When I was a teenager, in my suburban, midwestern world, there weren't many things of consequence to worry about. I taped up photos of River Phoenix and Sean Astin on my pale purple walls and wrote moody poetry about all sorts of imagined injustices. The most I had to worry about was that walking to school in the snow meant I had to wear big, goofy boots, which were so totally uncool and made me look like a gomer. It was a pretty normal existence. I applied to colleges. I watched MTV. I ate poptarts.
Tonight in my supervision meeting, a colleague of mine spoke of the teenagers to whom she provides psychotherapy. They go to the 'last chance' high school in the city. These are kids who grew up hanging out on the streets, fighting over turf, and looking over their shoulders everywhere they go. Most have lived in the projects their whole lives. If they haven't, it's because they've been homeless at some point. They have drug problems. They own guns. Their parents are abusive, absent, or addicts themselves. Many have already been in the court system several times.
This woman in my group spoke of a promising young man she's been working with. The other day, his friend was shot and killed in a drive-by shooting as they walked home together from playing basketball. They called his name, he turned, and they shot him. My colleague's client ran and hid. He waited the customary five minutes to make sure the coast was clear. Then, he emerged and went to his dead friend's side. Yet he was, apparently, unshaken by this. He told my colleague that he had cried when it happened, but by the next day, he appeared to have taken it in stride. He said, "You learn to live with it. This is how I grew up. I've been to so many funerals already. I'm used to it."
He might go to college. This particular kid, he has a promising future in front of him. His mother is worried, and for good reason. It could have been her son. They shot his best friend. It stands to reason that they might shoot him, too. Even if he does escape the world he now lives in, he's bound to take a piece of that fear, the turf war and violence, with him. He'll likely suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). He likely already does. As do many others.
It wrenches my heart that a whole group of children and teenagers grow up in a world where they can't walk down the wrong side of the street for fear of being shot by a rival gang. They live in a world where colors are scary, and if you wear the wrong one, you might pay with your life. When I was growing up, yellow was the only wrong color to wear, and that's only because it made me look sallow and washed out.
I'm glad these kids have someone to talk to. I'm glad they have the opportunity to examine the world through the eyes of someone who's not always lived in such a scary place. When you only know one thing, you do very little to try to change it... you have no idea that you even have a choice for something different. What could possibly be different? How could anyone live in a world where there was anything scarier than big, stupid boots and fear of looking like a gomer to your classmates?
I look back now and notice that River Phoenix is dead from a drug overdose, and Sean Astin went from hottie to hobbit. I'm back in college. I watch PBS not MTV. And I'm armed with the knowledge that poptarts rot your teeth.
Things change. I feel lucky to have seen other worlds, other challenges, and other possibilities. I also feel lucky that a pair of big, ugly boots was my only nemesis growing up.
