Abstract
Susan's Voice
Susan R. Jones and Jodie Nealley share their touching, personal story of friendship, addiction, and recovery from the perspective of the addict and the colleague committed to standing by her friend.
For many years i have been engaged in teaching and research about student affairs administration, student development, and service learning. I try to engage my students in learning about the complex issues facing college students, to think about what prompts student development and learning, and to care about larger social issues that impact us all, whether or not we are directly involved with these issues. In fact, one of the most compelling and persistent findings in my service–learning research is how social issues become personalized for students as an outcome of service–learning experiences. In other words, an abstract issue such as HIV/AIDS or homelessness takes on a human face and dimension when students deal directly with individuals experiencing these life situations. And this human face creates an awareness of the need to respond to the life circumstance right before one's eyes. This, as ethicist Nel Noddings suggests, is the essence of caring, to imagine another's life situation as though it were yours.
A recent experience has brought me face–to–face with my own educational values and beliefs and caused me to question how easy it is for me as a faculty member and student affairs educator to ignore the reality that the very issues about which I teach my students affect my peers and colleagues. I can talk with my students about substance abuse or mental health challenges, but I don't engage my peers when I see signs of these issues among them. In other words, I can easily avoid personalizing some issues. I know how to respond when I witness students in trouble and running into difficulties of all kinds, but when it comes to my colleagues, what do I do? What do I see and what can I ignore? Let me explain…
Several years ago I learned that a college friend with whom I had served on the same resident assistant (RA) staff had been convicted of embezzling funds from the institution where she worked as a consequence of a gambling addiction. This may seem like it happens all the time, as hardly a day goes by that we don't read about some such case in the Chronicle of Higher Education. But Jodie was not only a long–time friend but also a senior student affairs administrator. As RAs together, we were part of a very tight group of women working under the direction of a dean of women (yes, we are that old but also bring years of professional experience to our work) who became an important mentor in all of our lives. We went through trainings on all kinds of topics relevant to working effectively with college students and sought the wise counsel of our mentor when we were ill–equipped to handle a particularly vexing issue. In short, we were all exquisitely well prepared to become aspiring leaders in student affairs. In fact, among our group of former RAs are current vice presidents, professors, directors of counseling centers, president of a community college, and head of a prestigious girl's school.
In the spring of 2010, rather than catching up with Jodie at the American College Personnel Association (ACPA) or National Association of Student Personnel Administrators (NASPA), a friend who had also been a part of that RA staff many years before and I visited her in prison. As we made the drive from Boston to “the prison,” I was nervous and really didn't know what to expect—what would the prison environment be like? How would Jodie look? How would she receive us?
Jodie was in a minimum security prison; however, it was still a prison and we were visitors. We were asked to fill out forms and required to leave all our belongings, including emptying out our pockets, at the check–in desk. Once our visit had been appropriately registered, Jodie was called and notified that her visitors had arrived (she had to get prior approval for our visit). Despite the institutionalized coldness of the place and the many security procedures with which we had to comply, the person who bounded through the door to greet us was immediately recognizable as our friend and colleague. Clad in her prison garb and showing some signs of fatigue, which were the result not only of aging but also her current circumstances, Jodie's vibrant personality and quick laugh came right to the forefront of this initial reunion. Our conversation moved easily and quickly, given the time constraints imposed by strictly enforced visiting hours, between catching up, telling stories from our past adventures, and recounting the circumstances that brought us together in this particular space, a meeting none of us would have anticipated. We laughed, shed some tears, and talked about addiction, which brought me to the question of how educators in higher education, especially those of us in student affairs, respond when addiction strikes very close to home, among one of our own.
Interlude
Addiction is everywhere. Addiction is a legitimate, chronic disease. While we would almost unanimously circle “True” next to the first statement, the second one may not receive such confidence. Although the public perception of addiction may be inching toward acceptance and understanding, many people still view addiction as a weakness, the result of a flawed upbringing, or personal choices gone wrong. Ask an addict about the by–products of addiction, and you will hear words like dishonesty, isolation, guilt, shame, and silence. The silence of addiction is perpetuated, both by addicts and those who surround them, but why? If addiction is a disease, why is it so hard to ask for help? One problem is that many addicts need to be convinced that they have a disease, a fact that separates addiction from nearly all other diseases. Whether or not addicts are worthy of sympathy is a debate that will presumably continue for a long time and is not meant to be argued in this article. The goal here is twofold: to increase awareness of gambling addiction in higher education and to acknowledge and break the silence it creates.
