–396 Big Five dispositions development agentic personality, 347 emotional stability, 346 invincibility, 347 rank-order consistency, 347 separation-individuation process, 347 social dominance, 346 biology, 396 cognition, 396–397 collectivist-based societies, 356 cultural identity

acculturation, 352–354 ethnic identity, 350–352 curriculum and academic work, 322–323 dyadic relationships, 11 emotions, self and social interaction, 397 engagement, 322 ethnicity, SES and culture, 397–398 extracurricular activities, 321 financial resources, 356 gender, 394–395 identity beliefs, 321 learning, 322 minority students, 322 motivation, 347–348 parenting process, 356 personal and cultural identity biculturalism theories, 355 cultural identity clarity, 354 cultural streams, 356 discriminatory events, 355 identity-related commitments, 354 social roles and responsibilities, 355 personal identity development achievement, 342 cluster-analytic procedures, 344 commitment, 342, 343 contemporary identity research, 345 diffusion, 344 disordered eating, 345 epigenetic principle, 342 exploration process, 343 foreclosure, 342 individuality and personality levels, 345–346 mature interpersonal relationships, 342 moratorium, 344 psychosocial functioning, 345 reconsideration, 343 711

712

Subject Index

Adolescence and emerging adulthood (continued) safety net, 344 self-esteem, 343 synthesis and confusion, 342 psychosocial and emotional outcomes, 357 relational developmental system, 366–367 role of agency agentic and self-directed strategies, 349 Erikson’s theory, 349 intentional self-regulation, 348 personality characteristics, 348 self-directed process, 348 social context, 349–350 school, 321 sense of belonging, 325 teacher beliefs academic ability and intelligence, 325 classroom climate, 325 efficacy, 323 mastery or relative ability, 324 SDT, 325 stereotype threats, 325 transactional relationships, 11 transition agency, 341 career path, 340 labor market, 340 possible identities, 340 social structure, 340 workforce and committed partnerships, 340 triadic relationships, 11 Western cultural contexts, 356 Adolescent, friend/peer relationships academic achievement, 413 biological/dispositional factors, 411 early childhood temperament, 411 group membership, 412 individual-difference characteristics, 411 interaction and association, 412 maladjustment, 412 sociometric popularity, 412 Adolescent offenders, 581 Adrenal androgens, 293 Adrenarche, 293, 308 ADS. See Applied developmental science (ADS) Adultomorphism, 23 Affordances, 48 Age at menarche, 296, 299 Agency, 163–165 Agentic personality, 347

Aggression, middle childhood and social development, 246, 258 Aging brain model, 624 Alcohol use disorder (AUD), 300 Allostatic load, 122 Alzheimer’s disease, 11, 459 American Association on Intellectual and Developmental Disabilities (AAIDD), 549, 551 American Psychological Association (APA), 327 Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA), 549 Amodernism, 33 Amygdala, 462 Analytic attitude, 29 Androgens, 294 Androstenedione, 293 Antisocial behavior, 246 Applied developmental science (ADS) child study movement, 518 child saving movement, 518 civic engagement and positive youth development environmental assets, 530 neighborhood effects, 531 political oppression, 531–532 community-based participatory research, 520 contextual influences causal mediation, 528 cross-classification models, 528 dismantling racism, 533 ecology, 519 gene-environment interactions biological measures, 529 biologically based sensitivity, 528 genetic expression, 519 human genome, 519 intraindividual continuity and change centenarians, 524 control theory and health and disability, 523–524 dual process theory and coping with disability, 523 evidence-based practices, 520 families, 524 interventions, 520 learning curve, 524 life-span theory, 520–521 longitudinal changes, 524 longitudinal data, 521 metatheory and mechanisms, 522 plasticity, 521 selection, optimization, and compensation, 522–523 sensitive developmental period, 522 successful aging, 521

Subject Index

testing-the-limits methodology, 521 theory applications, 520 Morrill Act, 518 person-environment interactions, 519 psychopolitical well-being and psychopolitical validity ecological systems theory, 530 liberation, 530 racism, 532 re-emergence, 519 research ethics, 520 school-based prevention research and practice bidirectional translation, 528 classroom, 526–527 executive function, 526 longitudinal multilevel dynamic models, 527 MEB disorders, 526 multilevel dynamic approaches, 525 teaching process, 526 social inequities community engagement, 529 policy analysis, 529 poverty, 529 structural violence, 529 social justice mental and emotional distress, 530 oppression effects, 530 sociopolitical well-being, 533–534, 536 in 21st century colearning, 536 globalization and humanitarian crises, 535 goodness-of-fit, 536 translational, 536 university commitment, 534–535 Artificial intelligence, 199 Artificial language learning, 189 ASD. See Autism spectrum disorder (ASD) Asperger’s syndrome (AS), 550 Assimilation, 486 Assimilative and accommodative coping model flexible goal adjustment, 631 tenacious goal-pursuit, 631 Associative learning, infant perception and cognition, 67 Atomism, 29 Attachment, 9, 92 ambivalent attachments, 109 avoidant attachment, 109 behaviors, 108 caregiver sensitivity, 110 caregiving environment, 110 developmental disability, 554 disorganized attachments, 109

infant-caregiver attachments, 108 insecure attachment, 109 internal working models, 109 mental representations of self and others, 109 multiple attachment relationships, 111 negative emotion regulation, 108 parental depression, 110 psychological unavailability, 110 secure base behavior, 109 sociocultural context, 110 stability and continuity in, 111–112 Attention attentional state, 67 endogenous/voluntary attention, 68, 78 gap/overlap techniques, 64 heart rate, 65–66 joint attention, 564 visual cueing, 64 visual-spatial orienting, 67 Autism spectrum disorder (ASD), 547–548 Autistic disorder (AD), 550 Baby Boomers, 11 Baltimore Longitudinal Study of Aging, 442 Behavioral Dyscontrol Scale (BDS), 440 Behavioral inhibition, 131 Behavior genetics antisocial behavior, 246 identical vs. fraternal twins, 245 limitations, 246 molecular behavior genetics, 247 prosocial behavior, 246–247 shared vs. nonshared environment, 246 Biculturalism theories, 355 Biopsychosocial model, 497–498 Blood pressure, 505 Bloomington Longitudinal Study, 223 Body mass index (BMI), 295 Bone mineral density (BMD), 311 Bookreading, 147–149 Breast cancer, 301 Bridging cultural and developmental psychology, 269 Bullying, 254, 255 Calories, 311 CAR. See Cortisol awakening response (CAR) Cardiovascular diseases (CVD), 311, 443 Carmichael’s manual of child psychology, 200 Categorization, 64 basic-level categories, 77 computational modeling, 77

