SAN DIEGO — One of the classes I attended in graduate school was Conflict and Resolution. The instructor was the Dean of Men, his name long since forgotten, but what transpired is as fresh in my memory as if it were yesterday.
The first night of the course, after we had settled in our seats, he introduced himself to the fifteen of us and announced, “The course is yours to design for yourselves.” There was no textbook, no syllabus, and no guidance. He then headed for the exit, and said,” I will see you at the last meeting of the semester,” and he walked out the door.
Initially there were considerable outbursts of anger and incredulity at the dean’s absurd strategy. Why were we paying the school for a non-instructor? A dialogue of the reality of the situation followed, with ideas being suggested how we should structure the course. The quality of the conversation rapidly deteriorated into bickering and disorder, like a condominium homeowners association meeting. Chaos, confusion, and opposing ideas agitated the air.
I was losing patience at the crap I was hearing. Finally, a male student from Nigeria, who spoke absolute nonsense far too long in the dialogue, triggered a spontaneous outburst from me. I stood up, circled the air with an up-raised finger, and yelled, “Ring a ling a ling a ling! This is absolute bullshit! We’ve got to stop listening to ourselves speak, and formulate specific ideas and direction!” I sat down, satisfied with the effect my tirade had on the class.
There was a momentary stunned silence, and then the mortified Nigerian slowly rose from his chair, and in an angry, but restrained, firm voice proclaimed, “In my country when you speak like that, we take up the club.” This episode was during the time the Nigerians were engaged in a bloody civil war between the Ibo and Yoruba tribes. This Ibo student looked directly at Yoruba me as he spoke. My big mouth and I said nothing. However, my ranting seemed to have an effect on the men and women of the class. We settled down, and in short order decided each student or group of students would create their own project, exploring a conflict and how to resolve the problem.
I partnered with a fellow I knew, and we decided that counseling prisoners in the county jail would be a great project. Surprisingly, the jail authorities agreed to our proposal. We were assigned to a group of men in the slammer for alcohol-related problems. We held weekly sessions with six inmates. During one visit, I passed by the Chief Sheriff of the County, a tall leathery- faced scowling authoritarian visiting the jail on an inspection tour. He looked at me disapprovingly. I was told later he didn’t like the tie I wore, a rather loud, broad Peter Max painted tie in vogue then. I was advised I would have to dress more appropriately and conservatively in the future.
In our group, we stressed individual responsibility for one’s own actions. This was easier said than done, It required each prisoner to look at himself from a different prospective. A perfect example of this was a young man, in jail for the second time for drunk driving. He was remorseful, but eager to be released and return to his job. His job? Bartender! He couldn’t see the relationship between his occupation and his drinking problem, until I pointed it out to him. There was, a chronic drunk in our group that was released, and rearrested for another four-month term without missing any of our weekly sessions.
A third man, in his mid-twenties was sentenced to three years for armed robbery. It was his second offense. After one session, he asked me if I could help him. I agreed to meet him in the attorney-prisoner conference room. He told me of his regrets, how alcohol was his nemesis, but he was now reformed. He threw in his sick mother, expectant spouse, and elderly father for good measure-and I bought it. I verified the story with his family and agreed to write his parole officer a recommendation for reduced sentence consideration. I always wondered if it helped him? Many years later a friend of mine, a prison psychologist at the state of California’s San Luis Obispo Men’s Facility told me, “All prisoners are con artists and will look for the slightest opening to engender sympathy that might work to their advantage.” Was I conned?
At the end of the eight weeks, the students assembled for the final class. We had no idea what conclusive words the “yahoo” Dean would evoke. We expected him to ask some questions about our projects. Instead, he passed out blank three-by-five inch cards and announced, ”Now write your grade for the course on these cards, and then you may leave.” Every one of course, got an ‘A’, except the Nigerian warrior. He stood up and indignantly proclaimed, “I am in no position to give himself a grade!” Then like the elegant chieftain he was, he marched out of the classroom in a purposeful stride, resolving his conflict!
*
Ira Spector is a freelance writer based in San Diego. This selection, with slight revisions, was republished from Spector’s 2011 work, Sammy Where Are You? An Unconventional Memoir … Sort of. It is available via Amazon.