Love and Health is a classic account of good triumphing over evil, of being given a lemon and making lemonade. It is an intimate sharing of a success story that started with anger and ended in love. Indeed, it is the tale of a personal defeat that developed into a program of love so timely and unique that for one bright shining moment it profoundly changed a university and a hospital and the people who worked there.
Dr. Jerry Ainsworth was an administrator at his university when he became embroiled in a conflict with his administration. The battle became so intense and hostile that he was relieved of his administrative post and assigned a menial, punitive position. This dismissal angered him to such a degree that he started a movement to oust the president, or, if not to get rid of him, at least to embarrass him or weaken him politically.
After months of seething with anger, he developed a life-threatening medical condition that doctors told him was a direct result of anger and could soon cause his death. Astonished, he delved into existing research literature to determine if anger could actually kill. Not only did he learn that it could, he was equally surprised to discover evidence confirming the healing effects of love and of similar positive emotions.
Dr. Ainsworth immediately incorporated these findings into his own life, alleviating all symptoms of anger and pioneering the development of an undergraduate college course on love and health. Although colleagues were initially apprehensive, apathetic, and even pessimistic toward such an idea, student reactions were exactly the opposite. His classes were so successful that he started a graduate course along similar lines.
In 2003, I retired from Southern Connecticut State University, where I had
worked in a variety of capacities for over thirty years. At this school, I had
moved rapidly up the ladder of success—from associate professor to full professor
to program coordinator to department chairman to director of the largest
division on campus. I regarded such progress as quite an accomplishment,
considering what my background had been.
As a boy, I knew I was loved but felt more part of a collective process. I
didn’t know what my purpose in life was, only that I proved difficult to handle.
The notion of positive self-esteem was never a part of my world view. Growing
up on a farm in Louisiana provided endless opportunities for getting into trouble.
My fun regularly turned into fear as I contemplated a nightly reckoning
with my father after a daily excess of mischievous deeds.
When my mother introduced me as, “My son Jerry—my argument for birth
control,” I was led to believe there was something wrong with me. I was made
to feel the least desirable of the five children of our otherwise peaceful home.
In contrast, my two older brothers were bright students and excellent athletes.
The perception of a “dumb little brother” came easily to them. Everyone
in the family seemed to reflect that opinion. This view of myself unfortunately
affected my perception of love and well-being and I fully accepted it for the
first twenty years of my life.
Several events, however, changed my feelings of worthlessness to one of
self-worth. The first was the two years I served as a voluntary missionary for
my church in a foreign land. Amidst all the challenges, I realized I had grit. I
was not dumb but as capable as anyone else in fulfilling my task. Leadership
skills surfaced that I had experienced as captain of my college gymnastics
team but that now translated into real life.
The second was an IQ test, a requirement for a college psychology course.
Believing I would score lowest in the class, I put it off to the very last. Even
when the results came back I couldn’t bring myself to look at them and discover
the embarrassing report. After weeks of internal torment, I opened the
envelope, stunned to find the opposite of what I had expected—someone must
have made a mistake!
With a growing assurance that I was, in fact, capable and intelligent, I continued
in college and finally completed a doctorate in Education. I joined the
faculty at Southern Connecticut State University, where I quickly gained a reputation
as a good teacher. I felt I had learned how to survive, indeed succeed, in
the political arena of higher education. My life, which had been tempestuous
in the past, now looked promising.
With an additional degree in Public Health from Yale Medical School, and
a year as visiting scholar at Yale Law School, I had developed excellent postdoctoral
credentials and soon found myself a fully tenured professor heading
up the largest division at the university. Any lingering doubts that I was dumb
were forever dispelled, or so I thought.
While administering my division, I had developed warm relationships with
many colleagues. I had created new and exciting programs, college courses,
and new departments, hiring new professors to fill their positions. With these
positive developments, I was surely destined for a life of success.
Yet, when I was informed the vice-president of the university wanted to
see me, I had that same feeling in my stomach as at age seven when my father
would call me to account for my misdeeds. There was a part of me that, when
confronted with persons in authority, expected to be disciplined, scolded, and
punished. It wasn’t clear to me why I felt that way. Nor was it clear why I felt
compelled to move up the administrative ladder and assume such important
roles in the first place. Why was I working so hard to become a vice-president
and, ultimately, of course, a college president?