713

714

Subject Index

Categorization (continued) conceptual categorization, 77 eye tracking, 64–65 knowledge, 76 language, 77 perceptual categorization, 77 Causal perception, 73–74 CDD. See Childhood disintegrative disorder (CDD) CDT. See Child development theory (CDT) Changing Lives Program (CLP), 383 CHD. See Coronary heart disease (CHD) Chicago School Readiness Project (CSRP), 527 Child development and law abuse, 571 children’s informativeness child protection, 581 introductory phase, 579 language development and communicative competence, 576 memory, 576–577 NICHD Protocol interviews, 580 nondisclosure/delayed disclosure, 580 open-ended strategies, 580 presubstantive part, 579 substantive part, 579–580 suggestibility, 577–578 transitional part, 579 children’s testimony, 572 children’s welfare, 572 crime investigation, 575 decision-making processes and capacities, 586 divorce attachment figures, 573 attentional difficulties, 574 children’s adjustment, 575 custody and visitation, 573 everyday activities, 574 family’s financial status, 574 father–child relationships, 573 infant–parent attachments, 572–573 maintaining relationships, 573–575 nonresident fathers, 573 parental behaviors, 573 parenting plans, 574 personality differences, 574 primary responsibility, 573 single parenthood, 575 step-parenthood and remarriage, 575 supervision and guidance, 574 experienced events, 586 investigative interview techniques, 575

maltreatment, 575 neuroscientific technology, 571 physical evidence, 575 suspects/offenders brain development, 582 decision-making capacity, 582–583 interrogation of juvenile suspects, 583–584 juveniles (see Juveniles) life-course persistent offenders, 581 rehabilitation, 581 Child development theory (CDT), 308 Childhood, adversity, 121 Childhood Behavior Questionnaire, 220 Childhood disintegrative disorder (CDD), 550 Classroom academic development, 527 aggression, 526 classroom assessment scoring system, 527 domestic violence, 527 Reading, Writing, Respect and Resolution Program, 527 Clinical method, 203 Cliques, 256 Co-action, 24 Cognitive aging, 11 affect and emotion, brain, 462–464 approach, 453 biological and cognitive vitality, 458–459 compensation accommodation, 468 assimilation, 468 automatic neural mechanism, 467 effortfulness hypothesis, 467 remediation, 468 sensory deficits, 467 substitution, 468 emotion, relationship, 461–462 functional biomarkers, 459–460 gains, 464–465 intellectual aging classic aging pattern, 454 contemporary theories, 454 crystallized intelligence, 454 fluid intelligence, 454 longitudinal research, 454 performance levels, 454 psychometric intelligence, 454 Seattle Longitudinal Study, 455 memory collaborative context, 457 genetic status, 456

Subject Index

human cognitive aids, 457 interactive contexts, 457 metamemory, 457 prospective memory, 457 remembering events, 457 retrospective memory, 457 social and cultural contexts, 457 systems, 455–456 paradox of, 460–461 patterns core developmental issues, 452 individual differences, 453 late adulthood, 452 novel trends, 452 substantial changes, 452 plasticity, 465–466 tracking biological and chronological age, 459 wisdom, 466–467 Cognitive development, 11 childhood artificial intelligence, 199 brain imaging research, 209 central conceptual structures, 207 chaos theory, 209 cognitive revolution, 198 integration, 207–209 intelligence, 199 Karmiloff-Smith’s theory, 208 language revolution, 198–199 nonuniversal theory, 208–209 Piaget’s theory (see Piaget’s theory) systems theory, 209 universal to unique, 208 universal vs. individual cognitive development, 207 culture, 266 infant (see Infant perception and cognition) middle childhood, 256 self-conscious emotions, 217 Commonsense realism, 28 Communication modes. See Modes of communication Communicative accommodation child-centered communications, 156 conversational partners, 157 infants’ communicative behaviors, 157–159 infants’ understanding, 159–160 motherese, 159–160 motionese, 159 multiparty talk and interactions, 160 protoconversation, 157 responsiveness definition, 158

715

targets of, 158–159 types of, 159 situation-centered communications, 156 Compensation, 375, 628–629 Computer-assisted instruction (CAI), 644 Computer supported collaborative learning (CSCL), 645 Computers, 13 Connectionism, 192 Conscientiousness, 346 Constructivism, 202–204 Contextualist worldviews, 33 Continuity Hypothesis, 181–182 Continuous variational change, 26 Contrast sensitivity, preferential looking, 62 Conventionalism, 28 Convey model chronic stress, 503 personal characteristics, 498 positive/negative quality relationships, 499 Convoy model of social relations, 12 Cooperative learning, 255 Corneal reflection technique, 65 Coronary heart disease (CHD), 443 Cortical source localization, 66 Cortisol emotion regulation, 219 middle childhood, 250 self-conscious emotions, 217 temperament and, 222 Cortisol awakening response (CAR), 505 C-reactive protein (CRP), 505 Cross-cultural psychology, 266–267 Crystallized intelligence, 26, 454 Cultural identity clarity, 354 Cultural ideology, 531 Cultural learning, 184–185 Culture, 10 developmental disability, 551–552 emotional and personality development, 228–229 infant beliefs and values, 96 caregiving practices, 97 emotional availability, 97 independence/interdependence, 97 nationality, 96 parent–infant communicative interaction (see Parent–infant communicative interaction) Culture and child development, 10 conceptualized and operationalized perspectives, 267 cross-cultural psychology, 266–267

716

Subject Index

Culture and child development (continued) ecological model, 267 emic-etic distinction, 268 integrative approaches, 269 limitations, 265 meaning systems, 267, 268 mutually constitutive relationships embodiment, 270 goals, 273–274 individual development, units of analysis, 271–273 instantiation, 271 interpretation, 279–281 nature of development, 276–278 person-context relationship, 270 range of variation in human functioning, 274–275 regularities in variation, 275–276 relational metatheory, 270–271 stages of scientific inquiry, 273 transformational developmental transitions, 278–279 variational developmental transitions, 279 CVD. See Cardiovascular diseases (CVD) Daily routines, 146 bookreading, 147–149 exercise, 152 language, 147 literacy routines, 147 massage, 152 oral routines, 149–150 play, 150–152 storytelling, 149–150 Deductive falsification, 44 Dehydroepiandrosterone (DHEA), 293 De-identification, 259 Depression children of parents with, 231–232 maternal, 560 puberty adolescent girls, 299 males, 295 Developmental contextualism, 113 Developmental disability autism spectrum disorder, 547–548 cross-domain relations, 562 cultural views, 551–552 definitions, diagnoses, and classification schemes, 549–551 disability rights movement, 548–549 families of children with family system, 553 parent–adolescent relationships, 555–556

research, 561–562 sibling relationship, 556–558 gene-by-environment interactions, 563–564 joint attention, 564 neuroimaging studies, 564 parent–child relationship attachment, 554 fathers, 555 mother–child interaction, 554–556 positive emotions, 560–561 resilience ABCX model, 559 marital adjustment, 560 maternal depression, 560 parental stress, 560 social support, 559–560 stress-and-coping models, 559 stage theory model, 558 Developmental health psychology, 11 age differences, 438 Alzheimer’s disease, 445 biology of aging, 445 cognitive and functional declines ApoE gene, 442 Baltimore Longitudinal Study of Aging, 442 brain cells, 443 cardiovascular disease, 441 Framingham Stroke Risk Profile, 442 glucose, 443 hypertension, 442 hypotension, 442 MCI and dementia, 442 old age, 442 dementia, 445 demographic and public health aging and health, 440 Georgia Centenarian Study, 439–440 measuring health, 441 end of life issues, 443–445 genetic hypotheses, 445 longevity genes, 445 medical self-management, 443 personality change, 445 sirtuin gene, 445 Developmental psychobiology, 80 Developmental science biology-ecology coactions, 5 concept, 3–4 epigenetic models, 6 features, 6–8 heritability, 4

