Love & Health

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.