Still, I would become what people told me I should become. Besides, I was
making a decent living doing what I enjoyed. I had a large circle of friends.
Indeed, I would go so far as to say I was revered as a pretty savvy character, a
true leader, one who could straighten out a bureaucracy, swim against the tide,
and not be corrupted by the system. All saw that I was a person of integrity
and principle who could make an academic institution work right—a true Sir
Galahad in a den of political dragons. I was certain the system would never
“get me” as many had warned.
Impressive degrees hung in my office. I was one of the youngest full professors
and administrators on campus and was consistently proving that I was good at what I did.
My rapid promotions proved it. That is what I thought and
felt at the time. Not only was I an esteemed member of the Round Table, I
would show everyone that right could prevail.
I was determined to continue building the academic legacy I had so admirably
created at my university. I would conquer all challenges and proceed
up the ladder. I would prove to my siblings that I was not dumb. My parents
would realize it was a good thing that I was born. Though I didn’t realize it at
the time, these were the underlying motives behind my behavior; that was what
was driving me.
As a person of influence, I could virtually dictate the outcomes of campus
debates in my favor. But such political power quickly brought me into conflict
with the new president. He decided to change the focus of the university from
teacher training to a more liberal arts philosophy. To my mind, here was an
opportunity for Sir Galahad, the dragon slayer, to pit himself against the evil
administration. Here was my chance to valiantly represent my seventy-two member
faculty who looked to me as their general and protagonist. I was in
search of academia’s Holy Grail and ardently believed I would find it.
Of course, the politically smart thing to do would be to give in to the administration,
make it look as if I had fought a good fight, but in the end give the
institution what it wanted. However, Sir Galahad would never do that.
The quarrel I had with the administration lasted more than a year. After
many contentious and heated disagreements, I ended up in a debate with the
vice-president in front of a group of faculty. A few days after that exchange,
I received a letter from him firing me from my post and demoting me to the
position of a regular faculty member.
I was floored. I had become division director through the faculty’s own
recommendation. I expected them now to vote again and recommend that I
retain the directorship and continue the battle I had been waging in their behalf.
They didn’t.
What a shock that was to me, and what a horrendous disappointment! I
believed they would fight for me with the same ferocity I had fought for them.
How wrong I was! I had just learned my first lesson in the political realities of
bureaucratic survival: the pack eventually turns on its leader.
I suddenly went from being a prince on campus to a pariah. Faculty members
saw what could happen to a person who bucked the system, and they weren’t
about to risk incurring the wrath of the administration that had been unleashed
on me. With their personal survival in mind, the same faculty members with whom
I had lunched on a regular basis now avoided being seen with me altogether.
Of the seventy-two in my division, only two were willing to be viewed as my close friends.
Forget the beautiful principles I had taught, indeed had practiced! My Camelot had
become a myth. People were right: the system would ultimately prevail. It simply
wasn’t possible to be a person of principle in a bureaucratic setting. It was easy
for me then to conclude that I had not, in fact, learned to survive. The feeling I had
was the same as the one I experienced years earlier when family members dismissed
me as dumb.
Jerry Ainsworth was raised in Louisiana where he received a B.S. degree in health sciences from Northwestern Louisiana State University. He subsequently obtained an MPH in public health from Yale University and an Ed.D. from the University of Arkansas. During his collegiate years, he competed as a gymnast, trampolinist, and diver and served as an official at the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich, Germany. He pursued postdoctoral studies with the department of Social Medicine at the Universidad Nacional Autonama in Mexico City.
During more than thirty years of teaching and administering college courses on health at Southern Connecticut State University, Jerry Ainsworth developed and ran parallel health programs in Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, and Honduras, frequently taking American student groups there. He also worked with the Schweitzer Institute to address health problems among the Hiuchol Indians. During his long academic career, he created the renowned International Love and Health Congress, which he conducted in Connecticut for ten years.
Jerry Ainsworth served two years as a missionary in Ontario and Quebec and five years as chaplain and Coordinator Of Spiritual Enrichment at Griffin Hospital, Connecticut. His great personal love has been the study of Mayan culture. An accomplished pilot, boatman, and scuba diver, he has used these skills to investigate many ancient ruins in Mesoamerica. He is beloved by his students and has consistently been rated an outstanding teacher in lectures and seminars. He is currently in high demand as a speaker, counselor and consultant.