Bruises

I have a new bruise on my leg now. It's not very large, it doesn't hurt much, but I'm rather proud of it. It's my first war wound.

As I'm sure those possible few who read my posts will have gathered, my job is hard. Every day, I deal with the "untouchables" of society, children and teenagers with psychological and behavioral disorders so intense that they are a danger to themselves and society. They are strange children, each struggling with their past, with their desires, with the uncertainty of their futures. Many of them simply don't have homes to go back to; they are the product of trauma and foster care, their eyes are dark and sad beneath false smiles. Others have parents who love them, but who are so overwhelmed by their children that they just don't know what else to do.

And so, for 8-16 hours a day, I clock in, and I love these lost children. It's not hard; even though they're emotionally volatile, rash, and borderline dangerous, they have the most fantastic smiles. I love my job, even the heart-racing parts, when I'm in between two boys trying so hard to charge at each other, to pound out their anger and fury and terror with their fists. I like to believe that, in some small way, I am offering these children hope.

And so I don't mind my little bruise; it is a small, temporary reminder that sometimes, even through life will hurt you, the pain will fade, and hope will return again.

Anger

Today I had to stand between two boys as they yelled at each other. Their fists were clenched, their eyes furious. There was the very real possibility that they would have began to exchange blows, and I would have been caught in the middle. One of the boys is a bit legendary for his determination in fights; he's been pulled off of much, MUCH larger boys while strangling him. And there I was, arms spread, other staff rushing over to pull them apart. The other boys were quiet, backing away, slightly nervous. It was a bit of a heart-stopping situation.

They were fighting over a shirt. Specifically, whether or not a certain shirt advocated gang activity.

Driving home, I thought about what happened. This isn't entirely uncommon; what was uncommon was the sheer stupidity of what they were fighting over. But then I realized that we are all fighting over stupid things. I lost a good friend because she decided to have an affair. It was a disagreement that dragged on for a full year until it finally came to a head, and she cut me off. Now, I look back and wonder how we even managed to stay friends for as long as we had; she was one to always pick fights, and, I admit, I hate admitting defeat.

We all have stupid things that set us off. Sure, most of us won't almost come to blows over a hat, but a lot of us will cut people out of our lives because of miscommunications, disagreements, or just sheer stubbornness. At least these boys will admit they're being stupid (sometimes). But I know that for me at least, admitting I was wrong is incredibly hard.

We need to grow up. We need to learn to let things go, to not instigate fights over dumb things that will be meaningless sooner rather than later. Maybe then we'll start living lives with happiness in them instead of anger.

Wonder

During summer, I try to read two books a week. Not a children's book, mind you, or even a short story, but a book. Some years, I make a list of my goals, or focus on a specific genre. Last year, studying for the GRE, I read a lot of classics. This year, my goal is to read all of the books I own.

In some ways, this challenge is significantly more difficult than living out of my local library. The many, many books that line my walls, pile beside my bed, sprawl across my settee, and lie scattered across my floor always seem to murmur "Don't mind us, we can wait. Find something new, before it's gone" as I glance their way. And so I go to my library, scrounging the shelves for a treasure I've yet to encounter. My library discards "unwanted' books routinely; in the past month, I have found out that they have gotten rid of 2 books that I have deeply loved. What if they throw away more books that hold wonder within them, a beauty I will never discover? I am afraid of that.

And yet.

In my room, I have 4 bookshelves, all overfull. I line my closet shelf, my writing desk, every space I have to spare, with books. Many of these, I have read and loved. Some, I am saving for my children to rejoice in, little-known stories that I would pour over as a child myself. But there is a good percentage of these beautiful books that wait, ever-patient, for me to discover wonder within their pages. And so, this summer, I hope to open them, to read them. Some, I may be disappointed by. Some, I might hate. But there will be some that I will love. And, in my frantic search to find wonder in some other place, maybe I am ignoring the hours of joy all around me merely because they are lying around my room instead of neatly lined and ordered on sterilized shelves.

So, I guess to sum it all up: Stop looking for beauty, wonder, and mystery in every place except your own home, because there is more lying under your own nose than what you could possibly fathom.

