Conflict Resolution: A Practical Example

Recently the leader of a middle-management training seminar challenged the attendees to describe an instance where they successfully resolved a conflict. Here is my entry:

My then junior-high daughter, Jezebel, had fallen under the spell of a ninth-grade hellion we’ll call “Emma.”

Emma was dedicating her life to a precocious mastery of mascara, rock n’ roll, and, worst of all, boys. School was her prison, and Emma had long ago declared war on her wardens. Her dismal grades were an inverse source of pride, rebellion’s bona fides.

Worryingly, Emma was actively recruiting our Jez to be Dr. Gonzo to her Raoul Duke on a fanciful Fear and Loathing trek to Who-Knows-Where. Alarmingly, Jez was eagerly packing her luggage for the trip.

This terrified us: despite what our kids thought, we still were young enough to remember the minefields and mass graves where such predilections led young girls. My wife, Lynn, and I knew we had to take countermeasures, quick, but what could we do? How could we rescue our perfect little angel from Emma’s ruinous clutches?

Now, Emma wasn’t the first bad influence we’d had to deal with. But, as Lynn and I jokingly told ourselves, we couldn’t indulge our primal instincts for permanently resolving this particular conflict because the only ‘tween-size plot left in the backyard was under my wife’s prized tomato plants, which we hated to spoil because they were coming along so beautifully. So maybe it was time to consider Plan B.

Complicating matters was Jez’s age. Jez had long since arrived at the stage where stern admonitions and fierce disciplinary warnings – “Do or don’t do XYZ, or you’ll clean out the cat box for a month,” for instance – now were eagerly accepted as double-dog-dare bar bets. The places the angels feared most to tread were the very places Jez intended to collect her mail. We reluctantly accepted that we had to try a different tack to defang the Emma threat.

Eventually we settled on Reverse Psychology. True, the scheme depended on Emma and Jez having at least vestigial brains, something ‘tween girls are known to lack, but we were desperate. We had to give it a try.

Instead of driving Emma off - and Jez with her - with threats and imprecations, we embraced the succubus. We told Emma how delighted we were that such a smart and wise older girl was willing to take young Jez under her bat-like wings.

“Thank goodness you’re willing to help Jez navigate the shoals of early adolescence.”

“What a great idea, Emma.”

“You are mature beyond your years, Emma.”

“Such astute insights you have, Emma.”

“What a wonderful counselor you would make, Emma.”

We invited Emma everywhere: to the beach, to amusement parks, to restaurants – Emma especially loved restaurants, where we put her in charge of selecting and ordering appetizers for the table – to concerts, to movies, to fairs. Wherever.

Whenever Emma came along, she rode shotgun with full control of the audio system. Meanwhile, Lynn kept Jez company in the back, amusing her with endless rounds of “Punch Buggy” and “I Spy with my Little Eye.” Lynn even encouraged Jez to “get into the spirit of” Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall. Lynn feigned enthusiasm. In the front seat, Emma and I just exchanged knowing grimaces and turned up the volume of whatever it was we were listening to.

Our conversations with Emma waxed long and meaningful. Emma’s library card wore smooth with use. Emma even discoursed on the unfathomable convolutions of Finnegan’s Wake and Pynchon’s tortured self-loathing as mirrored in Gravity’s Rainbow. She thought for sure that as “sophisticated” adults Lynn and I had read them, so she should, too. We hadn’t, but thanks to the opacity of those books we could debate them for days without anybody catching on. We liked that.

We even took Emma to a risqué comedy club for her sixteenth birthday because “you’re mature enough to handle it,” while we left fourteen-year-old Jez, who wasn’t quite ready for grownup humor, we told her, to play Uno all night with an elderly neighbor and her quilting crew. “Remember,” we cheerily reminded Jez by way of valediction, “When you help the old gals use the bathroom, you have to get them thoroughly dry afterward or they’ll chafe. Probably best to rub ointment on their inner thighs. Bye!”

Best of all was when Emma finally qualified for her Learner’s Permit to drive. Lynn would take Emma on extended “practice” excursions to the mall or to a theater while Jez and I stayed home and bathed the cats.

And mirabile dictu, Emma quickly grew into our expectations. Her grades soared; Emma’s name became a fixture atop the Honor Roll. Gone was the dumpster diva aesthetic, the perforated jeans and bustier tops; in were crisp button-down shirts and fitted blazers and not-painted-on slacks. Emma even found a tastefully cheerful dress that demurely camouflaged her décolletage while flattering her burgeoning femininity. Talk about miracles.

Under Lynn’s tutelage, Emma acquired a light touch for the makeup brush and used it to sparingly apply colors actually found in Nature’s palette. John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme and Krzysztof Penderecki’s Gates of Jerusalem found their way into the CD rotation. She had us over for expertly prepared home-cooked meals – Pig Trotters a la Pierre Koffman, to name one - served with an abundance of love.

Most satisfying, Emma started keeping boys at arm’s length. “My body is a temple,” became her mantra. Lynn and I beamed whenever we overheard her saying it. That’s our girl.

Then one day, Emma was gone.

“What happened,” we asked Jez.

“I dunno,” she replied. “Emma just doesn’t come around anymore.” Then, after a pause: “That reminds me: can I borrow a shovel and about eight feet of plastic sheeting? I’ll bring back the shovel in the morning.”

I cast a worried side-eye in her direction.

“Have no fear,” Jez assured me. “Mom’s tomatoes will be fine.”

And we haven’t had a hint of trouble with Jez since, though I must admit, I do miss Emma.

Conflict, RESOLVED!