When I answered, Bill Chambers, the boys Middle School physical education teacher, quickly explained the situation.
Seems that a couple of 5th grade guys had gotten into a tussle right at the end of his class, which in those days – the early ‘80’s – was based in the West Gym on the Lower School side of Collegiate’s North Mooreland Road campus. There had been some finger pointing that had escalated into name calling which had escalated into pushing and shoving. As I recall, some of the guys’ classmates had gathered around to egg them on.
It wasn’t a pretty sight, but Chambers had stepped in quickly and calmed the waters, but his next class was rolling in, and he couldn’t be in two places at once.
Since I was at the time the head of the Middle School in the old Boys School, my colleague had called to inform me that the miscreants were being escorted to my office and that they needed a good, sound talking to.
A few minutes later, the two urchins appeared at my door.
Tell me what happened, I said as they stood before me still fuming at each other.
He called me a bad name, one replied.
OK, so what did he call you? I asked.
He called me a sore loser, the kid answered.
He called me a stupid jerk, the other quickly countered.
They spoke so earnestly and fervently. Each was defending his pride Neither would budge even a millimeter.
OK, so let me get this straight, I said in the best teacher voice I could summon. He called you a sore loser. That didn’t feel very good, did it?
No, he said as he fought back tears.
But you called him a stupid jerk?
Well, sort of…
Sort of? my inner voice said.
OK, listen, guys, I said. Have you ever heard the expression, “Two wrongs don’t make a right”?
They acknowledged that they had.
What do you think that means?
There was silence. For them, it must have seemed like an eternity. Always did for me when I was on the hot seat and some adult was waiting for me to explain myself.
What does it accomplish when you insult somebody?
Nothing, one of them answered. The other nodded his head in agreement. Both had sheepish looks on their faces. I was hoping they were sincere rather than just saying what they thought they were supposed to say.
Does it make you feel better when you say something that hurts somebody?
Well…no.
Both guys were now staring at their shoes and wishing they were anywhere but in my office.
Do I have your word that you won’t say mean things to anybody ever again?
Yes, sir, they responded, almost in unison.
Do I have your word that you won’t fight again?
Same response.
By this time, the fire in their eyes was gone. Their heads were clearer, and their blood pressure was almost back to normal. After one last reminder to hold their tongues, control their tempers, and be mindful of others’ feelings, I sent them off to class. They never again appeared in my office – or anyone else’s, for that matter – for any disciplinary issue.
As I reflected on that moment, I realized I didn’t really solve anything myself. Instead, I facilitated discussion (such as it was, considering their monosyllabic responses) and encouraged the guys to step back, count to 10, and figure things out for themselves. I’d appealed to their better angels. Their better angels listened.
These days, “better angels” seem in very short supply. Every time I hear or read of some public figure who should be a role model posturing, sniping, accusing, demeaning, pontificating, ranting, threatening, bullying, or uttering a questionable version of the truth, I think back to that encounter 35 years ago.
Those two 10-year-old guys got it right.
They grew from the experience.
They became friends.
They made each other better.
Seems so simple, doesn’t it?