Subject Index

mechanistic conceptions, 6 relational developmental system (see Relational developmental system) split conception, 4, 6 triangulation, 7 youth (see Positive youth development (PYD)) Developmental technology action games, 642 broadband Internet connections, 641 cell phone, 643 computer ownership, 641 digital community, 652–653 digital divide, 641 digital natives, 639 e-mail, 642 education computer-assisted instruction, 644 computer supported collaborative learning, 645 constructionist theory, 644–645 intelligent tutoring systems, 644 Logo, 645 powerful ideas, 645 Scratch, 645 self-reflection, 645 technological tools, 646 Facebook, 642 fears and concerns digital technology, 640 fundamental brain changes, 640 Internet mean access, 640 older adults, 640 screen time, 640 Internet access, 642 ludic games, 642 moral and ethical issues, 643 mp3 player, 641 MySpace, 642 narrative games, 642 new technologies, 639 phone ownership, 641 physical activity, 643 positive technological development collaboration, 649–650 communication, 650–652 community building, 652 content creation, 647 creativity, 649 digital literacy, 647–648 prosocial behavior and cognitive problem solving, 643 screen media, 641 serious games, 643

sport games, 642 Twitter, 642 video games, 642 virtual worlds, 643 Diabetes, 311 Diffusion tensor imaging (DTI), 291 Digital community, 652–653 Disabilities, 12 Discontinuity, 25 Disengagement theory, 482, 622 Dishabituation. See Recovery Distributional learning, 191 Divorce, 12 attachment figures, 573 attentional difficulties, 574 children’s adjustment, 575 custody and visitation, 573 everyday activities, 574 family’s financial status, 574 father–child relationships, 573 infant–parent attachments, 572–573 maintaining relationships, 573–575 nonresident fathers, 573 parental behaviors, 573 parenting plans, 574 personality differences, 574 primary responsibility, 573 single parenthood, 575 step-parenthood and remarriage, 575 Down syndrome father–child interactions, 555 language skills, 562 parent–child relationship, 554–555 sibling relationship, 557 Dynamic integration theory, 461, 624 Early life stress, 121 Early maturational hypothesis externalizing problems, 301 internalizing problems, 300 substance use, 301 Ecological self, 106 Elective selection, 375, 627 Electroencephalogram (EEG), 222–223 Elementarism, 29 Embodiment, 8 as synthesis, 46 biological, 46–48 person-centered action, 49–50 consciousness, 51

717

718

Subject Index

Embodiment (continued) experience, 50–51 person and subpersonal system, 49 proprioceptive and exteroceptive system, 52–53 sociocultural and environmental, 48–49 Embryogenesis, 21 Emergence of system novelty, 25 Emergent literacy, 147 Emergent self, 105 Emotional and personality development community violence, 229–230 culture, 228–229 functionalist perspective, 215 future research, 233–234 individual differences emotion regulation and coping, 218–220 emotional expressions, 217 emotional understanding, 217–218 self-conscious emotions, 216–217 temperament (see Temperament) marital conflict attachment, 227 constructive conflict, 226 cross-cultural research, 229 destructive conflict, 226 direct effects, 226–227 emotional security theory, 227 indirect effects, 227 normal and abnormal development children of depressed parents, 231–232 developmental psychopathology, 216, 230–233 resilience, 232–233 parent–child relationships acceptance and emotional availability, 224 attachment, 225 emotional security, 225 mediators, 224 secure vs. insecure emotional relationships, 225 self-regulatory processes, 226 political violence, 229–230 sectarian community violence, 229 translational research, 233 Emotional reactions, 326 Emotional security theory (EST), 227 Emotional understanding, 217–218 Emotion regulation, 8, 12 coping, 490 father–child relationship, 95 personality development coping with stressful situations, 218–220 definitions of, 218

individual differences, 219 translational research, 219 processes of, 104 self-regulatory behaviors, 105 socioemotional selectivity theory, 489 Emotions infant attachment (see Attachment) dyadic mismatches, 101 emotional development, 100–103 emotion expression, 113 emotion regulation, 104–105 face-to-face social interaction, 101–103 intentional communication, 113 intersubjectivity, 103 mental representations, 102 mirror neurons, 103 mutual regulation model, 101 negative affect, 101 positive affect, 101 self-produced locomotion, 103 self-regulatory capacity, 102 sensitive caregivers, 102 social referencing, 104 social relationships, 98 still-face paradigm, 102–103 temperament, 98–100 toddlers–caregiver communication, 102 and stress (see Stress, psychobiology of) Empathy, 249 Enaction cognition, 52 understanding, 32 See also Embodiment Entertainment Software Association (ESA), 642 Episodic memory, 456 Epistemological empiricism, 28 Equifinality, metatheory, 24 Equilibration model, 201–202 Erikson’s theory, 349 ESA. See Entertainment Software Association (ESA) EST. See Emotional security theory (EST) Estradiol, 299 Ethnic identity alcohol and drug use, 352 behavior problems, 352 Cuban culture and heritage, 352 cultural heritage, 351 Hispanic cultural practices, 352 minority/immigrant individuals, 351 prosocial behaviors, 351

Subject Index

reactive ethnicity, 352 self-esteem, 351 Evolutionary developmental biology, 39 Executive function, 8 Exercise, 152 Existential self, 106 Expectancy-value model, PYD, 369–370 Extracurricular activities, 332–333 Extraversion, 484 Extroversion, 477 Eye gaze, 187 Eye tracking, infant perception and cognition, 64–65 Face perception eye tracking, 64–65 infant early face preferences, 71 recognition of facial expressions, 72 visual stimulation, 71 preferential looking, 62 Face recognition, 71 Fallibilism, 30 Familiarization, 62–63 Family, 9 Fidelity, 368 Five Cs model of PYD, 381 adaptive developmental regulations, 373 ecological assets and PYD, 377–378 empirical support for, 373 hopeful future, 376 intentional self-regulation, 375 risk/problem behaviors, 378 school engagement, 376–377 strengths of youth, 375 structure of PYD, 375 thriving, 373 Fluid intelligence, 26, 454 fMRI. See Functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) Folk illnesses, 552 Follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH), 292 Forensic interview procedures, 12 Fragile X syndrome, 563 Framingham Heart Study, 440, 442 Friends adolescent risky behavior, 409 behavioral interactions, 410 developmental change, 409 dyadic social situations, 410 equitable resolutions and agreements, 410 relationship function, 410

