Hurting young men put pen to rage

When I first started coming to the hall, I had readied myself for a steady dose of gloom and doom. I don't have what anyone would call a light and sunny personality. If there's a reason to feel down, I'm usually down with it, claiming it as my own. An evening with mouthy, depressed, powerless, over-empowered, abused and abusive delinquents sounded like a prescription for a weekly crying jag to me.

But Friday nights are often one of the high points of my week. We laugh, we share moments. I typically leave in better spirits than when I arrived. It's not that I'm fooling myself with some save-the-world fantasy. In the big picture of alleviating social ills, I know that I am about as effective as a gnat against the hide of an elephant.

Yet every week, there's something to hold on to. Jeremy tosses off a great metaphor. Someone who has shown no previous signs of life writes a life story that makes me inhale sharply. A young man who has done nothing but blame others, writes: "I can't believe I had forgotten all the things I worked for and all the people who love and care for me." An angry boy who has always filled his paper with violent rants suddenly writes: "I feel sad."

I like setting goals for myself. I often target the boy who is the most resistant to writing, the one who snorts at the mention of writing, the one who makes life miserable for anyone else who is trying to write.

I homed in on Miguel because he is so large and silent, the kind of leader who can change the entire atmosphere of the room just by cracking a smile. He never caused trouble in the workshop; he was more of a passive protester. He just sat there staring down at a blank piece of paper. One week, it dawned on me that maybe he didn't know how to write or he was embarrassed by his spelling. So, I offered to be his personal literary assistant. Nothing. But after three weeks of offering my secretarial services, he finally said, "OK, you write what I say."

I was ready, pencil poised.

"You said get real, so write, 'bitch.'"

I wrote, "bitch." He nodded his approval. The other guys at the table became very interested.

"Write, 'whore.'"

I felt them watching me to see if I would blush or launch into some schoolmarmish snit. I wrote, "whore."

"Write, 'rich cunts.'"

When he was done, we had, I believe, the complete edition of terms for female genitalia in several languages.

"So what am I supposed to do with this?" I asked him.

"Publish it in that newspaper," he said.

I don't know what made me say it, but I did. "Miguel, did you just break up with your girlfriend or something?"

He looked down. He didn't have to say a word. The following week, I sat with Miguel and he dictated a lovely, melancholy homage to his hometown, a place he had not seen since his father abandoned him.

Week after week, the young men come and go. Sometimes, they are released to their families and I never see them again. That's the good news. Others write essays about how they are getting out soon, how they will never, ever be back. Their words are so strong and sincere. We all want to believe them. But for many, juvenile hall is part of the revolving door they call home -- the streets, a group home, the streets, back to the hall and I am reading their words once again.

At first, my part in this pattern used to depress me. Until I realized that this workshop was respite. Here, for a few hours, they can let go of other identities -- gangster, fuck-up, loser, delinquent -- and become writers. Just writers.

Usually, I don't make a point of learning too much about why these guys are in the hall. But six months ago, when a boy named Frank arrived, it was impossible not to know his crime. Every detail of it -- the unbridled anger behind it, the mind-boggling heinousness of it -- was all over the front page of the local paper. Before I even saw him, I knew what he was capable of. I also knew about the crimes that had been perpetrated on him: by his family, by the systems, by living on the streets.

At first, he was a bright-eyed young man who seemed right at home. Two weeks in a row, Frank didn't write anything, but he seemed to enjoy listening to the others.

Then, suddenly, he stopped coming to the workshops. I saw him in the dayroom playing ping-pong and when I approached, he snarled at me. Then, more and more, I saw him sitting off alone by the TV. He seemed to shed every façade, every illusion of hope.

Next Page: Frank was shirtless and folded into a fetal position

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