Perspective

WARNING – GRAPHIC CONTENT!
This is not suitable for anyone under 18. 

   Several years ago, I found myself working for a Juvenile Rehabilitation Center. That’s the politically correct way of classifying a place like this. The truth is, it was a last-chance saloon for boys who had exhausted the justice system in their own state and were at their final stop before prison. All of the boys within this facility were from out of state. Most hailed from Philadelphia, some from Nevada, several from Chicago, and a handful from the Dakotas. They ranged in age from 12-21 years old. They varied in size as short as four and half feet tall and about 90 pounds, all the way up to our tallest boy at six foot seven inches tall and maybe 320 pounds. 

   The facility smelled of sterilizing Lysol masking the underlying odor of pubescent boys. Imagine 100 teenage boys with poor hygiene all cooped up inside one building. The smell of stinky socks and un-deodorized armpits was rank throughout the facility. The floors were all linoleum and each unit was called a Pod. The Pods had a common hallway with several bedrooms on either side. The hallway connected to a large common room with a tv, couches, a few chairs, and an indoor plastic picnic table. On one end of the Pod hallway was a staff observation desk and on the other end was a door to the exterior courtyard. Each Pod branched off from a common facility hallway which included access to a gymnasium, several classrooms, a cafeteria, and a laundry room. Doors to the Pods were all metal that required a key-fob to open. Many of the windows had that wire meshing in the glass that made them a little harder to break. It was common for boys to get upset and break things or start fights. When the boys would act out like this, they would typically avoid trying to break those wire mesh windows because they were so much harder to break. There was however, one boy who was the exception to this rule. We'll call him Kevin.

   Kevin was the scariest kid I'd ever met. He would snap at any given time, completely unprovoked and would break everything in sight with no regard to his own safety. He loved breaking those wire mesh windows. On one occasion, after punching through one of the small wire mesh window, while glaring at the staff with a twisted look of insanity, he proceeded to yank his forearm back and forth across the jagged broken glass embedded with sharp wires. Blood sprayed everywhere from his deeply slashed artery. It was an added challenge to try and restrain him safely and stop the bleeding quickly despite large shards of glass stuck deep within his arm that he was now trying to use as a weapon. This event was followed by a trip to the hospital where he received several staples along the length of his forearm.

   On another occasion, this same boy made a successful escape attempt and was found in the Kmart parking lot not too far from the facility. It was told that he was found jumping on the roof of a car in the parking lot and police had to "taze" him 5 different times and spray him repeatedly with pepper spray before he was finally subdued. Several officers were injured in the process. He really was crazy.

   I was a front-line staff worker, which meant I spent all day going to classes and eating meals with the boys trying to keep them out of trouble. Sort of like an adult chaperone for their day-to-day activities. This “Rehab” facility held a variety of juvenile criminals and I was assigned to the “Violent Sex Offenders” unit. If you were ever naïve to the terrors of this world, spend 5 minutes reading any one of their files and you’d find yourself angry, crying, or both.

   One boy was intimately obsessed with farm animals, mostly sheep and dogs; much of this behavior was learned from his father. Other boys had raped people ranging in age as young as 4 and as old as late 60’s. Perhaps most shocking, if that wasn’t enough already, were the boys who had raped their own sisters, mothers and/or grandmothers; more than once.

   Many of the boys had gang affiliations, many others were loners. Fights occurred often, if not multiple times a day. As front-line staff, we would break-up the fights and “restrain” the fighters in a holding cell. There are a lot of rules when it comes to safe handling of juveniles. You can't just start punching or wrestling in an attempt to keep you or someone else safe. You have to follow specific tactical guidelines that don't violate the rights of the "child". Regardless of crimes committed in the past, or even current violence occurring, you are required by law to handle them "safely". Being gentle and "safe" when a 17-year-old has their teeth sunk deep into your chest is challenging. I have teeth scars on my chest and bicep to remind me of those "good ol days".

