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."

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.