the Culver green...

I sent a text to my creative writing teacher this afternoon and asked her to text me a writing prompt. She responded, "Green." My first thought was..... ya thanks buddy. After a few minutes I realized that in fact it wasn't such a bad a prompt at all. 

Green. A sea of green people, or rather a sea of small children wearing green shirts. I watched as a large group of younger children stood in military formation for the practice parade wearing their green shirts with the Culver logo on the left side above the breast. In front of them stood a slender, blond, tall young man. He spoke to them with an authoritative voice, but he exuded kindness. You could see the stern look on his face, but you could feel his dedication. The boys looked at him from their attention stance and listened. It was obvious they respected him.

I felt my eyes welling up with tears as the young man gave instructions to the gaggle of boys. My heart was filling with overwhelming pride. I felt chills racing to edge of my skin. Green symbolized Division 6 at Culver Woodcraft Camp. Green and the number six were very important to each camper and counselor in that division. For me, green is the memory of watching those boys and their leader.

I spoke to many of the counselors that Sunday evening and they all shared with me how motivating the young man was when he worked with them. I had the amazing opportunity to speak to several of the parents of the kids that he worked with and learned that each set of parents had an incredible amount of respect for the young leader. They referred to him as wonderful, amazing, a natural leader, and born to work with kids. A few of the parents explained how the young man had changed their child's life.  The kids, the kids were the true gold medal. Each of the kids spoke about the young man with such kind words and understanding of his passion for them. He had earned their respect, their love and most of all their trust.

I stood and watched the young man as tears were slipping from eyes. Before me I saw  a leader, a grown man, a genuine human who was capable of making a positive difference in peoples lives. I saw a man standing before those boys as they stood at attention, who had such passion, compassion and the ability to truly reach adults and children alike. In that moment, with adoration in their eyes, the boys in green shirts stood before a man that I was seeing as an adult for the first time. Those boys in green were standing and listening to my baby brother. 
 

San Francisco Giant's Win the World Series, but there's more to it

The Giant's Win. The Giant's Win! San Francisco WINS!

Two hours ago the fireworks sounded and screams could be heard throughout many people's neighborhoods. My front door was positioned open as the ruckus began. The sounds flooded into my living room as the Californians rejoiced in the win of the Giants. After game four of the World Series, the Giants took what they call a sweep and the best of seven games drew to a close. The Giants won game one, then two, then three, then four and the sounds erupted for all to hear the happy cries and the beer bottles crashing together in celebration. 

Personally, I am not much of a baseball fan, but the game was on in my living room. I sat quietly working at my computer as the Fox Network took pride in airing the Giants battle the Tigers tonight. I looked up at the screen at the end of 10th inning, Giants 4 and Tigers 3, when I heard the announcer state the Giants were one strike away from winning the World Series. I watched the final pitch to Buster Posey. I saw the ball release from Sergio Romo's hand and land perfectly in Posey's glove. The Pitch was so perfect that Miguel Cabrera couldn't even see the ball well enough to take a swing. Buster jumped to his feet threw his arms into the air with fervor, chucked off his mask leaving it to fall behind him as he took off running toward Romo in the epitome of utter victory. Playbacks were shown of other teammates in the exact moment in which they realized that they were the 2012 World Series winners. Each player was shown exhibiting their own pure external release in the single most successful moment in their life. The Giants win!

I was moved by the excitement of the players. I could genuinely feel their victory through the expressions on their faces, the movement, the shouting, the jumping up and down and the sheer glory displayed as a team. I am always a sap for these types of things. I am happy for them. I truly am. However, I am always overly aware that there will be one demonstration of this victory in each game as there is always one winner and one loser. I also tend to feel a level of sadness for the losing team.

As the Giants fans celebrate, scream, cry, drink, dance, and apparently set fires in San Francisco, I sit thinking about this enormous level of success that the players are feeling. I found myself sitting on my front porch trying to decipher if many of the kids that I have encountered over the years have ever felt a great win or victory, personally or within a team. I know a few have, but more have not. I am not talking about winning the World Series per se, but rather a level of accomplishment that awards a person in the moment with such a magnitude that it is not comparable to any other in their life. This moment in time is not only reserved for professional athletes or winners of elections. This moment that I describe can be one of achieving any major success in life. 

So many of the children that I have worked with or known have experienced such a level of personal distress and tormented lives that they have not had access or been afforded the luxuries of high level success. Most of the kids have spent their waking and sleeping hours worrying about  basic needs, survival and safety. Surviving has been their major life success. This whole experience tonight has made me ponder how to incorporate the success of luxury achievements into their lives.