The fifth edition of the American Psychological Association's (APA) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM–5) included a significant change by classifying gambling in the category of substance–related and addictive disorders rather than as an impulse–control disorder as it had been in the fourth edition. The National Council on Problem Gambling defines problem gambling as “gambling behavior which causes disruptions in any major area of life: psychological, physical, social or vocational” and as “a progressive addiction characterized by increasing preoccupation with gambling, a need to bet more money more frequently, restlessness or irritability when attempting to stop, ‘chasing’ losses, and loss of control manifested by continuation of the gambling behavior in spite of mounting, serious, negative consequences.” It seems almost rudimentary to suggest that addictions like gambling would interfere with engagement in the learning process, both student learning and professional development. Some might argue that there are more pressing issues, but recent studies indicate that gambling is increasingly common. Widespread coverage of high–stakes poker tournaments on television and easier access to gambling outlets, both online and in casinos, are a powerful combination. Not long ago, legal gambling was essentially confined to Las Vegas and Atlantic City for the general public. Currently, over 40 states have casino gambling within their borders. Access is greater than ever. Individuals have virtual casinos at their fingertips 24 hours a day. Gambling websites offer nearly every game a physical casino does. Furthermore, the comfort and anonymity of gambling from a residence hall room or private office may be even more attractive for those who are struggling to control their desire to gamble or have no idea their gambling is a problem. Whether or not individuals are visiting actual casinos, every building on every campus has the potential to house its own poker room, and there may be more than loose coins changing hands.
As we strategize about how to reach our students and raise awareness of pressing issues, we seldom, if ever, glance at our colleagues (or ourselves for that matter) and question whether they need help. Statistics would argue that some of them do. The National Center for Responsible Gaming (NCRG) reports that 15 percent of Americans gamble at least once a week, and 6 million adults meet the criteria for problem gaming. They also report that youth are at far greater risk than adults for developing a gambling problem. Another issue is that 75 percent of all gambling addicts also have problems with alcohol, so there are multiple layers to consider. In a research–based resource developed by the Massachusetts Council on Compulsive Gambling and specific to college students, research studies conducted by Richard A. LaBrie, Howard J. Shaffer, Debi A. LaPlante, and Henry Wechsler as well as Grace M. Barnes, John W. Welte, Joseph A. Hoffman, and Marie–Cecile O. Tidwell document that between 40 percent and 75 percent of college students reported gambling in the past year. Several studies reported in a provocative New York Times article written by Steve Friess, “Colleges Often Turn a Blind Eye to Student Gambling Problems,” have identified college students as the fastest–growing consumers of online gambling. So if you think you don't know a gambling addict, you are probably wrong, among both our colleagues and our students.
Prominent figures who have abused their positions for personal gain are nothing new. In 2010, Andrea Fuller reported that Sister Marie E. Thornton was arrested on charges of stealing $1.2 million from Iona College in New York, where she had worked in various capacities for over 15 years. In 2011, WBNS 10tv reported that Former Ohio State football star Art Schlichter, who had already served time in prison for fraud and forgery, was indicted again on 13 charges related to operating an alleged football ticket scam and swindling people out of hundreds of thousands of dollars. By the time these stories make headlines, the public outcry usually follows lengthy periods of silence that surround the addict. Why would someone under intense scrutiny (such as a college president, former football star, or college administrator) continue to take risks and become entangled in such a huge mess? Why would a person with everything—a loving family, a fulfilling career, and sufficient earnings—risk it all?
Jodie's Voice
I was nervous about seeing Susan and my other RA friend. It had been nearly 25 years since the three of us had been together, and this long overdue reunion was taking place in a prison visiting room. The fact that they were here was a testament to their friendship and compassion for me. Within minutes, the 25 years melted away and we could have been sitting together anywhere. The gratitude I felt was not only because these college friends of mine came to visit, but the fact that they were both highly successful student affairs professionals and still came to visit made that gratitude even greater. We had corresponded for months, but still their visit was full of compassion. I was moved to tears.
