Listen to thisKids are funny. They know they don’t like the taste of something before it even touches the taste buds on their under-sized tongues. I smile at the thought as I chop onions, green peppers, ham and mushrooms into tiny cubes. It’s Saturday morning. Omelet day. I separate the ingredients into little piles for each child.
Sam doesn’t like mushrooms.
Jacob only wants ham.
Henry will only take mushrooms and peppers and ham, refuses to even smell, nay, look at an onion.
I organize the piles. I’m going to put every ingredient into my own omelet. I’m not the biggest fan of mushrooms, but know that an extra vegetable isn’t going to hurt me. In fact it can only help me. I know this and decide to eat them all. I also know it isn’t my job to force this decision on my kids. Well, they’re not really my kids, but after spending as much time with them as I do it’s sometimes hard not to think of them this way.
I’m a Youth Worker. My job is not to preach and demand, but to educate and support. I am not there to force children into decisions that I think are best for them, but to walk beside them as they make these decisions for themselves. If a child wants only ham in his or her omelet and doesn’t want vegetables it isn’t the end of the world. Not life or death. It’s his or her choice and, for a child who has probably been ignored, neglected, belittled or commanded for his or her entire life something as simple as choosing only ham can go a long, long way. And so I comply. I do not demand they meet my expectations, but assist them in meeting their own.
I love my job. I love it so much, in fact, that I view the word ‘job’ as a pathetically lame combination of letters that could not hope to ever adequately describe the life path I have chosen for myself. I work in a secure care facility. What does that mean? Well, we have been outlined in official legislation as, ahem, “a short-term crisis intervention centre.”
I know right. Sounds like a load of bullshit.
Basically what we do is try to meet the needs of kids who cannot find the help they need in group-care or other facilities that operate under the watchful eye of the Department of Community Services. My constable-of-a-cousin would refer to the children I work with as, “the most fucked up of the fucked up.” I suppose that’s true. But ‘fucked up’ to me sort of assigns blame for the kids’ behaviour. As if it is entirely their fault that they lack impulse control or basic social skills. While it is true (and the basis of all good Youth Work) that every person is, in the end, re sponsible for his or her actions, it is hard, for me at least, to blame a child for being born to a drug-addicted mother who, in stead of love and support, provides only neglect and abuse because she likely knew nothing more than that herself. Where others see a child who refuses to be helped or cared for I, and I believe this should be the case for any worker who’s hoping succeed in the field, find it impossible to ignore a child screaming out for help.
After five years in the facility, I have clearly defined my own role in these children’s lives. It is my duty to subtract the child from his or her behaviour and realize that the two things are separate entities. This, I believe, is the key to successful Youth Work. Many people find this a near impossible feat. Even fantastic Youth Workers encounter youth whose behaviour they cannot separate from the child. I haven’t. Maybe someday I will. I hope not. I doubt it. I have worked with a male youth who asked his younger cousin, also male, to masturbate in front of him. I have helped a girl who cut herself so frequently and so deeply that the nurses at the local hospital came to know her by her first name. One young man threw his own shit against his door when he was displeased with the consequences we provided for his actions. I like to think I have seen it all. Perhaps there is a behaviour I could not separate from a child, although, with all my brainpower, I cannot imagine it.
Once I have seven little piles of omelet ingredients, I move out of the kitchen. There should be another worker on the floor with me, but Rachel, one of the casuals on staff, called in sick and Mike, another casual, has to drive from twenty minutes out of town to make it. Besides the kids, for now, I am alone. I walk the sterile hallways of the facility. I have been here, like I said, for five years, but the plain, off-white walls, grey tile floors and buzzing neon lights still make me feel un comfortable. We do what we can to make the place feel more like a home than a hospital (put the kids paintings on the walls, draw on the wire-enforced glass with washable paint to celebrate upcoming holidays), but the smell and feel of the place still makes me uneasy. We are, how ever, funded by the taxpayers’ dollar and, as the elected officials often tell us in fancy, typewritten documents: Beggars can’t be choosers. Or something like that.
I listen to the unnerving echo of my footsteps bounce around me. I will never get used to the sound of this somber march. I enter the common area, which feels a bit more homey with it’s plush couches, television sets, video game con soles and area rugs, and take a hard left to the hallway that plays host to the children’s bedrooms. There are ten rooms in our facility, but we are currently only housing five children.
“A socialist drain on tax payers hard-earned money!” the right wing bellows somewhere from their ivory tower.
Maybe.
But I see the empty bedrooms as just the opposite, a sign that the tax dollars are being put to good use. They are proof that programs are taking hold. When I started these rooms were full. And there was a waiting list. I feel good about myself, my colleagues, about the entire profession as I pass by the empty rooms that house hol low dresser drawers and naked mattresses. The vacancies are badges that I will wear proudly, validation that all the spit I’ve soaked up, all the scars I’ve accumulated and all the I-fucking-hate-you’s I’ve had to endure have actually been worth it. I feel the warmth of serving a purpose greater than myself, but only allow myself a quick taste of it. I’m not walking on water here, after all.
