snitch

There is a snitch in my group. Half of the group absolutely hates her. They shoot her mean looks and they laugh whenever she talks.
It’s really complicated.
Being the mediator I am, I decided to address it and have a powwow.
I wanted to talk it out.
I asked everyone to scoot in and sit really close.
I thought the probation officer was going to have a heart attack.
She immediately yelled out, “Move back, move back.  No, no,
I don’t what them so close.”
The tension was very high.
She looked at me.  “Are you sure about this?”
“Of course,” I said, very calmly.
Although inside I’m thinking SHIT!!!!!
She gave me a very worried look.
“You know what?” I said to her,
“Join us.  Join the circle, please.”
She reluctantly pulled her chair in.
She was not happy.
“I got this,” I told her.
“You better,” she said.  She was now a little angry.
“It’s just you and me.”
“I got this,” I said again.
Crap! I thought I better not fuck this up.
As always, I believed in my girls.  I chose not to be afraid, although frankly, I was well aware of the danger zone I was entering.
I used the ball to control the talking.
I looked at my girls.
“Listen to me.”  I spoke clearly and slowly.  I looked at each one of them and I let them see me really seeing them.
“The person holding the ball and ONLY the person holding the ball can speak.  You have to follow my rules.”
“Give me the ball!  Give me the ball!” they start yelling.
“There will be NO yelling,” I add.
“You will each have a turn and when I raise my hand, and say ‘End,’
YOU MUST END what you are saying.  You have to stop when I tell you to, because, if I say ‘Stop,’ you have said enough.”
They nod.
They got this, I think.
The first one spoke.
These kids have a tendency to speak their truth to the air.  They do not look at each other.  It’s part of the tough façade. “SO,” I took a breath and said, “You have to look at me.  You must talk to me.  Explain to me.  Look in my eyes when you talk.  Tell me your side of the story.”
Oh, my God!  It was so intense.
These kids are so angry and when there is someone to focus the anger on well, I hope the Lord has mercy, because they sure as hell didn’t have any.
It would be funny, if it were not so crazy and sad.
They swore.  They spoke street talk.  They talked about loyalty.  They talked about backstabbing.  They talked about bad dog eye.
You would think the snitch told a dark secret or betrayed the crime they had committed.  The snitch said she was being bullied.  She said people were being mean to her.
They were irrational.   They were behaving like babies.  The language they used is the toughest of gang talk.
Oh, and then, they were also angry because the other snitch… (Now there are 2 snitches.  There is the one who told on them and the other one.) Well, she had lice.
Finally!  Territory I am familiar with.
“What?” I said in dismay.  “Lice?  Seriously?   
I add "It’s not her fault she had lice.”
Uproar.
“My kids had lice 5 times last year.” I said.
Silence.
“Lice isn’t a crime.”  
I thought that was funny.  No one else did.
The probation officer was losing it.
Outing my children’s lice got everyone’s attention.
“White people don’t get lice,” one said.
“Oh, yes, they do!”  I would be laughing out loud if there were not such tension in the room.
I do not know  if I am succeeding to paint with my words how surreal this all was.
Suddenly, I really wanted to scratch my head and I just said it out loud.
"I kinda wanted to scratch my head just talking about it."
There was a moment of truce and we all kinda scratched our heads.There was a pause, a few smiles, maybe a baby laugh.
I seized the moment.
“What are we going to do?” I asked.
“Frankly, I have no clue.”  I sounded a little desperate even to myself.
“How can we move forward?”
And they went at it again.
Loyalty.  Betrayal.  They dared the snitch to take it somewhere and fight it out.  They will show her!
Man, I thought, the lice truce was over.
The snitch herself spoke.
“Okay,” she said, “let’s get past this.  I will not talk shit about you and you don’t speak shit about me no more.
It was a no go.
We have been in the circle for 45 minutes.
I was late for my next group.
“Listen ladies,” I said. “We need to wrap this up.”
It got quiet.
I looked at them. I so didn’t want to feel hopeless, but I was feeling hopelessness knocking at my door. 
Hell, she was walking into my heart!
But, I stalled hopelessness ,and asked her to wait.
 I said to the girls, “I want to believe that we can get past this.
I trust you.  I am trusting that you will walk out of here, and you will not fight because of things that were said here.
I want to trust that you are going to move forward.
I believe you can get over this.”
“This must happen in all your groups.  Right, Ms.?”
someone said.
“NO,” I replied, “THIS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE. 
I tell each group, as I told you in our first session, when you walk through that door you are in my gang.  But you guys, who I love, are truly an amazing group, maybe the best group.  You aren’t letting go of this issue and I am worried.”
I looked at them.
“How can I trust that we will do an improv and that someone won’t get hurt?  To perform together you must trust each other.  I worry about you…and about that.”
That opened the door for the probation officer.  She stood up quickly and said,
“I don’t feel safe.  I told the lady (me) that we will send you back and close the program if it isn’t safe here, and I have to tell you, I am not feeling safe.”
I immediately jumped in and said,
“I feel safe.  I feel confidant that these girls will behave.  They have been following instructions. They used the ball.  
I am grateful that I got to hear their piece.”
If the probation officer could have turned around and slapped me I think she would have.
Maybe they spoke their piece, I thought to myself, but there was no peace.  There was no resolution.  The snitch tried to move forward, but no one took the bait.
“To be honest, ma’am, I’d like to fucking punch her face in.”
This is the one I had sit close to me, my hand on her leg the entire time.
“I know,” I said.  “That’s why you are close to me, and you are not going to do that, but thanks for sharing.”
I moved my hand to her back so she could feel me close to her.
I think to myself…Fuck, fuck, fuck!
There is no kumbaya.  
There is no forgiveness. 
There is no movement forward. 
This is about race, about hatred, about asserting power.  This is about so many things that have absolutely nothing to do with the snitch. I am discouraged and sad.
Come in hopelessness.  Take a seat.
I have to finish.  I am already 15 minuets late for the next group.
We don’t end with the chant as we usually do.
They are ready to leave.
“Please,” I said.  
“PLEASE, make me proud.
Leave here and don’t take this outside.  
Don’t take the words and use them against each other.
 Show me that I am right, that we can move forward. 
I believe in you.  I believe that there can be change.
I am not afraid of what might happen here.
I am excited about what will be – of getting to know you, for all of us to work together.  You are so talented.  Don’t let this get in the way.
Think about it.”
They listened, I don’t know if they heard.
They left single file with the probation officer talking into the walkie-talkie.
“I have 10 with me,” she said clearly.  
They were doing a head count.
They walked out.
I heard her yelling at them.
I couldn’t hear the words, just the tone.  
Well, she had to get it out at some point.
I stood alone in the gym.
I let my body relax, and I felt hopeless.
And I started talking to myself out loud.
They talked each in turn when I gave them the ball.
They spoke to me.  A fight didn’t break out.
Maybe they couldn’t say the words.
Maybe they had to hide behind the gang mask.
BUT we just had a talking circle.
A fight didn’t break out.
It was okay.
Maybe, I think, I have to hold on to what didn’t happen.
Not be sad about what did happen.
Maybe, being static is the change today.
Maybe change isn’t always what happens.
Maybe just maybe, change is what doesn’t happen.
Suddenly hopelessness is gone, and for the first time in a long time I cant not  wait for  next week.