I'm working with some of my facilitators in a newly reopened lockup facility. In that lockup facility, there's a jail inside a jail. The kids that are there have done extreme things. I know, without a doubt, that extreme things were done to them before they got there. The stakes here are higher. Many of these youth suffer from severe mental health issues, issues that have not been treated and/or have been treated poorly.
You need to go through gate after gate, lock after lock to get inside to where we teach. The main entrance was closed, so we went through the back hall. We were told to be careful because there was a concoction of milk and soap on the floor. There were four of us walking on tippy toes and, of course, I was the only one to slip and fall onto my knees. I popped up quickly, laughed it off, and said I was fine. Everyone made sure I was OK and we all laughed a little. Then, we went in to do the work. Honestly, I didn’t feel anything from the fall. Maybe a little embarrassed, but my body felt fine. Hours later, everything was different. My knee hurt. I could feel the burn of the muscle I had pulled, and my arm was throbbing.
It is interesting that sometimes it takes time to feel the impact of a fall. Things happen to us and we don’t really know or understand how they will affect us, what and where it will hurt, and, God forbid, what damage was done.
That is how it is with the youth that I work with. Their lives have been fall after fall, collision after collision, train wreck after train wreck, one after the other. They always manage to pop up, like I did, but the damage is deep. The damage is in their hearts and souls.
My wise husband, upon seeing me limping to the sofa, said, “Nomi, ice the knee and take a Motrin NOW.” "Duh," I think to myself. I was busy feeling sorry for myself, not really thinking about how to take care of myself. There is not enough ice or Motrin in the world that can soothe the internal damage of the kids we serve.
During class, we sat in a circle making up a story together. We went from kid to kid, each one adding a sentence to the story. As the story went around the circle, it got darker and darker. The plot twists were violent and morbid.
“These stories are horrible,” I said.
“These stories are our life, Ms.,” one said to me.
“What if it wasn’t?” I ask. “Can you imagine that? Can you try?” I add.
“What? Like those dumb-ass Disney movies?” one asks.
“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not that extreme.”
They laugh. “Okay, Ms. Let’s do it.”
They make up a story about a prince and a princess.
They are optimistic and play the game but, inevitably, she is shot, dies, and then kills everyone on her way to hell. The optimism had held for a few minutes until the morbid came back. “Come on,” I said. “You were doing so good.”
“We don’t do good, Ms. Look around. It ain’t like we are at the Hilton Hotel.”
Everyone laughed.
“Hold on,” I say. “Hold on. First of all, you do know how to do good,” and I reflected on an exercise we did about the good deeds they had done before they got locked up.
“You did well for like five minutes and then you had to kill the princess.”
“Ms., fuck the princess. She was annoying as hell.”
“Agreed,“ I say.
“Let’s start over. There once was an amazing young man. In his past, he did some shady business,” I start.
“What kinda shady business, Ms.?” someone asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Let’s move forward, not backward.”
“I wanna know what he did.”
“Too bad,” I say and smile. “We are taking this young man to the good. Help me.”
We go around the circle.
“The man got his high school diploma. Then a college degree,” one says.
The next one adds, “He had lots of women.” They all cheer. (I had to let that ride.)
“He owns his own shop for cars.”
“He had four kids that he cares about.” I love that having kids and being a good dad is important to them.
“He made a lot of money.” “Yeah!” Everyone responds.
One suggests, “Ms., let’s say what he didn’t do.”
“Go for it,” I said.
“He didn’t gang bang.”
“He didn’t rob.”
“He didn’t steal.”
“Awww shit!” someone responded, “Stealing and robbing are the same.”
“Let it go,” I said.
The next kid said, “He let go of the things that hurt him.”
It got quiet. “He didn’t fall no more.”
Then I added, “Actually, he sometimes fell but he got up faster and it didn’t hurt as much.”
“He was rich as fuck.”
“He had lots of gold.”
I added, “He had lots of love in his life.”
“Ms.,” one whined, “No Disney shit!”
We all laughed.
I said, “He had an amazing, complicated, annoying love in his life.”
They laughed.
“He was a good dad.”
“He was a great dad.”
“He wasn’t afraid to fall 'cause, Ms., he knew he would get up and be OK.”
“That’s right!” I said.
“And then he died,” someone said.
It got quiet again.
“Wait,” I said. “It isn’t over. He died when he was 110 years old. The end.”
“That is one fucking long ending, Ms.”
“Yes, it is,” I said.
“You have a lot to live for. It isn’t over. And even if you did really bad shit, you have a lot of time to do good. And I mean really good.” I tell them.
It was a little somber.
It’s hard to believe that there is anything after the place they are locked up in.
We said our affirmations.
“I am amazing.”
“I am brave.”
“I am worthy.”
Then someone said to me: “I have a new affirmation, Ms.”
“Go for it,” I say.
“I will fall and get up.”
Everyone repeated after him. “I will fall and get up.” Yes, you will, I thought.
Our job as the bystanders of this pain is to be the ice.
To be Ibuprofen for the inconceivable pain.
To be the cheerleaders, the ones who believe.
The ones who do not give up.
Those are easy words to write, but not so easy to do.
Here is the thing--no one, no one, ever said it would be easy. Believe me, it is not.
“I will fall and get up,” my student said. We will not judge when they fall.
We will celebrate when they get up. The cheering supports them rising up and facilitates the ripple of change they are working to accomplish.
So please, cheer like there is no tomorrow.