I knock gently on the doors of the kids. I walk into two of the rooms and give Henry and Jacob the gentle shake I know they need to be roused from their slumber. After that I move to the last room. I don’t quite know how to approach the final bedroom. It is home to our newest child and I will be waking him from his first night’s sleep in the facility. Should I just knock to wake him? Should I go in and give him a light shake like Henry and Jacob? I am unsure, but I decide that I’ll start with a light knock. I don’t want to intrude this early in the game. Perhaps a call from the threshold is all he’ll need.
Alex is his name. He arrived in the facility yesterday. Some of the other workers are nervous about his arrival. The first reason is the obvious one. He’s a big fucking boy. Huge. Actually. He’s 13 years old, the youngest our program accepts. But he’s bigger than any of the 17 year-old boys that are currently with us. The second reason for the staff’s apprehension was born from a story they watched on the news. Before he made his way to us Alex did something that made him famous. Well, ‘local’ famous.
Infamous.
Whatever.
I don’t watch the news. I don’t waste my time. Blood and gore. Assaults and shootings. And always so negative and without proper context or background in formation. I’d rather watch a Tarantino film. At least he is honest about the fact that what he’s showing you isn’t true.
The other workers also read Alex’s files. I suppose I could have done that, maybe should have done that. But I didn’t. I decided quite some time ago to spend a day with each child before I read every in criminating incident report and the countless descriptions of ‘challenging’ behaviour. It gives me a chance for a fair first impression. I figure I owe each kid at least this much.
So, there I am, approaching Alex’s room with all of these noble notions of objectivity and I find that his door is al ready open, only an inch or two ajar. I am surprised by this, but not overly concerned. This is a secure facility.
There are only so many places he can be. I retrace my steps to the common room. I don’t immediately see him, but there is a little nook at the far end of the room that is a sort of porch for the dog kennel.
The dog was my idea.
About a year ago I put forth an informal proposal that was said in jest with little or no hope that it would actually be taken seriously. I suggested we get a dog for the facility. People laughed, but Jim, the director of the facility, didn’t. He was intrigued. I’m lucky he was in the room. Well, the kids are lucky, really.
Jim and I discussed it further after my shift that evening.
He asked me if I was serious.
I told him I was.
He asked me why.
I explained that I think it’s a lot less work showing unconditional love and af fection for a dog than for a human. I told him I thought giving the kids a chance to live with and take of our canine counter part would develop some positive emotional reactions and foster some concrete skills. I guess I threw enough ‘helper’ jargon into my spiel to coax Jim into agreement.
We had the dog and a kennel built a week later.
The kids at the centre helped us decide on breed (A mutt that looked like a half-sized German Shepherd,) while we cruised Kijiji adds online. After that we all agreed on a name. Shadow. They were thrilled. So was I. Those kids have moved on from the facility. The workers remain the only constant. As a result, we have all sort of come to see Shadow as one of our own. And I myself, more than the others, grew close with the dog. Perhaps it is my innate human pettiness, but the fact that Shadow was my idea convinced me that he belonged more to me than to anyone else. Funny how us humans attach owner ship to things, even other living creatures.
Anyway, I move towards the porch and, sure enough, find Alex sitting down next to the full-length window, knees in arms and face not more than a few inches from the glass. He doesn’t react in the least to my entrance. “Alex,” I say. “We’re about to eat breakfast. You like omelets?”
He slowly shifts his gaze to me. A huge smile breaks across his face. It seems he is forcing his face into this position, reacting in a way he knows he should react, even though he probably doesn’t feel the natural need to do so. “What type?” he asked me. His tone is friendly, but as equally rigid as his smile.
“I don’t really know,” I confess. “I guess you could call them Westerns. We have mushrooms, onions, ham, and green pep pers. You can have whichever of those you want, or none of them. It’s up to you.”
He turns his eyes back towards the glass. Shadow paces on the other side. I can’t hear him, but I know he is whimpering, hoping to meet someone new. “That’s fine,” Alex tells me.
“You’re good with all of that?” I confirm. He nods.
I’m about to walk away, but before I can take my first step back to the kitchen I catch myself. “Do you want to meet Shadow?”
“Is that his name?” Alex asks me with out taking his eyes off of the glass.
“That’s it,” I say. I move towards the door and pull my keycard out from my hip.
Alex stands.
The door beeps and a light on the lock shifts from red to green. So welcoming, are these security doors. Friendly. Shadow backs up as we enter. I tell him to sit. He does. Alex immediately moves ahead of me, rubs Shadow’s head with one hand and scratches under his throat with the other.
“He likes you,” I say. Alex doesn’t respond.