   Donkey kicks to the groin, makeshift knives (prison shivs), spitting, punching, sucker punches from behind, body tackles; you name it, I’ve probably been on the receiving end. It’s enough to make you paranoid or want to quit. I saw a lot of good people who were excited to “help the boys and make a difference in their lives” quit after their first week on the job. One poor guy celebrated his first day with a broken nose. It took me a full week before my first attack. :) 

   The rules seemed unjust at best. I'll never forget a time when I heard the call come through over my ear piece. At first it was the typical "Response Team!" But then as I headed out of my Pod I heard another message over the radio, "He's trying to rape her!" As a front line staff, I was one of the leaders for the Response Team. This meant that if help was needed on any unit in the facility, staff could call for a Response Team and help would come immediately from all available units. We heard these calls for help daily and were used to the typical offenders. But this particular call was unique. I had never heard them say anything about rape before.

   When I arrived on scene, other staff were in the process of trying to break through a barricaded door. One of the "residents", or boy inmates, had overpowered a female worker, barricaded the Pod entry door, and was trying to take her clothes off in an attempted rape. Our female staff member was heavily battered and her shirt was ripped mostly off. You could see in her eyes that she was terrified and she was fighting for her life. Her valiant efforts gave us enough time to break through the door and come to her aid before he could finish the job. 

   This assault and attempted rape was on a Monday or Tuesday morning. By Friday afternoon, the boy offender had "earned" enough positive points to be able to go to the movie theater offsite with a small group. My little brain still cant understand how a person can attempt rape on one day and still be eligible for offsite privileges in the same week. Somehow, that didn't seem like effective enough rules or consequences to deter negative behaviors.

   Despite these events and the paranoia that loomed over you, over time, if you last that long, you start to kind of enjoy the job. Of course the violence is not always enjoyed. However, when the boyhood machismo is subsided in moments of calm, you start to form a bond with the boys. You learn more about them. You see them when their cracking jokes, making progress in their classes, or even revealing personal struggles and concerns. You begin to differentiate between who they are inside and the stupid or terrible things they have done. I haven’t worked there in almost a decade and I still wonder how some of my boys are doing. I’m unfortunately sure that most are either dead or in prison. We cannot escape our actions in society despite our best intentions.

   Developing a bond with these boys had its ups and downs. You were cautioned at how close you got to them because it was a heavy burden to carry. That may not make complete sense looking at it from the outside, but believe me, it was wisdom for certain.

   I recall this one boy, we'll call him Thomas. Thomas was about six foot six inches tall. He was kind of husky but not actually all that strong. He was goofy by most accounts and kind of reminded me of Bambi on ice skates. He wasn't too bright and he was for all intents and purposes relatively harmless in that facility. He had a past rap sheet, but in measurements on the scale of severity, he was kind of a kitten.

   Thomas followed most of the rules and usually did what he was asked. He was very easy to get along with and didn't take a lot of redirecting. That was the case for quite some time, and then suddenly, he changed. Thomas started acting out. He was breaking things often, going to the "timeout" room several times a day and even started cutting his wrists. He couldn't find anything really sharp so more than anything he had some superficial scratches from a staple on his wrists and forearms. The real cause for concern was how highly unusual this behavior was for Thomas.

   Several staff members , myself included, tried to talk to him on multiple occasions, but he just wouldn't say anything. It was like a light switch had been flipped and he was no longer the same person we had become accustomed to. Unsettled by the sudden change, an investigation was mounted. Interviews with other boys and talks with the counselors finally revealed what had changed within Thomas. It was discovered that one of the other boys on the unit, we'll call him James, a known bully from Philly, had corned Thomas in the Pod courtyard behind some bushes. With several of the other residents watching in a circle around him, and a few placed as lookouts for front line staff, James forced Thomas to give him a blow-job.

   When I learned what had happened my heart ached. When I learned that it had happened on my shift, on my watch, my heart completely broke. There were 6 of us on that unit with the sole purpose of helping these boys and we failed Thomas that day. I had failed him. It happened when I was there and I never even saw a thing. I remember locking myself in the staff bathroom balling my eyes out. I still can't quite come to terms with that knowledge.

   Despite this event, and many other tragedies encountered along the way, I attempted to get to know most of the boys a little better. And lucky for me, I got along pretty well with most of them. Well, perhaps being completely honest, I’d say I got along with or at least tolerated all of them except for one.