Friendships, middle childhood, 255 FSH. See Follicle-stimulating hormone (FSH) Functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI), 223 Gamma–aminobutyric acid (GABA), 293 Gamma-band oscillations, 66 Gap/overlap techniques, 64 Gaze, 154–155 Gender adolescent, 394–395 emotion and personality development, 217 Generalizability, 144 Genie, 176 Gestalt principles, 73 Gesture, 155–156 Ghrelin, 293 Glutamate, 293 Gonadotropin-releasing hormone (GnRH), 289, 292–293 Goodness-of-fit models, 223 G protein coupled receptor 54 (GPR54), 292 Great Smokey Mountain study, 300 Habituation, 63 Handbook of Child Psychology, 200 Health, human development biological and psychological variables, 609 broaden-and-build theory, 607 coherent intraperson organization, 599 coherent person–context organization patterns, 599 conceptions, 599–600 contextual assets/affordances, 605–607 developmental systems theory, 598 disease and deficit models, 599 general systems theory, 596 genetic endowment, 599 health outcomes, 606 health-promotive environments, 606 idiographic knowledge, 609 idiographic methods, 609 interdisciplinarity, 597 internal vs. external influences, 608 linear conceptions, 597 modern conceptualizations, 609 multidisciplinarity, 597 nomothetic knowledge, 609 opportunity freedom, 608 optimal development, 600 person-in-context, 596, 608 policy, 607 positive psychology (see Positive psychology)

719

720

Subject Index

Health, human development (continued) proactive function, 599 promoting wellness, 600 psychological, behavioral, and social processes, 598 reactive function, 599 social support, 606–607 steady-state consistencies, 609 systematic change, 597 systems conceptions, 598 systems thinking, 596 transactional and environmental variables, 609 transdisciplinary efforts, 598 Heart rate attention in infant, 67–68 infant perception and cognition, 65–66 Heritability, 177–178 Hierarchical Linear Modeling (HLM), 327 Hispanic cultural practices, 352 Holism definition, 34 identity of opposites, 35–37 opposites of identity, 37 synthesis of wholes biology, 38–39 culture, 39–41 person, 37–38 Homophily, 257 Hyperandrogenism, 301 Hypothalamic pituitary adrenocortical (HPA) axis, 219, 504–505 Hypothalamus, 292 Hypothetico-deductive method, 30 Identity process theory, 486 Immediate-early genes (IEGs), 564 Immune system, 505 Implicit learning, 69 Independent sociocultural orientation, 154 Induction, 44 Infancy biopsychosocial characteristics, 92 early experiences, 91 meaning, 91 parent–infant communicative interaction (see Parent–infant communicative interaction) settings and activities of (see Daily routines) social and emotional development (see Socioemotional development) Infant-controlled habituation, 63 Infant-directed speech, 62, 78

Infant perception and cognition attention, 67–68 autism, 80 behavioral method categorization, 64 eye tracking, 64–65 familiarization, 62–63 learning paradigms, 65 novelty and familiarity preferences, 63 preferential looking, 62 violation of expectation, 64 visual cueing, 64 categorization, 76–77 causal perception, 73–74 childhood cognitive and language outcomes, 79 differential looking, 61 disengagement, 80 dyslexia, 80 early intervention, 79 electrophysiological method electroencephalogram, 66 event-related potentials, 66 executive function, 78–79 face processing, 71–72, 80 intellectual and developmental disabilities, 79 intersensory/intermodal processing, 69–71 language, 78 learning, 68–69 nutrition, 79 object perception, 72–73 psychophysiological method heart rate, 65–66 pupillometry, 66 quantitative processing mathematical abilities, 76 number discrimination, 74–75 ordinality, 75 translational changes, 80 visual preferences, 61, 80 Instrumental and respondent conditioning, 65 Instrumentalism, 28 Intellectual aging classic pattern, 454 contemporary theories, 454 crystallized intelligence, 454 fluid intelligence, 454 longitudinal research, 454 performance levels, 454 psychometric intelligence, 454 Seattle Longitudinal Study, 455 Intellectual disabilities, 549–550

Subject Index

Intelligence, cognitive development, 199 Intelligent tutoring systems (ITS), 644 Intention, action, 49 Intentional self-regulation, 366, 375 Intentionality, 49 Interaction bidirectional causality, 24 co-action, 24 description, 24 linear model, 24 multidirectional causality, 24 Interdependent sociocultural orientation, 154 Interindividual differences, 24 Intermediate Care Facilities/Mental Retardation Act (ICF/MR), 548 International Classification of Diseases (ICD), 550 Interpenetration, interaction, 24 Intersensory perception, infant auditory dominance, 70 cross-modal transfer, 70 early integration, 69 intensity hypothesis, 69 intersensory redundancy hypothesis, 70 late integration, 69 Intersensory redundancy hypothesis (IRH), 70 Intraindividual variation, 26 Invariant sequence, 201 Invisible support, 502 Joint attention, 106, 186, 564 Juveniles interrogation of juvenile suspects, 583–584 offenders characteristics, 583 death penalty, 585 incarceration, 585 life without parole sentences, 585 Roper v. Simmons, 585 Karmiloff-Smith’s theory, 208 Keen observation, 155 Kisspeptin, 292 Language, 153 agency, 163–165 assertiveness in children, 164 autonomy, 164 cultural orientations, 164 grammatical structures of, 164 infant, 78 interdependence, 164 narratives, 163–164

parent–infant communication, 147 referential language, 162–163 regulatory language, 162–163 relatedness, 163–165 Language development, 9 biological process creolization, 175 critical period hypothesis, 176–177 genetics, 178 Genie, case of, 176 heritability, 177–178 home sign systems, 175 how and where brain processes language, 176 input, 176 invariance and robustness, 175–176 left cerebral hemisphere, 178–179 limitations, 179 limited processing abilities, 177 maturational process, 175 species specificity, 175 species universality, 175 twin studies, 177 communicative competence, 173 domain-general learning artificial language learning, 189 bilingually developing children, 191 connectionist models, 192 distributional learning, 191 empirical data, 190–192 infant learning mechanisms, 189–190 necessity of, 188–189 statistical learning, 190 word segmentation, 189 language acquisition process, 174 linguistic process abstractions, 182 binding principles, 182 comprehension, 182 Continuity Hypothesis, 181–182 development of phonology, 180 hypothesis-testing, 183 innate lexical constraints, 182–184 looking-time measures, 182 Maturation Hypothesis, 181–182 mutual exclusivity, 183 nativism, 179 strength of, 184 taxonomic principle, 183 Universal Grammar, 180–181 weakness of, 184 whole-object principle, 183