As the last two hours have unraveled, I feel like my thoughts have come full circle. In that moment that the final pitch was delivered to Buster Posey's glove and he jumped up with arms in the air in victory, we all were part of the success, achievement and win. Every adults and child watching tonight experienced that success just as I did when I saw the outfielder's face light up, his body fly into the air and his feet running as soon as he landed in order to meet his teammates in the infield to celebrate. In that one second the Giants allowed everyone to see success, achievement and victory. This would have been the same had the Tigers won. We were all exposed to something great, something outside of ourselves, something real and something that should give us the strength to help others find success in their lives. I don't think I had ever really understood professional sports and the obsession of the fans, but tonight I felt what many people might feel at every win of their team. People have found a way to feel success through the victory of their favorite teams and in that second that I realized that, I found a reason to become a fan of the national pastime. The final game of the 2012 World Series has truly made me a baseball fan.

solace from the pain ......

It was a simple soccer ball that saved her life. Each night she would sneak out to the field, headphones on playing some variety of a mixed tape, sweats, shoes and a ball. That is all she needed.  She would run dribbling the soccer ball for hours with the music blaring in her ears. The pain that followed her day in and day out would melt away, at least while she ran with the ball. The sweat dripping from her face reflected each tear that she was too terrified to shed.

Stop, touch, pull ball back, turn around, slight kick and go again. The standard defense move to get away from another player. That was her release. She found solace from her emotional pain in the darkness of the night with just a ball. 

Each night she felt the breeze on her face, the sound of the wind swishing by her ears, the grass crumbling beneath her shoes and the feel of the rubber smacking the top of her foot. Somehow there was freedom in her motions. 

She ran quickly with the ball at her feet and the lake at her right. She wasn’t supposed to be out there in the middle of the night. She had to move swiftly so that she could get all of the pent of pain, fear and terror out of her veins before security would drive up and send her back to her dorm room. She was just a teen.

She knew that it was a risk each night, but it was a risk that she had to take. Without her nightly time in the dark with her ball, the bubbling horror stories in her head would continue to boil until she was not able to hold herself together during the day. Nobody was to know the demons that taunted every extraordinarily loud tick of the second hand. She must keep it all a secret. 

Stop, touch, pull ball back, turn around, slight kick and go again. The standard defense move to get away from another player. That was her release. She found solace from her emotional pain in the darkness of the night with just a ball. 

In those moments she was released from the divorces, the cries of her younger brother, the hurt her mother suffered and the absence of her father. She didn’t have to feel his hands on her when she was running, when she was kicking or when she was in the dark with her ball. She was without the fear of what happened if she told. She was far away from the smell of his sweat. The music drowned his laughter from her ears. She was free and she was safe. 

Stop, touch, pull ball back, turn around, slight kick and go again. The standard defense move to get around another player. That was her release. She found solace from her emotional pain in the darkness of the night with just a soccer ball. 

She was never certain if the hurt would stop or if she would truly be free, but that soccer ball provided as close to comfort as she could allow herself to feel. There were no threats during her time with the ball. She bled her emotions though each movement and kick to the ball. Most nights she was in fact caught. The security lady who resembled Humpty Dumpty in her own kind of way eventually just started giving the girl a warning that she had to hurry back to the dorm before the doors were locked. She never knew the girl had made a secret entrance by cutting a hole in one of the screens. It was almost as if the security lady knew that the girl needed to run. That she needed the darkness, the lake, the sweat, the music blaring and the ball eloquently moving from foot to foot. 

The girl kept running, kicking and sweating for years to come. She eventually grew to be an adult. As an adult, she can still find peace at the mere sight of a soccer ball. One look at the round and dirty object and she can feel the breeze on her face, the ground crunching beneath her feet, the glare from the moon on the lake and the rubber ball bouncing off one foot only to be caught by the other. 

Stop, touch, pull ball back, turn around, slight kick and go again. The standard defense move to get away from another player. That was her release. She found solace from her emotional pain in the darkness of the night with just a ball.

unintended kid humor...

Several years ago I decided to keep a log of some of the funny moments that I have experienced with the kids. I have a slew of horror stories and tales that quickly rip the heart out of any compassionate human being, but I also have the humorous times, amazing triumphs and the victories. 