I decide that I had better get back into the kitchen. I think that I left the chopping knife on the counter. It’s not that I think the kids are going to uncontrollably stab each other, but all the same. “OK, Al. Let’s go eat. We can play with Shadow some time this afternoon.”
Alex doesn’t move. “Al?”
“Why do you call me Al?” he asks me. “I don’t know,” I say. “Always looking for a shortcut I guess,” I smile at my self-deprecation. “Why? Should I not?”
“No,” he says. “I think it’s cool. No one calls me it.”
I grin at this minor success.
“Can I stay with him while you cook breakfast?” Alex demands and interrupts the mental victory lap I’m taking to commemorate my successful assignment of a nickname.
I pause. My instinct is that it will be fine. But there’s something else. I ignore the ‘something else,’ figure it to be nothing more than the clammy palms of paranoid professional practice grasping for a firm hold on the shoulder of my other wise confident intuition. The kennel is made of thick steel wiring, like a baseball backstop, and constructed as a full dome. Alex has nowhere to go.
“Sure,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.” And with that, I turn and head back to the kitchen.
The kids are already there. Some pour orange juice from the fridge I have already unlocked for them. Two huddle over the electric kettle, waiting for it to steam up so they can pour a cup of instant coffee.
My eyes immediately search out my chop ping knife. There it is. Right where I left it. Maybe the kids didn’t notice it. Maybe.
But I prefer to think they did and merely weren’t interested in raising hell with it. I move over to it, rinse it in the sink and lock it back up in its drawer.
“No fucking onions, Sean!” Henry re minds me.
“What?” I say. “I didn’t catch that.” “Just onions,” a pause. “Please.”
I chuckle and nod to show my under standing.
“You know I only want ham. Right?” Jacob chimes in.
“I thought it was ham and dog crap,” I joke, careful to use the word ‘crap’ in stead of the ‘shit’ my brain is more comfortable with.
“Ha. Ha,” he says sarcastically, but I no tice the smile that pulls at his cheeks as he turns back to his cup of instant coffee mix. Just then Mike, my backup, arrives. “Sorry I’m late, Sean. I came as fast as I could.” “No worries,” I assure him. “Thanks for coming at all.”
He throws his coat over a chair around the table. “Anything I can do to help?”
I point to the carton of eggs. “Start scrambling them two at a time and fire up the frying pan. We’re making omelets. I cut up enough ingredients for you. I’m going to get Alex. He’s with Shadow.”
“Alex?” Mike says, screws his face.
“He arrived yesterday,” I explain. “Him and Shadow are getting to know each other.”
“Oh,” says Mike, “perfect. I’ll take care of this then. Go ahead.”
I give him an appreciative slap on the back and head back to Shadow’s Kennel. When I get there I find Alex kneeling next to Shadow by the doghouse. He is slowly rubbing the dog’s head with one hand and scratching underneath his neck with the other. I lean against the threshold. “He re ally does like you,” I tell Alex with a smile. He doesn’t turn to look at me, keeps rubbing and scratching.
“Alright buddy, time to go inside. We’ve got ice-cold juice and milk. Or coffee if you’re into that.”
I still get no response. “Alex?”
“I don’t want to go inside,” he says coolly, keeping his eyes fixed on Shadow’s.
I remain patient. “I bet everyone would like to officially meet you,” I say, a subtle suggestion.
“I don’t fucking care about them.” Fair enough, I think, but I persist anyway. “Do you think you should give everyone a chance before you decide to avoid us?” I ask.
“Is that what you think?” Alex says back to me, still without making eye contact.
He’s smart, this one. “That is what I think,” I tell him honestly.
“Well I don’t fucking care what you think.”
“Fair enough,” I tell him. “Come inside then, you can eat breakfast in your room.”
“I’m staying out here,” he states flatly.
“Shadow needs to be fed soon. We’re going to leave him alone and you can have your room to yourself instead.” I need to show Alex that while he can control whether or not he eats breakfast with the group, he cannot dominate me on all fronts. I hold my hand out to encourage him to get up.
He looks at me now for the first time, his face with a smile spread across it. It is not the forced smile like before, but a genuine one. However, there is something ominous about it. He tightens his grip around fur on the back of Shadow’s neck, where a mother would bite down on her pups to carry them around. He then squeezes his other hand around the lower mandible of Shadow’s mouth. I take a step forward, alarmed at what Alex’s next move might be. But he’s just bringing the dog’s head in closer, I realize, for a kiss.
He is just bringing the snout closer to his face?
Right?
Shadow whimpers.
I remember another sound filling the air after that. But even as I recall the memory now, I’m not sure whether it was the sickening snap of Shadow’s cervical vertebrae as Alex wrenched his snout violently to the side, leaving his neck at an angle that could be used to define ‘grotesque’ in any dictionary. Or if it was the slap of my own vomit as it crashed to the concrete tiles at my feet.