721

722

Subject Index

Language development (continued) social-pragmatic approach communicative intentions, 186 constructions, 185–186 cultural learning, 184–185 functional communication, 184 grammatical development, 185–186 joint attention, 186 language socialization, 187–188 lexical development, 186–187 social cognitive abilities, 186 theoretical approaches, 174–175 Language organ, 178–179 Large-scale longitudinal studies (LSLS), 453 Learning, infant operant and classical learning paradigms, 68 statistical learning (see Statistical learning, infant) Left cerebral hemisphere, 178–179 Leptin, 293 Lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) youth, 327 Levels of development, 25 Lexical development, 9 Life expectancy, 12 Life history theory, 302 Life-span development, 4–8 personality, 12 telos, 24 Literacy practices, 147 Logical reasoning, 202 Long-term memory, infant perception and cognition, 65 Loss-based selection, 375, 628 Luteinizing hormone (LH), 292 Magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), 291 Maine–Syracuse Longitudinal Study, 440 Maltreatment, stress, 136 Massage, 152 Maternal depression, 560 Maturational deviance hypothesis, 300 MEB disorders. See Mental, emotional, or behavioral (MEB) disorders Mechanistic worldviews, 33 Melatonin, 293 Memory, 11 Memory aging collaborative context, 457 genetic status, 456 human cognitive aids, 457 interactive contexts, 457 metamemory, 457

prospective memory, 457 remembering events, 457 retrospective memory, 457 social and cultural contexts, 457 systems, 455–456 Menarche, 294 Mental, emotional, or behavioral (MEB) disorders, 526 Metabolic syndrome, 301 Metamemory, 457 Metatheory developmental changes categories, 21 definition, 20 direction, 23–25 emergence, 25 epigenesis, 25 levels of complexity, 23 order and sequence, 23 organization of process, 21 relational solution, 27 relative permanence and irreversibility, 25–26 split solution, 27 systematic intraindividual changes, 20 empiricism, 28 foundationalism, 27 intention, 32 materialism, 28 mechanical explanation causal explanation, 29 covering law model, 30 deduction, 30 induction, 30 objective certainty, 31 reduction, 29 metamethod, 19–20 objectivism, 28 splitting, 27 transformational change, 21–27 variational change, 26–27 Verstehen, 32 See also Relationism Miami Youth Development Project (YDP), 383–384 Microgenesis, 21 Microgenetic method, 29 MIDI personality inventory, 477 Modes of communication, 9 distal, 154 gaze, 154–155 gesture, 155–156 language, 153 proximal, 154

Subject Index

Monoamine oxidase A (MAOA), 247 Motherese, 78, 159–160 Motionese, 159 Motivation direction and meaning, 626 extrinsic values, 625 facilitation, 625 generativity and ego integrity, 625 goal-orientation growth, 625 motivational shift, 626 prevention of loss, 626 identity formation, 625 intrinsic values, 625 longer-term maintenance, 625 process focus, 626 self-regulation, 626 Mutual exclusivity, 78 National Health and Nutrition Examination Survey, 296 National Institute of Child Health & Human Development (NICHD), 295 Natural estrogens, 298 Nature–nurture controversy, 24 Negative emotionality, 100 NEO Personality Inventory, 477 Neo-Piagetians, 205 Neopositivism, 28 Neural synchrony, 66 Neurological deterioration, 460 Neuropathologic lesions, 463 Neuroticism, 346 Newtonian mechanical explanation, 24 Nicaraguan Sign Language (NSL), 175–177 No Child Left Behind Act (NCLB), 322 Nonuniversal development, 9 Nonuniversal theory, 208–209 Number discrimination, infant, 74–75 Obesity, 297–298, 311 Objective teleology, 23 Object perception, infant individuation, 73 unity, 72–73 Observational learning, 253 Ocular reaction time, 64 Off-time hypothesis, 300 Old age, 13 Ontogenesis, 21 Ontological Real, 28

723

Ontology, 7 Ontology of Becoming, 33 Optimism, 621 Optimization in primary and secondary control (OPS) model action-phase model, 630 internal resource, 630 primary control, 630 secondary control, 630 Ordinality, 75 Organismic-developmental theory, 270 Organismic worldviews, 33 Orientation, gap/overlap technique, 64 Orthogenesis, 21 Out-of-school-time (OST) activity, 370 Ovaries, 292 Ovulation, 292 Parasympathetic nervous system (PNS), 231 Parent–adolescent relationship genetics, 402 socialization attitudes, 403 autonomy-granting behaviors, 405 childrearing beliefs, 403 circumplex model, 403 direct control strategies, 405 drug sampling risk, 402 ego development and psychosocial competence, 404 emotional climate, 404 inductive parental disciplinary strategies, 404 indulgent and indifferent families, 404 interpersonal skills, 403 prosocial adolescent behavior, 404 relational partners and direct instructors, 402 Parent–infant communicative interaction clarity of terms, 145 communication modes (see Modes of communication) comparative studies, 145 cultural context, 143–166 cultural scripts, 145 cultural universality and specificity, 144 culture and context, 165 language (see Language) parents’ communicative accommodation (see Communicative accommodation) settings and activities of infancy (see Daily routines) universal progressions, 144 Parents, 11 age, 400 cognition, 400

724

Subject Index

Parents (continued) gender, 399 socioemotional skills, 400–401 Pathogenesis, 21 PDS. See Pubertal Development Scale (PDS) Pediatric endocrinologists, 297 Peers middle childhood control domain, 250–252 group participation domain, 256–257 guided learning domain, 256 protection domain, 254 reciprocity domain, 254–255 temperament, 223–224 Permeability, 372 Personal actual constructs (PACs), 485 Personal goals, 622 Personality development, 11 adulthood and old age activity theory, 482 adaptability, 482 age-graded developmental tasks and constraints, 481 age-graded roles, 479 age-graded transitions, 480 age-related changes, 486 agreeableness, 477 Big Five, 477 career momentum, 480 characteristics, 480 cognitive functioning, 485 conscientiousness, 477 contextual models, 479 control beliefs and health, 487–488 coping, 490 cultural and historical contexts, 479 cumulative continuity, 479 developmental regulation, 481 developmental trajectory, 475 disengagement theory, 482 dynamic equilibrium, 486 dynamic interaction, 479, 480 emotion regulation, 489–490 extraversion, 484 extroversion, 477 five-factor model, 477 flexible personality style, 485 gender-role crossover hypothesis, 481 health, 484–485 history, 476 identify accommodation, 486 identity assimilation, 486

identity process theory, 486 illusion, 489 individual differences, 475 interactional continuity, 479 interindividual variability, 484 intraindividual changes, 478 later life outcomes, 483–485 life structures, 480 major life events, 480 MIDI personality inventory, 477 morbidity and mortality, 484 multidisciplinary perspectives, 479 negative emotions, 488 NEO Personality Inventory, 477 neuroticism, 484 nonnormative influences, 479 nonshared environmental factors, 480 on time/off time, 480 openness to experience, 477 person–environment interactions, 475 person–environment fit, 482 personal actual constructs, 485 personality attributes, 478 personality dispositions, 479, 480 personality stability, 476 personality trait dimensions, 477 phenomenological approach, 475 positive emotions, 488 possible selves, 486–487 primary and secondary control, 488 protective health behaviors, 478 psychosocial mechanisms, 484 rank-order stability, 477 reciprocal person–environment interactions, 479 schemas, 485 self-concept, 485 self-construct, 12, 475 self-control, 12, 479 self-efficacy, 12, 488 sense of control, 487 shyness, 479 social clock, 480–481 sociocontextual view, 480 sociocultural context, 479–480 socioemotional selectivity theory, 489 stability and changes, 477–478 subjective changes, 482–483 temporal realism, 489 timing of events, 480 trait approaches, 475 trait theories, 476