Compassion. Understanding. We like to think we teach our students this. We like to think we live it. But do we? When faced with a coworker who is convicted of a crime, how do we react? When a close colleague shows signs of possible addiction, what do we do? Usually silence descends. Or perhaps we feel like we just don't want to get involved. My gambling addiction was hidden—from everyone. That is the unique nature of compulsive gambling. I did not come to work with red eyes or smelling of alcohol. I did not fall asleep during meetings or act much differently. I simply, and slowly, disappeared. My symptom was a lack of involvement in my job. As the gambling disorder took over, I cared only about one thing—gambling. All I could think about was how to get money to gamble and what lies I had to tell to get to the casino. Nine DSM–5 criteria exist for a gambling disorder; I met every one of them. There are 20 questions we answer at every Gamblers Anonymous meeting—I answered yes to all of them. In some ways, given the extreme end of the scale that I was balanced on, it should have been clear something was wrong. Although I may not have hidden my addiction as well as I thought, I had changed. I had lost focus at work. I was dodging (of course, I called it delegating) responsibilities and calling in sick. I was not myself. Then one day I was called to a meeting at the audit department, presumably about a student organization. But it was about me. I will never forget that meeting—surrounded by a beloved boss and people with whom I had worked as they, point by point, brought to light my embezzling of funds. I tried to lie, but in the end gave up. I was sick of my secrets. On the walk to my office to gather my things, I admitted to my boss that it was a gambling problem.
Then I disappeared—to everyone who worked with me. I left my job that day and never returned. For a couple of days, my staff had no idea where I was or what had happened. A friend commented, “It's like you died but there was no funeral.” As I waited for the news to become public, I wondered, do all the good deeds and memories get ignored when someone makes a large and terrible mistake? Is it so uncomfortable to talk about that we avoid the subject, that we take no time to grieve or process the situation? Sometimes bad things happen to good people, sometimes good people make terrible, hurtful choices. Does that mean that their crime is all that people will remember? Does not talking about our feelings about a colleague, mentor, or friend who has been affected by addiction merely perpetuate the shame and stigma that makes recovery from addiction so difficult? These are questions I wrestled with then and now.
Any addiction out there—and there are a lot of them, from drugs, shopping, sex, and overeating to alcoholism and gambling—shares a common theme. There is nothing rational about them. Unchecked addiction will lead to the gates of prison, insanity, or death. It is a terminal illness unless treated. Gambling is often viewed as fun. It's entertainment. Sure, it is—until it's not. My gambling addiction led to my betraying and disillusioning hundreds of colleagues and students. It led to my hurting my family and friends beyond imagining. And, finally, it led me into a prison cell.
My gambling addiction was a late–in–life onset (not uncommon in women problem gamblers). I quit drinking when I was 37, but now realize I never went into true recovery. I never attended Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings or tried to understand what hole I was trying to fill with vast amounts of alcohol. I knew it was part of my DNA and attributed it all to genetics and was proud of myself when I stopped. But addiction does not just go away. It waits for you to try to fill that hole again. So at the age of 50, I began gambling. Slowly at first. But once I started in earnest, like all my addictions, I went all in. I started at $5 slots but within a year was playing the $100 slots. This was the highest high I had ever had. I wanted to stay in front of that slot machine forever, not eating or drinking or caring about my job or my family. I wanted to live in that moment of possibility. Money was my drug and pulling the slot lever was how I got high. Within six months of all–out gambling, I had lost nearly $400,000. Because money is the drug, problem gamblers will get money however they can. When all legitimate sources are tapped out, we will steal. I made the choice to do that. I do not attribute my actions entirely to my gambling addiction, but I remember, as if out of body, being driven to acquire money any way I could. I went insane for a while.
