Addressing Disputes With Words Instead of Guns and Knives

The class rules, posted in large, cheerless print, indicated that this was no ordinary classroom:

DO NOT ARGUE WITH THE TEACHER . . . NO GANG ACTIVITY OR PROFANITY . . . DO NOT MOVE FURNITURE . . . ASK PERMISSION TO DO ANYTHING . . .

But then, this was no ordinary class. Carol Rowe, an attorney and professional mediator from Santa Monica, had come to a Los Angeles County probation camp on a recent evening to teach teen-age gang members how to settle disputes with words and reason instead of guns and knives.

Since October, Rowe has visited Camp Kilpatrick, hidden in the Santa Monica Mountains south of Westlake Village, once a week to train small groups of inmates in mediation techniques. Rowe, who first came to the camp as a volunteer reading tutor, persuaded camp authorities it would be a good idea to teach peaceful conflict resolution to their violent wards.

Her class was getting its first chance to put theory into practice, intervening in a dispute between two boys who had fought earlier that day.

Two 16-year-olds, Gonzalo and Paul, acted as the mediators, while four other boys trained in mediation looked on, ostensibly to make mental notes and learn. The two combatants, Dujuan and James, shuffled in and sat down at desks opposite each other.

Gonzalo got to the point. “What happened?” he asked.

“He hit me,” James said.

Dujuan, a bit of a smart-aleck, smiled and rolled his eyes, letting out a faint “aaaaww” in exasperation. “Why did you hit him?” Gonzalo asked Dujuan.

“Cause he hit me first.”

Silence and stalemate.

Despite their eight weeks of training, Gonzalo and Paul were stumped at first, looking at Rowe for clues on what to do next. Rowe held back--at least for the moment--letting the mediators press forward themselves. That’s part of the lesson too.

Her goal, Rowe said, is to teach these boys how to think on their own. An outside mediator would not work as well. “They have no use for adults, especially an old white broad like me,” she said.

Actually, Rowe is only in her 30s, but with her academic background--she described mediation as a way to “neutralize” conflicts--she’s a world away from these guys. She doesn’t know why they are here. She hasn’t asked. But she knows the camp holds convicted car thieves, armed robbers and drug dealers. Occasionally, even a murderer.

So Rowe just looked on as Paul and Gonzalo struggled to get the former combatants talking. “Is there any way to resolve this problem?” Paul asked Dujuan, who sat silent.

“Want to be friends again?” Paul continued. “Or do you want to ignore each other?” Again, silence.

But slowly, details emerged. James, a bookish 14-year-old with thick black-rimmed glasses, bumped into Dujuan, 13 and short, in the dining hall. James said it was an accident. Dujuan called it an attack.

Dujuan leaned forward at his desk, confident, often smiling. James slumped, unsmiling, his left hand jammed into his left pocket. When asked if he was willing to give up violence, Dujuan replied, “It’s up to him, sir.”

“No,” Gonzalo shot back. “It’s up to you too.”

Dujuan didn’t understand, or at least pretended not to. Bored by all this mediating, he politely asked Gonzalo: “Excuse me, sir. Do you think this really helps?”

“We ain’t doing this for fun.”

Four other mediators, whose only role was to watch, looked on in boredom. One pumped his right leg under his chair to music playing only in his head.

Rowe finally interjected, summing up Dujuan’s comments. “Why does he say it’s up to you?” she asked James, hoping to start a dialogue.

James, as helpful as Dujuan, mumbled, “I don’t know.”

Gonzalo and Paul kept hammering at Dujuan, trying to get him to promise not to fight. “It don’t matter to me,” Dujuan said casually. “It’s up to him.”

Paul rolled his eyes and smacked himself in the head with his left hand in mock disgust. “Stubborn,” he muttered.

Gradually, Gonzalo and Paul assumed control, asking more questions, making comments. Ever so slowly, they got the boys to talk. Gonzalo briefly tried playing counselor. “What other problems are you having here?” he asked Dujuan earnestly.

No reply. So much for counseling.

Then, surprisingly, Dujuan said: “If he wants to be friends with me, I’ll be friends.” He and James rose and shook hands, but the mediators didn’t buy it. They talked some more.

Rowe suggested that if James bumps into Dujuan again, Dujuan could ask if it was a bump or a hit, rather than just letting fly. Dujuan didn’t like that, suggesting it would probably bring an unenlightening, and unprintable, reply.

Finally, the boys decide to call a truce. They won’t be friends--they’re beyond that. But they won’t fight either. Gonzalo prompted them to make it official.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” James said.

“I’m sorry for hitting you,” echoed Dujuan.

“Whew!” Paul said, pretending to wipe sweat off his brow in relief.

“I enjoyed mediating you guys,” Gonzalo said, thanking the boys as he dismissed them. After they left, he dismissed Dujuan’s bravado as all bluff. “He has no self-esteem.”

Rowe was pleased. The mediators didn’t take sides; they were in control. Perhaps this training will help the boys in their family lives, she said. But she admitted that she doesn’t expect mediation techniques to stop drive-by shootings.

Mediation can work, she said, but “I’m not so sure on the streets.”