Subject Index

transitional phases, 480 well-being, 488–489 contextual approach, 12 emotion (see Emotional and personality development) life-span development, 12 phenomenological approach, 12 traits, 12 Pervasive developmental disorder not otherwise specified (PDD-NOS), 550 Phenomenological variant of ecological systems theory (PVEST), 370–371 Phenylketonuria (PKU), 563 Phonological development, 9 Phonology, 179–180 Phylogenesis and evolution, 21 Phytoestrogens, 298 Piaget’s theory clinical method, 203 criticisms of, 204–205 features of affordances, 202 constructivism, 202–204 equilibration model, 201–202 invariant sequence, 201 logical thought structures, 202 operative and figurative, 203 transitions, 201–202 universal development, 201 neo-Piagetian theories, 205 psychometric intelligence, 199 standardized intelligence test, 199 Vygotsky and sociocultural theories, 205–206 Plasticity, metatheory, 24 Play, 150–152, 253, 255 Polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS), 301 Positive Action program, 384 Positive emotions, 488, 560–561 Positive human development, 6 Positive psychology, 13 character, 602 developmental assets, 601 genes, 601 health-enhancing skills, 605 human flourishing, 600 individual biographies, 600 life-course perspective, 600 old age, 601 optimistic assessment, 600 personality, 603 positive beliefs, 604 positive development, 600

725

positive emotions, 603–604 prevention and health promotion approaches, 601 risk factors, 601 self-esteem, self-efficacy, identity, 604–605 temperament, childhood/early adolescence, 601–602 thriving, 600 youth development, 601 Positive stress, 94 Positive technological development, 13 collaboration, 649–650 communication, 650–652 community building, 652 content creation, 647 creativity, 648 digital literacy, 647–648 Positive youth development (PYD), 11 action theory, 366 adolescence, 366–367 bioecological theory, 366 Changing Lives Program, 383 civic engagement, 370 developmental assets, 368 dynamic systems, 366 ecological developmental assets, 386 expectancy-value model, 369–370 fidelity, 368 five Cs of PYD (see Five Cs model of PYD) individual, context relational process, 373–378 initiative, 370 intentional self-regulation, 366 life-course theory, 366 Miami Youth Development Project, 383–384 out-of-school-time activity, 370 person-context interaction theory, 366 phenomenological variant of ecological systems theory, 370–371 philosophy/approach to youth program Big Three, 380 community action framework for youth, 381 community level programs, 379 developmental assets model, 380 Five Cs, 381 four essential elements of youth development, 380 successful youth interventions, 379 targeting life skills model, 380 Positive Action program, 384 prevention science, 365, 386–387 processes, philosophies, and programs integration, 385–386 promotion, 387 protective factors, 386

726

Subject Index

Positive youth development (PYD) (continued) resilience, 371–372 school-to-work transition, 372–373 Social Development Research Group, 382 sparks, 369 stage-environment fit, 369 thriving, 366 transcendence, 368 youth purpose, 367–368 Preferential looking, 62 Preformation, 25 Prefrontal cortex (PFC), 291 Preterm infants, learning, 65 Probabilistic epigenesis, 25 Processive/psychogenic stressors, 122 Project Competence, 372 Prosocial behavior, 246–247 Prospective memory, 457 Protoconversation, 157 Psychometric intelligence, 454 Psychosocial acceleration theory, 302 Pubertal Development Scale (PDS), 298 Puberty, 10 adolescent adjustment, 291 bone health, 311–312 components, sequence of, 295 depressive symptoms, 295 evolution of, 302 female sexuality, 290 genetic and neurobiological pathways, 293 hormone and physical growth changes, 291 lack of sleep, 312 language development, 176 male sexuality, 290 morningness/eveningness, 312 neuroendocrine changes adrenarche, 293 body composition, 294 emotional reactivity, 292 energy balance, 293 functional limbic activity, 291 genital and breast development, 294 GnRH pulse generator and frequency, 292 GPR54, 292 growth axis, 294 height spurt, 294 hypothalamus, 292 imaging technologies, 291 innate developmental clock, 292 leptin, 293 LH and FSH, 292

limbic system, 291 linear growth, 294 menarche, 294 mental health outcomes, 292 motor and sensory systems, 291 neuroendocrine feedback loops, 292 onset and progression of puberty, 292 permissive genes, 292 physical changes, 294 prefrontal control activity, 291 prefrontal top-down control, 291 primary and secondary sexual characteristics, 294 pubic hair development, 294 reactivation of GnRH, 292–293 remodeling, 291 regulatory gene, 292 reproductive competence, 292 sex differences, 293 sexual behavior, 292 sexual maturity stage, 294–295 structural and functional changes, 291–292 U-shaped function, 291 obesity, 311 onset of sleep, 312 psychological development, 290–291 psychopathology, 291 risky sexual behavior, 291 Skinnerian behaviorism, 290 sleep patterns, 312 social learning theory, 290 storm and stress perspective, 290 substance use, 291 Tanner’s criteria, 294 tempo of, 295 timing of acceleration, 302 age at menarche, 296 age cohort, 296 age of onset, 296 biological sensitivity to context, 303 cortisol reactivity, 303 discordant DZ and MZ pairs, 308 early maturational hypothesis, 300–301 endocrine disruptors, 298 environmental chemicals, 298 family composition, 303 family disruption, 303–308 family stressors, 302 father absence, 303 genetic predispositions, 310 health risks, 301–302