A ten year old boy sitting in front of me has his usual scowl placed perfectly on his dark skinned face. That particular day he was angry at his teacher for assigning homework for the night. To be perfectly honest, he was angry every day. I was administering a test and of course he was far from amused. He sat across the rectangular table from me as I read questions aloud and he was to deliver verbal answers. 

Question: What color is the small grey dog?

His answer: (Immediately after asking my question the boy violently stood up flinging his chair back, raised both hands and slammed them on the table palms first with immense fury.)            I DON’T HAVE A DOG!

Nine year old boy who was known for his comic relief was asked a question for testing purposes.

Question: What color is the small grey dog?

His Answer: (With FERVOR!)          White!

A ten year old girl with pigtails and a bow on her dress sat perfectly in her chair at the kidney bean shaped table.

Question: What color is the small grey dog?

Her Answer:    Small, definitely small.

A sixteen year old boy attending an inner city school who came from a fairly dysfunctional background was working with me on a very cold morning. He was a nice kid, appeared bright and was considered the best athlete in the school. I was reading him a list of words and asking him for the definitions.

Question: What does transparent mean?

His answer: (He thought for a minute with his chin in his hand as his fingers caressed his cheeks. I watched and could visibly see the answer move to the front of his brain. His head popped up out of his chin and with pride he answered.)     Transparent is when your mom becomes your dad!

Thirteen year old boy sat before me in his basketball shorts and jersey. He was a shy kid, didn’t make much eye contact and tended to not talk around adults much.

Question: What does transparent mean?

His answer: (He continued to look at the white floors tiled in the room and turned slightly away from me before he spoke.)   I don’t think I am supposed to talk about that.

Nine year old boy full of confidence sat before me on a January morning.

Question: What are the requirements for someone to become the President of the United States?

His Answer:    You must have a driver’s license.

A seventeen year old boy who was generally considered a bully was asked to define a few words.

Question: What is the definition ofvictory?

His Answer:    Sexy! …. Just like Victoria Secret… she is          HOT!

Question: What is the definition oftentacle?

His Answer:    I don’t know how to explain it, but I have two           of them.

Question: What does the word nomadmean?

His Answer:    I don’t really know, but I would be no mad if I had that Victoria Secret lady.

Just a few of the joys that keep me smiling and tromping forward.

the human monster...........

It was so many years ago and yet I can see the tears flooding down his young face so vividly in my mind. I can hear the cries releasing from his body as he heaved while trying to speak. Slobber dripped from his lips and snot ran from his nose. He was crying so violently that he was unable to maintain and control his fluids. 

The morning before I had worked with Harley, as I will call him, and that day seemed no different than any other. Harley was a struggling reader and even worse in math. At age eleven, he had not yet developed the skill to string words together to read aloud. Harley had a diagnosed learning disability that hindered his achievement. He was a bright boy; a sullen boy. 

That morning we had worked on blending phonemes into words. We did not have a good session together.  He was distracted and quick to talk back. I snapped at him. In the moment that I scolded him I knew that I was wrong, that I was unprofessional and that I could have handled the situation so much better. Harley knew too. When I walked with him to the exit of the building he reached the door, stopped and turned around. He looked at me and simply stated, “Next time you want me to do something you should just ask me. You don’t have to get upset with me.” He walked away. I was emotionally and physically frozen. The eleven year old boy was right, and he had the maturity to tell me. I went home that night humbled by my inexperience and my mistake. I was embarrassed by my actions and proud of his speaking up. 

The next morning the sun rose as expected, but that was the only thing that was normal about the day to follow. I arrived at work at 7:50 that morning. It was a chilling November morning and I sat in my room trying to warm my hands and jump start my brain before the bells rang across the hallways demanding productivity. Minutes passed and Harley had not appeared at my door with his black and purple backpack, slumped into the farthest chair and stared at the ground. More minutes passed. Finally after 23 minutes I saw a shadow near the door. I walked over and saw Harley standing outside of the door. He didn’t have his backpack and he didn’t seem to have his soul. I asked him to come in. He didn’t move. I asked again and Harley continued to stare at the linoleum beneath him. Tears began to stream from his eyes. They fell so rapidly that it almost appeared as if it was raining from his being. 

My insides started to quiver as I asked Harley what was wrong. He couldn’t talk. His words were being held captive by his emotions. He looked so broken, defeated and alone. I started to panic and asked him again what was wrong. I reached out to put my hand on his shoulder and he pulled away from me. He continued to cry. Slowly his hand began to move and he lifted his shirt and wails left his body with such power that I thought he may pass out from lack of air. 