Once I was caught and fired, the sense of shame and guilt was stifling. The feeling of “I cannot believe this is happening to me, a basically decent, caring, responsible person,” was visceral. But it was happening. This was something no amount of charm or lies or manipulation could fix. I did not know how I could ever say I am sorry or convey the depth of my regret for my actions. How could I apologize to a community? I remember hiding in the back of my van the day the news came out on campus. It was an irrational act, but it was pure instinct to crawl into a hole and hide. I did not know how I could face life. However, with the support of my spouse, minister, and lawyer, I began. I attended Gamblers Anonymous (GA) meetings and found others “like me.” I cried constantly. Although I never seriously contemplated suicide, I did want the pain to stop without alcohol or gambling. Was that possible, I wondered? I slowly began to understand that the hole in me I had tried to fill could never be sated; there was not enough money in the world to do that. I began to see that I alone, by recognizing that emptiness, could begin healing.
Susan's Voice
My friend made a huge mistake—a show–stopping, career– and life–changing kind of mistake, the likes of which I had never seen up close among my friends and colleagues. I began to personalize the issue of gambling addiction, embezzlement of funds, and serving prison time for the first time. I worried about Jodie and how she would ever recover from this mistake. I also began to think about the students with whom I had worked over the years, some of whom also made some pretty bad mistakes, though not as consequential as Jodie's. Cheating on an exam, drinking too much, stealing, selling drugs, destroying property—these are issues with which most higher education administrators are all too well acquainted. But I had never encountered such “issues” in a friend and colleague. I had never expected to visit a “successful” student affairs educator in prison. I retraced my own steps and recounted the many occasions when I joined Jodie and the other RAs in evenings of beer drinking and shenanigans. I dismissed these evenings as typical college nights. Jodie was a chain smoker, the only one among our close friends. Should I have pieced things together? Should I have intervened? What might that have looked like? I was really sad for Jodie. She was a talented professional and so full of life as a person. Despite my knowledge about addictions, I felt helpless in the face of her circumstances. All I knew to do was extend a hand, to write her letters while she was in prison, and to let her know that I was still with her on this stage of her journey.
I also began to wonder about the particulars of gambling on campus. If it's a fact that individuals generally, and college students in particular, are gambling more than ever before and reporting that they are experiencing negative consequences as a result, what are universities doing about it? According to a 2009 study funded by the NCRG, not much. Most of the gambling policies that exist are intended to punish violators rather than help them with potential problems. As a former senior student affairs administrator myself, I knew that Jodie's institution had no choice but to investigate her case and punish her crime. I struggle with how institutions might navigate prosecuting criminal activity while also maintaining a caring approach, one that recognizes the power of addiction and human fragility in its path. There is little doubt in my mind that a staff member with an addiction is someone in need of help and clearly not realizing their full potential at work. Responding to such a situation requires difficult conversations, the kind we regularly have with students that necessitate listening without judgment, vulnerability, and courage on the part of all involved.
Finally, I considered what lessons there are for me in Jodie's story, as a faculty member preparing future leaders in higher education and student affairs, as someone who studies student development and learning, and as a long–standing member of a profession I care as deeply about as Jodie. Jodie owns her crime and accepts her punishment. She will live with the outcomes associated with this crime for the rest of her life. But what about our professional values of care, empathy, and compassion? How might the invisible walls of silence surrounding such addictions also be a mistake?
Jodie's Voice
Family. Those who work in student affairs often use this word to describe their feelings about those with whom they work, their students, their colleagues. Yet when a member of that family commits a crime or is at the heart of a scandal, the feeling is very different. In a healthy family, one that values unconditional love and support, we might expect the recreant member to accept responsibility and punishment but still find support during a difficult time. I remember sitting in the prison visiting room with my 88–year–old mother, who said, “You deserve to be here, but while you are here, I am going to support you and help you get through this.” I agreed that I deserved to be in prison, but was indescribably grateful for her continued love.
In education, we often pretend the person either never existed (if they were fired and left campus) or skirt around the subject of them and their deeds. Bad decisions, even criminal ones, do not make a person all bad. Do bad choices erase all the good a person has done? All the students he/she may have touched? All the contributions that person has made? They often do, but perhaps they shouldn't. When my crime became public, I heard from just two of my former colleagues. I imagined the anger my actions had evoked, the hurt and shock overwhelming to those with whom I worked and mentored. I let them down. A side of me that was hidden was uncovered, and the pain for all involved was unthinkable and unmanageable.