Magic

I told a story to my girl's group today. I had suggested it as a way to calm them down; they had been bouncing off the walls and laughing and talking so loudly you could hear them down the hall. I told them it was a story my family told during special moments, to celebrate change. This was true. And so one of the older girls, who was being discharged the next day, quieted them down, and they all fell silent one-by-one as I began to talk.

Ever see eight teenagers sit in utter silence, enraptured for 15 minutes? Neither had I. When my story, an old, old tale of love and change, was finished, they applauded. A few had tears in their eyes.

These girls had pasts. They had hurt themselves and others, so caught up in their devastating worlds of hurt and desperation that they had no clear sight left. Many bear scars across their bodies, and few will speak of how they got there. Many of them are restless, unable to sit still for more than a few minutes without needing to move, to pace, to try to escape the thoughts that haunt them.

And yet, there they sat, transfixed.

There is a magic in the spoken tale, the spinning of a story so deep it has no need of pictures or even printed words on a page. The story I spoke is one I have not found recorded anywhere, and so telling it from memory is necessary. And, unlike reading it from a book or watching it on a television, my voice cast a spell over these haunted children. It soothed their souls, however briefly, and made them forget what world they live in. Storytelling is one of the few kinds of magic granted to humans, and it is a magic that is rapidly fading away as modern technology becomes more mainstream.

So I challenge you as I challenge myself: Cast your spell. Memorize your favorite tale, know it so well it may as well be graven on your heart, and then offer it back to the world. Spin your magic, and spread an ancient wonder to those around you. It is far more rewarding than you know.

Faces

I am not unique. Neither are you.

I know everyone out there wants to think they're special, that they're "chosen" for some great task, but the reality is many of us will live our lives simply and slowly, touching those around us in some small way, and fading away as time traipses on and memories drift past in the wind.

And yet, to touch one life is to change the course of history.

You, I, we may never be remembered as those in the history books are remembered, but their stories are often flawed anyway. We may never see our portrait hanging from a great hall, or our names blazoned on a trophy, or our picture in a magazine, but maybe, someday, somehow, someone else will think of you and tell their children "That person changed me. Without them, I wouldn't be who I am today."

Sometimes, that is a good thing. Sometimes, you can change a life for the better. But you could also be an unwitting catalyst for great evil as well. This is not something special, a task just for you--it is what hangs in the balance for every soul.

We all can point to someone and say "There. They impacted me." Sometimes, it hurts to think of them, how they hurt you, how they're gone, how you miss them. Sometimes, the person is one that you have never met, but is someone who influenced you through their words, actions, or art.

I tell the children I work with their actions never impact just themselves. They don't believe me. In their minds (as in the minds of all children), they are the main character in a long and fascinating drama that carries on throughout their life and ends dramatically at their death. But the reality is, life has no ending, and certainly no beginning. It carries on, with or without you around to see it.

I am not unique. Neither are you.

And that is a very, very good thing.

Monopoly

Every week, I play Monopoly with a child rapist. Every week, she wins. She is gracious in her victory. She allows himself a small, pleased smile as she gathers up her money, her cards, her piece, tosses them in the box, thanks me for the game, and shambles placidly away. Sometimes, we have another player; sometimes, we don't. Either way, she quietly sets up the board, carefully placing my little silver boot on Go, and waits patiently for me to roll the dice. She calls me 'lady,' not in a derogatory or crude manner, mind you, but with a note of respect and deference in her voice. She is quiet, withdrawn, patient, only showing emotion in quick bursts that quickly pass. She makes no mention of the long rows of cigarette burns on his forearms, and I do not ask.

She is fifteen years old.

Where I work, some people never read the patients' charts. They say they prefer to make up their own mind about them. Others, they never look up from the paper in their hand to see the person in front of them. Me, I read those charts at the end of the day, after spending time with them. Usually what I read isn't too surprising. Sometimes, it's shocking. Rarely is it haunting.

I am a victim of a past I can't remember, but which causes me to panic whenever a man steps too close.

Every week, I play Monopoly with a child rapist.

Every week, I look forward to it.