Handcuffs

There was a boy who I never really got to work with, but still managed to have a bond with. We share a love of reading fantasy, and so he recommended to me a certain series. I checked out the first one, and started reading it. When I told him, he asked me what it was about, and his face lit up. He did not believe that I would actually read it just because he suggested it.

I finished reading it a few days ago; it was hardly the best book I have ever read, but it was enjoyable and a simple diversion from the more intense novels I usually partake of. I returned to work, eager to share with him that I had finished it (he had never read the ending of the first book). When I got there, the staff told me he had been escorted out just a few days before.

Returning to Juvy.

In handcuffs.

This boy, he had a temper, no doubt. He could fight, and fight well. But he could also be sweet and funny and clever. I don't know why he was arrested, or why he was going back (the joys of court, is my guess), but I do know that he should not be in a place where there is no one who will read the same book as him. In taking him away in handcuffs, the government did this child a grave disservice. He was in a psych ward for a reason, and he was improving.

Now, he'll no longer have a reason to read, because there will be no one to talk about it with him.

I want to make a great metaphor, comparing the handcuffs to love, how we as humans can suddenly be locked away from all that we care and love because of our mistakes or, sometimes, the mistakes of others. But my heart isn't in it. All I can think about is this boy, a tiny, skinny thing with a mouth the size of Texas, going away in handcuffs.

And I didn't even get to tell him I finished that danged book.

Forgotten.

Across from where I play Monopoly every week, two boys wait patiently. They have promised to teach me the card game "Magic," their current obsession. I have never had any real inclination to play, but they are delighted to have the role of teacher for once, instead of dismissed as lessers. Sitting across from each other, they look very, very different; one is tall, well-muscled with the face and casual confidence of an athlete; the other, slender, soft-spoken, with the tired gentleness about him of an artist. But they are the same age, and they share a very similar story. They are here for a reason, and by now they have moved past denial and have settled into the task of improving. They're doing well, but I worry sometimes. I see their flashes of anger, at themselves and others, and wonder if that anger will ever spark anything more dangerous.

These two are unlikely friends, boys that would never have crossed paths under any other circumstances. But here, they are friends. They take turns being the dominant personality, swapping it back and fourth in some unspoken, agreed-upon order. They are good kids.

One says that in five years after he's been discharged, he'll find me. He says it, laughing, and I laugh too.

"In five years, you won't even remember me," I say, and he disagrees.

But I hope it's true. I hope that, in five years, he'll be off in college, thriving, happy. I hope that if any memory of me remains, it's a faint one, a possible 'What was her name?' that drifts across his mind whenever he watches one of the movies I brought in that he loved, a faint spark of memory, nothing more. I want to be forgotten by these wonderful, broken children.

I want to be forgotten because I want them to live such full, wonderful, amazing lives that the time that they spent in a psych ward is nothing more than a faded memory, something, perhaps, to remember only if they stumble across their Goodbye Book, full of letters and well-wishes from those who were their families for the few months to a few years they spent there. I want them to skim those letters, smile faintly, put it down, and go off into a wonderful life where they live happily ever after.

Will it happen for all of the children that I have worked with? Sadly, no. Some of them will likely struggle with their inner demons for the rest of their lives. Some of them may disappear too soon, others may flash bright just briefly, then stumble and fall. For those children, I hope that they do remember us, we staff who loved them and cared for them and, sometimes, cried for them in our cars before we drove home.

But for those who, years from now, will be happy and laughing, I really, truly hope that they will forget me.

And I? I will never forget them.

Goodbyes and Possibilities

My unit is closing in two weeks. It's heartbreaking, for the staff and the kids; the news came from nowhere, and in truth, we're all still in shock. It only just hit me today that I only have a few more days to make an impact in the lives of these fantastic children, and I fully admit that I wept.

I will miss them.

There are so many people out there that would be shocked at that; these kids have caused me all sorts of trouble, called me all sorts of names, but I will miss seeing them smile when I walk in, the eager clamoring of them asking which group I'm running today. I was only there a short time, but somehow I have managed to become a part of their lives.

I will miss seeing one of my favorite boys, the worst troublemaker we have (of course!!) and hearing his excited greeting and a reminder that I am his favorite staff.

I will miss losing at Monopoly every week, getting a little closer to winning each time.

I will miss playing basketball with them, how encouraging they are, even though we all know I'm a terrible player.

I will miss them teaching me how to throw a perfect spiral, and their impressed laughter when it actually makes it across the field.

I will miss being offered little pieces of artwork, some signed, some not, all varying degrees of skill, that I keep on my clipboard and glance at when things get difficult.

I will miss learning how to play Magic with them. I loved to play it, even though I KNOW they all cheated.

I will miss the fantastic staff I work with, how encouraging and uplifting they are. To be greeted with a genuine smile at the beginning of my shift is just so wonderful after my last jobs.

I will miss the love that we all had, for each other, for the kids, and the pride we took in our work.

I will miss the jokes, the poking fun and the laughter.