   Everybody who works there has that one kid they just can’t stand, and I had mine. Again, for the sake of privacy and HIPPA, I can’t use his real name, so I’ll call him Rob. Rob was such a pain in the ass. He was annoying in the highest degree. He didn’t get, or maybe just chose to ignore, simple social cues. He would go out of his way to cause trouble or pester or just flat-out annoy the hell out of me…. and everyone else. He was relatively harmless. He talked a big game, but when it came down to it, he was weak and insignificant. You’ve heard the laundry list of the types of boys housed in this facility, so to say he was the one I hated the most, that’s really saying something. I know hate is a strong word, but man oh man, I REALLY did not like Rob.

   Beyond Rob’s behaviors, he also smelled really bad. He always smelled like feces. In fact, he wore adult diapers and crapped himself regularly. Because of his adult diapers and poor hygiene, he had to have an enema frequently. One day, while prepping for his routine enema, the unit nurse asked me to be the witness for the procedure. The male nurse had to have a second adult with him anytime an enema was administered for the sake of safety for both parties. I had never been asked to be the second adult before, so I didn’t fully understand the process. I reluctantly agreed given the circumstances at that time.

   With no warning of what would really be happening, I found myself in the closed room with the nurse and Rob. It was awkward for all the obvious reasons. You look up at the ceiling uncomfortably and rock side to side waiting for it to end. You wouldn't intentionally look in that situation, but sometimes awkward scenes unfolding before you are like a car accident on the freeway. You almost can't help but look as you pass by. I regrettably glanced at what the nurse was doing and caught a glimpse of Rob's anus. Basic biology classes taught me that something was wrong. My eyes sharpened as I looked again. It didn’t take long before I realized his anus was a 2-inch gaping hole surrounded with scar tissue. I looked away in shock. Did I really see what I think I saw? I couldn’t help it, it was just so puzzling, so I looked a third time…. It was even worse than before. This cemented permanently into my brain one of the most horrific images I had ever seen. I strained to control my horror and looked away for good.

   The procedure was complete within a few minutes. My mind was racing and I was so confused. When it was all over, I rushed to pull the nurse aside and inquire for some clarification. He began to explain to me that I should really read Rob’s file. This did not satisfy my frustrated mind so I urged him to just tell me the short version. The nurse explained to me that Rob’s father had raped him on an almost daily basis for the course of about 2 years before the abuse was first discovered. The violence associated with the rapes caused the scar tissue build-up and the need for adult diapers as he could no longer control defecation.

   He crinkled the side of his mouth and shrugged his shoulders, his heading shaking displeasingly, then walked away. He left me speechless. I excused myself to the office when the opportunity presented itself, so I could read his file. The file was more detailed and painted the picture of a life full of torment and sorrow. A life of broken promises, shattered dreams and trust. I ran to the private staff restroom and once again found myself sobbing uncontrollably.

   With this new understanding, a dramatic change occurred within my mindset from that point forward. Suddenly, Rob was no longer the kid I hated. His antics no longer annoyed me. His behavior no longer frustrated me. His smell of feces no longer made me gag at meal time. Suddenly I saw him in a different light. I saw a kid who needed help. Who despite the terrible things he had done to others as a perpetrator, and his inappropriate behaviors day to day, he was so much more than those actions. 

   I look back and think of how short I was with him. How inpatient I was any time he acted out. The terrible things I thought in my mind about him all too often. In what you might call a glimpse into the depths of this kid, my view changed completely. My judgements had found understanding. My disdain had found compassion. My sharpness had found tender mercy.

   Since that experience, I find myself wondering quietly, would my condescension and judgements of others make a dramatic about-face if I had an intimate glimpse into the hidden depths of all those I encounter throughout life? To be clear, I'm not justifying negative actions or behaviors. I'm not sweeping them away and saying we should blindly ignore and forgive. I'm not that good of a person. But these experiences have certainly caused me to reflect upon the old saying "Walk a mile in their shoes".

   As a father, I often find myself more understanding or sympathetic of my own child's behavior even when she is doing something "wrong". Not that I justify her actions, just that when I see her act out or misbehave, I know her as more than that one act. I know all the good she has to offer. I know all the good that is within her. I know her strengths and her weaknesses. My love for her goes beyond her mistakes.