Subject Index

life history theory, 302 low parental investment, 309 maturational deviance hypothesis, 300 measurement, 298–299 molecular genetics, 310 nonlinear statistical models, 299 obesity, 297–298 off-time hypothesis, 300 overweight, 297, 311 parental investment, 308–310 positive family relationships, 308 psychosocial acceleration theory, 302 psychosocial adjustment, 310 pubertal status, 299–300 secular trends, 296–297 spermarche, 302 stepfathering, 310 weight gain, 298 weight status, 311 X-linked AR gene, 310 transitional period, 290 Pubic hair, 293–295 PYD. See Positive youth development Qualitative novelty, 25 Quantitative variational change, 26 Raising Healthy Children (RHC), 382 Reactive ethnicity, 352 Recovery, 63 Reductionism, 29 Referential and regulatory communications, 162–163 Relatedness, 163–165 Relational developmental system adolescence, 366–367 embodied action (see Embodiment) metatheory, 23 models, 6 Relational metatheory, 270–271 Relationism abduction, 43–45 atomism, 33–34 definition, 33 holism (see Holism) relational action pattern, 41–43 relational analysis, 41 worldview, 33 Relation of being and becoming, 28 Relationships model adolescents age/stage, 395–396 biology, 396

cognition, 396–397 emotions, self and social interaction, 397 ethnicity, SES and culture, 397, 398 gender, 394–395 datasets, 420 friends/peers adolescent, 411–413 cliques, 409 context, 413–414 exchange network, 408 functions, 410 individual-difference characteristics, 409 similarities and differences, 410 social worlds, 408 sociometrically popular adolescents, 409 interdyad dependencies, 420 network authoritativeness, 420 nonrelated adults, 420 parent, adolescent adolescent, parent, 405–408 genetics, 402 socialization, 402–405 parental authoritativeness, 420 parents age, 400 cognition, 400 gender, 399 socioemotional skills, 400–401 triadic relations derivative relations, 414–415 dyad-to-dyad relations, 418–419 outside-actor relations, 415–418 Reproductive cancer, 301 Resilience, 9, 12 developmental disability ABCX model, 559 marital adjustment, 560 maternal depression, 560 parental stress, 560 social support, 559–560 stress-and-coping models, 559 emotional and personality development competence, 232 coping, 233 definitions and operationalizations of, 232 extrafamilial, 233 protective factors, 232–233 vulnerability factors, 232 PYD, 371–372 Retroduction. See Abduction Retrospective memory, 457

727

728

Subject Index

Rett’s disorder (RD), 550 Roper v. Simmons, 585 Rouge test, 217 Ruminative exploration, 343 Schemas, 485 School broader schoolwide characteristics culture, 326 sexual minority youth, 327–328 student body and peer influences, 328–329 violence, 326–328 district-wide policies extracurricular activities and service learning, 332–333 grade configurations and school transitions, 329–331 size, 330–331 start and end time, 331 tracking policies, 331–332 engagement, 376–377 individual differences, 334 NCLB Act, 334 teachers beliefs, 323–325 classroom socioemotional climate, 326 curriculum and academic work, 322–323 qualification, 321–322 student relationships, 325–326 transition academic motivation, 329 achievement, 329 junior high school, 330 stage-environment fit theory, 330 Schooling, 10 Schools-within-schools approach, 331 School-to-work transition, 372–373 Search Institute, 369 Seattle Longitudinal Study, 455 Selection, optimization, and compensation (SOC), 375, 627–630 Self-affectivity, 106 Self-agency, 106 Self-awareness, 217 Self-coherence, 106 Self-conscious emotions, 216–217 Self-creating system, metatheory, 22 Self-determination movement, 549 Self-determination theory (SDT), 325

Self development conscience development, 108 control beliefs and health, 487 ecological self, 106 effortful control, 107 emergent self, 105 emotion regulation, 489–490 existential self, 106 identity process theory, 486 insecure attachment, 107 mental representations, 107 mutual regulatory infant–caregiver behaviors, 109 negative emotions, 105 positive emotions, 105 possible selves, 486–487 primary and secondary control, 488 rouge paradigm, 107 secure attachment, 107 self-awareness, 105 self-concept, 107 self-efficacy, 488 sense of control, 487 social emotions, 107 subjective self, 106 toddler’s internal states, 107 understanding of self and other, 105 visual self-recognition, 107 well-being, 488–489 Self-efficacy, 12, 112, 488 Self-history, 106 Self-organizing system, metatheory, 22 Self-regulating system, metatheory, 23 Semantic memory, 456 Service learning, school, 332–333 Shared intentionality, 106 Sibling relationship developmental disability, 556–558 social development and relationships, middle childhood control domain, 258 group participation domain, 258–259 guided learning domain, 258 protection domain, 257 reciprocity domain, 257–258 Skill theory, 25 Skinnerian behaviorism, 290 Small learning community approach, 331 Sociability and emotions in infant. See Emotions Social buffering, 134 Social comparison theory, 332

Subject Index

Social development and relationships, middle childhood behavior genetics aggressive behavior, 246 identical vs. fraternal twins, 245 limitations of, 246 molecular behavior genetics, 247 prosocial behavior, 246–247 shared vs. nonshared environment, 246 characteristics, 244 emotional knowledge, 244 evolutionary theory, 245 expression, 244 industry, sense of, 243 parents authoritative control, 251 control domain, 250–252 discipline, 251–252 group participation domain, 252–253 guided learning domain, 252 internalization, 252 joint play, 253 moral values, 252 observational learning, 253 parental knowledge, 250 protection domain, 249–250 psychological and behavioral control, 251 punishment, 251 reciprocity domain, 250 routines and rituals, 253 stress-response systems, 249 zone of proximal development, 252 peer relationships antisocial behavior, 255–256 cliques, 256 cognitive development, 256 control domain, 255–256 cooperative learning, 255 friendships, 255 group norms, 255 group participation domain, 256 guided learning domain, 256 homophily, 257 moral reasoning, 256 play, 255 prosocial behavior, 256 protection domain, 254 reciprocity domain, 254–255 social identity, 257 self awareness, 244 siblings aggression, 258

729

conflict resolution, 258 control domain, 258 de-identification, 259 emotional intensity, 257 gender socialization, 258 group participation domain, 258–259 guided learning domain, 258 observational learning, 259 vs. peer teaching, 258 protection domain, 257 reciprocity domain, 257–258 zone of proximal development, 258 socialization, 248–249 temperament by parenting interaction, 247–248 Social Development Research Group (SDRG), 382 Socialization, 10 Social justice, 12 Social learning theory, 290 Social media, 13 Social policies, 12 Social referencing, 104 Social relationships and aging attachment theory, 497 biomeasures cardiovascular system, 505–506 hypothalamic pituitary adrenocortical axis, 501–504 immune system, 505 sympathetic adrenomedullary system, 498–504 biopsychosocial model, 497–498 convey model chronic stress, 503 personal characteristics, 498 positive/negative quality relationships, 499 dyadic context, 506 invisible support, 502 life span and life course, 495–496 quality of, 500–501 socioemotional selectivity theory, 498 strength and vulnerability integration model, 498 structure, 499–500 support bank, 501 transitions conflict behaviors, 508 destructive and constructive behaviors, 508 longitudinal studies, 507 negative relationship quality, 507 older people, 508 parent–child relationship, 507 spousal relationship quality, 507 types, 500 veridicality, 502