It was then that I saw. I saw the battered, bloody, bruised and burned flesh beneath his shirt. There was not an inch of his skin that did not have new or old wounds. Harley’s knees buckled as his secret was revealed and he began to fall forward. I caught him in my arms. For nearly an hour he lay there in my arms sobbing as he felt the binding of his secret loosen. His entire body shook, his voice squeaked with exhaustion and he smelled of blood. 

Harley and I made it downstairs to a private office. I made the call to child protection services. While we waited for them to arrive, Harley agreed to take off his shirt and allow me to clean his wounds. His body had endured the rage of pure evil. Flesh hung from sections of his back. Bruises old and new were at different colors of healing. A rope like mark ran across his chest. Household objects could be identified by the burns in his back. Welts were more than a half an inch thick raised from his tine body. As I cautiously cleaned his wounds, Harley continued to cry. His lip shivered, but he was quiet now. There was not an ounce of his eleven year old structure that wasn’t utterly terrified.

A knock on the door startled both me and Harley. A man from the child protection agency entered the room. Harley would not look at him. The tall, strong looking man asked Harley questions. The eleven year old broken boy again stood staring at the floor, but this time he was violently shaking his head and tears were launching off of his soaked face. I put my hand near his hand, he grabbed tight. I asked the man to back up and stand near the door. He complied. I explained to the man that it was the boy’s father that had delivered the horrors onto the eleven year old body and soul that stood before him. 

Harley left with the child protection services worker that cold November morning and I never saw him again. I was assured years later that Harley was safe and had been placed with caring and loving family. Harley’s father spent three months in jail.

a boy's victory....

“I don’t want to! I hate it! I hate it!”

 He screamed these words every night. Each time the words were louder, more aggressive and followed by a tantrum of epic proportions. One Saturday afternoon, eight month ago, his conniption included him forcing himself to cough and scream just hard enough to throw up on my kitchen counter. 

“You can’t make me! I hate it! I’m not going to do it!”

The tantrums continued and our fury and frustration progressed. These episodes occurred for a total of three and a half years. The prognosis was far from hopeful. Sleep was lost, tears were cried and bickering ensued, but still he screamed, refused and would not participate. 

“I hate it! I hate it!”

I could hear these words echo through my house even when he was not present. I could see into his future and felt utter sadness and pain. I felt lost and longed for him to have a path. My boy, my step-son, could not effectively read. CB would not read.

Hours, days, weeks, months and years of these fits of fury and he was still determined to avoid everything that included reading. A few months ago I had to implement a fairly severe behavior plan in order to provide a high level of structure and expectation for him. Completing homework was one of the behaviors that we needed to reshape. Much to CB’s chagrin; reading is part of daily homework. 

As suspected, he was not amused with the nightly assignments of reading for thirty minutes and then writing sentences about what he had read. His reading was so slow and laborious that it was painful to listen to him struggle. CB continued to argue, fight and throw his tantrums. I could feel his frustration with having to do something that he didn’t want to do and I could feel his pain of being asked to do something that he did not feel any level of success in doing. The lack of confidence acted like a monster truck crushing his ten year old soul.

The nights went on and he started to fight less and less. The screams were beginning to quiet.

“I hate it! I hate it!”

CB was reading in the living room yesterday afternoon. He had been reading all day to make up for the work that he failed to complete during the school week. He called my name and asked me to come in and talk to him. He’s trying to stall and get out of reading. This is all that passed through my thoughts. 

I slowly walked to the room and I stood before him. He spoke, “Do you think that the author of this book wrote more books? I really like this series. Do you think that if I finish all of my work that we could go to the bookstore and get some more books for me to read?”

I am not a godly person, but I am fairly certain that the heavens parted and something magical fell from the sky. As the words fell from his mouth I felt a flood of euphoria flowing through my body. It started at the top of my head as a tingling feeling and spread through my entire being an inch at a time. I pursed my lips as tightly as I could in order to refrain from smiling. I did not want to interfere with this moment, his moment. 

In 44 words CB told me that he had won the race, climbed and reached the top of the mountain, received the gold medal, graduated at the top of his class, won the World Series and won the election. In 44 words CB sung his song of glory. In 44 words CB made the winning basket at the final buzzer. In 44 words the three and a half year fight was over and there were no losers. In 44 words CB described his victory that will last him a lifetime. In 44 words CB told me that he could read.