People might say, “I wouldn't know what to say.” Perhaps if you are ever at a place where you want to say something but don't know what, the “I'm sorry you are going through this” message I got on a voice mail would be and was enough. Because of the shame and guilt I felt from betraying my community, I did not call those colleagues back until after I went to prison, but I did not forget their kindness. They looked beyond the headlines and still saw me. Healing takes time; healing and forgiveness take not only compassion but also understanding. Understanding can happen only with discussion and a truthful recognition of what has happened.
If higher education professionals truly wish to role–model values such as compassion and empathy to our students, shouldn't we begin demonstrating these values among ourselves and to our own? Don't students learn as much, or more, from how their teachers act as what they say? One of the first ideas I learned in graduate school at Indiana University was that 98 percent of what a college student learns in college is learned outside of the classroom. This means that how we treat one another as professionals is an opportunity to practice what we preach and teach.
I am not in any way advocating an acceptance of my crimes. I take full responsibility for them, have served my time in prison, and will spend many years trying to manage the wreckage my actions perpetuated. This is not about me but about those who come after me. And be assured, they will. You may already know someone on your campus who disappeared, who was put on administrative leave and never returned. Amid the rumors and speculation and confusion that followed, maybe you thought, “I wish we had dealt with this better. I wish someone, the president, or dean of students, had called a meeting and said, ‘This is what we know and this is what we are doing about it.’” Maybe you will e–mail that person at some point in time and say you are thinking about them and are sorry that, whatever the facts, they have to go through this. Maybe, in time, you will exercise empathy rather than judgment. Maybe you can see the elephant in the room, acknowledge its existence, and use your recognition as a learning opportunity rather than a subject to avoid. This way, we can learn from the mistakes of others as well as our own.
Epilogue
It has been nearly seven years since that unimaginable day when I was fired and sent to prison. In February 2011, I was released from prison after serving 20 months. During that time I got divorced and lost my home to foreclosure. How I would begin again was a mystery to both of us. Yet, as a result of the recovery process, and trite as it sounds, I learned to take life and what it brings one day at a time and to think positively. Susan marvels at the strength and resilience I exhibited as I navigated release from prison with a felony record, no job, no home, and no money—challenges many in student affairs never face. The hardest thing to do when you have no money, no credit, and a criminal record is to find housing and a job. Susan did not know how to help me during this time. However, in time, I was able to find affordable housing, was hired by someone who knew my story and hired me anyway, giving me the second chance I needed and hoped, somehow, would be given to me. I got what I never thought was possible again, a purposeful career. After doing some volunteer work, I was hired by the Massachusetts Council on Compulsive Gambling, a 30–year–old organization dedicated to helping problem gamblers and their loved ones. I work the 24/7 Helpline and can be there for those first moments of agony when gamblers realize they have lost everything or gone too far or can't face, on their own, the pain and isolation this disease brings. I use the skills I developed in student affairs to speak to many different audiences, from college students to the elderly, about this disease. I help train clinicians to be aware of gambling addiction. Miraculously, I am doing exactly what I hoped for as I sat for so many hours on my prison bunk: to pay it forward in thanks and gratitude for all those, like Susan, who helped me through the worst times of my life.
Our Voice
As we reflect on the conversations we have had over these past seven years and (re)consider what benefit might accrue in the bringing of our voices to a topic so silenced in our profession, we examine what it means to live a professional life that is congruent with what we often teach our students and acknowledge that educators in higher education are always teachers and learners in the work we do. How do we create environments that support individuals who are struggling with life's challenges, as many of us will do at some point in our lives? This may be particularly challenging in helping professions, where asking for help and confronting personal issues may seem off–limits, thereby inadvertently perpetuating the silences that surround addictions on all sides, often in the name of professionalism and compassion. We are not asking readers to be sympathetic to Jodie's situation, but instead to reflect on a more difficult response, one of empathy, which requires courage and vulnerability. We ask students all the time to exhibit care and concern for one another so we need to consider what this means in the context of one of our own, a colleague. If we take this approach, of open and honest communication, of breaking the silence around personal failings, bad mistakes, and addictions, of extending compassion and empathy, then maybe we can teach our students something important, but also teach ourselves. We can practice caring, as Noddings eloquently described, less as learning to “walk in another's shoes,” but more as receiving another's reality as our own. There are high stakes in our ability to realize this value.