Most of all, I will miss their expressions of wonder as I weave magic into the air. They love hearing my stories almost as much as I love telling them. Tonight, I begged my muse for one last story, a goodbye story, one that I can leave with them as a message of hope. Preferably one that I can tell without bursting into tears.

He smiled a little at me for that, touched my hair with his fingers, and murmured out a small tale that is meant to be at the end of a much longer collection of tales. He broke it down, sentence by sentence, word by word, and offered me hope through it. I'll share the last bit here, even though these stories are sacred and are meant to be spoken only:

"And Cieran lay back, staring at the stars. Absently he twined his fingers through the tangled fur of the wolf who slept beside him, and he remembered. He thought of Jade, of her bright smile and flashing eyes, her fierce loyalty and love for her crew, and he missed her. He thought of the men that he worked beside, of their faithfulness to each other and respect for the woman who led them, and he missed them. He thought of the waves, of the wild waters and dangerous winds, and, yes, missed them too. He felt his heart throb hollowly, and he closed his eyes to keep back the tears.
"The wolf beside him, as if sensing his sorrow, licked his fingers gently, and he felt some of the pain fade. He did not know it then, but the wolf would bring to him a great many adventures, and a great love as well, and, in time, he would come to realize that every goodbye brings with it a hello, and that the end of a season is not the end of the world, but the beginning of a new adventure.
"In this one moment, however, all Cieran felt was the warm comfort of a loyal animal, and he turned on his side and slept.
"And he dreamed of possibilities."

Hearts

"It must break your heart!"

I hear this a lot in reference to what I do. I find it offensive.

My heart has nothing to do with my job.

Their hearts, however, do.

How I feel does not change anything in these kids' lives, nor will it. No matter what emotional anguish this line of work may put me through, it is nothing compared to that of the children that I see every day when I clock in. I am not forced to experience horrific flashbacks every time I lay down to sleep, I do not have to stare at the numerous scars on my arms and wonder if they'll ever fade, I do not have to struggle with old addictions because the sight of a beautiful day reminds me of those same beautiful days once spent high enough to escape my troubles. The children and adolescents I work with are so exhausted from the sheer effort of surviving that many of them don't even realize that the dull throbbing in their chest is abnormal. There are children, 12 years old, who have learned from a very young age that the only way to get attention from anyone is to hurt themselves. There are others who have no understanding of love past the twisted lust of those who should be their authority figures.

My job does not break my heart. If anything, my job makes me realize how strong my heart is.

My job means that I have the rare chance to show those the world would consider unwanted that they matter. My job is to offer children hope. My job is to make them smile when society expects them to never stop crying. I love making them laugh. I love learning from them, letting them become my teachers instead of my charges. I love playing basketball with them, even though more often than not my team loses because, let's face it, I suck. But they don't care; they are so excited that a staff will shove their badge in their pocket and play a game that all they can do is offer shouts of encouragement.

My job means that I can introduce these children to a world of wonder and mystery. Sometimes, special times, I'll tell them an old, old tale, and to watch them become captivated is one of the most rewarding experiences I will ever have.

It's not always easy; in truth, it never is. It is the hardest job I have ever had, or likely ever will have. But it is beyond rewarding.

My job does not break my heart. My job makes having a heart the best possession in the world.

Heroes

"Hero" is such a funny word. According to Princeton's website, it is probably derived from the name of the goddess Hera, and it means "protector" or "defender." As Hera was considered to be the guardian of marriage, it is not too unlikely that this possibility is correct.

What Princeton's website doesn't mention is that Hera was bitterly jealous, and that her own husband (Zeus) had multiple affairs with just about any female he laid eyes on. She is often portrayed as highly suspicious, with a tendency to set traps for her husband's flings to fall into. When sent into a rage, her fury threatens many innocents.

In this regard, perhaps the history of heroes is driven home even more. After all, heroes are still human, with humanistic flaws and desires and fears. Those who we perceive to be our knights in shining armor are probably every bit as scared of the dragon they face as you are. Courage is not the absence of fear, after all.

I used to hate the idea of being rescued. I used to scorn those who twittered about being saved and how afraid they were. But this week, I realized something: Everyone is a hero, and everyone needs rescuing sometimes.

When I was very young, I saved my sister from drowning. At the time, I didn't ever register what I was doing; we were in a wave pool, and she went under, and I just instinctively reached down and pulled her up out of the water. She came out coughing and crying; the lifeguards were utterly oblivious to the split seconds between her head sinking and my hand reaching after it, but we both remember the moment well.

Tonight, I approached a pit bull running wild, leashed him up, and took him home. The owners were so grateful; to me, it was simply a proper action. He was a very sweet dog.

Wednesday, I was caught between two boys whose anger was escalating. I was tucked away from the rest of the unit, trapped in the gym with six boys, all of whom were becoming agitated. And so I had to tuck away my hero complex and radio for help. It was incredibly hard for me to do, but I knew it was the right decision.

That night, I thanked the two who'd helped me out, apologizing for inconveniencing them, and one of them laughed.

"You weren't an inconvenience," he said with a smile. "You just needed a little help."