730

Subject Index

Social relationships, infants, 91, 92 Social support, stress, 134–135 Sociocultural development, 9 Socioemotional development, 8, 9 infant bidirectional relation, 113 caregiver behavior, 93 caregiving environments, 94 culture, 96–98 depressed mothers, 93 developmental epigenetics, 95 emotion regulation, 93 family members interaction, 96 father-infant interaction, 95 fetal programming, 93 maternal sensitivity, 93 maternal stress, 93 maternal-fetal attachment, 93 mother-infant interactions, 95 mother-infant physical contact, 93 neurobiological process, 92–96 positive stress, 94 prenatal period, 92 psychobiological organization, 93 secure attachment (see Attachment) self (see Self development) social ecology, 96 stress hormones, 93 stress reactivity, 93, 94 tolerable stress, 94 toxic stress, 94 See also Emotions Socioemotional selectivity theory (SST), 498 emotion regulation, 622 motivation, 622 personality development, adulthood and old age, 489 social contacts, 622 social relations, 623 Spermarche, 302 Spermatogenesis, 292 SST. See Socioemotional selectivity theory (SST) Stage theory model, 558 Stage-environment fit theory, 330 Stages of development, 25 Statistical learning, infant domain-general phenomenon, 69 implicit learning, 69 language acquistion, 68–69 Storm and stress hypothesis, 290 Storytelling, 149–150

Strength and vulnerability integration (SAVI) model, 498 Stress-and-coping models, 559 Stress, psychobiology of amygdala, 125 bed nucleus of the stria terminalis, 125 caregiving behavior, 134–136 cortisol, 123 definition, 122 developmental disabilities, parents of children with, 560 genetic polymorphisms, 132–134 hippocampus, 125 limbic and cortical regulation, 125–126 limbic-hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenocortical (L-HPA) axis, 123–124 maltreatment, 136 neglect of parental care, 135 prefrontal cortex, 125 social support, 134–135 stress response, 123 stressors, 122 sympathetic-adrenomedullary (SAM) system, 124–125 temperament, 131–132 timing of puberty, 309 Stress reactivity, 9, 121 adolescence, 131 early postnatal development, 128–129 middle childhood, 130 prenatal development, 127–128 preschool period, 129–130 toddler, 129 Stress system, 9 Strict contextualist worldviews, 33 Student body and peer influences academic outcomes, 328 Adolescent Health, 328 African American students, 328 identity formation, 328 Latino students, 328 obesity, 329 romantic activity, 329 Study of Early Child Care and Youth Development (SECCYD), 295 Subjective self, 106 Subjective teleology, 23 Substance use, earlier maturation, 301 Successful aging, 13 active engagement, 620 adaptation, 619 assimilative and accommodative coping model, 631 balance, person’s needs and competence, 619

Subject Index

behavioral competence, 621 cognitive abilities basic information-processing operation, 617 cognitive mechanics, 618 compensation, 618 everyday problem solving/memory, 618 growth, 618 pragmatic abilities, 618 speed and accuracy, 617 wisdom, 617 criteria-oriented approach, 621 cultural and societal developments, 616 disengagement theory, 622 domain function, 620, 622 dynamic approach, 621 emotional process affective complexity, 624 aging brain model, 624 cognitive reappraisal, 624 control, 623 declining complexity, 624 dynamic integration theory, 624 emotional well-being, 623 motivational conflicts, 623 positivity/negativity avoidance effects, 624 goal standard adjustment, 622 happiness, 615 inter and intraindividual variability, 616 life expectancy, 616 life quality, 621 life satisfaction, 621 maximizes gains, 621 minimizes losses, 621 model of assimilative and accommodative coping, 13 model of primary and secondary control, 13 model of selection, optimization, and compensation, 13 monocriterion approach, 619 motivational process extrinsic values, 625 facilitation, 625 generativity and ego integrity, 625 goal focus and successful development, 626–627 goal-orientation, 625–626 identity formation, 625 intrinsic values, 625 longer-term maintenance, 625 multicriteria approach, 620 multidimensional approaches, 620 multifaceted concept, 621 neuroticism, 620

objective and subjective integration, 620 objective environment, 621 optimism, 621 optimization in primary and secondary control, 630–631 personal goals, 622 person–environment fit, 621 physiological and health-related changes biological resilience, 617 detrimental effects, 617 functional capacity, 617 internal organs, 617 lifestyle habits, 617 sense organs, 617 physiology and health and cognition, 616 proactive and agentic role, 620 process-oriented approach, 621 psychological well-being, 621 selection, optimization, and compensation model, 627–630 socially defined status, 620 socioemotional selectivity emotion regulation, 622 future time perspective, 622 motivation, 622 social contacts, 622 social relations, 623 Support bank, 501 Sustained attention, 66 Sympathetic adrenomedullary (SAM) system, 504 Sympathetic nervous system (SNS), 231 Syntactical Structures, 198 Syntactic development, 9 Systemic emergence, 25 Systemic stressors, 122 Systems theory, 209 Taxonomic constraint, 78 Taxonomic principle, 183 Teacher beliefs expectations and differential treatment, 323–324 nature of ability, 324–325 curriculum and academic work, 322–323 qualifications, 321–322 socioemotional climate, 326 student relationships, 325–326 Teacher optimism, 323 Temperament, 10 childhood, 131–132 emotion and personality development

731

732

Subject Index

Temperament (continued) behavioral adjustment, 223 cortisol, 222 definition, 220 direct and indirect effects, 223 early temperament and later social outcomes, 223–224 EEG, 222–223 effortful, 220 fMRI measures, 223 genes, 221–222 peer relationships, 223 psychobiological links, 221–223 reactivity, 223 self-conscious emotions, 217 self-regulation, 220 stability, 221 structure, 220–221 surgency, 220 infant behavioral inhibition, 99–100 differential susceptibility to environmental influences, 99 goodness of fit concept, 99 reactivity, 98 self-regulation, 98 temperamental difficulty, 99 parenting interactions, 247–248 Temporal realism, 489 Testes, 292 Testicular cancer, 301 Testosterone, 294 Thought and Language, 206 Thriving, 366, 369 Tolerable stress, 94 Toxic stress, 94 Transcendence, 368 Transcendental argument, 44 Transformational change, 8, 21–27 Transitions, 201–202 Transparency, 372

Trends in International Mathematics and Science Study (TIMSS), 322 Triadic relations derivative, 414–415 outside-actor relations adolescent–friend/peer relationship → parent, 418 dyad-to-dyad relations, 418–419 friend/peer ↔ adolescent parent–relationship, 416 parent ↔ adolescent–friend/peer relationship, 416–417 UNC Alumni Heart Study, 440 Universal Grammar (UG), 180–181 Universals, cognitive development, 201 Variational change, 8, 26–27 Veridicality, 502 Violation-of-expectation, statistical learning in infancy, 69 Violence, school APA Task Force, 327 bonding, 327 bullying, 327 ethnic diversity, 327 HLM, 327 school discipline, 327 vs. tolerance and civility, 326 Visual acuity, preferential looking, 62 Visual cueing, infant perception and cognition, 64 Visual perception, eye tracking, 64–65 Visual-spatial orientation attention, 67–68 vocabulary development, 178 Vygotsky’s theory, 205–206 Whole object constraint, 78 Whole-object principle, 183 Williams syndrome, 564 X-chromosomes, 563 Youth-serving organizations, 531