   Over the years I have witnessed some interesting events in her life. On SEVERAL occasions I have watched my child playing with other children when suddenly a child will bite, hit, kick, or pinch Brianna. That's just kind of what little kids do. What's interesting about Brianna is that she doesn't typically come running to tell mommy or daddy about it. She will often ignore the first one, but will retaliate if it happens again. The child who "started it" will then breakdown into a full scream and go tell their mommy that Brianna hurt them. That mommy typically scolds Brianna and then comes over to me or Sheila to tell us that Brianna hit/kicked/pinched/etc. their child. They believe their child is a victim, but they don't know that my child was the original "victim" in these instances. It's simply reactionary.

   Don't get me wrong here, Brianna hits, pinches, kicks, bites, etc. all on her own accord plenty of times. But it is not typically for no reason. She's typically responding to a feeling that she doesn't know how else to handle. Maybe she's upset because she isn't getting her way. Maybe she's upset because nobody is listening to her. Maybe she's upset because she wants some attention. Whatever her reason is, it typically has a root associated with the action.

   As her father, who loves her and wants the best for her, I am patient with her as she learns to navigate though life. Her behaviors as a kid are mostly inconsequential on the grand scale. A pinch or a hit at 5 years old won't be remembered 50 years from now. But what about these kids from the Juvenile center? About 90% of them have been abused in some form or another. This abuse happened long before they perpetrated on another victim. They perpetuate the cycle they have learned in their own life.

   As much as I hated Rob, and as equally frustrating and "wrong" were his actions, my patience for him changed dramatically once I began to understand why he might be acting the way he did. The challenge his life presented to me, was asking myself the question "how do we stop the cycle from continuing while still having compassion?"

   My answer is simple; I don't know. What I do know is that we are all children of a Heavenly Father who loves us deeply. He knows our challenges, our thoughts, our strengths and our weaknesses. He wants not only the best for us, but He wants us to inherit all that He has. He is patient when we mess-up. He is understanding of our mistakes. He does not justify our bad decisions. But He does provide a way for us to overcome the snares of sin by providing the Savior. He has provided us the Plan of Salvation. More appropriately said, the Plan of Happiness.

   When we chose to come to this earth, we knew there would be hardships. We knew we would face challenges and there would be victims of atrocities. We knew that. And yet we still chose to come down. We knew the Father had a perfect plan that could make us whole despite whatever life or circumstance we were born into. His plan is so much bigger than our temporary timelines and expectations. His reach goes beyond the grave.

   We are all familiar with the 10 commandments. Most of us are familiar with the do's and don'ts taught within the gospel. But what I often forget so quickly, and yet seems to be the most important, is the scripture that I have shared in the past which says in essence, Love God and Love your neighbor.

   When someone I love is hurting, it hurts me too. When someone I love suffers, I suffer with them. If something terrible happens to the innocent, I grieve for their pain. Despite a knowledge of the Plan of Happiness and the eternal perspective, the pain and suffering felt by all is real and undeniable. Even the Savior wept when Lazarus died because he knew the pain of those who loved him. He who had the power to raise man from the dead, and yet He wept with them. Because He loved them. 


   I struggle to think of all the terrible things those boys did in their lives. All the terrible things many of them also experienced. What brings me comfort and makes sense of it all is simply that God is the perfect judge. He loves all of us as His own children. He understands what a mile in our shoes looks like and will act accordingly. He is ALWAYS there. He is not waiting for us at the end, He is with us to the end. I believe God sees us the way I, also as a father, see my own child. I cry when she suffers. I get frustrated when she makes bad choices. I rejoice when she succeeds. But my love remains the same all along the way. She is my daughter and I know her and all the great things that she can become. He is our father and He knows the whole story.

   We will not escape suffering in this life. But our burdens can be lightened when we trust in the Lord. I also believe that if we can find a way to view others the same way a protective and loving father views his own children, we may find it a little easier to understand and to forgive. To perhaps make some sense of the terrible things of this world. Do we see things from our view only? Do we act and choose based upon our limited view? Or is it possible that there's more to the story? 

   If it was up to me, Rob would stay in prison for the rest of his life. The likelihood that he will perpetrate again is significant, statistically speaking. Despite the terrible life he experienced, we cannot place others in his path as possible victims. However, I do not hate him. I feel very sorry for him. I love him. I also believe, only God can judge him. So much is truly dependent upon our Perspective.